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Ignite The Spark

Male reader x Kazuha

Tags: Friends to lovers, Smut 8.1k words

Friends—that’s what you and Kazuha would call each other. People around often get confused if you two were dating secretly, but in reality, she was just a friend who got along with you to the point of looking like a couple.

And if being friends with the opposite gender isn’t enough to raise an eyebrow by others, you knew the consequences, Kazuha did too. As a man, you couldn’t help but imagine a scenario of her being more than a friend. On the other hand, Kazuha had the same exact thought after years of knowing each you. Although nothing happens romantically, the presence of pride hindered both of you in stubborn ways.

You and Kazuha were prime examples of “right place, wrong time.”

After you transferred to another college for an opportunity that you couldn’t deny, the friendship between both of you slowly disappeared. As curious young adults, it would be a shame just to say the boring and basic goodbyes to each other. Just like how friendships form: thoughts and hobbies alike, her eyes craved more than a mere farewell. You didn’t want this friendship to burden the memories you and Kazuha made.

Both of you yearned for something. That something was in bed. A man and a woman together with the lights off, doors locked, curtains shut. Within a night in the same bed, clothes scattered and the bed creaking, the two of you yearned for this feeling, like you'd never see each other again. It’s a farewell, but a mere excuse. This won’t be the last time you see her.

Morning brought an uncomfortable shift from friends to more than what both of you actually were. As she slept, her beautiful back was turned towards you while you were up and remembered every moment shared on her bed. She was naked under the blanket once your eyes caught her black bra hanging from the dresser and the hair tie. As you took a quick glimpse of her, Kazuha’s silky hair was a mess, all from the night.

Even as a man, you fantasized about what Kazuha would look like, until you did see her naked body and the goosebumps you felt all over her when your hands gently caressed her. Her back became irresistible to your kisses, while her curves and ass demanded more than a simple touch. Her body was deadly hot when all you ever saw was Kazuha with clothes on. This was the woman who you called a close friend, yet it’s far from the fact that you slept with her.

Both of you crossed the line. Both of you can’t look back and change what happened. This was bound to happen between opposite genders that calls each other ‘friends.’

You found a treasure within the so-called friendship. The treasure? It was her body. Kazuha rarely wears revealing clothes at school. Neither did she care about showing herself off like the rest of the woman on campus. You're strucking gold—and it's like the end of the rainbow that anyone would search for. Actually, it's not her body that you love more than Kazuha herself. You respect Kazuha—her essence, her character. There's a bond between the two of you. A long-term friendship that isn't breakable at all, even if it bends or twist.

She didn’t regret being the one who asked first for some intimacy. You didn’t regret that night either. This was probably the last time you would physically be there for her, and only sense of regret was the bittersweet feeling of sleeping with a friend that was close to you, but at the end, it turned awkward. As young, curious adults, no one was to blame.

Kazuha shared an apartment with her roommate, Sakura. The pair rented an apartment conveniently close to the college. Sakura wasn’t at home at the time when you and Kazuha’s hands were all over each other. Maybe Sakura did hear the bed creaking through the wall halfway through after coming back home. It’s something you didn’t want to asked out of embarrassment.

The feelings you gave Kazuha were were unparalleled, when you respect her for being herself around you. She was, and was quiet at first, but when you talked to her more, Kazuha revealed herself to be ambitious and incredibly kind. You love that about her.

At times, she would share her troubles, and so would you. Yet, it became increasingly apparent that the dynamic of your friendship had changed. It's not like how it was. Both of you were maturing and going each other’s separate ways. Life past by quick considering how the two of you knew each other for years, and thinking back about the days you would often meet her. But neither of you forgot about each other.

Kazuha wasn’t so happy when Sakura had her own opportunities to venture out and left Kazuha alone in the apartment. Kazuha could barely manage the bills. Their relationship ended on good terms, but Kazuha was left all alone in the apartment.

Kazuha was all over the place, from modeling to working as a barista and tutoring, the jobs couldn't meet her financial needs. Kazuha eventually found her opportunity after numerous jobs and became a ballet instructor. However, it's still not enough. The income she accumulated merely covered necessities and bills, leaving little room for her own interests and activities.

She frequently found herself seated in her living room, contemplating about your well-being. Like the relationship the two of you have right now, she hesitated to reach out, or ask for something. Kazuha revisited past text conversations with a bittersweet smile, reminiscing about the joy you both shared when your paths were closely intertwined.

Asking for money from her friends was like selling her pride. Despite her concerns, Kazuha maintained a smile and masked herself. She smiled if things didn’t go so smoothly, all hidden from everyone. The smile would fade away once she stepped into her apartment, enveloped by silence and solitude, the smile would turn to a frown. No one was there to comfort her. No one was there to eat across the table. Living alone already carried a sense of loneliness, but when Kazuha was going through this herself, it was rather a feeling of being hit rock-bottom.

——

In the final year of college, you and your friends strolled around town, enjoying the sunshine as you window-shopped and explored. Amidst bustling alleyways lined with food stalls, engaging in multiple conversations and browsing vintage clothing shops, you felt content with your place in life.

The college you switched to was just a ten-minute drive away. Some might consider it trivial when the two colleges are so close, but for you, the opportunity was invaluable. Despite intending to make time to meet Kazuha, you doubted she would be available, likely preoccupied with her own activities. Similarly, Kazuha likely held the same assumption about you. Regardless, both of you led independent lives, and the only thread connecting you was the fading bond of friendship.

Navigating the bustling marketplace alleys and indulging in the aroma of freshly cooked food from vendors, you spot another group of women approaching. Among them, it's Kazuha who catches your eye. Instantly, you feel the urge to reconnect with her as she savors a worry-free day.

"Where are you headed?" Your friend says after settling the bill to the vendor, while the rest of your friends glanced at you with curious expressions.

“Go without me. We can meet later,” you uttered hastily as you approached Kazuha, whose eyes widened at the sight of you after a prolonged absence. "Zuha!"

Kazuha found it unbelievable. Despite living only ten minutes apart, where the likelihood of encountering each other was high, this was the first time in a year. Either of you could have crossed paths while using transportation or walking in opposite directions on the sidewalk, yet remained unaware of each other's presence.

In silence, Kazuha stood, aware that some of her friends recognized you. "What a coincidence," one of them said. Throughout the interaction, Kazuha remained quiet, her mind racing with thoughts of what she wanted to talk with you.

“May I steal Kazuha away for some time?”

Then there's a moment of silence. It was supposed to be a girls' day out, and you suddenly became the antagonist, trying to take Kazuha away from her friends. "Fine... but bring her back home later. We'll give you two some alone time."

The sunlight reflected off Kazuha’s ocean eyes, illuminating a radiant smile that blossomed unexpectedly when your gazes locked. In that moment, Kazuha was oblivious to the world around her, indifferent to the passersby, solely focused on your presence before her.

"Zuha, how... um—." There was a moment of hesitation, a sense of unworthiness lingering, making it feel almost impossible to ask about her well-being. "How have you been?"

"Everything's fine. I'm glad to see you," Kazuha replied, making an effort to conceal her stress.

“Still living with Sakura? May we spend time together today? It’s been long since.”

"Actually, she got a job offer. So now I'm living alone," Kazuha murmurs, her lips pressing together shyly, her gaze drifting downward. "We should catch up with each other."

A faint, pleasant smile graces your lips as Kazuha steals a quick glance at you. "Have you eat yet, Zuha?"

“No,” she murmurs, strolling alongside you with both your hands brushing against each other, as if she yearned to grasp yours and never release them again. Since your departure, she realized that you’re the person she longed for at day’s end. Kazuha learned through the hard times that you were the one she desired, mistaken for a mere friendship and nothing more.

“I’ll take you to a place that we use to enjoy together, Zuha.”

Kazuha lets out a brief chuckle as she presumes it's the restaurant where you and she used to frequent after classes. Even though it's been a while since you last saw her, you can sense she's even shyer now. Yet, your emotions start lingering around her, like a faint spark awaiting ignition by Kazuha—a love destined to blossom.

Entering the restaurant, you settled directly across from Kazuha, the sunlight bathing her in its glow as you awaited the arrival of your orders from the waitress. Amidst the constant flow of people passing by, Kazuha appeared especially radiant in the sunlight, captivating your attention to the point where you couldn't look away. You found yourself dangerously drawn to the woman you call a friend.

"Zuha," you said, causing her to glance up from the menu. In truth, both of you had already memorized the menu, and she found herself unsure of how to act this time around. “You’re kinda beautiful today,” you lamely said, unable to accept her as a friend at this point. You’re trying to deny what your heart wanted.

From a friendship marked by naivety, to a new chapter in the present, the two of you weren't childish young adults anymore after a year. Despite spending considerable time together, pride runs in both of your veins, neither of you could muster the courage to acknowledge the unmistakable feelings that lingered. A crystal clear new beginning.

"Thanks," Kazuha murmurs, cheeks glowing as she gaze to the menu. A stray strand of hair falls in front of Kazuha's face, and you gently brush it aside, tucking it behind her ear. Your gesture only adds to the awkwardness as she finds herself speechless and takes a glance around the restaurant. The look of the restaurant didn’t even change, but Kazuha didn’t know what to do when you’re the one sitting across. Before up to this point in time after a year, she was more talkative and would brag about her day to you right in this restaurant, but now, she couldn’t.

Her cheeks flush under the sun's rays, lips pressing against each other as she fights herself to repay a compliment. The atmosphere becomes silent, apart by the clinking of plates and nearby chatter, she's conscious of her growing feelings towards you.

“By the way, I’ll pay today. Don’t worry,” Kazuha says to break the silence. At the same time, all the stress she had been carrying seemed to slip from her mind. The genuine thoughts of her wanting to live with you becomes her topic of interest that she wanted to ask for months.

“The man should pay, Zuha.”

"You paid last time," she says with a charming smile. The fact that Kazuha remembered such a minor detail from a year ago left you pleasantly surprised.

You sigh, your gaze drifting to her perfectly manicured nails. “I’m still paying. Let me make it up to you for not being there."

“I rather let you make it up with something else.”

“What is it, Zuha?”

The waitress unintentionally breaks the conversation. "Here's your food, enjoy! Don't hesitate to let me know if anything isn't right."

“Thank you,” Kazuha said, followed by you.

The plates shifted, placing your order in front of you, Kazuha's in front of her, and the appetizers to the side. "So, as I was saying... do you mind if I stay with you for the next few days?"

“What do you mean, Zuha?”

"Do you recall that moment we… well, you know, on the bed? It seems like we drifted apart a bit afterward, don't you think? But let's make it up. We were just young adults. We're not quite as young anymore."

“It’s only been a year, Zuha,” you laugh. “You’re welcome to stay with me. Even if our campus is ten minutes away, I’ll drive you there.”

“How long can I crash at your place?”

“Is something going on?” You said, exchanging conversations while eating.

“I’ll let you know when we get to your place.” Judging by her expression, it was evident that she was holding back from saying something.

"Zuha, I want you to know I'm here for you," you reassured her. Even being just ten minutes away, or the online conversations not being as frequent as they once were, you were determined not to lose her again, regretting the past mistake of not being there for Kazuha. "Let's finish our meal, and then I'll take you home with me."

“Weren’t you suppose to send me home at the end of the day?” Kazuha playfully smirks, mischievously laughing with her hands covering her mouth. It was evident that you missed the sight of her smile, yet this time, it undeniably stirred your heart.

“Let your friends blame me, they won’t know it’s you who wanted to stay with me.”

"Your friends are waiting for you too, aren't they?" Kazuha questions. Her presence made you divert your attention entirely away from your friends and focusing it solely on her.

“I guess our group of friends will lose one person for today. What do you say?”

“You’re thinking dirty, aren’t you? A woman coming over, I think it’s clear to say that our friends think we’re up to no good.”

“Sounds like you’re the one thinking dirty, Zuha. I never said we’re sleeping together,” you said playfully, though you did miss the skin-to-skin contact with Kazuha. You couldn’t get her body out of your mind after that night with Kazuha.

She laughs, “see, I never said we’re sleeping together.”

“Finish up the food, Zuha,” you said out of disappointment as she caught you. It wasn’t like Kazuha didn’t wanted to fuck, when it’s clear that bringing a woman over would lead to the obvious.

———

As you walked home together along the sidewalks, admiring the clear blue skies overhead, your hand brushed gently against hers. Kazuha felt her heart race with excitement as your hands unexpectedly intertwined. Throughout the way home, neither of you exchanged words until you arrived inside your apartment. Yet, the unmistakable feeling between you two hinted at the blossoming love being shared.

Kazuha's eyes widened in appreciation the moment you opened the door to your apartment. Her gaze was sweeping across the inviting interior of the apartment. "This is a lovely place," she says, her soft voice filled with genuine admiration as she takes in the cozy ambiance.

“It’s not bad. But I think you should let your friends know you’re going to be with me. Don’t keep them waiting, Zuha.”

“You should do the same.”

“I will. But to bring up that topic from earlier that you wanted to tell me about. What did you want to say?”

From a quick glance at Kazuha, she took a deep breath, standing still with her phone clasped tightly in both hands. Kazuha hesitated, thinking you would brush her off in some way. Despite not trying, she took her chances. “I can barely live by myself. Can I live here with you? I think we both feel lonely sometimes.”

You observe her in silence as she gazes downward at the wooden floor, prepared for the possibility of rejection from the only person she feels comfortable asking without sacrificing her pride. You have no intention of denying her request, especially when it benefits both of you mutually. There was never a fight between you two. Althought there were times of disagreement, its solved quietly with understandment.

“Why didn’t you tell me this stuff that you’re going through?” You said, feeling frustrated for not being there to support her through her struggles. “How long have you been keeping this from me? Don’t you know that I’m only a phone call away?”

“I-I couldn’t tell you out of the blue. I didn’t want to bother you.” Kazuha murmurs and brushes her hair while looking away. “You’re the only person who I can talk to about this.”

You're devastated, as the anger you directed inward for neglecting to check up on her over the past year has transformed into feelings of guilt. Even if Kazuha wasn’t your girlfriend, both of you were just a simple text or phone call away from each other, and yet, an entire year passed without a single conversation. You would blame the college assignments that made you forget about Kazuha, but deep down, you know it would sound like an excuse.

"I'll let you stay, but what can you do to earn it? We can split the rent seventy-thirty. I'll pay the seventy, Zuha." You take her hand, and she looks back shyly. "Was it tough? It's my fault, Zuha."

“I’m not letting you pay more than half. I want to split it even. And like…we did it the first time, shouldn’t it be easier to do it the second?”

“Zuha…,” you said, bewildered in her sudden words, “this didn’t have to go that far.”

Kazuha sits right beside you, close enough to where you’re face to face. She gazes up and down at you with a seductive smile. "Isn't this what friends are for? Am I still your friend?"

“Tell your friends that you’re stay with me,” you said, eagerly wanting to change the topic before both your clothes become off this instant.

“I just want us to catch up. No one knew what we did.”

“Sakura probably heard us, Zuha."

Kazuha slowly puts her hand on your shoulders and down closer to your lap. You were just inches away from Kazuha's face. If there was one mistake you might make, it would be the temptation to kiss her as she gets closer and closer, tempting you to your very limits. "She did. Okay. It was embarrassing when we had this talk."

“Are you still talking to her?”

“I still do. But I never told her about the situation I’m in.” Then the naughtiest of her hands grip and caress your inner thighs.

“Zuha…” Your heart skips a beat.

“I know,” Kazuha looks to the side to avoid eye contact. You gently place your hands on Kazuha’s cheek to turn her back to you and stare at her quietly. Intentionally, she gets closer, tilting her head, and eyes closing to give you a quick kiss. “I missed you. I really do.”

Your adrenaline starts to rush at how she’s seducing you for what’s obvious. Neither had you thought this encounter would be end up this way as you kiss Kazuha from her lips to her neck. The little, cute moans she made were nostalgic for the first time you slept with her. Kazuha’s warm breaths coat your skin, and the gentle touches you felt on your back from her hands were warm. Both of you were fighting for each other's lips.

Despite the small romance, her hands got naughty and gently squeezes to your cock that’s under your clothes. Kazuha teases you, squeezing, stroking it in the most passionate ways that got you groaning by what she’s doing.

“Someone’s hard. Really hard,” Kazuha said, smirking and looking down at what’s waiting for her as she takes heavy breaths. Kazuha gulps and takes a quick glance outside the window, “it’s getting late, we have classes tomorrow. But let’s finish what we started.”

“Is this how we should make it up, Zuha?” You groaned, missing her soft hands on your cock.

Kazuha chuckles, the cute little distinct laughs she made only got you immersed in this feeling for her. "You need this. I need this. For old times sake."

You lifted her shirt off as it’s thrown out of the way for you to kiss her tits hidden beneath her bra. Kazuha lifts your shirt off, and the aggressive passion begins to bloom. “Zuha, let’s put our pride to the side.”

“I want you so bad. Don't you know how much I miss you?" Kazuha says, heavily breathing like she waited for this moment, season after season. She gets off and on her knees to quickly pull your pants down, “how about I get a taste? We can do something on the bed tomorrow.” As you two look each other in the eye, she was full of romance, which you can see the sincerity in those beautiful eyes of hers as Kazuha played it off mischievously.

“The sun is going down, Zuha. Don’t just wait for an answer.”

“How messy do you want to see me?"

You lean closer to her and pull off her hair tie, “It’s hotter when your hair sticks to your mouth, Zuha.”

“So naughty of you,” she smirks and licks the tip of your cock with a smile after. “In my mouth or on my face?”

“In, Zuha. Let’s not make a mess.” It was an excuse when you wanted her to be sucking you off for the whole time. Talking was just the troubling part and you weren’t for the talks. “You’re teasing me, Zuha. Let's not waste any more time."

“What’s the fun without-” and she stopped questioning. It would be best if she started sucking you off instead of wasting more time.

“Zuha,” you groaned, heavily breathing in and out as she bobbed her head slowly. Once you look down at her, Kazuha was glaring back at you with a smile turning into a smirk. “Kazuha.” The wet gags she made while sucking you off were not so innocent at all. You’re enjoying this moment, the way her tongue swirls around and under the tip of your cock, the sensational waves of pleasure that you couldn’t help but grip onto her hair made you moan her name as she starts to deep throat you. "Zuha, just like that."

Even as the sun starts to set slowly, shadows cast into the living room with the windows clearly opened for anyone lucky enough to see Kazuha sucking you off. The beauty she holds on you, slick and silky hair, manicured nails, her angel-like voice, and a well intelligent woman—Kazuha sure did get your feelings involved this time around. She wasn’t someone you’ll call a friend anymore.

The way she sucked you off felt like your breath was being taken, downright dangerously when you’re trying to not cum. But at the same time, the thought of cumming inside Kazuha’s mouth is always a never-ending good feeling, and there’s no way she wouldn’t love your cock throbbing in her mouth for a warm treat she's getting.

Kazuha’s mouth was always sinister, way to seductive whenever the timing was right. If that wasn’t enough, Kazuha’s innocence is another thing that you love about her, but when her warm mouth wraps around your cock, your mind becomes endlessly wanting more.

“Kazuha,” you kept groaning. “Kazuha,” you grunted, teeth clenching. There was something this time that she found more attractive—you calling her name in the most seductive way.

She pulls off and brushes her lip across with her thumb. Yet, Kazuha squeezes your cock, jerking it slowly while looking right in your eyes, “don’t cum yet," Kazuha smiles.

“You’re doing it so god damn good.”

“It’s that a compliment?” Kazuha laughs, and you still find Kazuha’s smile so attractive as she teases your tip with her thumb.

“Enough—” your airway cuts you off, unable to finish what you wanted to say as her lips press against your tip, “talking.”

Her tongue licks the bottom side of your cock up to the tip, and you stared at her smiling right back at you when she knew you’re enjoying it to the fullest. Then, Kazuha spits on your cock, with the messy strands of saliva dripping down to your balls. It wasn’t new where she would go next—down to suck on your balls. Her hands become covered in her own saliva and your pre-cum as she sucks on your balls with your cock in her soft-warm hands.

“I know you’re cumming any minute now,” Kazuha murmurs.

“In your mouth, Zuha,” you said quickly.

She didn’t care if the blowjob wasn’t thirty minutes, but seeing you happy was all she ever wanted in the first place. Neither could Kazuha wait any longer and pushes herself deeper onto your cock. That sinister mouth of hers made you love her even more when you felt the back of her throat.

You held onto her nape, groaning all the pleasures as Kazuha bobbed her head up and down while your cock starts to pulsate, and at last, cum in her mouth. Kazuha stops bobbing and glares at you cumming and panting. “Kazuha,” you groan her name.

You felt her swallowing every load, as much as she can get out of you for tonight. Your hands were still pinning Kazuha in, and you didn’t plan on freeing her, not just yet, until you’re more than satisfied. Kazuha slowly traces your thighs, and the glare she gave you was such an act of seduction.

Kazuha pulls off your cock once you let her, strays of her hair and the evidence of your cum were all over her mouth to her lips. She licks her lips after cleaning her own mess. “So, guess we should just fuck after coming home tomorrow?”

You didn’t mind skipping class tomorrow, but then you would have to worry about Kazuha if she wasn’t willing to be in the same boat. “I’ll pick you up after classes tomorrow?”

“Fair enough,” she laughs, “how should we sleep? Together?”

“Why are you asking that? This isnt our first. My bed is for two."

She kisses your cock, “well, it sounds like some kind of confession.”

And it was when you couldn’t muster up the courage with the weight of pride on your back. “Zuha, tell your friends that you’re with me.” You grab your phone to text your friends after putting your pants on. “Let’s go to bed. Get a good night sleep.”

Kazuha follows right behind you like nothing happened minutes ago, when you saw the different side of her. Not the nerdy, beautiful, and quiet girl, but the horny Kazuha.

“Hey,” she clears her throat, “got a toothbrush for me? Let's make a trip to my place early tommorrow and get some of my belongings."

“I have an extra one in the cabinet,” you pointed at the bathroom that was opened. “Need to shower too? I have extra towels, although you like morning showers, Zuha.”

She wouldn't anticipate you knowing her preferences, and when she knows that you know the smallest details about her, Kazuha blushes and shyly looks down with a smirk. "Just admit you missed me or something," she murmurs.

“I missed you, Kazuha,” you said. Kazuha wasn’t expecting that, but she thought that you would tease her instead. There wasn’t a need to say her name that way, when you call her by her nickname more often.

“I-I’ll be back and we can take turns using the bathroom.”

“Brush our teeth together. Think we obviously know the showers won’t be alone anymore. The bed is less lonely when you’re here now, Zuha.” Again, there wasn’t no need to tease Kazuha, but it was a sly confession.

“The dining table wouldn’t feel so lonely, either one of us will come home greeted. Maybe together also. We’ll have to think about each other when we’re out grocery shopping,” Kazuha added to your teasing.

“Gosh, let’s just go wash up for bed, Zuha. You're lame," you playfully said.

——

The following morning, Kazuha woke you up to start the day. With small, little conversations, you took her to a nearby store for an early breakfast and looked out of the glass window into the sunny morning. Afterwards, you dropped her off at class following a brief stop at her apartment. Neither of you were officially in a relationship, at least not yet, but before she exited the car, she requested a kiss.

Throughout your classes, thoughts of Kazuha consumed your mind and made it difficult to concentrate. Your thoughts wandered to the things you wanted to do with her after so long. Time seemed to drag on, and you anxiously waited when you could finally leave and pick her up from the library, where she waited with her headphones on as she works on her project.

After finishing your class for the day, you eargerly walked out to pick her up and called her the moment you arrived. “Zuha, I’m outside.”

"Okay. Be there in a second," Kazuha says before swiftly gathering her belongings and exiting the library. In her hands, she holds a book, and her backpack is filled to the brim with assignments. Dressed in denim jeans and a black shirt she changed into, she wore glasses that adds to her beauty, giving her a nerdy yet attractive look. It's remarkable how her glasses can make her stand out in a crowd. It's these subtle details that make you see her in a new light. Regardless of whether she intended to look beautiful, you couldn't help but be mesmerized by the woman who slept with you twice.

"Damn," you silently compliment her as she approaches your car. In that moment, you find yourself dismissing the idea of her as just a friend. There's something more, a feeling that goes beyond mere friendship. You want to keep her.

"It's sunny outside, isn't it?" Kazuha remarks, opening the door and taking a seat with her backpack on her lap.

"It is.” Your gaze fixed on Kazuha, captivated despite seeing her in the exact same outfit this morning. Yet, it was the addition of her glasses that caused your heart to skip a beat. It's unexpected, catching you off guard.

“Aren’t you going to drive?” Kazuha says, tilting her head to playfully tease you.

“Take off those glasses. I can’t concentrate,” you said, laughing it off.

“Your cheeks are glowing. Am I pretty? It’s not like you’ve never seen me wearing glasses.” The difference between her current innocent demeanor and whenever Kazuha wanted to fuck was polar opposite. You wouldn’t deny, you love seeing the two sides of Kazuha. “Better hurry, we have things to do at home.”

With a gulp, you shifted the car into drive. In that moment, Kazuha realized that this friendship is blossoming into something more. Despite both of you silently acknowledging the subtle sparks of romance, neither was willing to openly admit it.

As you both step inside your apartment, she shuts the door and locks it quickly. Kazuha waited for this just like you did for the whole day. She urgently drops her backpack and book onto the floor as you wasted no time in pinned her right against the door and lock eyes with each other.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Zuha.” Your hands were rather naughty as you groped her ass and made Kazuha chuckle.

“I could say the same,” she says quietly, and puts her hand on your shoulders. The look she gave you was silent, with the clock ticking loudly within the apartment. Neither did you want to look away from her beauty.

“Bed. Now, Zuha.” You lift her off the ground effortlessly and around her thighs to carry Kazuha. She chuckles softly and leans in for a romantic kiss as you make your way to the bed.

“I don’t think it’s right if we do this everyday,” Kazuha murmurs. “But it’s so right that no one knows about us.”

“Your tone is saying different, Zuha. Doesn’t matter if it’s ten minutes a day." You gently nudge the door with your foot before guiding her to the bed, where you both gently fall onto. "At least this way, we can both find some relief from the stress."

She starts striping off her shirt and pants, and you followed after, dropping it onto the floor with the door opened wide. Kazuha beckons you to come with her fingers and spreads her legs. “Come take off my bra and panties.”

You didn’t hesitate to get on top of her and kisses Kazuha on her abs and up to her armpits for a taste. You unhook her bra while kissing and licking her armpits, then tossed her bra onto the floor. Knowing that she’s also ticklish, Kazuha laughs and moan by your tongue getting a taste of her armpits. “You smell and taste so fucking good,” you mumbled.

“All for you,” Kazuha breathes heavily. Despite her panties still on, you didn’t plan to go down and pull them off, not just yet, when you wanted to get romantic with Kazuha. Your hands slowly reach up her arms, and pin them against the headrest of the bed. She laughs and smiles, “this brings back memories.”

“And you’re not gonna be laughing once I’m deep in you, Zuha.”

“You’re getting me so wet. Do I have to beg for it now?” She looks at you with a smirk.

You look at her body, down to her crotch, and see a small damp area that you made Kazuha have. “Can’t wait any longer?”

“Please,” Kazuha pleads as she looks at your hard cock. You could hear the small little whines she made as you press your lips all over her neck and chest.

Putting your cock inside her wasn’t what you wanted to do just yet, not until you get a quick taste of her pussy. You slowly get down towards her crotch and went in for a taste to be reminded of the succulent taste of Kazuha as her thighs are on your shoulders. She moans and whimpers to the rhythm of your tongue all over her pussy.

“Fuck,” she groans and arches her back. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”

And you knew she was getting impatient. Kazuha waited the whole day, and potentially wanting this more than you did. “So needy, Zuha,” you said and put your cock in slowly.

She moans with her mouth opened in a oval shape. The glare she give you were romantic, and the deeper you slowly went in, her eyes close with her teeth clenching. Kazuha’s pussy stretches the deeper you went, although you weren’t all the way in, she was taking every inch that you give her.

“You’re so tight, Zuha,” you moaned, heavily breathing as you feel how warm it was inside. The feeling of her pussy was like a genuine hug—a warm one that you only want from her. And by how warm it was inside, nothing would ever give you this feeling from another woman.

You love her body. Kazuha doesn’t have a killer body that men fantasize for, but you became fond of her tits. They’re on the smaller side, and you loved them. Her ass was something that you love the most—it’s soft and perfectly round, so slap-able enough to where you’ll kiss her ass for hours after. The beauty of her is when you’re fucking her from behind. The ripples and bounce it makes can only grow more hunger out of you.

“Go deeper,” Kazuha begs as she squeezes your shoulders. So you pushed in deeper until you heard an erotic grunt from her as she places her hand on your stomach to make you stop going further.

Love is pain, but you would argue that the pain was when you’re balls deep inside this woman, questionably, maybe your girlfriend that you didn’t want to admit. You’re deep inside her at the start where she needed to get used to your cock. This wasn’t her first time having you in bed, but it’s been way too long for Kazuha to remember this feeling of your hard cock stretching her pussy.

There’s not a thought about looking away from her eyes, she wanted this, she needed this, she knew that you’re the only man she’ll ever settle down for. This wasn’t a dice roll to see how long a new relationship would last with you, when you were for her everytime she needed someone to talk. Not much talking is happening as of right now though.

“Zuha,” you groaned, thrusting in and out of her walls hugging your cock so tightly. There’s a clear indication of romance by how her hands were all over your shoulders and to your back, and she’s not letting you go.

Was this feeling the same as the first time you slept with her? Definitely.

But this feeling was different when she held onto you so tightly, yet the softness of her not wanting you to pull away from her body as your thighs are locked in by her. Kazuha’s begging you desperately, and the mistake of holding back a simple text message made her blame herself. This was her way of making it up and wanting you to cum inside her.

“You’re so fucking big,” she groans in your ear and kisses your neck while your already balls deep inside Kazuha without the thoughts of being so-called ‘friends.’

You love it—the tightness of her pussy, and it’s not a fluke when she’s just a beauty, but someone you genuinely know with feelings this time around. Even if your cock throbs every few seconds, you would stop deep in her just to fuck her longer.

Kazuha’s arms are around you, they weren’t full of masculinity, but the feminine kind that you can dominate her in the most aggressive ways. It’s not like she would lead anyways when she loves getting a good pounding from you to clear her mind. As your breath gets heavier, she didn’t want you to do all the work, so Kazuha pushes your shoulders gently and you already knew she wanted to ride you. No words, only her eyes made it clear.

She gets on top as you caress her abs, and Kazuha slowly puts your cock in her again, moaning enough for you to only hear and no one else. You grab her arms and pull Kazuha down closer to make her chest to glue on to yours. She starts riding you with passion, and your hands slowly move closer to her ass.

With a quick and sudden spank, she laughs at you seductively with her lips all over yours, and she knew her ass was one of your favorite things to get a hold on.

“So naughty of you, gosh,” Kazuha says, kissing your lips right after.

“So round and juicy, Zuha. Don’t you miss how I touch you?”

“I don’t have to miss it anymore,” she moans.

Either of you still fail to hold a conversation while fucking, and this overly too passionate and romantic when she wasn’t your girlfriend. At least not yet. Your pride makes you hesitate.

Kazuha gets up with her hands leaning on your chest and grinds on your cock faster. Her breaths become heavy, and dangerously, the glares she gives you were lustful to the point of making your heart skipped a beat. She’s a beauty in every position.

You grunted, and she smiles seeing you struggle to not cum. “Zuha, slow down,” you said with a heavy breath and gently take this opportunity to choke her. Just even choking her, she smiles in the most seductive ways. Kazuha never told you that she loves being choked, but it’s not new when you bring a smile to her face when being choked.

She holds onto your arm with both hands that’s choking her neck. “Fuck, it feels so good inside me, Babe.”

Her moans gotten louder, your cock was deep inside Kazuha as she closes her eyes. And by the time you even realize, Kazuha cums. Her legs shake and she tumbles back down with her hair brushing against your shoulders all while you’re still choking her.

And you didn’t catch her slipping the word, ‘babe’ at all. Kazuha couldn’t help it. Her feelings are drawn towards you, and neither did she catch the word she said.

She’s in your embrace before she even knew it after you put your arm around her back. Her moans got more erotic, and you couldn’t help it but pound her even harder. The sounds of her ass bouncing on your thighs were pure ecstasy. You wanted more, you wanted the neighbors to hear this beautiful woman sing the songs of erotica.

“Harder,” she struggles to even speak with your cock penetrating her walls. “Harder, Baby.”

“Bend over. Give me what I love seeing.”

She gets off your cock after your arms were off her, and Kazuha quickly got on all fours as you get behind her. You love how this woman can turn from a nerdy one, to the most horniest yet. She never doubts you doing the naughtiest things to her, and she’s all in for it. All in for you.

You didn’t waste time to put your cock back in. Her walls were well lubricated, ass so round that you wanted to see it bounce in circular motions as you got her on all fours. The best part was that you also get to pull her hair, but the arch she’s doing—the back that you love so much, you could cum in her in this position forever.

Kazuha keeps moaning and moaning, “fuck me, harder!” She screams with her hair being pulled.

With her head bobbing, and ass bouncing to how hard you were pounding her, Kazuha closes her eyes with all the moans filling the room. Only she can make you feel this way, only you can make it right by fucking her in the most passionate yet hard ways that she loves. Her walls were hugging your cock at this point, the feelings of her tight pussy only made you grew hungry as you stare down at her body.

You give her ass a gentle spank, then a harder one, and the obvious and final, a harder one that made her scream erotically with a smile on her face that you couldn’t see.

“Zuha,” you moaned with a heavier breath. You’re tired, but there’s no way when you’re fueled by this woman to keep going. Her body’s addictive, beautifully in all different positions that neither of you can call each other friends after fucking.

You’re in a trance because of this woman. Thoughts run endlessly as you heard her moans muffle, and before you knew it, Kazuha’s moaning her heart out. Kazuha didn’t stop you, she wanted more, she wanted to be pounded by the man she kept yearning for.

So you lift her back up on her knees, back against your chest, the soft gentle chokes you give her neck, and your other hands groping her tits. Kazuha starts riding you, endlessly without wanting this to end all while feeling the warm embrace you give her.

“Make me cum, Zuha. Make me cum. I’ll give it to you.”

From seeing the wicked smile on her face as you’re choking her, she wanted this simple reminder, the reminiscence of the warm cum you gave her a year ago.

“Cum, Baby,” she says, riding and grinding. It was only then, you heard the way she called you for the first time.

“Make me, Baby,” you say back, spicing things up with her.

“Give it to me,” she says, squealing loudly by how hard you’re choking the sides of her neck with your fingers.

Your cock’s throbbing the harder she rides and pounds herself on your cock. The sounds of sex, Kazuha in your arms, the pleasure she’s giving you, and the tightness her pussy has on your cock gets the best of you.

You cum.

Like the time has stopped as she pauses to feel your cock throbbing and giving her your cum that left a memory inside her. “Zuha,” your breath becomes heavy. Grunting as you’re still cumming deep in her.

And the greed she has of you—your balls deep, cumming and giving Kazuha what she wanted. It’s not you who’s deep in her, every ounce of cum dumping deep inside her, but Kazuha. Her ass was glued to your hips, standing on her own two knees as you hugged Kazuha in your arms tightly.

“Mhmm,” she moans.

You’re grunting—hard, hard enough to strain your throat by how much your cock was still throbbing until the last bit of cum you have left for her. “Kazuha,” you whispered and nibbled her ear with a smile. “Kazuha”

She stood still to embrace this memory that she never expected. By being in your arms, your own house, and the love that blossomed quickly within a day or two, it’s a fairytale that turned into reality.

Neither did both of you spoke for seconds, or maybe minutes by how much passion still lingered in the small bedroom with clothes all over the floor. You kept her head titled back so you can get your lips all over her neck, and all she did was embrace your cock still inside.

Her moans became softer, seductively keeping you turned on more to make a mess on her neck. “Do you miss me this much?” She chuckles and hold your arm that’s on her neck.

“Maybe more than you ever thought, Zuha,” you murmur, still kissing her neck and up to her face.

“I don’t think this can be your monthly rent. I want to help you. Getting me naked is just a plus.”

“What exactly are you saying, Zuha,” your lips trace up to her lips for a romantic kiss.

“I’m saying-mhm—” Playfully, you cut her off to speak by shutting her lips closed with yours.

You decided to let her speak, “can’t hear you, Zuha.” You’re curious after all the time spent fucking.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Neither could she confess straightforwardly. The way she saw the love in your eyes were no lies.

“I want to take you out to a restaurant tomorrow. A new one,” you said and pulled your cock out of her. “Don’t go to class tomorrow. Spend the day with me at least.”

“It’s like you’re asking me out,” she laughs. “What’s the point of us acting like we’re getting to know each other? Let’s just skip all that.” She reaches for her clothes to put on.

Neither of you can confess, but it didn’t matter when it’s clear enough. There’s no clouds, no fog, and only the road that both of you see into the future together. She’s not just your friend, you’re not just her friend, but a couple—girlfriend and boyfriend.

“Lay in bed. Let’s rest up for a bit, Zuha,” you say while putting on your clothes with a smirk.

She looks at you mischievously, “missing a day of class won’t hurt. Spending time in bed right now won’t either, right? I could be working on projects.”

"Give your attention to me, Zuha."

"Anyways, let’s split the rent half-half. It's what's right," she places her hand on your chest as you both lay down.

You didn’t give her answer but press your lips against hers. It remains quiet. If she wanted to split the rent half and half, you wouldn’t mind. Her body’s yours to cum inside of.

“So what’s your answer,” Kazuha whispers after you let go of her lips.

“We can talk about it after we move your stuff over here, Zuha.”

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capslocked · 15 days

Text

PROXIMITY

male reader x chou tzuyu

25k words

You’re not a bad person. And you know how that sounds apropos of nothing - defensive, unscrupulous - but it’s true. You’re like anybody else: full of mistakes, but good, mostly.

You are also aware of the way she looks at you. None of that has changed.

The slight quirk at the corner of her lips. A flicker, a smirk. A game, all doe-eyed and deep dimpled - she's playing the seduction one. It isn’t subtle, and you're losing by proxy. So you're backtracking, drawing your conclusions; you're reading into the line of her jaw, the fall of her hair. Measuring the weight behind each blink.

"You were wrong by the way," Tzuyu starts, indifferent. Through some act of divine retribution, she laughs. "Because to tell you the truth, I used to have, like, the biggest crush on you."

She’s young, and - well, she’s a lot of things. A terrible idea. Incredibly off-limits. She is anathema, red tape, an original sin. You shake your head at her, smile fading - which for anyone keeping score, is an admonishment, however faint.

Because Chou Tzuyu, you recognize, is categorically, unequivocally: never supposed to happen.

If you want a read on your current dilemma, then this is how it pans out:

You’re walking headfirst into one of the multiple terrible, terrible scenarios you've probably had an anxiety dream about. It’s an ambush, really.

There’s the text from Mina, explaining all the ins and outs of her winter hideaway, the logistical whereabouts, and the pinched photo from the outside, the endless winding driveway, the clearing in the woods. The remote location, the unfussed snow, the towering trees. There are no neighbors to speak of, just seclusion and isolation and that makes you, among the seven billion or whatever, the only one who will know precisely how fucked you are.

The door to the cabin swings open on its hinges. You kick the snow off your boots, and the air smells indistinctly of peppermint tea.

It’s a cozy place, you think. A slightly rustic aesthetic. There’s a pair of skis decommissioned over the mantle. Mina, as usual, has good taste. You peek around: the foyer, the open living space, the wood finishes, the sunken fireplace. You almost make out a bathroom, through a half-opened doorway - and the kitchen, maybe, is nestled around the far corner.

You settle in, find your bearings, and start taking these leisurely steps down the hall.

That’s when you see her. Wearing a sweater that's a size too big, draped over her frame - sleeves tucked, exposing the barest hint of skin on her wrists, her delicate fingertips. You blink once, twice. That’s a dangerous flare. The rest of her, this canvas of pale skin and soft, endless legs, the hollowed stretch of inner thigh-

Actually, you know what, you are going to delete that out of your mind; as far as you're concerned, Tzuyu absolutely does not have her long, satin-like mahogany hair spilling over her shoulder, her bare legs poking out from under that bulky cotton blend, and she definitely, very absolutely has not given you a complete lack of boundaries, so it's more than plausible for her to slide onto a stool near the countertop with her painted-toes peeking out from beneath the folded press of her thigh (the pedicure, really, now?) and look over at you like you aren’t perfectly familiar with that goddamn face. Those eyes, that jaw.

And her collarbone is out too. Ouch.

Tzuyu rests her chin in one of her perfectly manicured hands, and tilts her head: she’s very blatantly checking you out.

The problem is, you’ve recognized her immediately.

Which - god, the bottom-lines, the blurred borders. It’s been years. She's twenty-three, twenty-four now, and as it turns out, she's taller than you remember. She's thinner, taller, actually a bit filled out too-

Right, okay, no. Just. Delete that image from the internal memory.

"Oh," you breathe, because there's not a single thing you're sure you’re supposed to do. It takes a split second too long to put the brakes on everything in your brain and say, "Tzuyu." It takes even more control not to tack an unthinkingly fond 'miss' to the front of her name - you're a god-honest lost hope - but at the last minute, you settle for, "hi."

It’s unnatural. She's actually somehow prettier than you remember, and the tousled brown curls flowing down her shoulder make it worse. She smiles, gently; this soft-spoken, "hey."

She’s at the kitchen island, holding a bowl of cereal and looking at you like she’s taking inventory. The strap of her bra is black, loose around the curve of her left shoulder; she's barefoot. Any other context, and it's your favorite kind of combination, basically: casual and messy and haphazard. Perfect. She's so tall, christ.

"We've met a few times," and she's not even phrasing it as a question - because she knows for a fact that you know her - and now, well, you can see how that's a problem.

"Yeah." You drop your bags. "Nobody said anything about anyone being here, so, I'm just a little-"

“Relieved?” Tzuyu tries, and if it sounds conceited, you’ve imagined it.

“Surprised,” you amend, quickly. There is a massive amount of distance currently between the both of you - several feet and an island counter to top it off. That's good, you think.

Tzuyu runs her hands over the top of her hair, a half-effort at putting it up into some sort of a ponytail, or maybe a bun. You see now that her nails are bare. "I'd heard from Mina," she starts, "that Sana was coming here-"

And you watch, absentmindedly, as Tzuyu slides down off her chair. You watch her too carefully almost, for a beat. You want to follow the length of her legs with the same ease and shamelessness - like it's instinct or just expected; it's ridiculous and wrong to think, but-

"-with, uh, someone. She left it purposefully vague." Tzuyu finishes, then pauses. Her gaze slides across you. If the awkward stretch of silence is weird, she doesn't comment on it. “Then I heard the flight got delayed because of all the snow."

"Just Sana’s," you correct, and that's not information you should be simply giving away. She just stands there, blinking up at you.

"Huh," she says, eyebrow lifted - slower than is explicitly necessary, “so you’re like. All alone until she gets here.” She simply eats a spoonful of cereal, chews for a moment, and adds, “bummer.”

It’s true, in some sense. You sigh, rake a hand back through your hair, and your jacket falls further down on one of your shoulders; she drops her gaze down, almost imperceptibly, following the motion.

There is definitely a point where you could take notice of a lot of things, and they include, but are certainly not limited to: the fucking languor with which she is licking the yogurt off the back of her spoon, her stupidly long eyelashes fanning on the tops of her cheeks when she glances down, the frankly risque neckline of her sweater. Those kinds of things. Those kinds of details. Really, you wouldn’t dare.

"It sounds like she’ll be getting in tomorrow evening," you decide to inform her, though she didn't ask, and now she nods, focusing still on the yogurt and granola at the bottom of her bowl.

You walk into the kitchen. Rap your knuckles on the countertop. Tzuyu’s right there, and your mind is filling up with images you could really do without. That's the unfortunate, traitorous nature of all this: in any universe, Chou Tzuyu fawns over you. And she will, on accident or purpose, test you. And as for your hesitation - that's an instinct that gets activated every time you so much as meet Tzuyu in person, this invasive little impulse.

"Well," Tzuyu says, way too casually. “It’s just us then.”

"Yeah." you agree, stilted. “Just us.”

"There's wine," she decides, tilts her head. Then, matter of factly, "and coffee, hot cocoa. Mina’s more or less stocked on everything."

Her voice hits the room all nice, sweet, syrupy - god, fuck, maybe there's a window or a door here somewhere that you're supposed to open to clear the air, but when you look, there’s frost on the glass; it’s the subalpine frigidity. Tzuyu flashes you this other sort of glance - her teeth scrape the rounded spoon's tip before her lips fully fix around it. The drowsy, delirious feeling is almost involuntary at this point.

"I should unpack my things, is what I should do, probably," and now you are saying things for the sake of saying them, as an escape. "Hey, seriously. Sorry for the inconvenience."

“Don’t be,” she tells you. "The weather isn't anybody's fault."

(Here, a premonition. You look at Tzuyu, who raises an eyebrow back.)

The next logical move is: leave. Tzuyu folds her long limbs back up onto the stool, and you're - trying not to look. You're also trying not to do it consciously, actively - you're not, and not. You fail, like you did a few years ago, too - the eyes have a bad habit of wandering. She's made of porcelain, all thin wrists, thin neck, soft curves and delicate lines. She's made out of glass - she’s at her most dangerous when you’ve gone and broken her.

It’s possible, you think, she could break you too.

Look, contextually - it’s Murphy’s law, or maybe your own very specific curse. A lot of stuff happens, so here’s a rough draft, your best effort at an approximation, a smudged-pencil sketch:

Tzuyu has been on vacation in the Alps from the start of the week, or maybe the week prior - she's alone in this stupidly big cabin you're supposed to be meeting Sana in for two weeks and change of pure unadulterated, hedonistic fun. Skiing, lounging, stargazing, drinking, screwing, consummating a situationship. You know the drill.

However there ends up being an actual, literal avalanche - with snow and rocks and ice and whatever the fuck - the power goes out, and you can only assume the whole mountain's gone dark. It's like a classic, a cautionary tale: hey, dude, you're on vacation with this drop-dead gorgeous girl who will let you do whatever you want to her - in the name of love and lust and a loosely legal liability. She says she'll be yours forever, except you also heard her say that the universe is entitled to laugh at you, a bit - so you do something you'll regret (which, okay, you've done countless things you'll regret) and now you're getting punished for it, and so is the stunning temptress currently shivering in the bed next to you. Seriously, whatever you do, do not fuck her, don't let her get too attached, because oh, man - Tzuyu really likes to make herself comfortable, huh? To nestle herself into your arms, let her hand stroke circles in the dark fabric of your t-shirt, warm her cold nose into your chest, and cuddle the night away. She's so easy to give in to, isn't she? This walking, talking paradox of everything she's not supposed to be and everything she'll willingly do anyway - there's her expression, placid and rapturous in equal measures, the sleepy mumbles against your skin that sound like prayers, her damp breaths.

You should know better. You should know that this is the universe, laughing its ass off at you.

And just for the record, there is sound reason for everyone to feel, in some sense, extremely concerned by the narrative that your life has slowly, unceremoniously devolved itself into.

The first time you meet Chou Tzuyu is years ago. She’s dramatically, devastatingly, problematically, young.

It was all happening before you could really clock it, and it was morally reprehensible, and it was, in fact, probably all your own doing.

And it’s even more obvious in retrospect: how she would react to the way you reach back and ruffle your hair when you laugh, the casual appeal of your smile, the depths of your tone, how you cut it as close as you can get it. A girl will trip all over herself to let you look after her; that’s the basic blueprint, that's the default. See, you're in your twenties, an adult - not having figured out much, but having certainly figured out this - and it's very much not lost on you that the girl should not be flirting with you - but she does, and the very worst of it is: you let her.

“Are you out of your mind?” Jihyo had said at the time, and, in fairness, yeah. That more or less sums it up.

So you end up making a point of never getting to know her, to always keep the conversation nonexistent. Or in the worst case scenario, brief - on surface level topics. The weather. Your job. Food. If you like her sunglasses. (They look protective, you’d told her, very practical. Very safe.) It's the essentials, a light, professional rapport - never once crossing the border from casual conversation to candid disclosure.

She's infatuated, of course. You're not mincing words here. It's actually rather unfortunate, how gone she is for you. You could’ve probably stood to dial it back; you, and your charm. Your smiles.

Because Chou Tzuyu was however many years young, very much off-limits - and like a lot of people it seems, totally hooked on your whole deal.

(Theoretically, that's how it all starts. Which is why, pragmatically, you will never, ever lay a finger on her.)

So, the plan to get through this was simple and to the point and as follows:

* Avoid unnecessary physical contact

* Maintain social distance, in fact - something covid-esque sounds great, about six feet

* Do not offer opinions/advice unless specifically asked

* Minimize speaking, just to be safe

* Do not exchange gifts, especially personal ones

* Be wary of the temptation to take a voluntarily-tipsy Tzuyu to bed, because you'll want to - and god knows Tzuyu will make it extremely clear that you could; this is exactly how shit turns south-

* Adjust and reframe

* Reinforce

* Remind yourself

* To just fucking think about literally anything else

It was working fine, so far - really fine, especially if you consider how early into the stay you're sitting there, telling yourself off in the bathroom mirror, get it together, you dumbass. What is wrong with you, don’t you know better by now - before an unapologetic knock on the door snaps you out of it, and the click of the door opening a moment later forces a heavy inhale from your chest: you just need a fucking second, thanks - not a half-decent excuse or a rearrangement, not a careful restructure, just a split second in your own head; that's not even the sort of thing you're prone to needing, because it's you, but with Chou fucking Tzuyu-

A soft breathy laugh, "are you okay in here?"

Tzuyu pokes her head into the room, her hair a wavy curtain that tumbles down past the middle of her back. You have this vague, fleeting impulse to run your fingers through it.

"Well," and there goes all the shit you'd managed not to think about, or contemplate, or dwell upon for that one glorious, naive, misinformed second. "Sort of," you say, offering her a quick glance.

"Really?" Tzuyu says, not catching onto the whole existential crisis thing. "Is there anything else you need? I mean," and then your eyes fall upon her; she's put a sweater on, pants, which all things considered, is a huge victory, a total rout - her baggy sweater drapes on her, practically brushing her thigh where the material stops, the hem. "I guess not, just. Um," her teeth catch her bottom lip for a quick moment, and this time she glances back towards the hall, the granite-finish tiles. "Wanna make s'mores?"

"What," you ask, because honestly, what the actual fuck-

"I went into town to get fresh groceries earlier this week. Everything just kinda landed in my cart," she says, the beginning of an explanation - the backstory, if you will. "And there's a fireplace. Momo always says the calories don't count if it's social eating, so." She makes a small shrug.

"Oh,” you say, like you understand. Your throat feels tight. “She’s totally right.”

She offers you a small nod. Tucks her hair behind her ear. You wonder if she knows how suggestive even the smallest of gestures she makes are; and more so, if she does it knowingly, or simply without thought - if it's a facet of her own effortlessness.

"Um," you say, for no particular reason other than that Tzuyu is fucking distracting. "Okay."

The edges of her mouth tick upwards at that. "We could put something on the tv,” she suggests. “For the vibe."

"Oh yeah, for the ambience."

"For the ambience," she nods.

(And fuck her, seriously. You might be a goner already.)

"A winter weather advisory," Tzuyu reads, squinting slightly at the tv. A minute later: "Just stay home," followed by another pause, and a frown: "hail and ice too. Yeah, no kidding."

She's reading the weather report. You're pretending you have any idea how to work the fireplace while she sets her eyes on the news, hands running over the blankets she has huddled around herself - legs folded, tucked into the edge of her chest. She'd gotten as far as logging into her Netflix account before the suggestion of cuddling was so obviously implied, her hands patting the cushioned space beside her that you were required by moral law to flip through the cable options until you found the least sexy, least rom-com-y option you could find: a newscaster reporting on the ongoing inclement weather, a forecaster saying 'near zero chance of improving, so travel is heavily discouraged, we strongly advise against-'

"Wonder if Sana's even going to make it," Tzuyu breaks the relative silence, and you are acutely aware of how casual she has been referring to Sana, the complete and utter lack of jealousy or any emotion related - or you guess, inspired. She's not even the slightest bit irked. “If the airport opens, maybe," she adds, and, after a beat, "let's hope."

It gets colder. You can barely see three feet past the front door. The forecast only gets worse, the storm intensifies and swells, it snows and snows - and this isn't a cottage somewhere on the lake, you're a couple miles down a single-track, woodsy road, far, far away from society.

If only these walls could talk, honestly. You're like, caught in a moment. With Tzuyu and marshmallows and these tiny, sticky wooden skewers. This is a story you will tell nobody, ever.

"I don’t mean to say I told you so," she says, but it comes out with a mouthful of chocolate and graham cracker, and marshmallow, which sort of takes the bite out of it. "But the movie is a little more entertaining."

You pretend like you weren't staring at her mouth a beat prior. "Right, a cinematic masterpiece."

Tzuyu tugs a marshmallow off the stick, and looks over at you again. Smiles around the impromptu pastry. She's just such a bright, wholesome thing - soft-hearted, selfless, so innocuous and so pleasant. It's absolutely sick. You have a fucking pavlovian response to Tzuyu simply existing.

And you’re pretending like the white, tacky remains on her mouth haven't permanently solidified that look into memory: the melted chocolate, the whipped sugar, the dimple. You could really do without this specific feeling - for however much longer it'll last, should the storm linger.

"You don’t ever have stuff like this, just for a quiet, carefree time?" Tzuyu licks it off her skin, and the question kind of drags your attention elsewhere.

You breathe in, slow.

Maybe she can feel it too, you think. Because Tzuyu drags the pad of her thumb against her bottom lip, and a question she doesn't ask flickers to life in her gaze: if you'll break or not, if there is an absolute limit.

But it’s impossible to read her. Tzuyu takes up this real easy-going disposition, all quiet and stoic, sort of, and maybe that's the dangerous part of her - the stillness. Other moments, she has this uncanny knack for conversation. She's charming in that way, you have always thought, a bright face. She has a keen understanding of things too - maybe sometimes too much; maybe a little bit beyond her years, really, a little too knowledgeable.

"When the gang does," you answer, diplomatically. “Sure, I suppose.”

There's another smile at that, which is how you know that the back and forth, this coolly cool, somewhat-stiff exchange is sort of becoming a game. A bet on who cracks, who turns. She won't tell you it's you, and you'll never in your right mind acknowledge her. It's some version of honesty. A bit like Russian roulette.

"I used to think we were friends, you know," she muses, like it's some great mystery - all very deliberately cryptic. Like it's funny.

"Hey, you were like, a teenager," you're grasping at straws. You’re spinning the bullet round the conversational chamber. “And I have this thing-”

"You have a thing?" Her eyebrow is raised again - sweetly challenging.

"-like, a principle, a standard - if there's nothing there, and let's face it: there's really not something here-"

"Aw," Tzuyu fakes pouting, which is simultaneously very mean and also like, painfully hot, and she makes this pitiful coo, "you really have nothing to say at all, do you."

Which. Fuck, she’s right. The 'thing' here is the no touching, the no messing, the no making anything resembling a move. She's sitting over there with her mouth covered in sugar, batting her goddamn eyelashes. Which you ignore, thank god for impulse control, or the instinct of it, and Tzuyu pushes a graham cracker past her lips to placate her own expression.

And so it goes. She keeps looking at you and looking and looking and you stare, transfixed, back at her. The edges of her jaw, the rise of her nose, the jutting curve of her collarbone; you say something dumb or clever and you're making her laugh, and every time she does, her teeth catch on her bottom lip and you could really do with a distraction right now, but it's impossible not to flirt.

It's just the way the universe has constructed you - this starvation, a twisted desire. There’s cruelty in the design.

(Things take a turn for the worse, of course. You don’t know how, but she gets to you agree that you two should've gotten closer in all that time-

"Well, I’m sure you were just so busy," you'd shrugged, indifferent, and she'd pressed the sleeve of her sweater to her mouth, just to hide how bright the smile was.

-which, honestly, fuck you - given all the context. Because now she's right here in the cabin; she's an arm's length away, and all this time, you've meant to stay the fuck out of reach.)

Tzuyu does the worst thing. She returns from the kitchen, hands full, with two squat tumblers and a bottle of dark brandy. She sets one down next to you and asks if you want some.

You look. You mean, what are you even supposed to do? It's a catch twenty-two, it's a joke - what can a girl be thinking, standing there. Bending the right way, hair framing a face like hers.

Yeah, sure - it’s the voice of someone who's slipping, who’s gonna say the same thing three more times. "Hm, why not."

The ice clinks against the glass. Then, the pour. Toast to good health, a clean conscience, safe passage; you’ll take whatever you can get.

You watch Tzuyu knock back an impressive amount and make an impressive face. There’s maturity there, you cope. Because you want to touch her jaw, thumb over her cheekbone, breathe baby, it's too strong, slow down on her lips, watch her mouth open slightly-

The fire pops.

She leans toward you. “Are you going to keep stealing stories from me, or are you going to supply anything good to the discussion?"

"About me, personally?" you say, purposefully pedantic.

Tzuyu’s smirk is half-present, half-playful. She sets down her tumbler on a coaster - Mina would be appreciative - and hums at you. “What do you think I mean?”

"I was really hoping the inflection would help clarify."

She levels a gaze with you. You fight back for a hot second - this slow-burning heat under the skin, your resolve threatening to buckle, shatter, spill itself everywhere - and in the end, she is the one that looks away, softly laughing, a pfft under her breath. You’re left the opportunity to just - look. See where the glow from the wood-burning fire has cast this gorgeous gold over her face, all her defined curves, her delicate features.

"I don't care, it could be anything," she poses, settling back into the pillows. Smiling. "Please. Entertain me."

Her cheeks are rosy. You realize, quite suddenly, you are not totally sober either. This is exactly how Sana talked you into something however many moons ago, then however many moons later, surgically unattached all the strings. Sana’s good at talking. At convincing. And you don't do shots like her, or apparently like Tzuyu does - but hell, it's that maddening, pretty little dimple of hers - the one that's always there when she does her mischievous smirk - a deeply devastating look, a devil-may-care demeanor, and you're dead-drunk on it, honestly.

"Want me to talk about Sana?" you offer, "seems like an obvious choice."

"I think you’re projecting," Tzuyu teases. “You just miss her, I'm sure.”

"Mhm. Sure."

Tzuyu makes a noise halfway between a chuckle and a snort, and draws the blankets more tightly around her. "What," she says, nonplussed, "who doesn't want to hear some gossip about their friends?"

You're fucking up, right? Fucking up the same way you did years ago when you caught the wrong kind of feeling for an entirely, altogether inappropriate woman. But you'll blame the drinks. And the mood. And the ambience, the fucking fire that's almost suffocating, the closeness of her body next to you-

"Hey," you say, and it's such a mistake. You're pointing to a spot on your chin. You're making it worse. "You got a little, uh-"

You watch as she lifts her hand, glides it through the air - brushes her own cheek with her fingertips, smoothing out an imagined blemish.

"Did I get it?"

"Uh, well, sorta-" and she knows you’re lying.

Tzuyu tries again. Comes up short, and when her hair falls in front of her face, she’s looking at you like maybe you’ll help take care of that too. She’s a total fucking coquette - though maybe she hasn’t even done it on purpose, maybe she's just that unaware, innocent. Not the second one, you figure. You're leaning, tilting closer and closer to her - in any other scenario, there'd be the shortest possible time between her touching herself and you, cupping her jaw with one of your hands.

But your mouth feels like it's moving of its own accord. "No, wait, let me help you," you continue, before you know it.

Isn’t it disastrous; all ice and hazard, this is the advisory in effect; a napoleon-goes-to-russia caliber calamity, a colossal write off, a write in. You could have, should have stopped, except you didn't and now you're reaching, gently, until your palm cups the side of her face - until you press, until you hold her steady. Her head tilts. She lets you, blinking up. Her eyes are this hazy, intoxicated coffee-brown, honeyed and burnt and fucking beautiful.

You swipe your thumb along her bottom lip. The gesture is slow, languid, intentional; you think, through some cosmic error, that might just be the end of it.

"There," you say, smiling, naive.

"Yeah," Tzuyu breathes out, and she winds her fist into the fabric of your shirt. "Thanks."

You lean, or she does; you go down, or she pulls you; there's no difference, really.

She is kissing you, this soft little press. A tug in every direction. You hadn’t kissed her, at the very start, but when her fingers thread through your hair, gripping hard, bringing you closer until you groan, parting your lips slightly, and - and her tongue flits past yours - your brain does this wild mental leap that you ought to be questioning later.

But everything starts to sink.

One of your hands lands on her waist, thumb slipping under the hem of her sweater and pressing against bare skin, and her knee nudges between both of your legs - until Tzuyu hums this low, pretty sound in her throat. There is something fervent here, all-consuming, devouring; her mouth moves like it's frantic for air, for oxygen and fuel, and her whole body melts under yours like she's completely falling apart.

Fuck, you think. There is a deep, smouldering heat in the pit of your stomach.

Because she’s perfect. You always knew that, didn’t you. She is firelight and perfume and muted gold; everything else falls into shadow, fades into the background. Her lips are velvet-soft, and they open again and again with these heavy exhales of hot air - so much so that you have to shift the hand you'd set on her waist lower, a little, her hip bone under your palm, a touch ghosting towards the dip and the swell.

Somehow you have this knowledge: at the end of everything, it'll be her name falling helplessly off your tongue.

"You were wrong by the way,” she stops to say.

"About-" You press another kiss into her jaw, and her mouth parts around the same slow sigh. "Wait." You lean back enough to look at her again.

“Whatever you said earlier." Tzuyu’s eyes go half-lidded as she starts petting your hair back into place, thumb stroking your jawline. "I'd have made time."

Oh, christ-

"Because to tell you the truth," her tongue wets her lip, shiny, wet, "I've never really forgotten. Like I just thought, that whole thing was so… fleeting, you know, like the last time, when you let me text you - god, I was crushing so hard."

You breathe, shaking your head.

"Don’t," is what comes out of your mouth after, quick, sharpened.

“Don’t what?” Tzuyu taunts, pushing another inch further. That small grin on her face, her long, nimble fingers combing through your hair.

You are trying to think, and there was an apology, right? You'd had this one in you. The one that began as a guilty soliloquy, a rueful acknowledgement; something that should have been directed toward Tzuyu, told her, at one point, or another: look. Sorry it's like this.

But there is a hand tracing the collar of your shirt - a sensation that follows all the way to the base of your throat; you lean further into her touch, almost involuntarily - a simple motion, and yet. "You shouldn't. You shouldn't say things like that to me," and you mean: these things you already know. "It's not good."

"Doesn't feel that bad," she tells you, a breezy sort of whisper, warm. "I think I'm getting the opposite impression."

"Maybe for the wrong reasons," you remind her. And to remind yourself, actually. "Probably for the wrong reasons - trust me, it is.”

"Trust you," and it’s the slightest bit ridiculing, a tease - Tzuyu drops her smile, pulls you in by the hair, whispers low. "Sure," the syllable soft, pressed against your throat, "I trust you not to hurt me," and the 'not' gets hung on for an impossibly long moment, stretched out thin.

She's sinister; she has to be, or some amalgamation of the most potent version of every word she’s ever said. A dream girl, the definition and essence of a temptress, this shameless attraction - an insistent siren begging for your attention; the incepting mind-game; the entity that stalks the halls in the deepest trenches of the night, whispering your worst fears right into your ear. You fall further into Tzuyu, the prettiest of nightmares.

(Oh, it's the dimple that does you in, really: if there's any possible way that Chou Tzuyu has unintentionally ruined your life, she's done it with that innocent little smile.)

"You can kiss me again," Tzuyu says, permissive.

And you do. You kiss her, and kiss her like you’ve no choice - like you've decided, at least in this very moment, if Tzuyu can own a piece of your soul, you can take something too.

(The thing about a cautionary tale: sometimes it is really just a story. Sometimes it happens and the world is left unscathed. There were a lot of warning signs, yes. But this could be a coda, a moralistic adage, a story to turn the page on and laugh and be embarrassed by and say, oh, no, I'd definitely do better; a blip. We’d never do anything like that. It's all history, honestly.)

It's not romantic, and it's less gentle than you’d have expected: Tzuyu bites your lip at one point, and you grab her hip so hard she yelps. The pause in the after is filled with a provocation, a stare, a tilt of your head, and her saying, “hey, easy now.” You cup her face in your hands, and run your thumb over lips. The calm is pretty short-lived. She gets her hands working frantically to tear your shirt off over your head. Then it's a haphazard stumble into the doorframe of the bedroom, with her pulling you in too-hard by the waist, bumping your nose against hers in this rough meeting - until your lips fit together.

“Mm,” Tzuyu’s mouth pushes insistently into yours and your tongue immediately laves at its underside, coaxes it to slide against yours and soon she’s sliding forward on purpose - on her own initiative, pressing the steady line of your cock against the seam of your pants, the pressure sudden.

"Watch it," you murmur, breaking away a little to glare at her, which just makes her smile, like she likes pissing you off or something, likes watching you get mad at her, or whatever - if she says it's true, then it is, probably - she's honest.

Her small hand darts up, gripping the sides of your jaw tightly and moving in, kissing like it's easy; like she knows what the fuck she's doing. Her head tilts and she does it again, except it's a few times in a row, making out in the doorway.

"And if I say no?" She grins, hand at your dick again, just palming through the fabric and getting off on your soundless reactions to it all. "Like, is that really enough? I feel like you'd have to like - tie me up. Something - you know?"

"That sounds like a you problem."

A mischievous smile steals across her lips and you feel yourself doing the same. "Yeah, you're right," she responds, dragging her thumb and forefinger from the zipper of your jeans to the hard line of your cock, pinching gently along the shape. "It is my problem."

She feels pliant, more than willing, but it's a calculated type of softness. Still, you get a hint, a vague message and you figure, the way this girl's smirking in her lips: she likes being held down, held fast and steady, so you pin her wrists above her head - her eyes stay on you, don't drop; you pin her, and her expression becomes that shade more dark, more teasing. Oh, you'll go slowly, you think, until Tzuyu gives. You'll climb a hand further under her sweater, let it skim over her ribs. You'll kiss her again, open-mouthed, and slow, until she can't breathe.

Her head knocks into the wall, she bites and smiles like a promise, and all her muscle flexes under your grip. "Oh, seriously," Tzuyu whispers into your mouth. "Y'know, this is like a fantasy of mine.”

And that's kind of it: she has that look. In the morning, you can see yourself chasing her down into sheets - just pinning her with the weight of your whole body, feeling each tensed curve of her against you. She pulls you closer, into her; she seems the type.

"I’d really rather not hear that, Tzu.”

"And I want to hear you say please, more than anything," Tzuyu laughs at herself, something hard in it, "but I think you want to fuck me so bad, it'll come naturally. Like, the second you have your fingers inside me. And that's what you want, right? Tell me."

"I'm thinking about your legs,” you tell her, running your palm around the curve of her thigh. Fuck, she’s perfect. “Think they'd fit around my waist."

"And hook my ankles? I’d love that." Her eyes crinkle. "Is that it, though?"

"Maybe I'd keep my hand on your throat and fuck you like that, too. That's on the table."

Tzuyu laughs: a real, actual sound, but not at you. "It is. You're smart."

"To be completely transparent," you mutter. "I don't plan on asking you very nicely at all."

The lines in Tzuyu's face go a little blissful, contented, like she's so, so pleased with this, like she approves, and she kisses you again, the length of your bodies pressed together, except where her hips cant up and meet the space between your thighs. You drag a hand roughly along her waist, kneading muscle there, down to the rise of her jeans - which, fuck, you need to help her shimmy out of and find the pull of the sweater, whatever - and she grinds out some noise, something caught between her throat and her teeth, but mostly in the place where your hand's dragged under the material, tugging gently at the wire of a bra, and you'd actually kind of forgotten it was a thing.

It's when you hear her own rasp, when she slips the side of your zipper open with a few quick strokes, shoving her fingers inside to hold the base of your cock, that you finally decide:

She's yours and you'll prove it. You'll make sure she knows: the evidence, the fingerprints, the bruises blooming the size of your thumbs and she'll be the one showing them off with pride. She'll let you do whatever you like, which'll be a lot. She'll appeal to all the worst parts of you; she'll say thank you; she'll whimper while you're pulling her bra off and simply letting it flutter to the ground; she'll be crying within the first half an hour of you touching her. You can read it right off her gorgeous face. She'll be so damn breathtakingly-pretty, bouncing on your cock, folded under your weight - it'll be incredible. She'll be yours.

"Come on," Tzuyu breathes. "Yes. Please," she adds, as though it's an afterthought, her free hand tangling in your hair, pulling. "Hurry, or something - I fucking love this but we need to- I’m literally going to, like, die if you don’t touch me right now."

"Yeah," is what you get out. Her jeans finally fall to her ankles and she kicks, to get them to puddle onto the floor. "Yeah. Alright, maybe."

You won't even need to hear her begging, you already know how she sounds: a little annoyed and very turned on, rolling her eyes at herself. This part - she's playing at resistance, but she's giving in. A kiss back, hotter than you were expecting, as you slip a hand up the back of her bare thigh and the edge of her underwear, a thin strip, like it's done on purpose.

When you tuck a finger inside the waistband, feeling a little guilty about the way her whole body reacts - the flex, the pull, the weight of all her muscle straining against how her legs fall open - Tzuyu manages, her face in the hollow of your cheek: "you've waited long enough, right?"

God, she knows where the wounds are still fresh. Which bruises will hurt most when she puts a finger right into one - a reminder you couldn't possibly ignore. She's playing this whole thing a little bit sadistically; she wants this to be your fault, you can tell.

And your mind isn't unbending. You push a finger into her cunt and the girl absolutely shakes apart, body jerking like you've severed a lifeline. She's so wet, and so pretty, so sensitive. Maybe you really have.

"Tzu," you tell her. The hand in your hair tightens, a warning, as you let two, then three, fingers shove inside her. She's breathless; the slow, rough motions, her entire body riding the heel of your palm. "Do you want me to tell you how good you are for me, right now? Is that it?"

"Yeah - do. Please, fuck - please say it."

"I was right," is what you manage, biting your tongue.

"Right?" She asks, her fingers locked, urging your thrusting to turn punishing. "Please."

"Do you want me to make this a nice, pretty little memory? Suck the bitterness out and - have something sweet to go back to, the next time someone hurts you."

"I can take it." She snaps, not even responding to your comment. "Tell me you need me and you're leaving me no choice."

You smile into her hair, because she's a dream. Your thumb pushes into her clit and you can feel her seize up with a pathetic whine.

"Pretty," you mutter, as she slumps her chest to yours. You kiss it right into her hair. “I need you, Tzu.”

And the idea's seductive: keep her pinned and fuck her right into the wall. See her wrecked by the end; the swell of her thumb bloody from how she was biting into it, how she's wrenching at your wrist. Your lips land over her collarbone - no, hers do, to the side of your head - she'd be bent in half if it wasn't for the wood at her back. Her leg crossed in the small of your back. A proper, all-consuming kind of wrecking, with your name on it.

"Yes." Tzuyu nods into your temple, “just- that.”

You're kissing the crook of her neck; your fingertips sliding right against the end of her, your fingers pressing into her and stretching the girl to her limits, making her tremble in her own skin, making her insides melt for the next round, and the next round, and the next; the best, and worst, and longest-lasting kind of high. Your fingertips push together, flutter apart, and Tzuyu's eyes open all of a sudden, locking onto yours.

"Please," she gasps, this one thing. She has tears in her eyes: her face falls into your hands like water, a long drip, and she's all but unraveling.

"I'm going to make you cum, okay?" you tell her, and it sounds so sincere that she simply nods. She trusts you. Implicitly. You see how something in her relaxes, muscles unwinding as though for one last moment. Then you lean down, to her ear, to murmur: "say you're mine."

Her teeth are gritting. You can feel every last point.

"Just yours," she mutters, and it's barely even audible, but she'll say it: over and over, as her orgasm builds, before her mouth goes slack. "Always been. From the very beginning, please-"

“Fuck,” you bite down, and she looks like she’s won.

“So long, y’know?” she manages, in her halting voice, as if you haven't got two fingers up her sweet, perfect cunt, which is, currently, gripping the shit out of your hand, the hungry slutty muscle spasms, a slippery fist; it's not too hard getting Tzuyu to talk dirty and vulgar like a total degenerate - all it takes is the circle of your thumb and she’s perfect and pliant and absolutely out of her mind. “Since like, forever-”

You need her to stop. Need her to be quiet. Your palm lands over the shape of her mouth. She's murmuring something else, but it's muffled - and that's perfect, really. You’re not going to hell; all the devils are already here, getting off on the impropriety-

On the fucking drag of your fingertips. If it isn’t mean, it’s definitely cynical. Each curl of a knuckle unwinding her, a little more, a little further. The gush of her slick that’s collected on the webbing between your fingers is getting unruly, and you’re pressing her mouth flat against your hand, muffling the sheer appreciation.

“Shh,” you tell her, and she seems to calm - insofar you find a spot inside her that makes her eyes roll back and her chest shudder. “Don’t. Hold still for me, I want to watch you cum, Tzu.”

The only thing you can hear beyond the stilted breathing against your hand is her wet cunt getting stretched and fucked on your fingers. It’s so simple. So straightforward. The front of her orgasm makes her jolt against your hips and you pin her again, just to see those gorgeous eyes opening and shutting in sync.

It's this beautiful thing, watching her cum; her flushed cheeks, her pupils blown.

"Good girl," is the only thing you manage in response. "Such a good - such a good little-"

She moans into your hand and finally the muscles of her core tighten, tipping over the precipice as she tips back from the edge. "Ah, you - oh, it feels so-”

You tell her not to talk, and thumb her sensitive clit until the girl's screaming.

Her cries cut through the hallway: the friction, your movements - she's grinding desperate to ride her own orgasm. The absolute highs wracking her silent. She doesn't seem capable of getting off her tiptoes, or opening her eyes properly. Her mouth's still gaping beneath your palm with a whimper, her lungs heaving, and her cunt practically burning-hot - or, she just is, she's overheating, and everything else is burning around her.

"I'm going to fuck your pretty little cunt, Tzu," you tell her as her hips jump and her eyes open. You drop her leg, which buckles instantly. "You're going to be good for me, won’t you?"

"Yes, sir," Tzuyu promises you - it makes you wince - like she'd say anything else, with her hips pushing into your hand like she can't remember how not to.

Even with her brain turning to mush, Tzuyu finds it within her to tease, to pull, to coax - as her slick slides down the seam between your fingers, like she's gushing, a wet ribbon coating the backs of your knuckles. There's a fantasy in it, you think - and it's always the unapologetic type, like, they never admit it: they want the dirt, the debasing. There's always a blueprint to it; they want to hear how terrible it is and then have some fun playing into it, playing a part.

Only Tzuyu’s lip is wobbling; she’s looking at you like you’re going to fuck her apart and she’ll thank you for it. There's no play. Tzuyu wants your cum and she's so open-legged about it you can't pretend it's not exactly that simple.

She’s going to fall apart if you don’t shove your cock in her tight cunt. You need to pin her there - fuck her until she’s shaking. You can already see the face she’ll make when you shock yourself inside her-

"What is it, baby?" you ask her, and a beat later, you draw your zipper down with a steady hand, the other working in her mouth, pressing down the tip of her tongue - not exactly holding, not exactly pulling out of her.

Tzuyu sighs, heavy on her eyelids and slow. Very pretty.

"I want-" Her head is lolling. She's in a daze, now, you can tell: her mouth wet and trembling, her legs kicking weakly, a full-bodied tremor overcoming her. Everything wraps around you as your cock slides inside her: the pale-soft underside of her legs, her slender arms. All those lovely, endless tensed lines, her strong abs. She can hold you like this, with only her abdomen tightening, the rest of her almost liquid. Her head knocks into yours. "Fu-fuck my cunt, fill it, please.”

You use the angle, the approach. Her pussy's practically spasming on the thick tip, milking the hardness there - but the deeper, more confident strokes, you feel it in every one of her shaky breaths. The only thing you can see is Tzuyu's dumb little doe eyes, the one-to-two second interval, fluttering in between slow, heavy blinks. The walls of her pussy are all at once so gentle and smooth, her cunt a plush, warm vice on your cock; she's clinging, and hot, and you're so buried inside you could probably pick her apart with a few words alone:

"Please," she's muttering to herself, and every single cry gets stuck in her mouth and vibrates between the both of you.

Your fingertips hook into the curve of her waist, until your nails are sinking into the flesh, pinching gently, and watching her expression twist, you grip her hips with all the bruising-strength in your hands, yank her back onto your cock. Her spine goes rigid as a line of curses fall like rain from her mouth. A shuddering gasp - you have to steady her against you, where her knees lock tight around your waist as though she's worried you're leaving, like she's scared you won't stay-

"Baby," you grit out, like you'd beg too, "Oh- fuck, my baby, you're - you're all mine, okay."

You bury yourself balls-deep - and there's no pretense, it's just you and her, the pace making Tzuyu's little repeating "ah" go choppy with your thrusting, her eyes clamping shut, her limbs locking around you.

"Too deep," she groans. "Jesus, it's-"

"Uh uh," you mutter against the bend of her chin, and press in, still, maybe just to spite her. "Fight me. If it's too deep."

There’s tears in her lashes, she’s sobbing; you’re fucking her so properly you think she wants to kill you. It might even be written into that glossy expression: death, your demise. But her pretty eyes glint with mischief and her lips split into a grin.

"Try me," and this laugh, coming up from your chest - low, amused. "Go ahead. Put my neck in your hand, if you want-"

There's only ever a couple of moves. Like in chess, the combinations repeat, patterns emerge. Tzuyu pulls into your kiss; her wrist pinned to the wall behind her with one of your hands, the other knocking her thighs apart. Her ankles hook into your hips, just as you knew they would. There are so few options for a person; the only solution's the natural one - the urge to match each other's needs; to lose yourself in the easy push and the easy pull.

It doesn't take long before she opens up beneath you: until there's nothing between the hard pound of your hips and her tender, creaming cunt. Then there's that final gasp, this violent pulse as she takes her hands back from you to cup around your ears and press her lips to the line of your cheekbones and nose and mouth, with her tear-slick skin and saliva and, god - she's a whimperer, you now know, but Tzuyu holds her body still enough to not sway. The picture-perfect example of a good little girl -

That's how you push your mouth to hers: the steady-languid thrust of your cock between the hot clamp of her legs. "Oh, god, you’re gonna make me cum again, christ," her cries go, all muffled, right into your lips. She’s a little lost. Fucked-out. Blissful.

It's not right, though; just pinning the girl against a wall - no, she deserves better. You don't let her fall as you drag her into the bedroom. Not until a tumble into the sheets. She doesn’t try to control the fall, you land on top of her, and Tzuyu laughs a little, but it dies into the hard breaths you can feel bouncing back against your mouth. Her soft thighs pressed beneath your weight, quivering still.

"Fuck your cum into me," She huffs out, softly, more air than noise. You’re practically crushing her. And then the tilt of her head, almost inviting, like a question. "Please. I want it."

In hindsight, the real memory of this moment will be a soft and lovely thing - fabricated mostly: her tiny frame shaking, trembling in its effort to take you in, her voice giving out around a cry as she cums again - there's something sacred there, surely, a holiness that isn't altogether safe, considering what this girl is.

You’ll try not to remember how you fucked her and buried your face between her tits, though she did look up at you through her tears and made it sound sweet, said your name just so, or even the fact that she watched her whole body get filled and only smiled with contentment. That part won’t survive - nor the fact you’ll hold the girl down later and cum inside her three times. Until she’s leaking. Details to be confined to Mina’s cabin-secrecy - or at least, to whatever depth of oblivion, past your will to suppress it, her mind reaches when you bury your hand in her hair and pull her head back to really make sure you've hit every corner of her and left your cum there, marking her insides, turning her warm.

And look, Tzuyu doesn't balk. Instead she lets you pull her in close, her nails raking into the nape of your neck, the muscles under your skin. She drags scratches down your back as you sink into her cunt, hot, willing - she’s so fucking wet you’re bottoming out in each sloppy thrust.

"Tzu," you can't stop yourself from muttering, almost reverent. You were right, on all accounts. The girl is a problem.

One that is currently collapsing under you. You push her knees up to her elbows, and all her weight melts under your hands, limp and helpless.

"Fuck, your pussy is unbelievable.” You shouldn’t be fucking her this hard, but, well, you are - “Tzuyu, baby,” and when your hand comes up to her jaw, she palms it. Takes your thumb into her mouth and sucks. Fuck, it’s all slipping, consuming, you need to cum in her, need to bury your cock deep in her cunt and cum right into that wet sopping mess. Fill her up where she’s molten hot and her walls are gripping you so hard they’re practically begging-

"Yeah," she repeats around the digit, flitting her tongue against your fingertip. “Yeah. Cum for me.”

That's how she likes it. She'll scream, if you let her. If you give her the deepest fill. She’ll apologize and she won’t know for what. You already know how her expression will shift as soon as it hits. Head falling back. Her hands fisting in your hair, the bedding - her knees nearly get drawn up, and you push them apart by your fingertips. She whimpers, and whimpers, and you can't stop from fucking the pretty noises right out of her lungs until she's dripping - soaking you, all over the sheets. You want her to feel it when you leave. Your presence. It’s only fair - she should remember some part of you, in exchange for what she’s traded and stolen away - ideally forever.

You thumb at the tear tracks and lift her by a fistful of that pretty dark hair. And for her, you can be kind, you let your lips graze hers. As tenderly as you can manage, which isn't much, but then the angle settles lower, your cock hits deeper, all the right spots - and god, Tzuyu is so easy to fuck. She slips a little, and you’re catching her, pushing deeper, harder - she’s easy to pound too, to hold down and smother and grind deep, to have under you, all boneless, insensible-

"So pretty for me, Tzu," you growl into the shell of her ear, because you can, and another stroke, another velvety drag has you cumming in her hot, little cunt.

Each throb brings more, pumping her full of your cum, and she likes it. Keeps muttering baby, baby please in your ear, and fuck, you almost slip a hand down and make her fall apart too - but - her fingers wrap around your wrist before they get there, so tight.

"Can feel it. So deep," she whispers, when your eyelids screw shut and the mess floods out of her - gets fucked right back in: your hot cum and her thick slick, the creamy mess leaking from her cunt. You pull your cock out halfway, and she does sob - that sounds just like you'd imagine, too. "Please. Oh, my god- sir. That's it. That's it, let it out, sir. Sir, all your cum feels so good in me - please. Please- just give it to me, sir, yes-"

She’s not even taunting or mocking on that ‘sir,’ you think, not the way she sounds now, the halfway-slur. It's all torn up and tired. It makes you press closer, making the head of your cock swell between the thin walls of her pussy. It hurts - the squeeze. And then the soft, pleading sound she makes.

"Anything for you, sweetheart," you groan, a last attempt at a condescending tone. But she's so raw, so broken down by now that nothing is quite right.

"Fuck," she mutters against your mouth, "fuck, thank you," and your palm drags down the length of her sternum, following the angle of her jaw, slipping your palm onto her tits, thumbing at the indent. It's soft, pliant skin, and you pinch: not anywhere sharp or cruel, not especially sensitive, just in a line below the ridge of her rib cage, and it's too pretty a picture not to smile at her, when her entire chest jolts at the contact, the intake of breath. "Sir. Fuck."

"I'm still fucking you later," you assure her, as if her breathing could've convinced you otherwise. "But I wanna hear your voice some more. Hum a little. Give me a yes, sweetheart. Can you do that?"

The noise is barely audible, almost nonexistent, except it is: she hums her assent as you dip two fingertips back into her swollen, well-fucked cunt, scooping out some of the mess. Your fingers hook into her cheek and her mouth opens, because she's so obedient, because that's why it has to be like this.

You rub her bottom lip. Her eyes open into yours; a wet mouth. It's impossible not to see what's right there. It's easy, really, to press through and in, and give her that taste, that warm, velvety brush, like she's been sucking your cock, and maybe - oh, yeah, you'll remind her about it tomorrow, how she's a needy little slut for it, can't get enough - how you could've fucked her face until she was drooling and out-of-her mind - but the way her eyelashes flutter against your touch; the look-

You’ll take your time. You know what she wants: more than anything. It's the thing you can read. Maybe the hot, sticky mess, the flush in her cheeks. A touch to her face. Your thumb in her mouth, too, stretching, prying, holding. More cum falling beneath her tongue, dripping in those gaping, half-open red lips.

She’s licking your load from your knuckles, your Tzuyu. You can’t believe it.

"Swallow," you tell her.

"Mmm," and it’s there: this gorgeous expression on her features, her eyelids dropping, the shimmer, the shine. You'd do anything to keep it there.

You let your thumb leave the corner of her mouth and it stays open, just the tip of her tongue darting out to taste what little she can. The rest of her lulls back with a satisfied murmur, eyes half-closed, clearly the type of content-afterglow of wanting the man who'd just ruined her. A gratitude, or a simple, silly thing, if he would just pick her up in his arms: "thank you, sir."

Her panties end up back around her hips, and a new shirt's thrown haphazardly on, a soft, gray cotton which rides down, slipping past one pale shoulder. And then she turns over, to the side, her back curling into the heat of your chest. There's no attempt at leaving or any plans either. The arm you've loosely wrapped around her waist simply tugs. It's not subtle or even nice: your hand rucks up the fabric and snaps the waistband, and the soft cotton doesn't stop it from being painful.

"Fuck me again." Tzuyu shakes off with a shrug. She's wiggling her ass, practically. She's not wrong, you suppose - your cock hardens easily, more of a reaction. "Are you just going to - keep teasing?"

“Such a brat,” you say, and that makes her whole body tense; she makes the most beautiful sounds for you, but words, praise, humiliation - those always hit harder. You know your girl.

"Your brat," says Tzuyu, easily. "You can do whatever you want."

Your grip on her hip is brutal. Of course you know. That doesn't mean you can't look for loopholes, anyway, right? You don't move, but the threat's there.

The look she shoots over her shoulder is smug. "I like it rough, or something. Doesn't it make you mad that someone could've had me before?"

"Should I be?" You're swiping your cockhead through her folds before you have a chance to say, "Should I care that some guy's had my little cocksleeve before? Should I be angry that someone used my pretty toy before I got to?" You thumb at the tightness, and Tzuyu gives up the front immediately and jerks her hips backward. "If I wasn't the first?"

"Not exactly," comes Tzuyu's mild answer, "not if I was always thinking of you. Plus, they didn't make me feel like that." She tips her head up, to nip at your jaw. She's smiling so fucking coy when she adds: "please, don't hurt me too bad."

You wrap your hands around her. Press a kiss into her shoulder.

“Or do, maybe. Whatever feels natural, you know," she bites down.

"The hickeys are going to be difficult," you agree. "People are gonna see them and they'll picture themselves, probably, with you spread out, huffing, gasping - fucking you out of a brain."

"As they should," she says, and then hums this low, heartfelt note into the mattress. "So how hard can you do this, hm?" She's moaning into the pillow as you slip back into her cunt, but it's a challenge, the tilt in her voice. "Like, if I ask, real nicely."

Who’d have ever guessed she was so filthy. All hidden behind the pristine, the perfection. The prim girls are always the worst: all that beauty means more to them wrecked than revered - it means they've won, again.

Well, that works just fine. She's won you over.

You lean into her shoulder, murmuring, “you’re pushing your luck here, Tzu.”

“Am I?” Her head tilts back until it finds the curve of your jaw. Those deep brown eyes flashing. She knows what’s coming, her pussy tightening prettily. "I'm sorry, sir. I’ll clean up my act."

And the little smile. The fucking dimple, proudly stitched into her cheek - right as you pull her back onto you again, your length working its way slowly into her cunt. The way her ass fits in your hips lets you know you're no match for this girl: how unbelievably good it feels to be inside her. Hot, tight, wanting. Pressed tight between her gorgeous thighs.

“Guess I never noticed,” she says, before falling quiet with the soft punch of breath as you drag her backwards, against your body and the rocking press of your hips. Her eyelashes tremble while your cock nudges its way fully inside her pussy. The rest, as it seems, is silent: only the crash of skin, the sound of your breathing.

You’re already gathering her hair into your fist when you tug her back to your waist, mouth hovering right at the shell of her ear: "fuck, you take my dick like you're made for it. Do you even know how good your pussy feels? I'll ruin you if you let me. We can find out together," you tell her, pulling her back onto your cock. A wordless, pained, perfect whimper.

Tzuyu lets herself go slack against your chest.

She's taking you like a dream and that's it, that's enough, all you've got to say, and Tzuyu, jesus-fucking-christ, she does it with a laugh: this awful, melodic, bright, sweet, airy fucking thing: "don't fucking test me, Tzuyu -" you repeat, a warning.

Tzuyu bats those long lashes, like it'll mean anything, like this isn't all the proof you need.

"Okay. Don't tease, then.” Her hand reaches up to the nape of your neck, finds your body close and hot. She sighs. “I want to feel it, sir. So much that I can't walk after. That I'll still have you in me. I want it all to hurt. Is that too much?"

All she does is try to hide her smiles, and she's terrible at it. There's a gasp buried underneath her giggling, one that Tzuyu loses every time she moves her body with yours. There are only two conclusions now: either she's that perfect of a fuck or she's as full of shit as you are. Either way, the dimple's giving her away - her smile, her lips, the full, syrupy brown of her gaze.

Tzuyu wraps that leg up and back around you and the angle is devastating.

"Baby, I want you- I want your cock deeper - yes, baby. Deeper - as deep as it'll go. I want you to fuck me until I can’t think, until there's nothing I can do. Seriously. Fuck me."

Her hand dives over the shirt; there's no question when your gaze follows the trail she takes over her tensing body, over the curve of her breasts and down to where she's dragging at her pussy, where she's exposed herself. She finds the space and lets the fingertips flutter down, onto her needy, swollen clit; the place where your bodies join and separate; the throbbing pulse of her pussy.

"And then fuck me some more,” she adds, like that'll help. Her pussy fits you like a glove - it’s not fair. It’s not right.

But she's so beautiful up close, eyes fluttering in pure, concentrated rapture as she loses the tension in her face - one more thing that the facets, angles, and shades of Tzuyu become, something you tuck away in a vault somewhere safe; a secret just between the two of you.

Her hand runs up your thigh, fastens back on your hip. “You owe it to me, to use my body a little bit, don’t you think?”

There's no sense fighting it, not anymore - maybe there never was - and when you grip Tzuyu's upper thigh, tilt her leg upwards, she gives you an anticipatory hum. This light sound. An ankle lands over your hip, and what follows is a tight, enveloping slide, your cock buried in her wet pussy. So close together that she can't move much at all except to take it - the hard thrust, the one that forces its way up to the hilt. She's impossibly, overwhelmingly soft, a pleasure unlike any other. The absolute worst kind.

She knows exactly the danger of getting involved with you, and when she cums, once, again, and once more - her eyes water, her voice flooded - you think, so do you.

It’s in the hours of the morning that’re not quite today, nor quite tomorrow when Tzuyu leans on the end of the bed as she stretches. A loose t-shirt is draped over her petite body - you glance over at her as the bottom of the fabric lifts, exposing more skin across her legs. No matter the circumstances, the space she inhabits will always feel charged. She could wear a potato sack and have the same effect, you suppose, because that's just how she is: Tzuyu is magnetizing.

"That is definitely not yours," you say, finally.

The girl has a lovely arch to her back, a golden glow of perfection that you can't find elsewhere. That's when Tzuyu laughs and spins around. "Is that a question?"

You only have yourself to blame. Of course it's not hers. The shirt's oversized and could fit all five feet, eight inches of her like a tent. It doesn't belong to her, but her heart-shaped lips make you feel stupid, so you're giving her a second chance. You really need that shirt back. You packed light, it's your favorite tee, it’s a family heirloom, or something - whatever makes her get it off, you guess. You sit up against the bed, and watch her fingers hook into the hem as it slowly peels off from her frame.

And that is - a vision.

You already knew - but it's worth repeating, or forgetting your name and every last bit of your existence for; the sharp collarbone, the striking red lines beneath them, the palest, sweetest chest. Her breasts, a bit smaller, a bit rounder than normal (not that you would know), sit heavy in her hands, soft and full - oh, the hickeys, the perfect peaks and the bruised nipples - she's an aphrodisiac.

"I want one later," she tells you, and runs a hand over her breast, pressing against the angry red marks that color the pale skin.

"A shirt?"

She turns back toward the mirror, an image reflected tenfold - a beautiful flush on her high cheekbones. It's only a small win to think that those rosy cheeks are there because of you. Only a little one, if at all. "One of yours, sure."

You laugh, but she looks taken aback. "What, you mean like a keepsake?"

"Hey, if it smells good." Tzuyu brings up the neckline to her nose, eyes fluttering shut for a brief second before they snap closed. "Yes. Like a keepsake, is that so unnatural?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you are, like, really forward." You thought you knew, but there's this part of you that wonders. Why the sudden revelation. "Not that it isn't obvious. I meant...with the rest. Just to clarify."

"With sex, you mean?" Her smile turns a little sheepish. "I can tone it down a little. I don't even notice sometimes, I just talk."

You walk forward and wrap your arms around her waist. You fit easily around her. "Don't," you say, quietly, against the back of her neck. "It's nice, in a way."

She cranes her head to trade the reflection of your eyes for the real thing. Her body is soft, warm. "You like to talk too."

"Right."

"Your favorite past-time."

"Point taken." Your thumb runs down the middle of her breast and traces her nipple. It's tender, you note. You can’t really keep your hands off her waist, or stop touching her tits - because who would ever let something so delightful pass them by? Not you. No way. "Want to hear a story?"

"If it's coming from you," she whispers, a little smile, a lot of entendre, "I’ll listen to anything."

"Do you see the wall over there?" You nod to the window. She follows it with her gaze, her chin jutting towards your shoulder, her long neck arching. It's hard not to kiss it. There's a clear stretch of drywall beside her desk. She nods. "When I came here with Sana and Mina last," and your nose presses into her hair, inhaling her, the way she smells like something tropical: vanilla and citrus. Something far from here. "I put up a few paintings. I'm handy sometimes, a hammer seeking a nail sorta thing."

Tzuyu almost snorts, and sways a bit in your grasp. You tighten your hold, not wanting to drop her. "Oh?” she teases out, suggestive. “Show me."

(You shouldn’t. You can’t stop, frankly. Fucking Tzuyu is in its own category: the luxury, the treasure, the extravagance; feeling between your fingers the finest silk, the richest cashmere.

Her palms slide higher up the wall, fingers splayed. The curve of her back, the pull of her hair. Tzuyu kissing you like the world will end and the moon will be the first to know, her fists curling into your back, a furious, frantic urgency - Tzuyu fucking you. Well. Tzuyu always, always kissing you; it's the universe resetting, it's a timeline rewritten, it's trading everything sweet for salt, giving you teeth and tongue, the insides of her lip rubbed raw - she tastes like 80 Proof, a sticky, melting liquor, and it goes down too easy. "Why are you making this hard for me." It's not a question, her face in your neck - then she says, like there's a hundred other things, a hundred thousand ways you can ask:

"What makes you think I want to make this easy?")

The power goes out early in the morning.

Which means you're in the dark. But, it's alright. You consider for a moment the omen-like timing, if such an idea is ludicrous in the first place. This could be a metaphor. After all, what is Tzuyu if not a classic trope? It isn't fair to judge anyone based off their flaws. For starters, you have more than you can count. You consider a moment longer, that the timing isn't metaphor-worthy. After all, if this was a punitive force, you're certain that it would've been more apparent, more explicit, if the electric panel had burst into flames or the cable box was shot-out; something bigger, flashier, less like something that you'd play up for theatrics. And it probably would've been when you had the girl on all on fours, your handprints seared into the round of her ass-

Or, when she got on her knees. The snap of darkness setting in as you slipped your cock out of her lips and spilled a rope of hot cum on her face, in her hair. The way she just relaxed into it, a reverence to her being baptized, kneeling. “Oh, Tzu,” you said, with a fist around a cock, and jerked the rest right out on her tongue. You probably would have heard her sniffle after, still recovering from her choking a bit.

Or, when you had half a mind to kneel down between her legs in the shower, suck her clit until she was dripping, fucking her open with your tongue; you could taste her sweat, her slick, and imagine how hard it must be to put up that front: biting into a washcloth, trying not to fall apart.

(Karma arrives late, or it doesn't arrive at all. Or, something. Who knows. It doesn't matter. The outcome would have remained the same.)

Tzuyu opens the sliding glass door to the balcony.

You watch her from behind - there's a small pile of snow at the edge. The whole mountain has gone into complete darkness. No moon, no lights, no light poles, or blinking bulbs or strobe signs or house lights - just night. How eerily romantic, that. And if there was an excess amount of snow before, it only got heavier, thicker, now weighing on the steel bars of the railing.

Tzuyu rests her hands there, leaning her hips a bit forward, so far that her knees lock. Her back bends. "It's so weird," she breathes out, and you can see your exhales, both of yours. "I feel like you and I are the only ones here right now. Everyone else is probably taking shelter. Maybe the power went out for everybody."

"Maybe."

"It's all a bit spooky. Or creepy. But, exciting too, yeah?" She turns, just enough. Her fingertips run along the side of her face. "In the mountains, yes." She doesn't even need to say the rest, doesn't need to ask: does that appeal to you? All this isolation? I could scream and scream and nobody would ever hear it. I'm yours to fuck, to have, to own, to do anything to-

"It'll probably be fixed in the morning," you tell her. "Who would turn it back on tonight. To this place. They'll start at the closest areas to town and go out from there."

"Mina has a generator," Tzuyu supplies helpfully. "No living clue where."

"Want to look for it?"

She lets her head tilt, as if to follow the expanse of trees leading up into the rocky ground. "Would it kill us to wait for tomorrow?" Her bare toes curl into the floorboards. The blanket stays wrapped tightly around her shoulders, and a single line of her wrist can be seen when she tilts her arm a certain way. "We won't die or anything."

You wouldn't die, not before being smitten with a different death, falling headfirst and in love; and that's what you've felt since the start, since the beginning: you've always wanted more. It was always inevitable, her letting her weight fall backwards, in the living room - all your filthy secrets falling out. It felt like the sky had dropped. All over the bedroom floor.

"Then let's get some sleep," you say, but still step closer, as you do with anyone, to brush aside the strand of hair over her ear.

It feels like the temperature must have dropped dramatically. Not that it bothers either of you very much, you note, when you move under the blankets together. Some might feel embarrassed by the necessity, but then, most aren't half the people that you both are.

Tzuyu presses her fingers under her thigh to keep her legs shut. To avoid the cold, she claims, but you can hear the slippery noises that her cunt makes as her body shakes with each thrust of her fingers. You almost suggest that you heat her up in an entirely different fashion, but the smile, her smile, gets the best of you. Instead, you let yourself touch and trace, and feel her wherever it may land. There's no sense in pretending either, so you tangle yourself into her: a finger between her legs. Another in her palm, resting against her hip. When you press your thumb against her cunt, she begins to smile, too, as if to show you exactly what kind of person she is. That is to say, completely insatiable.

You let your free hand slip under her chin. Tilting her head up, exposing the faint pulse-points. You wonder if she's imagining the things you'd do if the snow never cleared: toying with her hair, petting the top of her head, speaking pretty and dirty and pressing kisses against her bare back, in a rhythm, as you fuck her without care - something close and tight like the little noises she makes and how they die off, finally, when you push your cock deeper, still.

There are no words between you anymore, maybe - but she's not laughing, and you're not angry, and it's only one second before your mouth is on her neck, kissing the column of her throat. It's easy to sleep with her - so, so simple, if not anything else.

"I don't have anything in the morning," you murmur to the top of her shoulder, barely moving as not to break the moment. To tell her it's fine to leave her body or keep it forever. Either way. Both, if it's an option.

She smiles. Her eyes are still closed. "It'd be weird if you did."

She can be a tease - a complete brat - sometimes. Like now. But then again, who would you be if not the person who falls for exactly that.

And that is a weakness: you have a very specific kind of hunger, that won't fade, that can only be sated. She knows it, and yet her coy grin remains. It's a habit, not a mistake. "Yeah, well," you lean up onto your forearm, pressing the knuckles of your right hand against her soft cheek. "This is the most inconvenient of all places, but- don't worry about it."

"Meaning?"

"I don't think they sell birth control or morning after pills or anything up here," you explain, lightly. Your gaze passes from her eyes to the pink of her bottom lip and back, again.

"Do I look like I'd care?" Tzuyu sighs and takes your wrist, pulling your arm over her body. "I know what I'm doing," she adds, which might actually be a lie. "Obviously. You don’t need to pretend you’re like, responsible, or whatever."

Yes, obviously. As if it was all as easy as pulling strings, deciding exactly which points to tease, to stress. You should know. You just kissed and held down and fucked and fucked your cum into this one: you know how to move her strings better than any.

You flip the switch in the kitchen. Up, down, up, down: except, nothing. The electricity is still decidedly off by mid-morning, and you and Tzuyu end up having actual, quality, conversation.

You sit her on the kitchen counter - though it’s not fated to last long, because her legs loop around your waist, and she tugs your sweats down as you try to fix the two of you lunch - Tzuyu gets what Tzuyu wants, of course - so you're standing there fucking her while her head leans back on the cool marble, her silky dark hair tumbling off the end of the counter.

She ends up propped up on one elbow. Eyes hazy and half-lidded, fixed on the glide of you into her creamy folds, spreading her wider, wider.

Tzuyu asks questions - all innocuous, at least to the ear. About your past. Who you were before all this. Whether you want kids, when, whether you were religious, once. She gets personal before you have her cumming and incoherent: how you sleep, in what positions. How often you jerk yourself off. What you're thinking of when you do. How you'd use her - not the lewd version, the spitting, filthy iteration, just the you and her and her being yours part. And she gets specific about that. She'll slide up to you and bury her nose in your throat, wrap her arms around your shoulders, mumble about wanting you closer - you feel her, maybe more than you should - but every few seconds you're sliding home into that pussy and her chest heaves out a deep breath-

"I want what's in here," she finally says, her delicate palm cupping your balls. She's pulling you into her on each stroke like the fucking sun's gone out and this is her last chance - she's magnetism, gravity, a blackhole you'd give up the rest of the universe to. She's got one fist on your shirt, and the other hand on your sack, and her pussy's fluttering around you, and she's watching you watching her, and it's infinity:

"The idea of you." Tzuyu smiles at the way your eyes narrow, the way the word turns itself over and over on your mind, her. She tilts her face to look at your expression. "Like, in here. All your cum. There's so much. Can I please have it-"

You swear.

"Pretty please, baby," Tzuyu's asking if you'll fill her up, if you'll make her your cumdump, keep fucking her even with all your cum inside her, asking what the worst of your fantasies are - you fuck harder, deeper, and she nods eagerly, tightens that fist in your shirt. "Can you give it to me? Please, it's the only thing I need, and we both know I always need something, please."

"Jesus fucking christ," you tell her, helpless, and it's never felt better: her cockwarming on your lap, her teasing and teasing until your self-control's paper thin - won't you? won't you? fucking breed this slutty little cunt? won't you cum until I'm so full it's spilling out-

The snap. Like falling, it’s something you notice right away, but only ever understand a long ways down.

"Yours," moans Tzuyu, half in an accusatory fashion - fuck - she's almost gasping: "fuck - just use me, use your cumdump, 'cause you'll never have a tighter cunt than this."

God. Damn. Her. You cum so hard it aches, and there's no hesitation:

"My cocksleeve, my good girl, shit-"

"You could leave a baby in me, even, just like that. Couldn't you. Isn't that hot. And nobody could do a fucking thing." Tzuyu’s tits are spilling out the sides of her camisole and she looks like pure porn, in person. Your cum is dripping out of her and you watch as it spills on the marble.

"Is that what my girl wants?

She smiles, again, so prettily.

“You wanna be full of cum, is that it?" You grab Tzuyu's hair; pull just enough to get the point across. "Is that it? You're a perfect cumslut who needs all that fucking cum, huh? Wants it pumped deep? You like being full of it, right Tzu? This needy little cunt loves the thought of getting bred? Knocked up? Goddamn, Tzu."

"That's me," agrees Tzuyu, in the afterglow. Dimple dug deep. "Yeah. Your personal cumslut, sir."

She just grins when you reach between her thighs, pressing your fingers into the cum you've fucked into her, before you decide that the wet warmth is yours and you’re going to fuck her even further into delirium.

Her hips come up off the granite, desperately.

"Uh-huh," she mumbles, already drifting - you put her off her balance, for real. "God, yes, please," she's whispers, as if all the ways you'd ruin her were prayers, like she wants to start a new religion all her own: you're a god, and it's all about Tzuyu - just you, and her, asking, again, the questions piling on top of other ones, the sweet drawl, the sinful want, the curiosity-

Fuck. She wants everything about you, your dirty secrets and your nice manners - the stories behind your scars, your funny little quirk of raising just one eyebrow at a time-

You turn her around. She's made for this, intelligently designed: her tiptoes just touching the floor, the delicious curve of her lower back, your cock sliding effortlessly into her and hitting a spot she arches into like it's divine intervention and that pussy making its first church of your name. The cum you'd already left in her cunt is making everything wetter, making those obscene sounds echo in the space around the two of you. It's rapturous; you let her feel it slow, and deep, and it’s bliss.

“Tighter,” you growl into her ear, and her cunt clenches like you own it.

The girl's figure is pristine, an ass that belongs under spotlights, on camera; those thick lips, the curtain of her hair when she tips her chin down. It's all been in magazines, billboards, it's been idolized - she is the icon and you're the follower, but, this weekend, here and now-

"So. Fucking. Good-" she gasping, falling apart. She’s collapsing and it’s not even noon.

"Oh, the world knows." You pull her up, hold her body in yours and snap into her cunt. Her skin's hot, feverish, the light that filters through the blinds and the snow slows outside.

It all happens without a moment’s notice - Tzuyu reaches behind and clutches your thigh, as if she could ever pull you deeper, like it wouldn't tear her in half. But you find yourself in a position to grab the edge of the counter; your phone buzzes. It's Sana, probably asking what's up. You want to ignore it and keep fucking Tzuyu from behind. You want to hold her hips, be mindful of the marks, the bruises, sink your fingers into her hair, her tits - you end up murmuring things like please and fucking perfect and if we were a little more religious then you'd be a sin to remember-

Fuck, you're cumming again. The writing’s on the wall as soon as your cock makes her breath draw short and her eyelids snap shut. She’s exquisite, a masterwork - you’re painting in broad strokes, all over the beautiful curves of her ass - not only because you’ve needed to see it cast in hot streaks of white, all debased with your cum, but simply to prove a point; to say that you can. You cum on her cheeks, her cunt, you pump your fist around your shaft and cum in the crotch of her panties too.

"That's it, Tzu," you croon, "look at that," your spent cock twitching against her plush thighs, her dripping pussy lips, and she's sagged forward, onto the counter, your thumb running through a particularly thick rivulet. Her face dips down, pressed to the cold surface, and the words coming out aren't coherent, are just filthy and true; but they're there: she's taken you and kept you, all for herself.

(Thank you, she says, for making me into your little cockwarmer, your toy, for breaking my fucking cunt, baby - thank you, please, thank you-

You could end your career tomorrow, it wouldn't matter. Just saying, man. This girl, fuck.)

There’s a beat, the strained breathing, the panting, the disbelief. She ends up kissing your chin after sliding back to her feet, a saccharine imitation of chaste. Pulls up her shorts without a second's consideration. Her panties, still sticky with your spend - well. She puts those back, too, grinning dreamily.

Oh, how is a woman like Tzuyu even real, huh? You really do need to find out, somehow.

"Your imagination is…" you say, your tone flat. “I swear.” But you don't deny that the sex isn't. You don't think of her that way. She doesn't ask you for your hopes or your dreams or the full gambit of life, as some people might. She asks about what you think about at three am when she's got one hand on her tits and one on her clit and one finger in her mouth:

"Anything we can think of," she corrects, her long limbs squeezing her tighter to your front. Her grin bright, so perfect she's beyond believable, and how can such a dissonance exist in something, someone, you're holding on to? "I mean, we can if you want."

"Maybe we'll talk about that - how you can handle me," is what Tzuyu rasps, softly, tying her hair up afterwards: and you realize this is her post-coital. For her, sex makes her nice. Sweet.

You've already fixed her lunch; Tzuyu comes to sit down at the table with you. "Like, for future reference." You're raising an eyebrow. She grins at that, kicks her feet. Her hips don't do the same, though - no doubt still a little sore, like her lips. She's worn out, finally. She won't try to slice off and claim any more of your aching soul.

“You have no business thinking about babies.”

“Tell that to my ovaries.”

"You have a breeding kink, is what it is, really. I’m being completely serious."

"Well, am I pregnant yet?" Tzuyu flutters those lashes, puts those big pretty eyes on full display. "No? Then I'm getting off on something else, clearly, isn't it obvious, like maybe there's something about being on the other end of someone so big. Have you considered how wet you make me when you-"

"Tzuyu, cut it out," you chide her. The little brat's giggling. You aren’t going to let her know how pretty the noise is.

"Fine." She reaches across the table, puts her small hand on your larger one. "Like I said - how to handle me." Her tone is placating, the sharp edge to her personality blunted. It's different with Tzuyu - after sex, she gets like this: playful, easy, fond. The mess you've just made, the cunt you've stuffed full, that's another Tzuyu altogether. "For your... benefit."

"My benefit, really?"

"Aside from getting my brains fucked out," she explains, "is what I meant."

"Not making this easier, babe."

Her mouth curves a slow smile. She likes when you call her names, cute shit like that.

"I need to call Sana back," you explain, finally.

Tzuyu nods.

"In a bit," you add. "Also," you're saying, leaning forward. Her head tilts toward yours.

She's receptive, her whole body pliant and lazy, after that, well, marathon - she'll roll with whatever you're suggesting. This has always been a dream to her, she's mentioned. (Who has dreams like that? Someone so young, that innocent - well, yeah.)

But you kiss her temple, lightly. "Gimme a minute."

Tzuyu blinks, in that catlike way she has of staring, intent. Her mouth slightly pouty.

"Then you get your turn," you offer.

"Deal," she nods.

And that makes her beam - your beautiful, very good, very perfect, little toy.

"You're going to have to slow down," you tell Sana over the phone. "I have zero reception up here, sorry."

"The highway is shut down, I literally can't get to the other side of town," she yells over the sound of tires rolling on snow. Sana does not sound in the best spirits. If anything, she sounds slightly desperate. "Part of the mountain collapsed on a cliff somewhere. Fuck's sake. The weather is still terrible and they're shutting everything down. Literally shuttering every road off the base of the mountain."

"You sound good," you deadpan, and when Sana grumbles, say, "try the next exit, head around and take a back road-"

"Yeah, except it's snowing like nobody's fucking business right now - I'm not going to risk exposure to try to get there on my own."

"What should I do?" you try, a bit helpless. "Stay here?"

"Why are you even asking," Sana scoffs, "yes, stay there, stupid. Tell Tzuyu you can't drive in snow, that she can't possibly expect me to deal with any of you leaving a safe situation." There's another brief pause. "Ah, seriously, there is not a single living human being near here that can be helpful - and they're supposed to bring us new tires? Here? No, fuck's sake."

"Oh," is all you say.

"Don't worry about me." Sana's voice goes up a notch. "Just be there, alright? Stay warm, okay?" A crackle, more radio waves or distance.

"Text me," you urge. "Tell me you're getting in safe."

"Of course, of course," and that's when you get the click, the abrupt disconnection. You stare at the device in your hand and consider the possibilities, and the outcomes, and how to stay sane while alone with temptation incarnate for a couple nights.

Maybe this really is hell. Or it's a trial. There’s the storm, and there’s your angel, contextually out of place. You're incapable of controlling yourself, clearly.

You sigh, let your gaze slide. The lights are still out, and in their absence, Tzuyu has dragged every available blanket or bed sheet within her reach into the living space, spread a dozen pillows across the sofa and is now occupying one of the corners: there's a book, opened onto her lap, as her nails run circles down the blanket draped over her lower back.

"Tzu, what exactly did Mina mention to you about the generator," is the first thing you blurt, upon entry, and Tzuyu smiles, holding up the page against the fading daylight - which is currently hardly much. "Better question: how are you able to read in the dark?"

"Takes a lot to shake me off, honestly,” she says, which you already know to be true. “Also my eyes aren't old like yours, so."

"Wow."

"What?" Tzuyu grins, tilts her chin. "Do you want me to say that you're ageless? Thirty, flirty and thriving. So impressive, your youthful vigor, that sort of deal? How attracted I am to your experience," the insinuation, this sudden intimacy. She laughs. "Seriously. Let me read."

"Apparently we're going to be stranded for a few days."

"That's cute." She pauses. "Sucks for Sana."

"You don't know what sucks for Sana."

She peeks over the corner of the page, then, grinning, the teeth of a joke. "What's on the menu, then? Hm? So far, the best part was waking up beside you," and you almost grin, at how honest she manages to be without seeming conceited. How shameless Tzuyu has become in the ways of liking you, and maybe a bit of who she thinks you are. And why that's dangerous, really, and it makes the guilt burrow down beneath your ribs a bit: "my ass hurts," she's complaining now, which is only going to encourage the teasing-

"As it should," you comment, then watch her eyes sharpen, glint with mischief. "Oh," you realize, with a shrug, "do we get to cuddle again."

(Let's hope, for a moment, this isn't really karma. Because really, it'd just be an uncalled-for injustice: Chou Tzuyu delivered down on all fours, head tucked into your thighs as a fist grabs a handful of her hair, a slow push and pull - your cock sinking into the velvet warmth between her lips, again, again, and again until she's ruined and crying and still swallowing you whole - as she, not the universe, forces a massive dose of her own medicine down your throat. You see how that might not be quite fair.)

"But I'll have to leave again," you're protesting - no heat, no vitriol. "There's, like. Stuff I gotta grab."

"Then grab me," she sighs, pats her lap, "read over my shoulder. Make out with me. Just keep me warm. That'd be very helpful, and I would be so grateful."

Well, fuck. You're not one for inflating egos - at least not anybody else's - especially when, unchecked, that tends to do the exact opposite of keeping them grounded.

"Fine," you're muttering, and you clearly have a habit for capitulation wherever Tzuyu is concerned, the quirk in her lips, the quiet pride in her dimple, the cadence in her speech - which she's already smug about.

"Wonderful." She taps the back of her fingernail against a book page, waits, just a few more seconds, her grin spreading as you begin to fumble around. "Please," she says, flicks her gaze back down, a tease, "take all the time you need."

The thing about mountain air is it has a way of clearing your head, cooling down the frenetic thoughts of indecision and uncertainty and moral conflict.

Well, maybe that's a slight overreach, the mountains also have a way of getting you killed, but the intention was to look upon the white caps and ponder. It didn't work.

You eventually find the generator. You hear the clicks of metal and electrical wiring, the roar of the motor kicking on, a steady hum. Then, Tzuyu pokes her head out from behind the shed, her cheeks tinted a warm pink; her eyebrows rise up a beat.

"Yes?" you prompt.

"Is it working?"

"Does it look like it's working, miss?"

"Looks a-okay to me," and she presses the heel of her mitten into her teeth, tries to bite it back down her wrist; she stumbles, a moment, slightly clumsy in the snow. You instinctively reach out. Your hands brush the outer seam of her pajamas, the heavy fabric of her coat - "oh," you can feel the instant the shivers start, "fuck, I'm cold.”

“We’re both probably pretty due for a hot shower,” you say.

"Yeah, you came in my hair. Er, sorry, I meant, we both need a hot shower."

"It was really adorable when you were rutting back on my dick like some horny animal," you snort. "Admit it."

"No comment."

"So shy."

Her smile cracks open, and her breath is a white plume. "Fuck you."

"Sure, babe," you're agreeing, the tone almost saccharine. "If you insist."

She blinks back in mild surprise, the blatant answer - and god, her fucking eyes: soft, dark, her eyelids barely lift up. Even when they should've narrowed. That was another thing to learn. (Maybe, god - who knows, maybe she's still learning how not to care.)

She runs a hand through her hair. The scarf around her neck is fluffing up. There's white clumps settling on the fibers, slowly dissolving into a damp mess.

"Listen," Tzuyu murmurs, wraps an arm around yours to help herself up.

Your palm settles on the round of her thigh. She shifts, her hand dropping lower - tugs at your arm until she has an elbow in hers. The backs of her knuckles settle against your hip bone, her fingertips sliding across the waistband: you walk backwards through your snowprints, gently - the side door to the cabin is unlocked - Tzuyu's stumbling toward it.

"Going to the shower, we're turning the water on," she explains. You grin, feel your own arm, a slow drag around her lower waist; she tilts into it, steps closer. Presses a finger to your chest: "dinner's gonna be in half an hour," she announces, "and before you ask, I've been craving those boxes of instant mac & cheese in Mina's pantry."

"I haven't had one of those in ages."

"Me neither," and with her heel, she kicks the side door shut; Tzuyu yanks on a cord, pulls the blinds closed. It's pitch black. You're chuckling low, turning around - one of Tzuyu's hands smacks over a nearby light switch, illuminating the room just a shade lighter than it was prior. She presses a hand to your chest, a single-minded goal to your front.

You put your hands on her hips.

"It's the kinda thing that makes me feel like a kid again," you hear her say, just slightly; that, and how the white fabric of her sweater twists, pulled to a single point.

"Happens," is the best explanation you can give. She slaps the lightswitch again. Kisses you. You shove a leg forward. She whines. "Be good," you're chiding, though you both stumble until her back is pressed against the wall. "You were just complaining that you're still sore."

"Maybe I can't help it, maybe that's all on you," the end of the sentence fades. Her nails slide up the sleeve of your arm. There's the soft hitch of a moan. "It's just you. So unfair." She rubs up. Swallows like it's instinct, at the slightest hint of friction. You curl your hand, your thumb grazes the waistband of her underwear; her fingertips tighten, her blunt nails sink deeper - press like she means something else, wants something more.

It'll be a few days, at least, more likely a week; and by then, this girl will have you right where she needs you. She's proven, time after time - you can never just say no.

The days bleed together after the snow.

You fuck her, but slower; sometimes softer, a little less raw, the hurt. Not that you'd ever try to take too much: the thought is unthinkable, un-imagined. Infinitely impossible. You'll pull out and empty everything you have, paint her skin, make her ache, fuck until you know exactly where the bruises are and how to touch them, how to breathe the hurt down from her ribs.

But some mornings: she rolls over onto her side, opens her eyes and smiles. Brilliant like the sun, something that would warm your heart even without trying. Some afternoons, you put the fire on; read something aloud from Mina's bookshelves, and watch the red-orange flames turn Tzuyu's cheeks and neck pink and honey. Evenings, especially the colder ones, you're wrapping her up, blankets, sweatshirts, pulling her close: into bed with the lights turned off. She wants the touch, she craves it, she'll almost whimper when you get near her - and it's you, whispering words against her ear; tracing fingertips lightly against her temple, down the nape of her neck, her lower lip-

"How come you don't kiss me, hm?" She sounds sleepy. "Baby. Don't pretend you're a stone. Like, an unfeeling brute."

"I have my limits, princess."

"Like not kissing someone you're fucking." Her face drops from your sight, and Tzuyu turns over: she curls into her comforter, and her legs nudge the back of yours. "That's so fucking cruel," her voice a little whiny. "But okay, okay - tell me the reasons. Just so we can keep going."

"Keep going, huh. Even though I'm mean."

"Well, yeah, I've done much, much worse," the worst, if you think about it; and it's almost true. Maybe her morality was on the rocks long before yours. "Obviously."

You drop a kiss into her hair. "We both know what that mouth of yours is capable of."

She grins into your skin. Presses her lips, like a sign, and stays.

A girl like her inspires the worst in a man, and that's just about it: you think a man would burn the world down for her, with her, and maybe that would be how all things end, someway, somehow - not because of him or her, the full spectrum of his intentions, all the intricacies and subtleties, and hers too. You're both complicated creatures, sure; both very capable and wanting. Of big feelings, deep attachments: the overflow of your good hearts, perhaps; or, rather: the deficits.

She appeals to your worst impulses, in the plainest terms.

"Jesus Christ," you hiss, hands firm on her lower back; your voice breaking; Tzuyu has shed the bedsheets and climbed into your lap, one leg bent at the knee, digging the other into your ribs - her shirt hitches up and over the curve of her spine and then pools at her neck.

"Tell me that's good," she murmurs, hips gyrating, rocking her pussy along your cock. "Like that - right?"

"Fuck- yes," your cock slides into her, your entire length, the rest of the world fogged out: even the fire is quiet. "God, tzu. Feels amazing."

Tzuyu rolls her body forward, rides you with ease, and puts one small hand against your mouth. Her shirt hitches up and over the curve of her spine and then pools at her neck.

"I want to make you cum," she says, all quiet determination and wily confidence, "only you." She rolls her hips in your lap and then finds it: the steady, rhythmic grind down, down. Her ass crashes into your balls; the first telltale sign of that wonderful orgasm to come. "Is it wrong to want this? Like, you and I? Fuck. It feels like your cock was made for me."

"Yeah,” you grit, “fucking you feels - like it's meant to be, huh?"

"Sir," she says with an unhealthy smirk. She’s loving this more than you are, and you can’t really blame her for it: there’s no other sound quite like the slick, wet noise that her pussy makes as her body drops to yours, your cock filling her completely. It's music to your ears.

You grab at her ass, her hip, and pull her closer. She smiles, tilts her face down to you.

"Me too, you know, me too," she murmurs, kissing you softly; when you cup her breasts her breath hitches. "God- fuck- just-"

When she does cum, it's with the faintest little groan; a small, intense quiver in her thighs. You kiss her to swallow down the sound; and feel yourself tip over, and when she fucks you through your orgasm - her smile is dark, wicked, totally satisfied.

And everything else follows, because you're weak: because she makes you want to say no, even while simultaneously being your very favorite yes. You warm your cock inside her with some slow, gentle rhythm, her nipples hard against your shirt, her cries as sweet and earnest as all the best promises; a slow grind down, her fingers scrabbling for the headboard, you lean and lick her breasts, roll her nipples on your tongue - she gasps, tenses, digs her nails hard into your nape.

You'll have her again in the morning, she's adamant.

Her hands find your back, her legs circle your hips. The taste of her sweat. The taste of her nipples; her chest flushed, hair disheveled, pupils blown.

"Not letting me go." She whispers. Her cheeks are a lovely pink. "Even after this?"

You kiss the corner of her mouth, inhaling, wondering what to say.

"Good," Tzuyu tells you, tilting her jaw: "that's really-" She catches her lips with her teeth. "That's so fucking good."

(Her pussy grips your cock like it's the home she's always missed, her lifeline, her safe harbor. And it's dizzying, it's heaven, hell; and, in the morning - when everything is sepia-warm and sleepy - you fuck her again.

A promise, a hope, a plea. It's what makes a girl fall for a guy, in theory.

It's what makes her heart beat. )

"My phone's charging," Tzuyu sniffs the next morning: you're brushing out her hair. The sheets are warm.

You continue combing.

"Sana told me she would be texting, or trying to call."

"Well, that's nice," is all you can manage.

"Babe-" she leans back a bit: turns her gaze to the ceiling, exhaling sharply, "what if she got caught in a whole different avalanche, or fell from the top of a mountain, or something-"

You let go, letting her rest her weight against your thigh. "Honestly? Would serve her right. A little cold, a little damp-"

"If you don't take that back-"

"Alright. Alright. I'll send an apology prayer when I get around to it."

"No you won't." She curls in further, and you stroke her neck, shoulder blade; down the ridges of her spine, across the width of her back.

Tzuyu shudders slightly under your touch.

"Haven't I earned enough good faith, or a clean conscience?"

"Sir, don't pretend."

"Let's pray for Sana, then," you mutter. "Wherever the fuck she is."

"With respect," Tzuyu pipes up, eager: "bitch ain't found."

"Jesus.” You laugh out loud. “At least your brain isn't fully turned to mush, yeah?"

"Give yourself some credit. I can hardly fucking walk. You really pounded the feeling in my legs away."

"Too bad."

"Sorry." And she noses at your collarbone, tugging the waistband of your boxers; "feel free," the drawl of an old, forgotten song, "to make me repent. Baby. Do your thing."

"Right, I forgot that I could convince you to do anything by sliding my dick in your throat. Yikes."

"Baby, just, uh- do whatever." Tzuyu grabs hold of your cock through the thin fabric: one light tap of a finger, "my lips are numb," the suggestion. You really could be her everything: and maybe if you said, stop, please, you won't. She'd pause; look at you like you're insane and maybe spit out what the actual fuck is wrong with you. Like the reality:

This doesn't have to end, no?

"Sorry about your phone battery," you tell her, brushing out the knot at the base of her skull. She exhales, goes soft; lets you tug lightly. "We’ll figure things out when Sana can actually text you, okay?"

"Dumbass. When it's warmer and you drive down to meet her."

"You're not jealous," you tell her. You’ve decided for her.

Tzuyu rolls, leans down on her back, smiling prettily-

"Nope," she agrees, pulling your cock out: already hard, ready to cum down her throat. Her fingers pump soft, slow, the anticipation- "just not done."

"Crazy."

She shrugs and lets the silence calm the world around the two of you; at least for a little while. "Takes a certain kind," she agrees.

"Permissiveness. Like what I'm seeing. Your brand or whatever."

"It’s straight from the heart." She shoots up, making a face you want to kiss. "Honestly."

"Absolutely sincere," you deadpan, and she ignores the jab.

"Tie a bow with my hair," she chuckles, the laughter light, and your fingers graze her temple. "Come on. I'll make you so proud. So pleased. Sir. Let me, let me-"

"Only if I can finish down your throat," you retort - half-joking, but, her eyes grow warm, molten, the lust is immediate - you tip her head, lower it gently - she bites down onto her lip, nods a bit.

You don't take her right away. Not at first. You’re trying to show some restraint, trying not to think about how Tzuyu wears clothes like a vice. She's that kind of girl. Like an accident waiting to happen. She's moving around the kitchen later, poking about the cabinets. She's slid into some jeans that fit her a little too well, and one of those obscenely thin t-shirts.

You watch her back muscles work, how the cotton bunches as she leans, arms extending. Her chest's flat against the counter to grab whatever item's out of her reach. You catch the ribbon in her hair bob slightly back into place when she stands back up. The hairline on the nape of her neck catches a long highlight of a morning, the thin strands a brilliant brown, a spark of warmth in the midst of a muted winter morning - and it's honestly amazing to look at.

(Her ass hangs out in the open like an invitation. Your eyes are running down every curve of denim like they can't help but search.)

"Tzu," is the warning, and she flashes a grin; turns, the expression shifting, wide. "I can literally see everything you have."

"Hm." The front of her shirt lowers, too - her black bralette, barely a scrap of lace and string, visible through the thin fabric. "If I'd known you'd like that so much, you could've told me earlier."

"It's not your job to figure me out."

"Well, I'm not sorry." The words are sugar sweet, with an almost fake concern: her feet pivot, her ass filling your vision- Tzuyu spreads her hands down her outer thighs.

"Be nice," you reiterate. "C'mere."

Her legs snap to you quick.

You are careful, tentative and slow. You leave the ribbon in place and everything; just your mouth, like you have a right to lick down her breasts, her stomach, her clit - like you deserve the faint marks where your hands pressed down onto her waist.

The slow licks, the soft kisses; you could eat her out until the sun sets and Tzuyu was left sobbing through the overstimulation. Her fingers rake your hair like it’s exactly what she’s hoping you’ll do.

When Tzuyu does let go: she doesn't drop. There is no shame, nor shameful whimpers. Instead, she fucking screams, so high and clear it doesn't seem possible: a singer's wail.

"Sir!" she's crying, you can feel it through every tremble. "Oh my god, please-"

You get her to climax twice before the tears fall, your fingers tracing her spine, pressing deeper, a knuckle, then two-

She looks at you in abject reverence, "God, you don't know," is the gasp, "how perfect you are," and you're sure. You'll never get it right again: at least, not without her.

She cums a third time, shivering, collapsing: her eyes wide, glossy, breath shallow, limbs giving in. The sweat clings to her like a lover, a life she doesn't know how to leave.

So, you ask:

"What now, doll?"

Her tongue sweeps the corner of her mouth, a tiny wrinkle.

"Whatever," Tzuyu exhales. "Fuck, whatever, seriously, that was like- amazing- but my throat is actually going to murder me."

"Was the screaming really that necessary."

"Not sure- about anything," is the groggy admission, "like, honestly. Too horny to care, but." She pauses for a second. "You," she finally decides.

"I," is the immediate reply.

"I’ll let you do - anything, but I- can I, like, get a breather? For a minute. Can you wait, like, just."

Her arms open: you settle against her side, and a shaky hand starts combing through your hair. Her other palm lifts to rest against your cheek, cupping it. The nails tap gently along your hairline.

"Been waiting so long, Tzu, honey," and it doesn't sound as cruel or glib as the slip up should be construed - doesn't even bother to count on forgiveness, either. Maybe you're beyond all of that, honestly, and more or less in love, as a result. It’s kind of fucked. What’s a minute more?

She laughs softly, a cough catching up and sounding pained. She's lost her voice, the poor thing, she’s cummed herself hoarse and ragged and you’re proud of your handiwork.

"Honey," you hear her say, and she shakes, pulls herself closer, kisses you back: like the old, gentle motion can ever fully cure the fever of desire that grips the two of you. It's a pipedream, and you're kissing her. It's a pipedream, and you know it.

The calls start coming in after the sun sets and the cabin grows cool with the dark: you feel, faintly, that it's inevitable. That the snow would clear and time would start marching on, a predetermined cycle. (That, maybe, something in the universe - at this stage, almost a hundred years of weather, tectonic plates, astronomical phenomena, interconnected - knew the two of you needed that bit of seclusion.)

"I dunno, just some bog-standard hotel, holiday suites or something. The point is: the roads don’t open until tomorrow and I've been holed up for a while." Sana sighs into the phone. The static pops. "Oh my god, I'm bored out of my mind. I've had like, three full bags of crisps in one sitting, which is just plain wrong."

"You're basically living off carbs." You say this from in front of the fireplace. Tzuyu is sitting on the opposite side of the couch paging through a stack of magazines, wearing a big jumper and sweats and socks pulled up to her knees. Her hair is falling around her shoulders in soft waves, and it makes her look small and domestic and a bit docile - she’d re-tied the ribbon in her hair after you’d fucked it off her, and that more or less completes the look.

"Yes, I have gone off the deep end. A tragic, awful spiral. Because you're not here. Fuck, you have no idea."

"Ah- Sana." You stop. Take a deep breath.

"Do you have any idea? The state of me right now? seriously. I packed so many fucking condoms and the idea of bringing them back home is more defeating than anything else." She lowers her tone a little, then adds, "because, not to be weird, I was kinda sorta hoping we might use them when I got up there."

You blink. Tzuyu isn't even pretending to look anywhere else. Her whole face is shifting into a satisfied expression, and when she catches you looking, she winks.

"Right. Now this might sound like a surprise," Sana is continuing, her voice full of amusement, "but when I get stuck somewhere, alone and thinking about the weather- I'm often in need of a fuck. Please be prepared to service, because god damn, I've got nothing and it's gonna have to be the battery."

"Is that Sana?" Tzuyu interrupts, the tone hushed, but lofty.

You make a face, like: who the fuck else - but that makes her smirk; Sana sighs, then laughs.

"So if you like, you know. If you feel like the vibe is there. I'd appreciate the hand out."

Tzuyu walks over: sets herself down between your feet and kisses your knee. Just to fuck with you. Because she wants to. She holds the kiss, the bow in her hair, done up tight and shiny, visible. You want to tug the stupid thing until it unravels; all your fingertips, her lips, and she sighs-

"Oi," Sana's saying on the line. You can hear her crash onto her bed. "You still there?"

"I'm sorry," you say, "are you uh, asking for phone sex - or did I totally read that all wrong."

"Nope. Pretty direct." Sana laughs, and the sound should make it easy to close your eyes, picturing it: a silver smile, the low slung skirt and a stretch of stockinged leg, the twinkle of a drink as the ice hits her mouth. It’d be easy, y'know, if your gaze wasn't pinned on the girl who's settled at your feet.

"Oh, jesus, okay," you manage to breathe. Tzuyu hums a little: reaches for your fly. "Is there anything, anything that you want me to do?"

Sana's laughter drops to a murmur: the air goes heady as Tzuyu parts the zipper and rolls down the waist of your pants- "ask me what I'm wearing, duh."

"Boring," Tzuyu breathes into the air. Because apparently Sana's defining trait is being loud. The kiss to your clothed cock is hot, teasing - her eyes never lift away, "always, always start with, 'darling, sweetheart,' or something stupid, sweet." Her tone is pure syrup: you can feel the warm, the wet; a fucking tease, all the way to her core.

"What are you wearing, darling?" you ask, dryly. Tzuyu rolls her eyes.

Sana's grin widens and you swear it's audible, "oh, just these boring pajamas." She draws it out slow and sexy and completely aware. "It's all loose cotton, and it doesn't hang off me, just folds."

"Is it the type that comes down to the mid-thigh? The white kind, where you can see through to the skin?"

"That's a little presumptive, don't you think? A bit on the nose? Yeah, fine, I'm wearing the kind, if you absolutely insist. These legs, bare. Maybe you'd want to bite. Y'know. Mark 'em'. Whatever."

Tzuyu is kissing the outline of your shaft. Pulling your hard-on out from its confines - all gentle and tentative. Her pretty brown eyes dart upward, gauging: okay, just do your thing - you shrug - but it'd be so helpful if you could scoot to the end of the cushion for me, can you-

"Yeah," you're agreeing into the phone, somewhat vague - to no one in particular. You don't give Tzuyu just an inch; instead, you lift your thighs toward her. Sliding, Tzuyu pulls your pants down: enough. There's a delicate pressure applied at the bottom of your cock, right at the base, right where Tzuyu drags her nails. "Let's have that show off a little," your breath comes shallow, "then. Strip, real slow. We can try for something sexy I guess."

"You," Tzuyu kisses the base and shuffles up the rest of your shaft, "just love bossing people around," then her lips part: the slightest graze, then warmth, the faint suction. “Don’t you?”

"Uh-huh," says Sana, and then the rustle of cloth: and you could imagine her, really, lifting the shirt up, off, sliding it along the inside of her ribs, over the tips of her breasts - she'd cup them, lean into the contact. Sana's hands are always on her tits, or the spread of her hips - she likes the shape of her body more than anyone else. "Sometimes, that's the best way," she tells you. Her breath is hot, full of sex. "Being told what to do. Isn't that true, hm?"

Tzuyu tilts forward, lets your cock drop over her bottom lip. It leaves a smear of spit in its wake, the sensation electric. Her head falls, swallows the whole of the tip: her tongue immediately swirls. A hot little pulse. Her cheeks hollow.

"Yeah. Some could probably argue," your breath catches, the weight of the sensation, the fullness, your hips arch, your spine straightens. The electricity goes through your stomach and down your spine; you can feel the wave rolling along. Tzuyu giggling into the stiff line of your cock-

"Telling us both?" Tzuyu smiles again, running her lips slowly up and down the sides, teasing with her breath and her fingers running down the ridges. "What you want." She hums low, into the hot air.

You press your phone to your neck. "Can you, like-

Tzuyu pulls her mouth off your cock. Just sits there blinking. “Hm?” she asks, tugging a strand of her hair from the corner of her mouth.

“Just please stay quiet, or something- this is already harder than I thought it would be," the joke is as unsubtle as they come, "jesus, okay-" and put the phone back to your ear, "shit, Sana- can you, like-"

Her fucking mouth. The seal, the press - the tongue swirling around your head. Fuck.

“Yeah, babe? What do you want to know?”

The words aren't coming and a very obvious swallow is, Tzuyu leaning closer, and her fingers tangle with yours - guiding you closer, guiding your hand to the ends of her hair.

"Explain," is somehow where you land, shaky. You stick the landing just enough that Sana might buy it. "What are you doing now?"

"Slow circles. On my nipples, pinching," her voice strains, then settles,"yeah, the tip's so sensitive. Jihyo was laughing that guys always obsess over her tits. Always wanna suck, or nibble and I'm like, girl, what the hell are you complaining for?" - Tzuyu inhales a huge breath, and then another: her lips, those eyes - open and glossy, every movement steady like she knows just how to make the wait worth it - "or, or maybe I'm just weird, because the first time I felt someone's teeth and their tongue. Fuck, like, I almost screamed. Or, cried. Literally."

"Hah," and Tzuyu brings her lips lower. Moves her hair gently out of the way to take the rest of you into her mouth: bobbing up, her lips puckering in some rhythm, and her tongue darts, swirls the edge of the cock. Tongue at the slit. The pressure. Fuck, your head falls back. Every breath sounds heavy, loud. "Fingers,” you huff, “are good too I'm sure. I’d be paying close attention. Making you feel good."

"Mhm." Sana agrees. "The little pinches, ugh, I could die happy if you did just that, it's that fucking amazing."

"Baby," you half-moan. You’re struggling. The mouth stops, then sinks: down, all the way. Fucking amazing. Fucking hell.

"Oh?" Sana laughs airly, "are you touching yourself, hm? No fair, are you going to leave me all lonely here-"

You can see that smirk. The fuckery that would come: Sana's version.

"Sir," Tzuyu mumbles, sounding muffled. Her mouth is a tight vise of warmth, and your hand threads through her hair again. You hold, tighten the ribbon a bit, and Tzuyu stares at you through half-lidded eyes: you don't think she'll blink until you make her cry, and by then-

“Fuck,” Sana says, totally flat, "I'm actually pretty wet," the emphasis, "so I'd like some real advice, y'know-"

You see her legs. The tops. The bottom, all the way down- and you inhale sharply, too much and too hard.

Tzuyu has her fist at the base of your cock and her palm is sliding down the slick flesh and, a moment later, up, meeting her mouth at the top of its stroke - and, without a goddamn care, she hollows her cheeks - puckers her lips along the surface.

You were right. "This is hell."

Sana hums a laugh. "Need me that bad, huh? We're missing each other by just a couple days."

You stroke the top of Tzuyu's hair, her bow bobbing in a nice little bounce. Sana would know better than to wear her hair up. To even go near this, her throat - you hold her jaw steady, maybe a second, the moment of recovery to make Tzuyu slow and careful: her tongue does a pass at the sensitive, rigid underside of the crown, the sudden movement - before she speeds up.

"Picturing your hand." She tells you in a languid tone.

"God," you half-say, half-moan, and Tzuyu is good. So fucking good, and the mouth is too damn eager and it's difficult to think.

You barely get your hand free to switch to speaker, then let it clatter to the side. Tzuyu grinning, her lips flushed red and wet and dragging over your cock, sliding down, her tongue doing another pass, swirling at the center, the flare-

"Thinking about you, actually, fuck," Sana has a hitch to her breath that wasn't quite there before. "Doing those things, that mouth all over, Jesus Christ - ah- my legs, my breasts, fuck- are you jerking off right now? You sound, well, pretty uh, yeah."

"Just saying," you breathe, as the shock and the sensations rise and fall; Tzuyu's edging you in her mouth, her own head starting to shake, her chin bobbing up and down the full, long line of your dick - she's never done anything by halves. "It's getting- I'm thinking about you, Sana, of course, and your- pretty cunt, god, of course, so- ah, close- you said you were wet?"

"Huh? Of course, dripping. Imagining you - your thick, your cock," Sana sorta giggles, out of it then-

Tzuyu moans. Her body is pliant and her shoulders roll; she sucks, her cheeks dip, her back arches, and all of the noises hit the air thick, all while Sana's voice sharpens - both girls, two. You're slipping off the cushion, and probably out of your mind. The ache builds and burns and yearns for some sort of release-

"-how wet and tight I would feel, after so fucking long. Please, fuck, fuck-" you hear Sana, "would you, fuck, c'mon, how I would look, on top of you? Could feel- the stretch, your cock deep inside. The, fuck- friction."

There’s this beat, where it’s just Sana’s stiff breathing; you can picture her wrist between her thighs, the pump, the twist as her fingers run over and over again through the sound of her slick. You’re left wondering if she can hear too, the mouth trailing kisses along your balls, tongue gliding back up and swallowing your length whole.

“Mnph.” Tzu chokes down a little.

And you look down, you have to eventually - to see the steady stare. Tzuyu's brows pinched and her eyelashes fanning out over the hollowed curve of her cheekbones. Pretty, fuck. Beautiful. So sexy: she looks up, swallows you back, like a fucking slut. Her mouth, wet, messy, hot, and her body-

"Third finger, by the way," Sana strains, "'cause- fuck, my pussy - my tight little hole would be swallowing your cock so damn good."

"Mmm, fuck." You're reduced to your base instincts, pulling Tzuyu's hair, dragging her wet, velvety mouth onto your shaft - she follows willingly, no question of her pace slowing, but - more, and more, and you could probably cum in her mouth if her hands weren't clasped firmly over your thighs and you weren't brushing away the tears pricking the ends of Tzuyu's lashes- you won't tell. Not with your fingers. Fuck. Her nails bite at the skin of your bare legs. She looks angry, insistent. Choking.

Sana sounds just as out of sorts, out of breath, "you would feel so fucking good. Look so good. Let me have it- whatever I need, yeah?" And you think she's close: it's that keen edge, a faint, broken whine. She's never going to finish any way except- "would you, inside me? Y'know- make me cum, real full. God- are you close? Would you make a mess out of me? Of my pretty pussy?"

“Okay, holy fuck-" and the question barely even hits you.

Tzuyu is glaring now, shaking: she wants you to lose it, and she looks furious, holding her fingertips, her thumb on the base of your cock: a new pressure, a new feeling, a new pulse, a new high- she wants you to forget about Sana, maybe. What she sounds like, how she looks. Her legs wide, her bare, slicked skin on display. For you, yes. Fucking her until she- "uh, baby," and this time, your voice makes her smile, and her teeth drag. You wince. Her pupils are blown out, and there's a flush building in her chest. "Where are you?"

"Laying down. Flat- god. Where I'm always-" and you imagine a plane of soft, tanned, toned legs, her wide hips, "I'd, yeah, in a second. Pressure at my back- it would feel so fucking good, y’know, if you were here."

You have no doubt in your mind: Sana would be gorgeous. Even from the back, she'll be hotter, fuck, she always is, especially like that - and the movement of Tzuyu's fingers tightens against the straining, needy ache, and-

"Please, fuck, fuck- need to-"

"Would cum- a lot, that's it- over my back. Oh, yes, all over my back. My ass. Messy. fuck that's actually so good, jesus christ-" and then Sana lets out another soft keen and a shout - and it's so sweet and high-pitched and familiar, almost musical; she's cumming, hard. You're only a second, a third behind and-

Your balls draw tight and a coil in your stomach unfurls-

Tzuyu sees you, grins, your eyes trained on the pink of her mouth and her perfect, wet lips and the deep brown eyes - her dimpled cheek is the softest fucking thing - but the rest, her mouth, her wet heat: it's pure sensation. The tight vise of a throat swallowing, the taste on the flat of her tongue. You've got your cock shoved deep in her mouth, and you're not easy to take. Fucking Tzuyu's face, thrusting and the throbs of your cock pumping out a hot, heavy spill. More and more: sticky, filling, spreading out from the corners of her lips. Tzuyu gurgles, struggling - fuck, finally letting go with a weak pop, falling back, and the white mess runs hot over her mouth. Your release smeared across her lips, dripping off her jaw - fucking christ - her tongue, her eyelashes - a wild mess of fluid. It splatters against her pale skin - runs down the hollow of her throat to the edges of her chest. She has her fingers working fast still, a squelching tight fist: you cum all over the stupid, cutesy bow too. It's all you see, the only thing-

“Fuck,” Sana says, oblivious. “That’s good.”

-before your eyelids shutter close, a ringing in your ears and your heart racing; and, not far, another sigh, followed by the slide of your phone down the couch.

"Aw, you done already?" Sana says. Lazily. You can see the look on her face, probably rubbing her pussy and thinking about more - if there’s any two ways the girls compare, it’s this allergic reaction to anything like temperance or moderation. You need new friends, new lovers; this can’t last.

"Uh-huh." The back of your head digs into the couch cushions. Fuck. Sana. Phone. On speaker. Oh. Right. Shit. "But I was- mnph. Uhh." Your brain has lost a lot of blood. It's doing nothing. Nothing but losing blood. You wish it’d stop. “I’m here, Sana, talk to me.”

Sana giggles at that, delighted, "don't tell me you're in such bad shape I need to save you-"

"The uh," your voice slurs. Then you're pulling the phone to you, closer. Fuck. Yeah. You're an idiot. Your breath is heavy: "I could go for more, yeah, how’re you feeling?"

"So fucking tired." Her breathing sounds less ragged. A full breath. A pout: a poor me.

"Hmm." Tzuyu crawls onto you. Slides the fabric of your shirt between her palms, up and down your ribs. She pushes the sweater and tee away. Bares your stomach- then kisses there. Lower, and then rises, looking through her lashes. It's clear: a demand. She'll be insisting, pressing down on you, kissing, running her teeth along the edges of your shoulders, your neck. She’ll kiss you right now if you let her - until she sinks into a promise at the center of your body. Your back is arching off the leather from the sensitivity, and Tzuyu has her lips all over you - smiling when your hands tangle with the long strands of her hair.

She pauses. You drop a hand to Tzuyu's waist. Pinch.

"Ow-" she says, coming across slightly betrayed.

And, satisfied with the expression her face, the phone cradled between your chin, her lips warm over your ribs, her head tickling the edges of your jaw, you keep laughing, or you want to, but Tzuyu takes you between her thighs, lifts a little on your cock - her eyes widen: she's testing your flexibility. Trying to drag this out, trying for teasing. She’s good at that (a verifiable truth), but you’re you - you see right through it: she likes how it feels, the thickness and size of you. Tzuyu keeps sliding slowly down the full length, letting you fill her inch by inch - her slick heat feels unbearable.

“God,” she mutters, and she’s making the dreamiest expression - the blush in her cheeks, the eyelids hung low, the mouth slightly agape - she lifts up, then slams all the way to the base, flush. You grab anything you can to hold onto. Her legs. Her ass. Her thighs. Her jaw. That perfect little fucking waist.

She’s sublime. Your cock is bathing in her slick, the wet heat, the throbbing pulses - she's gasping in your lap, like she can’t believe how good you feel filling her cunt.

"Sana," you grit, "there's- nothing else in the world I'd rather do right now than shove my cock-”

“Ugh,” Sana sighs in agreement, in imaginary bliss. “In my little fucking pussy- you’re making me miss you, or something, jesus-”

You squeeze her thigh and her lips quirk, just barely, a challenge.

"Want put a nice thick load" - the hand on Tzuyu's hip brings her down in your lap, fucking up hard as her chest racks with breath - "in your slutty little cunt" - you fuck her faster, the sounds of flesh against flesh obscene - "fill up your pussy, princess. Would cum in it until" - and the last inch of your cock, filling Tzuyu’s cunt, you've no control - "you're a mess, you're dripping in it-"

Tzuyu's movements still. A pause. Her hips. Your own, and all the rest, every nerve in your body is on fire.

She moves with the most graceful slide, her wet lips gliding - gripping - up your cock. Then, down. The quiet. The lull. The pause before she does it again. She has cum all over her face, and she’ll kill you. You’ll let her.

"God. We'll have to get around to it," Sana finally tells you, dryly, "when this fucking snow clears. Say hi to Tzuyu for me won’t you?"

You're not a bad person.

(The reassurance that you aren’t - or don’t want to be? - is probably still not super convincing. There's some line drawn there, blurred, crossed, and thoroughly annihilated by your actions, you think, vaguely, but maybe it's better if no one sees, hears, finds out. The finer details matter a lot less at that point.)

You're like anybody else: you get desperate to hold onto something, somebody, even for just a moment. Sometimes you don’t even need a reason at all.

Tzuyu is stepping out of the shower, her head bobbing: it takes everything in you not to drag her back in there. She’d let you. She wouldn’t even complain.

You can hear the catch and the slide of a bath towel, the wisp of water hitting the bottoms of her feet and trailing, an exaggerated moan - a gesture, meant to entice, a suggestion: fuck her right back in the shower until her hair is plastered to her cheeks, and she's panting. Or the steam lifts her breasts in a gentle, humid press. That mouth on the tiles - sobbing.

“Tzu,” you call out, and she just continues humming some indifferent tune.

You pull a thick sweater over your head: it's gray wool, and it's all clean and good and new. When she wraps her arms around you, a deep inhale: a grin, then a shiver. She's naked and dripping everywhere, wet hair leaving a trail in its wake. She burrows her face in the folds of fabric at your spine - and if you turned, the slightest movement, the smooth line of her torso would be exposed, and your fingers could trace down her belly button, the tips dipping between her legs-

The window is fogging at the bottom, the steam slipping out in tendrils - but the heat can't compete against the girl all wet and dripping, and it does nothing but give way to the cold, seeping in.

"I still think it's funny," she says, all matter of fact. "It's weird that this isn't awkward."

“What’s that?”

She's at the doorway.

“Us. Being here.”

You turn, and Tzuyu pulls at your sweater: looking for attention, always seeking out the easy praise. Her hand automatically slides beneath the cloth of your collar, drawing your jaw up for a short, hard kiss.

"Okay," and there's a small nod, the line of her throat pulsing as she breathes, "yeah," her chest rising and falling.

"Look at you,” you tell her. “All dry and tidy. Cute. "

A dumb comment earns you the tiniest smile, then she's leaning back, taking her hands to her hair and wringing out the water, pulling and tugging at the tangles - the towel wraps around her waist again and again, and she looks good, clean: it makes you think of what comes later. Not having to give a fuck - at least not for a little while.

"Jeez," she's shivering, still, and rubbing the tops of her arms, "and Sana is gonna be, like, all over you once she gets the chance. Wants a nice lay too, from the sound of it. Was being honest about that. Seems pretty pent up."

“Maybe you can help,” you offer, a bit flippant. She smiles - but in all seriousness, it’s a resounding: no.

There's something else, too, as she runs her fingertips, absently, through her hair - it falls flat on her neck and around her bare shoulders, dark against the lightness of her skin, but somehow you get the impression that she's not entirely preoccupied. "Y'know, I had a really good time and all, but I'm not the homewrecker type, yeah - it's not worth the stress," a slight shrug, like she isn't certain, her mind a little more tangled than usual, and for good reason, too, "probably won't hook up ever again."

"Gloomy," you tease.

"Don’t act like you're not going to miss it," she says, conspiratorial - and Tzuyu plants herself where you can feel her in your space - but she doesn't press. "Even when you're keeping busy, you'll have the smallest reminder, like - aha, Tzuyu would've really liked this, or that - when, y'know - you're stuck somewhere, thinking about the weather," and her cheeks are heating with color as her tongue forms the syllables - and the meaning is clear now as it always was.

“Even if you’re like, totally smitten, or whatever with her,” she adds, smirking.

"Sana will be back to her usual antics in no time. Being annoying and forward and whatever," you reply. "Won't miss much."

The girl's expression flickers a little - a slight twitch - but otherwise, a flat look.

She fixes the lay of her towel across her wide hips. You reach for her arm: pull at it, pulling her toward.

"I mean- Sana and I have a few things in common, anyway. Something in common. Can both be a spoilsport. Dull. Can be a bit, uh, territorial, if you you know-"

The rest is cut off, the words running into a kiss, deep and desperate; there's no place like her mouth: soft, eager, hot.

"And our usual antics?" she asks.

She leans into you, the chill starting to set, a fire burning nearby: something clandestine that maybe shouldn't last as long as it does. A log settling against the others, another plume of heat, and you say, a touch solemn,

"Dunno if we've ever been in common about anything, babe."

"Jeez. You don't have to spell it out like that, do you?" Tzuyu laughs lightly, holding the bath towel at her hips - her breasts are bare. They fall without support, her nipples, the slope of her ribs, everything. "I mean, how cruel."

(It isn't really. Because, here's the thing. In the grand scheme of things, Chou Tzuyu was never really supposed to happen at all.)

The snow clears, like all things you suppose, slowly and with a sigh: with the change in winds and a promise for a gradual spring. Tzuyu steals a shirt. Doesn't seem inclined to return it, says she's good at letting her imagination do half the work in lieu of the actual sex. (The nip is like a sting: it'll last longer, apparently. The bruising at the edges of her waist is more abstract.)

You’re in the driveway. Tzuyu’s leaning back on her luggage.

She kisses you like she wants to make you lose something: her lipstick, her mind, her heart or soul. And when her arms slide, her mouth parting - her tongue darting and sweeping, taking - Tzuyu knows a good many things about herself. She knows you, too. What makes her wet, what gets her off. What part of you will always come back to her. But her hair falls heavy: so much silk. She's laughing - a grin and she's licking the pink right off her teeth and she's beautiful and you think you'll want this always:

A girl like her, kissing so eager for you-

"You can totally say it first," she tells you, that mouth at the edge of your ear.

"Um," you say, and she settles down a little further, her wrists locked behind your neck. "You are so: clingy."

The look she gives you is adorable. All dimple, no worry. “Yeah, so?”

“How is that fair?”

"I don't really care if it is or isn’t. We’d be good together - and that’s a fact. So say something good, or I'm getting in that cab right now."

So you do. You do. The first word, the syllable, the way you ask her, the sound that is something like: mine, and the way it dries the edge of your throat; you kiss it away and she giggles because maybe this means, after a while, you really are as terrible as she always hoped.

She'll give you everything. She says, yours, and it would always be you; she halts a bit, and says it like she’s thawing a revelation, one that’s been there since the start - says she loves you and she always has. You laugh and she says it again: always.

Sana ends up standing in the cabin a day later. The same place you stood, watching Tzuyu lick yogurt off her spoon. Her coat looks expensive. There's her purse. The boots. That red-painted mouth. Her eyes are fixed, and she sees nothing out of the ordinary. Which is probably, you think, ideal.

"That's funny," her face betrays nothing.

The cabin smells a little like burning wood, vaguely: peppermint tea. An electric kind of heat and the warmth of the sun. It had smelled like evidence prior, the way a girl gets with her underwear missing, hair a tangled mess, body sore and aching, a wet bed. You'd looked like a pair of kids caught in a terrible storm, a lovers' quarrel in a small space - or, just: well-fucked.

"What's funny?" is how you finally manage.

"I just mean," she starts again, "she used to have like. The craziest crush on you. It would’ve been cute if it wasn't sorta sad. Did you know? You couldn't, I guess." She shrugs: a heavy lift of her shoulders, a release. The tension is leaking everywhere. "Must've been torture for her to get stuck here with you."

"Huh," you say, like you were missing something, which is exactly the wrong tone and definitely the wrong sentiment. “Oh, the crush. That. Sure.” You’re suppressing a smile. “Torture, yeah. Hey. Don't worry about it. I’m sure we’ll be fine."

(You can’t stop running it back through your head, her long dark hair disappearing into the cab. She loves you and you love her, and it’s got this beautiful caveat of being something simple-complex. Like, who would ever believe any of this? Like, who else even matters?

You say, you belong to me, and she agrees without even thinking.

“You always knew, though. From the start, you always did. I was never going to be anyone else's," and then she pouts. "Wouldn’t hurt telling me, from time to time."

And the mountains have a way of feeling like the end, sounding like the closing score, the credits - you look out at the white caps and reflect: maybe you shouldn’t have let her go. Maybe you should chase after her. Maybe you could still make it work. Maybe you should consider that a promise.

You look up at the sky, the pale blue - and maybe you can afford to let her go.

You know you’ll only find your way back.)

#tzuyu smut #twice smut #tzuyu #twice tzuyu smut #kpop smut #male reader smut

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Text

PARITY

male reader x sana & miyeon

21k words

Within some reasonable tolerance, the two are carbon copies. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.

Doppelganger, twin, deadringer - they always tell you, they don’t see it.

But when they stand together it always comes across like two shadows stitched into one silhouette; the slope of their noses, their mouths; the way their hair cascades down past their shoulders.

You’ve learned to recognize the twitch at the corner of their lips before a laugh - how they speak in the same inflection and pitch and tempo, the same cadence coloring all their syllables. Even in their figures there is something uncannily familiar: that petite stature, that grace; they both have perfect posture, an ingrained elegance, like something handed down generation to generation. And of course - the height. The hair. The eyes. The same-damned-smirk.

Here's a hypothetical: if Sana's DNA, then Miyeon's RNA. They're both two separate ways of reading the same thing, and they both have it in them to transcribe the same hot load of proteins over all their pretty faces.

"Oh, that's like a sex joke," Miyeon says to Sana, frowning slightly, "right?"

"I don't know." Sana hums. "Protein... like sperm?"

You sigh, rub your thumb at your temple. This is why, normally, you wouldn't take ditzy to bed, but there's all this history between you and Sana that proves otherwise. The dirty truth is: you’ve been taking ditzy to bed for years. And Miyeon’s right there. She’s all bright eyes, blonde hair, tiny little waist, the perfect height to get two fingers in her cunt and the rest of her in your lap without you even needing to shift your arm into something more uncomfortable. God forbid.

She pulls back the curtain of silk-glossed-hair spilling over her cheek and tucks it neatly behind her ear. Okay, fine. So maybe you really do have a type.

"Yeah," Miyeon decides. "I think that's a good pun. Cute."

She glances sideways at Sana; something flashes between them, imperceptible. They've been doing this sorta thing for a long time - long before they ended up in their current living arrangement. This machine of synchronized, unvoiced communication.

"Cute," echoes Sana, delighted, and she lets her eyes flick back to yours. "Baby, are you, like, gonna give us lots of protein?"

"First of all, we’re fast approaching the point of diminishing returns on the whole protein spermaestria," you muse, wryly. Sana beams. "And again, the point I’m trying to make, Sana: you two are identical."

"Not in spirit," says Miyeon, automatically. "Or intellect. Or appearance, either."

"You can't just claim that," says Sana, matter of fact. "He means physically. I have bigger tits and a better ass.”

There's no argument from your end. And not only because the cab driver hits a speed bump or a pothole or perhaps a small child way too quickly that sends you all lurching together into the seatbelts.

Miyeon finds a good hold in the handle over the door - it saves her - and you wind up steadying Sana. For a split second, it's both their shoulders leaning on yours: Sana, then Miyeon, then Sana. Back and forth. Back and forth. The three of you still end up sprawled halfway out of the seats and onto each other in the cramped cab, tangled all together.

"Please, explain it then," implores Sana, hushed slightly. "Go ahead, I'm sure Miyeon's dying to hear it."

"Look, it's not a perfect one to one mapping," you say, running your hand through your hair and putting on your patient professor-in-front-of-the-class face. "For example: Miyeon's cuter-"

"Thank you," chirps Miyeon, sweetly sardonic, before you can even append anything else to the statement. Sana’s already there with a noise of mild protest.

"I mean, I'm a full inch and a half taller than you."

"So?"

"That’s an unfair advantage. You've gotta be the dumbest person I know."

"Funny," chides Miyeon, swiveling her gaze onto Sana. "You could barely talk when we were fucking your brains out on your birthday. He's dating you, not me, remember? If anything, you're the one sporting an unfair advantage."

"Okay, well," Sana counters, reasonably, "when you can barely get a sentence out from choking on my boyfriend's cock, who the hell is supposed to call it?"

You ignore that. Miyeon is having more difficulty; her face has flushed cherry red and her hand's white-knuckle-gripping the side of the cab's passenger door.

"For what it’s worth," you cut in, placidly, "I don’t think there’s any clear answer."

"Nonsense," they both reply, simultaneously and satisfied - like wind up toys. And that's the way the conversation tends to go when you get them alone like this. Identical, you pause to think again after spilling out from the back of the car and onto the curb outside the girls’ apartment.

All the things they say are word-for-word - they walk the same, eat the same, smile the same, tilt their heads the same. In those moments where you don't speak, it feels like watching some two-headed monster, an entity constructed from equal parts of both. And it isn't just the physicality at play. They've got that eerie ability to read each other, speak for each other. It's strange: their habits, the way their eyebrows arch, the set of their shoulders. It all syncs right up, matches seamlessly.

It's really fucking uncanny.

"Um." Sana twists one slim wrist back and forth until the key turns in the lock. "So, is it, like, wrong of me that I kinda just wanna skip the dinner part of this and watch my roommate get wrecked in the middle of our living room?"

"Depends," you answer, before you can let yourself dwell too much.

“Just a complete and utter carpet dive,” Sana says, shouldering the door open and flipping on the lights. “It’d serve her right. She’s being annoying.”

Miyeon scoffs, sticks out a bare, pale leg - it ends in a nail polished fire engine red, the strap of a stiletto sandal - and blocks your way inside. "Hey," she protests, lightly. You are not the only object in the equation - you are merely an item to be held against them; it's not about you, not in its most abstract shape. Miyeon and Sana are competing - vaguely for your affection, but more so just for affection in general. It's an ego thing, if nothing else.

"I'm an angel. I'm precious."

"Get your pretty feet out of his face," warns Sana.

"Ugh," says Miyeon. And then, "so short-tempered when you're not getting away with everything."

"Whatever, princess." Sana gestures, airy and flippant. "In any case: fuck off, or go get fucked."

This has become some kind of weird custom, admittedly. Miyeon does exactly as her best friend requests. She floats down the hallway and toward her room.

"Can't get good service around here anymore anyway," is what she tosses over her shoulder. Her fingers run up the door frame to her room and hang there, briefly, before she glances sideways back. You and Sana, now giving her your deservedly undivided attention. There is no split focus, no point of overlap. Her hair falls loose past her shoulders; her shirt clings a little to the muscles of her arms, her ribs. The point of contact between her skirt and her upper thighs. Those impossibly big eyes. She's gorgeous. You rarely ever let yourself forget that. There's something devastating about the set of her face, about how her body is absolutely fucking perfect, all curving lines and smooth planes - tits that fit right in your palm, the dip of her stomach, the pretty shape of her ass - she’s tiny, and in a way, that means you can do anything to her and manage to get away with it. She’ll let you. She’ll ask you to do it all again.

"You two are more than welcome to follow along, if you feel so inclined,” Miyeon adds before she opens the door to her room, steps through, and lets it shut behind her.

"Yeah." Sana runs her tongue over her top lip, staring you straight in the eye. Her smile is slightly predatory, all sharp teeth. "If you’re so inclined."

(For anyone wondering about things like premise or backstory, here’s a useful memory:

Sana has a new roommate. They've been living together for two, three months. She's still not over the fact you didn’t ask her to move in, and you're still not ready for it. Your answer hasn’t changed. You like your apartment the way it is; the two of you need space; it's what the kids call cohabital parity and no, the ring's not in your wallet and it's not even bought yet; stop nagging me. It'll happen when it happens.

Anyway,

It's one of those plainly beautiful evenings in early July or August - a weekend probably: the living room is bathed in the sort of low, radiant sunset that can go on forever, all of summer stretched out, leisure and sunshine. Sana had talked her way into getting you to take her somewhere highbrow and a little out of your budget. She can talk her way into just about anything; that's her brand, her bad habit, her good fortune.

"We're not going to be able to get our tickets," you're explaining into the loud blare of a hair dryer. And to paraphrase, "what the fuck is the point of making reservations if we’re going to be so reprehensively late?"

Sana's juggling the curling iron while fumbling with an eyelash curler and applying mascara and rearranging earrings all at the same time, and you think about reminding her, again, that it doesn't matter what she looks like if you never actually, you know, leave - but then the hair dryer switches off.

“Hey.” Sana ignores the concern and swivels to ask which earrings match which necklace - two pairs are laid across the countertop; they look exactly the same; you love her, desperately, but for the record, you've never been any good at telling jewelry apart. Neither the knowledge-set nor the motivation; she looks fucking gorgeous in everything regardless-

The front door clicks then, and Miyeon bursts through with the force of an entire hurricane - and promptly stops, dead. You forget what the hell she said, but the story was: she'd just gotten back from the worst date in her life. She's in tears, sobbing. It's a mess. She's a mess. You can't leave.

She falls right into Sana's arms. Then Sana throws a pointed, triumphant grin your way, and says to Miyeon - and you remember this, word for word, verbatim - "Aw, baby. Don't worry. Let us take care of you. We'll make you forget all about him, okay?"

This is the long and short of it: Miyeon arrives, in tears. You never make it to dinner and a show. And the night ends more or less how it started - with Miyeon still pretty much crying, but only because you two won't stop. With your fingers, your mouths. Sana knows what her tongue's doing; Miyeon is loud - and responsive. She's gorgeous too. She's so into it. She needs someone who is genuinely in love with her, who isn't going to try and push her around. You slip your cock into her and that's pretty much it, a different kind of curtain call; Miyeon gets Sana's thumb rolling at her clit and, yeah - she's fucking gone. She cums on your cock like she’s dying, like you’re killing her. It's as simple as that.

Now, there are several instances of which this is the case, in chronological order:

a.) The first time, in Sana's bed.

b.) The second time is in the back of Miyeon's hatchback. Tight fit for three people. It's a do-not-recommend.

c.) The third time, when they want to try blindfolding Miyeon while she rides your cock in the living room. The girl can't see shit, you break some IKEA furniture you can’t pronounce the name of, and the condom comes off during the whole process. There’s this unsettling, world-rocking possibility in which you get Miyeon fucking legitimately pregnant via oopsie-daisy. So, you and Sana wind up spooned up with Miyeon between you two and discuss the eventuality, should it arise - what you will all do in the future, the consequences, what Miyeon and Sana will say to Miyeon's and Sana's families - what the fuck you'll tell the rest of your friends, let alone the press - and then, deciding together: hey, well maybe this is actually a really bad idea.

d.) The fourth, fifth, sixth and every time after that where you realize that you're just gonna roll it all back and pretend like this is completely normal. Two's company, three's kind of a fever dream - but this is the platonic ideal of groupthink. It works. It just does; you know how to fit the pieces together now. How to read her body language: the one-two-one rhythm, Sana and Miyeon and then Miyeon-and-Sana; where their hands are, where they're moving; Miyeon's choked little sobs and the breathless gasps when your cock is deep inside her; all the unintelligible murmurs passing between the two of them that you can't understand - but none of them ever really matter. The important thing is that she's put her two front teeth in your left collarbone while you fuck into her slow and deliberate, in a way she can really feel. You cover Sana's mouth with your palm, your fingers pressed against the pulsing heat in her pussy, and you make them both cum over and over until they’re eyes are screwed shut and they’re counting stars.

That's about it. That's all the things.)

"I call it being spoiled for choice," Sana says, pausing only momentarily to decide in the mirror of Miyeon's makeup vanity whether or not to take off the bracelet on her wrist.

The glint that strikes off the metal is gold in the bedroom lights, all warm yellow and sparkling silver. Sana narrows her fingers, pulls it off, on - like you've caught her trying on clothes, the latest fashion in a store front window. A stylistic consideration. It matches the rings on her third and fourth fingers. She decides that it suits her.

"Lo and behold," Sana continues, "we have a real situation on our hands. In your hands. Whatever, you get my drift."

"Your cock," adds Miyeon, smiling like sunshine. She’s tracing you over your pants with her thumb, and she’s got her doe-eyed grin on, the one that promises something sugar-sweet, kneeling between your thighs at the edge of her bed - the slightest dishevel of her hair, kiss-swollen lips. God, what a picture. Her pupils flare when her fingers reach the top button of your pants. "And what's worse? I'm going to die if I can't have at least, you know. A couple minutes alone with it."

"You'd figure out a way to die either way," Sana muses. She leans backwards in Miyeon's desk chair, tugging idly at the hem of her skirt.

They're not usually dressed alike, and that's the weirdest part - Sana's never had Miyeon's particular taste for the tiny gauche dresses and white converse shoes and glossy nails, not unless it’s some matching outfit that she's being bullied into. Today's no different: the soft fabric of Miyeon's slip of dress barely stretches down to the line of her thigh. The hem starts just below the boundary of innocuous and everything else. She’d been hiking it up all evening. And the straps lay so thin across her shoulders that one little tug in the wrong spot would probably send it skidding all the way down to the floor.

That's the main thing on your mind when you get one in between your fingers.

Miyeon simply shoulders the other, rolling it down to hang loose, leaving the dress hanging off the gentle slope of her chest.

"Pretty," you say out loud.

"I know," she says, holding the grin.

She can make the world smile, it's infectious - and your gaze follows the path: from the blonde-shiny hair spilling over a collarbone, to the peeking line of her bra, to the flutter of the bottom of her dress at her hip. You catch the subtle lace trim, the little patterns embroidered into the waist, and decide her body's a gift - and wrapping it is something divine, something meant to be ripped right to shreds. If no one else is willing to volunteer, then it'll fall on you. Sure, sure, sure. You can be thanked later.

"Lose it," you request, quietly.

"Mr. Impatient," is what Sana sniffs out, scoffing. She's lounged back on the other side of Miyeon's makeup counter. Her heel taps away at empty air, bouncing off the end of her foot, that hot little fucking rhythm she's had going since her partner in crime got in your lap and kissed you right down into oblivion. "You want to get her naked and get inside of her, huh?"

"Is that not why you dragged me here?" you counter.

"Oh, don't put this on me." Her expression slides right into the mischievous smirk you're familiar with. Miyeon’s often sporting the same one.

"He wants to bend you over, princess," she tells Miyeon, and you hear the wistful sigh through her parted lips come out like permission. "Not that I can say I'd blame him. When's the last time you've taken cock again?"

"With him last week." She throws the response to Sana. They look, more than anyone, to be in sync in their one-upmanship.

"Hmm," says Sana, and she’s looking right at you. "Check how tight that dress fits over her hips, don't you just want to tear it right off of her?"

"He's not doing that," says Miyeon, but there's the lilting tease in her voice that signals precisely the opposite. She wants it: wants it like sugar and soda, salt water taffy; wants to be stripped like skin, bared to the bone. Her knees spread, just a little. "Not yet, anyway. Right now," she adds, hand fluttering towards the inside of her thigh, supplying touches right over the lace, "I want to suck his cock."

"Such a slut," Sana teases, tilting her head.

"You'll get yours," Miyeon insists, before pulling your cock out of your boxers with a small smile, curling her fingers around it, leaning forward. "God, this thing." She has the head under the palm of her other hand, and a wet-tipped promise on her lower lip.

You thread your hand into the hair aside Miyeon's temple, gentle and what will seem in a moment: paradoxically-tender.

"Imagine what it'll do to your mascara when I fuck your mouth."

Miyeon licks her lips. You reckon she’s completely aware how it comes across - the wicked fantasy she is.

"I'm imagining what it'll do to you when she chokes," Sana retorts.

“When he fills up my throat,” Miyeon says, hungry.

Sana sighs, sounding utterly wistful, and she fixes the same unrepentant look on you. "Poor Miyeon is just starved for cum tonight. Aww," she remarks, sweetly, "The poor thing. Do me a favor won't you? Fuck my pretty little friend in the face."

"Well," is all you get out before you look up at Sana. "Yours too, honey."

"Hardly, the same," Miyeon cuts in primly, glancing sideways at Sana. There is some snobbishness implied; there are ways Sana and Miyeon have always found to subtly measure themselves against one another, to best each other - all of these ridiculous acts and anecdotes. Like their voices aren’t replicas of one another - and in constant disagreement over whoever is currently claiming to be the original.

Miyeon prissily tilts her jaw up. "Your ego might actually be the worst part about you, Sana. That and your tits."

"Guess he just loves all the worst parts," Sana quips, rolling her eyes, "and every time you call it into question I fall in love with him a little more."

She's got one foot up now on the seat of the chair and she's running her fingers, delicate and teasing, around the press of her panties. It's not a voyeuristic thing, she's told you, it's less about watching Miyeon get fucked than it is about knowing exactly what it looks like when she herself gets spread out beneath you. She watches you and Miyeon, she watches her best friend and you, and she touches herself and it's perfect. There's a few seconds, long and warm, before she lifts her fingers away, then sucks them into her mouth with a grin. Just the slightest taste.

"But seriously," she says to Miyeon. "If you're gonna do something - then do it. Don't be a tease. We both know the answer, anyway."

Miyeon swallows. You hear her. You watch her lips wrap around the head of your cock and pop off, wet and shining, and her head rests in the curve of your palm.

"I’m working on it," Miyeon allows, lowly - she pumps her fist again around you, careful with the motion; this little twisting tug. "Fuck, it's not even the fact that it's fucking huge, or. Like, it’s not because I’m dying to get stuffed by this, or because I’m sitting here thinking: oh my fuck, I’m gonna feel so full with this thing inside me."

You have her hand under her chin, thumb stroking gently against her cheek. Her eyes return to yours when you put a little more pressure in your grip. She’s fantastically pretty, and the gleam of lust and want in her irises has you probably too eager to play along.

“So then, what could it possibly be?”

"It's-" Her cheeks darken pink beneath her blush, stumbling through a mouthful of ums and uhs as her eyes make tiny departures back to your waist until she finally gives up and just stares again.

Sana sits up a little in her chair.

"Look, this is the prettiest cock I've ever seen.”

You and Sana almost snort in unison.

“I’m serious.” Miyeon rubs a semi-circle over the head with her thumb, glancing up at you beneath her mascara, and then to the base, back up. It jerks, almost like reflex, in her grasp; she huffs in delight. "It’s, like, perfect in every way. And, god, everytime- I’d just about do anything to feel it inside me."

“You’d beg?” Sana asks, eyebrow raised.

“I’m about to get down on my knees and grovel, honey.”

"Should've just said," Sana laughs - Miyeon chews her lip, half-exasperated, and drops a kiss to the tip that makes Sana's expression simper - "you’re halfway there. Want him to cum in that sweet mouth?"

"Want him to tell me what he's going to do," says Miyeon, frilly. "Every last detail."

Lips stretching open, fingers splaying, curling around the weight - she dips her head to rest her cheek on your thigh and kisses the underside of your shaft. She’s practically like liquid. Flowing and easy and gorgeous, always gorgeous, too far gone to form a full thought. That much is obvious. And why shouldn't it be - your hand's already snagged up, your thumb's already wiping the hair out of her eyes. She turns to let it sit against the edge of her cheekbone. "You really need an incentive? Want you to fill me up so I can-"

"Swallow," you supply, simply. “Swallow everything.”

"Yeah," Miyeon presses into the curve of your cock. She doesn't wink, not really; she doesn’t need to. "I like you. You always know exactly what to say."

Her hair brushes a feather-light caress up the skin of your thigh, mouth a vision of sin and pretty red lipstick. "Open," you command, quietly, and she follows your orders exactly - mouth dropping, head tilting, eyes drifting closed - her lips glisten with saliva and you could shove your cock into that mouth, easy. Just push in and wreck the inside of her - spit on her chin, feel her throat clench up as she gags and struggles around your cock. God, if that isn't a thought that can do a number on the base of your spine.

"Easy," Sana supplies, like she can read your mind. That wouldn’t really surprise you. “Leave some of her make-up for me.”

There's the quick hiss of an inhale, Miyeon's mouth stretching open. Her jaw going slack. You feel the long, wet suck of skin and spit, and her eyelids flutter as she settles in. She slides her tongue and adjusts, makes soft, raspy, throaty noises while her lips slide down the first few inches of your cock. It’s funny - Sana had made the same sound earlier in the day - and it's really not like it's an awful comparison. They both let on gorgeous little noises when they're sucking cock and it makes sense because it's the same cock. Same skin. Same person.

You're not, however, about to do something so pedestrian as compare notes. Not on them. Not in the fucking slightest.

And Sana, god - Sana doesn't just watch. She knows better. She's not even the one taking your cock in her mouth but there's the insistent presence of her: a fingertip diving down past the crotch of her skirt, a quiet moan, her wrist jolting in a repetition of short, sharp strokes, the kind she likes to use on herself: precise. Deliberate.

"Miyeon," you whisper. "God, just - it's your fucking mouth, you-"

The hand on her face strokes the side of her head - a push-pull. A chance to break off - she doesn't - so she ends up with a rougher grip tangling through her hair and you guiding her head further down the length of your shaft.

Miyeon loves the pressure on her throat. You know that. And, yeah, she fucking hates choking on it but somehow in her mind, they're different. Opposites. Because with the way she's going, a little cough will burst free in a few seconds time. That’s your signal, you’ve learned, that she'll let you slide yourself to the hilt. Just keep the wet tip lodged there until she starts gasping around it. It'd only take a minute.

Two tops.

And well, that's the compromise: your patience for a throat fuck is infinite. She's staring up at you with upturned brows and that pretty-please pout on her slick-wet lips. She's making her best effort but, christ. Fuck.

Her eyelids flicker once.

Then close.

"There," you breathe down to her, your knuckles finding her cheek, smoothing over the sharp curve of bone there. Your cock is slotted right in her hot little mouth and you're starting to feel like maybe you really did hang the moon and stars in the sky after all. Her lips press around you. Sink, up, down. "Such a good girl, sucking my cock, looking up at me- god, all dolled up, it's not even fair, Miyeon."

Miyeon can be many things, and presently among them: a filthy, obedient angel.

She pulls up. "I try," Miyeon breathes right at the tip. Her tongue darts out. She swirls, and swirls, until it’s back under the tip of your cock again, soft.

You're too predictable, or you're too forthcoming, or here’s the thing about a woman's intuition; Miyeon wants to tell you something more, she wants to let you know how fucking unbelievably hard you are in her hands right now; she wants to laugh at you for getting caught up and dumb but she's not letting your cock slide free. This suckle of her lips, right at the crest where you're most sensitive and leaking precum right into her mouth - this press and pull is as close to conversation as she can get. So what. You love it. She loves it: the reward is in the ricochet. You look at her and her cheeks hollow and the flash of her pink tongue gets wet and warm under your head, the slit of her mouth stretching to take every ‘totally fucking perfect’ inch of your cock.

And then her lips tighten and she just-

"Christ, Miyeon-" You whimper it right down to her, your voice lost in the shiver of her throat, all tight and wet around your cock. It's like your vocal cords have been stolen right along with the air in your lungs and everything feels floaty, warped and red and blanketing you with Miyeon's hard-worked rhythm:

The scissoring flick of her tongue as she strokes the base with a firm fist. The other hand resting on your hip, feeling your hips jerk. She wants this, the part where you let go and stop thinking. The part where she opens her throat, lets her saliva flood to pool against her palm, and wet the tip of your cockhead before letting it slide right back in her throat. Your shaft flexing into her heat, the sound of those gags.

She just-

She just goes on like that, sucking your cock while the flat of her palm skates a little tighter. Up, up, down - up-

"Miyeon," Sana says, now on her feet and shadowing in closer, leaning. And that's it. Sana knows too. She kneels down next to her, gets a finger under her chin, and delivers in a uniquely cold tone: "hands behind your back, sweetheart. I want him to cum in your gorgeous little mouth."

You nearly choke, ironically. You're already grabbing so much of her hair: all those smooth silky strands threaded through your fingers.

You thrust and pull. She gags. She fucking chokes.

Spit collects, rolls down the corners of her mouth and gathers on her chin. You can see the mascara threaten to run tracks along her pretty cheeks, the way the makeup smudges so dangerously close to her bottom lid. "Yeah?" you say, so softly, but you can't - can't seem to look anywhere else, or take anything back - so, what, her jaw's just gonna go on being that perfect little shape, and she's gonna be a brat for it. Okay. That works. She looks good choking. You can see the slick glint of her pink mouth stretching taut on your cock, your cock jerking and bobbing on the pad of her tongue; it's not real - no, this is completely real. The ball of your foot slips along the floor.

It's instinct. You can't help yourself; a groan spills out of you, half-sighed

Sana's whispering right in her ear; not that you can make anything out of it over the noises from her mouth, her fist all wet, pumping. The tick-tock bob of her hair. Sana's hand is on the back of her head and then - pushing the last inch down, and down, her nose buries right into your skin.

“Mnnph.” Miyeon, gurgling: your cock pressed all the way down the line.

"Fuck," you spit, holding her jaw in place. "Fuck, Miyeon-"

She looks up at you, her eyebrows cinched, the graceful lines in her picture-perfect-face pulling around you - blissed out. She stutters in place while you dump a hot load of cum into her mouth.

And she adds a cough as you pump everything directly onto her fucking tongue. It’s more than she anticipated, judging by the leak. How your cum rolls down from the corner of her mouth.

Sana drops a kiss onto her temple as she takes you in and out of her mouth again, until she presses her lips firm and hollows her cheeks. Miyeon's fingers caress your balls like there's some part of you that isn't giving her fucking everything already.

"Come on, princess," says Sana, kissing her way along Miyeon's neck, the tops of her shoulders. There is not an angle to Miyeon's elegant features that she could take that could possibly be anything short of priceless. "Show him how you swallow."

The image is obscene, for one thing. The utter filth in that satiated hum; there’s another.

It's your white-hot cum dribbling past her swollen, fucked mouth. Miyeon swallows like the good girl she is - takes a breath, stares, and then finishes, a gulp, an extra breath, her whole face now a shade more flushed. Sana kisses her on the cheek and suddenly it's perfect: they're both staring right at you. Your throat has to unclench, reboot and the air in the room just tastes so good and your chest is heaving; you just- fuck, you can't breathe-

"Shit," you exhale. It comes out like a small explosion. "Uh-"

The side of Sana's mouth slants and then Miyeon grins: it's her cheek, dimple; that crescent moon thing and oh, this is the point. Sana slides a hand over the gentle curve of her stomach, then sets her open mouth over Miyeon's still-lips, slipping in close and - kissing. Their mouths melt together like it's the most practiced thing, tongues a second later, and Sana is stroking your cock in her fingers; the expectations clear in every little coaxing flick of her slim wrist.

"Do you have any idea," Sana sighs against her lips. The two of them, blinking up at you, like good little things - sweet enough. "How fucking wet you both have me?"

And Miyeon, shameless as she is disastrously pretty, reads right between the lines. "Where do you want it?" Her mouth tilts up to the side. A wicked smile. "He can cum all over us, no? And I have this skirt with an awfully short, pretty lace. We don't even have to take our clothes off, really, I can just-"

Sana gets an eyeful - Miyeon - before cutting her off, silencing with the wet press of her mouth, and suddenly their kiss goes frantic and quick. They're rolling apart: hands tearing up their clothes. Off. Off. Off.

Your cock stirs. It throbs. Fuck. Sana’s barely intelligible in the space between their tongues. "I could lay flat,” she’s saying, “with my legs open, and-"

"-with him on top of you, pressing inside you - so he could hold me down, and then pull all the way back out, to leave a thick load on your clit-"

"-and when he has to pull out-"

"-probably cum all over you too, the best view-"

"-or all over the rest of me, while I touch myself-"

"-maybe-"

"-and you just have to imagine how good that'll feel, while my thighs shake and we ride it out, you and I-"

Their faces - both flushed and dampened with the strain, both breathtaking. Their eyes are hooded, lashes a-flutter. They'd made their own decision, didn't even bother with yours. A mutual vote of two-to-one: you're going to fuck them in turns. You’re going to fuck them together. You're going to edge yourself in one cunt and fill the other. They're both going to take it, and wear it, and then use each other to make you cum again. Good. Okay, any questions - and they want it rough?

The answer’s a two-part chorus. Yes.

Not even an hour later, Miyeon is playing, of all fucking things, Candy Crush, legs draped lazily across Sana's lap, both of them kicked back on the couch, dressed again like the best girls you've ever seen. "The amount of money they make on this app-" Miyeon complains, waving a lazy hand. A long strand of blonde brushes against the corner of her mouth before she swipes it away again with an irritated sigh. She's just sitting there, knees folded, blithely bitching about a game of match three on her phone. "And they send these fucking blocks just to mess with me," - another swipe. Her hair sticks against the fresh gloss coating her lips. "It's literally just a waste of human-fucking-potential."

"It's a game for children," you offer.

"Then why is it marketed at adults, hm?" She's absolutely serious. "Sana plays it too."

"Mhmm," Sana agrees, not really agreeing at all. Her eyes are closed; you're sitting next to her, and she's taken up your leg as a makeshift pillow, lying down with her arm resting on her forehead, so casually disinterested in anything other than the quiet thrumming of your presence by her side.

It's insane that they're like this: like they're not constantly checking their phones for texts, like you don't all have lives. You're almost - dare you think - having a semi-regular conversation. Now If for a moment you could ignore how they both look like the human embodiment of sin-

"Miyeonie," Sana says.

"Sana," Miyeon returns, flat.

There's not even a movie playing on the living room TV - just the netflix menu; it's volume is at a sort of white noise. A subtle buzz clicks on in the air conditioner.

"You know how you're supposed to go out with that guy next weekend."

"You mean the date you set me up with." Miyeon pauses, tongue caught between her teeth. "Where I have to put on a pretty little dress. And smile. And laugh at all his jokes."

"You know the one."

Miyeon jumps on Sana's train of thought. "You want me to send you some pictures when it's over."

Sana turns it over in her head a few times. “Maybe,” she says, finally.

A genuine exchange perhaps. No fighting, no bullshit, no riptide of pure unbridled sexual frustration.

"Or," Sana adds, simply, "you skip the part where you sabotage the small talk and come back to our apartment." She blinks. "End up getting us both."

“You’re suggesting I’ve been ruining dates on purpose?” Miyeon, incredulous, runs her fingers through the hair at the top of her head, gentle, almost like an admission of guilt. "You're out of your mind. Why would I do that?"

The fragile peace never does last long. Sana looks at you again. Holds onto the eye roll. "Why, indeed."

"I don't follow," Miyeon says; something, a tic, a tell, causes the muscle in her brow to stutter.

"She's suggesting that you'd rather be in bed between us than on a date with some guy whose face we've only seen once," you cut in. Sana looks over. "It's come up a few times."

"Okay, so what?" Miyeon takes a breath. Her mouth a rictus twist. "You're trying to get me to admit it out loud? That I like to get fucked by my gorgeous bestfriend and her pinterest-board-of-a-boyfriend more than I'd like going to a mediocre concert downtown with some dipshit who just wants to see if I'll stick out this 'goddess' routine for a month or two and then bounce for someone else. Wow. Sherlock and Watson, coming through for the killshot. Take me straight to jail."

"We never got around to those cuffs," is what you make mention of. It's not particularly helpful.

"Don't pretend," Sana says instead, "you don’t like to play both sides. Or that the trad-wife fantasy of yours is somehow subtle."

“There's nothing shameful about knowing exactly who you are, or wanting something," Miyeon insists. She tilts her head towards the two of you. A different angle. Her words come out sharp and hot: "some of us have the decency to let our friends know exactly what they want."

“Okay.” You laugh out loud, half out of nervous habit. "Well obviously there’s some sort of rhythm here - I’m just not dumb enough to think I can put a finger on the pulse."

"Then this is, what, some sort of elaborate plot for my heart?" Miyeon's chuckling to herself, but in the space of a blink her voice is more tender. Her arms folding in close. "Is that the plan, finally catching me-"

"Next week." Sana sits up. "There's a trip coming up, something kind of international." She picks at the hem of her sweater, and looks at you.

“What the hell, exactly” - you card your hand through Sana’s hair - “does ‘kind of’ international entail?”

"Ms. Prada has a modeling campaign to attend," Miyeon intones. "She also needs someone to take care of the jetlag, is what I assume this is about."

Sana waves her hand in the air. "I'm saying we book you an extra ticket. Rent a room at a nice hotel. No work. No phones. Just us three, and the best sex you've ever had."

“I wasn’t even aware I was going to that,” you say - almost as an aside.

“You weren’t.” Sana leans more of herself into you. "You are now."

"Is this how you're going to woo me? The grand design?" Miyeon's hands are fiddling in her lap. Sana’s pressing in. Closer. "All the sex and leisure I could ever ask for?"

“It sounds ridiculous when you say out loud,” Sana answers, curling into her. “But, yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

Miyeon laughs like it’s a lost cause. Genuine, throaty - like music.

“Simplicity doesn’t have to be a bad thing, Miyeon.” Sana kisses her, slow. Quietly, "you could even pack a swimsuit," and there's this beat, the rise and fall of Miyeon's breathing that might lead anywhere: "though I doubt we touch the beach at all."

“You’re pulling on all my heartstrings, Sana.”

And there you are - etching your names onto the calendar. Reservations and bookings and promises of everything and anything and exactly where you all want to be.

It's Miyeon that finally admits, "you know part of me can’t resist the idea."

"Then, this weekend." Sana's fingertips trace circles on your hip, the tensing pull of muscle. You're aching and exhausted and content: drifting in the tide, a catch of the day, some soft, dreamy wave of consciousness, nothing specific, just the moment passing through all three of you.

But you do get it. There's this obvious snag in your heartbeat, too.

Because Sana is grinning; her fingertips, tapping. Your stomach's fluttering too. A little ghostly clutch of hope in your chest and it's such an embarrassing notion. You're getting swept away - pulled under - and it's Miyeon, splaying out beside Sana, her hand reaching out to you with her palm turned up. It's a promise, and the force of her can - and has - moved mountains.

"I pick the hotel," Miyeon's voice is deeply firm and sure. She’s got a fistful of Sana’s pajamas. "You two can sort out the lingerie."

Sana's mouth curves a perfect grin. She's kissing her again: wet. Heavy. It's not a no, if she was ever expecting one.

So that's your reality: what used to be two dalliances - separate but not distinct - now share one headspace, and there's enough rapport just in the group chat alone. You've all been messaging back-and-forth for weeks; Miyeon playing the game where she's the steady one in your life, the knot you're going to tie down when you can finally afford it (and in every way she can imagine). You find it entertaining. Sana seems mildly amused. And Miyeon will call you on the phone, sometimes. A chat-off. About nothing and everything. What you should bring on the trip. Where she's going to eat dinner before you meet her at the airport. Et cetera. Et cetera.

// Miyeon 1:21 AM > hey. I'm all finished packing. how's the bedroom looking?

// 1:26 AM > absolutely wrecked. no survivors

// Sana 1:27 AM > It’s fine. We stripped the sheets, got the box from the closet. Have the video you wanted as well. Call the laundry service in the morning and get the floor washed too. You know. So, nothing comes out of the security deposit.

// Miyeon 1:29 AM > a threesome that destroyed an apartment? say it isn't so

// Sana 1:34 AM > didn't hear you complain during.

// 1:38 AM > strict instructions, right?

And then sometimes, during those conversations, Miyeon will send an aside just for you:

// Miyeon 1:40 AM > strict? please. do whatever. I'm like so good at following instructions

That's Miyeon. The paradox of being submissive - you never, ever treat her gently. She never really wants you to. Sana's mid-reach over your chest to turn off the lights when she glances down at Miyeon's text, then promptly scoffs. The two of them don't always have the most conventional dialogue.

"She's one hundred percent serious by the way." Sana rolls on her side, away, but the nightlight beside the bed just manages to illuminate the slope of her ass - curved in the silk nightie she'd thrown on before bed. You want to crawl between the fabric.

"I never really doubted that. She's got a very specific... demeanor.”

“You’ve noticed.”

“Um,” you say. Sana’s turned over her shoulder to blink at you. “Kind of a dark streak. Like something in her is craving-"

"To be broken to pieces? Oh, it's fucking bliss for her when she's vulnerable and the tension cracks."

“I was going to phrase it a little more indirectly than that, but yes, I suppose that’s the gist of it.”

Sana shrugs.

"The girl lives to be chased is what it is.

It's just Sana and her perfect legs and smooth, creamy thighs right there, ready for you to touch, ready for you to fall apart over. They brush your calf, your thigh - so you are kind of distracted.

“And she feels most wanted when she's choking, getting used, right at the point she can't decide if another inch is gonna kill her or drive her up the wall. No air in her lungs, nothing under her own control." Sana flops, presses against your side, one leg tossed on top, arms curled around your neck. "Pretty obvious, all things considered."

"Sounds a bit familiar, no?" you tease, and reach back to draw her against the front of your body.

She curves, twists into your embrace. Her hair is half up, half down - wide eyed like a fantasy made manifest. You're always gonna give in, even when Sana doesn't deserve it.

"You get me. It’s the best. Please, go nuts with the idea."

“Huh, birds of a feather.”

“Sure, whatever,” Sana brushes a kiss against your cheek, presses back into your hips to feel your hard length strain between your boxers and her ass, softening only because, god, she's a real human fucking treasure, "so maybe Miyeon and I have a certain… similar temperment to us, maybe that's true."

"Yeah," you breathe. Your arms wrap around her, the heat in her core now evident from the outside. "That's what I've been saying."

Sana doesn't respond to that, not directly; her palms drag, smooth, over your fingers. "Fuck me to sleep," she suggests instead. "We've got an early flight."

And so you do. You'd pulled your cock from your shorts the second she pressed her ass into your waist and claimed her place as your other half, the little spoon. There's a few beats, a few breaths, where you'd rocked against her clumsily, lining yourself up, and she'd braced the two of you:

She'd arched her back, got an arm over her head to tangle a hand into your hair and keep you right where you were - your lips against her neck. Until it's just this soft-rhythm, all easy thrusts; one arm underneath her, the other around her hip, finding and spreading and - easily - gliding into her cunt.

Sana sighs a lovely sound right next to your ear: your name, some hushed curse. Her hand is wrenched back into whatever group of muscles she can find. And you listen to the gorgeous little tritone of oh shit, oh god, oh fuck when you make her cum. The displays of indulgent affection in her throat, then the ruddy mess of you working her to a wreck of pleasured exhaustion until she collapses into a hot-faced, sleepy daze. All cozy between the sheets, the duvet - you’d fucked her from the outside in; made her relieved and relaxed, all loose and calm. Sana curls into you with her moans still staining the cool side of her pillow and the snugness of her cunt wrapped around your cock.

You drift off just like that, snug inside her. Sana is, as always, impossibly warm.

On your phone, there are some choice text messages:

// Miyeon 2:18 AM > jesus

// Miyeon 2:18 AM > can you guys like please

// Miyeon 2:18 AM > PLEASE

// Miyeon 2:18 AM > fuck any quieter

Okay, so it's not perfect. But you're about ninety-percent sure Miyeon had used every fiber of her willpower not to float across the hall and take her spot between the both of you. And it's probably for the best. You feel pretty rough when the alarm starts blaring as it is.

The room Miyeon picks out isn’t exactly small, nor was she minding the purse strings. There's a wide expanse of living area, a massive bed in the back; the ensuite and bath beyond that has a walk-in shower large enough for all three of you and room left over. On the walls is gentrification-colored paint, a gray laminate flooring to match; there is not one speck of dust. It feels every bit the palace it is on the outside - the gables and mansard roofs and the Juliette balconies - gothic, or neoclassical. Something vaguely European, with all its rich furnishings and pristine fixtures to boot.

Sana and Miyeon step into the space with all the familiarity of royalty.

"Warm in here," says Sana, appraising; her black chiffon, nearly translucent, fans about her hips with each tiny sway. In her white pumps, she's already a perfect tease and she hasn't even touched herself yet. "Smells good, though."

Miyeon's heels echo behind her like gunshots against the floor, and it's really not ever fair the way a skirt wears her. "The listing said something about a hospitality kit, and essential oils - there should be a basket of things. Do you want me to start the water?"

"Let's settle in a little first," Sana suggests, and without any fanfare, the first thing she does is draw the gauzy curtain closed.

There's an itinerary; it's an ongoing event. Technically it all started in the airport terminal when Sana slung her arm around Miyeon's waist and her hand went straight down to her ass. She just gave it a little squeeze. In the moment, nothing terribly remarkable, but then again, Miyeon didn't tell her not to. They walked through security like that and picked out drinks together from a terminal cafe before doing a circuit, fingers linked. The way Sana looks at her now - Miyeon sees - is how she's always looked at her. That is maybe, the whole point.

"Come here."

Sana's tone is smooth as silk, her mouth an inviting pucker, gloss-dewy and delicious. The bow is even tied at the back: Sana's collar is fitted snug. It sits tight at the base of her neck with the silvery cord loose across her shoulder, knotted down near the apex of her spine. It's simple, classic. All soft fabric and no frill, with an absence that invites eyes and wandering fingertips: she hasn't worn a bra. No strap lines. Her body has the sweetest outline and the warmest curves and god, the skin she's not showing is as good as what she is.

"So," you say out loud. It hits you: there's no cameras, no urgency. No obligations. "We came all the way here just so Sana could have sex, huh."

It's really always about the two of them.

"Good sex," Sana corrects. The table next to her catches the flat of her palm as she settles herself against the surface, one leg crossing in front. The slit in her dress rises in the movement: enough of a hint at the soft thigh underneath. You see her do this every once in a while and her body doesn't lie; this is an implicit act of seduction. But when she looks back up, her smile goes shy and her voice follows suit: "I promised our princess that we'd spoil her a little."

You say, "she's right there," at the same time Sana adds- "which is kind of impossible when she's still wearing her clothes."

Miyeon makes a big, showy production of crossing her arms in a huff. You could do anything; flip a switch; knock her flat against the wall, and Sana would hold her down with a hand at her throat and a kiss her like fire and gasoline on her tongue and no one would have a single word to say to complain.

You could have. Would have. But Miyeon finds her fingertips on the ridge of her clavicle, the barest swipe. She pulls at the top button of her shirt and the seam unlatches: a single reveal, a gradual, fluid movement in the dip and fall of a one inch gap. Just enough skin to make you and Sana swallow.

"Oh?" Miyeon grins. She stares at you with that coy smirk, biting her lip; an invitation for a kiss. For a fuck. You cross the gap, with every intention of making good on it; only, Sana slips in behind her - stops her midway in undoing the next button - and places a hand on the nape of Miyeon's neck, cool.

"She really can be a brat, can't she."

"Only because she gets rewarded for it," you admit, and as soon as Sana touches her, Miyeon is looking up with that same face she gives you when she gets on her knees, ready to be just your little pet, your desperate, whimpering thing.

Sana leans into her ear: "maybe because she knows she can't stop thinking about you bending her over, every chance she gets. Isn’t that right, pretty girl?"

They've always been like this, you think. Growing up with money and cars and ski vacations in the Alps: that sort of thing. It's been a long, slow, build-up and this was always the payoff. It is, without a doubt, just the slightest taste of luxury. Sana pushes, and Miyeon turns up to her mouth with a slow, dangerous whisper. "Isn't it kinder to say it as it is, instead of dancing around it for weeks-"

"For months," corrects Sana, and then sliding into a far more generous tone, "mouths, fingers- or his cock?"

"Maybe," Miyeon lifts her chin like she's readying to kiss, "all three."

Her voice drips - purses her lips, and you're there again: at that fateful exchange. Everything about Miyeon has the power to sink its claws deep. Those heels on her dainty little feet, the stockings climbing along her thighs. Everything.

"Miyeon." That comes out harsher than you'd have thought.

"What can I say? I'm not a patient person." She's got that wild, starry-eyed look to her. You could tame her. You could dominate her - your throat is so dry. The room has the faint scent of citrus, like lemon rind and verbena - a kind of lightheadedness settling over you all. "So, why don't you..." She's blushing, holding her arm up as she skims a finger down this slow path along your torso, finally hooking it into the top of your pants. And now, it's very, very clear she isn't wearing a bra either. "Make things a bit easier."

There's an entire lexicon of everything you'd like to do, so it's best, maybe, that you settle for: "Sana, be a doll."

"Anything," she says; she doesn't hesitate. You like the easy give.

And it's kind of amazing. All three of you together and, sure, the way her fingertips tighten, sliding under the curve of Miyeon's chin and then pulling the linen shirt down from the backs of her shoulders - this is a choice you can all agree on. One that pulls on the elastic band hugging the cut of Miyeon's waist, makes the material drag and ride up the front of her legs. Her belly. Sana has the gift of being able to kiss so perfectly on the back of someone's neck that you could easily forget she can get a little mean, too.

"What is it, baby." Sana asks; a challenge, not a question. "Come on, love. You know it's true. Why don't you let me show him how sweetly you moan with just a pair of fingers in your cunt."

"Please do."

"You're practically wet just saying it. You want it that much." Her voice goes thin, then deep again: a stark contrast. "Show him the mess you've made."

Miyeon's hand is in all the way in your pants; you feel hot. Like the room's air conditioning should've kicked on a lifetime ago - you're trying not to think too much on the way her slender fingers start to wrap themselves around the shape of your cock and your mouth falls open, because she can just - fuck - do that-

They turn to each other like mirror images over the slope of Miyeon’s shoulder, exchanging some secretive wordlessness in the privacy of their smiles and soft, muted laughter. Miyeon's on the toes of those pretty pumps to lean in, closer, further, and Sana lets her.

Which is exactly how it happens: Miyeon kissing you. And she really kisses you, sweet, delicate - and somehow all-consuming. It sets off this chain reaction, a wildfire of unbridled desire: that thread in Sana that can be almost violent, and one that Miyeon always manages to bring to the surface of her skin. Because now Miyeon's gripped and pinned, and Sana, bless her, pulls the fabric of her own dress up over her head until she's naked alongside her. Working towards a common goal. Here's two hands. Here's two more. They're helping you out of your shirt. It's pretty easy from there. You're all unraveling together, just falling apart - Sana and you, working in tandem to unclasp the pearl snap buttons trailing up and down the sides of Miyeon's sinfully short skirt, peeling back the cotton. Miyeon holds the swell of your cock tight in one hand, pumping, while Sana rakes her nails over Miyeon's breasts; both girls taking off the final scraps until every article of clothing is tossed to the floor.

And Miyeon here is simply unbelievable. Your hands are all over her. Her razor-fine waist, her thighs. Her lips. Those soft tits, and that cute mole above her nipple. Because even her imperfections deserve the same lavish attention.

You kiss her, and kiss her, and you can't help thinking how filthy it feels. This wet mouth and tongue, everything you could want in the slide of her mouth - just, messy-perfect and a bit sloppy; how her whimpers leak out in soft, a tight inhale. You cup the side of her jaw as your hips grind into her and a low, uneven sound escapes you. Sana's small fingers wrap her ribs to grip a breast, knead the supple curve and supply her thumb to the indent. It's really, so soft, and warm, and then wet: your precum dribbling over her knuckles, rolling down. Miyeon has her head tilted to let her jaw lean into your palm - she smiles, and laughs like it's nothing - like you're not there, towering over her lithe little frame. Like the head of your cock isn't brushing into her bottom rib under all the twists and jerks of her wrist.

"Your cock is so hard," Miyeon threads into a sigh, in that throaty, almost melodic voice. And then she laughs because she knows exactly what it’ll fucking do to her. "And fucking heavy. I thought I was going to get a real good look earlier in the airport," she confesses.

"Let me guess." Sana presses a kiss to her temple from behind; a lull in the scene. You fuck yourself gently into the curl of her fist. "You've been thinking about it this whole time. About getting him inside you. With that naughty little mind of yours running at a million miles an hour. God, that must've been such a tease, getting stuck with just the thought while we sat through lunch, and the flight-"

"Don’t forget right now-" Miyeon presses in. Her breath is hot against your neck. "While we're talking."

"Princess," Sana says into her ear, and it makes her tip her head - until she’s revealing the pale skin of her neck. God, yeah; maybe she really is nobility. "I'd be hard-pressed to leave you wanting. Your body's all wound up for us."

"She's fucking soaked," you confirm, like you aren't pointing out the most obvious thing in the room.

Miyeon bites her lip; you're gripping your shaft, urging her wrist to go faster. "This is the part where you turn me inside-out, no?" Miyeon is a walking fucking cliche and she knows it, smiling all slyly with her teeth. She says it so damn casually: "so why isn’t my pussy getting any attention, really. I wonder, I wonder-"

"Trust me, neither of us are interested in teasing," Sana assures her. "We're going to fuck you until you can't remember your own name. And then we'll fuck you some more."

You push down hard on her collarbone, and in that same instant Sana drops her free hand below and runs the flats of her fingertips along the plane of Miyeon’s tummy - until Miyeon tilts her hips - everything else still, almost lazy. Her feet leave the floor and then come back down again. The momentum of the fall ends up being enough to jostle the three of you towards the nearest wall where Sana's back is kissing the cold drywall. And you're already there - pressed into both: Miyeon's palms flat against your chest as you haul her thighs around your waist.

Hoisted, lifted, cradled between you and your girlfriend - who by the way is inching two fingertips under the top of a lacy-banded thong, slipping beneath the white trim, to finally (oh, god) pull her hand away and slip it into Miyeon's parted mouth. "Look at you." A hum in her chest. "The most beautiful, perfect-"

(You push your cock into her, and hand to god, you swear Miyeon's voice breaks like a bottle over pavement.)

"And all for us- your slutty little pussy is already so wet- Miyeonie, we've barely even started.”

Just think. The code word system you've been employing for months - "We were actually thinking... if you're not doing anything else... what's the harm in the two of us getting more familiar with you." - has proved exceptionally reliable in getting Miyeon out of her clothes and into your lap, but here's where it all vanishes into thin air. Sana's mouth is hovering over Miyeon's shoulder; her body, caught between the two of you. And she's trading in on the implied permission to tell you more directly:

"She needs to cum all over that cock, babe. Fuck her pussy until she’s creaming, won't you."

"Right." You groan in tacit approval, hands holding firm onto the firm swell of her hips - that round little ass, the dimples you can feel the dip of, just under your thumbs. She's already thrown her arms up around the back of your neck when your cock slips inside her, to tug you in; this wordless begging: need, need, need.

It's not even a totally new sensation. Nor is it even the first you've ever been inside her, but god - Miyeon takes one deep breath, and on the second inhale, you sink another thick inch of your cock into her slippery slit: she's completely, gloriously bare, just this slick heat that only opens more and more and more. You draw back, thrust in, and there's this sopping sound, all wet press, into the soft muscle - you don't even remember pulling her panties to the side. But they're bunched into the crease of her thigh and that's rather convenient.

Her breath hitches as she slots down onto your shaft, again - in rhythm - like a total dream. "Fuck, that's so tight," she grates, her voice rough and gutted; something like, 'I cannot believe you feel this good.'

-and they groan in unison when you pick up speed. All of it. Together.

Because it's not just Miyeon's perfect cunt wrapping you up tight, squeezing and pulsing, even better on the backstroke - but it's the way Sana is catching your lips in the space over Miyeon’s shoulder. That you three can play each other with the promise that every last moan or gasp or the single, resounding thrill of pleasure will find a perfect partner: one for your mouth and one for Sana's fingers at Miyeon's collar bone, a tickle along her hip, pressing an insistent fingertip around and around in small circles, dipping into the give.

Her body's shaking so much through every push and pull. Fuck. She's so small - and you're the one filling her. Fucking her. Breaking her. Pressing two girls into the wall like you've earned the right. You're splitting Miyeon apart so that Sana can fill the spaces you leave empty and vice versa: and she's so, so desperate, the little noises she's making, "Please," like it hurts. "Fuck," like it's the best feeling. "Keep going, please, fuck- don't stop."

"See, baby? It feels better when you just give up, doesn't it?" Sana's got her fingers down further between Miyeon's thighs; you can see her swipe upwards. Hear the wet sound. She says, "there," into her ear. "Nice and slow, while he fucks that cunt, and I rub you like this, we want to keep making you feel good. So take what you need, hm. I don't hear you-"

"Oh my god," Miyeon moans. And she means it - feels herself dripping all over you. "I need it. I need it, I-"

"Come on, darling," Sana chuckles, soft and low in her ear.

"N-need," Miyeon chokes.

And what kind of idiot wouldn't take their palm off her breast, or undig their fingers from the round of her ass for even a second. It's having her in the palm of your hand. With one foot dangling against your thigh and the other tangled up above you, the stretch in Miyeon's body is entirely for the convenience of letting you fuck her to pieces.

"There it is," Sana is murmuring into your mouth again, and that’s a reward of its own, her wet, full kiss at the junction between Miyeon’s neck and shoulder as her thumb digs deeper into the curve of the girl’s thigh. You listen to Miyeon moan your own name, uttered like it was written by god and meant to form on her lips as it tumbles down through the ragged mess of pants and gasps.

“Fuck, baby-” You press harder. “Your pussy feels incredible- how you suck me right up like you're the good girl you love to pretend you are- like a perfect toy," you breathe, "-all nice and hot. Licking, swallowing around my cock, getting dicked out for my enjoyment-"

"Yeah, yes," she pants out, the total capitulation. "It feels so fucking good."

You feel the mindless, blissful roll. A rhythm in the give of her thighs as you slide home again and again. There's a clink from the bracelets on her wrists; her hair falling into her eyes; there's the sheer ecstasy written all over her pretty face when Sana reaches one hand to start drawing slow circles on her clit.

"You're just fucking me so god-damn-good." She’s breathless; you’re taking everything from her. The poise, the finesse, the dignity.

"Of course we are," Sana supplies, and it's fitting. You're both holding her up. You'll be the ones tearing her down.

Miyeon's arms tighten around the back of your head, arching, squeezing, and there's that feeling that always accompanies Miyeon: like she's completely melting you to her core and turning your brains into fucking mush. Everything from her tight little pussy to her breathtakingly pretty eyes to the way her spine flexes to meet the pitch of her voice - it's fucking ridiculous, that she's even real in the first place - let alone that your cock is buried so deep in her cunt you think you can hear her sob. Or that all five-foot-two of her is making these tiny desperate noises as you use the width of her hips to bounce her harder onto your cock.

Sana's long fingers slip and press - they're not touching anything except the swell of her pussy, just this ghostly brush of a light, almost chaste graze. It's enough: a touch like that, and fuck, another-

Miyeon cries out.

“I'm going to cum-"

"Say it again," Sana's whispering, "tell us what you need," and in a sort of coup-de-grace-style-of-climax, she bites at the skin over the top of Miyeon's jaw and slips a fingertip right onto her aching clit. Presses down. "You're such a fucking slut, Miyeon, such a gorgeous cocksleeve-"

"I-"

She's actually whimpering, the poor thing. Eyes squeezed shut, toes clenching; everything is trembling, tense with release. You’re fucking her into a puddle of a person, and she’s holding her lip between her teeth like it might do a goddamn thing. It makes sense; the tightness, and wet and heat is what she knows.

"Go on," Sana answers her, and it's like her words slice the voice in Miyeon’s throat to shreds, "cum all over his cock. So. Fucking. Good, baby," a hard push through every syllable as her teeth snag into the shell of her ear. She rides the boundary of degradation and downright debasement because she knows that’s how Miyeon will absolutely cum for her. For you, for both of you. "Do what you're fucking made for, and just take it, pretty, lovely, you can’t live a second without having his fat cock and my fingers in you, can you? You look like a filthy little angel like this, I swear."

You’re both on the same page, telling her over and over - shh, shh, you take that cock so well, feel that cock fuck you apart, baby, and all you have to do is cum - only, you’re paying homage to the title: you call her princess. Sana takes the opposite approach. Tells her, "you want everyone to know, don't you, what a goddamn fucking slut you are. You filthy, dirty little thing-"

It works. They both work, and so does everything else.

Your blood has gone totally hot. Like molten lava. Boiling over and about to spill.

The last thing Miyeon says: "Oh god - I'll be good, I'll do anything, I'll be your slut - Sana - anything-"

And it's one of the best lines to ever leave her mouth.

"-for this beautiful cock and these fucking perfect fingers, shit - fuck! Right there, right there, right-fucking-there-"

You fuck deeper, harder. The orgasm ripping through her muscles lets you leave marks and bruises you’ll be coming back to all weekend. Miyeon's face falls against the crook of your neck, mouth pressed there - you can feel every gasping inhale, the open-mouthed warmth of her body. It's you that whispers a shudder, half-voweled - "Miyeon," and she’s already there, so ready - it's kind of crazy how everything about this girl works so intricately and precise, like her very design was to take you to the hilt and melt all over your cock, because Miyeon's response comes as a mind-blanking:

"You can," a muffled whine in her throat. "Do it. Cum inside me. I want to-"

Sana’s eyes flare like she can feel that cable snapping, too. How your mind is all white noise. The torque of blood rushing through your head. You're thrusting deep into her well-fucked cunt with all the strength you can muster, your hips stuttering in the follow-through. When you catch the smile in her lips - the curl in her lips like she knows you’re about to spill everything, like the perfect siren’s call- you hear Sana over her shoulder: "fuck her. Use her. I think she wants to feel it in her fucking stomach - you know, the whole reason we’re here-"

You cum inside her - there’s no question - filling her tight hole up. Shit. You actually cum all over her too.

In fact, you manage to drag yourself all the way out from Miyeon, the wet quivers and hot aftershocks, all so Sana can get a good visual of how you’re fucking ruining her: the loose rope of white that streaks up her tummy, splaying out beneath her breasts. The absolute debauchery; it’s even more pornographic when your fist pumps another splatter of cum right onto the swollen lips of her pussy. Miyeon moaning on impact.

Sana supplies her own soft gasp, scraping the air past her teeth, tension hanging in the silence - and then you bury the rest of your load back inside her cunt.

And here's a feeling that's going to stick with you for a while. Beyond the fireworks in your pulse - the shake-ripple that leaves you with nothing, no muscles, no brain matter - you slide your cock through her cunt again, and again - just to feel how your cum pushes back out. And she's watching, she’s letting you watch: how messy she's become. Her tits. Her sweat-dewed thighs. How every second seems to bring its own unique ache.

Really, you’re left only with a near mental blank. “God, Miyeon-”

You have just the barest capacity to consider the way Miyeon's trembling frame clings hard - pulling her ass cheeks down flush against your hips - your thick cock completely seated, stuffing her fucking cunt as she goes weak and submissive. You hold her there, suspended as your orgasm softens inside her and Sana hums along your lips, the soft coos spilling into Miyeon's ear: "what a messy, nasty girl. Princess needs to be full and leaking everywhere, doesn't she. How many creampies do you think you're going to ask for?” Sana laughs. “How many will ever be enough? I hope he gave you something worth begging for."

It's not really surprising how a feeling can hook its teeth into you when you're cumming like that. Subjugating the deepest reach of her sopping cunt to fulfill your own filthy fantasy.

And look: Miyeon is soaked - soaked and wrecked and pliant. You kiss her and kiss her, and Sana kisses you, kisses her too, all of it muddled up - and your mouths are a mess. Your hands go into her hair, onto her ass; there's cum down her thighs and all over the floor. The smell of you three: her slicked arousal and your sweat and Sana's expensive perfume.

Here, come come - Sana is a flurry of activity; she's helping Miyeon out of her second heel after you'd fucked the first one off her foot without bothering to get the strap unhooked. There's her careful proclamation of, "thank god the walls aren't paper," as you practically carry Miyeon to the edge of the sofa, this dreamy vision of messy hair and a royally-befit-blush. In the whole world, not once has Miyeon looked like anything less than nobility.

And now's no different, really.

You sink down onto the plush, tufted fabric - a chair whose shape might confuse you if Sana hadn’t told you earlier it was explicitly built for fucking, or whatever it is you're doing. She's smiling at you, settling her face right onto your shoulder and peering up.

"Sana," she says wistfully, but looks right at you. "My legs are still a noodly-mess. Could you turn on the jets in the tub?"

"And leave the two of you unsupervised?" She jokes. "Never."

Miyeon sticks out her lip. Pouts, almost: "it'd just be a second."

"She's only asking for a minute," you add in.

Sana rolls her eyes. "And since you've suddenly turned into two hopeless idiots, it can't be trusted. If I'm drawing a bath," a flick of the gaze, "the least you can do is join me. A chance to recover if nothing else."

Miyeon, being Miyeon, has already dropped her face down to your lap, curling up with your cock at her lips. When she gets her first, tantalizing, almost chaste little swipe at the tip, she smiles all impressed with herself. With those big brown eyes, her fingertips skating delicately along your stomach, and her dark lashes beating slow - all of Miyeon, right now, is on purpose, calculated. Precise.

Her voice is even worse: "she wants her own go first, don't you think?"

Sana watches where your fingers thread into the ends of Miyeon's silky hair, just the gentlest twist and tug. How you have her mouth ready and open, waiting; how Miyeon glances over for approval.

"Well," Sana turns a cheek, "he's already so worked up." Her dark eyes look towards you - a mock frown. "I don't know if we can convince him otherwise."

Miyeon's throat clicks - she's not choking yet, but left to her own devices, she will be. Her expression melts into an almost-gasp as your cock fills the empty space in her mouth. There's that plush little gag as she opens, lips wet. You rock your hips, and then you get to watch her nose kiss the trail leading up the smooth plane of your belly.

"I could go for a soak," you admit, with Miyeon drooling on your cock.

Because Sana's doing that thing where she turns around, has the smug look over her shoulder. Makes a slow, teasing movement that leads your eyes from her pretty face all the way down the cut of her back, until finally she's pushing the soft waves of her hair into one hand so that her ass is perfectly presented-

And jesus, sure: the sloping hips, the inviting lines - the sharp points and soft edges, where she is and isn't; her cupped fingers come up to her own chest, just to show off the heft of her tits, hanging heavy. Everything is sensually posed. You're only a little bit mesmerized. Her figure has always had the cut of a pinup model. Curves like a siren. Her waist to hip ratio is - oh-fucking-kay, maybe you could do it right now - bend her in half - get her fucking sobbing until you kiss her quiet and cum so deep in her cunt it's all she can think about for days-

You realize then you're pulling too hard on Miyeon’s hair.

Not meaning to, or maybe too eager.

Hey, you have a pretty girl sucking life back into your cock and one more giving you bedroom eyes from across the room all ready to sit on it; you never said you weren't trying your best.

"Careful, honey. I'm getting impatient." Sana's hand traces the wallpaper trim in the hall, a sweeping path; a vague reminder as she disappears down and around the corner. You hear the squeak of the faucet and then the sound of her light footsteps. And then it's just an echoey and unapologetic, "one day I might not let you have all the fun," followed by, "my goodness-"

Sana, appraising her reflection in all likelihood. All bright smiles

You turn back to find a second set of eyes staring back, full of hunger, as a wet, messy heat wraps around the base of your shaft and follows to the top with the flutter of her tongue - and then all the way to the back of that tempting throat. Miyeon's moving at the tempo you'd put her at. You appreciate that. But you lift her jaw and hold the side of her face so she's looking straight at you - and as soon as you pop yourself out from between her lips, you say, "you'll let me taste Sana, too, won't you, baby?"

(Miyeon's never been good at saying no - to anything. That doesn't change here in the slightest.)

The way you laugh is easy and sweet. You kiss the space over her temple. "We've always been in this together, Miyeon," a soft tease. "Go ask her nicely, and I bet she lets you clean me up," before adding, "maybe, after you lick all the cum out of my girlfriend's tight ass."

And Miyeon simply grins. The promise of that sloppy fucking mess. She's ruined herself time and time again over far less.

"Oh," she says, "you know how good I look with cum dripping down my chin.”

It's kind of impressive how shameless she can be. So fucking blase - what are friends for, anyway.

“Shall we?"

You scoop Miyeon right up into your arms and, upon standing, swing her little body around in front of you. And she knows that's the sort of thing she shouldn't enjoy: being manhandled, told what to do, having someone lift the choice off her shoulders like that - but that doesn't stop her from tangling herself up around your neck and tilting her hips back into you in that playful-fake, overly innocent-cute mien - where she says in this tiny whisper, "are we, you think?"

Your mouth lands on her ear, nips the softness there, "behave yourself, sweetheart."

And then a low, breathless laugh escapes her: "when's the last time that was even an option."

(For the record, the answer is never, and you're probably actually so fucked - it's kind of hilarious to look back at it, and think, because how could any two people who have spent as many weeks (months) as you, putting all the right pieces into the right places, get all the stars align at once? The idea that the three of you are hooking up and nobody's getting hurt, murdered or hung out to dry is statistically improbable; and the likelihood that anyone in this presidential suite will survive the weekend without breaking at least four limbs in various places is rapidly dropping with each passing hour. You've been taking the old adage and clutching it against your chest -

It can't be a sin, if it makes you happy.)

Past the door, the first thing you notice is that Sana's hair is all pinned up. Always pretty like that.

However it doesn't change the picture a whole lot. A few inches more bare skin isn't exactly a big difference when there's the whole, naked, porcelain expanse that spans the soft length of her shoulders, along her hips and waist, and runs to her feet. It's still kind of incredible. The hourglass shaped silhouette. All the natural curves finding relief in the right places. Model-esque, that sort of thing. And, yes: her tits, the absolute heaven-sent frame of her ass and those amazing legs.

It goes without saying.

She's there with her back arched, an arm perched on the granite of the counter. So relaxed. An elegance only afforded to the very lucky or the very rich. She lets her head fall back, the fine curve of her chin canting above a neck that you would've been biting kisses into just moments ago if she hadn't put herself in full profile to take your breath away.

"Show off," Miyeon mumbles, and then whispers to you, "sorry. My body can't do that, like-" she indicates - with a weird wobbly hand gesture, about the height of Sana's pelvis. "Whatever that is."

Sana tilts her head forward and meets the glance you give her reflection.

"Hmm," is her eloquent contribution to the airy room, woven into the pitter-patter of bathwater, lapping at the surface. "Now why am I left to wonder why there's no one making good on my requests, huh."

You cross the space; get close. And Miyeon stays curled up against you, doesn't let you slip away as you walk over, doesn't let go. She kisses the front of your shoulder, hums softly.

"My bad," You say. It's very believable. You sound a bit winded; kind of a wreck, but your sincerity shines through in that sort of 'I'll fuck it better' kind of way.

"Excuses, excuses." A dismissive shrug. "The water's perfect. But if you insist," and the sultry drop of Sana's eyelashes is deliberate, an invitation. Her breath is caught as your mouth finds the space between her neck and shoulder blade - the place where she's gone all pink, "I'd hardly pass up the chance for you both to eat my pussy first."

And look: it's not a lie, per se, but the natural instinct for Miyeon-logic is just to provide the justification, "the faster we get you a cumming, squirming, desperate mess-" her hand slips to cup the junction of her jaw and the crook of her throat. "-the sooner it'll be 'til he fucks me senseless again."

"We have a long way to go to get even, sweetie," argues Sana. "Last time, you were both pretty self-absorbed."

"We'd never ignore you on purpose," you whisper into the crook of her neck, and Sana turns to let you follow that deep, velvety mouth as the kiss flows across her lips. "You're absolutely necessary."

"Only by accident, then. That's a little bit worse," snarks Sana. The reprimand dies down into something soft as Miyeon lets her tongue trail flat over a nipple. She shudders.

"If I keep going, maybe you can forgive us?" You watch her eyelids flutter open, a haze of ecstasy passing behind her eyes. You keep an arm at her hip, wrap around and press flat until her whole flat tummy is pinned against your cock.

"Mmm," Sana hums. It's that sultry note she likes to let trail from the very end of her throat. "Ask me again after you get me off. But slowly: I want to savor every detail."

Miyeon traces kisses across Sana's rib until your girlfriend presses two wet fingers to her mouth. Easy.

"Then you should probably do something about her," you say, and - as if in agreement - Sana twists her hand into the cascades of her Miyeon's hair. You lean into her shoulder. She sighs; exhales, deeply, while her back is shimmying further backwards into the countertop.

"And you should help her make it up to me," Sana chimes, her voice clear and melodic, every inflection playing right at home in her vocal cords. "Two mouths are better than one, and I have so many other places you should be kissing."

Sana has a verifiable gravitas, for one, and when she's not hiding in plain sight behind the bubbly-bright act she likes to put on, it's nearly impossible not to fall in line behind her. This isn't to say you couldn't win her over either; it's a pretty small crowd here. But you choose one direction and watch her skin pink up and turn to red; you grab a wrist and it goes cold and white. Every last part of her is so damn expressive. The point is that she doesn't need you to make a fool out of yourself to know you're into her - or vice versa.

(Or. You're such a goddamn sucker, as Miyeon likes to remind you with a scoff, a little eye-roll, and then her hands on your belt. At least, before everything else: the knowing smirk, the dangerous suggestion).

You let your fingers find the backs of Sana's thighs as she spreads her knees apart, and there, you're reminded of the one thing. That of all the ways these two girls are identical, you've never found a comparison that really works. Not by any useful measure.

Miyeon has all the softer features: a bit dainty, the doe eyes and the lone dimple, like a doll with an aw-so-cute factor, whereas Sana is all sharp, clean angles; the sculpted muscle in her calves and thighs, the firmness and muscle underneath - which, yeah, definitely not the worst trade off. Don't get it confused, both girls crave your approval; both prefer when things get rough and sloppy. Describing either as anything but the most submissive holy-shit-take-me-now-I-need-you type, when put under the slightest pressure is laughable.

Not when Miyeon lets you use her like a toy. Or when Sana tells you exactly what you need to do to fuck a baby into her (hypothetically speaking; she gets a little silly and dumb around the edges whenever she's about to cum and her brain starts tripping over her tongue). Neither will hesitate when given the option of having your hand on the side of their throat, pinning their wrists to the headboard or the shower wall, fucking them until they go liquid and collapse in your arms, shivering, whimpering and begging, their pussies pulsing around your cock. In fact, there's really no hard or fast rule at all. But here, you recognize, is a great point of difference -

"Baby," you murmur into the inside of Sana's thigh. You leave a mark with your lips that you’ll come back to. "So. Fucking. Gorgeous-" right as Miyeon starts pressing her mouth against her cunt. "Aren't you, baby? The most beautiful girl. And all of this is just mine?"

Listen - the praise kink your girl has is actually pretty textbook: Sana wants to be called sweet, she wants to be complimented, rewarded, and all that good stuff; she wants you to talk to her the way everyone who sees a flash of her skin or a sway of her hips wants to - the best parts of adulation, arousal, love, without any of the side-eye of it being totally obscured in a crowded venue.

Direct.

To the point.

She wants to hear each and every you're sexy, you look hot, your ass drives me crazy. She wants it on the gruff in your voice, how it gets a little rough at the edges. Tell me you're mine. You make me so hard. This is just the very essence of who Sana is, and you have learned that you need to give as well as take: feed her a tiny ego boosting here and there, and she will completely throw herself at you in return.

Miyeon watches you run your tongue over her cunt like she’s taking notes, and it’s clear you’re more than prepared to give it all up to her. There's always been this veneration, this reverence for every inch of her, a pull towards her - her eyes, her mouth, her wrists, her long beautiful legs, the place where the skin of her thighs meets - you've always had this insane fascination with Sana, this need to know what she'd taste like or sound like. At any given moment.

"Oh," Sana pushes Miyeon closer, moaning. "Yours. So yours, baby."

The moment you both have your tongues working at her - tasting, the sweetness of her dripping down onto both of your faces, making you lick your lips and kiss each other so Sana gets to watch - Miyeon hums approvingly. Lets out this very performative, "isn't she just the best?"

And it isn’t that you can't find the right word - divine, wonderful, heaven, incredible, without any flaw - there just isn't much room to read into the fact that you and Miyeon are both sunk to your knees on the bathmat, kneeling in worship, in adoration - sucking on Sana's clit. The imagery sells itself.

"We'd never forget the important things," Miyeon continues, dreamily.

She's trading with you the folds of Sana's dripping pussy and the outline of her lips for her thigh. You pick up where she leaves off, and that earns you Sana's hand raking through the back of your hair, pressing you so close you can hear her heartbeat in her pulse; her blood burning through the very spot.

“That's how you make me feel, baby: so fucking good. Amazing." You taste it. You chase it. There is nothing like her cum filling your mouth. "Pretty. Mine. All mine."

“Yeah, okay - sure - that feels really fucking good.”

Sana's orgasms always start slow; a slight adjustment of her hips, the rub of one calf against the other, she's never been the quiet type but there's not quite the screaming or yelling just yet. Her jaw is set.

"You're, uh-," she adds, failing at anything else.

Miyeon tries for it. That edge of danger; not in pain or frustration, but, "there you go, sweetie: you sound so fucking pretty when you're worked up. Just tell us - the words, we need the words to make it good, baby."

"Fine," says Sana, tilting her head down, breathing deeply, and she makes a sound that's neither a whimper nor a laugh, but a crossroads of both. "Right there, oh my god, you are so fucking dangerous, holy shit. Oh, please. Please. You two- just, please, don't you dare- just a little bit - mmm. Why do you have to be so good at that?"

"Right?" Miyeon laughs out loud - like you're the one missing a vital point, like it's your fault your face is buried in her folds. “I used to think guys just didn’t like doing it. And then, well-"

And you drag your tongue flat and up over her pussy, right through that whole slicked up slit, your fingers still pumping in and out, and then you flick it just hard enough to-

"-yeah," she huffs, panting.

Miyeon presses her thumb into the mess of Sana's cunt, and it causes Sana's whole body to shudder apart - you lift your face to breathe, or to promise, "we can go for hours if you want, taking turns making you cum," before pressing into her again, and Sana's only got so much patience and stamina when you're two steps ahead of the curve, because her legs are practically going to wobble off her body.

"Poor, pretty baby," Miyeon murmurs against her, and she's talking like she’s taken all the control now. Operating in that cycle of push and pull.

And to her point: Sana is whining, gasping - every bit as hot and bothered and needy. She's whispering please and not giving up her requests.

"Fuck. Okay, sorry-” she apologizes. For some reason.

Your nose keeps getting bumped, her cunt is grinding down into your chin. That is fine. If it keeps on like this, your whole face will be soaking wet.

"I'm going to just- going to go ahead and cum, I think- so fucking. Yeah, keep on going just like, shit, please: my pussy is fucking throbbing."

This is the easy part, if you've read the rest right. If the hours and the minutes, and all the passing days: you know which direction the pieces are about to fall.

Sana arches her spine, rolls her hips into your face, and when you swirl your tongue all over the wet heat at her core, the sound she makes is music: low, throaty and delicate. Your mouth is attached to her clit still when you look up over the hand you have steadying each tremble in her diaphragm. And possibly as a sort of vengeful maneuver, Miyeon is shoving two fingers under your jaw and far enough into Sana's pussy that each curl of a knuckle is all that’s left to find Sana cumming right onto your mouth, your chin.

She wants to scream, to cry out, but her mouth joins her face, in that frozen expression of anguish, of an absolute that perfect pleasure.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," Miyeon consoles, standing up, leaning in - close, really, impossibly close; she presses their foreheads together, murmuring against Sana's ear, whispering what-do-you-need, there you go. Baby, that was perfect. They each know the song and dance. They can shamelessly recite each other's lines. Miyeon slides an arm to the small of Sana's back, one across her shoulders, and Sana leans against her with this gorgeous look of a perfect, mind-numbing orgasm on her face, her eyes bright, her lashes fluttering - a sheen of sweat across her forehead; your stomach falls and bottoms out; you can't not be fucking attracted to these two. Miyeon smooths down her hair, reassuring her. Her hand reaches lower, wraps around her, pulls.

The bath is well filled at this point, water near overflowing, and Sana is equally fucking soaked. This storm of wet and hot beneath your lips. You clean her off with the broad stroke of your tongue and don't spill a drop, because the noise she's making - it sounds like rapture, ecstasy. She's half-delirious, panting, with her hands gripping the sides of your head.

"Where," she gasps, trying her damnedest. You have the best girls in the world, you really fucking do. Miyeon rubs the heel of her palm against the soaked, red hood of her cunt. Sana lets out a sound halfway between a gasp and a groan; the arch of her hips chasing Miyeon's touch; "you, are you two - god damn, if I hadn't already-"

"Shhh. My poor girl. You're not thinking about his cock just yet," and those are Miyeon's slender fingers coaxing your jaw free from Sana's cunt, prying her free from you so she can sit alone at her throne. "They always keep lube in these kind of places," Miyeon reaches into a drawer, fumbling about. It takes a moment for it to register that she's actually talking to you. "It usually looks like some body oil, you know the nice massage kind, in these tiny bottles. Help me look, will you?"

It does not take long - hotel management understands what these rooms are for. The scandal and the romance and everything in between. Because Miyeon finds what she’s looking for in the next drawer down: a sample-sized container of massage oil, something slippery and organic. It smells vaguely of lavender.

"Look at me," Miyeon tells you, and Sana is absolutely listening along too. It's all very seamless: Sana and then Miyeon. All the synchronized parts. Their signals have some sort of feedback even if you're not always actively aware of the things they pass back and forth.

Miyeon guides Sana onto her shaky legs, turns her toward you - So you swallow, hard, and run your thumbs into the crease of her ass - you're kneeling, still, still totally naked and wet all around the jaw. "Eat her ass, and I'll keep her cumming until she can't feel anything else."

You shift your weight and run a kiss along the tender skin at the back of Sana’s thigh. The contact has her bracing a hand on the counter for support.

“And then-” Miyeon says, with a gleam in her eyes like she knows what the fuck she wants. She slides back down to the floor until Sana is pinned between a rock and a hard place. Her two favorite people in the world: namely, your hands gripping Sana's hips, and Miyeon's tongue all over the aching little clit you'd just had your mouth wrapped around moments ago.

"And then?" you provide, hovering a kiss onto the beautiful round of Sana's ass. Her fucking cheek. You have to slap it. Just a little. And when you watch it ripple back and forth with your handprint there, a spot of pink already blooming, well, she has to be giving you a sultry look that demands to know when it is exactly that you are going to stick your cock inside of her, and it is absolutely just impossible to look anywhere else.

"And then," Miyeon supplies, "we're going get that beautiful cock in her ass so you can fuck her brains to mush."

"Thanks I guess, for the explicit permission," you scoff, and here you drop your lips, trail them into the crack of Sana's ass, up and down, teasing the taut stretch of her hole with the tip of your tongue.

"Someone has to take responsibility for-," she pulls on Sana's leg and stretches it forward, repositions her ever so slightly. She sucks Sana's clit into her mouth with an exaggerated sort of satisfaction.

You wait for Miyeon to continue, and then realize with the unshakeable notion: she isn't going to, because it's too damn much trouble. There is no reason to pull apart the premise and not the girl straddled between your faces. The only option is to follow her lead, and to worship Sana. To trace every crevice of her, lick between her ass and the sensitive, clenching heat of her pussy.

"Can we, like, take a timeout-" Sana's mouth is slurring into the skin of her forearm. Her upper thighs are quaking, quivering as you sink your teeth in. Her head's gone all heavy as a slutty little moan rings out and straight down her lungs.

And maybe the realization is setting in. You and Miyeon are going to fuck her until you all can't think - until you're nothing but primal urges, nothing but bodies with beating, pounding hearts; and every thought in Sana's head will be to the two of you; to Miyeon, whose hand finds the front of Sana's stomach and guides her pelvis into rolling forward and grinding into her mouth, to you, with your tongue lathering and lapping at her asshole, and running your hands around her hips until her whole body's shaking, "oh fuck, my god-"

(The writing is on the wall. You and Miyeon are going to fuck her until none of you know where you end, where the other begins.)

Sana tries again, and the question ends in a deep, rumbling, "don't you want, Miyeon, wouldn't you rather just really, fucking love, having his thick cock stretch you apart," - she swallows - and when she glances behind her back and finds you watching her, there is just pure, unadulterated arousal burning through her eyelashes, over the flare of her ass.

You catch the fucking bow of her lower lip wobbling as she adds, a little more pointed and a lot more determined, "when you're, fuck, begging and screaming for his load? To be his cumdump, his little bitch," it's like she's got her heart set, and her mouth can't stop moving fast enough, and "to do whatever he wants just because it makes you look and feel so damn hot?"

You can hear Miyeon's mouth smacking with the way it works, the way she is swallowing, gasping. You can hear the sound she makes when her mouth goes loose, and says, agreeing, "you're going to love it Sana, every god-damn-inch, you always do" and Sana is falling apart again into your grip, moaning, and then "it's so much better. All the stretch, that tightness. But she needs your fingers first.

You can hear Sana gasping too, dripping a mess into the place where her pussy and ass meet. Miyeon licks a wide strip from her core all the way up and kisses it. Lick. Kiss, lick - her hands pulling Sana closer by the hip - kiss, kiss, lick - pulling her mouth around your girl's clit. So close to the place in Sana's bubbly cheeks, where your mouth supplies long sucks and soft kisses - so close you can practically taste the scented flavor in Miyeon's lip gloss.

"I can't- shit. Hold on, guys," Sana whispers. It's her nails scraping against the granite. "You need to-" and then the loud, dull thwap of her knee knocking into the cabinet.

She's cumming again - this time, loud and guttural, but another really beautiful sound - her cunt pulsing hard into nothing while the air hangs in limbo, Miyeon's tongue circling her clit, your palms around Sana's beautiful, round ass. You're half convinced they'd be fine with being locked away in some tower. Forget the world and its obligations. Or, rather: let the world stop spinning; leave only this.

There is not much talking from then on.

Mostly whining, whimpers and pleas to: not stop, yes, there, yes, please, fuck, and Miyeon wraps her fingers around you - almost the same thing she did when you were pumping your cum into her quivering cunt earlier, asking, please, may I-?

Sana bends herself over the counter, like something instinctual. The perfect bend and arch in her spine, the bow of her knees and the press of her thighs. Inviting, pleading. You can feel the tingle, the stiff tension in the muscles, when you reach out and lift her ass; it gives so easily to your touch. Your palm, her cheeks. There's a beautiful flush as the pink starts to run, fade, and reappear along her back, and - fuck, okay, seriously-

Miyeon's there, kneeling next to you: stroking her fingers up your length. She’s kissing you too. It’s hard to think.

But the sound of the cap coming off the bottle comes like an alarm clock, pulling you out of a dream.

Miyeon sits on her heels, smiling into the press of your lips as the bottle she procured tips out. Clear, viscous and smooth into her palm. When it becomes a lot of dripping; she swirls it against your cock - her knuckles wrapped around you, running and twisting into every curve, sliding her whole grip with long, calculated strokes.

"I don't think she's in any condition to keep a tally," Miyeon announces, "so, why don't you decide?"

"Meaning?" you're panting; your brain keeps working to formulate complete thoughts.

"Meaning," she slips her tongue against yours, slides her teeth and draws into your lower lip, "you should totally pound her gorgeously tight little ass" - another kiss, mostly on your lower lip; almost a bite - "and then you should dump that massive load of yours" - a shudder rolls through her shoulder and leaves a whisper in her wake - "right inside mine."

There are about eight thousand words in the English language but what you say is, "fuck."

Because she's right: Sana is blathering the moment you stand up and let your hands reach around, grab hold of her full, rounded hips. She’s not in any state to protest or complain about matters of equality or correspondence. Her lips and tongue are barely even fit to say anything but yes-yes-please-anything, oh god.

Which, okay, whatever: of course, whatever the fuck she needs - whatever they need - you pull at her hips until it's there, your cock sandwiched between those full, warm ass-cheeks, the perfect amount of pressure to get you so fucking hot, and Sana's not shy about rolling her hips to keep you pressed to the surface, rocking into your balls until her cunt's making slick, wet, hungry noises and she's just one endless, groaning moan.

"Love feeling your cock," Sana mutters; and there is a, "please, fuck me, baby- please?" thrown in for good measure.

"Please do, you're like - you're like ridiculously gifted," Miyeon adds, always the right touch of caustic.

"-please."

Sana's eloquence is short lived, because the second you give her ass a squeeze and Miyeon presses her thumb against Sana's cunt, her voice catches on her throat.

She sounds perfectly winded, completely out of breath, a tiny, sexed-up growl running through the notes as she speaks to her reflection in the mirror. Miyeon laughs. She can hardly get her own shit together when you lean up and grab a breast in hand, or start leaving slow-but-steady bite marks along the back of her shoulder blades; like it's all-too funny when you pin Sana to the counter until she starts to beg in that please, please, please tone: when every syllable and gasp is hitched and short.

"She doesn't want gentle," Miyeon tuts, finding her place next to Sana, holding her chin in her hands and catching the expression on her face. She presses a thumb into Sana's mouth for no reason other than: they're so soft. Wet. Pink and full, parted around her fingertip. "Isn't that right, baby?"

Your gaze follows their hips, swaying. And from this angle: identical. The hair, the jawline, the arch of the throat and shoulders, the elegant twist and fold of their limbs, the eyes, the blush, the smile, and the legs. They don't have to look exactly the same: their presence is near identical - Miyeon's the cuter one, sure. It's been established, but fuck, the look on Sana's face as you spread her asshole with just a finger is fucking dangerous. You're going to lose your mind. Both the flat tummies and the beautiful breasts and their matching hard nipples - and the fucking two best asses the world has ever seen. A line up over the counter: Miyeon and Sana, side by side; their reflections looking at you in tandem, wearing these same expressions. The eyes begging, asking and insisting, the pouting lower-lip and the glassy sheen of their eyelashes.

You tell them: "how am I supposed to" - you run the thick-glistening head of your cock along the pucker of Sana’s tight ass, grind your hips into the friction - "focus when you two look at me like that?”

"Um, just give up," says Miyeon, grinning; and then, when your jaw snaps closed and there's the obvious shift of your hips as your length strains through your body's need and pulls you closer to that incredible, tight, dark hole: "god, there you go. That is so fucking hot."

So, it's just like this:

They watch each other. The mirror is right there; every want, every motion.

And then, yeah, a low and throaty, "is that it?" - Sana nods into Miyeon's hand and smiles, with just the slightest hint of something that could resemble a blush - "why we always come back to him? Because, really-"

"Mmm." Sana hums agreement, dazed and drunk in her words, the slow breath of air you push out of her chest as your cock starts to sink in; the deeper the intrusion, the lower your names become - just murmurs and sighs and sounds: "god, yes, god-"

Her pussy starts to drip onto the tiles, her slick collecting at Miyeon's knees as Sana takes you all the way: and you hold, once you're all the way in; once that gorgeous little puckered rim has stretched around your entire width; there's just the smell of the room; lavender and rose and citrus - Sana's endless arousal - and you hold, and hold on tight - and your muscles shiver as Sana draws the first rocking motion of her hips.

The smallest, lightest grind.

"Jesus fucking christ," you curse, because the heat around your cock is excruciatingly tight. A slow-burning, tingling-aching pleasure as the flesh inside Sana's ass moves up and down the length, drawing out inch by inch of skin - until your entire cock is nearly pulled out.

You're the one that drives all the way back in.

Sana gasps. She runs her hand through her hair. She tries her damndest to remember what words are, clearly coming up empty.

"Baby." Miyeon is kissing her forehead, her nose, her lips, and coos praises in her ear. She sinks her fingers into the curve of Sana's immaculate ass, pulling on the soft cheek, showing-

You are speechless. It's just: that next stroke. And another. Your cock slipping in and out with each pass, so easy once Sana sighs, licks her lips and leans into your rhythm, there, all at once and then faster. And she looks in the mirror, because of course; of course she watches Miyeon run her hand all over her front, the perfect tits and a pretty stomach - your thrusting keeps up until every thrust has her hips rolling forward and snapping back, chasing her own momentum; chasing that thick, hard, stretch of cock and that beautiful pleasure-pain as the force and pace rocks her, pounds her so her entire body has to curl against Miyeon's chest for support, so that she's going a little weak in the knees.

"How is he?" Miyeon's tone gets wicked in these situations, a lot less innocent. She gets excited, giddy. "Pretty, handsome, stupidly attractive," her voice picks up a playful lilt, and she gets you grinning - it's only the start. "And he's all yours. But how's the cock, huh? He's gaping your ass so pretty. Your hole is so fucking open around him. It looks incredible, doesn't it?"

Sana reaches for the side of her ass, presses her fingertips to her skin: pulls and splits a fingernail into the tender flesh where her ass and thigh meet - right above her cunt. You snap your hips into hers and watch your cock disappear. Every motion gives, slurps and sucks until you're hilted inside her.

"Feels, mmmm - fuck." Her chest is fluttering, every part of her so fucking flushed, her blood running beneath the surface so every single inch of her skin is saturated with her own need, her want.

"Feels so good," you growl, your vision gone dark around the edges. Miyeon's there, vaguely, smirking into Sana's jaw, licking at the sweat, scraping her teeth along the skin to bite down, pull- "she's so fucking tight. Gripping the hell out of my cock. Like, it feels unbelievable, you know."

"Babe," she cries, though you give her no respite - you use that little sliver of slack and pull out far enough that she'll know it when your cock is hammering into her ass, a little more aggressive, and you start with quick, hard pumps that echo throughout the room - not for your pleasure or hers: just to hear it, listen, you're driving up so far into that perfect, gorgeous ass that it sends her tits rocking and rolling with every bounce of her chest; her moans, her babbling incoherence, are, again - it's like a drug - and Miyeon's smiling. And also, getting herself off.

"So pretty," Miyeon says into her temple, "with his cock fucking open your ass." And she has her fingers swirling, swirling, in little patterns around her cunt, grazing over a wet clit, like the way you're pounding Sana's ass and dismantling her whole consciousness is absolutely the most arousing thing ever, like Miyeon could stay and watch forever, like Sana's the most beautiful person in the world, and Miyeon would be right here with her every second - whispering praise in her ears - "god, babe, if I could, I would never pull his cock out. You take him so well, don't you? You're just made for it. He could stretch you out over and over and we could, you know - be fucked silly - no thinking - for, like, forever. All day long."

Sana's fingers claw, gripping at the bowl of the sink, while Miyeon has her hand glued to her clit, playing herself.

Miyeon doesn't wait - but she asks anyway - and of course: she's leaning up, in, nuzzling Sana and saying: "yes?"

"So," is all Sana gets out before gasping, because the sight, it's too much to not let yourself feel a little power drunk, and there is a sudden thrust that practically turns the poor girl's voice into a croak. "Yes. Fuck - fuck-"

You don't really have any clue where this is coming from but: "Miyeon, here, take this cock. Come get what's yours you fucking cocktease," and, whatever - who needs thoughts? Your girlfriend's already bent over the bathroom counter, your fingers holding the smooth curves of her ass apart, her beautiful body opened all up and pink.

Miyeon ruffles her hair as she finds the perfect angle, knees knocked up against the drawers, and she's got more oil spread onto her own puckered rim.

You know your girls: Sana is desperate for your cock, Miyeon lives to be used.

"I love how fucking cock-drunk she gets," Miyeon laughs, and then - the moment you've shifted from one gorgeous hole to the other - her mouth slackens, her eyelashes flutter: "shit. Holy - didn't really realize- oh wow."

"Kinda distracting?" you tease, knowing full well you're just going to lose your own words; watching a gorgeous ass swallow your cock; being told to keep giving and take, just as much: the warmth in your own core, your cunt, clenching hard - an aching pulse - the excitement coursing through your veins and this, this whole sensation of being connected: your bodies, all-encompassing and present, three whole units, joining at the hips, being forced back together-

"-you feel fucking, so tight. That's how the fucking joke goes, right?" Miyeon manages: to talk, still, even with a cock in her ass and your teeth and tongue painting pretty marks up the ridges of her spine.

Sana is catching her breath, brushing her fingers through her hair staring wistfully.

"Gives you two so much to talk about."

"Now don't even start- I really like it, alright."

Sana gives her ass the worst slap but your balls hit her cunt on the following thrust. Miyeon's so fucking tight you can barely breath. And her laughter tinkers off into a very pretty string of obscene moans from the way your cock spears into her, all at once: the flat, wet, throbbing sounds of a tight ass taking a thick cock without stopping, stretching and sliding with an increasing ease the longer it goes on for, until you're snapping your hips so far forward they're slapping Miyeon's ass and gripping, squeezing the round shape of her waist; until the movements are just you, the heavy weight of your balls against the hot wet skin between her legs.

And god damn it, she's got to start with:

"Forgot how much you stretch me, Jesus - baby, it is a really gorgeous cock you've got," - and that is when it hits, and her hands fist up, trying to grab at something, anything: "oh my god."

"You are such a whore," Sana laughs, but not unkind, because Miyeon can only grin in response, with your cock pounding out into the red-hot, clenched walls of her asshole. And then: a nice, hearty sigh.

You find yourself asking, almost by impulse, "isn't she, uh, tight. God."

And, fuck: you were thinking how insane it is you two ever managed without the third party. How now, not fucking Sana and Miyeon's glorious, matching asses side-by-side would drive you fucking crazy, and maybe that's why it's really the best news. How when your cock slips out of one ass, and slowly nuzzles into the other - how when you all three watch the pretty faces in the mirror twist and turn into a look of such pure fucking bliss - you just sort of-

"Oh."

That's Sana: with Miyeon pressed chest-first over the marble counter, Miyeon's cheek and nose flush against her face, their arms twisted, bodies crossed at the wrist and wrist - their skin shiny-red with exertion. They're the closest possible position: mirror images of the other, and - with the slightest push -

And it's pretty. It's fucking, you know.

"Perfect," you groan. "This is it. Look at you, the both of you - god - it's like. It's not normal to be as beautiful as the two of you are. Right. So, you know-"

"Hey," Sana is a little faster on the uptake when you're fucking Miyeon and her ass within an inch of dying, "your face. You look like you're close, are you close baby?"

The blood's starting to sing in your ears. Miyeon's forehead keeps bouncing into Sana's - their sweat, mixing, her skin peppered and blotchy pink from where she's gotten a little bit lost in her own head, her hips moving of their own accord, her body tensing, relaxing. You can read all of her movements, recognize her signals: the way she moans louder than usual, the way her cunt trembles against you, the way her ass squeezes, holds, lets go-

You pull out. Just to keep yourself from blowing, just to pull on your balls, to look and watch the perfect view. And Sana reaches back - a warm hand wrapped around you.

You feel her palm wrap around your cock, coaxing another serving of oil - like she knows just how rough it's going to be to start again.

"Just," she pants, leaning into Miyeon so you have to rut around to find your way back, "until the end."

There's something so pleasantly mind-numbing about the moment when you ease your cock into the sweet-soft ring of muscles again and she's just stretching and pulsing and grabbing all around you. The way you keep going: she's holding herself, giving her asshole a squeeze, a stretch - her lips kiss a sound onto the side of Miyeon's shoulder and she nods, gasps, breathes out heavy and pained, like the rest: a total fucking rush.

You watch Miyeon lean further, a beautiful shift of balance between the two. Her hands clamp around the sides of Sana's thighs for support, and the longer you pound into her, the deeper your cock sinks, the closer the pressure becomes as their heads turn in, looking to the same place, their foreheads knocking, and-

"Knees," you growl. You're holding your cock in your first - demanding: "Get on your fucking knees."

Sana smiles first. Then Miyeon. And when the lipstick smears against their cheeks, you don't have it in you anymore to think clearly. The line between your imagination and your fantasy is so blurred: you want their mouths moaning into eachother. You want Miyeon to clean the taste from Sana's lips. You want those cunts grinding, their clits making contact, and for one of them - fuck-

So: "I need the both of you."

And it's your name falling off of Sana's tongue when the tops of her shins hit the tile floor - she's kneeling, she's pulling Miyeon by her waist until the three of you have converged into this beautiful, glistening, open-mouthed trio. Sana kisses Miyeon hard while you cum all over the image: the contrast of their soft, wet, hot tongues against one another while your harsh grip pumps along your slick, throbbing length. It feels like a knot unraveling, a tension snapping loose, your cum landing on their cheekbones, their temples, between their lips - It's a long, slow roll through the valley of your abs - Miyeon licking into Sana's panting mouth and swiping through the streak of white you just pumped out into her fucking hair; the messy collision of lips, swallows, tongues; the faint, slow sounds, the slickness-

"Look," she breathes. You can hear the way their words hitch when their fingers hook eachother, guiding through the mess across their skin, dipping through the sticky cum, circling the plush pout of their bottom lips; and it's Sana that grabs Miyeon by the wrist, bringing her hand forward; sucking, running her mouth in a lazy path all across the width, "that's all, fuck, I need to. Wanna taste all of it."

You just groan.

Miyeon is slumped into the lacework of Sana's limbs, swapping the tastes between her tongue and the space of their breath; while her own thumb caresses the raw, stretched opening of her ass. Sana whispers things, incoherencies, into Miyeon's hair: kisses at her temple, strokes the muscles of Miyeon's back. Feeling how they shiver, they heave, they fall - exhausted and flushed in the heat of one-another's embrace. She licks the words across Miyeon's cheek and follows with her nose trailing Miyeon's jaw, and your cum's smearing a streak onto Miyeon's bottom lip, before their tongues have tangled themselves into another messy, well-fucked kind of collision.

"Good girls," you mumble, kissing Miyeon's knuckles, and helping Sana to her feet.

Your legs are a lot less shaky than either the two of theirs, but it's okay, you pick Miyeon up and set her on the sink; and then turn on the tap for the both of them, since they'd need a wash and some salve.

"Now, what?" says Sana. She's smiling; a washcloth at the ready; some dribble of soap from the bottle.

Miyeon gives her a smirk from over her shoulder, turning away just enough to flip her hair; the ends brush across her jaw. It's a cute little quirk of the eyebrow; the upward twinge to the corner of the lip; it's a motion that knows every muscle, every detail.

"Depends," says Miyeon, sharpening up her tone just the littlest bit, "the bath looks like a tight fit for all three of us but," and there it is - the mischievous glint; the curve in her hips, her mouth, and, of course - you notice the way her eyes drop to the stiffness of your cock. The way her voice purrs, all light, but a lot more intent: "Did you see the shower? It's absolutely gigantic."

"I saw the detachable head," Sana throws out. A teasing little comment, one you remember - that sends a pretty deep shudder down your stomach and thighs. Your cock twitches, hard and - okay, good thing Miyeon booked the room for a week and then some. The view is pretty great: watching your cock get rock-solid in under five seconds. Watching them kiss the same knowing look, sharing the private joke. Watching their hips swing, watching them slide the glass door: Miyeon in front and Sana from behind.

It's in unison that they both turn over their shoulder and ask, "won't you help us test it out?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be right there." You shake your head, "so thirsty," even though, you know you're equally to blame.

It's that tiny whisper of "don't look at me like you don't have cum in weird places either, hm?" that Sana gives you, while Miyeon is washing her hair, rubbing and sliding along the locks. "I'll help you with the spots that are hard to reach, come here."

It's that little, meaningful, mischievous curl in Miyeon's lip when the water's pouring, and your breath falls across her skin. The way her hands reach out for you, even when Sana takes her chin and plants a firm, messy kiss across her mouth. It's the same gesture Miyeon's making, using Sana's forearm for support. How she runs the palm of her other hand along the back of Sana's thighs, slipping and pressing forward to guide, nudge. She pulls Sana onto her toes, aligning their bodies. It's in the little laughs they share, the wet smacks of lips, the soft little hums they make when tongues slip over, into the open.

It's here too, that you first ever get them confused, just a momentary slip up of "Sana, could you grab the towel-" or some equivalent, when you glance away at the perfect wrong moment and you're left just a little puzzled, still mostly entranced by the sight of the steam on the glass and their fingertips drawing patterns into it as they lean in for another kiss, or a moan-

"Oh," Miyeon says, delighted, "I'm supposed to be her, right?"

They're fucking-

Sana is less enthused. "Stop. I do not. Am not."

- identical.

"Look, I didn't mean-"

Miyeon laughs to cut you off and skips the argument. She winks, and somehow that makes it worse.

It's there too, the look of regret when your fingertips curl into the skin of her breast, your thumbs a tease against the rigid nubs of her nipples and the texture of her pretty stomach. They don't realize how much you really love their matching expressions. So, they don't mind the mixup, and besides: you just follow Sana's guiding hands and let your lips ghost-kiss, so gently across Miyeon's thigh. It's impossible to imagine a version that isn't one and the other, the two of them, here, with you: sharing kisses, offering the gentlest, slowest exploration, teasing and tugging a gasp of a response.

"Hey," Miyeon muses, "does that mean you'll keep your cock warm in me once we go to bed and feed me a steady stream of ice cubes between all the sessions, mm?"

Sana raises her head in faux offense and drops back into the comfort of Miyeon's thighs. "Jeez-us christ," Sana huffs; "one day with him and she thinks she's me. Have mercy."

"She isn't?" you ask.

Sana sighs. "Um. Not even close."

Miyeon beams at the both of you. She even runs her fingers through Sana's hair, doting - affectionate. "She'll come around to the idea eventually, don't worry. Until then I'm more than happy to take on the role. It can't be that hard, yeah? Just to be all - naughty-sexy-sweet-oh, look, a surprise, i’m actually ready to get fucked six ways to sunday-"

-you get an eyeful of whatever they are doing, this time just, fucking-

Sana only says, "it'll have to take an exceptional amount of patience on both your parts."

-gorgeous, lewd, completely fucking filthy.

"I got a lot, babe."

The second Sana opens her mouth, it's followed with: "pfffht."

It's just, who wouldn't give them whatever they want? Whatever they ask? There's a list out there: no doubt the both of them, gagging. Throat-deep. In their little skirts. Panties. Naked and straddled, just, across their hands. One, maybe. Or both all the same, or still a different preference. One behind the other and taking turns. Something - and this is important, here:

"Look," they say, eyes wide up at you and blinking - on the same fucking beat no less, "you can trust us, okay?"

(Gentleman and distinguished scholars: the list, by the way, only ever gets longer.)

#sana smut #miyeon smut #twice smut #gidle smut #male reader smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut

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male reader x karina & irene

part 1 of two roses, by every other name

28k words

It goes without saying that Karina’s reputation is flawless.

Irene’s is remarkably not.

You're not even staunchly a romantic or anything. You just can’t be assed to manage the distinction between desire and distance. So when the dust settles, the best case scenario is the three of you going around telling people, "all of this is actually a true story by the way."

You don't need the extra helping of moody and foreboding, but the wind picks up enough to chill you to the spot.

It blows some of the longer, darker strands of Irene's hair into her eyes and she shivers, too, against the cold as she tucks it behind her ears. You’ve got both hands balled into your coat pockets, watching her pretend like she isn't about to say something you absolutely do not want to hear. Then, a sigh - the length of which is probably unwarranted. You can feel the frost on the air burning through your teeth as you face back out toward the taxi stand.

It’s gotten late and you're still waiting on an empty cab - you’re realizing there was never a conversation to be had in the first place.

“For what it’s worth,” Irene says, and there’s an indecent proposal just in the way she glances at you. “I had my eyes on her first.”

It’s all on account of some sort of moral quandary, or whatever nonsense Irene pretends to believe every time it comes up. A gross power imbalance; an issue of innocence and entitlement; a threat of abuse. Something, another thing, patriarchal expectations, blah, blah - she fudges around the details, but never ever cares who gets hurt. Not really.

And it’s doubtful Irene believes what she says, not to mention she’s skeptical anyone is even capable of zipping their way down Karina’s denim, working a pair of hands up the contour of her long legs, and making her pant and gasp hard enough that she forgets to breathe.

Well, supposedly - that is anyone, save the two of you. Nevermind the fact she’s always, always been off-limits.

The bottom line is she's a whole decade younger than either of you. This just for starters - only legal for alcohol by some narrow margin. Because between you and your fiancée there are all these rules: no coworkers, no labelmates, no close mutual friends, no personal assistants, no jealous ex-lovers, and absolutely none of her juniors. It’s in poor taste, among other things.

Also, just as straightforward: crossing any number of those lines has its own kind of appeal.

"Okay,” you say, “then maybe you should be the one to tell her we’re taking her home."

Irene's arching her eyebrows at you like a silent rebuttal. She smiles after a laugh, quick and easy, because it's what she's good at. It's what she knows. “Like you weren’t hoping she’d be here, too."

The ash Irene taps off the end of her cigarette falls to the ground like snow. Hitting the pavement as if it might punctuate the thought. That's a rare first mistake from someone like you, and then a second one from her: she thinks she’ll need to defend herself with an explanation, like she’d ever need to justify anything to you.

“Besides, she’s not waiting for me to ask.” There’s a curl to her mouth - and then, she adds, for your benefit, "she'd follow you anywhere."

The twisted irony is that the two of you could pick up any woman, anyone at all.

"I think it’s a discussion for another day," you tell her, serious. She laughs out loud.

"Which one? Who Karina wants, or that you're aching every bit as much as I am to spread her out on our bed and fuck her? Because I'm pretty sure we can both agree that at this point-"

Your palm curls around the nape of her neck with a touch of on-your-feet-thinking: one of these moments that lets Irene sit with the knowledge of how small she really is against you, her head against the collar of your coat, chin angled just so to look up at your face. And there's only a beat that passes between your fingers in her hair, tugging gently as her hand releases to your waist, her teeth clipping against the press of your lips, before a cab pulls up right next to you. You kiss her hard. It probably looks cinematic.

If for nothing other than to give Karina one less thing to overhear when she comes back outside to join you.

"Really not the time," you whisper right into the subtle twist of her grin. Her cigarette's gone out in the snowy mess, but Irene smirks deeper in response before throwing it onto the wet concrete. She grinds it beneath her boot like a reminder, her hand still firm on your hip.

"What, you don't think it’d make her day? Don’t think she'd want to hear all those kinds of thoughts running together through our heads?"

You pull Irene in closer. “She’s not you.”

For context - only so you’re aware how it all starts - it wasn’t actually New Year’s Eve, even though everyone had been drinking like it were.

Also for context, it’s not something you were strictly invited to either. Irene’s company holds this holiday party at the end of every year where all of their employees show up (read: idols; Irene likes to argue about work sometimes - to which you have never contested the value of her labor - but your brain tends to fuzz out in the middle, and instead you mostly just watch her pretty mouth in motion). All of the high-up executives and department heads bring their uptight wives and girlfriends to some restaurant ballroom for a cocktail reception that only really functions for name dropping, or influencing the media, or placing side bets on who is sleeping with the CFO - or whose mistress might show up unexpectedly and meet someone's wife face-to-face for the very first time.

It happens to someone Irene knows, once. You pray every year it will happen again.

Be that as it may, there are a plethora of other terrible ways to spend an evening and a half, but it’s all laid bare in Irene's contract - attendance being mandatory; enjoyment excessively optional.

And sure, it’s taken time, but you have gotten used to it: the industry, all of its excess, the inevitable display, the million and one things required of Irene that you, on the other hand, will simply never be able to relate to.

The machine’s so fine-tuned and tightly wound, like clockwork.

"Yeah, whatever," she had said, leaning her hip against your bathroom sink earlier in the day. Her dress laid out neatly across your bed, already pressed, set with her heels and jewelry, everything set on schedule to the point of absurdity.

And so it goes.

You can hear her brushing her teeth through the open door - and see her profile through the hand-swiped-fog on the mirror. She drags the toothbrush to the corner of her mouth: "And before you even ask, yes, you have to come. That's the deal. That's always been the deal - bored, or busy, or trapped talking to some social climbing board member who’s realized the liquor flows fast and free - I don’t wanna hear about it. You’ll be there."

"Uh-huh," you say, eyes fixed on her reflection in the mirror.

"Look, I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” she adds, spits, and lets the faucet run, “but this one’s shaping up to be a really long night.”

You watch the meticulous effort to pull her dark hair back into a low, neat bun as she turns and comes back into the bedroom, tossing her hair clip onto the bed to reclaim later.

“So I guess, pace yourself or something.”

"Ever the salesman, Irene," you say, facetious.

"Um, saleswoman, thank you." Her words are slightly muffled by a silk tank top pulled on over her head, then down the flat length of her body until it hits the tops of her thighs.

It’s not a matter of opinion that she'll look gorgeous in the stilettos, the dress - those earrings that catch light wherever it dares touch her. She'll smile her practiced grin. It'll probably taste sour after the hundredth person asks how long it's been and she tells them she can't remember. But then look - Irene here, still perfectly disheveled: her damp-darkened hair sticking to the porcelain skin of her neck, skin washed free of makeup. She’s beautiful. In a plain and simple way, simple-but-good. Even with the tight little scowl she shoots your direction. It’s a look she has to know could launch a thousand ships; could start a real, actual war; though you're far too charming to know how to fight - you’ve never seen the appeal.

Irene's teeth tug at the corner of her lip like she knows you'd probably end up dying in it. She puts forward this unassuming, nonchalant, “hey.”

She muses it right into a laugh. Covers her genuine smile with her fingers.

"Hey," is how you answer, always.

You’re noticing, now, the strap of her top has fallen just down the petite slope of her shoulder. You want to get your fingers beneath it. Maybe get her back in the shower. You’re never too picky.

And here: an unspoken demand, the thing that always gets you about her - while Irene stands in front of you, her finger looped between the top buttons of your shirt to draw you close. The bow of her lip perked ever-so-slightly, this soft pucker - all pretty in pink. "Before I slip into this dress, you’re going to push me against something sturdy and kiss me until I'm dizzy," she instructs, calm and methodical.

"A lot," you continue for her. You nod seriously, for a moment. "Dizzying."

She closes her eyes and leans in, and you lean into her, too. "Yeah, exactly," she ends up murmuring under a hot breath. "So, get to it.”

And so it goes, and so it goes.

"Have a drink," someone keeps saying.

As a matter of fact, they all do: four shots together - or one old-fashioned, or two vodka seltzers, or three of these mystery concoctions that come in a tall-stemmed glass you didn’t actually catch the name of, and jesus, it fucking reeks of prosecco. You pace yourself, within reason. You really do.

Irene gets elusive under the surface, which is to say, she doesn't change at all - not even at the edges.

And though everyone is here to be seen, only a few actually do any of the talking. Irene has it covered - you do your time.

Happy New Year, sorta. You wait it out.

She tastes like everything sweet, strong on her heels and sharper on her tongue - and sometimes, it’s not the best mix, given all you can manage is the touch and scent of Irene without actually getting at the insides of her thighs or that tempting stretch of skin under her ear, her neck, down to her chest.

This much, and she has no complaint - hardly seems surprised or inconvenienced - to you stepping her into the wall like it's a matter of instinct.

She just sighs, a short huff. "Don't miss these kinds of parties," she then confesses, right into your mouth, her warm exhale filling you whole. The sounds of people laughing and champagne glasses clicking nearby, a new song starting up, it's all an unnecessary backdrop, and Irene isn't distracted by a single bit of it.

Character, setting, scene; it’s all rather textbook, no?

You know what the sounds mean, the soft hums, the lingering touches, the firm press of your palm into the dip of her waist or the slender line of her back. She knows where all the cameras are because she knows everything that anyone could possibly ever want to know, such as the fact that this empty stairwell is a perfect place to start, that there isn't a real plan as to where this might go - or when it should end.

And you should know where not to press - or bite or grab or leave a mark - not in some liminal space, nor some vacant practice-room, not beneath a desk, not behind a curtain. No, not here, cloaked in shadow and secrecy, another scandal in the making. Not that the knowledge stops you from testing out the lines, from drawing little patterns up Irene's waist, slipping one hand along the barest skin where her dress has hitched up along her thigh. To a boundary, the low pitch of her voice, some suggestion like, "not here, are you serious?" mumbled across your lips like it really doesn't matter what gets said or does not.

She’s pinned so properly, so precisely, that the discord between her gentle coaxing, and your hard, bruising edge - that sheer incongruity between what you should do and what you should not - can make the adrenaline spike.

She kisses you harder - and harder, and harder. She catches the small sigh you let out. She kisses you breathless.

You can’t shake the feeling that you’re wasting an opportunity, given that you’re both dressed to the nines and are usually more homebody than anything else. Isn’t that the irony of fame? You sign up for an escape, and spend your life running away.

Irene eventually sinks back into the soles of her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist, and she smiles so easy. She tugs at the cuffs of your jacket, sets your collar flat and proper.

"I'm thinking," you hear her say, taking stock for herself, the flush high in her cheeks, the tousled sort-of-curls now bared, "in half an hour, if you feel like leaving early, we could, oh, I don't know - escape?"

Escape to a bed with a door that locks, you assume she means. Irene wants; you deliver - however she'd like.

“Sounds tempting,” you tell her. She laughs against your shoulder. "Are you waiting on someone else to sweep you off your feet, maybe? Another offer?"

"Uh, always," she scoffs. It's the little things, confidence, and certainty, the honest-in-practice; how her palms sit soft and secure, cupping the angle of your jaw, one hand, now, toying with the knot of your tie like she's contemplating just how it might fall off of you later. Irene shrugs, leaning her weight back against the wall.

She taps a finger to her lips. Ends up saying, very solemn: "Thirty minutes."

As if you had any intention of absconding without her.

Irene holds true to her word - she catches you on the second to last pass around the banquet room. Some executive with a slack mouth is just launching into what sounds to be a spiel about a merger - it's unimportant, not well-versed, so Irene sidles up to you, and immediately steals your attention. It doesn't bother you in the least. She curls her finger into the cuff of your jacket sleeve, and without really being prompted or asked - and only, probably, due to the clear discomfort she has being there with anyone else - she begins dragging you out of the room; you, her ticket out of hell.

"I'm so sorry," Irene dons the industry smile and is probably charming. It's difficult for you to tell. You follow her blindly. "So sorry," she tells someone else as you exit, just before you both disappear entirely, "We're leaving. But, we'll see you next year, promise!"

A real celebrity.

The two of you suddenly a duo - and for everyone’s safety, the way it should probably always ought to be - here’s how it’s all supposed to go:

You, standing almost amidst a bank of snow gathered at the curb, your coat fanned out around Irene, shivers racking up her slight frame. All hidden just enough that if anyone were to notice where your hand ends up arriving at the narrow of her waist, they might think: 'it's not really any of my business,' and look away.

Her, curled beneath your touch - even the single press of your fingers over the small of her back as a stranger pulls a car up to the curb; or, the pull of you that ensures the driver can't actually see what you're both up to, what you're hiding; the little reach she makes into your pocket for a lighter, smiling appreciatively as she presses her cold face to the crook of your arm, your jaw, the juncture of your neck; a safe space.

“So.” Irene will look up at you, pale moonlight gathered in her lashes. She’ll make another face: this thousand kilowatt grin or her brow raising - sharp, quick, there-then-gone. She'll turn the lighter over in her hand once, twice, and say, “how long has it been since we’ve done anything social?”

You’ll know it’s not what she means, but you’ll offer her the out anyway: "could go downtown - there's a place you've probably never been to. Might even play your style of music, if you're really lucky."

Irene will arch her eyebrow as she raises the cigarette to her mouth, lit up before you know it.

"Is that right?" she'll say, dismissive, a smoky tendril curling up over city neon and catching starlight.

You're no stranger to what’s actually being suggested - an unspoken sort of arrangement. All because Irene sees herself as being above, hiding her intentions in euphemism, tact; in long, slow drags; in lilting lashes - while she's fully and shamelessly aware there's nothing virtuous about it.

Who the hell else could make it sound dignified, pretty even: ménage à trois.

Then, you’ll do your part. You’ll help interpret: another girl, gorgeous and probably unclothed, another bad decision, or two, the three of you finding yourselves back in your apartment where Irene will not hesitate to run her tongue up the side of a sweat-glistened neck, to tilt her head and whisper out a mantra of, honey, sweetie, anybody ever tell you how good you look between a woman’s legs? Or, fuck, let’s get you out of those jeans, let me take you all in, how the fuck have we not gotten our hands on you before?

Which means the question you really ought to be asking sounds more like, “maybe we can invite someone over?”

You’ll meet her eyes as they flick up - a lazy expression, easy to read. "Bingo," she’ll say, blowing smoke and even more caution to the wind.

Almost to a fault, everything she does draws attention. Every fool with a blog and a camera posted outside of an event will have her labeled on-sight. You can already see the headline - because the only thing worse than everyone thinking you're the antagonist is looking the part. The imagery, red carpet, sexy evening dress, sultry, regal. The caption, Bae Joohyun - they use her government name like they really know her - sulking in smoke, or thirty flirty and thriving? below a thumbnail of her holding the cigarette, with your suit jacket draped over her shoulders. She's a total tabloid darling. Irene the temptress, or Irene, ice in her veins, or Irene - "How does she look so fucking gorgeous without makeup?!" or "Do I wanna hate her, or wanna be her? @RedFlavor_ROYAL," or "In every shot I feel like Irene has me staring into her soul."

Add that to the fact the girl’s utterly shrouded in myth.

Everyone running amuck with speculation; she's the girl-next-door, she’s the fantasy-in-real-life, she's someone everyone could see themselves fucking - she’s the heroine they say, the villain, the perfect wife, the one-that-got-away. They never do decide.

Though there’s only one opinion she’ll concern herself with, and only on occasion: yours.

Her fingers will come in the dark to trail feather-light from your collarbone, between the rise and fall of your shirt buttons, before pressing open palmed to your chest to still right there, and she's such a pretty thing in the plain black dress, all yours and very much in the mood - which you'll already have reason to know, in part from having felt your way around her no more than a hour prior, but also just the way Irene's been looking at you from beneath her dark lashes all evening, that subtle predatory gleam in her eyes.

You’ll hold her close. Irene will have the audacity to comment, “love you,” in this delicate little whisper, quiet like it could go either way - affection or gratitude. Maybe a touch of both.

A car will shortly arrive, pulling up to the curb with snow melting under its tires, headlights in your eyes, and then finally, in no particular order, your heart hammering: the click of the lighter, the falling ash, the sweet easy laugh, the crunch of ice under foot as she steps down beside you, the soft sweep of your arm.

You have no complaints about the proposal. A lack of argument or dispute is basically the same thing as consent, isn't it? For all intents and purposes, as a whole, it's really kind of a win-win:

Irene needs variety, which you're well aware of. It's only natural for someone who can have anything they want. And, sure, you happen to be a willing participant when it comes to satisfying the occasional whim.

So - the conversation will follow you right into the backseat of the cab, simply to iron out the details.

“Tall. Beautiful. Soft, soft, soft - like cashmere, a luxury brand," Irene will have one heel off and her knee braced up into the back seat while the other leg extends across your thighs, fingers running along your coat collar to make idle circles against the exposed skin there. "Or, at the very least, someone with a little more bend to their character - you know how those prim and proper types always get a bit lost in you.”

"And wouldn’t you know."

It’ll sound smooth, probably. Irene will roll her eyes.

“So, okay,” you'll return to her, right after instructing the cabbie how to get to Irene's place. None of the implications here are lost on you. “You have anyone particular in mind?”

"Hm, I’m thinking."

You can picture it, roughly: Irene's whole body sunk into the dark corner of the seat - one leg idling over the other. Her foot bouncing at your thigh. She has her heels in one hand, earrings in the other.

She’ll look wistfully out the window; the intermittent flashes of city lights casting her face in different hues. The curve of her jaw; the stately line of her nose; her thick black lashes - composition and subject. It's this kind of attention to detail that the cameras scramble to pick up. It’d be better if they got it for the right reasons.

You’ll pull out your phone. Start the usual scroll from the top of your contacts. The girls you know, the girls you don't, the ones who might be awake or who definitely are, regardless of time of day or night.

Irene will finally perk up, gleaming.

Someone cute, she might say, only because she'd rather not admit, someone like me. There's limits to her vanity insofar as her taste - in all sorts of things.

But she does like the idea of it. Someone young and pretty and impressionable; someone naive, or tiny and helpless; it's never difficult to find the girl who will fawn over her - all wide-eyed and doe-faced the instant Irene floats her fingers across her collarbone, smirking - when she starts at the zipper at the back of her neckline and says, "we’re going to see how wet I can get you," without missing a beat. Someone who will eventually say please when Irene gets a little stern and tells her, "ask me what I'm gonna do to you," in a rasp so smoky that it would make the cigarette seem blasé.

But that, you suppose, is the nature of Irene. A touch domineering. A little more than just a pretty face.

She always takes, but she takes gently - a push here, a pull there, she knows people will give her anything.

It will be more obvious when there's a small voice trembling between the two of you, twisted up in your sheets and simpering with the gentle sort of affection that Irene deals so expertly: two fingers sliding up, pressing down. Curling, beckoning. Slow and tender, without giving up that she's looking for any soft spot; a weak point. Some vulnerability to exploit.

It'll be right after whichever plaything of the hour pulls her lips off yours, off the length of your fingers - or when she unfastens her mouth from the hard shape of your cock with an obnoxiously loud pop: "do you guys do this kind of thing often?"

And Irene, without even an ounce of hesitation, will rip right into the sheer of her stockings, letting out an aggressively casual laugh. She’ll plant a kiss somewhere deep. Say, "oh, honey," as she nuzzles into the crease of her thigh. "We're pretty new to this too."

Everyone, just - believes her. For the same reason you suppose they believe she's perfect. She’s good, really good at all this.

In the taxi, Irene's foot will continue to tap against your leg, until you're stopping her by covering her knee with your hand. As for now, the evening will remain all but written in stone. You'll run a hand through your hair, you’ll lean an elbow against the window - the whole while, ignoring the sudden itch between your shoulder blades at the thought of something else. At the thought of all the other girls who'll take an instant liking to her. Who wouldn't.

The light will change. The intersection will empty. The radio will turn to static.

You'll eventually offer up a name like, "Jennie Kim," among others. Moving alphabetically down your contacts list. Taking you a long while to make it through the 'K's.

"Hm." Irene's soft hum of disapproval, non-committal. "Are you asking, or telling?"

The difference won't matter. "I'm suggesting," you'll say.

You’ll watch how Irene turns the name over in her mouth a few times before smiling - how she knows, there's the smallest part of you that has her held in a certain light. "Maybe," she'll say, tapping her phone against her cheek in the contemplation of whether or not this is a tentative no or a provisional yes - when really what she'll avoid an answer with is, "aren’t we a little tired of Jen?"

Tough to say.

Good, sweet, and just naive enough to get twisted up between you, in her case. Oh, Jennie’s the type of girl - you'll stuff your cock in her pretty little cunt while leaning into her, taking her arms and pinning them to the base of her spine, so she can't reach and can't claw and can't make an utter fucking wreck of herself. The two of you have known Jennie for too long, is what will strike you then. And a moment later, the idea of sinking into her ass from behind with your palm flat and warm against her hip and your voice husky and deep in the way she likes, and saying, god, fuck, Jen, you’d let me do anything wouldn’t you, you’d let me cum in here too.

And - she would, really.

She wouldn't even complain. Her face would be pressed so firmly against Irene's thighs, and she would whimper, not beg. Even though you know it’s what Irene might prefer; how it makes her look real cute - cheeks stained crimson as the syllables roll around her tongue before being forced out into the open.

"I think she's great," you might say out loud, lowkey.

And in a voice that is louder than strictly necessary, Irene will cut in: "she lets you finish in her ass, and then not even three minutes later she'll say it was the best lay of her life, of course you do."

It’ll make the cab driver clear his throat.

"What you’re saying is ‘no.’"

Irene will frown, thoughtful, but not conceding anything - perhaps she means hold onto that thought for now. If nothing else sounds particularly enticing, we'll call it a maybe. "I’m saying: Jennie is. I don't know."

You can hear the end of her sentence: not quite good enough. Not this time around, but someday, sure, someday soon.

"And for the record," Irene will follow, casual, with a dismissive hand wave. "Just because you got to her first doesn't mean she's ever liked you more."

The few that fall afterwards will never make the cut. Irene will turn them all down. Jisoo - no, sorry, look, she's so, so pretty, Irene will be trying to explain, gesturing in a way that's hard to interpret. "But a little too stuck up for my tastes."

You've been speaking in code for years. She means: way, way, way too straight.

"The blonde though," Irene will try right after that. “Daisy, or Lily, oh god something or another, what was her name-”

"Um, do you mean Rosé?”

“Yeah.” Irene will sink back into the leather, sipping down a memory or two and shifting her skirt up the top of her thighs.

You'll consider the angle. Your options: Rosé on her knees right inside the foyer of your apartment, Irene's hands wrapped tightly in her hair, controlling the rhythm. The way she gets her fingers spread under Irene's knees and draws her forward, pushing up with her eager, prying mouth - licks and licks, nosing against the heat of Irene's pussy until she’s gasping and locking her hands around the younger girl's head to steady the jerk of her hips.

Then, you'll laugh out loud. Because you know, Rosie isn’t anywhere close to straight enough.

And the back-and-forth of what-ifs and could-bes will follow. An endless string, a laundry list. Where Irene makes a face for every name, every suggestion: too messy, or too innocent, or too sweet, or too boring, or not nearly shy or gullible enough, or whatever other bizarre caveat she finds to slot between all of her impassioned criticisms. The cabbie will be shaking his head at some point too, because the question hangs over the taxi at large:

What exact criteria could possibly be good enough for the distinguished tastes and sensibilities of Bae Irene?

(The truth is: it doesn’t go like that at all.)

Enter then, Yu Jimin.

The run-in starts there, downstairs, out standing in a pool of warm, yellow light. The snow flurrying about in the glow of a street lamp - melting into where her smoothed curtain of jet-black hair spills over her shoulder and trickles down her sleeve. She looks a little cold, but not noticeably shivering. There's a red flush to the exposed length of her legs, between a pair of knee-high boots and the short hem of the coat itself. The stockings underneath offer little in the way of wintery protection - nor do the little bows that rest at the the bands of elastic around her soft, pale thighs - though it's obvious to anyone who's looking why she'd choose to wear them.

An assay into form over function. She's never cared for pragmatism.

But the lines around her are pristine, a clean-cut of shadow and substance; you take a step onto the curb, feeling yourself fall right into the foreground.

Look: you know Karina. You both do. Enough to recognize where it’s calmest before a storm.

Irene eventually calls out her name into the silence, and there is a split-second where her fingers reflexively wrap around the crook of your elbow. Almost possessive.

A car rushes by. Karina turns with her ungloved hand holding her cellphone to her ear and she's fucking gorgeous as can be, always pinning you with these big, unapologetic eyes - strikingly and somewhat deceptively innocent beneath her sharp brows. A breathy huff in response; she's otherwise unaffected.

Her shoulders shrug in easy dismissal; a quirk of the corners of her mouth. She slips her phone back in the pocket of her pea-coat. "Oh, how we all doing?"

Not for long, the question lingers.

"Fine," Irene finally replies, though her voice doesn't rise above a disinterested murmur.

"Easier, right? To fight for breath down here than it is up there," she says, pointing her gaze up high into the rafters of the building, and in a lot of ways, you realize, she's just like Irene - sweet, charming, this uncanny ability to make you think she's close, when she isn't actually looking to share anything. When she hasn't exactly decided that she likes you or anything at all.

You squint slightly. Take in where her silhouette appears darker against the backdrop of city lights, blending with the velvety black, bleeding into the ink-smudged night sky.

"There's certainly something to be said for flying under the radar at these things," she continues, taking one step closer towards you as if for comfort. Or privacy - to guard against anyone who might walk by.

"You've still got it easy," Irene says, "that, and everyone thinks you're too pretty to go after. No one even seems to consider the idea, it’s insufferable."

"Jealous?" Her tone is playful. There’s a smirk she’s suppressing - until she can’t hold it in: an unexpected, stunning smile, dimple and all. This incongruously kind face.

Oh, and listen, no one gets it better than Irene.

"No," Irene exhales, hot. “Not at all.” You can see where the thin plume of her breath hangs over her like a cloud for a moment, thinking, before dissipating against the harshness of a frigid December breeze.

"Really." She smiles at you again. Makes a sound that could be a laugh, you don’t know, the wind takes it, far away.

"Are you out here waiting for someone?" you have to ask.

"Loaded question." Karina purses her lips for a moment. Her long eyelashes blink once, twice. "Because, I dunno, aren't we all?"

"Some of us more than others." Irene speaks quietly, moreso to herself than anyone else - but somehow her voice carries.

"Cheeky," Karina says, and this time she does laugh. "No. I'm waiting for a cab. I've had one hell of a night, and no interest in spending the rest of it in some rising socialite's bed, doubters excluded, because - look, I'm happy for you guys, I guess? You're gonna get married," she claps slowly, slow and mocking, slow enough that Irene rolls her eyes, "-or, the two of you will make a statement saying that you are - either way it sounds fucking exhausting - congratulations to you both. But seriously, congrats."

This is sorta how you've always known her.

Faintly-hinted secrets, flirty half-truths. Her love life is an utter wreck, but that’s not something you’re supposed to know. So that's all she gives, which is more or less how everyone knows her. It's the only way to survive, probably, in a world of glitter and glamour, when everyone's vying to look, to feel, to take, and take, and take. Irene knows how suffocating it can be - she doesn’t lie about it, not to you, which is the only reason you're so well-versed.

Point being, no one wants to admit to any cracks in the fantasy; the gold too shiny, the surface too slick, the mirror too smooth for that illusion to slip.

"So go grab a guy with a half-decent smile and get him to buy you a drink about it," Irene suggests, derisive, "arch your back, push your tits out, get creative. I doubt it'll be much trouble at all."

Karina looks down, back up - with a slight chew of her lip, saying, "you just have me beat in all the important ways, I suppose. You got it in the bag, no real competition."

Irene is smiling, but her expression is unimpressed; it doesn’t mean much, really, to be her friend, her colleague, or worse, her opponent. Irene is calm like an evening in July, a low, cool, languid feeling. "I don't mean to be a prick, but, aren't you a little young to be so jaded?"

"Gosh," Karina’s grin doesn’t change, but does turn a touch wicked, like she's biting back. "I'd hate to be around when you do mean to be a prick, but maybe we'll find out - you know, down the line, someday.”

Irene tuts softly. It sounds patronizing. "Please, you'll have to forgive me - for mistaking you for someone more aware of how the rest of us work."

“You're one to talk, Irene."

“Careful,” Irene warns.

"What, you gonna set me straight?"

"Right." The way the word rolls off Irene's tongue, slow, thick, bitter, like molasses; like the coffee she has when she's tired, like the cigarette she swears left and right she’s cutting out and the vodka she needs you to reach for in the upper cabinets, like the person she is after midnight when you've let her keep drinking to find the limits to her inhibition. You understand Irene too well. And no matter what anyone says, you will not have the facts wrong.

There's no kindness to the way she laughs. None.

She tilts her head to you, grinning: an honest grin, her favorite thing - inimitable, unique, and hers alone; her version of cruelty is what will always have them doubting. You hold her gaze as she adds, "of all things, right now - wouldn’t you just love to set her straight?"

Depending on who you ask, you’ll get different results.

Irene insists you kissed Karina first, probably out there in the snow - god knows how cliche would that be.

She also insists that it was you who suggested that “there’s a lot more sense in splitting a cab,” and then minutes later, “please, it'd be no trouble, just let us pay. Our place is five blocks that way," and Irene - being Irene - mentioning it's actually quite a bit further, but hey, it isn’t worth splitting hairs over. And it's not worth explaining - she shuts you up with another kiss, pressing her weight hard up against you, the arm she slings around your neck.

Then in a sort of mythologized version of the timeline, it's you who makes the proposition - invites Karina upstairs, with the charm that Irene knows is usually reserved for her benefit alone: that slight tick of the brow, the delicate slant of your mouth, the confidence you seem to have in thinking no one will ever say no, no matter how brusque the invitation-

"You two are unbelievable. Is this really your standard procedure?" Karina asks, once you're through the door, or maybe during a bout of smalltalk in the kitchen. Something flirtatious; and suggestive, and maybe a little offhand. A pointed glance downwards, back up. All it really will take. "You get some girl into your home and they're just so overwhelmed and dazzled and in love, they can't even make eye contact for longer than a second? Because that's quite a line," a soft huff, the exhale that seems to carry the faintest note of a sigh. You could call it wistful. Just this side of romantic; very attractive.

“That’s more or less the gist of it,” you offer.

“You’d be surprised.” Irene is lingering on it, back against the counter beside you, laughing. "Some people are more than happy to be swept off their feet."

"Imagine that. If that's how this is meant to go, then tell me," and Karina lifts her chin, a breath drawn slow and deliberate, "what exactly do prince and princess charming do next?"

Consider that Karina’s interpretation of events is closer to reality: no pretense. She is not drunk, and in this story, she never will be.

But it's the slow-burn thing, the rivals-to-lovers thing, the sexual-tension-through-conflict thing, the white-hot-blistering-rage matter gone awry. Not a series of happy accidents, but a result of intentional circumstance - this slow arc of descent. She knows exactly how Irene is tightly wound, and which thread to pull to make everything start to unravel. She'd flirt with you right under her nose - say things in this obnoxiously girlish tone, pout a lot, lean into so much innuendo it becomes impossible to miss the meaning, or the sincerity behind it.

If you had to guess - Karina’s been pining since forever, since Irene accidentally etched her DNA into the girl upon saying, carelessly, that she’d always seen some part of herself in Karina. Probably around the time Irene wrapped a palm over an expanse of bare thigh, just beneath the hem of her skirt, telling her, you're getting way too pretty for your own good.

Doesn’t matter who you are, that’ll fuck you up for real.

And it's not just how she looks at Irene when she thinks no one is watching either; swings and roundabouts, Karina probably can’t keep the thought of you sprawled out over Irene’s petite little frame, or Irene kissing you hard while wrapped around you tight. Your hand, her hand, intertwined and picturesque, sliding down Irene's stomach. Together - and so very without her - fingertips stroking lightly over Irene’s clit, gently dipping inside her.

Irene is not stupid. She picks up on everything, and there's a lot to unpack:

"Can you believe it? Minjeong just asked me if I've ever kissed a girl before," Karina had said to you once, ages ago, between a workout or dance practice, something or another - she was wearing a loose-fit tank top and very intent on showing off. She seemed then to be taking mental note of the face Irene put on, the look of someone trying to hold in an aneurysm.

“Well,” you played along, because you’re not really without blame here either. "Have you?"

"Oh my god." Karina knew what she awas doing, the playful slap to the chest, the lingering touches she’d have on you every chance she could get - total fucking coquette - anything to get a rise out of you, your fiancée. She hushed her voice down to this strategic whisper that Irene could just overhear: "of course not."

You better believe Irene broke her composure not soon afterwards, after Karina made her exit.

"Do not fuck her," she demanded, firm, "I don't care how good you think she might be in bed, or what she would probably let you get away with."

You remember the knit of her brow.

“Do not.”

You’re sighing, profoundly. The memory - not to mention its shocking clarity - has put a smug sort of satisfaction into your bones, indulging. The nip to Karina's jaw, a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her shoulder. A hand tracing down the curve of her hips, under the guise of helping her settle between the cushions of the couch. You feel like you catch the color flooding her cheeks. Then, Irene, her pretty little shadow: the steady presence over her other shoulder.

"What." Karina sounds defensive when Irene pulls her lips away, but the hand she has buried in Irene's hair doesn’t appear to be going anywhere. "Are we going to pretend for a minute I don't see the way you're both looking at me right now?"

"Don't be stupid, darling, of course not." Irene leans up close again. Kisses up her neck, behind her ear, and coos, "the two of us, you just seemed like you were needing someone, that's all," and then whispers the words, barely audible: "I mean look, who wouldn't want the three of us right now?"

Karina hums. "Ah, so - you think I deserve to have a little fun."

"Maybe," she draws it out a little longer.

Your hands dip below her knees, running over the silk-slick surface, tugging at the frills lining her thighs - feeling up over the outline of where her body curves under her dress. Over the dark pattern printed across the front.

Karina swallows visibly, her head dropping back against the armrest, the couch cushion; by the way she shudders slightly and starts breathing, you realize that it's probably been a while since she's had much experience being in a position this helpless. You draw your fingers lightly across the bareness of her skin, right as Irene finds that sensitive spot just where her neck slopes to her collarbone. You trace along the fabric until you have her squirming beneath you both.

She sucks in a breath as Irene drags a touch right over the obvious seam, across the expanse of her hip, and despite your fiancée being a tad forward -

"Both of you should know I'm not that type of girl. Who puts out so easily-"

"Likewise," Irene practically sneers, not missing a beat and threading her fingers beneath her jaw, feeling her pulse against the pad of her thumb.

"Yeah, well. If this isn't a setup, then, what-"

“A setup.” Irene breathes the word out, contemptuous, which is almost as if she says yes, you figured it out, and she starts to lean in closer - the distance between the two of them now negligible as her mouth tightens with her derision. "That is awfully conceited of you."

"Ha."

You choose right there to run your palm between her thighs and cup at the front of her pussy through the skirt of her dress, squeezing tightly. There has to be an element of good cop, bad cop to this whole routine, and you'd be remiss not to participate in the former. Irene's glare is starting to become pretty intimidating.

"The way I see it," you begin, and it's so gentle. Easy to slip through, but easy enough to grip - no threat, or indication that she should stop rocking forward to the motion of your fingers, toying idly. "There's no catch. Only: Irene calls the shots. If you end up with a crush, or worse, think you're in love," a light squeeze to illustrate the point, the dig of nails, not too rough, but definitely drawing attention. "You've gotta walk it off.”

Karina just runs her tongue across her lips, sighing.

“No strings attached, no special treatment. Or anything."

"Oh." Karina is looking straight at you, dazed - as your fingers work harder, picking up where her hips started rolling a second before. She licks her lips. "You're telling me that I'm going to get fucked so thoroughly here, that it's gonna be a problem."

"Actually," you pull away, pushing her dress up so you can touch up ever higher this time. Rooting between her soft thighs. "I can't make any guarantees. You'll need to convince us first."

There's a laugh, from a spot inside her diaphragm - and yeah, there's no denying the reality here. She's nervous; or excited; or nervous-excited. Karina just lets it pass, an exaggerated sound in her throat, before gasping on an exhale of breath: "convince you to fuck me?"

"Between us, we've kissed our fair share of pretty girls in the heat of the moment," Irene supplies.

Karina laughs. Starts saying, "in that case, can I start by confessing that this whole exchange has left me pretty fucking wet-"

You slip one finger down the rise of her panties, this lacy little number she probably picked out with sordid fantasy in mind.

"Oh god," she says, voice drowned in her throat, husky, and sultry - it’s really hard not to appreciate the girl, like this - and then she closes her eyes, saying it again, "oh, yeah, like - like that. Okay, thank you."

Irene puts a hot kiss into her lips, and a subjugating silence stills over the living room, softening around her small voice, her breathing. Everything comes together so seamlessly, so effortlessly:

The click of Irene’s heels against hardwood, these soft sounds of wet tongues twisting and bodies grinding, Karina's face, buried somewhere under Irene's chin, letting out the cutest moan. Irene's helping the rest of the dress up over Karina's ass, then up past her waist, pulling down the scalloped elastic of her stockings. She grabs hold of her hips, feeling the draw of her curves there - you watch how your other half does the thing she does best, the thing where she strips a girl down to nothing like she's doing them a favor.

"Pretty," Irene appraises her naked body - not her face, not her mind, not her ambition or the strength of her determination, or god forbid, something banal like her personality, but, "fuck, look at you, look at this figure," her palm skates along the plane of her stomach, "so pretty."

It could be the insinuation: Irene is ready to reduce the girl down to a heap of jumbled nerves; to tears, probably - given half the chance. Like she's telling her a body as flawless and well-manicured and sweetly receptive to being toyed with as hers needs to get absolutely wrecked, among other things.

(Fucked so deeply, and to the point of utter exhaustion - the point is that she forgets her own name.)

Irene knows just by looking, her eyes tracing down each and every one of Karina’s curves like they’re taking inventory. It could be as simple as a handprint seared into her ass, a stinging red stain etched into her soft, creamy white skin, marking the insides of her thighs, her beautiful fucking tits - oh, the things the two of you could do.

"How do you want it, exactly?" Irene's eyes are dancing around her face, in her stare, darting down, then back up. "How, baby."

Karina smiles against Irene’s lips like she knows the answer, the perfect one. She must already have the script prepared. It's no stretch of the imagination: "anything, as long as it means you both keep looking at me."

Because maybe it's down to the pure physicality of it all. Something Karina's been waiting to feel, desperate to have, for some time - as you set into action, dismantling any pretense that you weren’t about to devour the heat of her aching cunt, from running touches all over her slick pussy. It’s a strong theory, you figure, from the visceral response you get when you get start to fuck her, when you slide a finger inside: tight and snug, and so unbelievably wet.

“Oh,” she breathes out, and it sounds sated and needy all at once.

You make sure to glance at her face before pressing another into her. All the way past the knuckles. She looks lost to the feeling, the pleasure; her expression gone hazy-eyed as you start fucking into her with a few steady pumps of your wrist - slow and then faster, then faster again - fucking into her with increasing urgency.

Just to keep her gasping, panting.

Like a woman starved for it.

"God," Irene kisses softly into her mouth. Her hand tangled in Karina's hair, twisting strands between her fingers and tugging just shy of something painful, "you're really sensitive, aren't you?"

Karina nods, slightly. It’s all she can manage.

You have a soft spot for girls who will spread themselves open like they can't wait, but still end up flustered over how your lips ghost across aching flesh. Who can't even form the words - asking for this, and that, and a million little things; and look at Karina - blushing, her eyes fluttering closed, and digging her nails into the couch the moment you finally put your hot mouth on her. Her entire body is drawn taut like a live wire.

"Relax," you coax, speaking more to the muscle - her legs tensed, and knees pulled tightly together. You know just where to place your lips to make her go to pieces, but it's worth suspending pleasure - your own, and Irene's, who won't admit that this sorta turns her on too - so Karina's face might open up, so the tilt of her brow can slack, and the twist of her expression can soften. Like it's the only chance she'll ever get.

When you place your palm across Karina's stomach to steady her and look up, Irene has started peeling off her own clothes, down to nothing but the little panties underneath. That garter-belt thing that makes her ass look like she was sculpted straight out of clay - a reminder she's always worth your time, no matter what mood she's in, or whether or not she'll eventually let you take the lead. She's lifting herself on the couch to throw off the little slip of a dress, the high heels. “Baby," she purrs, teasing, maybe to distract from how she’s gone from dragging circles with her fingernails across Karina’s collarbones to kneading roughly at her tits. And she might even insert something she's never actually had a chance to confess out loud, or even consider much, like: she's been dying to know what Karina's face will scrunch up into, or what her eyes will look like, tears stained across her lashes while you fuck her within an inch of her life. The image you’ll find when you find all those spots that drive a girl wild.

Your mouth drags over the slick, her lips, her clit, and down again - as if to illustrate the point.

"That feels - so," she starts, and bites off the rest of the words.

Irene grabs hold of Karina's hands. Presses their mouths back together, and bites Karina's bottom lip. Kissing the words out of her, the sentences that start in half measures and stifled gasps:

"- so, good, oh. Do - ah, fuck. Oh, god-"

-and vanish somewhere in Irene's mouth.

"-oh, do that again. Oh my god. There. Just - lick- please, keep fucking, exactly that-"

And pay close attention, because here now is how she slips: from the image she maintains for the cameras, the audiences, her admirers, her competition, her detractors, the ones who mean it, the ones who don't mean a damn thing; the girl who shies away from anything overtly sexual, or sensual, or remotely hedonistic; and doesn't act as though she too, just as much as anyone else, needs someone to fuck her stupid - as if it's an eventuality of her own humanity, instead of a concept she's learned to scorn.

Irene picks up on the distinction, all too familiar with the look filling out across Karina’s angelic features.

She ghosts her thumbnail across Karina’s nipple. Tries out: "why don't you make her cum, baby, right here, on the couch.” A look at you, a quick tilt of the chin. Then, her tongue peeking from behind her teeth, and her voice dropping, "just so you can tell Minjeong, or whoever ends up asking - 'you have no idea how good they fuck.'"

And just like that - with Karina’s body laid out beneath Irene’s hands, your mouth - you simply fucking ruin her.

You both do.

Until it's only a mess of whines and shuddering limbs and that lovely look: pure agony. So helpless. So utterly exposed.

Karina hiccups something incoherent - you’re doubling down. You’re working your touches through the torrid mess between her legs. Her pussy is shimmering wet and hot and every bit as pretty as she is. Then, the motion of your tongue, the slow, heavy flick back and forth, relentless and constant - dragging back and forth, keeping her right up, riding the wave. Back and forth, back and forth.

"Oh my fucking god." Karina can only gasp, jaw-slacked open.

Overwhelmed and blissed-out and suddenly awash in this searing and wondrous sensation that the only real way she's able to make sense of is by twisting her hands in your hair and pulling you flush against her cunt while she cums on your lips.

"Ah - you're fucking kidding me. Please, don't stop, please don't-" Karina has her head turned. Voice pitched right into Irene's shoulder. You fuck her on two fingers until she’s got the heel of her palm pressed firm into her forehead, and she’s starting to jerk her hips into your face. Stutter her breathing, her words: “I, I, I- fucking - what the fuck, you’re making me - jesus fucking christ."

Like some delicate and intricate piece of her had just been irreparably snapped. Broken. You hear her expletive-laden screams - and think, better her, than either of you.

And all the way through every last part of it, cresting, waning, quivering, the tremble of her thighs snapped shut against your ears, the grind of her teeth, and each little choked out gasp-

“I'm… fucking cumming.”

Karina spends the entirety of her first orgasm between the two of you, heaving.

The look on her face alone, just from what parts you can see, has your lower gut clenched - it goes from anguished pleasure, mouth pulled wide and brows wound high and tight, all the way to calm and cathartic, the pretty bow of her lips settling into something manic. Eyes softening with a luster, half-closed. A mask, the afterglow: blissed-out and smiling dreamily.

How anyone could say no to a picture like this, you're unsure. Though not particularly willing to test the theory, naturally.

"That was mean," Karina finally huffs, letting a moment pass to even out her breaths. "Both of you, so mean."

"You said to," is all Irene says, amused.

Karina looks down; lifts her head just slightly - as you bring your own mouth off her, catching her glance. Not even your palm and your fingers covered with the evidence - it's her lips that give her away, the swollen, pouting, bright pink lips of her pussy, still radiant with her climax.

She breathes, "god. Irene."

It sounds an awful lot like she's begging for mercy.

Irene hums softly. Leans in for a kiss, with her slender hands cupping Karina's face. Manages to say: "you just look so fucking hot when you're struggling. Can’t fault us for that." She reaches down, and digs her fingernail into the line of Karina's cheek - near the center, just short of the outer curve where her dimple naturally settles. She works her lips to a very soft, "ow."

"Listen," Irene says, "is there anywhere else you've been considering going? Because in the event you're looking to stay for the night-"

Karina replies, "only everywhere I still haven't gone."

Her smile looks honest. Her cunt seeping and slick - there's abundant honesty there, too. And you manage to catch the wicked glint in Irene's eye, like she's a bit obsessed with all that glisten, and what it means - that Karina hasn't felt a real, good dicking in ages. Maybe, probably, never. That she's slept with everyone and filled her quota of playing pretend: of someone just going through the motions, dragging their mouth or tongue or cunt along the most obvious, conventional routes.

It’s written all over her face: the girl between you needs to be touched everywhere, and by someone who knows how. Needs it deeper, more. Has to feel the pressure everywhere all over.

Irene asks her, plainly, “how might we get you moaning like that again, hm? We're both dying to know."

She puts her hand under Karina’s chin, tilts her face towards hers, and kisses her long and deep. Until the both of them are having trouble catching any breath. Until they have to break, only so one can take another in: inhale, exhale, and back in her mouth.

"Maybe." Karina lets go of Irene's lower lip. She sounds almost bashful, "you'll need to let me get my hands on that cock of his. Let me get it inside, want it real fucking deep inside. Tell you if I'm just, you know. Really fucking horny. Or maybe I have some hangups about sex I've never told anyone - and we have to work past that," she takes Irene's mouth into her own again.

It's the short consideration of sure, mm, why not? until the next suggestion is: "he should be on his knees, in bed, those hands around my waist, behind the small of my back and pulling me into every stroke."

“Oh,” Irene agrees, “I love that. Should I play with myself while I watch him fuck you senseless? So hard and rough - you'll start seeing stars. I wanna see him completely railing into your dripping pussy from behind, fucking you so goddamn well until you're screaming so loud it’ll wake the neighbors."

Karina sighs. “Well I’d hate to get all the way here and half-ass it.”

You barely catch it, but there's a lovely note in Karina's voice. It’s saying, and don't you dare treat me like glass, like I’m fragile.

All in all, a filthy, filthy way for a girl with virtually no ill-reputation or ill-gotten gains - no record whatsoever - to describe how she wants you to fuck her, until she’s biting down on the consonants in your name, moaning loud and unmistakably clear, and-

“-sorry, whose cock?” Irene has no intention of letting her off easy.

You draw away from the meat of her thigh, licking your lips clean, and insert mid-conversation with a husky-voiced, "hmm?"

Karina just shoots you a sharp-eyed look. "You heard."

"Only," you play dumb. You run a hand between her legs, using your palm as you go, so you can pull more sound out of her throat; the pleased sighs, a hum. Another. "The part where you want it 'real fucking deep inside,' I think I heard."

"I mean, wouldn't you?" Karina looks satisfied with that. Lets out an easy laugh and turns to Irene. "Besides, I need to know if it’s more than just pretty eyes and a handsome smile that you’ve gotten yourself so hung up on."

The tilt of your fiancée’s brow above her is noticeable and apparent. Not a twinge of surprise; more like recognition. It's Irene looking haughty - beyond the usual - wrapped up in the afterglow. It's the confidence, and not at all humbled by the reality that she is no stranger to fucking a girl this downright gorgeous, knowing the danger inherent in allowing that kind of damage, but if Irene has you figured - she's figured Karina even better: someone willing to push through the burn. Someone, she’s betting, with the capacity to handle pain like it's an artform.

“Karina,” Irene says, and she's really leaning into it, "you really ought to be more careful with that smart-mouth of yours.”

It's the absolute worst way to proposition someone; maybe second only to what Irene whispers straight into her ear:

"If I had to guess, it’s your sweet, pretty face that has everyone bending over backward just to let you fuck them, hmm?”

You’d anticipated this much. You watch how your beautiful wife-to-be eases forward and leaves a slow kiss into Karina's throat, before adding the worst, most awful thing she can manage, “they're eating up this adorable, innocent facade of yours just as soon as you let it slip - letting you straddle their waist, and slide right on, and chase some clout out of oh, she must have this tight little cunt, or how good it would fucking feel to ruin a load just slamming these perfect tits, or. The best of the best, when it comes to pretty things with brains and mouths on 'em: 'fuck, I bet Karina has a face like an angel, she's the kind of girl who probably really, really loves taking it raw - filled and fucked as deep as she can manage'."

“She’s insinuating you’re a slut,” you offer on the next beat, down from between Karina’s knees. “Or something.”

"I put that much together." Karina has that teasingly pragmatic tone in her voice, matching Irene's level. "Your point?"

The joke is that even Irene - after she has the chance to drag her thumb across Karina's lips - looks mildly impressed.

"Sweetheart," the corner of Irene's mouth quips, as if the reason is so, so very obvious, "let’s say you’re just like me, total hypothetical. You're going to have to let us know which part feels better: the praise, or the degradation. I know it’s what makes you tick: all the attention. I know you need it. The same way I know that I could eat this perfect pussy out for hours just to get it slick, and wet, and wanting, and the thing I’m still not sure you’d be ready to learn," she tells her, a light in her stare that flicks upwards, eyes going from Karina's cunt and back to her eyes, her own mouth, and then hers, "the really good sex? Isn’t always pretty."

There isn't room for misunderstanding, let alone any mercy in it. Irene's face is dark; dangerous. Like, seriously. Karina knows better. Everyone does. You know exactly what she's doing. You know what comes next, but this time, you can't shake the feeling like-

Like Karina wants you to look.

She has her fingers on her cunt, spread, presenting - and a small shrug; her response is so fucking coy: "I guess I can't really help it. Besides, it’s common knowledge, isn’t it? The brattiest girls always turn out to be the best fucks. Honest, I get so wet sometimes, you know and then god, I can't think straight.”

She laughs at the premise.

“I dunno, what's a girl to do?"

You can feel the room starting to tighten up, just barely: Karina’s breath still heavy, her chest heaving, the way Irene holds her still, how her arm curls across her stomach, palm flat under her tits; that pose in particular, the power to entice.

And maybe it's the fact Irene is still making eyes at you from Karina's shoulder, the cruel bite to her upper-lip, showing how she's working at the soft skin of her neck - a smirk, before pressing into another kiss there. Your insides are running hot, a shudder racing up your spine. There’s no mistaking what she's getting off on, not just some pretty-as-paint newcomer. There’s your Irene, your fiancée - and her beautiful, adorable, awful little shadow.

So what if, by some pure hypothetical, this all spirals out of control?

You don't know the consequences of taking home what amounts to a coworker and screwing her with a certain reckless abandon. There’s power harassment, a toxic workplace environment, boundary issues, sexual-fraternization. So on, so forth. It's all relative, but watching Irene and Karina make their way up the stairs and admiring the things that only a woman's hips can do, swaying this way, and that - and, following the path from one tight little ass, the other, all the way up their spines - there are no such qualms to contend with, because there's absolutely zero chance that’s the thing that’ll be keeping you up all night.

Irene laments and hopes in the same breath.

She has two pairs of panties in one hand, Karina’s fingers laced into the other, explaining with a quick squeeze, "don't tell me, baby, I already know," a wink, a laugh. She’s such a sweetheart when she means to be; charming, wooing, the coy girl Karina seems to have gotten so drunk off the idea of getting mixed up with. And yeah, when she drops them on the floor, and pushes Karina gently against the wall. Traces her finger up her jaw, then her cheek, and leans into the crook of her neck, into that same spot from earlier; yes, Karina can count herself lucky, or whatever.

"So, don't stop now, baby-" Karina's huffing - the line of her throat so taut and exposed. "You should really fucking try harder if you want me to beg."

"Honey," is how Irene responds, leisurely.

There will come a point in their intimacy, in all things considered, where this act no longer plays itself: Irene, the seductress, and Karina, a deft and innocent prey; of course you, the hammer to a nail, pushed and pulled in one direction, the next. The moments in which her lips leave the crescent of Karina's mouth - hot, hazy, and half-wet with their own spit, their tongues twisting, the muted click, and the telltale wet drag of a body pushing and straining up against her own-

Maybe in her bones, she is begging for it. Maybe, Irene hopes, she'll have to: eyes turned up, watering, tears coming hot, streaming down her flushed cheeks as she cries it from her lungs.

"I wouldn't have you beg for anything."

It's true that Irene is ninety-nine percent grace, one percent child-like wonder; she's easy to read when the mood hits her. The lines of their bodies tousling, twisting and tangling in moon-lit-darkness. There's some irony to it, only a few steps away from the bedroom. At the base of the staircase. In front of the tall windows covered with frost that serve, now, primarily to remind Karina that she's in a part of town she could never afford, in an ostentatious apartment she could only dream of; but most importantly, that the woman in front of her - with her fingers dipping down between her thighs and up again, tracing over her navel and the rise of her hip and her cleavage - can have anyone she likes, without limitation.

Karina can't deny it's everything she wants.

"Karina, I'm curious." You're easing into that spot, where the two of them have coiled themselves up - you’ve got your cock in your hand and you’re stepping out of your pants - in the hallway, the frame of the door, a heavy, long shadow cast: Karina has Irene pinned now, a wrist over her head, against the other side of the wall where the white paintwork is starting to run thin. "Didn't you say something before about how hard you wanted it? Raw, deep, I believe was how you put it."

Irene smirks. It's just the slightest sneer, until she has her hands reaching over the curves of Karina's hips and pulling her fingers into her soft ass. Spreading her cheeks. Touching up, then down, back in the same groove, this slow rhythm that builds - like they were both expecting this exact sequence of events.

You watch Irene whisper something into the girl's ear, and - fuck - the light catches her expression at just the right moment, head lolled to the side.

"Hey," Karina drawls. She lets it come out breathy - on the note, the middle and upper registers of her voice, hitting something near a perfect alto. "How about instead of having some heart-to-heart, and making me out to be some naive-ass kid, you stop asking questions and get to fucking the life out of my little pussy."

She ends it so charming.

“Oh,” you tell her, feeling how fucking drenched she is right at the end of your cock - sliding her slick up and down the length of her cunt, and knowing the feeling will likely stick to your skin and drip to the floor, all of it - "well. If that's all."

Your hand arrives on the lithe stretch of muscle between her waist, right along the ridge of her hip bone, your cock pressing onto the heat of her cunt. Karina turns her head over her shoulder so you can see it all in profile: that pout. That look. That everything.

"There you have it." Irene squeezes the flesh she's got cupped in her palms, drawing circles. "If only everyone else got to hear that sweet, sharp edge you've got underneath, hm?"

Karina opens her mouth with some clear quip to needle, but stops herself, a catch in the center of her throat, her brows shooting up. The pull of her voice is somewhere out and over.

“God, fuck-” she can just manage to sputter. “You’re- ah, ah - your fucking cock-”

Oh, it has you cursing too. You're pushing so far into her tight little cunt - the soft airy moan, that pretty sound, riding back on every last stroke until you've filled her right to the hilt.

“I know, I know - that feels so good, right?” Irene coos.

You just pull her all the way back onto your cock, thrusting deep. Base to tip. So goddamn fucking deep.

Karina probably doesn’t even mean to whimper, but the press of your hips, slowly snapping in and in, has her lungs constricted, as the pressure slides through every hot, slippery inch inside of her - this glide of agonizing intensity.

“I bet you want to just cream all over that cock,” Irene says, fine eyebrows knitting into something like contentment. “All filled up and feeling full, and just fucking letting it go - he’ll take such good care of you. He’ll fuck you so good you won’t ever get that warm, hazy, blissed-out feeling out of your veins ever, ever again, if he has his way-”

All while the head of your cock works over every fucking sensitive part of her, dragging out to thrust all the way into her soft cunt, the round of her ass bouncing back to meet each stroke. Again, and again, until you've worked through that wet stretch of muscle. And the motion isn't exactly elegant. Karina's mouth hangs wide open, catching short breaths that curl inwards when you reach the line of her waist.

“It’s so fucking good,” Karina’s sighing out. She’s all fluster, no bite.

There’s no lack for juxtaposition in the way Irene dotes on her either - these small beguiling bits of praise like, baby, you’re doing so good, these tits of yours are just, you are - just gorgeous. Mouth quirked into a tight grin as her fingers pull and twist around her nipple. The sharp yelp that comes after. The fact that she's kissing the words into her mouth on the very next whimper: “a girl like you needs the time, and patience, and opportunity to have her insides completely, totally, catastrophically ruined.”

Irene had it exactly right on the first read. She’ll say, “I told you so,” when Karina’s washing the cum off her chest or out of her eyelashes in the shower. It’s the praise; it’s the degradation; it’s you leaning down, your hands finding her hair, curling in, and getting her right up against your lips to say it quiet, low, intimate - like a lover, like she hasn't already heard it before, “such a good little slut for me.”

And the girl absolutely fucking keens.

You grip onto her hips. You pull her hair tight. Her throat bobs under your thumb and you can feel the anxiety start to throb, her pulse hot and heavy in her cunt. How it soaks the base of your cock. Jesus, you’ll fuck a load right into her. So easily. Her pussy is so snug, so unbelievably wet. Perfect enough to know if you fuck into her any faster, any harder - it’ll be just that: you'll paint right up to her cervix; you'll fill her to the fucking brim.

"Fuck, Karina, this pussy is such a fucking dream," is what you're making sure she knows, and at that, Karina just finds that bend. Arches more of herself to you, until her ass is slotted into the plane of your stomach, the head of your cock prodding, testing the limit where her cunt is hottest and wettest. "God, this has to feel incredible. Your ass bouncing on my cock" - Karina goes slack on the force, leaning forward - "as I rail your tight little cunt."

If anything, Irene is there to catch Karina's tearful, thankful gaze when she finally starts fucking crying, a litany of yes, fuck yes, yes-yes-right-there, please fuck, and a wet, dazed little "you're goddamn - you're ruining, fucking - fucking, ruining me," every other syllable broken by her shuddering breaths.

"Aw, you're going to cum again, huh? Baby-" Irene's got her head at an angle - their gazes locked, watching - and maybe Irene really gets it: how much of a big, bad crush this gorgeous fucking woman's had on the pair of you all this whole time, with all that faux-romance, and lust, and envy wrapped up inside her - but if she wasn't so obsessed with the shape of Irene's mouth, the contour of her jaw, the lean and sleek lines of her frame and the soft, round swell of her ass - she’d still be left with the shape of your cock, where it’s pounding her apart. Fucking her and fucking her up.

It's more than worth the breath to remind Karina what she came here for. Irene's fingertips brush the line of her lips, part them just so.

“All over him, baby, let him make a mess of you. Just a total fucking mess. We'll fill you up, and fill you up, until your poor, aching pussy is full of cum," and it's probably as well: Karina does what comes most natural to her - with you three, the whole number. Her eyes flutter and go dreamy. There's not even a moment of hesitation:

"-until it's leaking down these fucking thighs-"

"You're doing so good, babe," is your supporting role in all this, murmuring encouragement straight into her ear as you fuck her to pieces. Your breath fans out against her cheek. And then, your hands make a grip under her thighs, holding her steady, making her mouth fall open - this keen, wobbly, vulnerable thing that exposes the naked girl she is, behind all the makeup, and the heels, and her seductive and all-consuming appeal, everything.

“Just so you know: it’s the best fucking part, Karina. I mean, the look on his face.” Irene laughs with her whole body, until the rich, raspy sound of it fills the hall. “The way he bites his lip when he's close, his eyes clenched - and god, I fucking love when he finally cums. It's so good, watching him. Letting him have his way. Feeling his cock throb and spill into you - hot, and still, and just pumping inside you - just so, so good.”

"Fuck, ah-" the little gasp is like she's starting to hyperventilate.

"Because baby,” is the final nail in the coffin, hammering home, “he’s fucking you just like he’d fuck me.”

"Fucking, please, god-."

Irene's hands have her breasts in their grasp and are playing at where she’s sensitive, then pushing into the soft, delicate space beneath, thumbing the indents. "He's so fucking good, isn't he? Are you going to cream and cream all over his hard fucking cock?"

Then - and because it comes so instinctually to her. Because, actually, your Irene has a slight propensity for evil:

She slaps Karina, right across her tits. "Fucking cum on it."

One.

Tugs hard on a nipple. "I swear, every single bit of you is so goddamn beautiful-"

Two.

"That body is built, perfect. So easy to ruin. And god - what a perfect little pussy you've got-"

Three.

Karina struggles to breathe. Her voice is torn, frayed. She barely manages to utter out a very shaky, very desperate, "harder, fuck- you’re fucking making me so- you can, harder-"

Four.

The cruel contact of Irene’s palm pulls this deliciously hedonistic sound in Karina's throat, a loud moan; like she just hit the sweet spot inside that's all her nerves coming alight. Irene plants a quick peck in Karina's hair. Her temples, the ridge of her brows. Slides her thumb across her eyelashes, brushing them clean from whatever tears had sprung free. You don't even want to try, not at that moment, to try and endure the quiver of slippery muscle all over your cock as she shudders into her orgasm. It's simply too fucking much. She's too fucking tight.

"Aw, shh shh, shh," and then Irene's soft hushes are coming down from the other side of her head. Irene kisses her full, straight on her mouth. Karina is shaking, convulsing and caught and fucked from head to toe - and what she needed was someone like the two of you - to watch her cunt swallow your cock like some magnificent and unbelievable sight, taking the whole damn thing. Irene is telling her, "it's okay. You can let it go."

The silhouettes alone. From the end of the hall, and where the afterimage lingers: the smoke-frosted windows, the dim lights, their bare, beautiful forms - this picture that will stick in the center of your head, will probably haunt you-

"God, I can’t, just- ah.”

“Breathe,” Irene says.

"I'll cum again, it's too- I'm so-" Karina can only plead and sigh.

Irene shushes her one more time. "It's a lot. It's alright, baby. He's going to keep fucking you until he's ready to pull out, until he has a whole mess just painted onto your ass, and thighs, and I'm going to make sure that little pussy gets so wrecked, fucked, stretched on every last inch- until the thought of sex hurts, and then we're going to make you cum again, and again- over, and over-"

You're leaning over her, nose buried into the waves of Irene's hair, the curve of Karina's back, and the flush of skin in contrast. That's when you feel the coil in your chest come loose - unspooling, and bursting - when Karina's lids roll into the back of her head and her lips fall open with a pleasured gasp and a stammer, "y-you're, ah, both, you're so, both- oh god."

You're about to just pull her down and absolutely cream her, stuff her full - a mess.

And she wants you to-

"That feels so fucking good," she lets slip out on the cusp of a shiver, just as her inner muscles are spasming, milking your cock with the pressure from one pulse through the next, squeezing.

She’s right. It does. Her, coming undone. You, at wit’s end.

Another breath, and Karina is managing out between these small hiccups - not as much out of breath, just dumbstruck - simply muttering, "I’m cumming, I- oh my god."

You barely manage it; you unbury your cock from her cunt; you’re cumming all over her ass.

A shot of white that streaks right down to her bare-slicked skin, before it gets painted down into the crease of her pussy, all swollen - wrecked and raw.

Just the way it feels on her skin is enough to earn another hushed moan from her, this sweet little whimper as she can hardly stand up straight. She lets her knees buckle, but Irene is right there, to catch. Her eyes are closed, eyelids clenching, as Irene tilts Karina's face her way, to lay one, two, three soft, adoring kisses on her mouth, the angle all wrong.

“Mmm.” The smack of her lips. The pull of whatever breath she still has to give - right out of her heaving chest. "Sore, that, ahhh- um, thank you."

You fiancée wraps a slender hand right around Karina's wrist, and starts whispering to her, unbridled, "just had to. Had to see how you look-"

It’s wicked, for one thing. More than that, it's seamless:

While Irene still has the girl's voice caught in her throat, she reaches around the curve of Karina's hips and drags two fingertips through the puddle of warm cum that sits right at the base of her spine, glistening all over her ass cheeks and inner thighs, slipping and rolling off her cunt, down the center, running in rivulets. Your cum between her fingers is so filthy, so obscene - dripping hot - right off her reddened skin, and Irene can't possibly help it; not after a display as indulgent as that. The trembling that remains in Karina’s thighs does nothing to hide how her legs now jitter and shake under Irene's touch.

“That’s my good girl,” she whispers as her fingertips hover across the apex of her puffy lips. Over and over again, with more force, and more, until you're almost positive it's Karina that leans in a moment later, kissing the rest of her soft assurances right off her tongue.

Listen to her: this incoherent string of words pouring from her mouth, like they can't move fast enough, tripping over each consonant, "are you, oh, oh - oh, fuck."

No one else could make that kind of overstimulation feel so heavenly, you figure, the way she just properly melts. You take a step back, just to let Irene work. Just to watch. To appreciate the craft.

You absolutely get it.

How to touch, how to tease. Firsthand experience has you know she'll ride your cock until you're throbbing and spilling cum and she'll just shh-shh, let you have it - it's okay, sweetie, just let go - until she's rolling her hips just right, or reaching a hand back to massage your balls, or stroking your inner thigh in that exact kind of spot; some method that keeps her all the way on the end of your cock, but not quite off the edge, and your cum leaking down your shaft, spent.

She’ll bite into her smirk. She’ll tie up her hair. She’ll get that serious look on her face because she knows: you’re all hers for the taking.

So she'll sink onto it, again and again, until she's fucking you with the slippery friction only your own spill might provide. "Just a little more," she'll tell you, which is absolutely a lie, "come on, just a bit harder, I'm so close." Irene does this thing - she's had years to refine and perfect - and her voice gets a husky edge to it as her teeth graze the shell of your ear; she makes a small, pained groan into the curl of your hair and breathily hums it: 'I'm almost there.'

Who stands any chance to resist?

And she's always asking you - the same way she's coaxing and promising Karina the world with just the movement of her fingers, this delectable in and out, in and out, pushing that filth up into the red-soaked lips of her pussy - "now, what did I ever do to deserve someone like you?"

Karina blinks, once - a sleepy-lidded draw that leaves her lashes, lush and long, and fanning her flushed cheeks.

The sound between her legs is wet, squelching with your cum, with hers, the barest hint of slapping her tender skin. The beat of Irene's wrist against her thighs - like that's where she needs it most - a deep, primal rhythm, like the last thing she wants is to take a breath. It's fucking hot; her head is tilted, her jaw clenched, and Irene has the tips of her fingers twisted between Karina's legs, swirling your cum right back around in her slick cunt - those plump pussy lips that you've watched stretch out on the first press, the first and the second and the third, as Karina finds what gets her there fast, fast-fast-fastest-

"You can cum for me too, baby."

It’s not a suggestion. There’s nothing but expectation in Irene’s voice.

“Just cum.”

You watch it knock the architecture right out of Karina's legs.

Indulgent, just isn’t quite the right word for it. Careless, reckless, clumsy even-

Look - the tumultuous tangle you three make is all over the fucking place.

One moment, you're at an angle, moreover twisted-limbed with Irene bent over her dresser, then propped up on top of yours the next, your forehead landing against hers, feeling the soft cradle of her shoulders, her legs around you. She has her hands wrapped in Karina's, in that muddled in between: it's a collision of sorts.

There's the chair in the corner of your bedroom that really has only ever known one purpose, a plush rug, all these surfaces, horizontal and vertical for you to take the two most breathtakingly beautiful people in the world on and let your bodies settle into the shape they've needed to ever since your fingertips met Irene's in the cab, ever since she blinked her heavy lashes at you with Karina in-tow, just shy of smiling.

And boy, do you learn that Karina likes to watch herself get fucked in front a mirror. Specifically, the tall one beside Irene’s closet. It's hard to blame her. When you hold her hips tight, and really, truly fuck her, you can’t keep your eyes off how her face twists with the pleasure; or, when you drill the length of your cock into her sopping wet cunt: the wide, glossy rim of her pretty lips pulling back into a wince - and your eyes dropping past the reflection of her shoulders, her collarbones, down to her perfect tits.

The back and forth, the up and down, the way they fucking wobble in their beautifully buxom blur.

Though the eventuality remains unchanged, spread out across your bed. Karina takes a moment, hand pressed to the mattress experimentally like it's all running through her head - this is where Irene gets all that fairy-tale-inspired romance from, really - a quick pause where your future-bride is up on her elbows and staring, watching - your finger sinks in slowly, between where she's soft and warm and wet. She's thinking, you can just read it off her face, 'oh. So that's what you'd do, huh?'

Just for demonstration’s sake, you fingerfuck her in all kinds of ways - show-off and performance and dirty and mind-blowing. Because even better than the whiny, gut-wrenching moan it gets out of Irene, Karina can't get enough of how it’s all presented.

"Ugh," she slides up next to you at the foot of the bed, helping you turn Irene on her side, "why does she have to be so pretty, it's annoying, she's- she's like, made it so fucking far by playing the girl everyone wants to wife, huh?" She's talking directly to you, even while Irene rolls her neck to press her head against the pillow. "Inspirational."

You're drawing circles into her clit. Thumbing the dip, circling in the opposite direction. Karina has her nails biting right into the crease where your knees touch. In tandem, you’ll help your fiancée reach the top of that first wave.

Karina presses, all cheek - a very dry, "cute."

It’s so simple: you eat Irene’s cunt. You hold her down. And Karina slides her tongue lazily against the tight pucker of her ass.

The three of you know she deserves nothing less.

“Oh, christ, you have no idea,” Irene is murmuring into the pillowcase, head tilted at an awkward angle, looking at the wall, almost distant; but her legs are split wide and her hands are reaching forward to rub a circle into your cheek, "you know how sensitive-? Yeah. Like, really, super. Super, super fucking sensitive, okay? So - if you'd keep doing, uh, oh- oh…”

Simultaneous, then slow, and easy - kisses landing right onto Irene's clit. So much so, you can't help but turn a little, smiling right up at your girl as she digs her toes into the duvet and threads a hand into Karina's hair.

The thing is, with Irene: facades fade fast.

Karina gets to measure that fact up close - where the details of Irene's composure are not only sharp, but also readily and openly and emphatically pound to dust by the time the last loose curl of Irene’s hair falls over her collarbone; she ends up on all fours, spread out over Karina - pressed along the length of her stomach, spread over your duvet and fitted sheets, your hand at the base of Irene's waist and tightening into the divots. She’s so small beneath you that when you bury your dick inside her-

“Fuck.” Her cunt is so wet. Her breath uneven - and her words are starting to slur. There’s the gooseflesh on her back that lets you know it’s all already over for her. “Okay,” she tries to steady the ache in her stomach, “okay, okay, just- right there.”

The drag through her pussy is fucking extraordinary. It knocks the wind out of both of you; so soft to the touch, like velvet - she’s unbelievably tight. You pull her hips into you and it opens her right up. Then when you end up balls deep inside your girl a second, third, fourth time:

She simply shudders apart.

Even though you fuck her so slow, so easy - her cunt clenches and squeezes on you like Irene detests the very idea of letting you go. You don’t even need to rail her lithe body to complete and utter ruin just to feel the familiar pent-up tremor starting to build in her muscles, how she rolls her hips back just so-so. How your hands fit that round and pert little ass of hers so well, and when your fingers finally sink in, you’re pulling it all apart to get a good look where your cock shimmers with her slick before disappearing right into her tiny cunt.

Karina mutters something in her ear. It pulls on some thread, somewhere - you feel her wind like a spring, further, and further; your cock edging her so close. The smirk Karina saves for you over your fiancée’s shoulder makes you think she’s figured her out-

“Irene, look-”

Well, at least she’s tuning in on all the right frequencies.

"Aren’t we all about being thorough?" Karina raises a perfectly trimmed brow. She drapes her arm across Irene's neck, their lips sliding together again, and that kiss is drawn-out and languid, albeit needy. "So, say," it gets muffled against the seam of their lips, and comes up, and comes out like a slurry, "are we gonna use everything else too? Your mouth, your perfectly tight ass?"

Irene can hardly muster out, "fuck- fuck- yes, fucking, god," as she takes it, so deep. There’s enough there to make both of you cum, you’re sure.

“Who could’ve guessed - like there’s ever been a more perfect cocktease than bae-fucking-Irene," Karina coos, all lips. She plants a row of kisses along Irene's exposed throat. The tilt of her hips, as she pushes closer - as you press the head of your cock as deep as it can go. "Go on. Cum, baby. Be a good girl, a good hole to fuck, just do it. All over his big fucking cock. Let him fucking have you."

Which is probably about the same time you realize that you, Irene and Karina are all well enroute - becoming this one mind, a single unit. This plurality you know there’s no coming back from.

You look down, with a little more focus, and Irene is being pulled apart in every which way - your cock stretching her out, over and over - Karina’s fingers right under her clit, every circle making her whimper. She’s all sharp edges and delicate angles, but manages to be soft for you in just the right places.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” you tell her, shifting your hips; pulling her ass flush and filling her completely. Your grip tightens on her waist and she doesn’t flinch a bit. "It's so goddamn easy to cum in this needy little pussy of yours. All wet and slick, and, hah- just pulsing-"

Irene lets out this wanton sound, desperate.

“Oh, right there, huh?” Karina asks. It’s not quite mean, but it’s getting there, fast. “Is that how he’s going to make you cum?”

You thrust on the same angle again, the same depth - you’re hitting all her nerve endings, all her sensitive spots. There isn't even room, now, for some imaginary head-to-head, some verbal volley, the banter; what comes forward is her tiny, broken moan.

How many times had Irene done the exact same, after all. Fucked you without holding back? Fucked you over? The flood of sweet-nothings as you started to approach: honey, you're so perfect, we can go slow, you just have to ask, and if you feel uncomfortable at any point, if you want me to stop-

“Just say please, doll,” Karina tells her.

If Irene told you a quarter of what made it out of the side of Karina’s mouth, you’d have never believed it. "I can't wait to feel what that arrogant mouth of yours will do when he cums inside this cute ass-"

You watch Karina spank her. Hard. There’s a red stain in the round of Irene’s cheek, and her skin is so pale that the imprint of all five fingertips looks stark, glaring.

"Just," Karina presses the rest of herself against Irene's skin and steals a quick glance at you - this half-coy smile pulling on one corner of her lips, "thought I'd do that in the name of-"

"Mmph," Irene’s groan is long, loud, "yes. Fuck, yes- please-"

Karina immediately looks away. An effort to hide the smug satisfaction. She fiddles with the auburn locks behind Irene's shoulder.

You’ll finish the sentiment: "-being thorough," and drive your cock to the hilt. Irene collapses forward onto Karina’s lap.

The sound she makes you swear is a sob. See - for Irene, it’s only about getting control in so far as it is about getting off; she’ll take whatever comes her way so long as it’s directly to her benefit - the theatrics of being pinned, the willingness for surrender, for subjugation, for the sake of telling you, yes, push my knees, spread me apart, hold me there; look at the things you do to me - it's the Irene everyone imagines, when they see the dresses, the gltiz, the glamour, just the brief flash of her grin, or the way she holds her fingernail between her teeth. Everyone wants to put her on her heel and feel a bit powerful. To have you watch the supple arc of her neckline bend, to hear the humility slip off her lips: the notion goes beyond simple kink-

It steps out into pure necessity.

She really, really needs it, and it's written into every muscle and tendon - it's on her breath as it shudders through her whole body. The beautiful, harrowing sound. "I love the way you two fuck me," she murmurs, head buried into the crook of Karina's neck. It's the sort of line, coming from someone like her, you know could raise a few blushes - if either of you was still in the business of such things.

"Honey," her voice wavers. Then, it falters: "please."

The desperation is thick, husky, almost. Karina seems like she's breathing her in, nose tucked against Irene's forehead.

You watch how she runs her nails up Irene's sides, a hot whisper sliding over her skin. You feel it, and so does Irene, this white hot pleasure singing up from the tip of her clit and spreading throughout the soft curves, the sensual lines of her body, this tangible current, a hum, a whine. You see her strain the lean stretch of muscle connecting her neck to her shoulder.

Until her face is tucked under Karina’s jaw, with a hand reaching back and hooked around your wrist and keeping you fucking, filling her, your hips drawn tight against hers, like a second home.

In and in and in.

Fucked-out and outright to the extent she goes completely silent. Almost completely still. The moment she cums all over your waist. Mouth hung open, like she’s in pure disbelief.

It doesn’t really matter, how often or how precisely Karina has imagined the whole thing. It's still a fucking revelation the first time she gets to watch Irene cum.

“No way,” she’s almost laughing, holding Irene’s jaw with both hands. “No fucking way. All the times you- what? No. Nuh-uh. You better fucking explain why this face, you- it’s not fair, the perfect face- I swear, even mid-fucking-orgasm, you are such a fucking doll-"

There's the sheer intimacy - Karina holding Irene's lips open, dragging her thumb down along the center. Quiet and sordid curses slipping from her mouth. And the obvious, her free hand already running down the curve of Irene's spine, her ass: all this sensitive-touching, admiring, appreciating-

"Hey," Karina says, voice raspy and drunk on the sex, the premise, "do me a favor, and tell me this feels as amazing as it looks. Or maybe, for once - just for the sake of fucking argument, is it actually better for the both of us, hm?

Her eyes are half-lidded, heavy, sultry. She's arching up into Irene's warmth - until her palms are spread out against her chest, thumb sliding right over everything sensitive, and she leans right to pull the other breast to her lips, and start all over again. It's clear what she means, spreading her legs as far as she can, pinned beneath the orgasm you're still fucking into Irene. As much as her petite frame will allow.

And in case you missed the point:

"So. What are we waiting for," is what she says a breath later, matter-of-fact, not at all expecting denial. “Or am I not as fuckable as our princess here?"

There's so much wet spill around the base of your cock, and the sound Irene's pussy makes when you finally draw free - all her creamy slick mixed into your mess just fucking leaking around your shaft. Karina holds herself open for you like that, spread wide. All your attention to her pink, raw cunt; you slip right inside.

Karina lets her arms go slack on the mattress, her chest shivering, lips locked around Irene’s panting breath.

And so it goes, and so it goes, and so it goes.

(To anyone taking notes - chemistry, by definition, is the sum total of a certain process; where and when energy becomes matter becomes another.

More relevantly perhaps, it is that race and rise you feel inside your chest.

Nothing about the sensation, it seems, is too exclusive either - Irene, and now Karina, the pair of them equally devastating, all over and again. It has you in communication with a different kind of contentment: to fall apart inside their embrace in particular, and kiss them with enough breath and time to waste until the morning.)

“Jesus,” Karina laughs out loud, “you really believe that? You corrupting me?" she makes another scoff, both hands buried somewhere in the pockets of the sweatshirt you've lent her. "At least do me a favor and cut it out with the solemn tone."

You're leaning over your apartment’s balcony, watching an emergency plow make the slowest grind of progress up the road. It's late. And cold. Or actually - it’s early. The sky is the kind of dark midnight navy you see after all the snow and stars have run through the horizon. Time ticks on, and Irene’s inside sound asleep. A woman that small has no right to snore like heavy machinery.

So,

You and Karina happen to be two things at once: very tired, and very awake.

"What I mean is: I'm sure your manager, or your parents - fuck, someone - would fly off the handle," you say, pulling a cigarette from the pack and offer it begrudgingly. She takes the end and slips it between her lips, a little unsure. You then draw a lighter and offer it, too, and Karina puffs with all her strength. She's no expert, but it looks like the end catches and turns bright.

A bit of color.

"My parents?" Karina flouts, sucking at it, pulling deeply from her chest - smoke pours from her nose.

She finishes with a cough. And says again:

"Um. Your girlfriend had her fingers in my ass - your cock down my throat - and we're worrying what my parents might think?"

Well. She's got you on that count.

"Not to mention: who the fuck thinks they're so virtuous-" a small chuckle as she passes it back. The cigarette is lit, bright. You take a drag. Watch her tap her feet on the snow. "That they need to do that to begin with. It's more trouble, telling me what to think and feel, as if that hasn't just the opposite effect."

“Irene’s protective, albeit in her own sorta peculiar way. So, you know, by extension, she worries-" you pull, and exhale, the smoke blowing past Karina. It gets caught in her fringe, in the wisps. You offer it back when you see her shiver. "That some shit happens, after."

"Your concern is heartwarming, truly - if you want to let me think on it, I might go and write a nice little diary entry tonight. It'll have sparkles and glitter - if you're that worried."

Karina reaches in. Lets her fingers graze yours. Her skin is cool.

“Besides, I don’t need a lesson in image from Irene of all people. She’s her; I’m me.”

She holds onto the cigarette between two long acrylic fingernails, tapping the end so the ash flits out onto the ice. You're caught staring, probably - the dark hair framing her face, all messy and soft, falling about her cheekbones. How that pretty pink blush in her skin seems to never go away.

Your eyes drop to where her mouth is red, a bit swollen - well-kissed; it is snowing again, after all. And it’s easy to be kind of transfixed.

"You're not, I dunno, say embarrassed?" you ask, after a beat.

"Nope." Karina swallows. Brings the cigarette to the pucker of her lips again. You watch how she holds the inhale, holds her wrist up and slacked, head tilted back a little. This exaggerated fashion-model exhale follows, all smooth.

“Because I'm not the type.”

The heavy stream of smoke then blown right into your face.

"Really, I think - sorry, I have always wanted to do that. It felt like a movie. Look," she coughs on the next breath. "I get your dilemma. But also, um-"

There are some quiet moments too, here and there: the heat between your thighs, her pressed up close. She smells like Irene's shampoo and bodywash and that just confuses your head some.

"Who’s to say I’m not just looking out for you," you offer. Every good lie is rooted somewhere in the truth.

"Don't bother," her words hit you square on. "It's about getting off right? You invite me to your bed; I’m so starstruck and enchanted by the very concept of it - Irene and her charming, intoxicating husband. Fuck, I dunno - the way the two of you kiss, look, feel: the experience that you will let me be a part of," she stops and makes another face of amusement, so fucking confident, "you let me play, too, just once, and we're all just a little happier. My version."

“We’re not married,” you correct.

“That’s the part you’re hung up on?” Karina leans over, her upper half across the balcony, staring right up at the sky. “Same difference.”

The moon finds her smile bright like nothing else. It's something infectious. Immediately, it reminds you: of Irene.

"Trust me," she goes on to say. The cigarette slips back into the space where you are connected - the lines of her fingers, her knuckles. "I had a wonderful time, but the sun will rise here, and I'm not gonna stick around to blow you while Irene burns three omelets and finds a spot for me in her fucked up game of house or whatever."

She makes you laugh, free and easy, like a gust of cold air. Something genuine and natural. And as the laugh shakes, Karina makes it impossible not to crumble farther. Not to fucking simper there like an idiot.

“I really thought she was going to make me call her mommy or something, I swear-”

"Hey, I'm sure if you had asked." A spark catches you. The flash of her canine, and those eyelashes. “She’d have done you the favor.”

"Oh, shush." The touch of Karina's fingertip against your hand is delicate, careful - unassuming. But, god, everything with her is just the right amount of heat - it melts you; and when it stops, her touch: that feeling is so cold that you just chase her out of impulse.

"What about New Year's?" you ask. There are still boundaries you really shouldn't be crossing, but here you are, straddling yet one more.

Karina's grin cracks like an old fault line. "You're not allowed to ask me out like that," she insists, batting you away - trying her hardest not to lead with the obvious. You look out on the view, watching a guy in a parka trudge over to a garbage can, a handful of newspaper bundles, then a glance back-

The slightest flush has bloomed up Karina’s face, right underneath where the makeup's been rubbed bare. It's utterly irresistible. "Go wake up your fiancée and ask what her New Year's Eve looks like. Doubt it involves me and my dumb friends."

She’s probably right.

"Karina," you start, watching her push open the balcony door with her foot and walk slowly, lazily, back into the apartment. The window rattles, and she looks back over her shoulder. The bob of her ponytail, the sweeping lashes, that perfect slow-burn smile. That’s how you end up with a title as ridiculous and reductive as ‘original visual’ or ‘the human cg’.

"You’re really going to let them in on what we all got up to?"

"Oh," she makes this low, delighted hum - it sounds so dreamy, how her voice gets the richest sort of rasp, "every last detail."

On Monday: the holidays are officially over.

There's a bunch of stuff on the to-do pile. A lot of loose ends you have to clean up, a ton to catch up on. Irene is judiciously ignoring all of it. She's wearing her glasses - the ones with the big round frames that should look entirely obnoxious - which means she's already decided she's not leaving the apartment; Karina's still wrapping the world at large around her finger and has everyone convinced that she's all femme, no fatale; and you - well, you're back to thinking about how to climb the ladder and maybe how to stay there.

You head downtown with a cup of coffee in one hand and a musing mood in the other.

On your phone, some more choice text messages arrive in the late AM: had a great time by the way, stay out of trouble, this sweatshirt is actually just mine now, duh.

The selfie alongside it is pretty suggestive, but just vague enough to flirt with indecency.

She sends one more at lunch where she's gotten out of the shower, or a hot pool, or maybe a long workout - her breasts squeezed between a towel and an arm - she has the camera all zoomed in and framed tight, almost full body. If her intention is to mess with you, that's what she gets. The texts: ah, fuck off and did you have a nice date with your left hand then, thanks for reminding me, the hotel wifi is shit lmao.

The messages just keep on coming and there's really no better descriptor.

And Irene, later, in a way that's neither diplomatic nor nuanced: jesus, don't let her catch you by yourself. For simplicity’s sake. She interprets being alone with a handsome boy as carte blanche to do absolutely whatever she wants and she's vapid that way.

There’s a chance it fizzles out into nothing. An even greater chance it all goes sideways. You'll have to see what becomes of you three.

Okay, right - new year, new you. The resolution for the past couple remains unchanged, and unfulfilled - less takeaways and eating out; more meal prep, less calories, healthier decisions.

Irene has this cute little apron over her sweater that is fixed extra tight, the belt trailing down the tops of her jeans to accentuate her nice round hips and slim waist. She knows the nature of her charm, her sex appeal. How it occurs, almost, as if by accident.

You say something that will get right under her skin like, “looking real domestic, Joohyun,” as she slides a chopped onion from a cutting board to a bowl.

She presses her hips out just a smidge, just enough. Turns a bit as she opens up the fridge, and the smirk she has for you, that sidelong glance-

“Don’t you Joohyun me,” is her lightest rebuke.

She twists her way onto her tiptoes to fetch at the highest shelf. The crochet corner of her sweater rides up a couple of inches, flashing a hint of the fair, bare curve of her lower back. "You can help me by grating the parmesan, hm? Into that," she gestures back at the table, pointing with the bottle of olive oil.

And so you're ten, fifteen minutes into helping with dishes, with the grunt work - with the realization that Irene is going to chop her fucking fingers off if you leave her to it unchecked.

"Actually, here," you say, "can I?"

She tilts her head, skeptical - still, a quick nod of permission - and her slender fingers surrender the knife and wooden chopping board to you. She's tapping away at her phone, finding the playlist you're both always secretly listening to.

"Wow," Irene says, low, as you start dicing mushrooms, a stalk of celery. "So brave. There’s no way I could do that. Is it safe? Are we, like, in nuptial bliss now, do you think? I fancy you, I fancy you-"

It's always this sorta-delicate dance with her: how much should you step up; how much should you put out of hand; how much she accepts versus how she pushes you aside and gets through you all the same. You're too proud, really - both of you - but fuck. She's adorable; the apron adds insult to injury; and it makes the switch in your head simple.

“I always forget how much I love this song,” she’s saying; the rolling pin she’s grabbed is a reasonable surrogate for a mic. When she’s through singing a verse, she shoves it in your face. You don’t know any of the lyrics.

She doesn’t really care.

You have to laugh at everyone who's ever wasted the effort to theorycraft who she is behind the smoky lashes, the lowered chin, the downturned glance. All the characters and archetypes she'll wear and cast off as she needs.

"Here." She sidles up and tucks her hair behind her ear, the side of her hip grinding into your thigh until she’s pressed firm into the line of your leg. Because she needs to tell you that's way too much garlic, and she's not going to kiss you if your breath is trying to kill her first. She uses the word "pungent" a number of times, just for good measure. Go on - she’s murmuring - taste; right off her finger. If anyone caught this you’d be embarrassed for weeks

“I think, definitely, should open a bottle of wine-”

That’s how you earn all the responsibility for getting the both of you fed; she gets distracted looking through the recipe book.

But there's the way she looks up at you from the opposite of the kitchen island, face held up between her hands, fingers folded underneath her chin. "What?" she asks.

She’s totally caught you staring.

The truth is: Irene only looks this gorgeous when it's just her. When she forgets that she's supposed to stick to a script.

You tell her as much when you end up fucking her right there on the counter.

It's so slow, atleast at the onset. Her panties pushed aside, jeans spilling off an ankle - the fucking apron managed to make it to the floor but her sweater got kinda stuck on the way up. So you're reaching through some overpriced fabric blend to pull down the wire of her bra and get your palm where she most prefers it.

"Say it again," Irene sighs into your neck, clutching to the back of your shirt - white-knuckled at the seam. "Come on, you can be so charming when you want something."

"I wouldn’t push your luck," is all you choose to tell her.

You're hitting all the spots she wants you to hit anyway: her pretty pink cunt, slick, all wet for you already. Everything clenching as she arches her back, until she's hanging off the edge of the marble. You find it’s just enough leverage to fill her completely with your cock - stretching her out and open until her thighs bracket around your waist at the perfect angle.

"Or what?" Irene is out of breath, but hardly at a loss for words. "I know. You'll have to remind me how much smaller I am than you, right? So easy to keep pinned."

Well, if you really wanted: "Hah, ah - right." You get right next to her ear, muttering the words as deep as your chest can go - then take hold of her waist to put her in a spot she can't escape. And, by Irene's usual logic, once that happens, that's as much a victory for her as it is for you. You're being compliant, aren't you? The in and out: fucking her, filling her up, pulling your messy cock out of her pussy and slapping her clit just so she can hear how fucking soaked you make her, merely as a reminder-

"I wonder if she was even half as desperate," she moans against your jaw. "Her heart probably stopped the second you, ah - told her, what? About all of this?"

You stop fucking her, halfway.

"I’m sure you wouldn't be referring to Karina, right?" is where you glance at her. “I remember us both agreeing to chalk that up as a total absolute mistake. That was that.”

Irene just swallows, looks off somewhere over your shoulder. No one wears a blush better than her.

But she won't say it. Her honesty is such a privilege. The prodigy-type. Or at least, that's the word Irene chose. Then again, there’s you and your uncanny ability to turn a blind eye.

To the vice, the virtue, and everything in-between.

"So, can I ask," you press your lips together, finding the point of her chin with a gentle tap - you have her looking you straight back at you. The moment could let you drive back inside and fuck her brains right out, right there, like that - right through, instead: you watch her try not to squirm.

The tension in her upper chest, the rising heat that settles between her thighs, her weight struggling where you spread her knees, as far open as her body can allow. “How long exactly," you choose your words, careful and pointed, "are we going to pretend that she isn't texting both of us?"

You bury the question deep where she’s practically molten - hot and wet and so incredibly needy.

You do, again, and again. You pull her against you, watching that pretty brow scrunch and un-scrunch as your cock bathes in that soak. And hell, Karina had sent her a selfie today, is what she's explaining when you slow down enough - a bit of red, on her cheeks and her lips, and a lot of black, all the rest - the part about a midnight flight that's on hold until tomorrow morning. And then another, an hour later. To you both: her tits, the lace lingerie - so heavy, and soft, and easy to see yourself getting lost in-

Irene gasps at how fast you find all her favorite spots, then repeats - twice and again - hey, Karina said you're "such a cutie," and she sees her as the perfect mistress-material, don't you think? Wouldn’t it be ideal? The perfect fantasy? The perfect toy-

Obviously, that is morally bankrupt, even for the two of you. And you’re making sure she hears about it.

You ask her, point-blank: "are you really so selfish? So callous." It's ground out, slowly, against her hip, into her cunt. You've got Irene dripping wet, she's running everywhere, and you're telling her, "and this is your roundabout way of asking me to validate your twisted little ego?"

Don’t get it too confused: Irene lives for this shit; that sharp, hard-hitting tone - it drives her up the fucking wall.

"Duh. Tell me - just a guess," she presses her hands further back, arching into each push. The slim curves of her chest are bouncing, just under her sweater. "You like to feel so guilty and morose but I bet-" she chokes off mid-sentence, you know exactly how, the exact motion that has her wanting. She gets a leg over your shoulder with no effort at all, and your fingers find their place, digging into her hips as she locks into your thrusts.

Like fucking her is the only thing the two of you ever do.

Your whole body buzzes, it hums in resonance with where her gasps conflagrate to moans - you're pulling her slender frame down into every sloppy thrust and she takes you so fucking well.

"I bet it all sounds like, ah, the prettiest fucking music - in your head-"

“Fucking god, Irene-”

“Mhmm?” she fucking coos.

Because the things she wants to hear never actually leave your lips - your girl, fucking relentless.

Because the line between you fucking her and her fucking you becomes less distinct every time she rocks back and takes you deeper. Or when her mouth catches your next kiss a bit lazily. She takes over to swivel and slide her cunt up and around your length. So good that you have to keep her there. Hand locked onto her throat, digging a bruise or two in her collarbones, fucking her senseless against the countertop-

"Irene, fuck.” Your voice comes out thick, like gravel, and practically as an aside, “you’re going to make me-.”

Irene cuts you off, nodding, shh-shh’ing you into silence. “I know, baby. I know.” This total sigh of agreement - a hushed yes, or maybe uttering something she knows will sink right into your core, two words that sound a lot like “good boy.”

What, is that tacit approval? Probably. It’s hard to think straight.

So you bury yourself inside her, instinctually. Irene tips her chin up when she feels you paint her fucking womb. Every throb - with a fistful of her ass and your face pressed against her chest, sucking and biting and marking her anywhere, everywhere - right through her sweater. Fucking her so full that your mess is dribbling out all over the fucking floor, drip, drip, drip, and-

"Hey, I want you to know that I" - she sounds so amused as she cards through your hair, pressing a kiss to your forehead - "really couldn’t ever ask anyone except you."

(All is fair in love and war, is an adage Irene takes to its logical extreme, tangled in your sheets or with a dress puddled at her ankles. A silk stocking rolling down her leg, the crochet thrown into some dark corner.

You never say yes. You never really have to.)

This all before setting her down, off the edge, back onto her feet and taking another half-step forward and having the awareness not to completely flatten her under the full weight of your body, so she can run a hand down between the two of you and her fingertips can start gathering up all the cum you've pumped inside her. Irene tells you in her sweetest lilt to pay attention as she leans back up against the counter and gathers as much into her mouth as it will allow-

The sight alone.

When her head tips back, tongue passing over her knuckles, and she swallows-

"You are so," you sigh into her temple. Her cheek. You've settled the rest to the space in between. “Absolutely unbelievable."

She reaches out and trails the tips of her fingers lightly along the rise of your cock - her softness up against your hard lines. Her eyes flash when you twitch on the fucking spot. It's so tender all coming from her.

And there, a moment or two more. You can see it in the way she has her lips tilting, dreamy. You've always known what you were signing up for - how she's thumbing the nape of your neck - what her ideal outcome was, is. There's nothing and no one in front of either of you to bar the way.

You’ll make your vows like any other.

"Well, hey," she finally says, slow and husky and curling toward you with a smug self-satisfaction.

You push her hair behind her ears, the dark brown locks. Some part of you understands, unequivocally, that she is the absolute limit of how far you would go for any other person on the planet. No questions. In a heartbeat, without hesitation.

The kiss to the corner of your jaw is unironically chaste - before she’s telling you, "shouldn’t we get a move on it, chef? There’s food to eat, recipes to ignore; aren’t you fucking famished?"

The bolognese reduces down to a scorch in the cast iron. Too much heat, or too long, you got too preoccupied, who knows - there's a moral lesson to ignore here if you're so inclined. So it ends up being over a tray of sushi delivery that Irene explains to you her working theory like it's high-stakes political intrigue.

"Listen," she's got her chopsticks pointed at you, "for one, Karina, to her core, is a total seductress; and she's told me already, more or less to my face - she gets off on the chase, and hates the other shit. To be involved, or invested."

“Okay then why all the go-around; the wait-and-see; what’s her endgame?”

“What’s anyone’s endgame?” Irene shrugs. “Validation." She slips a tuna roll into her mouth.

"I think you might be projecting."

"Or, I'm simply an extremely empathetic person," her sarcasm hits harder through chewing - she almost gets you, and finishes swallowing to say, "look, she's like us if we were pretending to care, okay? Just more, like - explicit about her lack of intention. So. Doesn’t matter if it's to piss her manager off. Or it's like a revenge-slash-extortion-thing against someone she either had or is having an affair with."

"An affair," you repeat, skeptical.

"It's not like it’s an unheard-of workplace hazard, come on," and then the final confirmation: "she’s just into it because it sounds dirty and sexy, okay, like everything else-"

"And you figure we should be the ones to dole it out."

"What I figure," Irene says, doing that same mental calculus she did the first time: how, where, why - it's clear. A dozen different kinds of naked are an old, tired song by now. "I want us to fuck her. However she likes, whenever she likes, for however long she likes. Let her think she’s won something, or think she has you totally fucking hooked - I don't really care. Because it would be so much more satisfying to hear you tell me about it - because the idea of you two being like that for me. It's," her words pitch up a touch.

"That's the fantasy."

And Irene dives into the details. She explains what it could look like, all the more raunchy and ridiculous. This very specific arrangement. It makes no real sense, the conversation alone, and that, you decide - what can't be rationalized - is how she'll take it: by fucking both of you. That's the objective fact. That's the demand.

You listen until it feels less and less like the decisions have already been made.

“Okay, babe,” she’s presenting her case. “Hear me out.”

And she keeps going until you both can see it materialize: "if Karina thinks she can handle both of us, then both of us it'll be." It’s how her fingers end up buried in your boxers and around the throb of your cock. You hear the gentlest laugh Irene has as you start fucking softly into her grip, and she runs her thumb over your weeping slit until she finds you that much more malleable to the suggestion. Effortless almost, she lures the primal part of you from its confines and teases and prods at its wants and desires. Which is also how some charged vocabulary gets thrown in for good measure. Because no, no, no - she's murmuring into your mouth, tipped back, plush lips right above yours - it's not a cuckquean situation, or an open relationship, or anything like freeuse or whatever else might justify the concern. It's not even cheating, Irene’s explaining, strictly speaking, because who said you and I wouldn’t be doing it together?

(Lying by omission is the story you both live - and the difference: she's pathological. You’re just now getting the hang of it.)

"Fuck," is what you exhale out as she opens her fingers, offering. Her thumb glides across the expanse of your head, a trail of pre-cum drawn underneath a nail. And you know all the things her nails can do - can rip your heartstrings. "I mean. God damn. There has to be, like, terms."

There's still sushi sitting on the coffee table, and Irene is placing these kisses into the slope of your shoulder, your sternum, making a show of the movement, how she's traveling down, downward - to her knees. Where she finds the seat between your thighs and tugs your shorts, the fabric gathered down your leg-

"Let me handle it," she tells you, and there goes the cut of your t-shirt, shoved up to your chest. Her grip runs flat, down from the rise of your hip, fingers wrapping around, touching - the flat of her tongue laving across the tip of your cock until she decides to lower her jaw.

"Just think right now. How I want to fuck her and how I'd want you to fuck her, too-"

Right in her warm, wet little mouth.

Jesus, her tongue too-

She has it gliding up, around and against the swell of the underside. Rolling to where you need it, the places she knows you’ve died before. Lapping up the mess she's already gotten out of you-

Like this, Irene's looking at the way that the idea strikes: you and you and you; the only person in the whole goddamn world that can handle her; you fucking know it too - it's the most perfect, hopeless kind of thing. Like the feeling that catches at the apex of your lungs. It burns in your stomach and grips in your gut. She's gone and cut out the nerves - there's the crown of your cock caught in a velvet grip between those pretty pink lips and her fingers twisting at the bottom.

She breathes deep. Sinks her lips so slowly to the base. Anything, everything you want: to put your hands to the side of her head, to weave your fingers through her hair, and coax her, fuck her mouth like it belongs to you, all slow and hard and measured.

To hear all those wet sounds she makes as she chokes on the end of it. The gags as you force your cock into the back of her throat, holding her head tight, her hair pulled up into a fist, to have that mouth hanging around the length of you, tongue stuck to the bottom of her chin as you move her, your fiancée, your toy. To be looking her in the eye and watching her look the fuck back while she revels in every filthy second of it, not a single damn drop of hesitation or doubt.

"Really think," Irene urges, and she's all innocent when she tips her head to kiss her way up your cock.

She’s trying for some grace or finesse, or both - trying, you think, to make a point; instead, you end up watching her gulp and spit into her palm, just to obscure the sensual curl of her tongue with the sloppy-hard rhythmic stroke of her fist. "How hot it would be if you watched us both choke on your cum. Her face fucked stupid - the perfect little fuckdoll, is that not an image for the ages-"

You get a glimmer of that catlike grin - the one you would kill for a picture of. Something for the wallpaper, or the wallet; you've never met a boundary she hasn't challenged. The most depraved ideas in her head are just, as she is, a masterpiece. And so the answer has never changed - there has never been anything she's not been allowed-

"Trust me baby," she presses her cheek against your shaft. You feel her turn and run that mouth all over. The tip of her nose. Her eyelashes. The wet heat of her breath as she nuzzles the length. "Karina's all ours to share."

Her pout, right there, waiting.

You can't stop yourself from grabbing her face, the crook of her jaw, her neck and the tips of her shoulders. Until it all comes with a good, hard pull. The sound of her mouth on your cock, the blowjob she's been perfecting for years. It's starting to fill up the room, her lips wrapping your shaft - the sound of her being so obedient, the most receptive, sweet, pretty thing: letting you guide her pace until she has a steady motion going. Taking the thick base in her hands and working it over between her fingers. There's only enough room for that before you’re all the way inside her, in and out, again: the tip of your cock brushing over the softest curve of her throat.

When you take her at face value, it's fucking wild: your fiancée kneeling before you. Her chin and neck wet with her effort, lips wrapped so pretty, stuffed, used-

There are no questions. This is simply Irene, doing what she loves.

She pushes a hand between her legs and holds herself together as your hips tilt forward, meeting her halfway-

Just letting you get yourself off in her mouth like it's no big deal. It's her throat - it's her goddamn cunt and ass, and whatever else - because you fucking asked, right? Because you gave her the permission, the choice, the agency.

"Hey, where should I?" you’re muttering as you push the hair out of her face, already half-drunk on her slick lips and realistically only a few seconds away from doing some real damage.

There isn't a need; but you want her to tell you, to use her words. In her mouth, on her face, in her palm, you’ll go without thinking. You’ll cum straight onto your own stomach if it’s what Irene says. Even if she’s acting like you already have.

"Make sure you give her,” is what she garbles out around the hard line of your cock, and it’d be impossible to understand if you didn’t know every nuance to her, if you didn’t - you know - fucking love her. To have and to hold - to hold on tight and for better or worse, and this is pretty much as bad as it gets.

The syllables come in-between hollow breaths, all wet and sticky. When Irene wrenches the fuck out of it, the base of your cock- “hm, that same sort of courtesy when, agh, I'm not around-"

Because the image alone is what matters. There, getting your cock sucked like you've earned the privilege - it doesn't have to be real, it just has to look like it's a new truth to believe in. The little motions in her wrist are just - hah, fucking unreal - and the way she sinks down lower on her knees for each stroke, from base to tip - lips pressing over the knuckles she has wet, and squelching, and twisting up and down and up-

She places a hand under your balls, the gentlest cradle, and something of your restraint finally breaks - it snaps - her insistence is ruthless.

"Yeah, god, okay- I’m just gonna go ahead-"

There are these images in your head, of Irene: the upturned brows, the hollowed cheeks, and that slutty-as-shit smirk - and then of Karina: doing the exact same thing. Fuck, your cock is heavy, absolutely leaking cum: you can feel yourself leaking into the press of her mouth. It fills up her cheeks as she blushes into the fuck. Her lips become flush and go soft against the ridge of your shaft - her jaw slack in anticipation.

"Your fucking mouth, Irene" you breathe out, “I'm going to cum-”

Just at half the sentence, you're there, sunk into your fiancée's throat. Fingers across her ears and into her hair and watching her own hands pulling you, guiding you-

It’s all flexed in your back. Every muscle. Every fiber.

Irene hums onto a simple, satiated note. She always does, when she tastes it. When you dump a hot load of cum all over her tongue and straight into her throat.

(And yes, some might claim this is the death knell for all kinds of reasoning, but you’ll go ahead and admit it’s so, so worth it.)

"How thoughtful," she says, low and slow, once she's through swallowing the entire fucking thing.

The corner of her mouth tilts up. Because you're finished: two steps left in the brain from falling out of consciousness, a mess on the couch. You get to watch as she pulls you into sorts and slots each piece back to where it's meant to sit. The underwear, your pants. It's with such careful attention. Your soft cock gets cleaned with a tissue and wiped dry. A tiny parting kiss for the tip, her mouth full-on puckered, like she's kissing out anything you have left.

Though it's a pleasant daze. She prefers you soft like this, really.

All you have left to say is: "fuck me, baby." It sounds sloppy and open-ended as hell. "I guess I'll leave everything to you."

If that's a cue or sign for the evening, the only right thing: it isn't exactly misinterpreted.

The actual logistics don’t arrive for a handful more weeks. You find it surprising they ever happen at all.

// Karina 10:41 pm > i'm bored.

// Karina 10:42 pm > suggestions?

// 10:49 pm > have you tried looking into an incognito tab?

// Karina 10:58 pm > lol, and what is it i'm supposed to be finding?

// Karina 10:58 pm > help a girl out here.

"Send her a picture of your cock," Irene says, like it isn’t a joke. She looks up from the smutty-dash-of-romance-porn novel she's got herself wrapped in, with her best faux-serious expression. The pair of readers that usually are in her top desk drawer have made a new home perched low on her nose. "God knows she hasn't stopped leering since she found out what I'm marrying into."

"Please," you tell her, because she's full of shit. "I'm not sending her a dick pic."

Your laptop is warm on your thighs as you huddle on your side of the bed. That's the point of balance where it feels like Irene isn't trying to look. Though she clearly is. You flick up through a couple tabs just to drive the point home.

// 11:01 pm > sorry. i'm not in the business of just handing out freebies

// Karina 11:07 pm > really

// Karina 11:07 pm > thought we were making progress here

// 11:11 pm > you're funny

"Ask her if anyone's home with her." Irene dogears the page she’s reading and sets her book down. "Or ask if she's, like, tied up or something. Something edgy."

"Something edgy," you deadpan.

"Do you want me to put the readers away," Irene offers. She's wearing the sort-of smirk you always need to be wary of.

"No," you say. “God, no.”

"Ask her where she keeps her lingerie. Tell her she should be thinking about what it'd look like: all naked except a thong. With the straps digging into her. Tied up all nice and pretty-like."

// 11:13 pm > u alone right now?

"What the fuck?" Irene slugs a pillow at you. "That is the creepiest way you could've sent-"

// Karina 11:13 pm > yeah. i am :/

You and Irene are both struck a little dumb by that.

“Sheesh, she must have had her finger hovering over the reply button.”

"Yeah," you say, eloquent. “Who could blame her, though.”

"Uh-huh." Irene exhales, staring a bit pointedly.

// 11:16 pm > cool if I come over?

// Karina 11:17 pm > and… do what?

Irene nudges you with her heel, a questioning glance: the window has just been left there wide open and hanging. She whispers like Karina can somehow hear her through the phone, "you are terrible at sexting."

“Can you fucking leave it-”

Irene rolls her eyes.

// 11:18 pm > do you need ideas

// Karina 11:19 pm > got a couple. i wouldn't be against hearing something that lets my imagination fill in the gaps though

"Text her that you're into her throat and want her to show you her tits," and Irene actually cracks a laugh as she has the audacity to make the request. She's in good form this evening; in nothing but her favorite silk camisole - the navy blue one, which pairs great with all 5’2” of the rest of her. Like the soft curves she wears and everything else isn't bad for your heart. "Seriously, I want you to-"

"How am I supposed to end it?" You ask. The tone is purely sardonic. "Babe. Baby. My future wife. Tell me. You do realize you're basically asking me to bait her, right?"

Someone will eventually put their cards on the table, and Karina, Irene, and ostensibly you will realize you’re all currently having a mental break from reality. Or something along those lines. "I mean. Could that really be a negative," she wonders with an eyebrow quirked and another gesture of her arm like she wants to showcase the night sky beyond the bedroom windows.

"How, what - babe."

"You could promise to let her sit on it."

"Is the cockslut routine an act? Like," you lower your volume, "do you really have a playbook, here?"

"So mean." Irene reaches a hand over. She has her head propped on an elbow, the rest of her sprawled and comfortably positioned on the bed. And you wonder why the fuck you feel compelled to argue a point that so obviously has already been lost. "Just go fuck her already, god damn, I dunno."

Right. So. This was the part that was kind of inevitable - and Irene's impatience aside, you probably were about to win a lottery when you showed up at her door - that golden little interaction: "hey it's me, your rival at work's future ex-husband, I guess - I'm so horny and I think you're so beautiful and wouldn't it be so crazy if we, like, boned, haha, what?"

"Just- have sex. Tell me about it after."

The novel beckons Irene back toward it. She makes herself the picture of someone perfectly comfortable with you walking right into the next most uncomfortable predicament.

The sigh. That long, heavy thing. A leadup you do so often.

The simple idea of sending Karina that sort of message sends heat, low - just under the band of your sweatpants, and right where you've got yourself in the palm of your hand and you're already wondering how this is the result, why your cock is coming to a rise already - god damn - why every thought of Karina's face, and Karina's ass, and Karina's everything, every moment her lip is caught in between those teeth is becoming impossible not to touch. "Okay," you huff, "fine. I'm getting up, I'm going now- I mean it, right now, just give me a minute, I am putting my clothes on."

"Wait," and she's saying, "wait. Wait."

And when you turn around, Irene has this cat-that-ate-the-canary grin all stretched on the canvas of her face. She takes off her readers - her elbows thrown into her lap as she goes to the very edge of the mattress, pulling your shoulders for balance. "Babe-"

"Mm."

Irene likes to get you at a low simmer. The way she runs her thumb pad along your bottom lip. And all those questions - a look into her eyes - it's hard not to fold or break - when she's holding onto that sort of expression, unwavering; no matter how her mouth seems to get soft and curious.

Her lips move onto yours, asking - a push. And your eyes - a brush against a shoulder and you've already gone a whole mile from anywhere decent. There's the touch of her tongue between your parted mouths.

"You'll be good right?"

"I mean, sure," is what you manage, watching her lips close.

"You'll fucking wreck her, and do it exactly how she needs it done." And her brow, knit. She can tell your brain is busy jumping ahead to a hundred different scenarios. "Stop worrying."

There's a brief nod of reassurance. Her fingertips dust down your chest and the rest of the way. You hear Irene tell you to-

"And give her an extra hello from me."

"Okay, I love you, but also you're insane, like certifiable."

"Shush, I know you," and Irene gives your hair a little tousle before pushing you out the door.

You're standing there at the front door of Karina's apartment a little after midnight, bathed in dim, orange wicked fluorescence. Like it knows your sins - past, present and future. There's no obvious answer when you go knocking, and for a half-moment, you're thinking, okay, it's alright, this is how I let someone down easy-

Until she answers and leans out, pulling open the door. It takes you by surprise-

"Well, I'd normally let you in," you hear Karina say, and a smug smile starts to cross her face, "but..."

It's about the degree to which she looks hot and a little off kilter in this tight t-shirt - a snug pair of panties around the sway of her hips - that almost sends you spinning. There's not an ounce of self-consciousness; it's like a punch to the gut.

"Aeri's date went south and she's drunk. She's passed out on her bed, like, right now, I don't think-"

There's no bra. It's hard not to get fixated on every detail. Like her nipples, practically standing out. You have an irrational desire for her to take a step back, further into the room, further out of your vision's reach-

"Uhh," you croak. And you do have the mental faculties for, uh. For telling her. "Maybe, you know, later, could be better, yeah, maybe call me."

Though, unfortunately, the suggestion falls short on delivery.

"No, no." Karina has her hands searching up and underneath your sweater. Her fingers dance flat up, right over your stomach - teasing as she hikes you back inside. Right past the threshold. Your mouth is half-caught and stupid under her, the gentle hum and pressure on her lips. "It means we need to be quiet."

She drags you another step forward, with just the hot flash of her gaze.

"Shut the door behind you?"

"Locking it too," you tell her.

The laugh she makes into it, this one little scoff - it's an acknowledgment: an agreement. It's one of the worst fucking sounds, and the whole damn thing gets to you. Like her ass wasn't the perfect fit for the palm of your hands- like you don't want to trace your fingers under the elastic of her panties.

As if it wasn't fucking clear enough. It's the tongue in your mouth and the hands in her hair. She's kissing you soft, she's kissing you deep; her weight rests and pulls back with each swell of your ribs, pushing her fingertips down until they're skating, slow, low into the grooves of your spine. Like she's getting familiar with you again.

"Okay," you breathe. She laughs on your lips and presses forward - pulls you back, farther- "uhh. Okay."

She must see the confliction you're in-

"Hey." Karina keeps going until you've got her backed against a wall, until your thigh has pressed into the crux of hers and your hand is in her shirt. You don't miss how she lets her head tilt back when her eyes shut. It's her. There's no disputing the reality. "Whatever you want to do to me. That is all I've been thinking about. Do it."

"I- don't really-"

She makes a decent show of crossing her wrists and tugging her shirt right over her head. Tosses it someplace safe enough. "So are you just gonna leave me in suspense, or do you need my explicit, enthusiastic permission?"

Your lips draw themselves a blank on anything useful, while your heart rate accelerates.

"Here try this: you’re going to fuck me until I beg you to stop. Then you’re going to fuck me some more. Or whatever- then we can go somewhere, I don't care," she offers with a half-whisper. In all her goddamned glory - barefoot, almost bare chested - it's not like it could be any other thing.

You’re not exactly supposed to end up on your knees for this.

This isn't quite how you pictured-

Okay, fuck, Karina's making the prettiest noises where her spine is curling up against the wall; those sounds you couldn't even make up. How it feels like the easiest damn thing, because there isn't a question to why. Every inch of you is pressed to every inch of her. You know what you'll taste on your tongue, which of these breasts belongs in your palm and the fingerprints in the dips of her waist - her lips on the curve of your jaw - every mark and bruise on her skin, every hint of it is real; it's fucking you up because you're kissing the woman that Irene picked, the woman you met - it's how you pull yourself away-

Karina, for the longest few seconds, is shocked into stillness.

Because you could, of course, decide to give this one last shot, your head between her thighs and eat her out until she was so fucking wet your cock wouldn’t even enter the equation. This is not actually a new idea; the possibility has run through her mind enough times already.

"Yeah. That would work."

Like it's no big deal-

"Do you need instructions? I can get a bit graphic."

"Actually, you know what?" you choke a little, and - "trust me."

You stand straight up for a moment, a second, an extra fraction. You slip your cock inside her hot cunt, and, yeah. She collapses right into you. You’re holding up her just enough to fuck into - she's starting to breathe deeper, harder; you've got her pinned like that - a hand on her neck, fingers sinking into everywhere she's softest: her tits, her ass, her waist, her throat, and there is nothing that isn't some version of fucking glorious about Karina's weight grinding, heavy onto the tip and onto the ridge and down the thickest length of you-

And her face, jesus christ, her fine brows upturned, the tears heavy in her dark lashes, the little gasping-sobbing sounds that spill across her wobbling lips - this is the both the easiest and the hardest part: seeing her get absolutely fucking ruined-

(You know, god help you.)

Irene doesn't even have to ask. There are hickies and bruises shadowing in on your neck, your chest - these marks you never remember Karina giving you, and a ton of scratches all up your back.

"You know I was going to offer to make you breakfast," Irene says, smug, "but I'm wondering if Karina got to you first."

"What the hell do you think?" you say, dumb.

There are eggs burning on a skillet that are never going to be salvageable, no matter what Irene says. She has no respect for the process. And her voice is full of that infuriating smile: "was it everything you hoped?"

"God," you mutter, trying to mask the embarrassed laughter in your words. You can hardly move an inch on her behalf.

"At least tell me something fun, you insufferable tease," she presses her nose into your hair and tickles the spot on your side, just to be a pest.

You lay it all out for her. Everything she wants to hear.

Surprisingly, there’s still plenty to learn about each other; days to weeks to months. The first real thaw of the year comes, and you’re quick to fall into this odd rhythm.

Karina won't actually join Irene on set or production very often - too much heat. It shouldn’t have taken so long to figure out the two don’t belong in the same room together, and if they’d asked you, they’d know - but no one ever really does ask you. However she does spend more and more time around the apartment. In and out of your personal spaces. And maybe a bit in between, or a little underneath too: how she seems to slot herself right into every possible fold whenever Irene’s away.

Always traveling for this reason or that.

And god, the perfect powder keg Karina is - ticking, short-fused, all ready to explode. It’s ironic, you think, she’s drawn to scandal the way Irene will do anything to avoid it, and here, she's found her ultimate indulgence.

The quick lay, the time and place you know you can be patient in pulling her apart, the everything in between.

In fact, you’ve taken to calling her "babe" just so she doesn’t think twice when she gets your cum pooling deep in her cunt, all hot and sopping. Looking like the picture-perfect centerfold. The fucked-dumb face - all twisted in your grip, flushed-red; and the musky scent of sex; the noises and her presence alone. You fuck her, and fuck her, and fuck her, rubbing a thumb across where the mascara runs thick.

To be the gorgeous girl, cock-drunk and fucked-out in your lap - so simple - so natural: Karina finds her way over more often than not.

After your shower, after your nap; your work, the bar - Karina’s never more than a text away. And you'll keep a hand around her waist as she stands around in the kitchen, stealing Irene’s leftovers out of the fridge. Karina ends up straddling your thigh right there at the breakfast table, holding onto the wood for support as she cums all over you.

The long and short of it is:

She's fucking you. She's fucking your fiancée. She sees no problem in having her cake and eating it too. The only caveat is: Karina thinks neither of you know what's actually going on.

“You gonna say hi to Irene for me?" she's teasing one day, snapping her bra back into place. The t-shirt pulled over all that glossy-dark hair, the shimmy of her hips just to get back into the world's tightest jeans. She presses a fleeting kiss to the corner of your mouth. It's such a stark, clinical goodbye - ending with a flick of a thumb across a screen. "And oh, let her know if she ever wants me to teach her a trick or two. Anytime."

“Yeah, I’m sure she’d love that.”

Karina does the most insipid thing. She fucking winks. “I’m sure she would.”

"Uh, are you kidding me?" you ask Irene.

It's late one night, and Irene is standing in the kitchen in her pajamas with a welt the shape of Karina’s lips kissed right into her jaw. A couple drinks in your system have given you both a false sense of clarity, and also an ill-timed desire to solve all your goddamn problems. You lower your voice. "In her ass?"

Irene has that all-triumphant and dopey grin that makes your heart ache for her. There's a soft curl of her hair loose, thrown across a shoulder. "I’m serious, pull her hair right, hold her wrists until her back has to be arched. Pin her to the bed," she continues to illustrate, "it's all in the finer points of how much. Tell her to count, even. I'm not joking-"

She takes another spoonful of yogurt between her lips.

"-she'll let you do anything, promise."

“That’s fucked up.”

“I know.” Irene wags the spoon at you. “It’s great.”

It's not only the hypothetical-homewrecking that gets Karina so torridly wet for the whole affair; when she's pinned beneath you with her legs spread and her toes pointed skyward, or perhaps later - the same day even - riding Irene's face in a locked dressing room and crying out - "ah, hah, jesus, please-"

In her head, she has you both at her beck and call. Forget semantics - Karina is a fool to her own illusion. Because in her head, not only has she managed to go toe to toe with the industry's reigning monarch, she’s managed to win.

You don’t exactly know how Karina ever intends to keep it casual. Because things are damn near constant:

It’s a weeknight, and the moon is high above the windows, casting a crisp rectangle onto the hardwood; it doesn’t actually matter, as far as Karina is concerned.

Irene’s on television again, the sequin in her dress clinging tight, and she’s found the gaze that never breaks for the cameras. Found the flash of her most practiced smile - that little chime of laughter she has that sounds like striking pure gold.

Then Karina: sitting cross-legged at the very end of the sofa. One leg thrown over your thigh, she’s got these nylons on her feet and she’s poking a toe into your ribs. "Isn't she stunning," you hear her muttering, "honestly. Doesn't it, like, turn you the fuck on?"

Her foot grazes your lap, all casual at first; the impossibly soft-curved heel of her sole. There are so many ways she'd prefer to pass the time and they almost all involve getting under your skin, if not just outright getting into your pants.

“Elaborate.”

"I mean listen, in your case, just knowing your fiancée is up there looking like a total angel and at the same time, thinking about you; how she’s got to be considering every which way she’ll unwind just after the showcase - at least, that’s what I’d be doing." She licks her lips, teeth. "Hell, I’m only imagining how pretty her eyes are when she can barely keep them open, and that’s enough to ruin my panties."

"Are you really."

She shifts her weight. Puts that ankle to good use. Rubbing it into the crease between your legs. "Tell me," her lips curl. She’s looking at you dead-on. "How does she usually prefer it, hm?”

Like a wildcat, you suppose, your Irene - a pretty, little predator. You could tell Karina everything, but you don’t. Instead you let her wander into the lair of her own making. Her eyes: light and curious; it’s written in the lines of her face how she's picturing it all so plainly.

“I’d guess she lets you go slow. Or hard. Or maybe a little rough and then you make her cum, and then maybe, just maybe, after the teasing; after the edging, I guess, that's when she comes in hot. I would hope."

Karina twists her foot around, swings her weight onto your lap, and sucks in a sharp breath when you reach out and grip the lean lines of her hips. It’s as easy to hold her still as it'd be to drag her across the couch and under the rest of your body, fuck the goddamn tension until there was no longer any room left for the pretty smirk in her lips. And her gasp would probably sound a hell of a lot better - than all the needling quips - a much louder and much less-pretend whine when you could throw those thighs open and really pound her wet, aching little cunt-

“Easy,” she chides when you end up taking two handfuls of her chest. "Shouldn’t you be more supportive? For god’s sake, it’s your fiancée’s moment in the spotlight, you know-"

There’s nothing stopping you from popping off the buttons of her dress, one by one by one - and kiss right there, into the swell. Your voice feels all the rougher when you respond, "and what a moment."

Her fingertips skim over the places she's been kissing you, where she's been marking and claiming and trying to, at least, to stamp you like her personal property - when the look is that serious. All cold-burn. Right through to the bone.

“So.”

You can feel her touching into your pants. The heat in her soft, silky thighs; she sits above you, keeping a leg on each side. A part of you feels trapped; another is confused why you aren't turning the tables right now - flip her and ride out her cunt on the couch. Some passing thought, or just a fraction, the only one that matters in that particular instant, wonders what Irene would do, will do - has done - in your situation. How her hips would roll. How Karina’s moan might sound when she dug a nail right into a sweet spot.

You push Karina's skirt a little farther up her body and try to gauge the moment she's finally decided she doesn't mind.

“How about you keep your eyes on her, and I'll suck your cock while you do," ends up being the short and not-so-sweet of it all. “-or maybe you can get off between my tits.”

She wraps those fingers around your base and pulls gently. It's not a decision, but merely a continuation, a culmination: a gesture made entirely to pull the response: the hitch to the throat. Her nails skim that ridgeline as her eyes track across the cut of your features. It makes you groan into her next kiss, to say, "if you wanted it so bad, babe, you could’ve just said. Would save us a lot time-"

"Are you complaining?" she husks, pulling your pants down your thighs. Your cock is in her hands and she smiles like a cat - licks her teeth when it twitches at just the slightest touch. "Yeah, I didn't think so," is how the breathless laugh leaves her lips.

You catch the quirk of her brows, her tone: straight-up, like nothing. You’re almost buying into that until she's got your shirt on the floor, those lips of hers in the divot of your collarbone, and her tits wrapped around the base of your cock, and, well, fuck-

She actually wastes no time - none at all. A couple feet away, Irene covers her laugh with one hand. There's a brass award in her other. And the television casts this soft, pale glow.

Karina tips her head, and a curtain of her dark, silken hair spills across the ridge of her breast. She runs those big eyes over you, all wide and round and vaguely-deviant. There's the perfect amount of motion, of squeeze, just a light-bit of pressure, and she's got a face smug-arrogant in an instant, knowing. Fuck, her hands on either side start pushing into the line of her cleavage as she bounces and rocks and draws every inch of your cock up through her soft tits and back down again.

"Fuck," is the harshest exhale she's ever dragged out from you.

She hums a low sound, all self-satisfied when it's her own namesake: your body wants her, like you know the full weight of her needs, your touch, how badly she's fucking craving to get off and still not admitting to anyone it might be more than sex. Like it's really as easy as her next breath, the flutter of her lashes: Karina wants your eyes, the weight of your attention and she's not going to beg for a fucking thing. The feeling, you think, is mutual.

"Irene," she says, her smile as open as it could ever get. "She's just so gorgeous, right?"

On one hand, she’s speaking between the lines. A perfect tincture of deceit - the bawdiness-by-nature: watch me, look at me - is what she might as well say - look what I can fucking do, the whole lewd display. And, god, how she knows every way to make a guy want it, like she wants you to remember it.

Because on the other, the movement is so, so direct.

Karina twists herself in an upward tilt, just an easy, practiced thing; she lets her tits spill around your cock and through her fingers, full and soft - and her lips part, mouth slacking alongside yours, matching the sounds out your chest with her own. Like she knows exactly which slide of slippery friction will make you moan, or which pull and drag will send your teeth straight into your lip.

"Isn't it crazy," she lolls her head a little, letting her own saliva drip down the center, onto your weeping slit. "How much I want your cum filling my cunt, even knowing she's the one you'd rather put the ring on," the drag and drag and drag - her tits are fucking incredible, and she knows it. She pushes up with her fingers and gives you a long draw right through the press, right where the nerve endings run electric, right where she keeps moving, up and down, and up and down-

“-it must be hard, I mean, jesus christ. Here I am, needy and hot. Begging you to wreck me and my only sin, hm - the sin of being second best, right-"

"Holy fuck, you're-"

"Obsessed," she says, and drops her tits against your waist again. "I know, I know. How could I not be?"

You're left muttering into the titfuck alone, watching her rub your precum up between their soft shape, feeling the slight give, how her skin goes warm. The act itself: such a simple-thing-bordering-on-the-absurd that you notice how you coil and flex beneath her curves, how she feels so soft and warm. The slight pucker of her lips every time your cock escapes her cleavage does little to help. It's probably the fault of the brain-fuck but the wet of her mouth is practically everywhere you look. You could eat her alive right here, spread her legs on the coffee table and finish with a bit of screaming, groaning and tearing, and no one would ever stop you.

But instead,

"-it's a good color on her, really; but then every color is a good color on her, isn't it so unfair?" She's taking your cock into her tits, deeper on every rock forward and back, holding them close - a gentle lock of those long manicured fingers keeping it all together. "Even wearing no color at all; you must just love how all the freckles are so easy to see," she murmurs, squeezing tight. The sound is wet, messy. A filthy chorus between her dirty words and the dirtier action, and just that glimpse of friction when she strokes down again is maddening. You're all slippery. So sticky-slick, so tight.

Of course there's not a fucking inch of a reaction out of her; you want to get off so bad-

"You could close your eyes," she tells you. "She would still be there. The sound of her laughter. The image. In that dress or not," and her mouth furls into a half-smile before she pauses. Reaches down, pulls her tits around you impossibly tight. "Just so damn pretty-"

You cum just like that:

"Babe," is what you let her have. The soft, undercurrent hiss. "Fuck."

You shoot clean up, all thick, hot splatter.

Well, mostly up - along the expanse of her neck and throat, coating where her breasts sit so pretty against the lines of your thighs. Across her sternum and the hollow of her neck - her body's covered in your shared mess: slick-filthy-hot, all strewn across her perfect tits.

"Jesus, Karina, baby you’re-"

"Completely covered in you." She's still smiling. That deep-cut and perfectly symmetrical curl of her lips. The gorgeous fucking shade, and her chin, how her cheeks flush, just a little - they've always turned pink in the most specific places when she gets fucking cum-soaked. “I know, just look.”

And her hands slide across her chest, trailing a path through the thick of your release, spreading the glaze all down her front. Making it messy, making the exact look a guy sees once and is driven to the ends of his sanity - just to spill his load out onto her. To get her all used, and trussed up: just how she likes.

(Sanity is being generous, considering.)

You can't do anything other than what's expected: take her up in a kiss, breathe into the mess you've made on her skin. The gasp is full, surprised - just enough, maybe, to count as genuine.

Such a mess - she murmurs - um, come on then, you can do a girl a favor. Bath bomb, bath towel, bath robe - and really it doesn't have to be a suggestion.

You’ll pin her down and fuck her right over the lip of the tub if that’s what she really wants. Just being in her company is indulgent and excessive and begging you to make a terrible habit of it. Have some self–restraint, she has this tone in her voice sounding more and more like a dare. There's just enough there in her hands: one reaching for you and the other reaching into the porcelain, swirling up the lather - and that look on her face, as if to say, can't believe you have me waiting, like some desperate, depraved pervert - only it’s more explicit than that. Only it feels worse - and her mouth is moving again, speaking into the air that already feels stifling hot, words cutting through the steam: you're not very nice, I mean really, it should come as no surprise how she turns out, having this jerk for a fucking boyfriend-

Nevermind. Not a dare, it's a challenge. She was right the first day you undressed her, the brattiest girls always have the worst kinds of fantasies, the darkest little tendrils of self-destruction. How she's laying there, asking and telling, pushing and pulling; and how she thinks she's so clever too.

Though that is no reason, she laughs, for you to think she won't love having her pretty cunt cockwarmed and spoiled for an evening or more. - And so it goes, and so it goes, and so it goes, and so it goes.

(Really, to Irene’s credit, she had Karina pegged right from the jump. A character study in, well, herself.

She's seen as an ingénue by the press, and an outright savant to the executives. They know her as the obvious successor. They give her the runway, they watch the leggy-girl-turn, the model-posture, chin held high and aloof, looking down at the gathered throngs of photographers.

The protégé, the goddamn heir-apparent:

But her favorite game - that bit of innocence served on a platter, ingenuous when it comes to spinning a flaw to gold, and the deception too - Karina loves and loathes every second she spends upstage from Irene's own, hectic, international production. Because if anyone asks her, that girl would claim it's never been a competition in the first place.

So you see, if you and yours have both decided to ruin her-

It is a disaster-in-the-making, isn’t it.)

#karina smut #irene smut #aespa smut #red velvet smut #male reader smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut

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Text

HONNE, TATAMAE & THE OTHER ONE

male reader x shin yuna

9k words

Yuna shuffles into your office with the same sneaky smile, the same easy slouch, and she settles into one of the chairs across the table. There is, apparently, more to talk about.

It's a matter of image, of perception, is what she knows.

You know every good lie starts with the truth.

So you swallow. You pause. Some other part of you understands Yuna can't ignore who she really is, and you’re not sure you can either.

Look - Shin Yuna is the kind of woman that turns heads, even with the best of intentions. A long, lithe silhouette; an easy, rosy sort of youthfulness clinging to the swell of her cheekbones, the curve of her waist. Take a dress that's cut to show a little thigh, or a hairstyle pushed back on one side - earrings, or heels, or just the subtle swipe of red over her lip - it doesn't take much for men (or anyone else) to figure that out. A girl who, more times than not, really ought to have a boy's hand planted on her ass, in possession.

So the opportunity to capture such a form perfected - all toned and graceful and flush for curves, her legs never seeming to end, the slithering fit of the dresses - these were the things they wanted. Package it, put a logo on it - better yet, a ribbon or a bow - and ship it straight to the consumer.

Somebody everyone wants, somebody no one can ever have.

“So,” Yuna asks from the other side of your desk, lips slanting halfway coy. “Are you going to treat me like an adult?"

Her fingers play idly with the hem of her skirt, and she lets a long, slender leg slowly slide out from beneath her.

“In what way,” you answer, half paying attention.

"The photos." She doesn't have the slightest qualms about lifting it higher. The soft creak of leather, and a deepening smile. "Am I not allowed to be a little racy?"

"That's certainly... one way of looking at it."

You glance away from where her stockings wrap around the soft curve of her thighs to flip back through the photos in your lap, one after the other, each a little different from the last. The beach, the sun, a flimsy white slip of a bikini top that hides exactly nothing, her muscles wet and glistening and perfect. Beyond suggestive, it's considerably inappropriate.

But then to a lot of people, Yuna is a lot of things.

She’s more clever than anyone gives her credit for. And she’s fucking gorgeous, sure. That’s definitely not up for debate, but god is she young - she's barely twenty. And here’s some rather uninteresting food for thought: you couldn't even technically take her for a drink without faking an ID or breaking some law or another, like a real one. So go ahead, chew that down. Girls her age are typically studying, or working a retail job and getting wasted on the weekends. And they aren't typically making six, seven figures turning their head to the camera and asking how much more skin?

You have some thoughts.

Prudently, you’re her publicist, and it’s your job to make sure that the public gets a good look at her and sees exactly what you want them to see. It's unfair. She wields sex like a weapon. She's got the face, the body; it's an easy sell, commodified and commercialized down to the finest detail, the softest curve, the slightest arch of her brow. The idea's to not let anyone look too long, should they catch something you haven't approved yet, or the fact that she's quite possibly a real person with a real life and real feelings, which could easily fuck up her brand, so unfortunately, that's a bit of a no-go.

Sign of the times maybe, no ethical consumption under another something, yadda yadda - it's a shitty business, really, and the whole thing usually leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

(And just to be upfront, as an important disclosure: you are fucking her brains out on the side, which is a different kind of ethical dilemma, with a different kind of flavor to it.

You’re supposed to be something of a role model - and she’s gone and fucked up bad by falling for you. From her perspective, it probably makes sense. Girl gets boy, bespoke song, credits roll and it's fine. No sin to atone, no 'after'.

It was supposed to be a one time thing. It’s metastasizing into something you’re not even going to attempt to put into words. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen, you know that. And you know the girl has daddy issues, but then you've never had a problem whatsoever playing into it. The possessiveness, the control - she gets off on it. You're pretty sure that she'd do just about anything if you asked her, and you'll admit that the thought alone makes your stomach stir, your mouth run dry.)

Yuna taps her knuckles on the wood of your desk. “What’s the verdict?”

"Well, professionally," you say, caveat in hand, and you give the photos one last flip through. "I'd say they're fine.”

"Oh?" Yuna cocks her head to the side. Her long, blonde hair curtains over her shoulder, and the smile that shadows in at the corner of her mouth is almost wicked. She leans forward, chin propped on a palm, and you see that her expression is bright, glittering with interest. "And unprofessionally?"

Sure. It's a fair question.

Though she's wearing her stage face, the one that looks all big eyes and doe lashes, a hint of a pout on her plush bottom lip, and she's staring at you expectantly, the way she might look at a man she's just asked for the time.

You've seen her look a million other ways. You've seen her with her knees spread, her cheeks flushed, on all fours, straddling your lap, face pressed into the sliding glass door of your shower, her eyes screwed shut as she chokes out your name. And god, doesn’t she look good in all of them.

Your fingers tap against the photos.

“Unprofessionally," you tell her, and the smile on your face is tight - unknowable. "I think they’re a little… gaudy."

Yuna frowns, and it's just a flash before her expression is carefully blank again, the stage face back in full swing. She's been doing this since she was a teenager, so the mask is impeccable, but you know her, and you know that she's thinking: about the photo shoot, the way the photographer was looking at her, and the way you had looked at her later, too.

She knows what you've seen. She's wondering if that's why.

"Really," she asks, a note of disappointment in her voice.

"Really," you confirm with a small sigh, though you're still smiling. It's a small, private sort of smile, like you're remembering a joke. You don't miss the way she glances down at your mouth either. "Let me be clear, you have a shot at real success. I mean, you have a chance at a career. A real, sustainable career.”

She's sitting there with her legs crossed, her foot tapping restlessly, and when she's silent for a moment too long, the way her eyes narrow just a smidge, her head tipped slightly, you realize how it sounds. Patronizing.

"Look," you amend. You're not the best at apologies, but you try. "I just mean - I think that you could be doing something that you actually enjoy."

"Who says I don't enjoy this," she says, and there's a bite in her tone, a challenge. She's leaning back in her seat now, arms crossed.

"What, taking your clothes off for the camera?" You laugh, a quick bark. Isn’t that a cruel question, and you can see it in the way her eyes flash. "You could do a lot more than that, I'm just saying."

"Right," she says, and she doesn't blink, doesn't even move. Her gaze is fixed, unwavering. "Because I'm not pretty enough."

You open your mouth. Close it.

It's not a question. It's a statement.

"That's not what I'm saying-"

"Do you know what makes me different from the IT-girl-of-the-month? The Jang Wonyoungs, the Bae Irenes, the Kim Jisoos of the world?" Yuna cuts in.

"Yuna, this isn't-"

"You should know. " She laughs. "It's your job, knowing things, isn't it?"

The silence stretches thin between you. She's not wrong. There’s the quintessential beauty, the timeless classic, the fantasy-wrapped-up-as-a-daydream - oh, it's all sexual, but the product there is palatable (read: marketable). An idea the general public wants to take home to their mother, not take to bed. A beauty so docile and innocent, you feel guilty harboring those untoward thoughts it makes you have.

Yuna is somewhere possibly, someway probably the opposite. You’ve sold her as such, as fantasy in sheep's clothing. She's neither afraid to put the images to words, nor speak her desires aloud. It's her own brand of sensuality, and it's what the public wants - has always truly wanted, since the dawn of man and of popstars fucking their publicists - what the public wants but turns itself in knots just to pretend they don't. The only way it’ll end up in anyones’ parents' home is under the guise that it will be smuggled upstairs and held down into the springs of a mattress. Hand over her mouth, or maybe around her throat, just so she'll shut up.

She's not a nice girl, or the girl-next-door, a bride-in-a-box, but you'd known that before. The line between fact and fiction is fine indeed.

"You're different," you tell her, finally.

"When I first came in here, you had no qualms, no issue to raise, and now all of a sudden, everything is too much," she says, and she's not smiling, her tone flat. "If it was a problem from the jump, you would've said so."

“I just think a little subtlety would be a nice change of pace. It could go a long way, I mean, I could show you the data- "

"So you're going soft on me, is that it?"

You blink, and the realization hits.

"Just where was this noble version of you when we first started out? You had no problem then, remember? Put a sixteen-year-old in front of a camera, in this industry, and all of a sudden-"

"Don't."

“And suddenly it's all 'oh no, that's a little too much, we need to dial it back'." She sighs, a single sharp burst. "Why is that? Is it because you think that now you own me? I fuck you, swallow your cum and call you daddy, and now these are your decisions? Is that it?"

She’s standing now, her chair shoved back so fast it nearly clatters to the floor. There's a storm on her face, almost a rage. This now become a familiar story. The one where the girl's too pretty for her own good. Too much, too soon.

"I'm not a child," she tells you, her tone measured, a sharp contrast to the fire in her eyes. "I know what I want. I know how to get it. You're not telling me anything I don't already know. I'm different. You're right."

She's different, but the girl's clever, too. And she's stubborn. It's a dangerous combination.

You breathe slow. "Then why don’t you act like it."

“If they’re going to call me a slut,” she hisses, and she's walking forward. Her palms land on your desk, hard, and you glance down at her clenched fists, at her neatly kept nails, "you know, after we leak them all those steamy photos online-"

Your mind clicks. You reach to slam the cover of the photo book shut. She's caught your hand, though, in hers, holding it firmly to the desk.

Yuna glances at the photos over again, at the tight fit of the swimwear, or how the ties slip in an invisible breeze. And she's biting her lip, trying not to smile, you can tell. "You know it might be worth it for once," she says, slipping a finger between the buttons of her shirt.

There's a long, tense moment, and before you can register it, Yuna has rounded your desk; she’s closing the distance, fast.

And she’s lowering her eyes. Putting her lips on yours.

It knocks the wind from your sail, for just the instant. You're speechless.

Because her fingers. Her mouth. Her hair. Yuna's everywhere, and she's warm. It's utterly selfish, you understand: you want her to be yours. You want her to be yours and no one else's.

She’s realizing she might be.

You feel her grabbing for more of you. Wanting. She tilts her head, her breath hot, and you kiss her back, her mouth slick against your own, and the kiss is a fast, deliberate kind of messy. Your teeth catch her bottom lip, and her tongue slips past yours, licking into your mouth, her hands clutching at the collar of your shirt. It's not like it is when you're fucking, which is slow and hot, and she's on her back, legs around your waist, her nails biting into your skin, or when she's bent over the arm of the sofa, her ass in the air and her back arched, her breathless moans a chorus of yes, yes, please. This kiss is more battle, more heat, less gentle and less finesse. It's the kind of kiss that's just short of an argument.

"You're an asshole," she breathes into your mouth, and it's not a compliment.

You smile against her.

"So are you," you murmur, and her lips are parted, her eyelids fluttering shut, her breath coming quick and hot.

"Then maybe you should just fuck me," she says. She's not asking. “Yeah.” You press your words right into her neck, her collarbone. “Maybe I should.”

Your hands are on her hips faster than you can realize what it is they’re doing, palms pressing into her, and then you're walking her backwards, shuffling a few steps until the small of her back collides with the edge of your desk, and you're lifting her up onto the surface, the photographs falling to the floor, scattering.

"I thought we weren't supposed to do this here," she murmurs, pulling away for just a moment, her mouth swollen and wet, her eyes dark. She knows exactly what it does to you: the goading, the taunting - the looks of faux-innocence later over a bare shoulder, her ass in the air. How it can get you to fuck her within an inch of her life. What it’ll get her, the return on investment.

"And I thought we agreed to longer skirts."

Her thighs are smooth, silky, and they part, the lace of her underwear stark against her skin. You slide a hand beneath the elastic band, sinking down, and down, until she inhales sharply.

"The fuck do you end up doing going up the stairs?" you add, and your fingers are tracing the swell of her hip, and you can feel the goosebumps on her skin.

She bites her lip. You sink down to press a kiss to her thigh, and then the other.

"Nothing," she tells you, and her eyes are wide. "I guess it all just hangs out."

She simply smirks right back into you, throws her arms over your shoulders. You’re snared, caught - she’ll always be able to fuck what she wants right out of you.

"Jesus, Yuna." Your hand curls around her wrist, thumb pressed to her pulse, and her shoulders roll back.

You push her down, and she's sprawled across the desk, legs stretching wide, her head tilted back and her chest heaving. “God, you’re so fucking wet, and I've barely touched you. That turns you on? Being a brat?"

She sucks air past her teeth, and you can measure each rise and fall of her chest. The lace under her hips is soaked, her pussy swollen and pink. Like if she doesn’t get your hot, open mouth on her clit this instant, you’re both going to have a problem.

You slip two fingers into her instead, and Yuna keens.

"I know it does," you say, and your voice comes out lower, drier than you expect. She's hot, so wet around you, her pussy fluttering. "It fucking turns me on, too."

"Please," and “god,” is what all you receive back in half whispers, while her legs are spread, her heels now really dug into the square of your back, and she's got a fistful of your hair like she owns it. Her voice is high, her eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t be such a fucking tease."

You're not going to make it easy. She's not going to make this quick.

"What, and you aren’t?"

You curl your fingers inside her, and the noise that leaves her is positively obscene. She's grinding against your palm, her hips bucking, and her lips are parted, her eyelashes dark and thick, fanning her cheeks. She's panting, her thighs trembling.

"No," she breathes. If she’s shaking her head, you can’t tell. "I'm exactly what you tell them I am."

Your hand stills, and it takes a moment for her to realize that the pressure inside her is gone. Her eyes snap open, her mouth twisted.

"Fuck you," she spits. "Put them back."

You're already sinking down to your knees, and you've got her skirt shoved up, the lace panties pulled aside, her hips canted, her pussy glistening. The stockings can stay, fuck, the heels, too. She's so fucking hot, her legs spread apart and her lips red. Her palm shoved into her brow, and her breath just barely more than a ragged huff of air. You can feel her body wound tight and ready, her eyes on the ceiling.

You put your tongue against her, flat and slow. Inaccurate, indiscriminate, licking up her wet cunt. And her whole body arches off the desk, a cry leaving her mouth with her head thrown back. Her thighs are shaking, and her heel presses into your shoulder, and god, she tastes incredible.

"Please." It comes like music, really, a song of desperation. You can hear it. She's singing it for you now. "Oh god, please, fuck-"

So you do her one better. You put your whole mouth over her, and she fucking shivers. You don’t even try to ease into it - you're devouring, ravishing her, working your lips and tongue all over her pussy, lapping the length of her in broad, hot strokes, and she's almost shrieking, her body going taut. You suck on her lips, pressing your tongue into her clit, and when you pull off her, your hand takes over the place where your tongue can't quite reach, her wetness slick around your fingers. Yuna's close - you can see that she is, you can hear that she is, and it's her gasp that lets you know.

"I'm -" she says, her voice reaching higher, her nails digging into the flesh of your shoulders, the wood of your desk. The sound she makes is wretched and beautiful. "God, I'm cumming, I'm cumming - fuck!"

The licking, the lapping, the fucking fingering. You can feel her slicked cunt pulse and throb in a satisfied, anticipatory kind of way. Even if she wasn’t audibly wet around your knuckles, you’d read Yuna like a map.

Your thumb taps across her clit, once - twice, thrice, and it’s just that.

She arches off your desk, thighs trembling as your tongue works her over, This hard, hungry kiss, and she tastes as sweet as she looks - as filthy as she acts, too. Her pussy is slick, her hips rolling, her body trembling, and she's making soft, little ah, ah, ah, sounds into the wet seal of your mouth. She's trying to keep it quiet, because she knows as well as you, everyone in the damn office does, probably - it's one thing to play at being a slut. A complete other to really fuck like one.

Your finger slips in and out of her pussy, and then another. They fill her up. The knuckles bending and pushing deeper. Yuna's fucking ruined - your desk is ruined.

But then there you are, complicit, and perhaps a little evil: licking and licking and licking right into her, making her grip twist in your hair and her thighs clench around your face. You can feel it in how her breathing is coming fast, faster, her whole body growing taut, and it was never going to take long, you figure, the way her hips were rolling the moment you got your hands on her. You can tell. She's close, and she's so pretty, all flushed and writhing, her skirt hiked up, her ass perched on the edge of your desk, and when her mouth falls open and her breath catches in her throat, you pull yourself up to watch her, the heel of your hand pressed against her clit, and she's shaking.

"Look at me,” you tell her, a kiss trailing unsatisfyingly into the crease of her thigh, your voice running coarse.

She does, her gaze glassy, and the sound that leaves her mouth is a sob. That’s all it really takes.

“Show me. What face you make when you cum on my fingers sweetheart, show me what a slut you actually are-"

You can watch it all in real time, the panting, the heaving. The sculpted lines of her pretty face screw up, real tight, and she lets out another moan, breathier this time, her mouth hanging open. She does it again when you press down. And Yuna fucking shakes, her hands balled, white-knuckling, and the desk rattling beneath her.

It's all a matter of slight degradation, you’ve learned, the barest humiliation. Like the paradoxical freedom she knows she can find in a hand clenched tight around her throat or her hair pulled and twisted into a fist or the sharp sting of a smack across her ass. Her pretty face. She likes a little something that burns. Something sinewy, visceral, raw: you call her a whore, a filthy fucking cumslut and it makes her body curl like she has hot metal pressing into her skin. Makes her breathless, like she wants you to own her.

Sometimes it's better than being fucked.

(Sometimes.)

Because just look at her: she’s in the middle of coming apart, mouth fallen slack, brow furrowed - and she gets real quiet when she cums, the absolute opposite of the journey she’d taken to get there, all those loud little, uh-uh-ah, fucking please god, her moans, her whimpers - her orgasm ripping right through the middle of her, the hourglass of her entire body stiffening on borrowed time as it washes across her features.

You let out a loud sigh, something she can moor herself to that isn’t your fingers, the desk, or your hair at the roots. Yuna can be every bit as uncomplicated as she can be complex, but god, you love her most like this: an unrehearsed, beautiful mess.

"Baby," you tell her, because it's easier to just call her that, and because you don't know how else to end the statement, because you know if you ask, she'll let you - hell, she'll beg for more, and that’s got your brain feeling rather mushily incoherent at present.

"Daddy," she responds - because of course she fucking does; she’s gasping, and her cheeks are still so pink, her body sated, and your heart leaps into your throat.

It's a problem; you've been trying to work it out for a good few months now, and by this, you mean the little moment you have right after you're done, where your eyes meet, and you smile at her. A problem, too, her lips. A problem, because she kisses you, soft, and slow, and easy. A problem, because her heart's probably already yours.

If anyone were to ask, you would have said there's no greater pleasure than knowing a girl that's almost died to take your cock, but maybe that's the point: it's just supposed to feel a bit better if you're a little head over heels, a little stupid about it too.

"I'm going to use this perfect pussy now," you warn her - just simple formality - because you're already rolling her down onto her back, your cock hard and aching against your trousers.

You've got your hands on her stockings, tugging them down to her ankles, the lace of her panties around her thighs, the neat garter of her garter belt wrapped around her hips, her cunt bare beneath it. You unzip, too slow. You tug yourself out.

“I’ll be good,” she says to you, a promise.

“Yeah,” you return to her, “I know.”

And you slip your cock into her cunt, just barely - maybe an inch, maybe more - and you hear a little noise leave her throat, low. Broken.

“Fuck,” she murmurs, and god, you just can't help it, it's easy; you sink deeper, nice, slow, everything smooth inside her, until another broken sort of gasp spills off her lips.

And then another: "oh my fucking god."

You snap your hips back in, bottoming out this time in the wet heat of her perfect cunt, and she just fucking collapses. Yuna looks like an absolute dream in this state of half-dress, half-distress: black suede around the ankles, stilettos, with just the perfect heel. There are worse things, you can imagine, and she looks perfect sprawled out against your notes and portfolios, all this hot, aching want. As gorgeous as she is fucked. You tear into her stockings, a little. You’ll tear more.

You already know you're going to hell. Or at least that’s where you should already be, but you hips crash into hers again, fucking her legs wider apart, spreading her open across your desk for you, getting her slick all over the photos, her career - it’s all so perfectly unfair.

"You have no idea, the things I want to do to you right now," you breathe, your tone hushed, and you're talking again, like you often do. There goes your mouth - but your hips drag back, and then again, her pussy clenching, vice tight and impossibly wet.

It's a long, torturous, lazy sort of a pull, that draws these pretty thin moans from the very center of her.

And the way that feels, your cock buried deep in her cunt: better than good - heaven, if you care enough about labels for it, or the names of things. You haven’t any real way to tell; the gates haven't opened or anything, so all you're working from here is an educated guess. From the fact that Yuna’s eyes have slid closed, her lips parted, and her whole body starting now to tremble gently with it.

"Jesus, this perfect, tight pussy grips me so good, god - such a good girl, always so fucking wet for me," and your mouth is pressed to the arch of her ear, whispering every last thing you know will make her cum again, like a dream.

And she is, she does.

She's twisting up to grip at your hips, her head falling to one side. When you drag your cock through her cunt, slowly, you watch her lips purse and the way the flush moves all the way down the column of her neck, past her collarbone, her shirt half undone and her tits heaving against the white, sheer fabric. You fuck her for a little, and then you roll your hips slow, so slow.

Until your pace is fucking punishing, deep, and so hard. You can’t help it.

Because it's unbelievable - she's so perfect, so tight around you. Fit snug like a glove, like she was made to take your cock, to whimper and mewl at your mercy. Her lips part further and she keens, her brows twisting in similar disbelief as you pound your length into her. The heat pooled in your belly, the way she looks under your desk: fuck, she's so beautiful like this, properly fucked.

You'd let her ruin you for life - it's that simple.

"Yuna, you - fuck," you barely say, and you sound more than slightly stunned, so she’s filling in the gaps, elaborating in the spaces you cannot - that she loves it, that you’re so good for her, and so is that, and that, and that - the way it hits, right there, keep fucking her just like that, because right there, right there, right there, right there - the way she props herself up on her elbows to tell you, "you're fucking me so deep, oh my god - yes, oh my god, fuck."

By the time Yuna shudders through another orgasm, a silent ghost of a wail leaving her pretty frozen mouth, her lashes are batting against her cheeks, and she's biting her lip, so hard you're certain she's going to break the skin, her back strung like a bow. It's the look on her face, that soft sort of reverence, and how her lips are swollen and spit-slick, the pretty hollow of her throat. Your thrusts become faster, shorter - your own moan thick in your throat, your jaw hanging slack.

“Here,” you say, and she’s just putty between your fingers, on your cock.

You’re flipping her around, onto a different angle. You know she likes it, the way her tits are pressed against your desk, and it's hot the way her ass tilts right into your hips, arched. Proffering. "Be good for me, and spread yourself open."

She's already so meek when she complies. "Anything, sir. Stretch me out; I want you to make me yours."

God, she's practically purring when she talks like this. She knows exactly what that fucking does to you. Knows that when her eyes draw back, big and watery and full, you're a goner - if your cock wasn't deep in her pussy, fucking her open and raw, the view would nearly be enough. And all of this, the pretense, the pantomime, she knows how to bend the line of your body to her own, because when she turns, and presses her red mouth to the crest of her shoulder, you are hers.

You could probably cum, right now, deep down into the molten hot of her cunt: if your hips keep up their ruthless pace, if her ass was sticking up the slightest bit more - the sound that would come from her.

"Take that perfect cock - and fuck my pussy up," Yuna mewls, her voice saccharine and slurring, a touch whiny. She rolls her hips. Your cock grinds, still, though it stutters now - shallow and quick.

"All this pussy, for daddy's cock," and you're sure that the entire office can hear her now, the moans that escape from her mouth - but you can't even find it in you to care. You're caught, all of her a net you've willingly been ensnared by, and here you figure that's the slightest bit appropriate; you're so fucked, and it's funny, too. Funny enough to laugh about, later. "Nobody fucks this tight little pussy the way you do, sir."

It's a smile she hears in your voice when you say, "is that right? Go on then, let’s hear all the things you'd have me do to your slutty little cunt."

The line's crossed again, in some indecipherable direction. Where, again, exactly, does it matter? There are lines and lines, and none of them quite mark the beginning, the end, the periphery. This time you don't pull back; you dig deep, and it makes Yuna cry out like you’re killing her. Which, in a way - you already have.

So your hips stutter forward again, once more, and you lean into the slant, so fucking deep it's practically impaled. There’s nothing quite like holding this girl’s hips and pounding her from behind. Her pussy alone is fucking incredible. And the sound her ass makes against the flat of your stomach, the crease of your thighs - it's unimaginable, the way Yuna makes these little squeaks of a noise, like half-broken moans, when you fuck deep, deep, deeper into her. The way her arms splay wide and search frantic across your desk. And as you grab her slim, dainty wrist, pin it back and pull her tight - fixing her upright until you have her head lolling back against your chest - you simply fucking pound away.

Fucking all these little curses and sounds of appreciation out of her throat. Your cock forcing out each syllable, "yes," and "fuck," and "god, oh my fucking god - I cannot believe," now on repeat, how her tone grows tighter. How she moans - a lot, like something's being worked loose.

"Uh-uh," and you're holding her steady now, with one broad, strong hand at the back of her neck. "Keep telling me, and maybe I'll let you cum."

Your free hand finds purchase in her hair. Yuna's groan coming out pathetic and wanting, her mouth half open. You wrap her silky golden locks around your fist, her hair thread neatly through your fingers, and then give the slightest of yanks.

Christ, her pussy just fucking soaks onto you. Greedy. Needy.

"Shit," and Yuna gasps when she can, where she's allowed to.

"Oh, is my little girl into getting her hair pulled?" and you can see the signs of affirmation: the muscles inside her flexing, grasping you as you roll in, a small, soft nod, and the way she sighs your name, like a prayer on her lips.

Listen, she can barely speak, the way you're fucking her apart. Yuna's body is wound like a bow, like string and taught wire. Bent into the side of the desk and open for you, her pussy pulsing tight around you with every stroke.

"Sir, I'll do - whatever you need, just - just - let me have your cum, please -" and there, she's begging now, and her voice is tinny, breaking, breathless and airless.

Then it’s her fucking hair. You pull so much on it harder this time, with another measured thrust inside her, your body flush against her ass. Fingerprints searing down onto where her hips flare and taper, impossibly narrow.

You’re probably hurting her. You’re probably ruining her for anyone else - nothing will ever satiate her more than the way she sobs as your fingers twist tighter through her hair. Around her fucking miracle of a waist. It's an obscene sound that echoes down to your cock, as deep, hot and fucking filthy as her cries when she cums for the third, fourth?

"Just," Yuna barely makes, her eyelids heavy, her gaze flitting somewhere behind her. "Just look at you, fucking me so hard, filling up my tight little pussy, making me take everything your cock has to give. God, you love wrecking my perfect little hole, don't you?"

No, or yes, or probably. You’ll figure out the details later.

"God, I love it when you get real messy, when I get you like this-" your words run seamlessly into the searing heat between your bodies, like punctuation, like the end of days -

"Use me." She doesn't just say it. "Take me, and cum in me, wherever you want. Daddy, you can have my mouth, or, or, you can - you can finish inside me."

And god, you could, you really could: just the timbre of her voice does things to you, the way that it curls around the words daddy, and sir, and you're fucking me so goddamn good. She's saying them now, her whimpers breaking into outright moans and all: shit, please, please - you're gonna make me cum - oh - oh fuck! And when she's wound that tight, a quivering, sopping mess of a girl, you put your fingers against her clit, circling and pressing in tempo to the thrust of your cock.

The cruel metronome that makes. Hell, it fucking sends her.

She’s begging you to finish inside her. It's fucked up - and she knows it. She wraps her heels around the square of your back, and the tension rises, and rises, the coiled spring tight and waiting - just a push away, so you slam into her once, then twice more, the push of a hand splayed between her tits and your fingers digging into the muscle of her thigh. She wants you to cum in her pussy, fill her right up; she tells you that, again, that she wants it, and her voice is raspy, high. That she wants you now, as if she didn't before, and how does this compare, because she needs it now.

You hold out for just a little. You’re holding your breath. Just a little, just until Yuna’s eyelashes flutter open over her shoulder and she says your name, so sweetly, and says, "please, just, inside."

You shouldn't.

You can't.

So here, barely able to think at all, you end up doing the unthinkable - thinking all the while of pumping her right to the finish and draining your balls straight into the deepest reach of her cunt, how fucking tempting it may be - you muster an ounce of good judgment still adrift in a sea of lust. Your throbbing cock draws out of that wet, inviting heat and into your fist, and watch how that makes her begin to unspool: the way she tries to press her knees shut. She's sobbing for it, pleading, her lashes dark with tears. "No, no, fuck me, please, I'm begging you. Please, I'm going to be so good - god, please -"

You tug her back, look her in the eye, and let out a loud, shaky exhale. "Knees, princess."

She's too wracked with need to do anything other than comply. Her jaw drops. “But-”

"Mouth," you cut in, sharp enough that her gaze lifts, and you're right there - on the precipice, so close, watching her tongue dart out of her mouth to run across the swell of her bottom lip.

Watching her knees fold into the carpet, her stockings down loose around her thighs, her underwear hanging off an ankle. The rise and fall of her chest like rolling waves, and you can see her hands fisting on her knees, and her face: you watch the emotion flash over, like water on glass, and a moment is all it takes. She leans her face forward to your hand, as you wind her hair into your fist, her lips parted and her gaze lowered. She's obedient, taking the weight of your cock with her pretty pink mouth like the fucked-up-little-fantasy that she is, opening so nice and wide.

Her eyes flit up to yours, her mascara-ringed lashes fanned against the pink of her cheeks.

"My face," she tells you, or something close to it, "fuck my face. Go ahead, use it - cum all over me."

Your cock slides halfway home, her cheeks hollowing, and when it presses to the back of her throat, she gags. You curse and tip your head back, the wood of your desk digging into the flesh of your palm.

"What did you say," you half groan out. "Baby," you add, just for good measure, just to play along, "c'mon."

The tip of Yuna's tongue sweeps and swirls just beneath your cockhead, and she moans her answer around your length, lapping at a leak of precum. "I said," she's repeating now, her cheek brushing across your shaft, and you shudder. "Fuck, what I said was I want you to cum all over my face.

Jesus.

You bury your cock into her mouth once, twice. Let it sit there. Let her really struggle for it, the angle just a tad awkward from above. Let her lips stretch wide, and her shoulders shake a little - tears start to gather, pricking her eyes, her lipstick a mess, the way your cock fits, plugging up her throat so full. You hold her like that for just a second, a little less - until Yuna's moaning, the vibration low in her mouth, and her eyes flutter open, closed.

"Fuck," you spit out, and "perfect," and your voice is shot, your whole face warm, and you're going to cum on her - everywhere on her. Yuna, who’s been staring up at you in wide-eyed submission, gives you a little nod, like she means it.

Like she’s earned it.

And maybe she has: it only takes one last look to seal it - her hand curled around your cock, her cheek matted with her own spit and lipstick, the bright smudge of her own cum from the point of her chin to the cleft of her cupid's bow, and her eyes are locked on yours, eager and hot. Maybe she hasn't - and maybe you should make her beg, fuck her mouth some more - it's almost cruel, how she looks. A perfectly pretty picture, poised and pliant and waiting, and she's right there, beneath you, and fuck - this is so wrong, and you'll ruin her, you'll mark her up like this. She'll be painted like a work of art.

Your pulse thickens. Stands right up in your veins.

Then, your control, snapping: her pretty lashes flutter, her mouth gone slack, her jaw still tilted up like she expects a gift, an offering, her palm wrapped so nice and snug around the base of your cock, her expression dazed, and so easy, and perfect, so eager. You tilt your hips just a fraction further, and she fucking swallows, her tongue tracing the underside where you throb harder, heavier - her body lilting up as you press in so deep.

“God,” you breathe in, out. It hits hard. It hits fast. “Yuna-”

A tensing of your stomach coils up through like smoke, and your grip tightens on the edge of your desk, the other in her hair, a helpless, desperate thrusting, and there - it's a wonderful, brilliant sort of explosion, like light, the white-hot burn of a fever breaking. You cum all over her face and into her hair, spilling out streaks of hot, filthy white onto her sculpted features and the sweet line of her throat, and god, there's so much, she's taking it so easily, all her breathing hot and heavy and loud.

Her skin alabaster and porcelain; cotton and canvas; she lets you fucking paint her, all messy and ruined.

In fact she’s even smiling like she’s holding in a laugh, all gooey-soft with satisfaction, and you're jerking your cock slow through her slender fingers, even after there's nothing else left to give and every inch of her face is marked - the way she wears your cum like new skin. You feel the shockwave tear your nerves open, and then the calm, right on its heels, spreading out from your core to your fingertips, out through the roots of your hair.

"Ah," you exhale, a tight gasp. Yuna takes the entirety of you into her mouth, sucking down your length - harder - as she swallows back a final, sticky load, her own hair sweat-slick to her face.

Just look at the damage: that’s a story not even you’d be able to spin. There's cum on her nose, dribbling past her cheek. On her jaw and on her cheek. Filthy white streaked all over her parted lips, her neck. Down her shoulder blades, and soiling her hair, and leaking down past her collarbones.

(Christ, was this better or worse? You can't even tell. Every version of her that's been served on a plate for you has seen fit to make you sweat.)

When the dust begins to settle, you’re left panting and spent. Yuna, the collateral on this fine, whiny, disaster of a deal. A collection of photos, and some thoughts and ideas, that now sit disheveled on the ground. There's a scathing voice inside your head that's demanding to be heard, reminding you all-too-casually that this is not any way to manage a client. She could snap her fingers, call out to that sycophant at the top floor, and your career would be over - she could do anything she should ever desire.

You know, on a baser level, this, and worse: the duality of the thought. Her tight cunt on your desk, you on your knees; the sharp gasp you can steal from the top of her throat, perhaps when she feels the gentle pressure of teeth around one rosy nipple. The pinch of your thumb and index finger around the other. Her nails down your back in ten angry lines, and the throb in her throat, while you slide the whole width of a hand, rough, over the flesh of her ass.

Maybe the desk, like everything else, can just join the pile on the floor.

"Yuna," you say, the vowels pitching like a sigh.

Her palms find the sharp crease in your pants and slide upward. She's gazing up at you, bright, her face sticky with you.

"You can't send me out like this," she tells you, matter-of-factly, letting a smile cross the lines of her lips - or a smirk. A wordless extension of the previous sentence - of a few.

You pull out and away from her: a white and gray dotted tie hanging loose, unknotted; a button still fastened somewhere mid-center, your trousers pulled off and loose down just below your knees, the fly gaping open. She's in a similar state, the cups of her bra slipping loose, her mouth flushed, lips swollen and red, the outline of how she’d let you use her in a smeary, runny stain across her cheek.

"Maybe let your manager know," you tell her, pulling your belt in place, and you think you catch her eye rolling. "That you're going to be late."

Yuna doesn't hesitate.

"Tell her yourself," she responds, "I'm sure she'll be relieved to hear I'm not actually dead - just having gotten fucked stupid on my PR person's cock."

"I might forget to include a couple details."

"You shouldn’t." Her eyebrows jump. And she's chewing, lazily, on the full curve of her lower lip, her teeth glinting like razors. "Here, before you throw all this to the sharks -"

So, so very dramatic, and with this: her thumbnail pressed beneath your chin. It draws your gaze up - up, and down: from the splay of her legs and the gleam of wetness between them, a brief rest along the arcs of her chest - the room's a total fucking wreck. Your necktie, her skirt, her blouse, her pantyhose. The papers and books all spread, bent, broken, the stack knocked clean onto its side. The skirt's probably still pulled too far up her hips for decency, her breasts shoved up to her neck and the collarbone, and then there's her face - her chin streaked with cum. Yuna smiles then, the corner of her mouth pulled upward.

She might kiss her if you'd let her.

Cum on her lips be damned, she's beautiful like that, like she isn't even trying. And in fact, she never really had to - this girl, she'd do it alone. The idea that someone could be as universally loved as she, is enough, a marvel even, but here she is in front of you, every atom and curve a siren, a study in perfection and composition. Like she’s not just all your mistakes laid out to bear.

"Take a second to take a proper look, hm? Get all the memories in, while they're fresh."

"Because?"

"You can remember I'm only the person you say I am, for you."

"You can remember I'm only who you say I am, for you."

"Oh, of course," and the laugh that leaves your throat sounds dry, cracked open. The band of her skirt stretches, snaps back, so neatly that it leaves a pale line on her flesh. And now there are your hands, fitting around her hipbones, a sigh: a short, sudden motion, tugging her up. Yuna gasps: something surprised, delighted. She's all grins and teeth, all clean, bright incisors.

"Mine," you're breathing, the flat of her stomach underneath the fingers you've placed upon it. "This is mine - you. Yours - you're all mine."

It’s possessive, but, you’re not all incorrect.

"Yeah," she more than agrees.

There's a ribbon-taut quality in the way it leaves her mouth, the tension in her body coiled up through to the bones. She makes it sound like the beginning of a promise, the beginning of something much larger.

And by the way." She’s still buttoning her shirt. Putting herself together. You’ve seen the triage, the damage control. This is the Yuna you get.

So, she needs the second - a respite to lick a stray stripe of slick and cum off her wrist - blotting her cheeks with a ball of wet tissue, until all that's left is the smeared lipstick, her stockings splayed around the floor. The pattern you've worn, where your fingerprints would've shown, gets covered up under her skirt and her coat, wrapped up in a scarf.

The smug satisfaction in her tone pulls your focus, just in time, her hair's falling in waves down her shoulders - perfect, but not flawless: there's a creased line, a hint of her throat, just beneath the collar. There's a slight wisp out of place. The buttons aren't arranged all the way from her collar to her sternum.

"I'm going to go with that photoset, with the white top, in the sand - gonna post 'em online and generate some buzz. You even said it yourself: they're fine. " She pauses, pushing away a strand of hair. "Professionally, of course."

"Professionalism." You smile. "Of course."

She walks out carrying the stilettos: pumps in either hand.

"Always. Catch you soon," she promises, and you do catch a last flash of her expression, lips parted, the lower curving into a satisfied smile, right as she flicks the lock on the door open and your office goes back to quiet.

For a split second, it's unbearable: the silence.

And you think again.

She can have anything, get any boy, girl, whoever, any designer, photographer, make-up artist in the world; there's something so unmistakably intoxicating about the fact that the thing she's decided she wants, is you.

#yuna smut #itzy smut #itzy yuna smut #male reader smut #kpop fanfic

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capslocked · 6 months

Text

KINKVEMBER DAY: 9

[prompt: problematic relationships]

male reader x nana

10k words

"Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it?" Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt. "You, me - us?"

And here, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

So, go ahead, cue up the sound of a mental rolodex spinning out while you start to list the very real, very valid, very adult reasons you should never, ever put your hands on her. (1) She's too young for you, (2) you're kind of a community figure, or at least someone who has to appear to be one, and more pertinently (3) she was your student not long enough ago - in your ethics class, the irony of which is not lost on you - and that makes it the kind of dirty, low thing you'd feel guilty for even masturbating to. Let alone actually attempt to live through, no matter how insistent some parts of you might be to the contrary, a point emphasized by the pressure of her finger against the dip just below your sternum.

"These... oh, how should I call them." Nana hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

You're a high school teacher, interdisciplinary. Sometimes history, other times philosophy, you've also taught math - and once, egregiously, home economics when the faculty member whose usual duties consisted of teaching the class was out on a very sudden and scandalous maternity leave. But it's your love of literature that finds you in a bookstore near enough to the high school to sell more used copies of intro textbooks than actual novels.

You're paging through a book you'd say you're considering buying - if any of the store staff were to push the question onto you - when she appears at the other end of the fiction aisle.

You catch the look first of her dyed hair, this perfect shade of chocolate, to the edges, the fade-to-brown, cascading over where a more formal shirt would ostensibly have shoulders.

She smiles; it's pretty.

Then, you make the mistake of glancing down and seeing the modest rise of her chest beneath a crisp-collared sleeveless top; all your typical college-age tells but for the red flannel, rolled back down around her waist. Her fingers, long and thin, dangle from where a uniform button-down would taper off around her wrist, thumb rubbing lazily at her forearm. The briefest glimpse of her nails, all done up in acrylic - perhaps the most potent way to show contempt for an old dress-code.

You have, admittedly, also noticed the length (appropriately, the lack thereof) of her pleated skirt and those frilly stockings that ride so far up the creamy curves of her thighs that it has your stomach rolling and tightening when she shuts closed the book in her hands and says -

"Isn't it weird how most of the novels in the romance section are written by women?”

- she speaks with a slow deliberateness, like she'd only ever hoped to find one of her old teachers alone and slightly vulnerable in a used bookstore -

“Like, how do you think a man would even go about writing those kinds of stories?" She grins, because maybe this isn't really a question at all - not one meant for you, certainly. And for one wild moment, the rush of relief (she's not actually talking to you), then panic (she's actually talking to you.) surges through you.

But then the girl pushes another couple books along the shelf and continues.

"Because I'll tell you what, Professor - all this stuff," a flip-flip-flip of her fingertips against a leathery dustjacket, "about just feeling it, not being able to control it. It's all women, always women." Another wave of her hand to set another row of spines a-shuddering. "Do you ever think maybe people will get tired of listening to girls talking about feelings when what they really need to see is what guys would do?"

There are so many reasons you should turn and run.

So many little flags, flickering wildly in your mind. This is one of your students. Was it this fall? Maybe the last; she had sat front-center. Never slept in, was one of your best by several measures - not simply in regards to the simple repetition of classroom work, but by her insistence on getting in the kind of heated discussion where one might dig their fingers through the innards of your lectures. Not just good - fantastic.

"Nayeon," you end up saying, flat as your suddenly paper-dry mouth can make it - with just the tiniest hint of unease. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

And almost as if she knows that you're trying not to let your eyes dip any lower than the collar of her shirt, her shoulders do that lilting little move (hiking up and away just so), the one that your girls tend to learn a long, long time before your boys ever manage to figure out. She laughs out this pleasant sound, adds: "not that long, sir."

"Well," you're clearing your throat, looking around the bookstore like it might contain a way out, and eventually landing somewhere on her skirt, "you know how fast it all goes."

"Nana, by the way."

“I’m sorry?”

“Nana,” She gently corrects you again with this mischievous slant to her smile, and you start remembering: all the gossip and rumors, how she was being courted by these talent-scouts and labels. A prodigy, or as close to it as anyone from this town could ever get.

Your eyes are starting to sting again when she, this perfect-fit model of your worst impulses, runs her hand through her hair, tugging at the roots a little bit, a silver wristwatch falling slightly down the perfect length of her forearm. It almost hurts not to reach out and steady her. And it definitely shouldn't, but it has you breathing a bit faster. The rationalization: you are a man, and there is a perfectly ordinary part of you that might be aroused by any amount of smooth, inviting skin. That's fine. You're fine.

"Just for the record," Nana starts, still looking like she wants to put a hand forward and hook one long fingernail into the buttons of your shirt. "You were, like, absolutely one of my favorite teachers."

"I guess it's nice to hear I'm not a complete lost cause," you say.

She snorts. "Oh, definitely not." And maybe because, after all of the years you have been teaching these soon-to-be lawyers, politicians, and doctors, you've come to not look down on them for saying the wrong things so much. Though you do envy their absolute ability to say the wrongest of things - just so - just on purpose.

"Are you," you nod at the thick stack of paperback novels that she is still holding, and with which, suddenly, she's bashful and flustered - this perfect shade of pink blossoming through her cheeks. "Actually here to buy those?"

The response: a demure little shrug. A drawl. "We all have our vices, professor."

"I'm not your teacher anymore," and remembering at the last moment, "Nana, you can drop the honorifics, please."

She holds a book out, cover turned toward you, and your mind stalls - even your fingers slip a little where they are resting on the spine of your own paperback purchase. The title is an affront to literacy, and the art on the cover seems to have been produced only with stock photos, gaudy.

"Have you heard of it?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Well," she laughs and has the courtesy not to lay it at your expense, "it is so good." Then, without missing a beat, she twists her lips together, and finds the book flush against your chest. "I'm sure it beats reading textbooks and essays about the merits of Locke and Hobbes' life-after-death stuff all day, anyway. An hour if you can spare the time? I'd love to hear your thoughts on it"

And - ah, there it is. The push.

There is a zero percent chance that, after any of this, things will end neatly for either of you.

You still wonder, slightly, how long Nana will keep up the charade before breaking character - because there's no way in hell she doesn't see what she's doing: wrapping you around her pretty fingers, her shiny, manicured nails, twisting every chance you get to reject her into an excuse to linger that little bit longer.

But it's well over an hour spent at the cafe-end of the bookstore, where she orders an iced-coffee and fills you in on the details you don't really need to hear, what she's been up to these last couple semesters - playing twenty questions; questions about other faculty members, the school, if the school newspaper is still anything like it used to be (for the record: no), then coming back to if you've been seeing anyone lately. That last one slips in so naturally you can't stop yourself from taking a slow drag off of the straw in your drink and answering: "not recently."

Because no honest deed goes unpunished, or however the saying goes.

"Hey," her hands splay out over the tabletop, pushing the cold, condensing water of her glass, smudging where a finger drags a line through the pool.

Maybe she knows. How you're already caught, and there's no going back, which is to say you're perfectly free to watch, hungrily, where her throat moves, and then where her lips part.

"I’ve got the perfect thing for that," and for one unhinged, hysterical moment you picture it, Nana: lying back against a counter or maybe in the cushions of a sofa, panties thrown carelessly over her shoulder; heaving out this soft, heady gasp. You: pushing inside of her for the very first time, both of your legs bracing, the heel of her foot pressed into the small of your back - but before you can convince yourself that she can't be talking about that, and just barely before the air gets stuck in the back of your throat and you realize that you might be so thoroughly, tragically fucked -

"Read this." A snap back into the here and now. She is looking at you very pointedly, not naked - but beautiful and perfect as she leans a bit into the table and crosses those lovely, lovely legs of hers, and tilts the copy of that awful, awful filth at you.

"Nana, respectfully, this is drivel," you say, immediately and plainly, listening to Nana laugh out loud as you glean more than you need to know from the info on the inside cover. "They've crossed like five major genre boundaries for a hook-up. Why should anyone bother?"

"Come on." She waves it off with a careless gesture of her hands. "There's plenty of things to like. Maybe you should give it a chance - broaden your horizons, teach. Besides - the sex scenes?" She rolls her shoulders with the same shrug you remember watching so carefully all those times she made her way, out of the hallways and back into that front-and-center-seat she was always occupying whenever the bell rang. "So filthy. I can show you one of my favorites."

"Doesn't really seem like appropriate reading material for -"

"You said it yourself," her voice has a bright, saccharine tone, just on the right side of strained. And between sips of that straw stuck in the purse of her pert, little mouth, she draws that next sentence - the ice cracking, thinning under your feet -

"Not my teacher anymore."

Nana smiles; this brash, cock-sure thing that reminds you, as you try to clear your throat of the nerves making a bed there: you are actually so, so fucking gone on her. So far gone it hurts, when, with a flourish and a bounce and a complete, reckless lack of discretion, she starts paging through the first chapters.

"Who says you can't study these kinds of stories on an academic level? Think about it: sex sells. Whoever ends up writing, it's a whole lot easier and a hell of a lot cheaper than trying to do it all yourself." She looks up, this mischievous twinkle in her eyes, as she angles her fingertips down on the book and opens it - page after page of very obviously poorly-written sex. You look, not even consciously.

But of course, her fingertips drift lower and lower along the pages until it's evident: she doesn't have an exact page in mind, but only a particular passage -

"Here. Let me show you, just one."

"Alright, fine," you start - trying for an effect of exasperation, something to mitigate this god awful throbbing, "whatever - you get one, one sample paragraph and I'll, you know, whatever."

"Yeah, you'll definitely see. Just trust me. Just the one."

She drums her long, gorgeous nails against the table, then eases back with a finger highlighting the text.

You're screening and scanning the words as she tells you about the heroine in the story: a pretty girl who comes down with a bad case of infatuation for her teacher - unrequited, of course. And then, into a passionate affair, of course; all the most raucous, explicit details laid out over the table for everyone else to hear. She says it is about as nonchalantly as though she had been reading you the daily weather forecast and not an elaborate metaphor for - and here, you stop her.

"He cums on her desk?"

"Fucking hot, right?" She nearly snorts and gestures you onward, her eyebrows jumping - go on, go on.

So, you skim along: a heavy rush of nausea (alongside another) pulsing down around your gut at the thought of actually doing such a thing, your ears going hot and your legs crossing on instinct. There's not so much a breath of hesitation as Nana, cool, unfazed, and utterly unaware of the uncomfortable churning of your stomach and the simultaneous thrumming in your cock, takes another deep swig of coffee.

She hums, thoughtful. "Honestly? Kinda wished it happened to me like that. You were a good, good teacher, professor. I wouldn't have minded your hands all over me." You hear her laugh, and the entire universe collapses like the end-days. You are struck down with feverish conviction: this girl is the worst.

"Anytime you wanted," she adds, so carelessly.

There's a clunking sound, of glass on wood; a half a second where you almost lose control over yourself.

“Nayeon,” you let slip, the old name - a mistake of an invitation she grasps like a weapon. All coming to a glint in her eye that says she knows how you see it, how you can still picture her sitting with her hands folded over the skirt of her uniform, chest rising and falling beneath her cotton shirt. Studious, taking notes, acting every bit the naive sweetheart everyone believed her to be.

You shudder out some pretense of composure and settle back a few inches as she continues to coax a reaction out of you, prodding: "how many girls did you make confess back then, hm? Did it ever do them any good?"

"Dial it back, Nana."

Her expression is all feigned, gentle surprise. "But sir," she looks at you so innocently, "you said I should drop the honorific."

You want to argue that, you also want to tell her off for being such a brat - to demand that, instead, she cut the shit, sit back, and remember who you both are, but when, with a wink and a smirk, she's getting up out of her seat, Nana sets a gentle, reassuring hand on your shoulder as she pushes her chair back beneath the table. You get onto your feet, and when the two of you are stood close together like this - she's really and truly that much smaller than you remember. Waist so tiny you think you could almost, almost wrap two hands all the way around her; skirt rising all too easily when she tosses her weight between her heels.

"I hope you know what you’re doing," you tell her, sternly - the voice of a teacher whose patience is running thin.

But no matter where you look, the consequences are dire and immediate: an abject fascination, a kind of debilitating greed; the absolute fucking loss of ability to look her directly in her eyes. Not like Nana isn't staring right through you. There's no doubt some part of her relishes the feeling.

"Hey, what do I know?" This sweet, demure-like chuckle follows. "It's just porn, right?”

Eventually, Nana says to call it a night because the sun's long set into the horizon and the chill starts getting at the both of you.

She tells you while you're packing up your belongings to come by again sometime, her voice teasing as she explains that you should pick out a new novel to read for your benefit.

Which is possibly the ideal outcome, all things considered, if it wasn't for the way she found herself in your hands just a few paces into the parking lot - no one around to catch you, where you're gripping fast onto her wrist and pressing the lines of her body into door of your car, looming and ready to give a piece of your mind.

You know what you ought to say - things like don't bother, you've enjoyed her company, she's fun and sweet, and in a dozen different ways: be a good girl, and go home. You had your fun, didn't you? But she's practically begging, those huge, wide doe eyes that stare straight up into your soul.

"C'mon,” her voice lilts into a deeper, more purposeful register, “you wouldn't turn down a student on her way home, would you?

(This fucking girl.)

She speaks of propriety, like you aren't a man of your own principles - like you aren't reaching down to press a kiss to the swell of her lips like she undoubtedly deserves. To lick into her mouth and pull and kiss and bite until she's trembling, teeth caught in a delicate whimper. Or, that you aren't running your hands down her sides to find the backs of her knees and draw them upward, hooking your hips flush against hers.

She's all too breathless, watching you draw off her lips, fingers fast in your shirt, your hair - holding you close.

Then finally, a true, honest reflection of your heart. Nothing less than sheer and utter capitulation: "let me take you home."

Nana just nods before wrapping her arms around your neck and kissing you again.

It's definitely on you for expecting anything different, but Nana fucks like she talks.

Conceited. Brash. A little selfish.

The girl's sitting there on her kitchen counter with one leg hooked over your shoulder. She's stripped herself down to near nothing save for those fuck-off ridiculous panties: slick, shiny with a thick strip of satin between her lips, complete with white lace frills and all; the same ridiculous pattern as the thigh-high stockings clinging tight around the soft-gentle fat of her legs and the lace top of her garter. Her pussy - all tight and pink and soaked - has left this shimmering, shiny mess that's trailing down the insides of her thighs.

Your fingers are in the elastic of her panties, near bruising the curve in her waist where she's rocking, flushed and keening against your grip.

You tell her, "take these off."

"Off?" She repeats it back to you with the same little grin: playing dumb, the smart, charming ass she's been all night.

"I'd tell you what I really want to do to you," you start, pushing your fingers in a little harder, eliciting another pretty moan. "But I'm really, really sure you can fill in the blanks yourself.

"I hope you're not planning on being rough with me," she teases, running her hands all through your hair as she pulls herself against you - and of course, it's her audacity to insist, "no marks." She drops a chaste little kiss along the underside of your jaw. "At least, nothing that might show up on a camera."

Someone with a little less baggage might have done just that. Might have jerked her panties down a couple inches further - ripped the cloth, exposed her even more. You might have followed the waistline further along the perfect round of her ass, found those dips and dimples that, maybe, no one else has ever gotten to explore. You may have grasped at the ends of her hair and gotten your fingers in her pussy without ceremony - driven Nana to the very brink of her climax just before palming two greedy handfuls of that ass - shoving yourself right there between her lips and, lost to shame, put a fucking kid in her.

All the things she must be dying for you to do.

"Something the matter?" She pushes her mouth into yours for a kiss that has all the urgency of a lazy Sunday morning. Your tongue against hers, languid and gentle at first; wet-sloppy, kissing and sucking on her bottom lip. You can feel her smirking when she says, "don't tell me you've forgotten how."

It's a lot, the effort you're putting in not to crumble - to crack at her taunts, snap your restraint, the temptation. You just wanna grab her pretty tits in both hands, shake her, and say: "shut the fuck up." But no - even in your wildest fantasy, you want to hear her first - beg you to make a wreck of her. So you force the words between your lips, dry and cracking:

"Not a fucking chance."

A laugh. "Guess I'm in good hands, then. Have to admit," Nana slides her hands down to hook under your own, bringing them lower. She grinds your fingers in slow circles over that one, aching, perfect little bud - a shock that has her curling tight inward until she's whining, clutching at her waist. "Not the - not the situation I had in mind."

Nana shifts her weight a bit more on one hip, guiding you through rubbing along the entrance to her slit - sloppy with precum, silky and aching - and when you place just the lightest pressure over all that hot skin, she opens her mouth:

"Ah."

Her eyes, her hair, her fucking mouth - you can’t look away - she’s so gorgeous it hurts.

Even the way she pants; the perfect furrow between her brows. And then, you dip a finger inside her, just to the first knuckle. It’s enough to make her whine, all shaky and high.

"Go on then, with how you’d pictured it," you press, already easing your digit in and out; slow, slick pumps that she is growing hotter, needier around. "I'm sure you've touched yourself to it more than a few times. The details and - stuff - must have been vivid."

"You haven't the slightest clue."

A brief kiss. You coax another shy sound from her, drawing a long sigh against her mouth -

"Try me, Nayeon."

"This is a lot closer to the truth than you’d think, professor." This time, no correction, she just smiles wide and tosses her head back, asking, sweetly, as if to absolve you of the responsibility. "Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it? You, me - us?"

Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt and starts to pull.

On that detail, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

"These... oh, how should I even call them." She hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

"You know," you start. And by this point, her cunt's that much tighter. You've managed two fingers now, but no further, and she's making these desperate, punched-out gasps. Her clit's a swollen pink nub, jutting out from its soft hood. "I really had you pegged all wrong."

"Not - not at all. You can fuck me just fine, trust me - ah. Please, you can fuck me anyway you want."

And here, you grab a little higher on her hips, pinching her on the outside of a thigh, and begin working your fingers fast. You've never cared much for teasing, not really, but something about the way she squirms in your grip, tries to lean up and grasp onto your shoulders with shaking hands, it gets you smiling. It gets you grinning, even, especially the way she makes these pretty noises: a long, desperate little, "ah," at each press and thrust, her breath going high and uneven.

"Listen, Nana -" She squeals out loud when you push your fingers just a little deeper, a little bit harder. "I'm not going to talk about what a slut you've been today or how badly I want to spread you wide open," you can already tell it's affecting her: the sudden change, the subtle hitch in her breathing, the tremor where her thighs press together. "Tell me about you, about your little ideas. Let me help."

"Wouldn't be fair." Her pussy's getting tighter, urgent with want. And still:

"C'mon now. Humor me a little. There was probably-" you say, sliding down that ridiculous pair of underwear along her ass, tugging them over the curves of her legs - so slow and easy, all while you're not bothering with easing off. Nana moans again; voice pitched. "Lots. Lots and lots of dirty things - and, I'm willing to bet my career that they made you a hot, mess - an awful, soaking fucking wreck. Who could've guessed? You, of all people, with just the right kind of teacher's-pet-appeal, hm?"

And you meant it to be a joke, just some ribbing. But the question has her immediately tensing, looking at you very intently, no trace of shame as she snaps back -

"Your mouth." She rocks forward. "Your fucking mouth."

You shouldn't keep touching her, you shouldn't keep staring, you shouldn't push her flat on her back and shove your face right into her cunt, you should pull away before this goes too far - it shouldn't be your fingers drawing out sopping-wet gasps out of her pussy, nor should you press your tongue to her cunt, your mouth to all that delicate flesh and, at your first taste, shiver.

Nana laughs: shaky, nervous. Then, your fingers sink back into her pussy alongside your tongue, your lips, the way even your hot breath against her aching pussy has her all stunned, breathless - and -

"Please."

- right before she breaks off into a beautiful sound that catches her hard in the chest.

(A sound like you’re all she could ever want in this life, maybe the next; it’s this wordless plea.)

"Hah, I had - ah, had so much - hah - dirt on you, used to masturbate thinking - ah," and there, she arches her spine, forcing a sigh out, "thinking about how you might punish me." She laughs - nearly choking. "How you might break down all your veneer of being a good, moral man and fuck me raw and rough and - ah - fuck. Oh god, fuck."

You twist your fingertips up just so, right against this perfect spot in her, and all the sudden the entire line of her body seizes - stiffens up, the muscles in her thighs twitch as you both moan through the moment, the spasms reverberating in your own ears, loud and unashamed, right against her wet, wet clit. Your fingers are fucking and fucking and fucking away in her cunt, harder and faster and sloppier, every word, every groan, every gasped breath only making it easier to forget. To give in. And with every heavy slap and squelch of your fingertips digging in as deep as her body allows - you're sending her that much closer.

You pull back long enough to bite out: "cum whenever you want, Nana.”

She can’t, she can’t, she can’t, is what she’s trying to say, bracing against how your tongue moves around her clit, and she knows, there’s no use fighting it.

A kiss against her swollen mound and she writhes. “There you go sweetheart, cum for me.”

Nana comes undone. Gradually at first, then vaulting over that edge all at once. She lifts and lowers her hips - pushing your fingers into the smooth, velvety muscles of her cunt; rocking up and up again. It's a torturously slow kind of grinding, and her feet find purchase on either side of you as her toes curl, one heel digging into your shoulder. An assurance; a promise; a lifeline; that she might tremble and shake through it, moaning.

“Fuck,” and, “god,” and, “you’re gonna make me-” slip past her lips alongside all the assured gasped-out cries for relief - the orgasm sweeping through her, tearing her apart.

Back pitching, shoulders narrowing, face twisting, cinching tighter and tighter -

Until she collapses.

Until it’s over.

As she lays there, chest heaving, arm draped carelessly across her forehead and half over a kitchen cutting board - her thighs splayed open, fucked and spent - she's so, so beautiful.

And it’s in that sort of fucked-up-noodly-state where she just slides right into your arms - those long, slender legs wrapping tight around your middle. "Here's the deal," you say, grabbing hold of her hips and steadying her, as best as either of you can.

"Hm." This lazy, sated look, the way her tongue's dragged out - slow and slick - across the top of her teeth and bottom of her lips. "Go ahead, sir. I'm listening."

The lip service - that coy little appeal to authority that maybe you’re actually plenty fond of - it makes you stop for the barest of moments. This girl, she's unreal. How hard could you ever be asked to resist her?

She lifts a brow. "Professor."

So you continue:

"I'm going to get out of these clothes, and we are going to see what happens after that - if you have a preference for the bed or the sofa, now's your chance to pipe up. Or else -"

"Or else-" She repeats, shifting her weight around again. You can feel how she adjusts her heels to hang higher up your ribs, rocking her weight against your abdomen, against your cock - and the instinctual twitch that runs through your spine is turgid and rough. Like a shot. If it had a smell, it'd probably remind you of gasoline.

And then, maybe just to rile you up even more: "the dining room table makes a good impression of a teacher's desk, no?"

You slide your hand along the backs of her thighs until you have a good, tight, high hold on them and pick her up, leaving the panties, the stockings, all of it down where they can gather dust or whatever - she giggles, and tightens her hold around you like she doesn't need to worry about falling.

"I'd rather fuck you into a mattress to be perfectly candid."

Nana throws back her head and laughs - this real, honest-to-goodness peal of laughter, a hint of playfulness where there was usually just a practiced ease. "Oh. So forward."

(In all likelihood, you're both going to hell, and on the off chance you meet down there, you figure you'll fuck her then, too.

You've read the myths, the Greek tragedies, the ones that have these gods descending from the heavens on human women, for pleasure and nothing but, you've read those stories and plenty more - the details don't matter: it's always a bad, bad end for everybody involved.)

She takes you upstairs. And the two of you fall through the doorway to her bedroom, stumbling all the way.

Her apartment is simple and clean in the way all young adults try to emulate, all white countertops, but with pictures hanging in little, neat rows on the walls and the space void of anything with some sort of character or history.

You know because you're fumbling toward a dresser or desk or bookshelf in an attempt to orient yourselves, bumping and tussling, half-blind, on your path forward and all of a sudden there's a goddamn framed photo in your hand - not of her family, thank god. Though just about every other person in the picture is familiar to you, you remember every single one - but all you're capable of focusing on is Nana, Nayeon: not quite the same. The same glint in her eyes, the way her smile has a timeless kind of quality, the faint dimples in her cheeks.

And some wicked part of you is all too willing to ignore the whole timeline of events that has led up to you, Nana, like this: you want to pull her hair. You want to shove her around like she doesn't matter - is in any way disposable or replaceable; the most selfish parts of you wishing you could keep her pinned down by her slender neck; pressing a palm, bruising, into her collarbone as you start to work at your belt buckle and slacks with your other hand.

It's hard, getting a grip on yourself as Nana, sliding onto her bed and rolling across the sheets, pulls her stockings down the length of her legs - only stopping herself long enough to meet your eyes. Her throat bobbing.

“Of course,” she says, because your cock is hanging out by that point, straining and a little pent-up. "I fucking knew you would have a perfect cock."

"Flattery or sincerity?"

"Um, let's say both." She shifts around the pillow - that sweet little pout on her lips. Her gaze dropping from your mouth and running all along the length of your torso, lower and lower. Like her hands. And when her eyes flick up to meet yours, just when you're stroking at your cock, base and shaft, teasing yourself, well past the point of pretense, a devious smile spreads wide across her pretty, beautiful face. The implication: you aren't leaving here until you're cumming inside her.

And with a glimmer in her eyes, the sheer audacity, her fingertips ghost the underside of your cock as she draws up toward the head, "you're going to ruin me with this thing. You know that right?"

"A bit dramatic."

Nana moves to rest with the tops of her knees at the edge, her chin resting against the insides of her wrists, elbows propped up - poised, playful, everything she should be as the both of you regard each other a moment longer. "Can you blame me? It's not just that it's huge, I mean - I've barely even gotten a hold of it, and yet... god," she snorts. Her eyelids are heavy, mouth curved, almost a snarl as she drags her bottom lip through the grip of her teeth and sinks down onto the mattress.

"Say something filthy again," and this is a test, this is Nana testing you to see what exactly you'll get away with.

(Hint: it's a whole lot.)

She sighs. The image of indigence, innocence, everything pure and good you couldn't hope for. "Should I suck it or not? Or maybe, I don't know. Would you prefer me to beg for it first, ask if you'll put it in? Like, I think if you ordered me to put it in my mouth, right now, I wouldn't be able to say no."

"Really," the most sarcastic answer.

"Really," she continues. "For instance. If you came over here right now and guided me up and onto your dick and told me, specifically, that you were going to face-fuck me? I couldn't say no. No sir."

You could have her any damn way. You could have her, and you both know it.

"So tempting," you tease, mostly in earnest, "maybe another time, when my self-control isn't quite so lacking."

Nana hums a low, flippant sort of noise - like: whenever you're ready - and just how much trouble it gets you in, the mere suggestion, is what she is banking on.

"Hey," is her invitation, "I won't beg yet. You still want me to put my mouth all over it," and to emphasize, she slips her fingers between the plump pillows of her lips, smiling at how that makes you reach over the nightstand, accidentally pulling open a drawer, possibly reaching for the first aid kit, "or would you rather watch me stuff all these fingers in my wet, little hole."

A sharp inhale: it really would be fun, probably, but you can't take it.

"Nana," this voice, gravelly-ragged and harsh, "if you're planning to make me snap, you are, without question, on the right track."

"Then before that happens," she says, pulling you down into the bedsheets beside her. Your body flush against hers, the beat of her heart loud against your own; this gorgeous, pristine girl, so nakedly giving - this is an honor and a curse all rolled up together, no doubt.

And after a hot, wet kiss: "fuck me like I always thought you would."

(She was made to be like this; it's the only explanation.

Made for wanting. Made for fucking. Made to be loved and made to have her cunt fucked full - ruined by your fingers, your tongue, your cock. This absolutely perfect body, and all the delicious parts of her; this thing of desire, bashful and coy and that deserves all the world and, having none of the grace or courtesy to actually beg, orders, like she always knew she could:

"Like, right fucking now."

Or else.)

Then you're there - her hot mouth, her cunt, your fingers digging in bruising-tight all along the curve of her thighs where they meet her ass, hips, thighs, waist. She's pumping her soft palm and delicate fingers, slick with her spit and yours around the length of you and this isn't going to last long; not that there's any doubt you're going to leave her sore. But still, you drag the head of your cock across the swollen lips of her pussy, down through the plump swell of her clit until it rests where the ridge just begins and every slide, every pressure along every inch of your cock, the thought of being enveloped entirely in all that silky warmth is nearly the end of you.

A whimper, "professor."

You wrap your hands tighter around the smooth, firm muscles in her thighs; dragging your fingers back and forth across the supple skin there - just firm enough to elicit a reaction from the tension in her legs, until you have her flipped over on her stomach. Because if you're going to fuck her properly, it's going to be with her face buried deep into a pillowcase and you perched above her, holding her down against the sheets.

You watch her get her elbows underneath her, laying almost flat. Watch her trace the shape of her own jaw, her nose, her neck - the smooth expanse of her chest - as you straddle her thighs. With her ass pointed right up at you and the heel of her ankle gently grinding into the underside of your leg, you groan, placing both hands just above her ass. And once you're gripping the whole shape of her, you push your cock into her, just an inch, listening to the shift in her breathing.

She shudders, "don't tease - oh, please, sir-"

"Is this what you expected, Nana?" You grab onto her hair. Then again, when she tries to get her hands on herself. Her shoulders are high, tight. You just don't give her a chance; pushing yourself another inch, a couple. The pace, so gradual she starts making these soft, little breathless sounds as you stretch her tight pussy open. A few moments when she stops trying to bury her noises, her gasps - stops trying to angle her hips or squeeze or resist the thick shape of your cock where it is so, so hot and full inside of her - and there you stop. "What is it you had in mind, hm?"

"Ngh - oh."

Her cunt's clamping tight around just the first few inches of you. The tightness, the wet heat is staggering; how it pulls and begs with the words she seems reluctant to spill out.

So - you lift a hand, bringing it back down again onto the pale, rounded flesh of her ass with a smack, a gasp, and this wet sound from the sopping heat of her pussy, all aching and sobbing, "don't, fuck, stick it - fuck, put it - just. Just fucking get on top of me and pin me down - make it hard for me to breathe - do it, just. Like I, fuck, like I always wanted, sir, please-"

And you sink all the way in.

"Fuck." She bites into those consonants, a whole-body motion that pulls at the tension in her spine, the muscles in her legs. But her hips angle right up, and she presses her ass into the hollow of your abdomen and says, "thank you. Thank you. God."

"Don't get lazy on me," you say, grinding the tip of your cock in little circles; pulling it out and angling it down until it's prodding at all the right places to make her arch and shiver.

"Please," she says again, louder this time, almost a moan. "That. Fuck. Yes. It's."

"Yes, yes, I know. Nana, you-"

"Just use me. Whatever you like," she pants; then, once you've pulled yourself out to the tip, slowly filling her again, "use me like a fucktoy, alright. Because - fuck," Nana shivers, pushing her hips into yours. Her shoulders lower, as if by degrees, "please. Use me. Make it rough. Please, professor - use me however you want, I don't care - anything's fine with me - use me, as long and as much as you need, I. Please."

The real difference here, beyond anything else, is that this is no longer the game it was; the very instant she was sprawled across the mattress with a line of drool dripping into the sheets, all her bright, polished glory has vanished, leaving this bare edge of her exposed - the girl who lives solely to be fucked and used by your cock, her cunt leaking, begging for more. Reduced to the basics and nothing else.

"Your fucking cunt, Nana, the goddamn clench - you feel - it's-" (So fucking good, is what you can’t quite say, because she’s tight and wet and her tiny pussy is quivering like mad every time you bathe your cock in its scorching heat. Over and over.) It’s hard to think; you’re truly - truly - fucking her, but you can’t ignore the tautness in her spine either, bent below you. There are probably tears beading down her cheeks, but there's no helping the raw instinct screaming through the core of her being, pleading with you to pull yourself free, before sinking hilt-deep into her again, again, again - to a chorus of sloppy, loud, nasty, fucking whimpers and moans.

Like music.

It's easy after all, how her pussy gives way to you. How she molds around you - sleeves onto you like a glove - like there was only one cunt in the world you should ever be fucking up and fucking apart.

"It's incredible. Fuck. Just that perfect."

Nana, as best as she can, trying to stay steady, braced against her hands and knees, is raising her hips.

But it's clear with the way she's slipping all over, slicking the sweat off her palms and rocking her ass back into your thrusts, a cry falling out of her, unbidden, when she speaks and not.

"Please," she pants, through tears probably, this breathy-shivering. A renewed enthusiasm for your grip on her - where, in another place, you'd worry about leaving marks behind - for the feeling of your weight slamming down into her, driving the air from her lungs.

The sheets are a crumpled mess, pillows knocked from the mattress, where the two of you are shaking it apart.

You're pulling her apart, slowly, thrust by thrust into her sopping cunt, and in a promise of how you'll put her back together, you get your mouth on her shoulders, her neck, kisses in her hair, behind her ear - Nana just whimpers, curling her toes and ankles along the backs of your knees, her face against the pillow and gasping, "thank you - thank - thank-"

And when your palm smacks against the generous swell of her ass, again, she keens so perfectly for you.

It's a breathtaking sight, so good, so perfect: her flawless ass pitched high, round and flushed pink. The flutter of her eyelashes and the tears and drool. The outlines of her pale white cheeks sent into ripple after ripple, and then the way you can slide one hand forward between her shoulder blades and slip it into her hair, nails raking her scalp, grabbing a handful of hair in your fist and tilting her face - to the side, enough for her cheek against the pillow and the way her hips try to press against yours; try to chase the pleasure; this brash, gorgeous, slim-waisted, well-curved, exquisite young woman - like everything.

"Please," is all she says as you fit your chest up tight to her back and mouth at her neck - lick all along the sweat. "Please."

You can't take it anymore, can't keep watching this masterpiece, can't stand the molten heat wrapped around your cock every time the drag in and out of her pussy pulls sets every nerve on fire. Right in her ear: "I'm cumming, Nana, I'm cumming inside this tight, little pussy."

A short gasp, "yeah."

"Yeah. Inside, Nana. Cum inside, you -" You twist your fingers against her scalp and find purchase, an excuse - a means to yank her head around and lean into her, teeth against skin, that familiar coiling in your gut and the burning sensation that flows right alongside every slap and smack of her hips on your skin.

"Fuck me." You watch her bite down, swallow a sound, try to say: "fuck your load so deep inside me it’ll be all I think about for weeks, let me feel it, all that hot, all that sticky, fucking cum"

And you drag your hips, these final, punishing drags through her drenched cunt. Her fingers are white knuckled and fisting the sheets, until the very second you've pressed every ounce of your own body's worth into her own, when you're collapsing her spine and pushing her face into the bedspread, this wave rushes through your ears like the buzz and hum of insects and waves and things out of sync - the high, the peak -

And then:

Sobering, subjugating silence.

In fact, you're shuddering; You're cumming, spilling pools of thick cum deep inside of her. It's all in that warm, filthy sensation, a heady, hazy, desperate thrill when her own cunt seizes in its climax around you, trembling, throbbing, quivering, clenching; drawing everything out and taking your cock deeper - even while the whole of her is thrashing and bucking, all of this messy with her pleasure and her voice caught up, writhing and breathless.

"God-" is the last thing out of her mouth before you can kiss it quiet, tug on her lower lip and open her up like a present - messy and breathy, crying out, you're making this mess inside, this beautiful fucking mess - as the whisper you feel against your lips:

"Inside me, like that."

As you groan, deep and hot, "filthy fucking cumslut-"

Right on the verge, riding out every twitch of your cock and each flex of your hands at the skin around her ass, her waist, back and shoulder blades; even after you've caught your breath, you keep pumping more and more inside of her, you don't stop, won't, and even when you manage it, pulling out the head of your cock - you can feel every slick detail - just the slit and rim, resting the throbbing head of your cock at her swollen little mound, feeling the length of her fucked-out pussy spasm at the emptiness and trying to grasp around nothing - empty, tight and aching, sopping.

There's her hips, just this, right there; the line, the silhouette. Her thin waist and the curvy swell of her ass, jutting out straight - the cream-colored flesh dusted pink. The lithe, soft line of her stomach and the insides of her thighs a little farther along, sweaty and inviting.

She's so pliant in your grip, even though she's trying her best to curl herself backward - to angle your spent cock back into the ready, welcoming warmth of her slick, wet pussy - and once the afterglow has begun to wear away, that same greed and yearning takes its rightful place. A glimmer in her eyes. The unmistakable need and drive.

"One more," she says, wiggling her hips back into your stomach. "For me."

(The truth: you can't refuse her, not as she bites her lip and twists, all that soft hair splayed across her face, stuck to her tear-damp skin.

One more, because you both still want it. One more, because in the dim glow and evening air of her bedroom, everything that happens now matters just as much as anything that happened before.

One more, because you need her again.)

When she wakes in the dark, you figure her bed will be empty.

Nana will realize that you're gone. Of course you’ll be - it was never going to go differently; the sex had to end at some point. After all, if you stayed, eventually she'd start saying something you'd find a fault in or your skin would be so sensitive she couldn't stand not running a finger up your spine and maybe kissing your hip.

The reasons to go always outnumbered the reasons to stay.

The world would catch up and someone would find out and that's the sort of gossip that might leave both of your careers in shambles. Or else, you'd do something you couldn't come back from, the moment the heat of the sex left your body and her cunt, god, her perfect little cunt was spent - slackening - and the moments-after-haze, her legs locked up and her arms a bit sore, would clear up. Then you'd look at her, or else the shame would win out - the guilt and you'd call it quits. She won’t blame you. She can't.

But then again,

Her heart won't fall completely to pieces, because:

You've stayed. And it isn't an easy position, even if she is easy.

Here she is, though: sleeping on her side with her wrists crossed in front of her face - peaceful and quiet, probably tired enough to sleep without dreams. The dark has long since settled across her bedroom, save the pinpricks of stars in the sky out her window and a sliver of moonlight. You can see her, or you could reach out and run your hands all along her calves and thighs, but you don't.

Nana's shoulders slump forward in the faintest of sighs, and there it is - the slow, gentle swell and fall of her chest.

Here's how you got here:

In this scandal-in-waiting of a relationship. Here's the stupidest possible path, where a bright-eyed student with a crush fucks her older professor just once, and somehow you both find yourselves coming back for more, like maybe your very, very bodies belong together - a maddening compulsion.

Even once you've managed to work through the idea of your cum all inside of her, a seedy, twisted corner of your mind murmurs how it makes the most sense. To stick your cock inside of her again.

Where she can show you the way it can look; the mess and the texture of the slick, white spill - dribbling out of her pussy in the afterglow, onto her palm, and down the crevice in her ass and lower.

It's the phone calls probably - and not just the phone sex - late-night talking, conversation and every once in awhile, the kind of hot, hard fucking that gets you in trouble, but also a reason to be with each other again. Not just the quick fucks but the nice ones - the days, the late nights and mornings and what have you: all the casual intimacy of it. All the sweet nothings exchanged.

The after-sex cuddling, with her straddling your lap;

The sensation of her thighs sliding into place around the tops of your legs, her arms tucked around your neck;

The kisses you don't take and kisses you'd be okay with, all the promises made to love you as many times as necessary, however necessary, wherever.

That's all here too.

Again:

She is young. But, who the fuck are you to say? Who the hell can tell you she doesn't deserve the least rotten, least painful, most promising love she can find in this particularly fucked-up world?

Who else is going to keep the both of you safe and hidden?

And who else, despite everything, seems to like having a secret that they're sure only you know; every glance or accidental touch with her eyes brimming, alive, and the whole of her bent like a bow-string - all held back and wound-up tight.

To the point her spine will shiver and shake; you know how it can be.

"Are you actually going to buy those?" Nana asks one day, dangling on her toes, chin rested comfortably in the sweep of your shoulder.

When she crowds the swell of her hip and her breasts and her entire body into your back and snakes her arms around your shoulders, you think there's nothing else in the world you need.

"You called them drivel," she adds, almost pouting - which is a look you're slowly trying to inoculate yourself against because the moment it comes up, you have a knee-jerk reaction to drop anything and everything and carry her off someplace else. To have a place where she could, could, could -

"Hah," you roll your eyes, not taking the bait. There's a shelf-full of campy, smutty romance novels in the dollar bin. "It is. The story was less than complicated, but I couldn't figure out what the hell two or three characters' plotlines had to do with one another, and sometimes you just want a little guilty pleasure, you know?"

"Ooh. So," Nana smiles, the devious sort. "I guess there is some honesty in you after all."

"Come on, this one at least has an original story," and it is a shameless attempt, "plus-"

"I know, I know. Fine. And if it is so terribly bad, well, I suppose I can use your chest as a pillow to take a nap," she says, before throwing this particular glance over her shoulder.

The cashier doesn't need to ask if the two of you want your copies of 'Wild West of the Heart' or whatever-the-fuck this one is titled, scanned separately.

All of that, those paperback-cover love stories and TV drama plots, these are the sorts of things you do just for Nana; as the two of you wait in long lines, get carried along, get bumped and pushed, like every other ordinary-person thing you've done for her ever since.

("Honestly, this isn't my kind of thing either," you tell her in the aisle of a grocery store once. The fluorescent lighting only accentuates the blush high on her cheeks. "don't make me fuss over something like this."

"Have a little sympathy," she insists, nudging the handle of the shopping cart against the inside of your shins. "A girl like me isn't good for much else.")

It's not romance, really, that's such a fucked up way to go about describing any of it, but then there's Nana, bouncing on her heels and prattling on, this girl in the spring of her life who is full to the brim and bursting with the most chaotic and eclectic sorts of thoughts and passions -

So, what.

"Really," she adds - another side, another angle on an issue the two of you had an hour ago while cooking breakfast. "Just, think about it. Would you honestly put all this effort into somebody who doesn't make you laugh at least as much as they irritate you? Because like, you would never tolerate some self-obsessed jerk long enough to eat their burnt, terrible pancakes every day of the week."

"Fine. Maybe." You sit across the table. "You're right."

Nana blinks and this look of wonder crosses her face as she grins. A moment of triumph for her and that was more than the honest truth. It's still strange, admitting defeat in any argument here or there, or that the two of you make an actual decent couple - together. The kinds of things that come naturally to other people.

"Any more caveats to all of this, professor?"

"You’re gonna end up bent over that counter again if you keep pushing it, kid."

The both of you break out laughing and then you finish your coffee, or she stabs the last few pieces of cantaloupe on her plate, or you kiss her neck, and just -

Everything.

#wooah smut #nana smut #kwon nayeon smut #el7z up smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember #woo ah smut #woo ah nana smut

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capslocked · 6 months

Text

KINKVEMBER DAY: 8

[prompt: phone sex]

male reader x shin ryujin

16k words

The phone rings one too many times, and Ryujin is in the middle of scrunching up the paper slip that Chaeryeong handed her earlier that afternoon when she hears your voice.

The sounds of her scrambling for the receiver and her head smacking against the headboard come through in pretty good quality.

That never gets old.

"Stimulating conversations," you offer smoothly, like it isn't a euphemism and instead some high-brow intellectual pursuit. "How can I help you?"

Ryujin is speechless for an unbearable five, ten seconds until she lets out the kind of low chuckle that probably sounds better than it looks. "Hi," she says, "hello, I, uh- I don't know how all of this works."

"Why don't we start with who you're looking to speak with tonight?" you ask.

Ryujin sighs. She runs a hand through her hair, looking at the messy tangle of clothes on her bedroom floor with mild resentment. She’ll take her chances, figuring a direct approach is the best route when she doesn't really know where any of the lines get drawn or who is allowed to say what and who isn't.

"Um. Okay. Who you got?"

"We have a large variety of operators to suit any taste," you explain kindly. She appreciates that. "Do you have someone specific in mind? A gender perhaps, to start?"

"Well," Ryujin starts, running her tongue along the edges of her teeth. Lia has this thing she constantly says, that there's always a thousand and one reasons not to do something, and Ryujin is the first person to make fun of her for it - but here she is, finally putting that adage to use.

"I was actually calling to, um," she exhales loudly. "A guy? I mean look - girls. Girls are great, but if you - mmm." She clears her throat. Because she knows how she wants to do this, and it's most definitely: "A man."

You wait for a second before replying, and Ryujin allows the stillness to expand over and fill out every corner of her bedroom before a bright, "Alrighty, well," comes filtering out her phone, tinny but as enticing as ever. "That would be me."

"Oh."

"Yeah," you reply, easy and unhurried. You sound exactly like the kind of person whose company people pay handsomely to be around; the professionalism is undeniable, but there's something to be said for your tone. The softness to the vowels, the almost imperceptible upward lilt to the words - Ryujin gets that, maybe.

You're pretty confident in the answer, but you ask anyway, "have you ever done anything like this?"

Ryujin opens her mouth and hesitates for a brief moment.

"Well," she muses. She's tried porn, she's tried her own fantasies, she's tried cranking up the hot water and touching herself with the head of the shower aimed somewhere she's told by other girls: it's there, free of charge. "I haven't."

"But you have a boyfriend," you state. "You have a man, who you enjoy things with?"

Ryujin laughs nervously. "It's...it's been a little while. Not recently. Sorry. I know you don't-"

"No, no, not at all, you're doing fine, it's just that you sound very attractive over the phone. Excuse the assumption."

Ryujin laughs and rakes her fingers through her fringe. She knows it's a line, but she laughs anyway. She could - if she was looking for the deranged fulfillment of it - pore through a billion comments on instagram, on twitter that call her a lot of things: gorgeous, beautiful, hot. The last comment she read before almost deleting her app entirely was someone who decided to textually imitate a dog barking to a picture Yeji had taken of her in a coffee shop. There's a novelty, she thinks, in being charmed by someone who has no idea who she is.

"You have good ears then," she says, smirking into the receiver. "So do you normally do, what, ask questions? I have no idea."

"Yeah, it helps me build a profile," you reply, "but if you had something else in mind-"

"No, please, shoot." She grabs the pillow from behind her back and flops against the mattress, staring up into the ceiling fan.

"Do you feel comfortable sharing your age with me?"

"Twenty," she answers without missing a beat, even though that isn't right. It's weirdly important to her, keeping it private, and she isn't sure why - but then you say something pleasant and complimentary about college and new experiences that she's unable to register, and you ask her for her name so quick she just blurts it out:

"Ryujin."

"Pretty."

"Fuck," Ryujin grins, immediately chewing on her knuckle to bite back a gasp. "Sorry. The name is cute or, whatever. Whatever. Sorry for the curse. God, I don't really have a filter - what about you? Do you have a name, Mr. Operator?"

"I do."

Ryujin lifts a leg up and puts it down again. She doesn't know if she should already have taken off her pajamas or if that's weird. Or if the fact that it doesn't bother her means this is more or less wholesome. She turns over onto her stomach, humming into the phone and now she doesn't know why she's thinking about your face. You could be- well, fuck, you could be anyone, but there's this gnawing compulsion to put something together.

You tell her your name and she scoffs for a second, before quieting down and returning you a, "pretty."

"Ryujin, tell me." There's probably a slightly too long pause from your end of the line before you get on with asking her, "when was your last orgasm?"

She drops the phone right in her face. It bounces off the bridge of her nose before landing in bedsheets beside her and her eyes are welling with tears while she scrambles blindly across her bed, cursing into the receiver and squirming. She pulls the phone to her ear and catches the last couple seconds of you reassuring her that it's okay, that it's completely fine if she's hung up or gone.

"Actually, I have," and she curls her fingers into a fist, "never came in my whole life."

You clear your throat to keep a less than professional sound from coming out. A quiet space she feels necessary to fill: “Not even once.”

"Really?"

"I know. And I've only recently realized that's, uh - er- a pretty un-normal thing." Ryujin makes a waving motion with her hand even though you can't see it, trailing off into silence and blushing furiously. "Sorry," she apologizes. She doesn't know what she’s apologizing for, but she does it again. "Sorry about that."

"I should be the one feeling sorry for you," you rib.

"Fucking tell me about it."

"Hey, this reminds me, would you be averse to the idea of touching yourself?"

The question stutters Ryujin in her tracks, and she doesn't even say no but a drawn-out "nngh" leaks out before she can stumble into something more intelligible. "Isn't that, like, what you're supposed to do on these calls?"

"Every call is different, Ryujin."

She chews on her lower lip, rolling it under her front teeth. You say her name like you know her, and it's throwing her for a loop. The comfort you have with the whole situation - asking her a million questions and not demanding answers, taking cues and reassurances in stride and turning everything into some sort of ploy for getting her naked. Fuck, she'll take a bit of a plunge:

"Should I be touching myself?"

"It's not my place to say."

"Okay, well that's kind of a frustrating answer."

"So you're saying you like being told what to do," you tell her, and you hear the sharp inhale in reply.

"If I knew what I liked, you think I'd be calling a sex hotline and hoping some stranger might take pity on me?"

You laugh out loud, and her response is the quickest, the cutest little, "seriously!" before she chuckles too.

"Ryujin?" you ask.

"Yeah?"

"Are you straight?"

She nearly chokes - because it's like you're able to just read her mind - and if you can do that then there's nothing you can't do, maybe. And here, excitement feels a lot like apprehension. She twists and curls in on herself, thighs rubbing together, the flat of her hand traveling across her stomach.

"I'm-"

"Because no one should have to pretend that they're interested in guys," you interrupt her and, god, for as much time as she's spent dwelling on that, she wishes it were that simple.

It would be a hell of a lot easier if she knew why she wanted to get her face between Yeji's thighs and drag her tongue all over her clit until that prettier-than-perfect face of hers cinches up in a pleasure that comes with just the right amount of agony - or if she knew why she didn't feel anything like remorse or guilt or envy when her boyfriend came around instead of wanting, you know, to get on her knees with her mouth around his cock too -

Fuck, it's all very complicated.

"Straight," she answers. She likes cock, as much as anyone realistically can, and she knows the body on a man can get her dripping and easy in all the right ways. So, she just swallows. Says, "straight enough."

"If you were to touch yourself, right now, and someone - say, a man - were telling you exactly what to do: what would spring to mind, if anything."

"Mmm. Is this you asking me to touch myself?"

"Again. That's up to you."

Your voice is light. Very pleasant. Very male, Ryujin realizes. She gulps.

"Can you, I mean," she says, running a hand down the length of her thigh, pressing down at the hollow.

"Ryujin,” you say, letting her mull over how it sounds in your mouth. “Take a breath for me, please."

Her exhale leaves her with a heavy push and she tries not to laugh. Nervous tic. She's getting goosebumps, but she feels warmer than before.

"We could say this isn't the first time, you and me, in some very broad and abstract sense. How does that make you feel?"

"Strange." She touches her outer thighs again and arches her back. "Kind of horny," she admits. And it is odd - your words, the things you say - and maybe it's her nerves because the experience is new, and so are you, and so are her feelings, all wrapped in one.

"Do you want to do something about that?"

There's silence between you for what seems like a very long time, your breathing quiet but apparent - a signal you haven't abandoned her in some state of vulnerability. Ryujin inhales deeply. She's shaking in her fingertips. The tension has her taut and waiting, and that's funny, really, because it's what she's been doing for years. The rubbing. The touching.

Her hips rock forward gently and she answers the unasked question with a sweetly husked, "uh-huh."

"What are you wearing?"

"Ah, really?" Ryujin laughs. Her fingers pause at her waistline. "That old, bad porn trope."

"I like hearing about people's clothes, is all," you excuse yourself lightly. "Helps me get a sense of things."

"Yeah, alright. Sweats. Baggy ones." Her lips fall apart. "Shirt."

"Is that all? Nothing sexy."

"What's sexy?"

"Sexy is…"

She listens to you mull it over, listening for a ruffling or two. "For a girl with a nice body - some body - some curves," you continue, and Ryujin has to drop another finger to the hot line of her thigh, her lower belly. "You need lace. Silk. You've gotta leave the best bits a little hidden, at least for a while longer."

"Wow. You sound a hell of a lot like you'd enjoy taking someone's pants off," she half-teases. "Do you make all your calls like this? One sordid fantasy at a time, huh?"

"Something like that," you reply. And then, as if reading her mind, "are you doing anything, right now?"

"I'm touching myself," she exhales. "Are you?"

"Ryujin, not yet. Please be patient."

She makes a face even though you can't see it or taunt her. That's an unfair request - you have an unfair request.

"Just, wait," you tell her. She's drawing lazy, winding circles across her thigh. "Let me show you something, will you do that for me?"

"But, what."

"Tell me everything. All the things you're thinking. Things you want to do."

"Everything?"

"Yes."

She blinks away her initial disbelief and reaches around for her lamp to switch it off. Until it's just the hallway light peeking in through the crack between her door and the door jamb and you, a stranger who won't be seeing her face or hearing her say anything stupid. She shakes out a few more breaths, shuffles against the sheets, and glides her fingertips past her belly button.

Her hand rises up her stomach in one decisive movement, until her fingers curl beneath the bottoms of her bra, trapped in its underwire. "I'm thinking - unh - about, ah. My friend?"

You're quiet and let the silence linger, until she seems like she might not find her way; so you repeat, "Go ahead."

"And a guy she used to like, fuck, she'd show up here, drunk on, ah. A weeknight. Somewhere, fuck, around midnight. Walk past me into the kitchen where we had the - the light. God." Her hips stutter and she grits out the rest through her teeth. "In the refrigerator. Ah, yeah, a midnight snack. Always looked way too fucking good for, um, oh, for a casual booty-call."

"Does your friend have a name?"

"Yuna," she practically pants, and immediately realizes she shouldn't have said that either.

"Did you always know what was going on? Between Yuna and her-"

"Boy-toy, yes - it was so obvious, I always knew, yeah," she said, clumsily grabbing the sheets with one hand as she drifts further between the peaks. "Just - fuck - he'd be picking at, ah, something with chopsticks."

"In your kitchen?"

"My, uh, table. And I'd be working up the nerve to ask."

You sigh over the phone, "ask him what?"

"What it was, like, I knew she was only- shit." She keens high in her throat. "What it was like, fucking taking that cock of his, and bending Yuna's tight little, ah, ass over and, mm, railing her on the side of her fucking bed - and just pumping her full of cum just like that until- Jesus, she would walk around after and sometimes-"

You groan softly. This encouraging little sound.

"-fuck - sorry, I mean. Yeah, he, sometimes he'd make her walk around with his, ah, stuff inside. Down her fucking pants and, it's like, fucking disgusting, I swear-"

"And?" You breathe a heavy edged noise over the line.

Actually okay, so maybe this was more than she bargained for, maybe she bit off more than she can chew - maybe, she feels like her insides are collapsing; all the fire pooling around in her stomach and gathering into a melting sort of weightlessness.

"And it makes me feel fucking-"

"Fucking what."

"Why am I talking about this, why-"

"Talking to me? Fucking wet, Ryujin, answer the question."

She pants down at her phone and then turns her face into her forearm, rubbing and making sounds. She thinks about, oh, fucking Yuna and how she showed up to hang out once, with cum leaking down the crease of her inner thigh, smearing against her skin and down between her legs.

"Wet." She swallows. "How do I-"

"Say that you wish it was you," you tell her. "That you wanted that, to be fucked. To feel a cock inside."

Her head falls back. "That," she manages, "fucking, that."

You drawl so that the question might roll off, easy: "Is that the kind of girl you are? Told not to curse, not supposed to let anyone else play with you - you just need it, don't you? Do you need someone's cum? Just tell me."

"I think so, ah," and she stops moving her hand. "I think I'm gonna go now. This is fucking embarrassing, like. Okay, sorry."

"Don't hang up," you tell her, and the soft edge to it is one she really wants to indulge. "Don't," you repeat, a little louder.

You start talking, about the same sorts of things she's imagined herself: the sex and the sounds and what he can do to her. You build a slow and aching heat between her thighs that has her dripping through her underwear and grinding against her fingers. Telling her how she's the one that needs to be filled, needs a man who can wrap her legs around his waist, get to the deepest parts of her, the parts untouched and willing.

Ryujin gets that - she wonders, half out of it and stroking faster than she usually would be, how much of it has anything to do with who the voice is on the other end of the receiver, and how it could be what a desperate, pathetic, tired part of her has always wanted.

"Are you?" she asks, panting over the phone.

"Am I what?" you whisper back to her.

"Are you," and you hear how she inhales sharply through her nose, a desperate gasp leaving her lips on the exhale, "going to, um. Are you touching yourself right now?"

Your reply is immediate, and her eyes flutter and close the second you tell her exactly what she wants to hear:

"God, yes."

She drags her hand up the center of her body, runs her fingertips over her jaw and presses the heel of her wrist to her neck to feel her pulse slamming hard.

"I'm fucking throbbing, Ryujin; you sound gorgeous like this, like nothing I've ever heard, I'm stroking my cock just picturing you, please-"

"Tell me." She's mouthing into the center of her palm, saying the words, tasting salt and musk. "Fuck, ah," she babbles, "tell me what you would do with me."

"I'd get you on your knees," you tell her without hesitating for a beat.

"Fuck."

"I'd come up behind you and tell you not to be scared, baby. I wouldn't hurt you, I'd just touch you real gentle. Push my fingers past your tongue, slide a little down your throat."

"Uh huh," she moans, her head falling back and rolling, rocking against the mattress.

"Want you sucking on my fingers. Need your hands around my cock, or better, my balls, play with them. You're going to take those fingers - every finger I got, all five, yeah?- all ten of them," you joke, "and open up your tight cunt - like you are now, like such a good fucking girl-"

The girl fucking yelps. Just this honest sound of depravity; it's what she's paying you for. It's a silly line of bullshit, but it makes her bite hard and ache a little around her own knuckles and moan in her palm and dig her nails hard into her flesh. Her thumb fumbles across the top edge of her underwear and you pant again into her ear as if on cue, giving her a small bit of guidance that has her jolting in pleasure. She didn't know that was there, fuck, fuck-

"Like that, Ryujin. Breathe," and she does.

"Please," she whines, trying to find somewhere for her arm to settle, resting finally in her hair - setting the phone to speaker in a foolish moment of lapsed-judgment, just before it nearly clatters off the side of her bed.

Keep going - she's telling you over and over - keep going, and you’re picturing her there: eyes closed, legs spread wide, bent knees quivering and toes curling into the sheets. It doesn’t sound fake - you've heard a million of them, you've learned them in their different tones and accents and you can spot a faker a mile away. And the girl on the phone right now isn't pretending or thinking about whatever's happening somewhere else.

(You don't join in for everyone. You can't. It's an asinine consideration that you'd be rubbing your fist up and down your cock while it's sore and wanting - aching from the neglect or lack of rhythm. You have to remind yourself it's just a job, that the logistics just can't support such selflessness.

But then there's the very fucking premise.

That the girl on the other end of the line is inches from the goalposts, fingering her cunt and sighing into the throes of her first orgasm - first ever, because you did this, you brought her this far - you're the fucking culprit, and no matter how many girls, or boys-pretending-to-be-girls, how many people have gotten off with the help of your voice, your instruction, this one sets a different fucking precedent.

You're not lying when you say, "I'm rock fucking hard, Ryujin," or "there's precum all over my knuckles, baby."

Because there is, and the poor thing chokes out another desperate sound when you tell her.)

"I'm right there, ah, fuck, keep going-"

"I've got my hand around my shaft, just enough that I can fuck it, can't I? The head is getting slick - baby - and my palm is gliding nice and easy. Are you cumming, Ryujin? You better be, you better be cumming right now."

There's a heaving gasp and she calls out for you, babbling curses and "please" and "fuck" in alternating succession, with enough punctuation for you to have to let your lip slip under the hard bite of your front teeth. "Don't stop," she tells you, voice thready.

"You need this so bad."

"Yes," she gasps. "How would you-"

"How would I fuck you?" you finish her thought.

She waits a moment, sucking in shallow breaths and then replying weakly, "I really like... I like doggy."

"On your knees?"

"Yeah," she stammers, "I like when, like- ah, like, pulling my hair."

"Fuck, I love that," you say into her mewling. "Splayed out with your tits against a pillow and getting your pretty, little pussy pounded? I bet that'd feel so good, huh? Hands so rough on your hips, on your throat, squeezing your neck so you'll turn pink. Just to see you smile, I'd probably fucking let you take whatever you want."

You're met with a broken moan, a long string of syllables ending on a note that has your shoulders clenching and cock jumping in your grip.

Tense over the things you can't see: Ryujin biting down into the side of her hand, the other knocking painfully against the wooden side rail on her mattress, her thighs tightening and screaming and clamping around her wrist as she pulls weaker, wilder whimpers out of her chest each time her fingers drag across her slit and the sensitive curve of her swollen clit. She's dying, she thinks, she's going to fucking die - the in and out of her soaked pussy, through all that sticky, satiny skin, slick fingers diving in, twisting until there's nowhere for them to go.

No other recourse than to fuck in, fuck, fuck, like that, fucking god.

There's heavy silence on the line for god knows how long - well, you have to check the log. But for her, it feels like fucking forever. That was - that was it. It's so fucking mind-wracking how good it was, she can't quite wrap her brain around it. Nowhere near. She thinks she'll have a better idea after two rounds, definitely by four. She'll buy something, use the discount, go shopping - an orgasm just to make sure she's not bullshitting herself.

You clear your throat.

She moves sluggishly, away from the side and against the headboard - the heat still unbearably oppressive, her t-shirt clinging and sticking. "That," she stumbles through the afterglow.

"Do I need to apologize to you?" you ask lightly.

"What? Oh god, no - no way. No way. I just."

"Yes?"

"Like I didn't know it was this-"

"Did you just cum, Ryujin?"

She's laying there with the phone pressed to her brow. A hand palmed over her own racing pulse. The faint smell of her own cunt lingering around her face.

"I don't know," she tells you, and promptly hangs up.

The darkness in Ryujin's bedroom is punctuated only by the faint, hazy light streaming in from the hall, and her bedroom fan making its creaking little circles, as she waits in her post-nut-high for her breathing to normalize. Her mind is buzzing, and out of all this, she has a hell of a bill and a couple conclusions:

She's a coward and a pervert, but definitely, definitely bisexual.

Or, like. She's in some weird gray area between not liking whenever anyone buys her drinks, but also the girls at least let her dance a little close. That's a strange thing, isn't it? For how often her mouth does stupid shit - you think at least someone would figure it out for her.

But you, oh fuck. You-

She's fucking shaken up, for sure.

(It's a home office set-up, actually.

Your desk isn't organized; you're sure the photos on the wall are askew and the paint looks slightly worse for wear if you were to turn the lights on - which you never really do. There's an aging lamp tucked into the back corner, a bottle of scotch next to your handset that's closer to halfway empty than halfway full, and you can't stop imagining it.

Promise, This never happens.

You've got the name stuck to the roof of your mouth even though you know it's fake. Stuck with something so painfully abstract. Imagining this girl that is probably as brash and bawdy as her voice, or more exciting than either - maybe her hair is long enough to brush along her breasts. Or maybe it hangs just over her shoulders. God knows just how that would frame her features.

You can see it, really. You pump a handful of coconut oil into your palm and the details solidify so easily in your head: her pretty mouth, nose, the dimples in her cheeks - eyes glazed and sultry and gazing at you.

Smelling sweet, all the places you need, skin hot, clit swollen-

Just- fuck. Fuck.

Ryujin, huh, imagine that.

Ryujin.

And you jerk off right into the soft embrace of a tissue.)

A little more than a week later:

Ryujin's all wrapped up on the couch, with an arm cushioning her head and watching TV when there's a sudden commotion from the front door. Yuna - her friend, her very nice, very male friend who never shows up after midnight unless there's a promise of sex - comes bumbling into the room.

He has no regard for boundaries.

So,

Yuna starts to say, smug, from where the hallway becomes the living room, "Ryujin - look at us. Stuck on a Friday night. You gotta boyfriend or something?"

She's completely unfazed by this interaction. She's pretty sure he has his own key, so like, he should be used to it by now too.

"Kind of." She shuts off the TV to turn her attention towards the topic at hand. "Why?"

Yuna runs a hand through all her long, silky hair and gestures her cock-du-jour on over to the door of her room. "Waiting for a call, maybe." She waggles her eyebrows. "Are you any good, I mean, you never seem to..."

Annoying brat.

Ryujin smacks the back of her neck and interrupts, "you gonna fuck him? Go ahead and fuck him, Yuna." She checks the lock. The kitchen. Gets up and tries to ignore the heat flaring behind her ears.

"We could pretend," Yuna muses, tugging the waistband of Ryujin's shorts around her fingers before she's out of arm's reach. The elastic flips back into her waist with a dull snap.

"Dumb idea. That's a dumb, dumb idea," she reasons, because she knows Yuna has no self control. None, and it's showing; the second her shoulders sag forward and her eyes dart, craving, Ryujin steps back in. "Don't be stupid."

Yuna's lips are tilted, playful. Ryujin wants to smack that look right off her face. Like she fucking deserves any kind of victory just because she found out she can fuck anyone she wants while lacking the self-awareness to somehow be contented with anyone. She's not going to call her a slut - out of a matter of principle - but god, does she fucking want to.

"Gotta get ready, is what you should do," Ryujin mumbles under her breath.

"Fine." Yuna shrugs and pecks an annoying kiss to Ryujin's temple on her way to the shower, waving a hand over her head with a casual, "If you want something, you've only got a half-hour."

Ryujin pushes her hair out of her face and does what she does best: overanalyze and overthink the situation.

Whatever. Yuna won't give it up regardless, not in any way she'd actually be able to enjoy. Her cheeks go a little redder while she pretends to not be considering it.

God, a threesome in total functional harmony however: her working her mouth on Yeji (Ryujin doesn't know why she's thinking about Yeji, but she is), Yeji working her mouth on her boyfriend, her boyfriend working his mouth on her -

That'd be something, she thinks. Like one of those Escher diagrams, but one where everyone cums at the end.

The thought makes Ryujin wet enough to squeeze her thighs together and stand up a little straighter.

Then she hears the showerhead turn on, and she wonders just why, exactly, Yuna is such a spoiled asshole.

Turns out,

The universe just has this habit of providing Ryujin with what she wants right alongside everything she doesn't.

She’s stretched out in her sweats, sat up at the top of her bed again and touching herself beneath the sheet in a pointless attempt to contain the mess. Fucking horny - it's honestly unbelievable - and her left hand's making lecherous, slick noises until it's absolutely gross. Until Ryujin's gasping and panting and sweating from the nape of her neck and the back of her knees.

All because Yuna's the loudest little-fucking-whore of a roommate anyone has ever heard.

She's moaning like she's getting fucking plowed into the next life. And apparently, the cock she's got in her cunt is fucking huge if those little murmuring whimpers are anything to go on. She keeps begging the guy, coy, for a kiss while she's probably folded up like a lawn chair in there, getting railed, and the fact that the boy keeps obliging is as admirable as it is kind of insulting.

"Goddamn," she thinks out loud, because the walls are paper-fucking-thin. The apartments in the area are built in an earthquake-safe way, which in reality, means they can either withstand a magnitude 6.0 and come out without any severe structural damages - or that it's so cheaply constructed the building will go down like a matchbox house before it stands a chance against a tremor of any significance.

They're easier to replace that way she’s told. And Ryujin's apartment is definitely of the latter; she can hear everything.

The skin on skin, their bodies sliding together in the slippery sheets. Her mouth smacking wet around his tongue as he bucks forward and asks her to do a hundred filthy things, asking her where it feels best - that sort of thing, which gets her wound and agitated and frustrated, and fucking horny as fuck. Ryujin's bent-inward and panting when he really gets to work - the creaks and groans, their mingled pants and the constant thudding and swaying of the headboard smacking into the wall.

She doesn't even need to put her ear to the partition like she's sixteen years old all over again, hoping to catch her old brother going at it while her mom was out. Trying to figure out this whole sex thing - what all the fuss was about.

Just the way Ryujin sighs is nothing short of despondent. Slightly pitiful.

And every tight circle she's running over clit feels so fucking good, until she realizes the room goes real quiet for a bit. The stillness - no slapping, no movement, just wet, panted-breaths and muffled speech. She nearly asks aloud what's wrong - but she hears it: Yuna's hushed but totally undeniable,

"Been so long- don't, don't- hold up," she croons in these high, sing-song little huffs. "That - uhn, ah - that's my - that's my good spot, there, keep - yes, harder!"

Ryujin slams her eyes closed, dropping down onto the mattress and wishing she'd slipped her hands into her sweats sooner. Fuck. And as Yuna's back starts banging against the wall - so rhythmic and fucking thorough - Ryujin can feel the heat curling behind the backs of her knees, radiating along her calf and reaching into the smalls of her feet. Fuck. Fuck, she doesn't even get to watch.

Right there. So good, please, so fucking good, is what Ryujin can’t not hear coming right through the drywall.

She’s three knuckles deep in her pussy, all stretched out, and she's practically drooling - "spread me, baby. Hold the, fuck, spread my lips open. See me- unh. Ah - see me? Please, do it-" - the boy groaning about it as he fucks her, and then, Yuna, needling him with a quiet, breathy, "harder, can't you?"

The answer seems to make Yuna squirm and scream.

And Ryujin's nearly rolling - rocking, fucking humping her own fingers because it's starting to ache a little, a cramping in her wrist and arm and jaw that she's trying really hard to ignore, rubbing and fingering and fucking herself closer, the heels of her feet sinking hard against the sheets, throbbing and aching around the flicks of her knuckles, harder, faster - faster -

"Fucking hell-" she seethes and stops moving all at once - because god, Yuna is un-fucking-believable.

The absolute bitch, she's doing it again: squealing and cursing and calling his name into her orgasm and just basking, it sounds like, right in it. Because she always does this, every single fucking time, she acts like it's the best feeling in the fucking world and she fucking loves everything, and that shit just - Ryujin grits her teeth and grimaces and pulls her slick fingers from her body - that just ruins it.

All that build-up and for what?

Fuck, Yuna really has the nerve to go there too. She's talking about sucking her own damn cunt or some bullshit-

Yeah, it's not fucking fair, Ryujin concedes.

Or maybe she's being punished. She could live with that, but god. The unfairness of it all. She tries, for a half a minute, to let her throbbing stop being a goddamn nuisance. But the noises coming from the other room are making her crankier, more angry, more irate - and definitely hornier than she ever really intended, even though she knows Yuna is thoroughly distracted in there.

Ryujin sits up a little straighter. Squares her shoulders, steadies herself and fishes around in her pockets with her uncoordinated, cum-coated hands until she finds her wallet, a credit card, her cell -

And there's an aching, a sore pulse of neglect between her legs; that's all too much. A quick peek down confirms that, yep, she's practically dripped right out of her shorts and even gotten a dark spot in the front of them. How great is that.

Yuna is over there, all, "thank you - ah - can you please do me a favor and fuck my mouth with your big, big, huge, fucking cock-" and this guy, he sounds so patient, telling her how he wants to do exactly that, but he wants to fill her tiny pussy up first, fuck her here, fuck her there, fuck a baby right into her. Wants to get his cum all over her face, smear her mouth and her throat and her cheeks -

Ryujin inhales through her nose and holds, eyes falling closed in something between misery and anguish.

He's telling her, yeah, of course he'll fill up her throat - give her so much it's leaking out of her fucking nose - and Yuna sounds like she's moaning and garbling an objection to that last part - but it doesn't actually fucking matter.

"Geez," is Ryujin's quiet, little gasped-out response. He just fucking pounds her right back into place; her next orgasm. Fuck-

And there it is: the slew of moans that start back up and just keep on keeping on.

Shin Ryujin is going to lose her fucking mind.

Ryujin only lasts a handful more days before she calls again.

It’s another Wednesday night, if only to increase the odds that you’re working. Yeah, she could go with another guy, but another guy might not do everything you did, talking quietly and calmly - so composed while Ryujin was losing some part of her sanity to the thumb she pressed on her clit.

No, it has to be you.

That's what Ryujin makes herself say when the operator apologizes and explains you're busy.

"Will he be working much longer? Please, I, um-"

"If you give me your number," the operator tells her, "I can add him as a preferred associate. You'll get him next time instead of going to the line."

Ryujin pauses, finger held to her chin. Will he know that? There's all this implication isn't there, that maybe he won't. Maybe you're popular - are you? It's a lot like texting someone for the very first time. And if you did - know, she means - would she be acting like a stalker? It would feel weird, probably, but no worse than some people do it already.

Oh god, this is kind of fucked up.

Maybe a little. Maybe.

Ryujin pauses, finger to her chin. Will he know that? There's all this implication, isn't there, or maybe he won't. Maybe you're popular - are you? It's a lot like texting someone you like-like for the very first time. And if you did - know, she means - would she be acting like a stalker? It would feel weird, probably, but no worse than some of things other people are undoubtedly doing with this service, Ryujin decides, and rattles off the digits so fast the operator asks for clarification.

"If your schedule doesn't open," the line says, "call back and leave a message with when."

Ryujin shrugs and says, "yeah, okay."

You make Ryujin sit through forty-five-fucking minutes of on-hold music - this barely audible synthetic noise that signals a connection is still there, truly a genre for no one - all before she just cuts the fucking line and lays down on the couch.

Okay.

Okay, fine.

Whatever.

(You are… going through the motions.

Some girl on the other line is barely holding it together; you can hear her thighs making slick noises. God. She sounds desperate, she's holding the phone all tight and saying your name. She's fucking babbling; it's not attractive, not while you're tilted back as far as your office chair will go and staring up in the ceiling.

You're bored, mostly.

"Please, please, I'm-"

"Going to cum, I know, princess." She asked you to call her that. "Mouth all open? Can't help it? Just need to lick it nice and fast?"

The answer comes all choppy: "I can't, ah, a-ah-nymore, no, I, can't, need-"

"Do you have any idea? How hard I'm fucking stroking my cock right now? Sitting right in my lap. Jerking it right for you," you say, and then she makes an embarrassingly wet noise, gasping through a choked whine, "so I'm ready to give you what you really fucking need."

"Yes," she chokes. "There - um, please, I just-"

"The biggest fucking load," you tell her. She has no idea, really, that you've got one hand on the receiver, the other just pinching the bridge of your nose - neither of which are you jerking the cum out of your cock and balls like a fucking hydrant as you’d described. What she doesn't know won't hurt her, and you keep your face turned to the side as she starts screaming. As it starts running into one noise that lasts forever - so unbearable that, this time, you consider going out to the bathroom to grab a glass of water and a handful of painkillers. "Need it deep. Let me pour it in, yeah?"

"Yes," she gasps again, heard on this distant frequency because, yes, yes, you've plugged your ear with a finger.

"That'll satisfy you. C'mon, now, princess - give it right up," you tell her, but your eyes are a little dull when her moan turns out all-gagging and twitchy and spasming through it, until finally:

"Ugh."

You wait a moment for the gasping and hitching to finish.

"Good girl," is your distant reply, followed by a polite, perfunctory, "call back anytime.")

Ryujin feels like she's in grade eleven again as she stares at her phone. Boys. Drama. Girls. The drama.

The overanalyzing, the wondering, the hesitating. Fuck. She wishes she knew a way to change this, because she doesn't feel particularly mature and is somehow reduced to this girl, this idiot sitting here all embarrassed and staring and moping about a thousand different calamities at once.

She's looking right at the lock screen: the wallpaper of her and Yeji and Chaeryeong out getting coffee on a random Sunday, all bundled up. Winter. Like three, four years ago, maybe.

Ryujin looks like shit, it's funny.

But Yeji -

How she can make the winter pallor look good is beyond Ryujin's understanding. It's unfair. All the things are. Her brain is back and forth and spinning, spinning like the hands on the old clock hung up on the wall in the kitchen. So stuck on what's not quite normal. Stuck on what doesn't fucking matter - who even fucking cares who the fuck she's attracted to?

She feels it between her legs.

Has been for like a month, or longer, without an outlet. Without anything to give her the hint that maybe she can get back to it - the right it.

She doesn't need to call, she tells herself. She's not some weirdo who's sitting on this for days just in the hopes that her boyfriend is having a bad week with work or whatever. It's only Wednesday, technically. Still way early. Just another few days, she reasons, another few hours - what does it matter?

Wednesday. She can feel the word settle inside of her.

Though only once her bottom lip is chewed to hell, does she pick up her phone and decide she will.

(You're in your bedroom this time around, finishing up your own weekday workout - on the bike, fifteen-second sprints - when your phone goes off. A simple dinging. Very unassuming.

The operator comes in with a cool, level, "line two, callback."

Then there's nothing but silence for a few beats.

You towel some of the sweat off your face. It's warm - your skin, flushed. Bouncing your phone in your palm. The same feeling that's been tugging at your throat for the past two weeks starts to flare and swell.

Not quite a hope, not quite expectation: just something close.

"Are they still there?"

The operator confirms. "Shall I put them through?")

Ryujin fumbles in her own rush of bravado, hands pressing against the fronts of her thighs in an unflattering, nervous little gesture as the connection clicks and picks up.

"This is him," comes your voice, a little husky and raspy from all the day-to-day talk, but even and easygoing and maybe - just maybe - something she can hang on to. Ryujin gives an acknowledging "Mmmn," like the phone call isn't causing her major inner-turmoil.

"Right, ah." You sound kind of, dare she say, nervous yourself. You clear your throat into the line and ask, "what brings you here, stranger?"

Ryujin pauses at this; the red in her ears reaches her fucking jaw. Stranger. Jesus christ, okay, okay-

She laughs. Stops immediately at how self-conscious she sounds. Clears her throat and tucks some of her hair back - settles herself into it like her life hangs in the balance. "I'm here to get my rocks off."

"It's not usually my place to say," you begin in earnest, "but if you're anything like me, and this is gonna sound completely off-the-cusp, but those two weeks really seem to build up, don't they?"

God.

She pulls her sock off her ankle. There's eczema on her heel, and it's the kind of thing she can imagine Yeji telling her to not scratch - that she's going to fuck up her skin. It's funny the stupid fucking things she can remember and all the things she forgets. Like just now, with your voice in her ear, a little unsure in a way that says you've got other, much more important things you should be doing. But you're here with her.

With Ryujin.

God. She might hate herself a little.

"Um," is how she finds her bearings. "Actually."

"It's a joke. Not that- I mean." She hears some rustling - assumes it's coming through the ear piece. There's an abrupt slamming on her side of the line and it seems like the worst kind of deja-fucking-vu. Her neighbors. She forgets it's even this late into the evening. That other people don't have to work so hard in their free-time.

"Maybe this isn't a good night," she says, not so much as thinking the words.

"What?" you ask. Then it dawns on you. "No, no. If you're there, I'm here." You clear your throat. "Besides, there's nobody I'd rather hear from than a woman so desperate she's signed onto my frequent flier's club."

She stops chewing the insides of her cheeks long enough to give you a tired, irritated sound. "Whatever."

And you nearly choke trying not to laugh.

"I don't, um-"

"What, do I have a nice voice?" You laugh quietly.

Under normal circumstances, that wry edge, the bit of try-hard-humor would have her rolling her fucking eyes clean out of their sockets. So when instead she opens her mouth and a fatal-fucked-flirty-feminine, stop, comes out, the vowel pulled long like a plea or a request - well, Ryujin's forehead drops against her bedspread in immediate regret.

You seem startled by it too, going quiet for a second.

"I-I'm-"

"Cute," you decide.

Her ears are red-hot and her cheeks have to be pinking and god, she hates this. That she's hearing this so soon, and it's making her brain hazy and soft and stuttering through, um's and yeah, well, um's. A part of her can't believe she's paying for this, and then, at the same time, she can't believe she's not actually putting cash down for more right this second.

Because it feels -

Like maybe -

Her shoulders rise. She wants this to be quick; she hates this feeling of embarrassment creeping its way in and grabbing onto her with both hands, like this weird, pseudo-affection. She's a grown fucking woman and here she is, letting all her guard down for someone she doesn't even fucking know.

You can feel the tension, hear it. Your lips purse. You try for something easy.

"Go on and give me the details, Ryujin."

Before you'd even picked up, she'd already half-undone her shirt, the flaps of the collar hanging loose with her hands gently petting her ribcage - so easily giving and pliant that there's a good portion of her, in spite of the doubt, in spite of what seems completely illogical about all this, that has her realizing maybe she wants this more than she can possibly understand.

God, she feels like a fucking fool.

"It's pretty boring."

"Not to me. I've spent the last few weeks talking to a bunch of assholes who don't appreciate what they got in the first place," you reply. She imagines you're a little playful about it. Wonders, momentarily, how good that smirk looks - if your eyebrows are lifting like you've been teasing her since day one. Fuck.

“Your operator is a total asshole too, by the way."

"Don't say that," is Ryujin's shy reply, practically moaned out. "You sound like someone I'd absolutely fucking hate, jesus, stop that."

"Just because you don't get on with someone, doesn't mean they can't get you off."

"Smooth, or something."

"I'm taking a break, relaxing a little, enjoying an overrated TV show or whatever this is - not really minding my business," you say, but your smile is so audible it's fucking offensive. And she's - she's maybe, definitely into that. Like the fucking embarrassment in this is turning her on. Ryujin puts the tip of her finger in the waist of her shorts, experimentally, gently, this small brush and press to her sensitive lower stomach. And it's true. All she hears is her own breathing in the receiver, a bit labored over the slightest, least indecent touch. It's amazing, how much her body can want even when her head can't seem to catch up.

"What do you like?" she asks. “You’re a person, working bits and all, something’s gotta get you all worked up and flustered, no?”

"Will you believe me if I tell you this is my absolute favorite?"

"Do you always dodge the question?"

"It's just like a courtesy," you clarify, "it's not personal."

"Now I sound like a desperate pervert."

"On the contrary," is your warm, buttery reply, and it is fucking aggravating just how well this works on her. "I think there are much better things people can say about you."

God, that - the thought, the possibility of something about her that has nothing to do with how 'thick' or 'thin' her thighs are, or the silhouette of her ass in safety shorts, or how her voice makes guys want to ask if they can take her home and fuck the answers from her, or any of that; it's kind of liberating, just a tiny bit. That it can be a good thing for some reason. God.

Ryujin rubs herself. "Yeah, well."

She wants it all the same and says nothing, shifting a little until her hips tilt slightly upwards, letting her pull at the drawstring of her shorts, loosening the grip. She's already kind of feeling woozy in all the best ways, soft and feminine in how she slides her hand underneath her shorts. Over panties first, with no clear idea if you can tell and honestly, too distracted to wonder about that, if she should care or not, too caught up with her fingertips over the raised seam in her underwear - where the fabric's wet from her.

A shush comes into the line when Ryujin swallows.

The ache between her legs grows louder.

"You still there, Ryujin?"

"Of course," and then, she finds a little more reassured finality: "fuck, yeah, fuck. Please, I..."

"Ryujin," you say with all the calm and control in the world, "talk to me."

(So - truthfully, honestly, factually - you are a total wreck.

You're sitting there in a heap of bedsheets and a cold sweat when Ryujin finally mutters into the silence, "thanks, for that, I, uh- that felt really good, exactly what I needed," and hangs up before you can ask about her day or comment on the weather or suggest calling back tomorrow.

She is just perfect, the way she lets a small "I..." slip when she's close. Perfect, how she groans her little broken, satisfied sigh of a yes, her last, fleeting exhale just a sweet, high, barely there please, her body tensing with every little shudder and moan and pant. How the pace goes fast and then slow - like she's gotta think it out a second, her own fingers bringing her closer and closer until there's nothing but a flurry of movement and ragged breaths - an enthusiastic little mmph noise - followed by Ryujin's wet and slick little laugh that sounds like relief.

Like you did something to help, like she needed you and wanted you.

There's cum sticking all up your torso and along your wrist, the inside of your thigh - everywhere you could manage, frankly - and, shit, it's not fair, you realize:

She can find you, whenever she needs you.

And you -

You're just sitting here. Nowhere near sure she'll even call again.)

There's a sizable difference between being lonely and being alone, Ryujin thinks, running the cloth under the stream of the shower and then pressing it damp against her throat, wiping at the backs of her knees.

Lonely means that something's missing - it's something she feels when she catches a glance at the handsome arm reached around Chaeryeong's waist, the way she dances so close to someone she just met, or whenever she tells her that she's thinking about, maybe, probably, definitely, absolutely going home with him if her friends don't stop her from leaving. God, her smile is always so cute when he's near. When someone's calling her over for drinks - hips sashaying like she doesn't know the whole bar is staring at the creases where her thighs flare into her ass - because he gave her a look from across the room, and she's swaying from drink to drink.

Like, of course, they're fucking; it's a known, unsaid thing.

She knows it, he knows it. Chaeryeong fucking owns it.

Alone however, is just what it says on the tin.

That's something else Ryujin has yet to learn - that everyone loves differently, cares for different things. Yuna is still single after all, and she can never shake the feeling that it's simply to spite her for some perceived slight or another; Yuna can't live without company, no matter how brief or short or meaningless, so perhaps it's better she never catches on or finds anyone worth keeping around.

And Yeji?

Ryujin sighs, rakes the comb through her wet hair.

The showerhead is running hot between Ryujin's fingers, and the water coming off of her skin turns to steam instantly, filling the bathroom with a permanent cloud, stuck in flux - rising towards the ceiling. She passes her fingers under it, watches the flow, a quiet hm escaping the back of her throat - and she considers the way it feels beating against her throat and chest.

Down the concave curve of her stomach. How it burns red right over her thighs. The pressure slips and sinks low, lower - and when she puts a palm out for a little stability, her left leg can't help but buckle just so, lifting itself out and off to the side. So she stands, toes pointing against the shower floor, face first into her arm against the cool tile.

Ryujin sees where the rivulets of water have gathered above her clavicle - feels them trail down over the tightness in her breasts and between. A couple images pass through her mind at once - thoughts of fingers trailing a line back up the center of her body and a gentle tap against her chin, turning her face to some perfect all-consuming kiss - a hand squeezing at her calf, rubbing her muscles gently - Yeji smiling into the crook of her neck, the grasp on her hip, wrist flexing. Her back bowed and fingers, broad and experienced -

"Don't need you," Ryujin quietly says to nobody, which -

You're doing so well, Ryujin hears back in her imagination, you're so beautiful, you can keep this up, I know you can. I bet it feels good, doesn't it? Just let go and I'll...

Ryujin whimpers out. She can feel that line deep inside her going taut, buckling in her core, the reverberations down to her wrists and fingertips and toes. If she didn't have the wall in front of her, she knows she'd be on her knees - kneeling to the hot water pulsing around the knots of nerves right behind her clit. The pressure hitting her like the crack of a whip.

"Fuck me," she says to no one, gasping in that way you only can when no one is listening.

Yeji's smile is what's gotten her this close so many times, the smell of the ends of her hair tickling Ryujin's nose. Hell, she can't stop thinking about the way her nose crinkles or her dimples flare just when she finds Ryujin's name in her mouth.

It's not fair.

She's so close to cumming and letting whatever happens happen. The slick of her release pouring right out into the drain of the shower, washed away with the excess. So when her whole hand shifts and catches in just the right, delicious, frustrating way, Ryujin inhales so deep through the end of the sentence that, as a result, her knees wobble.

She feels like fucking crying.

It's that sweet little lilt in Yeji's voice, saying things like: "It's alright. I promise you can keep this up a little longer." And "Oh, god, baby." And, at worst, the way her voice shakes with a "come here, honey. Let me-"

Ryujin has to catch herself when her footing slips a little from under her. Then, your voice, coming in distant at first, grows louder, clearer. Into something catastrophic, right against her throat, like it knows the very inside-and-out of her, "go on. Fuck, please, cum all over me, baby - show me a face no one else gets to see."

And for the first time,

Ryujin gets herself off. Alone.

She moans and sighs out. Gasps, "there you go-" and whispers an, "ah, jesus." She manages the most silent, the least decipherable, fuck, as it leaves her mouth like a prayer. Her left knee twitches, body curling into itself, and her hand moves - fingers closing and her eyes clenched shut, a wave, cresting - she just-

Collapses.

Wanting: Yeji, sure - and she came - but the only thing she can really wrap her head around is the truth that she's so, utterly fucked.

"Are you sure there's no one you can bring?" Yeji asks in the middle of slapping the ever-loving shit out of a coffee maker that has, for as far as anyone can remember, never worked.

"Uh," is Ryujin's inconvenienced reaction, the tips of her fingers idly sorting through her credit card statements, which a more-sober, less-horny version of herself is a little out of sorts over. "I'm not sure there's anyone I'd want to bring."

"Uh huh," Yeji replies.

She pauses and rests the bottom edge of the coffee maker on the edge of the kitchen counter, stopping herself mid-smack - leaning away to try and give the stupid thing a once-over.

"Who the hell says it's got to be someone you wanna make babies with? Maybe it's just someone you'd think would look good beside you, smiling at the cameras with. Or."

"Or."

Yeji's lips tilt. "Or someone you wouldn't mind screwing in the bathroom."

Ryujin spins the pen in her fingers and gives Yeji a look that says back off and can you chill out already, in the sort of way it takes years to ferment - the silent understandings, the good-natured naggings, the good-fucking-luck-with-that-buddy's. Yeji knows she's getting on Ryujin's nerves. Knows that has never stopped her before.

"In my defense," Yeji clarifies, "I can count at least a hundred people that would crawl over broken glass to sleep with you and, uh-" She knocks the coffee maker off of its stand and holds it gingerly to her chest like some child, motherly. "-I don't wanna take a bullet for your unintentional chastity, Shin Ryujin."

"First of all, don’t pretend you’re doing me a favor here," she replies. "Second-"

"Can't hurt just asking, right? I could set you up, you know, someone you've never even met - no pre-burnt bridges to maneuver."

There’s a world, and Ryujin imagines it for all of a second, where she stands up and grabs hold of Yeji by her cute little ponytail - if nothing else, just to stop the way it bounces every time she steps - and maybe, she also kisses her on the mouth so hard she stumbles. Or perhaps she could pull that ribbon free of its holdings and unravel it down against Yeji's jaw. Pull a whimper, a tiny little ah that says this was inevitable. Maybe they crash onto her bed. Maybe she gets her fingers sticky with how soaked through the cotton of Yeji's shorts have gotten in those short, heated moments - what a world that would be.

"One of what's-his-name's friends? I’m assuming."

Yeji looks annoyed and proud and beautiful; all at once.

"Yes, and what's-his-name's pillow talk is exceedingly whiny about how my best friend is so incredibly standoffish and abrasive and-"

"Okay. I'll go." Anything to stop the image of Yeji with the comforter pulled up to her tits and hair splayed all over the place; red and flushed. Her lips curling with the curve of the sheets and god -

"Just for an hour?" Ryujin asks.

Yeji finally places the coffee maker back onto its stand.

"I mean, nothing much happens an hour into a birthday party," Yeji reassures. "It'll be fun."

"Uh-huh."

"Trust me."

Ryujin wonders just how far Yeji could go - if she knows that she can snap her fingers together, and Ryujin will be there: ready to do anything.

Ryujin is trying to go to sleep, is how she'll explain it if anyone asks. Though she prays to god no one ever will.

She tries books. And she tries scrolling aimlessly through Instagram. And there's this one guy she kinda-sorta-dated's updates: photos of a vacation to Boracay, which seems nice; his chest is a little more defined, more chiseled than when she was seventeen and kind of fumbling her way around a college boy and his stupid fucking preoccupation with who should be paying for drinks at whatever run down establishment was his pick of the night. Ryujin makes a face at the screen, pursing her lips; there's a girl in the photo - she looks too young for how her ass is falling out the one-piece. To the extent that she makes sure to send an unsolicited meme she's tagged herself in - like "here is my past and here are his balls", and gets a block and a report as a thank you.

It makes her feel good. That's what's most important.

And then, with little other distraction and a decent lack of luck, she picks up the phone.

It rings for a while before the operator comes in and says, "You're at number nine."

"What?"

"The queue. This call has you at number nine."

Ryujin slowly leans up from the pillows and squints into her bedroom.

"Huh."

"Would you still like to be connected, miss?

Ryujin thinks it over for a moment. Of course you're popular, a part of her mind comments, because you've got a voice like gravel-slung honey-gold. She's imagining eight other girls just like her, laying in their bed, panties on their ankles and thumbs covered with spit. All desperate for you. All curled up - one right after the other - with no fucking idea.

"Miss," the operator comes back with.

The line goes quiet - a few beats, but not too uncomfortable a silence. Then she gets a soft little exhale out, saying, "can I leave a callback number?"

"If you like." The operator considers the idea. "I can’t promise whether he’ll call you.”

“No, yeah.” Ryujin curls an arm under her chest and plays a finger against the swell of her breast through her night shirt. Gets lost in her own consideration. “Don't think he would anyway."

A new day is defined by new possibilities, or something or another you read once stitched into a frame; Something you muse over the rim of your coffee, nose-deep in the laptop at the kitchen counter top.

Last night ended a bit unexpectedly - this not considering the couple's awkward fight which took up two-thirds of the evening. Or the girlfriend-slash-fiancée of that guy, which somehow led you to wonder just how old was too old. But as you were logging your final client session of the night a ping came through the employee portal and let you know that someone had left their number with the operator in the hopes you'd call.

You swig back the rest of your coffee, roll your shoulders and shrug. Oh, there are at least a million reasons not to call a number that randomly, offhandedly arrives in the middle of the night and gets patched through a phonesex hot line under the cover of darkness.

The same number could be out there, defacing the wall of a truck stop bathroom, or inked into the skin of a squat prison convict who's got a brow like the horizon. Maybe, it belongs to that married business man that took your personal phone number as his private line and spent all the time bragging how he was going to quit his wife and make a run for it with you - just you - even though you'd rather stab him with a fork than be involved with that kind of psychopathy and are honestly just looking for that extra bump in commissions every time his wife calls to ask the exact same thing.

Your clients call. You talk.

You take the cash.

The point is: there's more fucking deviants out there than there are stars in the sky. You would know; you talk to a new handful every goddamn day.

Yet it doesn't really matter. You're gonna do it. Because you're feeling restless. Because - and it sounds insane - there's at least some probability, no matter how remote, that you will pick up that receiver and punch in a number and the line will connect with the girl who's been on your mind almost constantly for the better half of two months. That you might listen to the dial tone turn into her answering with a genuinely indifferent, "this is Ryujin," or whatever her name actually is -

You're living in a pipe dream. You're probably reaching, actually. And all you know about this woman, is, what? What does it really, factually, truly amount to, the amount you feel you've come to know about her.

You know more about how she prefers to methodically, meticulously begin, then draw out, and finally end a blowjob to someone that ain't you than you do about any detail in her life story, frankly. You're reaching, and you know it.

You pick up the phone and dial.

(It goes straight to voicemail, and get this: that’s her real fucking name.)

Yuna has the audacity to ask, as she slides into the booth, "who do you keep texting?"

Ryujin's eyebrow arches.

The younger girl nods towards where Ryujin's thumbs are practically flying over the keyboard.

"No one." Ryujin puts the phone on her lap and crosses her arms over her chest. Then the words seem to echo through the inside of her skull, so she shakes her head a little, in emphasis. "It's nothing, don't worry about it."

She's right though - and maybe that's the problem. Maybe that's why it's hard to answer.

Chaeryeong washes the shot of whisky down with a swallow of lemon-lime. Her eyes slide open to Ryujin as she wipes at her bottom lip. Then she spikes a finger into Ryujin's ribs.

"Spill."

It's a dangerous order, and she doesn't realize it at first. Chaeryeong's bad ideas have an annoying habit of flinging themselves on Ryujin, like a bomb dropped at low altitude - sudden, quick, and more than enough to shake everything up. Chaeryeong will make Ryujin go out dancing - and then she'll lose her clutch purse. Chaeryeong will remember she started the evening with a scarf - so they need to walk out a whole block or two to find it.

More importantly: Chaeryeong is not a great drunk.

So, of course she spills. She relays her findings, carefully and as deliberately as she can muster.

"Does he have a nice voice?" Chaeryeong asks.

"It's kind of deep?”

Chaeryeong snorts. Apologizes immediately.

"Not... deep. Sultry. I guess. Smooth, easy to hear." Ryujin tells the two across the table.

Yuna whistles low. "Romantic as shit."

“Fuck, I don’t know. In, like a sexy sort of way." Ryujin raises both palms in a vague gesture. She clears her throat at the two pairs of eyes staring back at her as though the words coming out of her mouth belonged to a foreign language. "Uh. Sort of raspy, or something, sometimes, like he's... on the phone a lot, and you know," Ryujin flushes, suddenly caught and wondering where all the confidence went, "yeah."

Yuna's leaning forward, chin in her palm. "I'm having a hard time believing texting is a sort of standard operating procedure."

"Well try a little harder," Ryujin snaps, eyes finding Yuna's and making herself fucking clear.

Chaeryeong has this look about her, she's trying to keep it all in, but then there's her eyes, cinched at the corners and dead-fucking-giveaways. She puts an arm against the table and points at Ryujin with an up-reaching thumb. "This is the cutest shit, like ever, and you two are texting like actual lovers instead of two, apparently rando-stranger fuck buddies, or whatever."

Yuna - for whatever reason - feels at liberty to throw gasoline on the fire. "Does that mean you think he's going to get jealous if you bring some dude along to Lia's birthday?"

Ryujin sucks in a breath; the fact that he'd never - well.

"Ryujin's in love," Yuna adds for dramatic effect, for the sake of being the worst fucking person. She can be so fucking petty. It's a side of her no one ever sees, because she's just so sweet all the time. Like right now, she's doing that smile-smirk thing that gets Chaeryeong giggling against her hand and then coughing into it a second later.

"Jesus christ," Ryujin starts gathering her jacket and purse. "He's- not- this is- God, I'm done." She slips her shoulder under the strap. "Thanks for listening to me sound like a teenager."

"Isn't that just normal for you," Yuna quips back, pulling at her straw until there's only air rushing through the bend of it. "Where are you going?"

"I can't stay here," Ryujin says as if it's obvious, as well as her point, the argument she's trying to make. "Besides, Yeji is gonna want me to get my dress and shit all sorted out."

"Don't fall in love with one of the robot voices at the cross-walk on your way home, or anything!" Yuna laughs out, giving a flippant wave goodbye.

Ryujin lets her eyes roll because sometimes, she hates her friends.

It still throws you for a loop whenever Ryujin pings your phone with a text that says something like:

have you jerked yourself off to exhaustion or is there one more in you for someone like me?

Or,

my roommate is getting pounded through the springs of her mattress, wanna see if you can hear it?

Or,

are you free? I really fucking need to cum. bad.

Each text is something you tuck into yourself. Save and mark and spend all your time in those long-form responses imagining how her face looked when her brain typed out the words for you. You wonder if she's sighing through her fingers or hiding her lips behind a pillow while the heat coils in the pits of her hips.

As time goes by, Ryujin slips a little more. From one text about whatever book or series she was rereading last and another about the sadism of politicians and how people are more likely to agree with what they've heard someone else say than the facts of a given subject, to texts with a few scattered thoughts to strings of sexting that has you cumming into the palm of your hand and through your sheets and in the middle of a dream in which there's no clothes and a pretty fucking filthy proposition.

"How have you been lately," you decide, and consider, briefly, the very strong likelihood this call is gonna send her right through the goddamn roof.

When Ryujin eventually finds herself able to get out: "fine," there's a tell-tale pause, then an even longer pause, that implies she'd definitely rather say anything else. Then she kind of stutters a, "pretty good. Not too bad. All that stuff, I suppose."

And not to say any part of this has felt like routine. Both of you breathing into the end of a telephone and letting your eyes clench tight while you cum all over yourself - imagining everything she told you she wanted you to do to her, how it'd all go: "fucking with my arms grappled behind my back," she'd hum, "head pushed into the bedsheets, you're smothering me, ah- I'd let you cum wherever the fuck you like, but please-" or maybe a bit simpler: "so my thighs are straddling your face?" is about the gist.

A second goes by, another, a third.

"Hang on," you end up having to tell her sometimes, "I need a fucking towel-"

"You really are, huh, jerking off with me- I get you that hot, is what you're telling me? Or is just too much imagining how you'd fuck your way right into my guts through my pretty little pussy? Ah, jesus," the cadence of her voice climbs high before ending up back where it belongs, "Jesus, fuck."

"Can you imagine," is how it'd start, "how good it'd feel? My pussy, or- anywhere, everywhere. I think you'd ruin me for anyone else - you- with how, god-"

You can hear Ryujin shift on the sheets, licking at her bottom lip. Silently cumming. Cumming for you.

"Okay."

"Okay what," Ryujin quietly says back.

The gears turning.

You press your hand into the side of your neck. "Fuck me. Now, in a second. Tell me the last fucking thing in the world you want me to be or do and-"

"Wait."

There's this half-breath. This hmm that almost trips off Ryujin's tongue. Her eyes squinting open to a new thought. You think she's about to be sly. About to surprise you with an offhand fuck yes I'd ride that face like a bus seat; that she might come back with, yes I'll put you right in the middle of the best part of me, god you'll love it, and I promise not to make you cum if you're nice enough not to let your hands wander. But.

It's funny how things are -

"I have a confession," she says, matter-of-factly.

That's not entirely unusual. You've had more of those come through your line in a year than a confessional grate might get in a lifetime. So it doesn't sound like something special to you; Ryujin and you are in this candid don't-ask-don't-tell in regards to payments and the exchange of goods and services, but here you are, still using lines and bits. Practiced.

"In the name of the father, and of the son, and-"

"Funny." Ryujin gets the hint to backtrack. "Uhm, I mean. Remember the roommate I was telling you about?"

You hum a, "maybe."

"Uh," and now the hushed voice from her throat sounds distant, suddenly out of the scope of the receiver, "can I be totally, honestly- just really, extremely honest here, are you- or?"

You stop thinking about the ebbs and flows of her voice, how it dips down then arches up a little. Because now her voice has become something that is nervous, bordering on uneasy. So you stop, take stock and hold on. You weren't expecting a voice of worry or tension, or not at least while she wasn't thrown back into her bed and rubbing furiously at the ache between her legs.

"Yeah, of course," you offer her up.

"This is so embarrassing," she's saying, and some part of you feels ready to sink - you haven't the faintest idea for what, but there is something. Your chest clenches.

You can't help the worry and reply: "Okay, um. I mean- yeah. Me too, I can admit I feel a bit- and you can, y'know, be a little-"

"I'm not straight," she says finally, with a little quiver of her voice right at the tail end.

A blink comes, another - there's nothing coming out of you and you have no idea why that should be at all difficult, so the silence grows long. A new sort of awkward; the kind that you find out isn't just the rush of cum cooling in a pair of sweat-damp underwear. No - this is embarrassment, the kind that taints you.

"What?" You exhale a strained laugh, almost too-bright. "Are you- is this some sort of-?"

"Nope, no, this is crazy, sorry." She laughs. "Sorry."

"You certainly had me fooled." You sit up straighter in your bed, resting elbows on your knees. The moon is filtering through the windowsill and bathing the room in blue - casting light all the wrong ways. Making your own heart beat just a little too fast. "Fuck, um. Can I ask a personal question?"

"Sure." Her voice sounds uncharacteristically soft.

"What are you into?" and you as soon as you ask, you're laughing - because you've heard Ryujin wax lyrical for weeks, pontificate about every manner and way she'd take a cock between her hands, lips, fingers. Every. Single. Place, she wants one in - and now you can't believe this is what you went with: "I mean, like girls?"

"It's probably safe to assume I have some, y'know- degree of- yeah."

You chuckle a bit. The stiffness in your shoulders settling out.

"I've been in love, I realize - boy, with my roommate - for a while."

It's said with a sad laugh - as if this were a little shameful. Some deep, dark secret no one could ever be privy to; some stain on her soul that might wash out only after one final scrubbing with dish detergent and the cruelest bristles. A thing that keeps her up at night -

“Not the roommate, by the way, who we listen to get fucking railed like she’s on-demand pornography every weekend. Just to be clear."

"Good, jesus, that'd be fucking something."

Ryujin sounds more cheerful when her voice comes back through the line, "right?"

You wipe the perspiration of your top lip. You laugh nervously at this girl admitting to being in love over the phone - a stranger, truly, in all ways - to some fucked up audio-fetish sex line personality. And now - the fuck's wrong with you?

"Are you mad?" she asks, and some part of you is wrung. A small string of tension twisting so hard inside your gut, you're losing touch.

"No," you let her know. "No, not at all."

And that is honest. This is honest. There's this itching little scratch all over the insides of your skin that seems intent on driving a fucking wedge. Right at the center of your chest, tearing you apart. It feels as you've lost - not an object, not a material. Not an idea, nor a concept - but a feeling, that for once, was distinctly, overwhelmingly yours, without your wanting, or permission, or comprehension.

Ryujin sighs, this elongated relief coming in. She sinks back against the headboard.

She tells you everything. How Yeji smiles, and it's like the whole fucking room has gone up in lights, just from her and her alone. How there is nothing that she'd rather spend all her days around. She talks and you sit there, silent and listening. She talks about her. Her name and everything Yeji does and everything she wants.

The more you listen, you realize it's all real; she's not confused, or mistaken, or out to play a game or convince herself of something she believes is inherently untrue. She's not frustrated, or longing. She doesn't have this stomach-rolling pit of anxiety digging a cavern at her center because she just can't go through the rest of her life, living a life like everyone else. Not ever.

Because, all you really notice is-

She loves Yeji. The quiet kind. And she's sitting there, legs curled under her ass, crying. Not sad, or frightened, or wounded, just this beautiful sort of awed: it's the kind that only someone who is too inexperienced at crying should have. Where you just-

Look away.

"I'm not taking my phone into the bath with me," is the last thing she says to you, tears flooding out in her last couple words, before you can only offer her a meek: "anytime, Ryujin, I'm here."

(Four, five weeks go by in the blink of an eye. A month where you figure it's best to let her text or call or make it clear she wants your voice.

She never does.)

Lia is taking her sweet time to apply concealer over the cut Ryujin earned herself trying to get a stupid thing off a shelf - that's how low and unreasonable her tolerance for anything mildly inconvenient is.

"That fucking hurts," Ryujin tells her, wincing.

Lia ignores her.

She keeps on dabbing at the spot on her temple with the makeup brush until there isn't any trace of bruising, or where the jagged scar of a cut ends and skin begins, not anymore. At this point, she has gotten better, has developed a kind of surgeon's eye: zeroing in and unblinking, until every inch of damage is looking like Ryujin did when she was brought into this world -

(which is not perfect, but what it ought to look like, all things considered.)

Lia holds her hands in place on either side of Ryujin's head. "Stay."

It takes less than five minutes, and during those, Yuna just offers from around the bathroom door, "Ryujin, sweetheart, you’re looking hot tonight."

There's nothing more Ryujin wants to do than set the girl straight - the girl can't not keep a chirp to herself, for once in her fucking life. Because this flimsy slip of a dress around her middle feels too tight, the air choked out of her lungs if she shifts her weight onto the wrong foot. The hem rides way too fucking high up her thighs. So, if anyone didn't want a good long look at her ass tonight, they better come up with a plan B if she has to so much as approach a staircase.

"Have I ever not," she bites.

Yuna snorts.

And luckily for Ryujin, Lia feels the same way:

"Yuna, would it kill you to find something productive to do with your time?"

Yuna opens her mouth like she has something to say (she usually does) before retreating further away, the edge of her hair disappearing around the doorway. Then Ryujin's grinning - eyes taking in how Lia glowers a bit back, silently judging the stupidity in Ryujin's expression and also, admiring how good the girl looks. "Not bad, though, really."

Lia tells her with an underhanded wave of the brush and a wink: "historically, you do always get laid on my birthday, remember?"

Ryujin jerks a little, and the scar above her eye throbs into Lia's thumb. "Thanks?"

The party is miserable, but it's not Lia's fault. It's not really Yeji's fault either. They tried, that's really all she can say for them - her and her permanent-plus-one whose face Ryujin wants to both claw at and kiss until it’s swollen-

What she really can't wrap her mind around, though, is the guy sitting right fucking beside her. The idiot.

"Really, I'm telling you," her date - who is about 3.5 out of five stars at best and not so much handsome or hot as he is 'okay in a pinch' - grins up at her with the smarmiest of smiles, "if you'd just have taken me up on dinner, I would've spent all our time talking about you. We’d figure out how to enjoy ourselves."

"Likely story."

This fuckwad has the absolute goddamn gall to look wounded when his arm starts circling its way around the space where her dress is suffocating her at the waist, and Ryujin starts to shimmy her way out of hot water - again. God, she thinks, god save me-

"I think," she manages with a stilted grin, "I'm going to make myself useful- drinks, no?"

When he leans forward to grab her hand, it's only so she doesn't leave.

"You're not going to ask for my order?" he presses. The only reason Ryujin hasn't knocked out a couple of his front teeth is because Lia would be the one hearing Yeji whine about cleaning up the fucking mess.

"Just scotch. Neat."

Ryujin's a natural when it comes to smiling fake; it's part of her goddamned job. "Of course," she says, like she's not absolutely loathing him.

"Try the oakier, single-barrel variety, alright," he explains, because what's hotter than a man who's an expert in alcohol and being an insufferable tool? Nothing of course. She hopes he knocks back a few too many and his liver explodes - the painless way out. If god would ever fucking allow it.

She barely manages a half-strangled laugh over the blare of the music before he finally releases her wrist.

The absolute fucking prick.

Here's something Ryujin never thought she'd come to appreciate:

Being alone.

It's just her and the breeze through the open doors of the rooftop garden, which is something every bit as refreshing as it is teeth-chatteringly cold. The wind picks up in gusts and billows, until it starts nipping up the fabric around her knees, like it's any one of the drunk, stumbling guests milling about and looking for a noncommittal lay.

Her left foot slips a step outwards, the uncomfortably tall heel bouncing on the edge of her toe and tapping a tune against the brick. Ryujin slouches on the railing that encapsulates the entire terrace, arms pressed over it, hands folded one-over the other - letting the night sky caress her bare shoulders with its wind-brushed kisses. This, is okay. It's better.

Maybe not ideal, but better.

And all it really took was a few fucking moments where she isn't smiling with pursed, stressed lips; where the pressure in her jaw finally settles out enough for the knot in the back of her teeth to fall loose and for her mouth to actually feel, y'know - good.

Not forced, is what. Not fake, or not real, or whatever-

Ryujin almost fishes her phone from her clutch. Almost. Almost texts to tell you that: this fucking night, like all the others in the past month or two or year, has left her feeling particularly done for, and yeah, no, it isn't helping that she'd take whatever would be the alternative if it meant a face like yours came in handy to lean against, or your shoulder or thigh to use. Like some pillow - that's all.

And you are, like. An option. But not, she sighs out, exactly the right one.

An errant chill shudders through her and down her spine.

"Shin Ryujin."

She'd recognize the tilt of that voice anywhere; even if her ears were pounding and her head filled with static and noise, she'd be able to place Yeji at the end of the world. The truth is easy to see, if only Yeji knew where to look: the corners of Ryujin's eyes screw up tight for a second, an immeasurably long time, in order to not do what they wanted. What it would mean.

She does anyway. "I'd hug you," Ryujin throws behind her with an airy sigh, "but I know where you've been."

Yeji's jaw has set at this point; a twist is still in her lip and she lets out this dry, half-laugh, half-not sound - which is the thing that drives Ryujin a little crazy. Yeji turns her attention from the concrete ground, to Ryujin's profile, her body leaning forward, toes tipping in: "sometimes I wonder if my partner in crime can breathe without saying something incendiary."

"Nope." Ryujin offers no further response or follow-up. Instead, the quiet gush of air makes itself the center of attention and a victim of silence.

"Sorry about-"

"Don't be. Don't give it a second thought." Ryujin stretches, leaning a little over the railing. Her fingers arch before her. Her words sounding the slightest bit cold, "can't win 'em all, right?"

Yeji's eyebrows pull together. "That's not how this was supposed-"

"God, Yeji." Ryujin smiles. Yeji hates that she never knows what that means. "I'm trying, really, I am, but you know - I really, I have tried my best, so can we just lay it to rest?"

Yeji leans over the railing - the fucking moon reflecting in these lustrous pools where her eyes go darker than night - and doesn't say anything for the longest moment. Ryujin chews her tongue, and tries to look as interested in the void of stars and night clouds as possible.

"Fuck's going on with you, lately?"

Ryujin just laughs back.

"Really," and the last word dips in a groan. It's almost childishly tragic how petulantly she insists, "talk to me."

But Ryujin has nothing else to say - no witty, scathing remarks. No deadpan observations or funny asides, not even a morose comment to throw back. There are times and moments and fucking periods of her day where she'd happily chew glass if it meant that Yeji would sit there a second longer, be beside her for a while and smile, just smile at only her, once - for once.

Her only response is the worst kind of lie, this soft: "really nothing."

The moment where it slips and hangs between them, when it lingers the longest -

She could reach out, a hand on her thigh, the small of her back, if she could only reach. And Yeji, she'd listen to her, for once. She'd really, genuinely hear what Ryujin says; like she can see it, plain as day, everything there's in Ryujin's eyes, the thoughts inside her head, written on her goddamn face and across the open night air in neon:

I love you. I'm in love with you, you're too close to me.

The seconds pass. They tick, they stretch and grow thin. Yeji looks at Ryujin expectantly, and Ryujin knows. It is something like being put on the spot and called in. Something like a long, pained whimper caught somewhere in her throat.

She is very much still, unmoving, and feeling nothing at all.

Maybe she can blame the alcohol, the dark, the series of events that saw her hiding away behind a bunch of decorative trees and fighting for breath where the wind blows a little cooler. She can pretend like the stars aren't absent above her, and it doesn't hurt a goddamn bit.

“Yeji, I-” She licks at her lip, ready, willing-

Ryujin grabs at her waist with a hand. Her knuckles white around the black of the railing. And with no further fanfare, she spits it out like venom, with no small measure of shame or guilt or worry for how Yeji will take it - or worse: how she herself would react in the wake of admitting it aloud -

“I love you,” Ryujin says, and it pops out of her mouth as neatly as it had the first thousand times practicing alone in her car.

A blink, and another. The look on Yeji's face is hard and blank, as if she'd understood every syllable, but didn't hear it at all - maybe. Her gaze drops, it trails a path along the long line of Ryujin's pale neck. Of the two ways it could ever go in her head, stuck on loop for as long as she can remember, Ryujin had never considered that Yeji might turn this still and vacant. A sudden feeling, a pull or a grip, starts in the lowest part of Ryujin's guts.

"And not-," she hears her own voice falter, "like-"

Then - it's on the back of Ryujin's head and in her hair, a hand curled at the base of her skull and pulling her head a little downward and her, until their foreheads meet. And before she has a chance to walk it back - to stuff it down where it came from and seal the bottle tight - before she can clench her eyes, shake her head, and spit out anything else like the fact that there was not much that had to change, between them -

Yeji just says plainly: "Yeah, hun. Love you too."

And it's shockingly, the most painful thing - that she just squeezes her hand and pats her back like it's all they could ever be. Without even the wherewithal to reject her properly; to tell her something like "don't ever say that again, god," or "oh shit- Ryujin. Sorry. So, no," or at least to spit back with a scathing laugh: "welcome to the fucking party," like what she always does.

"Yeah." Yeji clears her throat quietly and starts retreating back from the brink - with no apparent aim but to pull away as she draws herself away from the warmth of Ryujin's space, "uh, don't forget to say hello to some of the staffers before they go home, okay?"

Ryujin is left with nothing but the air that follows Yeji's outline; left with her heart sinking into the depths of the night; left trying to make sense of the bitter sting ripping her chest in two.

Left with her own hopelessness - the pining - when Yeji walks away.

To be lonely, to be alone; neither are the same.

And she hates knowing she is so incredibly both.

The worst part is she knows how it looks.

Her pace just on the verge of unsteady, the way her feet come up from the ground: Left foot, the right. The other. Back and back and forth again, faster and then slower and- fuck.

A damsel, severely distressed.

She sits down on the curb. She wants to cry, but even just the way she looks, carrying her heels and struggling with this fucking dress she wishes she'd never bothered with at all - oh, the tabloids would be sure every detail gets pinned under all the wrong lights. A breakdown would only serve to confirm all the right things; it would paint a story for anyone who cares enough to glean from her crestfallen posture and red cheeks that she is yes, a little broken, and that everyone wants to be loved and she's no different - and -

She sucks a breath. This time, when her tears fall, it's a quick, perfunctory action, no show in it.

Her palms rub her face - and she wipes, and wipes, and wipes - smearing at the foundation under her eyes before she takes a long drag of night air. Deep from her core, filling up her lungs until she can't hold anymore. Until it hurts and stings the backs of her ribs - it's enough for a single, fleeting moment. The street is mostly empty; an occasional car will speed by every now and then and it's those few and far between intervals that hurt most, that nearly shatter her: if she can barely do this, alone, how can she possibly be enough for anyone?

Ryujin’s smiling only to hold back her tears, and it fucking stings. She flicks hurriedly past the lock screen of her phone and swipes through the message stream with blurry eyes - there’s a whole host of people that want to know where the fuck she went, if she's safe, why she up and vanished the moment Yeji couldn't keep an eye on her. And well. The girl sighs.

Finds your name in her contacts and puts her thumb right beside it.

It rings exactly three times, and she hates the number. She hates how many things can be associated with that number in those seconds alone.

Four, the pause where you must have had the opportunity, but didn't decide to pick up - just leave it be. Then five - Ryujin is definitely no longer looking forward to any of this.

Six: it stops.

There's this crackle, and through the night -

"Just what brings you here, stranger?"

For an indistinct amount of time, Ryujin drifts in the whirlpool current of that question; it sinks her deeper, into the currents of your voice and the tone and what it's suggesting and demanding from her. All the things your voice is giving her permission to ask of and with and-

Until finally she answers back: "do you ever just, like, wish," a shallow pause for the hitch in her breath, "something, someone was a little more for you- or to- with you-"

The swell of a smile through the receiver; and you can't help your laugh, soft.

"Sometimes," is what you say, "that's just human, don't you think?"

She doesn't understand how something like love or life or desire should be a universal trait.

"Uh, maybe," she shrugs out, and thinks.

"It's pretty normal," you tell her.

Quiet, as if you were right in front of her.

"Look," you start, and you can hear how she sniffs her nose and swipes the pad of her hand right along the side of it, to catch anything stupid and stupid sounding leaking down to her upper lip. "You don't have to. Let's just hang out. Tell me anything."

And for once, she does.

She talks.

(The whole story.

From the first time Ryujin realizes the world is never going to be fair - that she shouldn't have to look at herself like she's unlovable because she's seen her friends be held as though they are - or at Yeji like she's completely unattainable or somehow, unlovable, and that someone as amazing as Yeji should have been loved from the moment she was born.

The rest comes through as fragments: the truth of her career. Yeji.

The balcony, the breeze, the bitter-fucking-disappointment.

And what came of that -

When Ryujin isn't a million and one words per minute, it feels, almost, it feels - she'd swear there was less noise in her own head: this thrumming in her brain has settled out; the walls around her and the echo coming off of them - the booming and pulsing - it's, gone.

Because even though there was an indistinct shape for where she had landed, in the aftermath, and nothing much had changed - all that did. You listen, and that alone makes it so you're both exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if this, tonight - you are unsure, if it will actually fix anything - if anything needs fixing at all.)

#ryujin smut #itzy smut #itzy ryujin smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember

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capslocked · 6 months

Text

KINKVEMBER DAY: 7

[prompt: praise kink]

male reader x shen xiaoting

7k words

Well - from a glance, Xiaoting is flawless.

Every photographer makes the same movement as soon as she steps foot onto the stage - almost as if she's commanding them - but it's not a fair competition and she knows it.

The tiny black dress wrapped around her waist, hugging every meticulous angle in its stretch, isn't exactly the most practical of options, but then again nor was the sleeveless cut or the low-backend, nor the slit in the skirt that shows however much leg you're curious to see, nor the five-inch Louboutins with little ribbons at the ankles, crystals in their mesh like a real-life glass slipper - so, truly, anything about this outfit.

But in this industry, red carpets are about one thing: image.

(Something Xiaoting wields in excess.)

She pauses the subtle sashay of her hips mid-way across the stage, and pivots around, straightening out the waves in her hair, done-up and perfect-in-pink, over her shoulders. She lets the flash of every camera illuminate the swell of her lips in full - reflect and shimmer in the sequence of diamonds dangling under her ears. But it's all in that little smirk, the tilt of her chin. Everything working together to sell the moment; how breathtakingly beautiful she is, how proud, confident and seemingly indifferent to all the commotion happening around her - to every person calling her name and pleading for her to look in this specific direction.

You can watch how deliberate she holds her posture. See it. Understand it. Watch how she tips her head. The genuine kind of smile that could drive anyone to absolute ruin.

Maybe the more obvious: how the cameras love her - love the flash, the shine and glitter and sparkle of the fabric, love the turn of a heel onto where her legs are poised, her profile a perfect angle for every shot and more and more and more.

There's not even the slightest suggestion of just how overwhelmed she is.

"You're not supposed to be back here," is the very first thing you hear, as soon as Xiaoting catches your reflection in the vanity mirror.

You hold up a press pass with a headshot that loosely looks like you. Like in a really dark, kind of out-of-focus photo sort of way. Xiaoting simply lets out a slightly disapproving sigh.

"Someone's probably looking for that, you know."

"What's the worst thing that could happen? Someone doesn't get to ask you what your favorite color is, or what you had for breakfast? God forbid we need to know your TMI."

She slips the crystal bracelet off the end of her narrow wrist and places it gently next to the red carpet gear strewn across the surface in front of her. A necklace. The earrings, similar in their shimmer. A matching headband, an evening clutch in white. It's all sitting, not necessarily disorganized, but it's in the mess that Xiaoting is all the while searching for things; lip gloss and makeup, small hair clips.

"You could get us both in trouble, for starters."

When she looks up at you, briefly, there's an attempt at a scolding expression - a short-lived one, how it quickly gives way to a grin, a laugh, all the things she can't help when it's you in particular.

"I'll make sure it finds its way back where I found it," and with a hand over her shoulder, "or at least somewhere close enough. If anyone asks."

Xiaoting bounces an impossibly sweet smile off the mirror at you when her eyes find yours again. And while she starts unclipping pins from her hair, lifting and tousling and adjusting the curls into a more familiar shape, you're almost entranced in the way her shoulders loosen and her eyelashes flutter. In this light, she's even more devastating: an illusion of something both fragile, and immensely resilient.

"At the very least," she says, "I won't hold my breath for anyone else to find their way into my dressing room anytime soon."

She gets a hold of a simple clip, pulls a stray strand of pink off her cheek, and tucks it behind her ear. The gesture is fluid, elegant even, and so singular.

She really is, gorgeous.

The fact that you have to occasionally remind her of that is a different maddening issue entirely. You've always wondered - and always will continue to wonder, really - why it is the prettiest girls seem to have the hardest time understanding they're beautiful. It makes you crazy, makes your head hurt.

There's an entire world worth of things for her to fixate her attention on: her job, her fans and career; a hundred more names and faces to learn - people who would probably agree to hang the stars in the sky for her, given the chance, the mere opportunity. But instead she can only bring herself to stare into a mirror and compare notes and point out all these things she doesn't feel ready for.

This interview, or her performance, or the next.

"They're talking about me. Those 'insiders'," she explains, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the voices in the hallway. "Said, my styling this past year has been too 'soft.' Too 'girly.' No one's buying it," and with a pout: "now, or then, apparently"

"Always works for me," you tell her, in a way that implies it's absolutely none of their business at the end of the day; what colors Xiaoting shows up in, how she wears her makeup and dresses, her shoes or perfume.

She floats her fingers up to the dip of her collarbone, weaving them into your hand. The contented look on her face, now a near permanent fixture in the space she keeps between the two of you, suggests that of all her accessories - gifts and borrowed things she wears in a perpetual game of dress-up - you're the one she would prefer most.

"Well," she says, fixing you a mischievous twist of her brow, "you'd say that if I was up there wearing nothing at all."

"Oh, not a doubt in my mind."

(As usual, the both of you laugh far too much.

As usual, neither of you manage to care.

Your lives have always been about soft edges. A little nonsense here and there, so long as it means having more of her.)

She brings your knuckles to her lips, careful and reserved, and holds the tips of her fingers gently to your neck. "How much more do you have tonight?"

"The rest of the hour is probably asking too much." You help Xiaoting onto her feet, arms wrapping her middle, and with a kiss dropped into her hair, you tell her, "should probably report in, let someone know I haven't gotten myself expelled."

"Thought you said you were a terrible liar."

"Oh, I am," you say. "That's just how much trouble I've already been making for myself tonight."

Xiaoting watches you kiss her shoulder, her neck, all in amusement, eyes never breaking contact as your lips brush and linger against the delicate shape of her wrist. A shiver in her exhale - almost a laugh, an 'I'm listening,' in a form of its own - and you find her body shifting into a natural and familiar hold; the outline of her mouth so unbelievably tempting when it parts so naturally - that when it comes down to a choice: Xiaoting against you, you and her in her private room, the hustle and bustle, and rush-hustle of the building and people and machines outside your door -

It really doesn't take too much convincing.

"Fifteen minutes. They'll start wondering," you tell her, already dipping forward to capture her in your arms. She falls right back, perfectly content as though she doesn't belong anywhere else. "We'd have to be really quick."

"You're bad," Xiaoting hums, winding further into your arms, smiling between the warm, warm kisses you're trailing along the collar of her dress, where the zipper is resting and ready to be drawn down.

The moment is candid: you pressing your lips into the bare skin of her shoulder, following it up with something that's part laugh, and part the kind of sigh people make after too long without sleep. You're already struggling against the curve of her waist - the swell of her hips, all her curves - while your nose nuzzles in deeper, a delicate exploration into the bend of her neck, against her shoulder, the hint of perfume.

"Only one of us can be perfect, sweetheart." The damn truth, even if she hears it all the time and from everyone else. "You're gonna have to settle.”

You watch her expression melt into that self-composed, self-confident mien when you say it - in a quiet, contented kind of way; an ethereal sort of assurance. As though she was never meant to be touched by anyone, much less held by you, but somehow decided to allow it nonetheless. That look in her eye, it makes your heart twist. Every damn time.

"What about an accident," she muses, "something keeping you longer. Twenty maybe?"

"Oh," you chuckle. "Those happen in the hallway and parking lot. Where everyone can see. Never behind the scenes, for a totally unlikely and unrelated reason."

"Technicalities."

She turns to face you, fully, eyes lit and shimmery under the room's lighting; pink hair, all shades of glitter and silk and the smoothest, warmest skin. Your touch grazes up her sides, palms smoothing over the fine print, the sequins in the fabric, her hands all the while busy weaving, needily, around your waist, underneath the line of your shirt, finding and tracing along the ridges in your hips and spine.

Xiaoting wants you - plain and simple as that. The look on her face says as much.

And if you don't touch her now, kiss and feel her against you - all of it at once - she'll make sure you regret ever prioritizing anything over her. Over the two of you, and how perfectly and neatly you fit together, even if that means you're both absent for press calls, or a segment, or an interview she can't be late to. She'll blame you and it'll be okay.

"Fourteen minutes now," you inform her. "If it’s something you're counting."

"Give or take a few," Xiaoting smiles. Her words slip against your cheek, hot and honey-coated. It's tempting. Her teeth find your jawline and the gentle nip against your skin is hard to ignore. "Did you lock the door?"

"Believe it or not, that was the first thing I did."

And with her hips in your palms, you steal a kiss, because you can - because she's kissing you right back - her forearms wrapping over your shoulders, holding you tight around your neck, and, ahh - Xiaoting's mouth - how eagerly, so desperately, she parts your lips and slips her tongue over your teeth, humming, mumbling happily into a second and third and fourth kiss. Then, once the heat of the moment sweeps in, melting into something slower, sweeter, lingering, a little deeper, it's another.

And another after that.

She leans into you, the rise and fall, slow-down-then-start-again, of her chest and of her breathing and of the tiny, stifled noises she’s kissing into your lips. Only you're pinching the fabric around her waist, slowly lifting the hem of her skirt further up her thighs and reminding her that there's a promise for slow later, that she can take all the time in the world to map and remember the planes and edges of your body; trace the curves of every little sensitive spot and learn again how she fits into your hands, in the time and space that's left to the two of you alone.

"Thirteen-"

"Minutes," she echoes breathily against your ear and over the sound of her fingers in your belt. "I know. Got it."

Xiaoting's hasty. She has to be; reaching and fumbling to pop open your pants while the heat of her mouth finds you first, her tongue sliding smooth across your throat, chin, the warmth and the taste, then along the corner of your mouth - your tongue chasing hers and turning it into a mess that's as intimate and satisfying as it is clumsy; breath catching in both your mouths, hands intertwining, needing the contact with just as much fervent abandon.

Off, off, off, she's murmuring into you, thumbs perched dangerously on your waist, dipping into the fabric, tracing the rim, taking a tease down a little farther with each lazy caress, and, in the very back of your mind, there's a small voice in agreement that insists you are most definitely in no hurry at all.

It grows louder when the small shape of Xiaoting's palm is all the way down the rise of your pants, all over where you're beginning to grow hard - straining and twitching and almost painfully, impatiently interested. You hold her closer and clutch harder because the need is like a burn - one that's seared itself comfortably, wonderfully between your hips, where you feel each brush and curve and fond stroke of her touch.

Her eyes lift to meet yours, gleaming and knowing and laughing, no doubt aware that you're both going to be wrecked no matter which of these games she wins.

"Nothing we can't solve here and now." She tells you.

"True."

"I'll get my mouth on you later, make it all better."

"Later?" Your voice, completely a mess and breaking just enough, forces its way between a kiss that feels anything but. You're pleading for her, into her lips. "Oh, is that a promise, sweetheart?"

"A promise," Xiaoting gasps. "Or a threat. Depends how fast you're ready for me."

"Hush." And you hold her mouth open with yours, devour and drink the sounds falling from her tongue, each one that starts off shallow then trails deeper and deeper and deeper, until her hands have settled over you, and her fingers are finally pushing below the hem, and working the length of your cock, up and down and along it all.

"Hey,” she says, far too inviting, “aren't you supposed to be, like, tearing off this dress by now?"

Xiaoting smirks up at you. With a slight motion of her hand, the other having come to wrap fully around your shaft, the two fingers twisting along your tip, spreading the beading moisture into a long stroke.

"Very gentlemanly of you, wanting to keep it all nice and put together-" and with a wiggle of her brows, "-unsuspicious."

You clench your teeth through a gasp - a jolt at the sudden brush of her fingertips over the base, further down. Xiaoting has that mischief to her - she always has - a certain inclination to press and test the boundaries until they're unrecognizable, to poke and prod where she shouldn't, only the slightest bit concerned.

"Trust me, I would. Only this is a dress I can't afford to ruin, sweetheart." You're leaning her against the vanity, freeing one of her hands to press around behind her, against the cold, cluttered countertop, feeling how the sharp breath in her lungs goes soft and hot immediately, wanting.

"In that case," she tells you, a knowing tilt in her mouth, "you'll just have to ruin me in it."

That's a little closer to your budget given how fast your arm slips under her hip, pulling her up onto the vanity and angling her into you. Her skirt ruffles and follows, the material all too eager to keep you and the lithe frame of her body nice and snug together. There's that sharp gasp in her chest again, at the hand you're running up her thighs; an approval to your arrangement in the sound of her laughter, to your kiss, and all the fever-filled strokes jerking your cock that she's busying herself with again.

You can feel an urge you both share and want to make real and tangible, to peel down and past and over those tiny black panties; feel the heat rising, the wetness there, and all the eager, eager noises of her pleasure.

"Ten minutes." Your teeth are grazing into her lip, her mouth, while she whimpers so pretty into your throat. "Does that put any ideas in your head?"

"Nearly everything." Xiaoting lets your pants fall and uses the back of her heel to skid them down around your feet. "But maybe, especially your cock right here, if you’re going to slide it so slowly over me-" she sucks on her next breath, holding her hand where her panties are; smoothing against you with her hips rocking forward.

You feel her head drop, slightly, when she whispers into a heated kiss, "right between, the most tender way, where I'm aching the most."

"I bet you'd look beautiful with it," you say, all kinds of things, leaning and mumbling into her neck, all that exposed skin. "My cum on you. Sitting so good right here, in such a tight little-"

She stops your teasing with her kiss, pushing forward to the point where her ass is bumping right against your hips, your hand, your cock; coaxing you in closer.

And then, a particularly stern warning, probably warranted, sneaks out through the bite of her lip; just barely restrained: "I swear to god if you make a mess anywhere - don’t, if you know what's best for you.”

"That's a pretty roundabout way of asking me to cum inside you, Xiaoting. Wording matters."

"Telling." Her smile is all kinds of sly; all for you to witness and tuck safely in your pocket later. "Not asking."

"We’ll see what we can do with nine minutes," you tell her, and your cock is snug against the lace of her underwear - right where she's so fucking wet - you can already hear it in the little, jerking huffs in her voice and on her breath and how your hands are touching her through the fabric. How between hot, clumsy kisses, she's lifting and drawing her body as close as possible and curling into you.

(God.)

"Easy," she mouths, all hot and hazy as she drags the lacy band of elastic aside. It's your turn to inhale and jerk and gasp, but there's hardly anything there to catch you, just her whisper that says, "there you go, honey, fill me up real slow. Right to the very, very top," her voice arching high when you've begun to nudge your cock into her, opening her up and up and up with a slow, steady thrust. "Just - like - that."

And in the seconds, maybe minutes (you’re trying not to lose track), that follow, you are holding your breath against the heat blossoming through her cheek. Against Xiaoting, flushed and whimpering, hands buried in her dress and her hips starting to roll back on your cock. It's a tiny adjustment; nowhere to go but deeper, further - grinding together however you can manage.

It's one thing to love each other quietly, discretely and with all that discretion.

It's another entirely, in times like these, to give in to a raw-edge impulse that hits suddenly and leaves just as fast. Your hips snap in and in and in, Xiaoting's chest rising and rising, her head turned and pressed into the shoulder of your shirt, her hand already caught in a fistful of sleeve. And you - the friction is so soft and so good, a slick, easy glide of your cock - full - all the way to the very last inch.

Just her seedy, whimpering whine fills the back of your neck and your ear, and her arms and her legs locked in around you, like a coil ready to burst, that ache coming to a head.

The ends of her hair are soft and sweet where you gather a fistful of pink around your wrist, hold - pull, like a taut string. Xiaoting gasps a fluttering note as her chin tips up, the smooth canvas of her throat begging to be kissed and roughed up in just the right places. Reddening like the insides of her thighs, the heat there, where they're pinched around your waist - delicate little marks of where you're fucking her open and bare and deep and so well.

You could drink up each and every noise - all the keening and humming, the ruffled, strung-out sounds; how you're both breathing into a shared mess of gasping and panting, of Xiaoting whimpering into your throat, clinging on like she'll die otherwise. "Faster," she pleads all desperate and urgent. "More. Fuck this pussy like it deserves, don't you want it? So wet, can't you feeling how I'm aching?"

You can. Hot and wet and absolute.

You can feel the shudder-wreck, the absolute throe - there's not an ounce left between you; nothing but her slick, warm cunt clutching and hugging your cock, letting it stretch her apart and fill her again and again, the little ridge between your hips slipping over her clit on a forward, upward stroke and grinding there, with a shaky hand cradling her lower back for support while you drive back into the thrust.

"Ting, fucking christ - Ting, your tight little pussy is incredible." You groan into her skin. "Taking me, fucking, taking every, last, inch-"

"I can feel you fucking throbbing," Xiaoting tells you, all teasing and exasperated as she lets your name turn into a series of vibrating hums against your lips. "You're going to make me fucking lose it, the way you're hitting me inside."

See, you fit together, inside-and-outside so perfect; that when you begin to really fuck Xiaoting, when she's making it clear, over, and over, yes, harder, give it to me, and the table she's sitting on is giving away each-and-every one of her whimpers, you lose yourself in the rhythm and pace and the fact that Xiaoting's creaming cunt is working itself hot and messy and pulsating around you; so fucking tight, tight, - slick all around - almost drawing you in, then resisting and tensing every-time your cock finds just the deepest angle.

It's something to push, something that makes you greedy and drive her ass into the cabinet even more; make sure you're slipping along her walls just enough, and doing so with every few inches or less that you're managing to drive, working over a pressure so sensitive it might be making her see stars, every time a thumb digs a little deeper into her hip bone.

"All the way, baby," she's saying, whispering, making you want to fuck the words out of her in broken pieces. "So. Close. Just a little-"

She's gone, her back arched - bending into an incredible sight. And there's the most beautiful look on her face, even under the frantic-urgent rush. Your hands are all over her: pressing into the divots above her hips; petting the expanse between her tits, then down again, feeling out her ribcage, her belly, in between her thighs and parting them wider - like if she were any more spread open, she'd be coming right off the table.

Then, the thumb tangled into the sleeve of her dress, the rough pad of the other rubbing circles over her swollen clit - here you'll figure she'll cum; she's never shy about it - but it's more a question of how many times. How it always builds up and comes apart.

You're obsessed, really, with the details: her eyelids fluttering, the sounds of her skin sliding down onto the cabinets, her lips that can never get themselves closed.

"Oh, Ting," you're panting, licking all over her parted mouth, "do you need-"

Her nails begin to cut half-crescents into the small of your back, where she's been gripping at you; a moan falls straight out from her tongue, straight into your own, the closest she'll ever come to asking for anything: but it's easy.

"You're so fucking pretty, baby, I'll give you whatever you need-"

You slide your fingers higher up her folds, pushing onto her hot cunt right over the spot where your cock is disappearing inside her.

"I know that's what you need to be fucked silly, right? Need some extra friction so I can have the entire inside of this fucking cunt dripping-"

Xiaoting makes a noise that tells you, good guess. And you're playing her closer and closer to her orgasm, watching her teeth sink into her own lip, knowing that she's the one on a timer - which makes it all the easier, because you know exactly what to say next, because you've played this game enough - when you've already been fucking her and fingering her through one or two and her noises are telling you her body needs just one more, and then, the words usually roll right out, not the slightest bit contrived:

"That's it, sweetheart, you look so fucking good. So, so pretty cumming on my cock, baby. You're fucking gorgeous, you know that? I can't get enough of you."

Her mouth falls open, eyes screwing tight with it - the praise, the way you can talk her right into it every fucking time - the way it all but kills her: even when she's getting pumped full of pre-cum and sleeved around your cock like a glove, you know that sometimes the words are the only thing she's chasing, and her jaw starts to trembling just like the rest of her. This full body tension, head to toe of perfection you're whispering in her ear. She's pressing her heels harder than before against the back of your legs, digging, her whole chest shaking for a gasp of air she doesn't seem to ever be able to fully catch.

"But god, I wish you were looking at me," you're begging, sincere, with a deep sort of pining, when you get the the sharp twist of her neck, like it takes everything in her, then, like it's a miracle - those lidded, still-water eyes focused right on you. "I want to make you fall apart, just looking at me, sweetheart."

(Your poor heart. An obsession. So in love with her.)

The kiss you steal from her lips is deeper, your tongues playing a familiar song, the push, pull - how easy and perfect she fits.

When she cums, it always starts quiet, not like what she's just started doing: the kind of cries and moans that begin to make it past her teeth, desperate and panting, her fingers crushing down in place where they're pressed to your skin. Those whimpers that start quiet, get loud, fast, and then Xiaoting's arching right up from the table and clenching her entire body. With you inside her, she's so wrapped up in how good it is, the pleasure spiking past her pussy and into her veins.

"Shh," you soothe her, lovingly brushing her hair to the side when her breath shudders hard; the mess you made, sliding a palm against her cheek when the first few tears gather, the way they always do when Xiaoting's overwhelmed and torn down in such a good, beautiful way.

You could kiss her, when you feel the curve of her trembling lips. You do, again-again; slip and wet and parted and sliding when Xiaoting lets you hold the base of her chin between your forefinger and thumb, and bring your mouths together like that.

You could hold the moment longer. Keep kissing her and not moving - except Xiaoting has that meek, "Fuck me," mumbled into your open mouth, her half-wits returning and giving her the very start of a wicked grin - all sloppy with orgasm. "However you want, whatever will make you cum fast-"

"Turn around for me. I'm going to show you how pretty you are, looking just like that-"

"Y-Yeah- '' Xiaoting is trying, her joints trembling as she moves her body. She's so good, listening, rolling onto the surface of the table with her ass up, palms spread out and supporting her into this perfect line. Xiaoting's defining the curve: where her lower back and tight little ass begins and ends, right up into her shoulders and spine. Her hair has fallen across one side, and now you can finally see how much she's blushing in the mirror, the messes that her eye makeup has smudged into, how good she's been, and now how sweet and pliable and worked open her muscles are.

The view alone could have you blowing your load before you can even do it properly inside her.

But, god - the fact that her dress was hanging down on one shoulder, then on none, exposing her naked skin entirely; the fact that you can't resist grabbing a hand around a waist-full of her body and dragging her back closer, slotting your thighs under hers and her ass up against you, cock sliding into her still-clenching cunt without the help of your hands, just finding it where it belonged. You give it to her like she's meant to take. Fast. Hard. Deep. Making sure each-time your cock is in its base-deep place and sliding right back out, pulling slick, creamy strands out from her fucked-out pussy. Bathing you in her want, her need, pooling along the base of your cock; seeping everywhere.

There's just so much of it. The sounds echoing off the empty walls, so distinct, unmistakable, so full and thick. The way your whole body seems to tighten and tense along with hers - everything tight, you can see it, your eyes sweeping from Xiaoting's thighs to the reflection of how she just takes you. Shaking each time, the lines of her body wobble forward when your hips land a heavy thrust and slide along every bit velvety-wet inside her: no room for your cum when she's this overflowing, you figure, wondering how full of it she could even get.

"Fuck," the word just slides off you. "Fucking god, you're the best fuck," you praise her. Like heaven.

Because Your hand is in her hair again, wrapped up in and smoothing over the tangles; feeling her like silk. But now you're grabbing too - holding her steady, a fistful between the roots; you want her back arched, canted just that one angle higher that you know would push her past all limits.

“Oh my god,” she gasps out, once your get her knee planted up on the counter - once she's spread herself even further for the weight of your body. "That's it - holy shit, please-more-"

There are little whispers too - stuff that makes your cock twitch a few times, pulsing in warning - not even fully aware that she's cumming down all over your waist, praises like the hottest of filth, please and yes and I need it and fuck and fucking christ, keep going and don't stop don't stop please baby I'll do anything anything-

Xiaoting's voice reaches the same high pitch she does when her clit is getting hit, not sure what part of her body you're touching or just the overwhelming sensation, but god she doesn't know which way to turn her neck and face. She just ends up taking it all in, breathing in the gravity of the moment - her reflection, yours, the feeling - a tremor building up, her eyes flickering back-forth when she realizes they've started to close, forcing herself to look at the both of you.

You fuck your cock through each inch of her quivering cunt, each one hotter, tighter, wetter than the last - until you're spilling cum - cumming deep and fast inside her -

Reaching so far she can feel the thick pool of it getting fucked further into her with every shallow snap of your hips; her ass flushing back up against your stomach. Filling her to the brim - enough to feel it drip and seep and slide.

And she doesn't stop, the way she has her hips rolling down your length and staying there, your cock rooted into her deepest spot. If there's one more thing she gets off on it's being filled, milking the remnants, emptying you, and - because she's almost fucking teasing you, you feel it when she's clenching the remaining dredges right out of your body; out and leaking hot along your over-sensitised skin. The sharp sting of it has your hands tight on her waist, her ass spilling through the gaps of your fingers - deciding what you'll do.

"Three minutes," she says, panting, "is enough-"

You squeeze through the sculpted round of her ass. Spank it. Knead it.

"You want me to fuck another one into you - can you take that? You'd be such a good girl if you can take a fucking like that."

"I mean it," Xiaoting rasps, hips still lifted and angled toward you, as she meets you in the mirror; her eyes looking past your reflection, still coming down, wrecked and fucked raw, but making the message clear. "I'll make it easy for you."

And with that's she got her hand on your still-hard cock; not nearly enough softness in her voice for the rough grip and the sloppy pumping - fucking filth out of her still, if there was ever any hope of getting it out the way she's pulling and using and moving the slick all over you, spilling it onto the floor. "Think I can make you cum again, right here and now."

The thing about Xiaoting is:

She makes bad decisions, but always with the best intentions. That's why you always know what she'll say.

Because it's almost always the same answer: a pair of crossed wrists and a coy-eagerness that's enough of an invitation for you to make use of what she's given.

And this is the exact way you find yourself dragging the fabric of her dress down her shoulder, her middle, her breasts falling back down from their bounce when you unwind it, then twisting the end tightly into itself before shoving it into the soft valley of her mouth.

I love your tits, you know that?" you tell her, mouth open and hot against her shoulder blade. “So fucking pretty all over, Ting, your entire body's amazing and it does things to me-if I could, I would keep my cum inside this tiny little pussy, over and over, keep filling it. Make your tummy swell for me, sweet baby, and never let a single drop-"

"Do it-" she moans out, words garbled by the fabric. Her eyes are wide and full of the darkest innocence, like anything could happen; anything you wished. "Do it, your fucking cock, want to feel you-"

You spank her again, and she keens.

The mirror is showing you how her chest reddens under the rush of your hands kneading at her, almost violent, before sliding down the back-insides of her thigh, pushing, "But, what you look like with my cock buried inside you, stretched out and still so fucking tiny around me."

It's not new. It's what makes Xiaoting give you the dirtiest, sexiest little hum around the cloth wedged inside her mouth.

Then her cunt clenches down on your cock, and you're groaning, "christ," watching the way her face tugs at the stretch, watching, when her back is pushed out again - the angle. You're lining up, sucking in the full and naked and glistening display of her body before letting your hips fuck into hers again. It feels even better than the first time: tightening like a vise around the thickness of you, your cum pouring back inside her, then with her eyes fixed to yours in the mirror, you get to watch her lips straining; a drooling, whimpering mess.

Then. You're slamming her waist into the table. Rough, reckless. Desperate to reach another edge, rough enough that she can barely look up from her bowed elbows, elegant features twisted into something a little more awful, a little more pretty - just there, and - and -

A third time. Four. More.

Xiaoting's whimpering, just so spent she has nothing else left, your cock filling her up so full and hot with your spill; she's sloppy and flushed and you're pressing her up into the cool surface of the mirror, with her legs giving in when she collapses over her heels and nearly tumbles over; her own body weighing nothing.

If she asked, "carry me," in any way, you'd be on her like clockwork; you'd get her turned around into a loose-limbed pile, a leg thrown over each of her waist; she'd already have her cheek nestled against your jaw, halfway asleep, a warm bundle pressed up and waiting to get tucked into bed and swept into all of the things that would make her purr and melt; blankets and warm-clothes and showers and tending.

You'd always make a show out of sweeping her off her feet. Because the thing is, Xiaoting deserves it.

And you let her know that:

"You're always the sweetest, aren't you? Taking a fucking like that," you tell her, burying the dying gasps of a laugh right into the sweat-sticky back of her neck. You can feel her throat vibrating out a small sound, her brain almost definitely not able to formulate words, maybe only just registering the tones of your voice. "You are just so breathtakingly gorgeous, babe, the prettiest baby. The fucking world must be upside down, because no one tells you nearly often enough."

And -

Xiaoting - really, above all else, is fucking gorgeous. Because her tired laugh echoes a small part of itself straight down your spine, filling all the dips between each of your vertebrae. Genuine smile and all.

It has your skin crawling back to life, warming up.

There's a murmured 'thank you' said somewhere into the back of her hand, between her pinky finger and her ring, a small, stifled breath that pulls on her tired voice; it's a sleepy sound, like honey, and maybe that's why you choose to tell her one more time.

You glance at the clock on the wall. It's been a good fifteen-plus-extra minutes. You can live with that.

"Told you we'd be late," you say, smoothing out the fabric of her dress.

Which means this is the second time she says: "Nothing there we can’t solve with a little..."

"Carelessness?"

"Misdirection. Pretty convenient for some of us," Xiaoting murmurs with the lingering sweetness of your kiss on her lips. "Who have that charming talent with words."

She looks up, wincing and dabbing at the dried tracks on her cheeks where her eyelashes have swept away all the makeup and tears, like a soft brush sweeping away the layer of snow, she lets her head rest there in your palm and the other soothes, warm, on the back of her neck - her shoulders a little slack when you feel her whole body relax.

"Love you," Xiaoting says, after a heavy breath; a shaky exhale, just under her tongue; "even when we're a little crazy."

Your cheeks warm as they squish themselves around her grin.

"Love you. Now hold still," you say - taking it slow, kissing the damp pink curls right behind her ear. Then, for the most part, it's back to business. Back to normal.

Makeup wipes and wet washcloths. Clearing and setting the furniture upright. Hastily undoing the locks, so that to anyone who's passing by and smelling the raw, irrefutable evidence of sex and sin, they can turn away and think twice - no one's fault except the wicked thoughts swirling and forming in the back of their thoughts.

(No matter how many times you do, it's no different with Xiaoting; her smile turns the wheels in your head - still spinning. You can't help it when she laughs with her eyes still half-mast - fucked-out; a headiness, her tone like velvet.)

And the 'yes, we do,' on her breath when she hums again, is the beginning of an I-told-you-so, when you tell her, "c’mon, we've got places to be."

#xiaoting smut #kep1er smut #kepler smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember

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capslocked · 6 months

Text

KINKVEMBER DAY: 6

[prompt: blowjob]

male reader x hyeju

12k words

“I mean, don’t you think,” Hyeju says, wagging a finger at you, “that when you suffer through a bad date, the world ought to owe you something?”

"Like what?" you ask.

"Better taste in women - maybe more orgasms; I dunno, a blowjob?" She shrugs. "The general idea is just that someone gets to cum."

You nearly choke on the air in front of you. "Jesus, Hyeju, warn a guy."

“What? I’m trying to commiserate with you,” Hyeju laughs. “Wouldn’t that be funny? Being able to kiss someone who actually, you know, might love you back, and at the same time. Imagine not hooking-up just to forget a shitty day. Sounds wild, right?"

"Utterly deranged."

"So wild."

The first time you hook up with your roommate, it’s because of genetics - though not in the weird, uncontrollable way your body gets rigid and sensitive to any pretty girl who wears nothing but a towel moving between her bedroom and the bathroom, or how her eyes might flick fast from your chest up to yours - or given that the absolute shape of her is a blessing from one god or another (benevolent, clearly). That's not why Hyeju and you find yourselves only a few months later grinding on each other after the clock ticked past midnight, making out on New Year's Eve.

No, it has to do with the fact that Hyeju's nearly failing the nine AM section of molecular genetics because she's spent every lecture doodling stars and planets and planets shaped like asscheeks and planet-ass constellations while everyone else writes notes or doom scrolls twitter or whatever and she is somehow simultaneously the only student who never slept with her face on the lab desk or missed an assigned reading and the only one who absolutely needs a tutor.

It's just cosmic odds that you'd be that one: her roommate, who shouldn't be talking so loudly in the library about sex (in a sort of non-sexy, Mendelian kind of way) or be thinking the kind of things you've started thinking when Hyeju wears one of her more sleepshirt-esque long sleeves, her voice getting lower as you rattle off, "fruit flies and thale cress, definitely, it's just an error of fate or chromosome splitting..." before trailing off into a question.

"This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me," she finally tells you. You listen to her sigh into the binding of her textbook, facedown. "I'm really going to bomb this exam."

You tap her hand twice with your highlighter across the desk. "Then you're pretty damn lucky, if you think about it."

She turns to you, smiles a bit. "Okay, point. The worst thing will be having to retake this stupid fucking class."

"Why didn't you ask for help or go to office hours if you knew you were... failing?"

"Maybe because doing anything more than the bare minimum to get through a class I don't care about is my definition of, failing," she mumbles. "Why didn't anyone tell me a single lab is worth half my grade? Or that the TA is this fucking unreliable? How is this the one thing, really, beyond the basics, that can't be taught by wikipedia, a wikihow article and a youtube video?"

You scoot your seat closer to her. "You really need to relax."

"Fucking tell me about it."

You turn it over in your mind a few times, capping the top of your highlighter.

"Want me to get you off?"

And it’s not like you really mean it, when you say it, which is the strangest thing: you wouldn't actually suggest it, normally, wouldn't mention it in passing and then leave yourself open to the follow up and cross examination; yet there it is, after three, four hours of cramming notes on heterochronicity and the sloshing of gametes - you actually did propose it.

Hyeju jerks up, surprised.

"Are you serious?" She looks around, nearly snorting. "In the library?"

The face you’re giving her makes her scoff.

“You’re absolutely nuts.”

You have character flaws; the inability to admit wrongdoing chief among them. Hell, maybe it's from your mother - or maybe all your brains are just scrambled by the fact that Hyeju's sitting there with her pen against her pretty lips, hair glossier than usual as she scans your face and makes your entire body feel like a reactor core in meltdown.

Maybe you can blame what comes next on that.

"I'm always serious. I'm asking a serious question," you whisper, closing the textbook and resting your elbows on top. You look around quickly, like you're sneaking something in instead of this perfectly reasonable exchange, the perfectly platonic - except maybe not so much - way for friends to help each other.

"And I'm wondering what you're asking." Her cheeks are definitely pinker, you think, or the way it fills out her face, from the bottom up, is just that easy to imagine.

“I’m saying you haven’t gotten laid in months.” Here, you realize, these blocks of mental logic that definitely weren’t there when you blurted it out start to coalesce into something solid as you go on.

And you hadn't been wrong when you thought no one had given Hyeju a helping hand in a long, long time: you've heard through the walls or the floorboards at odd hours of the morning that she spends far too long fingering herself to a mind-numbing, tear-worthy frustration that leaves her knuckle-deep but never, ever sated or satisfied.

"No one's around, you'll feel better. You said it yourself."

Not a work of your imagination here - her ears are fucking burning.

"Wait a minute." She pushes her chair back, away from you and your gleaming offer. It clatters on its back legs, and a librarian waves her finger in warning. You wave back, sheepishly, until she stops and Hyeju stands and moves away from the table to talk, hands crossed over her front.

She turns and asks in a hushed-down-voice, "how did you know - did you hear something last night?"

"You couldn't keep it down even if you wanted to, honestly."

Hyeju turns further and throws a glare at the library doors, because obviously her noisiness and their collective noisemanship, or whatever the hell the word is, is clearly the root of the whole goddamn problem.

"Look - if not, no big deal - but I'm just saying you'll probably get over it and at least think less about sex. Or at least the wrong kind of sex."

You expect her to turn, sigh, and ask if you've lost your mind. Expect her to gather her jacket from the back of her chair, take her books and stomp out the room. Or even burst out laughing at the insanity, before slapping your arm lightly, in playful retaliation - anything other than the serious look she gives you in return, tilting her head, pressing her lips.

She turns up at the ceiling for a moment, contemplating something. And it's cute. It's so very, very cute, how her mouth pouts as she considers the possibility, right up until she says, "okay, fine."

The moderate twist of surprise taking hold in your brow must be visible.

"Oh, don't tell me that was all talk. Get me thinking about the right kind of sex or whatever."

You laugh, which has the librarian staring at both of you - until the librarian stops staring and probably sees Hyeju sliding back into her chair, the full, pent-up weight of her concentration pointed your way, knees inching apart - you, and Hyeju waiting, your knee bumping into her inner thigh, leaning closer as the textbook hits the floor.

"Don't laugh."

"Not laughing, seriously. Not laughing," you stammer. “I just think you’re just full of surprises.”

She spreads her knees further and sits taller, looking right at you.

"So then, surprise me," and then presses her cheek to the crook of your elbow.

You slide your chair right into the space next to hers, nuzzling up into the space under her ear. “Keep studying, Hyeju, you’ve got shit to do.” And then you slide your hand beneath the waist of her sweats, knead the swell of her thigh until you find the seam where her leg meets her body, press your palm down on the place just next to her center, your thumb in the middle. All this perfect pressure.

"Fuck," Hyeju says under a shudder. She's breathing heavier when your hot, open-mouthed kisses start landing at her neck, and she probably tries to read her textbook for about forty-five seconds longer. But there's the clench of her jaw right as your middle finger begins tracing circles beneath the fabric of her panties, and her gaze is blurring until she can't tell the difference between an allele or your fucking name.

"Shh-shh," you quiet her, finger tapping harder, playing with the slick wetness beneath all those layers of thick cotton and pressing two fingers there until her knees part like they’re not interested in resisting at all. Your lips press a kiss to the shell of her ear and she tenses all at once, hand shooting up to cover her mouth.

She simply leans back, closes her eyes, and lets you take care of her.

“Okay, you’re right,” she says, shaky and uneven, “that really did take some of the edge off. Did we ever review - poly- uh, pol-polymers here?"

The sweatshirt sleeve falling off your shoulder is a hindrance to any actual reading; her shifting against the chair isn't helping either, but you manage to push down the thoughts of stripping her down completely and giving her your tongue as yet another distraction.

"What did the syllabus say? I don't know if we need to read too far on 'polymers'," you say, having going through an entire afternoon without considering this once, but as you curl your fingers and take an honest crack at cramming the remaining chapters into her head, the knowledge that no one else is getting her this wet - except for whoever she's got in her mind's eye at three AM - is enough to get you feeling a little dizzy.

It’s probably supposed to be weird, given that you’ve never gotten any of your other friends off spontaneously in the library, or there's the fact that you can't really avoid each other afterwards, how she shows up in a silk negligee when you're pouring coffee before sunrise to prep for another day and you have the opportunity to notice - yes, she has amazing taste in underwear, yes, you might not have really appreciated her chest and figure enough before - yes, fuck it. She catches you noticing that first time, after coming downstairs with nothing but one of her cropped t-shirts and her board shorts, and she smirks when she realizes you're still thinking about it that afternoon, when her foot grazes yours while you're both washing dishes, and she dries the plate in her hand with a slow swipe.

And it is weird, actually, to describe what’s going on between you in words.

A few words, anyway, like a one-word label to describe what it was: friends or roommates-with-benefits, or - fuck buddies - god, it's even worse. Fuck buddies? Fuck friends? Something equally terrible and stupid that still makes sense, like something out of a shitty rom-com: it doesn't capture any of the rest of the myriad ways in which things can feel less or less friendly between two people.

So, friends was never, ever going to cut it. Roommates - although technically correct - is just this side of too clinical. And let's be clear: strangers don't wake up every morning together, walk to the same class, sit close together in the middle seats, secretly flick a strangers' skirt up in an empty lecture hall and get on their knees and work your mouth onto her pussy and watch the legs of the desks shake when her feet arch into the floor.

"The notes you've got are better than mine," is how Hyeju tries to put things, the next day and every time after that, standing in the doorframe, or at the foot of your bed and looking every bit the disheveled and hopeless mess you imagine she might spread out over the sheets of her own.

It gets complicated, which isn't really a surprise.

"You think your roommate is going to be home tonight?" is the question that comes up multiple times - from a revolving door of pretty names and faces. Hyeju has at least one opinion, if not more, on each of them.

"Tell Jinsoul I say hi," she says once, watching you get ready for a date, and you nearly bang your knee on the edge of the bathroom vanity.

It's one of the more harmless comments she's offered.

Another, backhanded: "if you’re just looking for a blowjob everyday between lunch and our physics lab, let Hyunjin or Heejin or whatever-her-name-is know she's easily my favorite," Hyeju says on your way out one morning, still under her covers.

Or,

Hyeju's texted a simple "uh, Chuu? really??" when you mention, once, how much fun you've been having - and what kind, as you make a round of self-conscious and rambling phone calls the next day that land you with only one prospect for the night - but your roommate's also no longer being your roommate by the end of it, bouncing against your thighs in the bathtub and moaning something about please more and fuck or fucking make me cum; the details escape you a bit.

That's what friends are for, probably.

Still, in the same, bare-bones explanation, friends also aren't for falling asleep on you - or letting you hold her - or fucking you awake in the middle of the night. Friends aren't for pushing down your jeans when the early-morning dew settles on the back patio, or jerking you off in the seat beside yours with a sweatshirt over your lap when a group project is due later and you all should probably work on that and instead get yourselves off and leave the mess of what you're doing half-finished. Friends aren't, probably, for offering to watch you rub your palm up and down your cock the night before next semester's exams when you can barely sit in a single chair and you can't think about molecular biology or neurochemical transcriptions when your whole body aches to do the transcribing. (If you can catch that drift.)

The lists of who are and are not good enough for you goes on and on - the latter longer than the former.

So, there's Choerry, who according to Hyeju is 'straight up, a total slut'. Yeojin, who gets mistaken for your little sister enough times that Hyeju refuses to - in good faith - let you keep sleeping with her. Both Heejin and Gowon are apparently too pretty for you. "Kim-lip?" she asks, in the middle of peeling garlic, "is that one name or two?" And laughs into a bottle of beer, loud, while you're telling her to quit being nosey and watch her fingers with the damn knife.

"You have a problem."

"Why, because I asked a few simple questions? I think anyone would be a little curious with the -" she pauses to wave her fingers - "I'd be remiss to not be interested in the very drama that unfolds literally across the hall."

She waggles her eyebrows.

You look up at the ceiling. God save you, you think. "Hyeju."

("Seriously," Hyeju chimes in one evening, arms around you, and a mouthful of the dinner you'd cooked.

"You need better taste in girls. Don't waste time on anyone too dumb, or who drinks the milk straight from the carton, or doesn't wash her socks with the same load of laundry. Oh, and - no one who chews loudly. No one who can't tell you're going to cum. The worst is someone who doesn't know what you like, trust me on that. And remember the last rule: don't do anything with someone who eats at a really slow pace, it's incredibly depressing."

You rest your chin on her shoulder from the spot behind her. "Duly noted, oh Master of all Knowledge."

She sighs into your arm, but in the next moment, her voice gets a lot softer, her hips fidgeting slightly against you. "I just mean you're the kind of person people would want to sleep with again," she says, before turning to say your name and kiss you again and again as your bodies curl inward.

"I wonder what that means, Hyeju," you say.

"Fuck," Hyeju groans as you slide further into her, pushing her back into the sofa - hands on her shoulders, legs bent on her either side, "don't tease me like this.")

The first snowfall of the year is mild, a tiny dusting, nothing that sticks on the pavement in the alley or on the sidewalks - or the lintels - or in Hyeju's hair, but by evening, when the snow picks up and everything goes quiet, Hyeju has changed into flannels and wool socks in anticipation, curled up like a cat at one edge of the window ledge as the world begins to go white. It's enough that you even pull on a thicker sweatshirt, open up a book, and join her.

She turns toward you, quiet.

You've reached a point in the semester where this, the silence, doesn't unsettle you anymore. It's the space you fill up with time in-between, where you can see the contours of her body against the orange lamplight of the space heater, or watch her kick off the top half of the duvet at night as you fight over space in her bed and wonder about the bare skin peeking out from her shorts.

"Feeling bored?" She slides her foot a little closer to yours, almost imperceptibly. "Am I keeping you entertained enough?"

Her lips pull up at the corner. You chuckle.

"Oh, no."

She scoffs and puts her hands on her knees, pushes herself closer to the window sill and bumps her elbow into your shoulder. The bare skin of her neck and shoulders and face is getting a little redder as she cranes it forward. "Okay, if not, do you need someone to entertain you, maybe."

Your mouth twists, fighting a smile.

Hyeju is so close to you, you could kiss her really, really easily and not care how she'd feel about that. It's not a habit, not as often as it used to be, but every once and a while - she starts this game. Every once in a while, Hyeju just starts smiling like that, and leans into you like she's daring you to play along, hard round of chicken until it's clear what the two of you are doing with each other; the minutes pass by, one, then two, and then - maybe she pushes first, her leg on yours, or a kiss to your jaw or a palm on your back as she walks behind you - and then you'd turn and kiss her full on the mouth and pull at her clothes like nothing's holding you back.

She cocks a smile, and says, "why don't you go and call what's her name."

"Because."

You glance out at the cold, gray light outside. If you had a better understanding of any of the workings inside you, you could reach forward and tell her everything that's stopped you.

You're supposed to meet the girl-of-the-month at a New Year's party. Hyeju looks disgusted within the first ten seconds of the whole story.

"Heejin dumped you once, like, two months ago? For no reason."

"It wasn't a break-up. We talked about what we did wrong and we're doing better," you say, lifting one finger.

She glares, then, tilts her lips into this unamused purse that you can't take seriously at all when she starts walking back and forth across your living room, hands moving emphatically to the sides as she speaks, like she's in the process of unveiling a brilliant argument and is using both palms to guide your eyes toward the unquestionable logic. "God, you're the worst. You're just her easy fuck and you'll still answer her late night calls, really."

She leaves the rest unsaid - that she's just not that into you.

"I don't tell you which boys or girls you can call up," you try, putting on a boot. "If you'd like, I can. Name off the list, and make sure that the right name leaves my mouth this time."

Hyeju doesn't blush when you glance up, which is the surprising thing. No - her cheeks have grown a little more sullen, and she stares down at her socks in contemplation. You're in the middle of fastening up the lace and getting to your feet, waiting, wondering if Hyeju's going to continue this conversation, when Hyeju takes one small step forward.

And her hand goes out to touch your chin, thumb at your lip, fingers holding it in place - like you'll turn if she lets it go - the sharp shock of the sensation like a short circuit, before her knee comes between yours, and your body tingles, at the root and stem. "Hey," she says, eyes meeting yours. The edge of her nail flicking gently as she drags the curve of her thumb downward.

"Hyeju, please - I need to get going."

When you start walking toward your car, she calls out from the window. Something about how you better have the time of your life, fun for the two of you - it’s only fair.

(You feel, somewhere, a certain strange loss.)

"What, are you going to stay up and wait until I come back? Or am I interrupting your session for the night."

You can barely make it out, the smallest look passing over her face. "Maybe," she says, and then: "god, it's fucking cold."

New year's parties have this sort of quality of being simultaneously the most thrilling, exciting prospect on earth and the absolute worst fucking event in the history of the planet - depending on the venue, how egregious the racket is for a gin and tonic, the guests - oh, and the company.

Jinsoul and Choerry are both in attendance; in separate corners and in equal states of undress and intoxication, which seems fine by every present party, who are for the most part busy ogling one or the other in the full spirit of the New Year - as you would too, if the stars are aligned and Heejin hasn't already gone upstairs with half the guestlist, her arm wound with someone else's, as per her recent habit; if you haven't been tossed aside for any of the usual, less forgettable prospects and for something bigger, better and certainly much more enjoyable.

Which, if there were any way to track these things down with math, you'd already be reaching for your pen and notebook, as Hyeju would describe this sensation in a phrase she picked up from some podcast. Inevitable means necessary, or something.

"Good party," says Heejin, throwing back another drink.

"Yep. You said that," and you finish yours in one long draw, hissing through your teeth.

Heejin is a goddamn delight, of course, in all the simplest of ways. When she looks up at you - mouth pink, hair framing her face - she is so clearly and completely aware of what she is, and exactly what the world has in store for her, what it has set aside.

"Do you want to know what happened at the other New Year’s party we went to last year?"

"I - yeah. Hit me. Tell me all about (another date you were on) Heejin, that’s exactly what I’d love, let’s hear it."

She throws her head back and laughs, before starting into an overlong recount of her latest, greatest conquest, you on the outside. This is the thing - this is how a pretty face, with just a hint of a flirt, will make you feel for a beautiful, attractive, vivacious - absolutely shameless, raving sex-crazed lunatic of sorts who, apparently, loves to run around town and make a bunch of your closest friends fall in love and heartbroke-er, with every passing notion of her beauty, her charm - just the tilt of her chin, and some poor fucker is lost, absolutely lost.

Even she knows it's a bad habit of hers.

But who doesn't have a weakness? You've got plenty of your own - plenty, Heejin can admit - everyone does, in a way, and so Heejin, the other sloppy drunks milling about the party, and Choerry and Jinsoul all agree - someone like her just happens to have the best kind of weakness - so, so many of them, in fact:

"Can you believe how easily a few words get Jinsoul riled up? Or how it only takes a couple drinks for Choerry to pull up the hem of her skirt, not knowing the effect that'll have?"

And as for the last, and arguably worst kind -

"Hyeju, huh? What a great start to the New Year," is her final word. Heejin reaches across and downs your drink. Her expression turns just shy of grave, a pensive look. "Not your smartest idea, the living-together situation. Who in their right mind would put themselves in such a mess?"

"Thanks for the great advice." You wave her off, irritated.

There's another laugh before Heejin leans her face onto the table.

"Though maybe she's onto something, now that I think of it. Who needs anyone for the New Year?" and it's almost convincing the way her mouth, lined up with the rim of the glass, smirks when she drinks. "Mm. All a matter of taste."

The snow is halfway up your calves when you realize you need to find a cab at 11:30 PM on New Year's Eve. (Which, categorically, is the worst time to need to find a cab on New Year’s Eve.)

Or just:

11:36 PM and the nearest bus stop is too far away.

11:41 and the temperature feels like its dropped by fifteen degrees, like you should start wondering what hypothermia symptoms look like and what signs to look out for in yourself, your future wife and your children. You try not to think about why, but you get your phone out and immediately call Hyeju, so you're not sure what you think you're denying.

"No party?" she asks. Her voice is distant and sleep-ridden, but Hyeju's quick to pick up, like always.

"It sucked, I'm trying to find a way home early. Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year." There's a long pause, filled in by the squeak of snow beneath your boots. "Get a kiss?"

"Uh, not yet. In the market, I guess."

Hyeju's low hum isn't reassuring, either. "Well, you're kind of missing your window. Bad time to start looking."

"Says you, and here you are - still up for someone to spend the night with. Look at you," you respond, all this snark in your voice that she clearly hears. There's a long sigh.

"Actually," and Hyeju, much to the confusion of you and possibly the whole world, doesn't respond, and for a few seconds, the line goes completely silent, leaving you hanging.

She breathes once and comes out of her sleep with a yawn.

"I actually," she begins. There's a lot less preamble this time - this tone - and when she speaks again it comes through not nearly as sleepy, "was sorta wondering. Are you on your way home?"

"If I don't freeze to death, yeah."

"Yeah - no, yeah," and that's it. That's the sum total of what makes any difference between where you were a moment ago, and where you are right now, head spinning, fingers buzzing. Hyeju waits and there's the wind on the line, snow settling on your hat and in the corners of your face.

"I - sorry. I probably woke you up. Are you expecting someone else," you say, very small. Your foot drags behind the other. The cars whizz by you faster, passing.

"Hm. You're the only one, I guess," and after that - just static and the muffled sounds of her footsteps on creaky floorboards - or the tick of her ceiling fan? You can't make heads or tails of the rest of the background noise. All those words she said.

You bite your tongue to stop whatever curse words start pouring out from the jumble and cross streets, or the pedestrian underpass; snow gets stuck in your lashes and burns, but your chest is like a molten furnace. You consider telling her right there on the line, everything you're feeling - so hot, it feels like fire, Hyeju, I'm not used to getting heated and desperate and impatient - that even if you're not here now - just imagining your face - the sound of your breathing, it feels like I'm on the cusp.

"Yeah. Sure - good - okay, Hyeju."

"I guess, see you soon?"

"In a bit."

(It takes 33 minutes, trudging through cold and wet. It's all very dramatic, you think, and there's no one there to even watch you suffer for it, or - though you try not to think about that particular line - really, no one at all.)

You hear the way your key grinds in the lock - it's been like this, jammed since summer, when you pushed the front door in late at night a little too hard and something came undone and made a sound like a small stone tumbling down the world's deepest well. The hinge squeaks, and there's ice on the stoop, on the doormat, on every nook and corner you can see, all the way up your neck.

And your face, too. You shake off your hat, undo the buttons on your jacket, and pull off your boots before hanging them and all the layers to dry.

You can make out the outline of her profile at the edge of the door frame, right in the kitchen - barefoot, hip pressed against the island, pajamas - the dim lights illuminating the shadow of her head, hair over her face -

- but you don't pause. The next layer. There's nothing left to say. You're too cold for excuses, too smart to use the same ones you'd been taught, like: this is a normal, acceptable circumstance; everything, anything, will be perfectly normal if the two of us act as though that's the case; pretend we're both acting within the norms of reason, within our senses and logical thinking and I won't make myself go out in the cold a second more - won't stand for more than five minutes with your eyes looking like they're waiting.

So you move instead toward the kitchen, where the heating is better and she's already pouring coffee. There's a heat radiating out of the oven, and it smells sweet in there, like cinnamon and warm butter, and you wish you weren't still shaking, blood barely thawed, but there it is - her face, watching you - eyes gleaming as you wrap your hands around a mug, steam rising up - a shiver running up your arms; her knees skirting yours when she takes one step back and there's the cabinet door shut, then open again, and then a palm on your back.

Hyeju presses a cup of the fresh coffee, now warm enough to drink, to your chest, and says, softly. "What the fuck happened out there?"

She starts reaching out to wipe the frost and slush from your face. You let her hand hold you still, eyes wide.

"Oh you know," and her palm stays, even though it's obviously - suddenly - gotten warmer, and wetter too, and the longer she stands there and lets her fingers warm the pale bones of your cheeks, her wrist, the base of your forehead and ears, the more expectant the look on her face grows. "The usual."

Her eyes go as narrow as they ever can. For just a moment. "You're gonna die a slow, pathetic death someday, just for the record."

"Don't forget how this starts," you try, and feel your neck go warm, throat and breath tight. And not even when her shoulders shift, her mouth going smug - just looking at you.

“I mean, don’t you think,” Hyeju says, wagging a finger at you, “that when you suffer through a bad date, the world ought to owe you something?”

"Like what?" you ask.

"Better taste in women - maybe more orgasms; I dunno, a blowjob?" She shrugs. "The general idea is just that someone gets to cum."

You nearly choke on the air in front of you. "Jesus, Hyeju, warn a guy."

“What? I’m trying to commiserate with you,” Hyeju laughs. “Wouldn’t that be funny? Being able to kiss someone you actually, you know, might love you back, and at the same time. Imagine not hooking-up just to forget a shitty day. Sounds wild, right?"

"Utterly deranged."

"So wild."

When Hyeju sighs and gives a long, nonchalant hum, leaning her body closer, pressing up until her waist hits the cabinet top and you're pressed together chest-to-chest, she looks at you and her hips settle, the heel of her foot reaching around your calf.

There's that tingle. Again and again. You're not even trying to not think about what it might mean.

But then, you start, silently and unconsciously, trying to answer the question: why don't you, maybe. Why don't you, actually - Hyeju kisses you, pulls on the loop of your jeans and lets your lips brush the corners of hers and pulls away, suddenly, mumbling and head-turning. And just as abruptly, your nose buries in the space between her neck and her shoulder, where it's all warm. And when she puts her palms on your hips and squeezes and twists her knuckles into the fabric there, it seems she wants your hands up her shirt and under the small of her back.

And her hands - they're fidgety tonight, fingers curled up to keep their nails and the chill away, moving lower - one on your ass, while the other comes forward and begins rubbing circles, a handful of times - enough so you're letting a deep, low breath escape into the space just above her collar, your knee working its way between hers.

"That," Hyeju breathes, lips at your ear, hand reaching down to trace the hard curve of your cock pressing in the spot right between you, and there's that small rush again, familiar now, like you've caught a rhythm and she wants to feel it in its fullness: "is how you can make it up to me. For making me stay up. Worrying about you, god knows why. Waiting."

You're still half-frozen in a way, slowly thawing. "Hyeju, I've been trudging through the consequences of my actions this entire night. What am I about to suffer through now?"

"It's no consequence, honestly."

You squint.

"Just an idea, but," she breathes again; your bodies getting closer, and looking up at you, she grins and reaches down to touch the very root of you, her fingers drumming. You make a sound, and at that she says, her voice coming out thick, low:

"Want me to get you off?"

She squeezes again for good measure, just to be clear. Just a slight curl of fingers that's enough to send a flash of heat and the transient thought: why, why, why is she always wearing those fucking shorts, even in the winter?

Your blood thrums through the pulse at the end of your cock. You shake.

"Alright," is the response you let out.

And at that, Hyeju takes your wrist and leads you upstairs.

"There's that look. Don't worry. We'll find a way," is all she says as your feet walk forward, up step-by-step and higher and further up to her room. "After all, isn't that what we've always done?"

"It's usually whatever will make me stop talking."

Hyeju puts her chin on your shoulder. Her eyes follow the lines and shapes in the patterns of wallpaper as you turn onto her side of the apartment, and even through the wall and behind the doorway, her arm still around you, she pulls at your chin until your faces turn and you both can share each other's heat.

"Who, you and your awful habit of talking out-loud in your head while you work through equations?" and she brings her lips to yours, close and warm.

"Hey. Fuck you," and your voice breaks into an odd, low laughter when she kisses you harder.

"Yeah, I know," she whispers as her hand dives past the band of your boxers, palm sliding easily until she's gripping you fully and letting her fingers rub. She holds you there, in her room, her arm looped through yours, another arm resting at your belly.

And she stops there. She stays like that: holding your gaze.

"Look, Hyeju," you say, unable to not, though this can hardly count for anything; this, what you're about to admit, is nothing new. You swallow. "The thing is - you shouldn't."

"Don't want me to touch you?" she says, finger to your lips.

"Well, that's different. Maybe. Is there - maybe it's not the best thing to ask you right now."

Hyeju considers for a brief moment and tuts under her breath. "Can you at least do me the decency of waiting until I'm done wringing you dry before you say shit like that."

And she moves then, toward the bed.

So:

No. Yes. Maybe. Who knows, you tell yourself. Maybe, but only because you'll do anything if it makes you feel less sick, like a creature standing over its own skeleton - an abandoned shell; a relic, something to be feared and disgusted, as you let her go between your thighs, kneel beside the bed.

"I mean - since when - have you felt," is just as far as you're allowed to go before Hyeju presses her nose into you and pulls you out of the thin, cold fabric - palm, thumb, all those slender fingers swiping over your head - and now there's just the smell of her room and the shock, the buzz that runs down your spine and settles somewhere, somewhere inside the small and desperate movement of your hips and the tension building just below.

And god, fuck, Hyeju’s lips.

These soft, wet, pouty fucking things that could suck you straight off if you were feeling any less stupid or inexperienced or sentimental - if she wasn't solely intent on teasing it out of you first; a slow drag of the tongue up the underside; the tip of it poking, tracing the rim, like she's figured you out, just where to lead you. She's ready to smoke you out - always - until you're not taking in a breath every ten seconds but starting to close your eyes to the overwhelming, needling pleasure, too sharp, the way she knows you like best.

"Now you're finally - mm - starting to sound hot," and that smirk comes back to the corner of her mouth, teasing the sensitive belly of your cock and tracing her tongue everywhere. "With the voice and -"

You're losing track, her thumb and fingers circling the whole length of you - just, one after the other - mouth a hair-breadth away, her breath hovering like a promise.

"- that face."

"Don't, fucking tease me-"

The sound of your cock going in is like nothing else.

Wet and filthy in all the right ways.

Just the suction in her throat has your eyes nearly roll back into your head - Hyeju's gaze calmly watching the terrible sort of helplessness that washes over you like this: her lips wrapped around, bobbing - her hair falling into the wet mess of her mouth and sticking there. Hyeju likes being a little sloppy, likes feeling that spark run up the length of her tongue when she slides. It's the wet and the heat that gives everything away.

"I don't have much of a choice -" her jaw and chin is smudged when she pulls back off of your cock, mouth glossy and glistening, "and honestly, wouldn't it be a better use of our time, or my talents if I actually do that thing?"

“Which is?”

She looks up for a bit and sighs, the flush blooming pink to the tip of her ears and into the rounds of her cheeks and all across her neck. "Since, as far as I can see, what you really like - is, oh I'm just spit-balling here," and she stops just to bite her tongue and look into your eyes, "it's letting the girls take care of you? Isn't that right?"

You want to tell her, no, not always, that it's not as though you enjoy giving control completely - that that would be completely and unarguably, the opposite of true -

That most of the time you love it when the person you're with is a little bossy, a little crazy for you. You know some guys really get off on a strong woman and maybe, maybe if a girl's pretty and dressed up, and - sure - a little wet, but that's hardly -

“You know I’m right,” she says, a flicker of mischief skittering across her features. “These walls are paper thin.”

You want to tell her, perhaps remind her, that she likes someone in charge just as much as you do - to be taken care of, told what to do - to have a hand curled up around her throat and the other at her tits while a guy fucks her the right way and takes the reigns when she needs. So who are you, when it comes to knowing her better? And who, really, are you fooling?

But before you can get any words in: Hyeju dips, lips parting where the head of your cock throbs, and then disappears; and the hot wet warmth, enveloping all around your shaft and back; the curve of her throat contracting.

You moan - a lot, and louder this time - into the whole feeling. The way her fingers work the distance from the base, twisting and twisting and twisting into the pout of her lips; or how the sound is like nothing - a whimpering, messy sound - almost a whine and definitely not a slurp as your cock sinks further and further, until it's all one big, heavy throb.

And it's like Hyeju can read your thoughts, the visual you have of her lips screwed tight around your shaft - cum leaking from the corners, and her eyes scrunched up tight, as she looks up to watch your face unravel - this perfect image of her taking you, all of you, swallowing each drop as your hips start rutting up into her and - and - and.

Or else she gets impatient, because then Hyeju gives one long pull off the tip of your cock - saliva mixed in the precum there, and that shiny string of fluid hanging, caught in the middle between your bodies - a disgusting and irresistible sight. Her jaw slack, lips swollen and full, and her mouth gone wide open, wanting.

"Fuck - that's good. Don't stop," you start to whimper, desperate, at the sight, the smell. Her hot breath coming quick over the red wanting wetness left behind - then touched by the cold air - fuck -

She slaps your cock to the corner of her lips as she speaks.

"Can you believe what's going on down here?"

"God, can you -"

"And to think most guys wanna jump straight in. That or fuck a load out between my tits."

"Hyeju, shit, come on -"

She kisses the soft tip, right where it’s most sensitive, rolls it along her lip. Then, back down the length of your shaft where she's generous with her mouth inch after inch - lapping, licking, laving - and Hyeju begins working her way down and downward, nestling in at the edge of the bed and between your thighs.

Your eyes blow up the first time she dips low enough to put your balls in her mouth.

“Mmhm,” she hums.

It’s killing you and she knows it; it’s killing you and she can feel the pre-cum leaking from your slit - the thumb she has moored there, keeping everything right where she wants it, running circles up the length with such little intention - she could bring you to the end just like this.

"Am I supposed to believe it?” she asks out from beneath the shadow of your cock, looking up at you with her eyes all wide and brilliant - pupils dark as sin. “That not a single one of those girls ever did you proper?"

You curse under your breath. Hyeju seems amused, at least, like she can't help but love doing that to you, which is almost worse and honestly the sexiest thing a girl can be. You groan - wanton, raw and desperate and feeling exactly what she wants you to feel when her nails drag along the dip of your hip bones.

"Did they not leave you fucked-up the right way?"

Her wrist flicks out these twists and turns, making your spine bend to her control. Like even when you're sure to be bundling her hair in your fingers and fucking the whole length of your cock down her throat, all of this is the worst kind of power-trip for her - not the other way around.

Her tongue runs through the tangle of your balls, slowly, lasciviously, as though the plan is to memorize and map every detail.

And the worst part is, how much it's making you desperate for the warmth of her mouth - where she'll run her tongue up and down and over and around and inside - before sucking you off nice and slow.

"Or maybe," she laughs; another flick to the top and then suddenly her hand goes faster and the fist pumping the rest of you tightens. "They left you so needy you're resorting to having the bestie suck you off so that you won't be desperate the next time you date. Oh my god-"

Hyeju breaks into this fit of laughter, and you're nearly cross-eyed at the feeling of your entire existence - not just your cock - so wholly held within her mercy, and her pity, and you're breathing so shallow now you'd think this is the real reason people have died and will die - this exact moment where you're choking and stuttering at the edges, so very close to cumming and going absolutely bonkers with how good Hyeju is with her hands, her tongue, her mouth - everything - how much she's wrecking you, and your jaw drops, wide open, her name dripping like molasses off your lower lip.

"Are you going to cum?" she asks, curiously. All as if she can't see you nodding, collapsing under pressure, and then and there: "should we make it official?"

Her nose tickles the seam of your balls. And your toes begin to curl and uncurl - all this anticipatory, coiling pleasure burning from her throat, shooting from the pit of your stomach; the tightening spiral, twinging and stretching every nerve - as her lips enclose around the end of your cock, softly.

And oh, just excruciatingly slowly.

You watch the irresistible shape of her mouth travel down until her throat feels so incredibly, beautifully, and unbelievably tight, and then, just like that - Hyeju starts fucking herself onto you; pushing forward and down the full, rigid length of you, hard and fast - each time hitting deeper inside her - all that sticky, messy, wet squelching.

"Unh-unh, yeah. Unh. Mm-!" you say, or moan, or some animal version of that, maybe, it’s incoherent.

But regardless:

It's messy and your hands scramble for purchase in the sheets of her bed when you feel that snap, the tightening of a trigger; when your balls roll up and it builds, and builds, and it comes faster - harder and -

"Hyeju," you pant, and it sounds so, so filthy. "I'm gonna cum, if you - gonna cum-"

Hyeju pulls you free from her lips, quite possibly at the most final of final moments, to rub the base up and down, just right, between her fingers. Your cock is resting right on her cheek when it all happens. When she squeezes her fingers around your balls just enough to hear you wheeze and make a sound no sane man should have the right to. And fuck, you're cumming all over her face - or just one side of it - which is already just -

Okay, fuck.

She makes a startled sound and her fist closes tightly around your shaft when you pump another fresh load of white up onto her eyebrow.

"I'm, ah-shit," your mouth moves faster than the blood in your veins - and now the shame - oh god, the humiliation, it's pulsing right behind you. "Hyeju," you apologize.

Only, Hyeju has no interest in any of it. She doesn't seem offended or disappointed in proportion to how you're ruining her pretty face: "no, just do it, cum wherever you fucking like."

Which isn't what you're expecting at all, because Hyeju makes no effort to close her lips, let alone avoid any of it; nor is she making a fuss about the sticky mess in her hair, her mouth, nor as another stream of cum throbs from your cock, all tangled up in the long dark eyelashes that sweep down across her cheek.

It’s fucking filthy: you're cumming all over her and she's just kneeling there, telling you, "good boy."

See, she pushes through it, languidly - all those filthy sounds, and those watery little tears gathering at the edge of her eye and all of that, mixing up together until you're rolling your head back with your orgasm, shuddering, feeling weak - drained dry -

Except,

Hyeju's pushing a finger to your chest, kneeling up tall from the side of the bed. She turns her body toward the center of the bed and wipes a bit of the cum on her knuckles into the sheets. Here you feel like you've done something terrible or at least regrettable, like that last round at the bar when you have a test the next morning; a dick move, all of the sort that requires apology.

"You gotta give me a minute, if you're thinking about hopping on."

"Hmm. Sounds like a lot to ask."

"Wait," you grab her arm. Hyeju grins and there's nothing stopping the shake of your knees now, that weakness between your thighs: "let me get you a drink."

"Or."

"Or?"

Her tongue peeks out, running along her upper lip. Her eyes drop again, hands dipping below, beneath the hem of her shorts and oh. She slips a hand past her bra. The whole outline of it. And you -

"Mm, I could show you what that actually means." She lowers her chest, her breasts, and a lot of skin to the mattress while keeping your cock firmly in her hands. "That look tells me you wanna stick around a bit. Stay up past New Year’s, you know?"

You're almost unable to parse her words, there is so much to look at: the jutting curve of her chest, cleavage pressing into the mattress as her body settles between your knees. A soft chuckle; a sigh: "you are seriously the best lay, no-one else can get hard the minute after they just fucking exploded all over me-"

"Fuck, watch it," you hiss, because there's oversensitivity - and then there's Hyeju's mouth on the line of your cock, polishing you clean.

And it’s not that she isn’t trying to prove a point. Or that she's not trying to tease - that's an inherent quality of her character: a naturally dominant position with a high appetite for your lust. That much, Hyeju gets from you, whether you've got your head down between her thighs or the other way, too, so that her neck is arched around and her ass pushed up high in the air, legs open, and if she had any idea you would spend the next twenty minutes or more just going down on her, licking into her creaming cunt while two fingers work over her aching clit, then really, Hyeju would only encourage it - maybe get on top, force you to gag - and so you don't know where it comes from - how and why you want nothing more than to drive your fingers inside her and work her until she's a wet, squelching mess, not when this was always Hyeju's role of being the aggressor; and yes, sure, even the aggressed.

Surely not because you came so hard, still somewhat shivering with the remnants of a rather abrupt, painful, sudden and all-consuming orgasm.

"We're not doing anything else," she says, lips pulled up into a smirk right at the crown of your cockhead. But before you can respond she pushes a hot open kiss, and goes lower. She presses the flat of her tongue to the seam, just below the head. Licks a line right up to the tip and finishes with a tender flick that sends you fisting the bedspread in your fingers and leaning back as your mind begins to disintegrate -

"I'm not going to ride you yet, or going to get my hips in your hands so you can fuck my pussy real hard until I cry and pass out. Nothing of that sort is gonna happen." She licks one long drag of her tongue. Then, the other way. "I want to make this very clear: this isn't some huge favor - and if you want it - want it so bad, you can stay there and I'm going to do everything for you. We will get there - together," and with her voice shaking as she brings the wet, glistening skin of your cock just inside her mouth, she looks up. "We'll get each other off, just like this," and it's the deep, dark, throated moan that makes your thighs and all the nerves in between stiffen and buck when she swallows you again.

Hyeju's hands tug, pull her whole body closer still as it slowly bends, curves - her ass raised, her stomach lying on the bed. Her mouth takes you another few inches, until the tip of her nose is barely visible, but when she pauses to lick the cum still left over - the cum that's starting to leak out again - to breathe through it, then squeeze her palm and bob her mouth down, take another inch, until the sides are stuffed and emptying out again, that's when she finally has something to say: "got anything left? I'm a little starved."

"I. Christ, yes-" you whine, which doesn't help your case at all: the image, the image of you lying flat - back with Hyeju's head tucked between your knees, her hand pulling out your cock.

Sloppy, slimy-wet.

She presses an innocent, not-at-all-innocent kiss right to your tip, puckering -

"You know what I did learn in that genetics class?" she muses, tongue flicking over her lips. Hyeju's about ready for a second helping - you're losing it. "When I first saw that DNA diagram - the double helix and all those little base pairs, and everything - it made me think of your cock. Your cock and me. Specifically our DNA. Did you know-"

She presses her palm over the head and rolls it - teases and strokes her palm - her knuckles - her fist - the whole nine. "When I hold your big fucking cock, mm, and just get it right - up in here, rubbing all along my walls - so deep, it gets me in my fucking ribs, makes me choke like I never been choked before, ah-mm," and it's this thought sliding toward the front of your mind, this perfect picture: Hyeju, getting fucked hard and open and stuffed full and stuffed good and stupid; you’ve got more than a few inches on her, can make her feel small and delicate; you know how to do her right.

But here you have Hyeju stroking the shaft - holding her hand tightly up near the head, rolling and twisting and sliding down and pushing her whole body right into the side of your legs: the soft, solid length, warm flesh and curves everywhere pressing into you.

You sit back, and just watch Hyeju with her eyes cool and composed, like half of her fucking face isn't streaked with your cum, mouth wrapped and looking fucking satisfied to be a total, gorgeous mess. She makes a dramatic display of kissing the tip again, just before telling you words you probably dreamt up at some point - either sleep deprived, or, during three AM jackoff, fantasizing. "Sometimes, just from riding your cock, I can't sit up straight."

"Fuck," and you feel your whole body run rigid, because apparently that's something you’ve been aching to hear.

You're covering her mouth again. White streaking onto her lips - where she's catching it in the well beneath her tongue and letting it spill out of the corner of her mouth. Into the crook of your thumb, which catches a drip here and there and rubs it down the length - down the curve - and pushes it back between Hyeju's pert little pout.

"Doesn't count, mister, just more pre-cum," she says, all with the audacity of a wink and smile; her words are a little garbled around the head of your cock between her teeth. And when you nod and realize just how painfully your jaw hurts, your throat becomes tight and raw, a knot pulling the underside from the center. Hyeju slides her lips lower, lower down, to the hilt and stays there, just like that - one hand holding down the flat of your belly to keep your hips still, her chin hanging - bobbing-as she feels every pulse, every twitching shift. You curl one hand around the side of her face, over the sharp edge of her jaw; rub a thumb into the delicate skin of her throat.

She shifts. You start to tell her what you like: how hot the rush comes when a girl puts her tongue against the slit at the very tip, and licks at the precum in nice, quick circles, soft and fluttering. And how her fingers shouldn't hesitate either, Hyeju's not even struggling to give it to you - god - just giving and -

She jerks her head up, swallowing down her next breath like it's one of her last. "I'm serious, if you're going to fuck a hole, start with my mouth - we can move onto everything else after."

"You're ridiculous -"

She meets her lips to your head, kissing once. Again. Kissing every inch, letting her mouth wrap around and then just - staying, just - staying like that and humming, with you, enjoying the fullness, the smell of you, the taste, the shape, just the weight and size and you.

There is spit fucking everywhere.

And if it's not clear what you're supposed to be doing - her fingers weave through yours, squeezing hard at the wrist and you can imagine: pulling her forward by her hair and holding her down while she chokes on your cock. "Fuck, Hyeju," you say, and your voice comes out way shakier than you'd like, "when, how did it get like this, huh? You always - always did, shit, always want your mouth filled."

"Never figured you to be someone who'd get turned on watching their friend sucking their cock like this."

"Doesn't everybody love the sight of their cock in a pretty girl's mouth?

"You were really convinced they weren't lining up behind you? Or anyone in the queue who can't keep their eyes off of this thing. Tell me, and try not to lie, try not to bullshit this one out: how many girls have you come home and fucked and creamed their brains out - then asked for the sloppiest, most -"

"Honestly."

"- Filthiest, nasty, ball-busting, gut-wrenching blowjob ever to make them think - to make them really start wondering what the hell it was you did - like it's gotta be something that leaves them so ruined, they can't ever not compare - can't ever not compare this moment, right here. Ever. When you give them the hardest fucking of their life, compared to any other guy - can't not, because no-one, literally no-one's cock can fuck like you do-"

"Fuck-"

"Any harder. Come on, seriously, tell me it isn't true. Come on."

Her voice - her fucking words, the tone she uses and how her words roll: honey-warm and soaking with sweet, thick degradation - she talks like sex, and that's exactly what gets you harder, like it’s something else; like it’s nothing, like it’s less, so much worse - you feel this guilty-dirty heat pool at your tailbone and push down the hard press of you throbbing all the way to her nose. And Hyeju smiles as much as she's capable around the fat, round stretch, humming around the warm taste of you, before opening wide and sinking her throat on it.

There's nothing like it.

You've got two fists in her hair; she's so tight and wet around every god-damn inch. Her cheeks flush - hot to the touch; her tongue laving in slow, long drags, slicking your shaft nice and warm until you're balls-deep and pushing her further: a small shift to the hips, a push here, a harder, faster pull, and Hyeju's feet behind her go curling like an angry cat, wanting the tug.

A long, satisfied breath slips from the hollows of her throat.

There are tears threatening, thickening her lashes, and though she doesn't choke - you're just afraid. Every sound that she pulls out, her eyes blinking up to you as if it's only natural to love getting used by her friend's cock, like the very premise of it - swallowing down the very shape of you, dragged over her tongue and brushing cum into the back of her throat - is something she can’t go without.

But this is nothing compared to the noises from where her lips are pressed tight around you, where you're hearing and even feeling:

That gluck, gluck - where her chest spasms just the slightest when her nose gets nuzzled right into your belly and you remember how much she likes to hear you talk dirty, how fucking wet it gets her. The heavy, deep breaths, gasps; the strangled moans when your hips just buck - the heat and the thrill, and this is better than every other time because there's just something in this moment -

"I'm not gonna come again, not like this. Not in your mouth. You can’t-"

But Hyeju refuses to hear a word; just pumps your shaft faster, feeling it's familiar hardness grow and throb and ache and retch, all her effort paying off: you're slick with precum and spit, hard and straining, the whole shaft begging for release - all because of her. And Hyeju won't stop, she pushes her cheek onto your thigh and then taps a hand there to pull your hips. The motion drives your cock further still inside her. Until it’s bathed in her spit, your cum, all this mess.

Until it's reaching, choking her, and the muffled sounds she's making are filthy and wet and so incredulously hot.

But god. Hyeju has something of a temper and a habit, too: with those big beautiful eyes and the perfect plump of her pouting lips, her tits swelling up around, when your grip slips on her shoulder, and her mouth goes tighter - how the pleasure begins to make you unbearably cruel and you push her away from you, only for a second -

She doesn't wait or seem to care; Hyeju follows the cock with her whole head and whimpers so hotly in her throat when it plops right back on her tongue. "That's more - more like - fuck, oh, there we go," her nose and fingers prodding.

You groan through a high, strangled whimper, a helpless shiver that turns into an uncontrollable roll of the hips - you can't believe it: she's already so thoroughly debauched and defaced; just fucking painted with it. Your cum dripping off her chin and rolling down her neck.

"Fuck - gonna make me - ah, Jesus -"

When Hyeju seems to have reached her fill, the feeling, you're cumming - pumping the length of your shaft. And the moment she feels you twitch and throb and that first hot spill lands in the bend of her mouth, it's as if she understands and holds herself tight - her legs going stock-still while your eyes blow up behind her, your cock spewing another and then another thick, milky load into her mouth, over her tongue: all along the topography of her throat - sticky cum landing in every ridge and valley -

Hyeju catches as much as she can. What little she can. You cum and pump and gush so much that when you're finally finished - done - every last drop spent and given - your cock throbs soft between her fingers; her chin is a complete and utter mess and her chest heaves with the sound of her catching her own breath. Hyeju groans softly and just swishes the load around in her mouth for a bit as if wanting to remember its feel and weight before lifting her eyes to look into yours. You can just barely see the color.

"Jesus, Hyeju-"

The entire bit of it, slick and shining-wet. With a small moan, a sound from the back of her throat: one swallow and the cum is gone, disappeared, vanished. She smiles like she didn't just ruin your entire goddamn life and, with her body limp and exhausted beside you - her gentle hand rubbing a flat stroke over your thigh before yours slips up to meet her chin.

"You," you curse and roll your eyes, catching the mess at the edge of her jaw, the very little left in the corners of her lips. You feed the cum over her bottom lip - her chin, her throat - watching your friend: Hyeju's throat, bobbing. "Really didn't have to," you start, but you realize just how useless a point it is to make.

She's smiling and biting and showing you what's left between the tips of her canines. "Do you always do this to the people who suck you off?"

"That's an awful habit. A pretty girl's lips aren't meant to get that messy," you reply.

"Oh." She frowns. "Well, I do a lot of things I shouldn't."

"God, seriously," and you think there's no greater hell, no sweeter pain than whatever's lingering in these little aftershocks - this fizzling and dying sort of pain, where the body is buzzed with all you're aching for. It's impossible to stop this train of thoughts, is the fucking feeling of her-

But just then, Hyeju rises to her knees, a new spark in her eyes, as she grabs ahold of your wrist and tugs you off the sheets, a few inches closer.

"And you," she purrs as she drags the palm of your hand across her neck and collarbone, collecting what remains and making the perfect image, "well - you are going to help clean me up, like you said before." She sits tall; the arch of her spine is pronounced - her back, so, very, slightly tapering, to where your hand slips right off the last of it: the wide flare of her hips. "Now isn't that the gentleman's thing to do?" she asks.

"Of course." You sigh, resigned and in desperate need of water. "Of course," you add and smirk a little and slip your hand lower, toward where her skin is getting hot, and her body, "let's get you clean."

"Mm." She's already grinning. "You know what wasn't in those textbooks?"

"Oh, I can only guess." You bite your cheek and start to lower yourself back. "Give it a try."

Hyeju drags you by the wrist toward the hall, the bathroom, ostensibly the shower -

"There's no way in hell you don't want to put a baby in me, like, right fucking now."

"Is that what we're doing?"

Hyeju makes a face like you're stupid - she might've grabbed a towel on the way out. She wipes her chin a little while walking - the corner of her mouth where, well - where it looks like a little dribble has somehow remained. "No. But you’re going to fuck me like it is."

(There's got so much on her mind.

The door of the shower rattling in its frame as she struggles standing up against it. Getting fucked so fast and full, the feeling of both your hands cupped beneath the weight of her breasts. It's not the fact of where you are and your situation, per say - more about the immediate, the imperative nature. About fucking you. She was already feeling herself like, leaking the moment the door shut, so all that waiting, all that patience, really - and it's what drove her insane when you were, well: like that, after she put her mouth around your cock, made a right and proper mess of herself, and sucked you off.

Though there's less on her mind, clearly, when she cums all over your cock.

She's crying with her tits up onto the glass, your palm holding her ribs. Your cum-slick cock working itself hard again as it slips, back and forth, as you're fucking her open, spread apart. It's your finger in her asshole. That's what's on her mind then. How the press of your knuckle lights her entire fucking spine on fire - how the other hand finds her clit in all this, too, when you're no longer supporting the both of you but rather Hyeju is folding on her bent knee and trusting, on shaking and shivering, raw nerves, that you're not going to collapse.

"Fucking. God, please-"

There's the harsh slap of flesh - skin on wet skin, your palms against the sides of her ass and the curve of the breast. But otherwise - it's you, sighing - soft and gentle, like you can't get over the feel of her. "Hyeju, oh-fucking, god, fucking," is what you're saying, and it doesn't end up really mattering which one of you came last because she can feel you twitching, squelching in and out with how badly you're wanting to explode inside, but also you can feel her cunt absolutely begging, this fucking fluttering and clamping down on every thrust and the moment you manage to grind this angle she loses her ability to speak properly because you're not just, like - fucking her-

Just, absolutely, completely pounding her pussy, stretching her insides, dragging and sliding along the walls; each rough rub and thrust makes her knees quiver until her body is trembling and falling. But mostly her voice, the sharp gasp that shakes into her, how her nails are scraping the walls of the shower stall and she's saying - telling, crying and asking and wondering and pleading - just utterly astounded:

"Amazing," she huffs, breathes coming out cloudy and true onto the pane of glass, "you - it’s, fucking amazing.")

“And I am… Ironman.”

Your eyes flicker awake, hazy, as Tony Stark snaps his fingers, killing himself alongside Thanos’ army in the process.

The TV's long been running on background noise, though not as ambient. Its characters now bickering between the rubble and ruins and being picked up for the end credits. In the dark of the screen, you see Hyeju had nodded off and slumped over the side of your body. A new year means new beginning means resolutions and diets and gym routines -

Maybe no sooner than the sun can come up, apparently.

You lean over to grab your phone from the table: 4:14 A.M.

There's a lot of things you want to say, even more you want to hear, but your mind has begun to settle a bit - a lazy and dreamy thing that fills you with this sort of, tired kind of - not sad, or empty - no, of course not. That's hardly fitting; not after tonight. You want to wrap this in an idealistic sort of sentiment - maybe hold Hyeju close and let the hour carry you and the comfort be enough to forgive whatever there is to miss: like the fact, it's still really dark, so dark even outside. The moon reflecting off the sheet of snow on the street. And not even a distant dog barking, or car driving by or someone playing loud music in the early hours of the new year.

As the film drifts off into another set of commercials, you slip into an easy sleep that feels effortless. Your head drops, landing on the cushion by the arm of the couch, where Hyeju's hand begins to slip mindlessly across your belly, tickling your waist and causing you to slightly squirm - things are cooling down, but still a little agitated.

"Don't tell me you're waking me up, cause I just -"

She kisses the pulse at your throat and answers, mumbling half-words into the spot below your ear. "A kiss for a new year."

And maybe the world doesn't owe you anything at all.

Maybe it just gave you more than enough.

#hyeju smut #loona smut #loona hyeju smut #loossemble smut #loossemble hyeju smut #olivia hye smut #loona olivia hye smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember

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capslocked · 6 months

Text

KINKVEMBER DAY: 5

[prompt: face sitting]

male reader x ahn yujin

3.5k words

Yujin is giving you shit when it happens.

It’s been a little over an hour since she turned to you, bored and pouty about it, and asked if you wanted to fuck again.

She gives you shit in the way only the prettiest girls can get away with. Perfect smile, like she's innocent. And all low and breathy in her throat. Hitched around the vowels of your name. Threatening enough that you thought about just immediately capitulating. It was tempting.

"Or you could stay on the floor like a lame loser bummin’ around in your pajamas." She leans up on the arm of the sofa. "Either way."

Yujin stretches and her sweater is huge. One of those cozy campus crewnecks that everybody seems to have, oversized and inviting and right. Her shorts are ridiculously small, just enough of her stomach peeking out over her waistband for you to want to feel it, touch it, have the pleasure of sinking your tongue into the shallow groove.

She's teasing you because she never quite knows what to do with her energy. Lacks an outlet big enough, really, but is also selfishly delighted in getting any response at all, no matter how halfhearted it might be. You stare at her. You watch and don't speak when she runs her fingers up her stomach to pull her sweater up with it. You groan. She grins. She is pretty, her lips full and eyes soft. The laugh that follows her is because it's always obvious when she's won and you wish your body wasn't so prone to giving away your weaknesses.

"Hey." She blinks slowly, lifting one leg up. Her bare foot, warm, toes flexed, against your thigh, nudges against you once, and again.

"How many orgasms until I feel a little more forgiving towards my good friend who, I know, is super super sorry that he can't afford the pizza money because he chose to use his own allowance to do something as silly as pay rent, I wonder?"

"I paid half last time."

"Doesn't make sense because you ate it all.

"You said you weren't hungry." You start to object because you do have an objection. A list, actually, prepared, of instances you think you're owed. But Yujin arches, and when a separate but related complaint rises swiftly to the foreground, your throat goes dry -

"Orgasm tax."

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” she asks, and you’re struggling to answer truthfully, honestly.

She rolls over, lets you see everything she has, the tiniest shorts in the world tugged even higher, the generous curve of her ass and thighs in silhouette. You didn't ask for this but you weren’t about to die without it, you think, looking up from the floor and staring, wetting your lips, absolutely sure. She does it all on her own and it takes an absurd amount of effort to peel your hands off the ground.

"Stay where you are," she snaps, seeing it too - and in a second of deliberate slowness, hooks two fingers into her shorts, tugging them aside before looming over you. "Or you're not fucking me today. At all."

You let your head thud down against the rug beneath you. "That's not fair."

"You've gotta come up with something better than that. You could suck up, beg, maybe I'd forgive you if you just told me how much better I was than the cash I could use on literally whatever."

Your eyes cut down.

Part of you wonders if you've always been such an easy mark - whether being here has changed you, if all these months of dangling carrots in front of you are paying off or if you're just a willing accomplice to your own exploitation.

Part of you isn't stupid. Yujin's taken an almost disturbing amount of pleasure in flaunting herself since the first night you drank too much, said too much, resisted too little - you can tell the way it starts, a smile toying in the corner of her mouth, before she taps the band of her bra, waits to hear you swallow - to hear how hot you get - before she casually asks what it would take, "to convince you", to change the conversation from whether she wants something from the vending machine, or she just forgot it was laundry day, or where the hell that note from Wonyoung had gone, to what she'd like the answer to be. What would you let her do if it got you another chance to get under her shirt, see her all bared, eyes dark and hair like a veil across her collarbones, pretty nipples and swells of her breasts pushed up, until you put your mouth on her.

Yujin tilts her hips so it's easier for you to follow, her hand snaking beneath her body as she speaks. A gentle grunt gets muffled in her sweater, her toes curling into the space between your knees and it hurts, stings a little, the desire you're holding back, and then it goes right through you like fire, sharp.

(Part of you is incredibly stupid - but you think the truth is it doesn't matter.)

Yujin's kneeling over your chest, and her bottom lip, plump and lush, catches between her teeth. "Can you think of anyway to be useful?"

"A lot," you choke. It's true.

Yujin makes a noise. "Proof. Evidence. Put up."

The movement she makes - twisting of legs and stomach flexing and the fabric of her shorts down off her ankles - is one single, fluid motion and for a second you're distracted by how quickly she's gotten you there. Thighs resting over your shoulders, the only thing your lungs seem to remember how to do is want.

"Come on." She bounces her knees a bit. "Dick or mouth, get going."

You should really say something smart, show her how clever and charming you can be, how you've actually got a lot to show the hottest girl in the world - and sometimes Yujin giggles like she's shocked about it all herself, but right now her eyebrows are raising, expectant and challenging and it makes it difficult to think when there's an open invitation inches away for you to bury yourself in. Your lips feel like sandpaper when you kiss the inside of her thigh. Her hips stutter and drop an inch as your tongue works its way out, thick and obscene and it shouldn't be so thrilling to hear her so low, so urgent when you have no say, really, in how this is going to go -

"Take care of me, yeah?" she practically whispers the words - all while your fingertips drag along her outer thighs until her spine straightens, gets her shoulders pushed back, her breathing louder, somehow, as if you couldn't feel her need without knowing already exactly what you can do for her.

And the most honest thing you could say in the moment, because Yujin has her panties stretched to the side, revealing the inviting creases where her long legs meet her hips - for god’s sake, her pussy is right fucking there, inches in front of you; glistening slightly in her own slick and looking so, so pretty - the words get kissed right into the curve of her thigh: "It's not fair."

The look she gives you makes it worth it. "Excuse me?"

"You asked, didn't you. It's not fair that your pussy's so good that I can't think about anything else."

She huffs, her thighs shaking just a little with the effort of staying put. "So, what," and your mouth closes in, kiss deep, your nose pressed in right at the peak of her folds, her entrance, and you try not to drool as you inhale and drag the flat of your tongue in, hard, where she's desperate for you, "you think this should all go in reverse or something, like I should worship your dick until you stop being a useless perv - "

But the insult dies in her throat. A moan comes out instead, harsh, deep, loud and enough that Yujin slaps her palm over her own mouth before throwing an impatient scowl down at you.

Here's what you'd tell her, if you weren't busy licking circles into the ache leaking from her core, eating her cunt like a starving man, if you had the audacity. Yujin can't control herself. Doesn't help that she's sloppy. When her orgasm hits she will get louder and she doesn't even like the things that come out. That's the thing about Yujin, really. She says all this shit, and really, in the end, she wants a good fuck so bad she can't keep her mouth shut, but the noises she makes are exactly the same as the sounds that you choke on -

Because as pretty and easy and fun to kiss as she can be, the absolute best thing about your relationship is that the more orgasms she gets the less she can breathe, much less control what the fuck she's saying to you. It's cute and hilarious and beautiful, when she forgets, when she gives everything up because in the end it's never any competition, the way she fucks, is so desperate. Her hips work themselves into your grip, over and over and over again, like they are meant for this.

For getting off on your mouth alone.

All you know right now is that with the way you have your hands on her - one still holding her panties open and the other squeezed tight around the muscle of her outer thigh - it's like her clit's directly in line with the back of your throat. If you press your lips around her pussy and hold them firm, just like the way her knees are starting to tighten around your face, she's going to come. It will hurt her and it will leave her completely boneless, and you've fucked this much to the point where you have learned, well, she can never complain.

Not that she would. The slick dripping down your cheeks and throat and down to the front of your shirt - it's fucking everywhere - makes it obvious: any ability to talk is replaced with her just grinding her pussy against you, bucking and shouting, riding and writhing until you decide her pretty little pink slit can have another taste.

Her only other option, really, is clenching and throbbing and cumming as hard as she can all over your waiting tongue.

"Hey. Get your fucking mouth back down," she breathes, taking her fingers out of her cunt and then promptly pushing your head back in, "and - uhnn, I - yeah, exactly. Mmmnghh - "

You smile, muffled and hot against the fabric of her thighs, her fingers twisting in the hair behind your ears and tugging firmly. "Oh."

"What did you want again?" she asks - except her body tells a different story, all flushed and keening and, fuck, absolutely soaked from your touch - she rocks against the base of your chin, slumping and dropping down and letting gravity do its work. You work your tongue over her throbbing clit, again, again, and Yujin moans loudly. So pleased.

Just this mess she's made of you. The smell that coats your nose, and chin, the way it feels when she ruts her whole body against the place where she's worked the hardest. Her breath stalls where you start to breathe in, and looking up at the cinched look in her face you press further.

It’s every little circle lick and lave and gentle nudge of the tip of your nose, where the feeling makes her cry out, where the sensation, overstimulated, is close to that perfect balance between too much and not quite enough, all while working your fingers into the swell of her ass, and finally her hips make small, greedy, selfish thrusts into your mouth.

She sobs for you. You sigh, contented, because you don't even need to ask.

"You're so fucking good," she murmurs, heel of her palm pushed into her eyes like she's struggling with a headache. "God, fuck, do that again."

It's so wet on your chin already, but you do it again, just for the way she bucks into it.

You give her the closest thing you have, your thumb riding the rim of her ass, tongue rubbing, stroking her pussy faster. Yujin's teeth work against the insides of her mouth as her hips shift forward, and she is clenching and begging for the cock you know would make her scream if you just stood her on her hands and fucked her from behind - it's such a cruel way of making her work to feel so fucking amazing - but you're here to indulge, and really, when she shivers and pleads the exact way she does, your mouth still full, how are you supposed to do anything besides fucking obey.

Yujin reaches up to grab onto the edge of the couch, anything to brace herself as her cunt sloppily gets wetter. The thickest part of your tongue is good enough for this. Everything about her clit is just this dull, swollen throb. Begging to be worked over the way you're licking at the entrance to her pussy, inside and all, kissing, sucking, kneading, pulling, - fucking her just right - until she starts fucking cursing up a storm.

"Oh god, god, oh fuck fuck, fuck," her hips shift until she's the only one riding, the only one fucking. Until you just get to lay there with your lips slack, drooling open, hands a frame for her entire body while she works your face, and nothing could be better - "yeah, oh, fuck, fuck yes - yeah - fuck, hahhh. You're going to make me fucking cum-"

And you almost say it: that's your line - it's not enough, you'll never have enough of her cunt - her clit or the slit, where she leaks, thick and sticky. Her slick tastes heavy on your tongue, and you can't swallow fast enough. Your fingers are so deep into the pliable skin of her ass - digging and needy and reaching for where she's tightest. Her hands pull sharply at your hair. You feel her, tightening her ass around your finger, cumming wet across your cheekbones and -

It goes on, her body pressing into you, until with a sudden snap of a cry, she cums.

“God, fuck-”

If Yujin doesn't have to see the look on your face after getting her off this hard, it's only because the pressure in her body has her knees across your eyes forced shut. A spasm clenches, almost rhythmic, through her thighs, and god, Yujin just cums her brains out. It's pretty hot. You make it count: pushing your fingers just as deep into her pussy, working, exploring - right as her whole body is tensing and coming apart and your other hand circles, two fingers, dipping down and through the cleft of her ass and into her tightest, hottest hole -

You know better than to rub at her entrance once the ripples and waves start - instead, it's more pressure.

Pushing up as deep as you can and your lips mouthing at her folds while her hips squirm for something harder, something stronger and with intent - like, maybe, if she thinks she is trying to push away, she will start to believe that the mess running from her hole isn't hers. It's yours. All that liquid heat pooling below her and what could ever make sense other than she needs more? She needs the way she trembles and shakes, the way her pussy weeps as you wring it for the pleasure that's well on its way -

You always feel like an idiot after, stupid with how much you enjoy this, what she gives you, but how could it be anything but fantastic, your vision dizzying when it swims from lightheadedness and the lack of oxygen to your brain. Yujin's holding you right where she needs, right between her thighs and next to perfection, just tight enough for you to groan, to make a low whine build in the back of your throat and that gets her, too.

There is the rush and a wave, the heat, of something that crests and breaks in her that has to match the absolute loss of control she seems to have all along - the only part you feel you are sure about is that Yujin always rides her cunt - all dripping lips and aching holes, swollen and flaring and practically begging to be fucked harder and more thoroughly - into every orgasm she's taken from you, until there's no where to run.

Even through your nose, and you're suffocating, her legs trembling with the rush of it all. You're gasping and shaking but she's shaking apart and you need that: to feel her melt from where her body collapses all its weight onto you and the way the aftershocks have to make it seem, at least for a moment, that she’ll never, ever recover.

"Fuck," Yujin sighs, "I fucking hate you."

(Translation: she can't fucking live without you.)

"Any time," you murmur and her entire body falls into you, straddled across your chest and slumped there, sweaty and spent. Your heart beats the moment, trying to remember when it was you could stop feeling this way about your roommate.

A part of you believes that, once upon a time, before all of this started, that your desire, your lust was rooted in seeing a friend who was beyond hot and simply unavailable.

A bigger part of you knows that asking for clarity isn't the point - because maybe, right now, in the way your hand has started massaging the soft skin under the curve of her spine, you should realize you can't live with it never happening again.

"What's my balance," you ask, rubbing your thumb into the crook behind her knee.

"Mm?"

You exhale.

"Two. I think you're good for two."

You laugh. "For real?"

She stretches.

"Or I suppose we can go for four or five, but that means you're paying for dinner, too." Yujin does this thing with her hair when she's excited. Swings it back, smiling wide.

Which is fair, you think, given the pulse between your legs throbbing and twitching as you picture it: the curve of Yujin's waist and the drop of her lower back, her bare ass. Her soaked little slit that can't help but beg to fucked and fucked and fucked, until she's trembling and quivering and leaking-

"Then I'm gonna eat," you promise her, "every last inch. Going to taste you and swallow."

Yujin shifts, sitting astride you.

You hum. "Still interested."

She simply kisses you - breathes you in - tasting herself on your lips and tongue, before leaning back with her palms flat against your chest and taking it slow as she starts to ease you into the kind of sex that doesn't leave either one of you with a throat quite so raw and dry.

So it's quiet in your apartment, just for a little while, when the afternoon starts to settle in and she rolls back onto her heels, not able to support the rest of her. You fuck her deep and it's amazing how quickly you both fall into rhythm. Yujin's clutching hard on either side of your hips. Folding herself back. Trying, by the end, to bury you where her fingers have been.

By the time she gets herself up on the couch, belly flat against the cushions and her hips arched back as she fucks herself with the length of your dick, you're just desperate. Aching in a way you know will happen any moment and even so, you can't even bring yourself to consider stopping because this is perfect - it's everything, really. To push her down, hold her still, and fuck her so thoroughly that she cries and shudders as you spill into her.

To have her.

Yujin holds a part of yourself so tender, something you have kept close for far too long, and watching her with her arm reached behind herself, clutching blindly with her fingers, as her moans go quiet with just these whimpery, little things, a thought occurs to you, of exactly how dangerous your roommate is -

Because with you fucking into her like this, this is more than sex ought to be. More than it’s ever been.

(More dangerous yet is thinking: maybe - perhaps - it is exactly what Yujin wanted, from the start.)

#yujin smut #ive yujin smut #ive smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember

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capslocked · 6 months

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KINKVEMBER DAY: 4

[prompt: roleplay] male reader x kang hyewon 8k words

“I need you,” Hyewon says in the uneasy dark of a hotel room, with two urgent fistfuls of your shirt, “need you to do to me all the things my husband never will.” “Yeah, I know,” you tell her, “you said that,” and her eyebrows move in all the wrong directions, “I’m just wondering if, you know, maybe we should give him a little more credit.”

Here’s the truth:

Hyewon doesn’t believe in leaving evidence behind and you don't find it particularly productive to doubt her; you’ve been talking in code for years. Parts and pieces of yourselves reduced down and bottled into set phrases that, to anyone else, would be totally incomprehensible.

"i've been thinking," she texts you, which you've come to understand means she's already made up her mind, "maybe we should do that thing we were talking about. tonight."

(You're not always so fast on the uptake.)

You send two back two texts, both of which ask "which thing?" because the hallway from the breakroom to your desk has poor reception and it never lets you send just one.

Then, right after you cross the threshold between signal-drowning-concrete and the glitzy glass-walled arboretum they've built to make you feel like you're not a total cog in their corporate machine, your phone pings the receipt of Hyewon's reply: a picture - her laptop, propped up on your coffee table with its screen angled for perusal, of a booking site that's filtered to show results for their 'king bed & view' room at a midrange hotel a forty-five-minute ride from your apartment.

"not really doing much narrowing down here hyewon."

She replies to you - her text bubble appearing over another couple still images, of herself in the vanity mirror as she curls her hair around her finger and holds this little black slip of a dress over her shoulder, black lacy lingerie in tow, the whole nine - with:

"i'm feeling kinda adventurous."

Five o’clock rolls around but you never really do figure it out. You spend the last three hours at work deciding which kink of hers (oh, does she have a few) this is all in service to.

There's nothing overtly sexual about her pics in the first place - not more than usual anyway, more showing off her curves and cut jaw than showcasing anything for her 'adventurous' intent. So that can't be the tell - you'd seen her in a corset once (you can't unsee it) and the angle of her hips to the mirror makes you think that if she was planning on pulling on a pair of crotchless panties then she probably would've found her thigh high stockings, too.

You try and think of what the two of you had even talked about when discussing these little scenes - how many times you'd ended up 'in the mood' during or after such a meeting of the minds, how it'd snowballed from there, a whole list of filthy what-ifs that she'd probably put more thought into than you ever have - but you draw a total blank. It could be any of a number of things.

Until,

"i left you instructions on the kitchen island," reads a text on your phone which you definitely don’t check while you’re driving -

And then it hits you.

"ah."

"yeah, 'ah'," she replies.

A quarter past seven at the hotel bar is way too early for any real promiscuous activity, but then again, you're here playing at pretend and half the fun of games like this is in the setup.

Meet me at the bar, your instructions read, introduce yourself, and play it by ear.

There's some couples at the other end, some friends downing shots by the round, people musing over their aperitifs, and a woman sipping alone at the bar - Hyewon, appearing to you from the back first:

The pointed edges of her shoulders narrow out over this tiny cocktail dress that somehow covers less of her than if it weren't there at all, skin tight, accentuating even her softest curves. She has her hair fixed a particular way - teased enough to flip at the ends but still a single sweep down her shoulders, pulled together softly by a ribbon in the back, tied like a fantasy, allowing a wispy strand to fall to her face - glossy and dark and glowing to this rich, deep mahogany where it's cast in the lamplight.

The line of her throat, of her chest. Where her hips meet her waist in a rounding flare. The effort and beauty she's gone to, for you - that she puts in every day just because she knows it gets your attention, can do more than turn a head or two; Hyewon's appearance is almost indifferent of you, only coincidental, but she puts on a damn good act.

(You look a lot more worn in comparison: jacket thrown over dress shirt and khakis, tie loose at the neck. Standard office attire with just a step-outside-regulation. Disheveled.)

A drink, you suppose - approaching the bar to try and catch the bartender's attention to order a single malt.

But if Hyewon's been waiting long, she doesn't complain when you pull into the stool beside her and sit for a long moment.

"Do you mind if I join you?" you say over a pair of politely folded hands - and that's generally where her 'instructions' end.

The look she fixes you with is just this unashamed smoldering, her body language this contradictory kind of lazy - cool, like her night was going exactly the way she planned but she still had places to be.

"It depends," she replies, one slender finger curled around the stem of her martini glass - which historically, is a drink she hates. "Who's asking?"

"Just me," you offer, letting the gesture and your tone leave it up to her. And then slowly, perhaps awkwardly: "ostensibly a complete and utter stranger who knows a gorgeous woman when he sees one - and who could never pass up a chance to see how the rest of her is."

"Smooth."

"I guess it is, considering you didn't immediately run for the exit."

Hyewon nearly snorts.

"Hard not to." She tilts her head back at you, assessing. Her cheeks are rosy pink. "A handsome thing like you doesn't usually buy themself a girl's time with flattery -"

"Buy your time or your drinks?" you tease, and you can tell she wants to roll her eyes - but she keeps them carefully lowered. Eyelashes dipping down like blackened fans.

Hyewon shifts slightly, resting her chin onto the heel of her wrist like she's leaning against an imaginary windowpane and tipping her face a little sideways. It makes you smile. "One gets the other, if you catch my meaning."

Maybe it takes you a little too long to lift your gaze off her lips to find her eyes, or off the sweeping curve of the hemline sitting high across her long legs, but she watches you for just a breath. It's a more telling moment that she pretends she doesn't know you.

"You can look at me if you like," and then without further preamble, she introduces herself with a slight tilt of the head and an expectant expression: "call me Hyewon."

You figure that if you've gotta say one word to get the ball rolling you want to say her name, and as a little revenge for forcing you to think on this scene and think on what to say, what your character would say, how exactly she wanted you to go about 'meeting' her in a hotel bar, how her fucking scenario's been building up in her head for god-knows-how-long (even though, in the scheme of the two of you and your relationship, it’s nowhere close to being the most demanding sex you've had), you reply simply with:

"Pretty."

It's satisfying, how she hesitates - pausing a little longer on your face to gauge exactly what you meant. Studying. But the next beat of your heart - or hers - is effortless, easy.

"I know. That's what my husband calls me."

"Husband?" You keep yourself from raising an eyebrow. "And I don't suppose I'm also... married?"

"Different day, different you."

"Meaning I have a wife or a mistress of my own," and you flick your wrist at the barkeep for a top-up of what's in front of Hyewon. "You're telling me I'm the kind of man who'd only settle for two."

It doesn't sound quite right, though Hyewon picks up on it. Doesn't let on. "Aren't men like you always? Charming to a fault, but always voracious - insatiable, especially with women like me."

"Women like you."

"Married women. Unavailable," she simpers, and in a practiced little motion, draws her hand out to where you can see it properly, this sparkle on her fourth finger that catches the lowlight of the bar. The diamond looks real - not that you'd actually know - and your stomach flexes up mid-somersault thinking about the financial impropriety for what amounts to a gag. A practical joke. Hyewon the comedian.

Still, you go with it and take her hand in yours, admiring. "What a pity." The glint off its faceted surface - Hyewon's watchful as she allows it.

"Isn't it," she agrees.

The more unnerving thing - besides how composed Hyewon can make herself be - is how the narrative quickly becomes a whole hell of a lot clearer with the context of marriage in play. She's mentioned it before: the infidelity thing, the way it leads to the raunchiest, filthiest bits she'll dare to explore. In some ways, her desire for the untouchable makes a lot more sense -

And maybe that's what had been nagging at your mind since she brought up the idea of playing the part: you always end up kissing in that stupid 'caught up' sort of way. With an intensity that's hard to beat. Even though you wouldn't ever cheat on her. Not in a million years. You'd watch her leave before doing anything like that.

But it's thrilling, almost, and even more thrilling that this isn't entirely improvisation: how well the two of you might actually play this off, as two total strangers to this illusory little roleplay that you'd normally say was your very last interest.

"But you know there's something I've come to appreciate about married men," Hyewon continues, her voice in this conspiratorial sort of hushed.

You blink, drawing her out.

"They know how to tie a knot."

There's the flirty wink, an upward flick of the chin that draws your eye to the span of her chest. To her body in that skin-hugging dress and your fingers entangled in hers - the gentle bump and shift of the bodies behind her, moving between the tables - Hyewon a queen of circumstance, playing to the moment as it bends; as her lips part in a pleased smile, red and smooth, almost innocent, and you can't help but imagine tasting her on your tongue, the force that'd take for her to yield when you finally got your hands in her hair.

(What a character, honestly.)

"Tell me something," you say, "why would a married woman, this pretty little thing like you, be all alone in a place like this - without her charming husband."

Hyewon's smile curls at the edges like smoke. "I never said he was charming."

You raise an eyebrow. "Good-looking, then."

"Never said as much either."

“Why are you with someone you find neither attractive nor charming?”

Hyewon makes a face, slightly pitied. “If that Isn’t what I’m asking myself everyday.”

"Hm." You narrow your eyes into something more quizzical than suggestive. It works on her anyway. "That doesn't feel too much like it's in character, Hyewon."

She shrugs, but it's that coy kind of shrug. She thinks you'll let her off easy - you usually do. All considered, she's the type who thrives off the chase and, as of today, so do you.

"But he is cute." Her expression is just this side of sweet, as she takes a dainty sip of her drink. Like the taste doesn’t bother her, like she isn't pretending she doesn't hate it with every fiber of her being. Like this is easy. "And maybe -" she quirks an eyebrow at you, withholding a smirk. "-you're right. Maybe, I was looking for someone cuter to fill the bill. And luck would have it, here he is."

So - apparently - her character doesn’t mind a little light infidelity.

Hyewon takes in the vague sense that the message wasn’t as clear as she might have liked, her forehead scrunching as she tries to convey - in a way that would communicate even to an airhead - some realization to play your part.

"Maybe it's the wrong question,” you start over, taking it from somewhere near the top, “what are you doing here, with me?"

That's when Hyewon graces you with one of the soft, slow kind of smiles: the kind that manages both an air of 'you dimwit' and 'good question'. Her fingertips barely graze yours but it's noticeably electric. Just enough to feel your pulse fluttering.

(You don't care that none of it’s real - Hyewon looks to you through thick eyelashes like a goddess of temptation and sin - and it makes something wicked coil up warm at the pit of your gut. A curious thrill and a recklessness that you have to admit feels a little nice - being the man trying to talk this woman into bed. The challenge and the buildup, the want to work for it. It's new. It's fresh. Lo-and-behold, it's kinda hot.)

When you catch her stare, she fidgets. So slightly, so briefly, your chest is on fire and you're barely into the pages of her plans, of this night ahead.

"Wish fulfillment, let's say," and that is no less true. "See it’s my husband."

"Mhmm."

"He respects me too much to do the things I'm going to ask you to do."

"Like?" you continue to prod.

Hyewon lets out the tiniest shiver of a sigh, like a trickle of cold water down the length of her spine. "Take a good guess."

You finish the rest of Hyewon's martini, slow. Savoring the warmth and bitterness sliding down the back of your throat. The night's young, sure - and if you're supposed to be spending it all wrapped around Hyewon's finger. This means you can take your time.

"Show me your room?" you propose, gesturing to the empty glass.

"I thought you'd never ask."

At your offering, she stands up and throws on her coat - long, double-breasted, chic - but only really just off her shoulders to have the hem hit her legs mid-thigh. One of her many personal quirks. Hyewon knows how to move like there aren't two eyes staring at her wherever she goes: not the awkward side-to-side of a girl who wasn't made to wear heels - a loping gait - nor the assured click, click of the taller kind that totter like it's all they've got going for them.

Something totally different: a little careless and a little haughty and an assurance of the highest confidence.

She winds an arm round yours like they do in movies, this parody of a leading lady - Hyewon not a seductress as much as she is someone who'll look the part just to convince you otherwise. There is a pretty big discrepancy, you find, between her bravado and her smile, her figure and her artistry - you couldn't act if you wanted to; meanwhile, she does whatever she damn well pleases. And somehow that doesn't even begin to cover the things that turn her on.

The two of you make for the stairs, winding up floor after floor until it's perfectly quiet, perfectly out of sight - hidden away from prying eyes and ears.

The silence of an empty hotel stairwell is thick - Hyewon's hand comes off the railing, as she takes to the wall and turns to face you. It's a gentle tug at the tie loose around your neck, barely any give before you're already there, holding her by the hips.

"Might've gotten us lost there," you whisper, as her finger plays at your chest and finds its way round the collar of your shirt. Your top button is already undone by the time you notice she's not fond of it. "The elevators would've gotten us where we're headed faster."

"Don't worry." She hums, leaning in close - like a magnet, like gravity. "You're getting the scenic route."

"Anything to stall the inevitable," you tease, but it isn't a thread she seems interested in developing.

"Something like that."

Hyewon shifts her weight back onto her right foot, her skirt riding up just barely. The dip between her inner thighs and the smooth curve of her leg is open and bare to your sight, her dark stockings like an unspoken challenge: the panties, lacy, loose, no crotch.

And it gets... indecent, the way your lips connect, how you realize half-way into that kiss, she's still smiling. It isn't any one way that does it; maybe it's the clever use of her tongue, or that particular position you've coaxed her up against the stairwell wall that makes it seem like Hyewon can't be any more in danger - it's too much to handle and your mouth goes slack on the reflex of an apology; her hand has a hold on you by the jaw and it won't budge.

"My husband," she murmurs into you, the trace of the words ghosting into the breath between the both of you. "Never lets me."

"What," you rasp, barely recognizing your own voice, your hand heavy on her side - the very real fear that you might tip over a banister because Hyewon's got her heel half-way into the back of your calf and any less bracing would bring you down. Your thoughts are a fog, with her cheek in one hand and your knee already up between her thighs.

"His wife," she almost swallows down, kisses turning chaste because maybe it's just easier to gently peck out her intentions, how she looks to you with dark eyes, heavy-lidded and wanting, a thumb trailing down the plane of your cheek. It'd feel like pity if you weren't thinking exactly the same.

You try to finish it for her:

"She likes it rough."

"No." Her nose traces yours before she connects you again - gentle and slow, and a shudder rolls all down the expanse of her shoulders; you think you have it about right. Until she makes the slightest adjustment and her grip in your hair turns agonizing, perfect and burning on the edge of too tight - too much. You are straining against the wall of a hotel hallway and she's saying, "not rough."

She kisses you. Hard. Until you gasp for the stolen air in her lungs.

"Filthy," she manages against the heat and sting at the side of her cheek.

(Damn.)

Your voice has gone and lodged itself firmly somewhere between her lungs - but there's something that says she knows. That you've got it in you, the brimming potential that might just say everything you ever wanted but couldn't figure the right way to put it.

It's the tone of her voice or the spark in her eyes, but one moment into the next - you're caught in this pull - like gravity's increasing tenfold at her will; her heartbeat's so strong you swear you feel it against your ribs as she's demanding:

"Messy. Dirty. A little uninhibited," and the obvious thrill of that must flare up like lightning under her skin - the way it makes her moan, soft and breathless: "fuck me like my husband doesn't."

She’s not even waiting for the comfort of the room yet, which in hindsight is probably checking more of Hyewon's many boxes - it's the sex in public thing, the fear of discovery thing, the desire to have you ravish her out where anyone can come upon you sort of thing - the thought of which has your jaw go a little slack too. Her leg up is coiled up around your hip, your fingers tangled in her hair and sliding up the length of her thigh, until you're fucking kneading up her ass and drawing out that desperate whine in her.

"Fuck," she exhales into your shoulder - a hand on the metal bannister to brace against those little circles you start to rub inside her, pushing - slowly - one, two, three knuckles deep, testing - before drawing back, and plunging forward again. This ache, slow and purposeful, pressing just enough into her until there's a wet sort of friction that has your hand slick all down your wrist.

It never takes long, with your fingers on her clit, fingers inside her, a palm covering the moans out of her mouth -

She cums just like that.

Whining and broken and bent under you, and with an elbow hard against her ribcage to make the breaths come shallow.

"Stay quiet for me, sweetheart," you find yourself murmuring, as your teeth graze the shell of her ear - the short burst of hair and silky strands across the back of her neck; you're undoing the neat ribbon tied round the length of her hair and letting her waves settle on her shoulder in time for you to swallow down the sound of her sighs, the tension in her lips, and the frantic jolt when your fingers push through the wet, heat of her pussy again, merciless and quick. You have to be careful; she nearly bites your fucking tongue out.

"Can't." Her jaw's tight on it, the slight staccato to her breathing, murmuring and slightly dazed: "if we get caught, someone will see. Someone will notice."

Her next exhale is more shaky. "Anyone could see us like this," with just her toes curling and her stomach tensing on every second beat. Your grip leaves a bruise. "Please-"

"We're not supposed to be doing this at all, are we? If you've got a husband waiting somewhere?"

You hear yourself, and it sounds sorta degenerate, though in all the right ways, you figure, like something straight out of one of Hyewon's romance novels, the dirty, smutty ones that she swears up and down she simply reads for the plot, but the dazed, hazy kind of mood they get her worked up into suggest otherwise.

You trace the rough pad of your thumb over her pussy, this delicate, ghost of a touch. One you'd have to strain to even tell if it was there or not until she whines - eyes screwed shut like she doesn't mean to, just does. The sound of it bouncing around the stairwell.

And then, all this wet: her skirt's ridden all the way up to her stomach, damp and near-transparent with slick, and you can just imagine the puffy pink between her legs - between her stockings in the afterglow of an orgasm, spent and sensitive and sore and wanting for more. Your eyes linger a little too long -

"I shouldn't let you," she manages, half a moan on it - one of her heels comes up the stair you're standing on and the way Hyewon clings onto you for balance says enough, but still, she demands, with all the strength her throat allows: "make it fast. You're lucky I let you see me like this at all -"

And she cuts off abruptly, looking at you.

(She'll play coy for a while longer. Which, Hyewon being Hyewon, will look like as much an effort as her sprawl out on the bed for you is.)

"The room," you say to her, harshly, "where is it."

"Four more floors."

Room 1014 as it turns out is like every other room you've ever been in, each one perhaps a little more identical than the last - except this one has Hyewon sitting in your lap while you get comfortable on the bed, and there's also the way she looks in the mirror above the headboard, the desperation in her stare, right back into the reflection.

"What all," she says, "do you want to do to me?"

This time - no explicit instructions - just an implication. You have to figure it out.

See, the image of her is like every fantasy rolled into one, wearing this thin black bra that has her breasts just about spilling over. They're amazing - the color and shape of her skin. Soft. Cradled between the cups like a godsend, and maybe that's why it drives her a little crazy how good you look biting down the ridge of her breast and flicking your eyes back up to catch her expression.

It has you feeling, if nothing else, a little ‘adventurous,’ too.

Her belly tenses on a heavy sigh and it's one hell of a thing to have Hyewon staring you down, like you're an animal or an idiot, with her eyes flashing and a thinly veiled anger in the purse of her lips. There's a thousand things she'd like to do to you - for you to do to her - but it's about the predicament: the silk necktie she'd pulled off you as you both stumbled through the door has ended up around her wrists, pinning her arms behind her back in a way that suggests a loss of control. Just the mere suggestion of a little playacting, but she's almost keening.

You feel the touch of her right calf keep rising - curving down your waist, hooked behind the small of your back - her thighs smooth, and a hot line along your sides.

"I should fuck that pretty mouth of yours," you say against the shell of her ear, because you know better than anyone, the very concept gets her wet. Uncomfortably so.

And she leans her head against your temple like she'd love it. You could be imagining the little whimper as she clenches up round nothing - until a growl escapes the back of her throat and she's saying -

"Is that how you're going to cum? With me on my knees and nothing else? Cover my pretty face? How you’ll completely ruin me?. You’re more creative than that."

“I don’t know that I am.”

Her hips move to find some friction where there isn't any until you give her some, pulling your cock out through your pants and feeling it brush, once, twice against the seam of her. Hot, and hard. Ready. And if she only tried a little, the angle was made perfectly to slot your head in, but neither of you move. She doesn't yield.

"Let me fuck myself on you," she suggests, strained, almost pleading. "Then perhaps I will."

You could take her like she is. Any which way. But this is about getting a particular reaction - one that'll leave her spent and trembling - and nothing like that will happen without a little bit of preparation and prelude. You want to watch her writhe for hours. Until she forgets she's playing a character at all, until she's panting your name and whimpering for release, her cheeks burning.

But at least it gets her writhing on you, the heat and press of her body as she leans in close, your eyes locking:

"Get your cock inside me-" the urgency in her voice. "-fuck me right now, this second-"

"Say it again."

"Fill me with your perfect cock." The words land right on your lips, frayed at the edges as the tether to her control slips another notch. "Push my thighs apart until you break me," Hyewon tells you - and then with her legs twisted up in the comforter, the creaking mattress and the sweat on the sheets: she rolls her hips like they're pleading for it.

"Pushy."

"Gentle's got no appeal for us."

"Apparently not," you reply - but then it's suddenly a lot easier, to slide one hand in Hyewon's hair, and grip at the knotted silk wrapped tight 'round her wrists to hold her. There's no hiding the subtle arching of her spine, how the pressure off her arms pulls her chest in or makes it all the more comfortable, she doesn't let on, she'll probably keep pretending she doesn't like this, that she hasn't always wanted -

You run your tongue over her collarbone and thrust up inside her, once - a warning that you're not giving in to her quite yet.

The smile that runs her lips is brittle. Like her patience isn't what it used to be - she makes a quiet little noise, pained. A flash of discomfort. But there's a moan and a curse out of her:

"Like that. Harder."

"What does harder mean?" you ask, with a deliberate repetition in motion, thrusting upward, forcing her hips to shift a few degrees further back - her knees clenching around the sheets as you're met with no give - Hyewon's resistance through a dark smile, and her grip slackened in her hands, despite you keeping a fist wound tight in the hair on the back of her head, tightening the other around her restraint.

Her throat flinches: this shudder.

She takes a couple heaving, open-mouthed breaths, before she has it in her to glare at you again.

"Harder-" The way her mouth shapes around the word gets the better of you - cute little cupid's bow in pink, full and swollen and pursed up as if in pain. Or desire. Or both, the way her head is tipped back, hair half undone - an idea is already coiling at the back of your mind. "-until I can't stand."

"Or talk?"

And when your hand loosens on her wrists, her posture slumps like it's relief, that you're finally going to move along in a direction she's getting some satisfaction from -

Hyewon shakes her head in a moment that's almost blissed.

"You," her voice breaks on the tail end, "fucking wish you could shut me up that easily -"

In a motion almost gentle, you twist the length of hair down around her, from her scalp to her jaw, and wrap it around a hand. "Let's see if you'll change your mind, shall we."

There's a sharp draw of air in past her lips, just one sound, not a word. No proper rebuttal. She bites down, teeth clicking.

So you pull.

And this isn't some revelation, that Hyewon's cunt is heaven. Slick and tight, the fit around your cock and the gasp escaping the base of her throat - that isn't new. You've been here countless times, fucked her past her breaking point, beyond what should reasonably satisfy her or satisfy you, but that still doesn't take away from this incredible, heady rush that pulses through your entire body. It never stops getting better, not inch-after-fucking-inch the way you're bottoming out inside Hyewon's body and feel how hard the rest of her muscles tense up in the contact, how her pussy tightens and quivers, and grips around the entirety of your cock, the briefest taste of pleasure and release before it's pulled back just out of her reach - overstimulated, until Hyewon cries out.

You expect, predict the fight, the whimpers that spill out of her mouth with every slap of your skin and the breathless way she begs, pleads, like she'd rather her pride take it from her than have your fingers tug her hair up, right out of her scalp, with your arm locked around her lower waist. With your cock pumping faster, faster and a pressure, hot and inescapable, right there - the friction building - the slippery-wet heat sliding along your shaft with every stroke until you bottom out and her next exhale is a sob.

A goddamn fucking sob and the warm gush of liquid down her thighs - all on you. You fingers are pressed into her ass, pulling onto you, steading her bounce - and Hyewon finds her breathing uneven, as you smear wet across the curve of her backside, rubbing circles into her lower back as you catch up on the rhythm she'd lost.

"This tight little cunt, huh," you tease, and she nods so desperately it seems like she might snap. Like she might cry again and this time for real, a drop of her eye color past the blush, streaking down her cheek. You have the wherewithal to remember your character, your blocking, your lines: "this is what your husband won't do? Won't fuck you on every piece of furniture until you're a ruined fucked-out mess? Doesn't have the decency to work over his little slutty-wife until she's passed out, dripping with cum?"

Hyewon's fingers curl up into two balls of white knuckles and she chokes on her reply. "He won't."

"Tell him. He has a hot and dirty little piece of ass right under his own roof-"

"You think," and the string of words trails off when you manage to grind in, at this angle that has her reeling, trembling at every shift and jerk in momentum. Your knuckles drag against her soft and giving curves, almost gripping at her in the attempt to hold her down on you. "-my husband isn't enough."

"Well you wanted me to fuck the domestic housewife out of you," you murmur, taking two greedy handfuls of the ass bouncing in your lap, rubbing your palms along her hips, up and around the shape of her abdomen and her ribcage like you'd map it, memorize it. She wants this, you know this: your palms come around and over and brush your thumbs against her rising gooseflesh - she's putty in your hands. "No strings attached, remember, a one night kind of thing-"

"My husband loves me."

"Then it seems-"

"He makes me cum with his hands alone."

Your jaw works tight - Hyewon's cunt feels as good wrapped around you as she says your cock feels making a mess of it.

"Tells me he'd die happy hearing me moan his name."

"Oh, because no matter where he goes," you say, fingers wrapping under and around the back of her neck, forcing her to look you in the eye, "no matter what, your sweet cunt's the only one his mouth is ever watering for, isn't that right-"

A blink, lashes thick and feathering down and over the pools of her pupils as you have a hold of her tight.

You're having a hard time with this, and you want to give it to her, the toe-curling-crescendo that would see her cumming at your will, or worse, losing the plot completely and your entire setup falling away from the charade of characters you'd both conjured. But she looks at you like she's never loved anyone like she loves you, the naked, barefaced devotion, the tenderness - a quick breath, a second - and the game is suddenly something far more personal, a truth. It isn't exactly fair: how your heart stutters. How much her heartbeat makes your pulse flutter, the electrifying rush you get when you fuck roughly up into her tight, wet cunt and make her bite down on nothing in the throes another orgasm.

You barely have a second to think of something coherent, let alone an out before she kisses you. If that isn’t totally disarming. So you move her into the next, flipping her onto her stomach, and she does nothing to fight back: Hyewon just lies there - the side of her face plastered to the comforter - exhausted, and gives a willing, malleable moan at the contact where your hand digs into the shape of her upper thighs, spreading them out as her elbows struggle behind her back.

"Here, baby," you say, finally unwinding the silk knot between her wrists, "I'll have you like the little desperate fucktoy you really are."

There's the bite to her bottom lip, the whole five seconds it takes for her hands to spread out and twist her fingers tight in the bedspread, before she whines - full-throated - and rocks back onto her toes to arch her back.

(See, the thing: Hyewon likes being fucked within an inch of her life. On all fours and pleading for more.)

With your free hand, you reach around her to run over her inner thighs.

Hyewon brings her grip to the bottom of the bed frame, for purchase, or leverage, you don't know, and in one simple motion, you slip your cock back deep inside her pussy.

You curse under your breath.

Hyewon fucking collapses.

It's a dangerous combination, having her begging and you nearly fully clothed while she's wearing barely more than this thin strip of black silk around her waist and a stocking on one leg, but you can't help it - she looks good this way.

"Fuck," she spits out, voice lost when your hips find hers in this wet, sloppy crash of skin that gets louder, faster and more punishing on each beat. "Like that, oh my God-"

Her whimpering only gets worse - when you start only pulling out halfway, until she's gasping like she can't breathe. You think there isn't a more wonderful, more obscene, more gorgeous thing than Hyewon spread out in front of you - the curve of her spine defining each and every one of the lines, dips, and rises of her body - and you would thank God or some higher deity right about now.

It’s fuck and please and every other little pliant utterance of “fuck my brains out, use me, make me beg, I'm so turned on right now I'll let you fuck me anyway you want - harder, faster, I can do whatever, just show me how, make me, push and fuck me hard until I'm raw and aching - god - like this, let me cum, please, let me - keep fucking going, oh my god, please, like this, fuck, just like this-"

You do thank God, actually - there's mirrors everywhere in this room, and you can catch the circular swing of her tits every time you force a curse and a sigh out of her: the bared teeth and the effort to push herself back on her arms, bracing for every thrust, fighting and fumbling to keep her balance and to make sure you have to pound her into the mattress until her cries reach a pitch.

Then, the thing you'd learned she'd never ask for but oh-so-dearly-wanted - you open your palm and bring it down hard on her backside. The impact of your flesh to hers, a crack, a moan and her whole body flexes - and it's then you do it again: matching the hit to the visible red outline of your handprint. The third time, she hisses, biting into the bed sheets so as not to cry out.

"Right? This is what you want? To be fucked and used?"

She doesn't reply with words, because she may in fact be biting her teeth into the cotton threadcount at the end of the bed, but she lifts her ass higher, angles her hips like she's waiting for more. Her brow is creased in a smile, even though a frustrated groan escapes her lips - so you give her that again, and again, until the back of her thighs are turning red and she's clawing one hand back along the length of your legs - pushing and pulling.

"You want me to fuck you senseless, sweetheart?"

And then, so needy and desperate she's just saying the first word that come to mind:

"More-"

"-when I've been railing into you so hard and your husband probably knows already, has to have seen, maybe he's listening at the door- oh," and your whole train of thought comes to a sudden halt upon seeing Hyewon's hand land on the perfect round of her ass, fingers pulling her soft, reddening skin taut, up and away from where your cock is disappearing between her cheeks - to allow more of your shaft into her hot, wet cunt - allow you to fuck her and fuck her up - allow the length of your shaft to slide deeper and hit all the spots that will send her reeling into this orgasm and the next.

Your gaze is stuck however, not to her curves rippling in excess, the damage of your thrusts pounding her body to ruin, or the look of flawless pleasure twisting up the pretty features of Hyewon's reflection, but instead it's the fucking flash and catch of the diamond that adorns her fourth finger. Even when you have her completely helpless, bent on your mercy, she's still wearing that promise, that intention to have and to hold, and you think, for at least a second, this whole roleplay thing isn't the worst idea: being a surrogate to fulfill someone's wildest fantasies. It might even be enough to make you hard all over again - the thrill and the debasement of your girl, lines quickly blurring between the Hyewon you'll take home and put back together and the Hyewon you're fucking pouding into a mattress - the here and now.

"Fuck, Hyewon," you find yourself swearing - steadying the hips rolling back in your palms, bending down until the flat of your chest meets her back, until your nose is in her hair, the long strands sticking to her lips and the back of her ears. Until you feel her shaking as you suckle against her skin, at her neck, hot kisses between the shoulder blades, finding a grip in her hands. Her grip in yours - as she's muffling these exquisite, needy sounds; she is perfect. Hyewon is perfect.

The first time you cum, it's this hot splatter of white: smeared across her ass and the crease of her lower back. It feels almost dirty to think that's just how you feel about it; your heart is stuttering in its erratic pace, but your eyes are drawn and enraptured, the sight of it all.

Then second, maybe your favorite: when she slips her hand to your aching shaft and simply takes you back inside her. This soft, wet, inviting heat that pulls you back to her.

"God- please," her head tips back, you feel the arch of her back through her ribs and stomach, the way her breath catches as you slide your cock through her creamed-out-cunt so much harder and smoother. "It feels so fucking good, baby," and there are tears now, welling in the corner of her eyes, "don't stop, God don't ever stop-"

She can barely finish her sentence before she's cut off, a moan ripped from the bottom of her lungs and a gasp straight from the pain-pleasure that has your balls slapping against her pussy every other stroke. And suddenly she's sitting, or rather, squirming into your arms, her face buried in your shoulders as she starts riding you, and not-quite crying and saying again - again, the whole filthy lot of things: about her wanting you to fill her, to plug her up with your cock. Every thrust she whines in your ears, clutching onto the fabric of your shirt and making a mess of herself in you.

It's this wild and reckless thing that makes its way around the room, on every surface and bit of furniture. You fuck her over the counter, let her ride you on the sofa, the chair, the two of you managing to find some sort of assistance in the wall even, the door frame, her legs up your sides and the slippery-sticky-heat of your mouths connecting and everything that isn't exactly meant to support that kind of strain buckling and nearly giving way - once when the wooden joints in the door-frame shift, once when she begs for release in that frantic voice that doesn't sound a thing like her. And the way she comes apart under you after, on top of you - is even sweeter; you imagine there's this endless possibility for love, for pleasure, a whole world in bundled in the notion that you could do it for her again, that it was always a question of Hyewon letting you have her that way, and the rest was mere foreplay - a stretch.

Only, on the bed again, Hyewon shivers beneath you, this full-body response, and you've got her stretched as she opens up - that the slightest of movements has her already whimpering out "fuck," and "please," and "right there," and "fuck you're going to make me come like this. You're so good, just fucking," and "more, harder, please, you feel so fucking good-"

The desperation for release is so palpable in her that it's curling into your stomach as your press Hyewon's knees into the points and edges of her shoulders and fold in her half - this perfect angle of leverage. Fucking her like she's yours and no one else's - the absolute delight of her cunt, wet, hot, and desperate to milk you empty - her body quaking at the force of each thrust, and the hungry grind of your hips into hers. Her fingers digging and knotting in the sheets around you until her knuckles pale, and your own grasp on her skin threatens to bruise.

"Inside me," she gasps out, because she can feel that edge just as well as you, "I want you to fill me, just cum inside, God, you always feel so amazing, fuck, like that, cum inside me, cum in me-"

"How could I say no, especially when you ask so sweetly," you tell her, kissing into her smile, "can you take another? Baby, look at me, look into my eyes, yeah? Look right back at me."

Her eyes blink and roll back a bit, almost losing focus and her eyelashes flutter - the creases in her brow, the elegant lines of her face locking up in the overwhelming tension, then, a peak.

And a demand, meekly asking you to fill her up. Until there's nothing left. "Cum," Hyewon moans, "for the love of fuck-"

You push her past her climax until she's practically weeping, sobbing through a litany of nonsense and slurred, unfinished sentences and almost howls, struggling beneath your weight and coaxing her fingers over the surge at the base of your spine. Before a hot liquid mess bursts out of you, into the deepest reach of Hyewon's throbbing cunt - cumming inside her, while you hold her down, not allowing her to move as your hips lock and you're both left groaning in utter agony.

(This was the thing you'd told her once - cumming inside her was almost always worth the effort it took to clean it all back out. You like the possessive aspect of it, maybe the slight humiliation, and more than anything, she'll just melt: once she's gone past the immediate discomfort. If anyone could really learn to get off on feeling a little filthy, it's the two of you. And she knows that too, Hyewon's eager little pout intimates, as she blinks down to watch where the two of you connect.)

You don't say much for the next while. If there's a line where this particular escapade blends back into your normal life, where the Hyewon curled up in the sheets is your own girl and not some half-conceived entity that didn't fit the reality of the rest of the evening, or how you see Hyewon everyday, even then, it’s not clear.

She's utterly boneless - this fragile, dazed thing that runs her palms all the way around her breasts and pulls up her stockings a little further up the line of her hips, as if you weren't going to peel them back and slip them all the way off when you had the wherewithal to handle it. But the strength in her isn't entirely lost either, she looks ready to burst: this air of pride and smugness - victory, right in her grin, which isn't totally surprising. Hyewon usually gets an odd satisfaction out of your participation in whatever hedonistic or obscene thing it is she wants to try.

This was her fantasy - maybe not a deeply rooted or unattainable one, but she'd worked out some kinks of hers and has walked away a far better woman for it, knowing what a sight she is to you. Like this.

"That was... fun," Hyewon eventually says, collecting articles of clothing strewn about the room.

Her shoes are one of two sets in the shoe-rack, but she'll have to look around and under the bed to find her dress. It would probably be some strange level of easy to play dumb and wait until she comes to the conclusion on her own that she should bend down and check down there, but she looks a little too worn out to really be interested in her clothes, more like, ready for the next part.

"We should do it again," her gaze lands, intent, and serious, back to you.

"Which part?" you have to ask, because you're probably still, a little slow on the uptake.

A small laugh, the sly smirk to herself; she knows she has you wrapped so perfectly around her finger, ready to bend to whatever game she can come up with: "whichever part you like."

#hyewon smut #izone smut #izone hyewon smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember

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capslocked · 6 months

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KINKVEMBER DAY: 3

[prompt: fingering] male reader x kim chaewon 2.5k words

Chaewon hates that you’re actually good at this.

To be clear, there’s plenty more that Chaewon hates; it’s not exhaustive, just that bit.

She hates losing. Hates whenever anyone talks over her or doesn't give a second's worth of attention to whatever it is she's trying to say. She absolutely loathes it whenever her friends insist on complimenting her appearance when she doesn't have her clothes or makeup or hair or attitude down just yet.

But the thing she hates most? There's reason to believe it might be that her friends laugh at your jokes, or that when you roll up your sleeves and smile, they all notice things they normally wouldn't (and like it), even when Chaewon fixes them a look just this side of sour and scowly.

Realistically however, and Chaewon doesn't seem to mind admitting this part out loud - especially once you stop teasing her thighs with kisses that tickle the crease where her legs meet her hips - you really are good at going down on girls.

This, is absolute truth.

"Fuck," and "me," she breathes out, harsh little syllables coming with her fingertips knotting into your hair, right above the nape of your neck. She crashes down into the pillow behind her. Back and hips tensing - thighs all spread wide. She probably gives a bit too much, but Chaewon's the kind who gives, then turns around to take some more:

"You can-" is cut short when she gasps at the sudden, slow touch of a finger at the sensitive bundle of nerves atop her folds. There and back. "Ah - a little more, fuck, god. Again."

It's your mouth. The exact right movements - pulling and kissing, sucking gently, fluttering your tongue. Then harder and harder and harder, licking against the crease. That's what has her toes curling and feet flat to the bed. Little fistfuls of cotton sheets twisted up in her grip.

Actually, It's the flat of your tongue, soft and slick and moving on her clit in these long and languid sweeps that really makes the tears in her eyes begin to sting - like all that ache around her pussy is nothing compared to the one simmering in her stomach - like if only she could unwind around you a little bit faster and have her body turn to water and utterly ruin your sheets, she could catch her breath - and find her voice again.

You pull her puffy lips into a kiss, a devilish little suction, and her thighs press tighter and tighter together, around the sides of your head until you start to get a little dizzy. With a hand splayed open across her thigh - a tiny tickling gesture - you urge her to spread. Beg for breath.

Only to your surprise, she closes her legs completely.

"Asshole. Fuck," Chaewon sighs out.

"Did you think you'd lose me?" You kiss your way up from her hips to the flat of her stomach and grin into her skin.

"Was about to kick you," she rolls her eyes, then raises an arm and pushes her bangs off her forehead - wiping a sheen of sweat with the back of her palm. "No mouth."

"No mouth?" You cock your head, giving her an innocently questioning look.

"It's..." Chaewon is barely a hair's length away from what you expect. "Don't kiss me either. Unless you wanna make out, in which case actually, the answer's also no. I don't want to taste myself."

"Chae, you actually taste pretty good."

"Stop." Chaewon's sigh has a lilt, something obviously worried in the noise. Tucked into the shape of her half-lidded eyes. "I'm literally too turned on for this."

"So you want me to touch you."

Here’s to that what Chaewon doesn't say, "I want you to stick three of those fingers into my pussy and fill me 'til the knuckle and eat my ass while your thumb is tucked deep in my cunt. I want it to hurt, how badly I'm aching for you to fill and ruin and tear me the fuck apart."

She instead asks, "what the fuck do you think?"

"But no mouth," you repeat, slowly running your fingers down the creamy skin along her thigh, watching how she shivers when you brush a certain spot near her knee, and feeling a tightening grip on the opposite hip.

Chaewon groans a bit, lips twisting down.

"Can I perhaps, like, ask why?" you ask, pressing hot, open-mouth kisses into the flesh of her leg, down from her knee, over the curve of a thigh - but not, determinedly, into her where she's hotter and softer and practically melting, from all this pressure built up inside.

"Mind your own business," she mutters back.

You look. Chaewon's pussy is so, so pretty. Wetness gathering at the glistening, flushed hood. She's fluttering: desperate for the faintest touch. It's hard to imagine yourself doing anything other than making her writhe and gasp and wail on your mouth and lips and tongue, as your undoing - reducing her to an exhausted, sweat-drenched, wracked mess, the kind of spent that follows with long, long sighs and whispered curses under her breath.

With a fingertip ghosting touches around her cunt, Chaewon lets out an unexpectedly high-pitched whine. One that fades, bit by bit. Into an eventual murmuring - begging?

"Baby," you say, when you just can't resist. "I just want to make you-"

"I said, I wanted-I want-" and then with the pillow over her face, her groan, muffled, "look - it's fine. It's...great, even," is what you think she means by "amazing," but she continues, "you're literally the best thing I've ever felt, please. Fuck-come on. Keep touching."

You slow your hand, smoothing down the soft skin over her thighs.

And as soon as your lips cover her hole, from where she's wet and dripping and open, her hands fall to her side, pillow sliding into the corner of the sheets. "It's too good."

You're kidding. With a tip of your head, and your most self-satisfied little smirk, you ask, "too good?"

"Can you shut the fuck up, I hate you. I really fucking do," she says in what you figure was meant to be a dismissive sigh. One that's something stuck in a guttural moan and the squeak of mattress springs. "Please, you make me cum too fast otherwise."

You chuckle, trying your damnedest not to keep the mood going and actually get her to enjoy the moment - the best orgasm of her life, you want her to remember. To deserve the bragging rights.

“Odd complaint, princess.”

The stare she has fixed on you - over the space where her shirt is bunched up over the arch of her ribs - cuts right through you, if a bit hazy. And with her hands over her face, squirming her hips closer to you, she says, “don’t fucking call me princess.”

The implication is not lost on her. You let out an apologetic laugh, bringing your mouth, if briefly, closer to the peak of her hips and blowing a cold breath.

Chaewon just mutters something that sounds vaguely like, "fucking prick, just go back down."

Which is where she ends up. Or, starts. Because now she's lying back on the pillows with her hand slung across her forehead, leg up and bent and calf draped over the crook of your elbow, her eyes rolling back as you start to touch her - really, earnestly; work her up again, thumb rubbing the length of her clit. You can hear Chaewon's breath leaving her chest, in a broken pattern, until the sensations finally allow her to settle into one smooth inhale.

And then, slowly, just the length of one finger up to your first knuckle, the second - you slip inside her so, so easily. Then almost all the way. Her body tense, and her cunt, deliciously soft.

When you stroke and rub and slide your way back in, adding another digit, the noises she begins to make - your name, then god - sound raw, like a far-off cry and a drawn-out wail. There's a swishing sound whenever you get really slow and rhythmic, with the push, that turns slick-wet from the hot, milky way her insides get all sticky with her own want, before you can press more kisses into the bone of her hips and lap against the same skin - almost biting.

"Tell me if you want to stop," you whisper, the hot, humid breath of which does not fail to cause her spine to bend.

"Don't."

She's half-swearing, half-whimpering.

"Fuck you," is what follows next. As she wraps a hand in the hair around the base of your skull and pulls you close, right into her thighs and hips.

It's the small pleasures that have always gotten to you the most, the smallest, most vulnerable and unthinkingly personal acts, like, you think, when she presses the heel of her hand over her eyes and half-smiles, when the palm spreads out across the flatness of her stomach, as if, somehow, her whole self could not be any more delicate and devious at the exact same time.

And you are compelled, because of course, you are compelled: to be anything and everything Chaewon asks for in this moment, you tell her.

(Here's the embarrassing part. For her, really.)

You have your thumb tucked up along the muscle of Chaewon's thighs, opening and stroking a straight line from where your finger is still nestled all the way up the entirety of her folds, "so good and so," before circling the tensed point in a delicate, feather-touch, "tight, baby."

"Shit, oh, that's. You're." And all you do is hum, agreeing, adding another stroke and letting your lips fall into her open thigh. Your finger fucking her cunt a few times before twisting back and pulling out.

"You're making me feel so," and her whole body relaxes. Not only her voice. A shudder that breaks up her spine and spreads to her thighs, loosening. And looser and looser.

And at the exact same time she's saying: "hot."

Chaewon runs the pad of her thumb over her lip, bucking her hips into the flutter of your fingers. The soft, velvety heat of her cunt takes quickly to the slow circle-stroke, slide and curl, repeat, again. Her whine is longer, louder. More-so once her whole body tightens up once your fingers fuck into her, especially deep, in short-rhythmic staccato strokes, rubbing at her from the inside until she's shaking all over and can hardly breathe.

"Fuck, the way you're so-" Chaewon's heels digging deeper, "oh, deeper. Right there, please right there–."

This isn't even the worst of her embarrassment. When her stomach gets visibly tensed, muscles bunching and giving, and your free hand falls to rest on top of it. All this friction happening within her. Just beneath the surface of her skin and how that must be lighting every nerve along her spine and sending them all aflame, so overwhelmed and tightened, only relaxing in small increments whenever you move a bit too slow, to a bit more pressure - adding the extra touch, kissing her everywhere between her thighs, right into the dips between them. Close but not there. So frustratingly near, and she barely has the air left in her lungs to make a frustrated noise, but somehow finds the impetus to let the weight fall out of her body - let her limbs stretch open, give, release the tension.

Then all those incoherent twitching spasms: "God. Now-"

When the sudden ache inside her walls hits, it catches first in her chest, spreading out where the fist curling into the covers can't hide. "Right there, right there," she's panting, nodding her head in these tiny little shakes, rocking her hips into the movement and pushing them into your touch. And you just nod back.

Her orgasm hits her like a fucking lightning storm: blinding and thunderous, heavy.

Chaewon simply cries out when she unravels, finally, and the sound is a little wrecked. Cursing your name, god's.

Her hand is twisted in your hair, and she pulls, twists and wrenches, an arm tossed over her face when it feels like you're rushing, surging waves breaking all along her senses, the pads of your fingers pushing into the ridges, knuckles wrapping, knocking at her core, finger prints seared into her skin and pressing into that knot of pleasure, swollen and raw.

She just exhales into a groan and runs a palm down her face and throat, and breasts, rubbing a bit harshly at the tops of her shoulders. You raise yourself over her, until your head's just next to her collarbone, not speaking but watching how her breaths are slowing - the moment they become steadier, like a boat to shore.

You prop an arm over her, carefully, letting Chaewon twist her palm, finger the tips of yours. It's like listening to music, hearing how she laughs and swallows around this haze. Her whole body in the dreamy afterglow, writhing a little when the ache crawls back up through the space between her hips and she settles onto her side, curling up in your half-embrace.

"Oh, well. Look what you did to me, fuck," she murmurs. You can't help smiling.

"Too fast?" you ask, lowering your head, propping yourself up on a single elbow and gently placing a kiss along the top of her hair, tangling her fingers with your own.

"You're really annoying," she huffs. She tries her best not to blush, but the glow in her cheeks is quite apparent - especially once it reaches her ears. You laugh right into the top of her head, and she playful slaps a fist to your chest. "Go to bed, idiot."

"To think - you said you liked me."

"Said. Said, being the key word here."

When you roll over - slightly onto her and slip a thigh between her legs - Chaewon groans, and her hands press into your back. The touch is light. Practically nothing. Then you're grinning down at her, a sly smile playing in your eyes. "Maybe it’s my turn," she murmurs, "to make you squirm."

"No mouth?" you tease. "You might need the help sweetheart."

"Fuck that. Absolutely not." Chaewon rolls and turns until she's on top of your thighs, pinning you gently in place. She’s fixing her hair into a clumsy little ponytail, hallmark signs of impatience, that says, "if I want to suck your cock, I'll do it," she glares a little, but her smirk is turning the corner, and her whole face softens.

"Shouldn't have laughed earlier, asshole."

(And here is the start and end of all you think you know, watching as she places a trail of kisses down your chest.)

#chaewon smut #le sserafim smut #izone smut #le sserafim chaewon smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember

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capslocked · 6 months

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KINKVEMBER DAY: 2

[prompt: mutual masturbation] male reader x jang wonyoung 4k words

If nothing else, Jang Wonyoung is a creature of habit.

Always orders her americano cold. Brown sugar and cinnamon cream cheese on her bagel. Walks three and a half steps behind her manager whenever they make their rounds: hair salon, corner pharmacy, the office, local record store. And for as long as she's been sharing your bed, she's insisted on that horrendous alarm clock from the late 90s that chirps the early-morning wakeup like a dying robot-parakeet.

All of it has worked for her so far, she’ll tell you. Which you find hard to argue with.

So - when she arrives home later than usual on an ordinary Thursday, she doubles down on routine. Where there's comfort in predictability. Coat on the third hook, boots below, fingers in her hair twisting to undo a messy bun, and a soft, delicate, "It's me," once she steps over the threshold.

“Hey,” you say to her, tilting your head. "You look, bedraggled."

"Well," and Wonyoung brushes aside the handful of her damp hair not stuck to her neck. There are faint marks just at her temple, in a faded half-circle, not unlike what would happen if your pillow wasn't comfortable. Or, you know. Some boyfriend that she's not supposed to have getting a hand tangled into all that long hair and pulling tight, like she tells him not to do. "That's probably true."

"Is it raining?"

"It was earlier." She eyes the spoonful of yogurt you're about to lick off, leaning back against the counter and tapping at the ceramic bowl. Frowns. "Is that one of the last blueberry ones. I take those for my lunch."

"I can always get more."

"Uh-huh." She drops her phone, keys, and spare change from her pockets into the large wicker bowl that lives near the end of the hall, by the closet and coat hooks. She has a sort of despondent energy about her when she comes into the kitchen. Less a look, more of a stance. A rub at her shoulder, this back and forth in her neck like she's working out a kink.

And because she looks tired and her hair is damp and she isn't busy kissing you right away, that's when you reach out. Let a finger slide across her skin, under her collar, pull aside the cotton.

"I'm going to go take a shower."

"Mind if I join you? You could use a hand." You end up holding hers in your own for a moment. Just, looking. "If you want."

There's something unidentifiable in her stare. She might have gone on believing nothing was different if not for the length of that pause - you, and the warmth from your body and the warmth of your hands on her shoulders, sliding into her neck, then-

She rises up on her toes and presses a light, almost shy kiss into your chin. And, well, if she had the strength to reach anywhere more than that, she'd let her fingertips find and curl around the smooth curve of your ear and say, very softly - barely audible - "take your clothes off. I'm already soaking wet. If you don't help, I'll run out of hot water before the conditioner's worked its way through."

But it's not for tonight; she's tired, wants it simple, maybe. Maybe wants to leave it for a better day.

"I just want to get cleaned up. It's been a long day."

"Fine by me." You point your spoon at her. "That's what it's for."

“Such a fucking gentleman," she murmurs, patting a palm at the front of your chest.

You smile first, playful - just this side of annoying - the exact thing she's kicking herself months later for having fallen for. And with another spoonful of yogurt, "you know me."

In your defense, Wonyoung has always had the cutest reaction to it. The quirk that she tries to keep from forming in the corner of her mouth, small and contained, like if you asked her about her day, she'd play it off. Let a sentence out with no punctuation. Which she often does: she's been fine, and that's the full length of her response.

But later, when she climbs into bed - when her face is in your hands and her lips are brushing past your cheek - when her hair smells like peach shampoo, and your chin is tucked into the nape of her neck, just the beginning of all the ways you plan to spoil her, you have to tease. Always, "I thought we weren't fucking until tomorrow, or was that a lie?"

A little bit of distance to keep your mind on track, and not thinking about her spread out under you, wide-eyes, and saying: yes.

You’re propped up against the headboard. You were reading, or watching tv. It doesn’t matter which when Wonyoung straddles your legs and drags her hand up your chest. Up and under her nightgown, the silky, thin, light blue material, until she has the collar cupped in her fist and her knees straddling your thigh. "Am I not allowed to change my mind?"

"No. Not allowed." Your breath catches. Because she is gorgeous, especially like this: tired, and pretty, and sweet, and thinking, deeply and meticulously and with great consideration, of climbing into your lap and asking if you'd help. If she'd be distracting enough - if she had the words to entice you into staying very close, without actually promising anything, because this, what she's wearing, how it's so tight to her form and how it is easily torn or bunched aside when she reaches down with both hands and starts to fiddle with the fabric at her waist, near her navel - is all entirely purposeful.

Wonyoung raises her eyebrow in question - silently: an exception, maybe, for me?

The way you're talking her up with both hands at the very smallest dip between her ribs and the bones jutting out above her hips, thumbs rubbing into the sensitive places along her thighs - pressing, a steady rhythm.

"Do you want it bad, princess?"

"Stop." Wonyoung wrinkles her nose at that and glares. But she knows better than anyone else. She lives in that contradiction, visible as it plays across her face when her back arcs and arches. When her breathing does this slow and deep in and out and you've leaned in with just enough pressure to make it feel good, in your kiss, a soft tug, a bite. A slow laving tongue leaving lazy patterns across her skin.

"Just want to make sure," you insist. Then, the question is being murmured against her chest. Then it's being whispered into the crook of her neck - which earns the single most content of sounds:

"A little, yeah, you ass."

"My mouth? My fingers? Or are you looking for something more... involved?"

"Maybe I'm looking," she says, pulling a curtain of glossy black hair back over her ear, "for you to figure that out."

"Aren’t you coy." You grab at her hair again - the second time today, for the second-worst of reasons. To tilt her head and gaze up at her like you're willing to live in the space beneath her. "We'd start slow?" you ask, and with a press of your open mouth against her collarbone, she brings her arms around you.

"Very slowly," Wonyoung says. She has one hand curling through bedsheets to feel if you're anywhere near as hard as she is wet. Her touch is fleeting, barely a whisper. "We don't have to rush it. Maybe we could do that thing."

You laugh out loud, and the vibration of it alone, coursing through your chest, your waist, up between her legs, has Wonyoung wanting. "That could mean anything at this point."

Wonyoung just looks down at you, fingernails grazing over your stomach, your chest, as she peels your shirt up over your head and tosses it aside the bed. And then, the idea, "get your phone."

"Hm. I'm going to say something that might come off as a little... something, but I mean it in the most respectful way." It's not a far reach, to where yours is charging on the nightstand. You're tapping in the passcode to your lockscreen when you spell it out for the girl in your lap: "you're low-key kind of a freak."

Wonyoung closes her eyes. Smiles. Her hair is spilling over one shoulder, some strewn across her chest, where she cups the underside of her breasts and sits her elbows into your shoulders and wriggles her ass a little lower in your lap. Until the tips of her hair are brushing the space below her belly-button, teasing-soft at the warm, pliant flesh.

"Pot." She bites into her lip, just slightly. "Meet kettle."

It doesn't take long to find what she's looking for; twitter's full of it. A video of her that'd gone viral. Or not quite viral, but circulated - bounced from account to account, thousands and thousands of hits - the shot by shot of the choreo that sees her bending over at the waist, touching her fingertips to the hem of a plaid-checked skirt, with this perfect posture, straight up through the hips to arch the back and lift and turn her shoulders at the right angle, so there's no mistake she's looking straight at the camera.

“You look good here,” you remark, scrolling a little further. She's grown so used to it that she doesn't even look.

Instead, it's her fingers that do the talking: moving a little faster. Touching a little deeper and harder over the gray cloth of her underwear. She runs a circle over the spot that has her rubbing her hips forward, breath shaky, back in your ear. "I always look good, don't I?"

"Obviously."

Her jaw falls into the crook of your neck. There's no escaping it: this heat, and she sighs. Mumbled and warm. This is the worst thing, she mutters - like you can't feel how incredibly hard it's getting to see her touch herself and act all shy, so the words are half-concentrating on her own breath, the other half focused, hazy. In her face. In her chest.

So, again. Wonyoung swallows a sigh. Breathes and runs her touch along the edges. That spot and where the wet has started to soak through the fabric, her thighs rubbing and sliding and finding new pressure.

“Here’s a particularly nasty one," you tell her.

Wonyoung turns her mouth into your neck, lips leaving these kisses while she presses down her fingers and rides. Hard, heavy strokes where her hand moves quicker with a sharp huff to her inhale. You click open another thread - another snapshot of that tight little ass of hers, the smooth skin over the dip of her hips, and the long curve of her back-

"Read it."

And with the music all distorted and choppy through tinny phone speakers, you say: "some guy can't decide if he'd like to spank you or pull your hair."

"Uh-huh." You feel her chin dig in where it's placed itself, over the flat of your shoulder.

"Then there's an awful lot here about how much the commenter wants to rail you. They get pretty vulgar." You look up from the screen and raise an eyebrow, the words coming into place, "Wonyoung has grown up so well," and the next part is so easy, "this little cocktease has been begging me to drain my balls for her for too long. I have to fucking oblige."

"God." She slips a finger into her panties to rub at her pussy - you know because the contact is audible, wet - and she drags a palm up and down, pressing in hard. Her lips part over a shaky punched out breath - this hot, wet puff of air - when she drags her mouth over the smooth skin of your collarbone. Where she feels at liberty to bite a hickey into the taut line of your neck, and draw her mouth, open and hot, up into your jaw. "Cocktease, huh?"

"Always the impression you leave." And with one, long, indulgent swipe, and a pinch on the wet material that's plastered itself, sheer and transparent and a beautiful outline to your cock, you glance to see Wonyoung smiling. That one that's all cheekbones. All teeth. All sort of sly.

"Can you," and there's not even an attempt, not even a sliver of an ounce of thought toward trying to hide the ache in her voice.

(You're there before she has to ask.)

“The concept of ‘Baddie’ does suit her, I think,” you start to read, “no one would believe it, but Wonyoung is the perfect little slut. Grade A baddie. Capital 'b'. She keeps teasing us with that tight, toned body and her slutty expressions. Someone’s ruining her on the regular. Not a doubt in my mind. A piece of ass that fine doesn’t go a week without it.”

"I do like when they talk about you," Wonyoung purrs out, and her hand slips down your chest. A touch, always warm and heavy and searching and all your fault lands right at your waist. On the bone that juts out at her thumb and forefinger. Which is exactly where she'd start palming you over your underwear, but with something close and confident in her eye, this mischievous idea taking shape in her gaze. You can't deny it: she has something dangerous in store.

"About how they think I am."

And when you place your hand back at her hairline, trailing her neck, her shoulder, Wonyoung sighs. From the top of her chest.

"What else does it say?" She breathes out a desperate exhale. This low-slung sort of groan. She looks hungry, and so unafraid to be. Eyes all smoldering. Hips all wriggling. Pushing a rhythm with those desperate grinds over your leg. The mess, in the softest sense, of her mouth, panting against the smooth line of your jaw. And voice, hoarse, murmuring something about: "how are they planning to ruin me?"

"Princess, you-"

Wonyoung angles her hips just that inch. A moan, just at the barest amount of friction, barely a grind, her soaked pussy rubbing against the flesh of your upper thigh, that feels like an earthquake hitting your throat. That makes your eyes flutter closed for just one second and groan, your whole chest singing for her.

You swallow hard. "How can anyone go on calling this innocent-"

Wonyoung’s fingers slip past the elastic, your cock springing free against her thigh and bobbing gently. "Play along," she tells you, this hint of command, and maybe a tease - playful and familiar. "I don't want to be the only one ruining their underwear." She smiles like she has plans, and it's downright infuriating in the best way.

“In the song, she even calls herself a ‘pretty little risky baddie’ and means that whatever happens, happens. She’s announcing that she’s not on birth control and that she knows all she’s good for is getting fucked and used and bred like a toy.”

“And?” she asks, the fingers between her legs fluttering out tiny circles of respite - moving fast, faster -

It takes more than a couple seconds, because your breath halts in your throat the moment your fist finds the blood pulsing through your cock, joining her in slow, full-length, smooth motions, watching, always. Seeing her, all the way: with every slow and steady roll of her hips that moves her slick-covered-panties along your skin. The expression in the hooded eyes, this flash of her pink tongue and the way it curls over the seam of her plush-soft lip. That subtle shift in the arch of her back and the clenching muscle up her arm and leg-

Watching is where you find yourself at: all the way, everywhere. The tremble in the flex of her spine to the sound she makes from her throat at the same time. When Wonyoung moves closer. How you breathe, ragged, but eager. You're both all nerves, the damp heat building up the soft and quiet parts of the both of you and neither of you are bothered about the sweat sticking the shirt to her skin - this wet heat, a daze, a smell in the air that has Wonyoung rocking and rotating on your lap.

"I would start," you continue reading, paraphrasing slightly the unhinged words of someone typing one-handed, and your voice comes out odd, thick. "-start with my cock forced into that little throat, she'd look so perfect with her eyes watering while she gags on my cum, the filthy sounds she would be making. She'd beg for more like the slutty princess she is-"

Wonyoung shifts her weight, and lets out this moan.

"-I'm not convinced Wonyoung would even be satiated by being railed in her pretty little pussy until she's crying. Wouldn't be enough if she only choked on it while cum dripped down her chin, leaving those little dollops along the edges, slipping and glazing on her tongue. Probably wants the messiest, hottest load. No condom. Lying flat. Clenching. Could you imagine, bare? Wanting to be used for real, want us filling her so badly she'd barely even be able to move, or think, or process anything except how much of an overstimulated slut she would be: helpless. Soaking."

And you look at her as you stroke - the same tempo. Pre-cum leaking from the flushed head. Making a show of it. Watching her lips drop into something slack-jawed. This isn't even the filthiest thought she's ever heard - the roughest fantasy brought to life she's ever imagined - and yet.

"They go on for a long time about breeding you."

Wonyoung manages this incoherent half-word - a word of want, more of the kind of fucking she'd be receiving with her knees and palms to a mattress, her throat dry and face sticky with cum and tears and sweat. You know her body and what she likes, and this:

"-I would fuck her while she screams, her fingers tearing at the bedsheets and her vision so blurry and brain all fogged over, only able to respond in pained moans and deep-seated need-"

Her throat bobs.

You don't need to turn the phone over to find the end. Wonyoung lets it fall faceup onto the bedspread as she pulls your wrist toward the heat between her legs, all messy and slick. "Touch me," she's murmuring, guiding your hand lower until you have the thin strip of fabric tenting just off her lips and you press a digit inside, another - until Wonyoung clenches all around you - until she brings her wet fingers to your own ache, the hot length of your cock, pumping up and down, a stroke. Until she licks them, and places her forehead into the center of your collarbone, mumbling this broken, "Just... put-your-fucking-hands-" and her next breath, like a sharp and sudden wind.

When she’s this worked up, it doesn't take long: Wonyoung arches, slow and sinful, her shoulders curving down to present her chest, to make her small breasts and pert, hardened nipples visible even through the cotton of her shirt, her lips falling open - you slip two fingers to the base, then three. Plunging them in quick and ruthless, Wonyoung bucking into the heel of your hand, fucking her pussy on you so her thighs are slick, squelch after squelch-

“Fuck,” she whispers, this long note of exasperation, right into your cheek, and the intensity and urgency has her fucking her hips up to meet the thrust of your fingers, working her cunt like it's made for pleasure alone, and your cock-

The base of your throat burns. “Yeah,” you tell her, “just like that. Jerk that cock just like that, Wonyoung.”

Both of you are there, cumming into each other's hands, in the dimmed lights of your bedroom, heaving short, wet, sinful breaths into each other's mouths, because it's become one: her eyes and yours, blown wide. Her thighs shaking, your hips stuttering.

You roll and curl and spread your digits, holding Wonyoung's ass into her strokes. Tug the strap aside to hook a thumb in and press into her hot skin and warm muscle, driving further, deeper. Harder and firmer - pressing down, fast and vicious until she's making a series of sounds, whine-like and so soft.

"With me," she chokes out, swallowing down on the noise that falls out of her chest as fingers continue to slide around you like a vice. Her palm on you with so much pressure. "Fuck. I want you to cum."

It hits you - at first, not even particularly surprising, the rush of blood through your head.

"I wanna see it," she demands in a small, not particularly loud voice, so shy and small as the backs of her feet scramble for a hold on the mattress and she comes so hard - again, a sigh. "-feel your cum all over my knuckles, baby, cum on my-"

As to whether you or Wonyoung release first, tension coiled like a spring - well, it's anyone's guess.

"Wony-" Your mouth is open, eyes clenched tight, when Wonyoung bites a kiss down on your lip. All-consuming is the only way to describe the kind of desperation in her noises. It's everything, the sound and feeling, her wanting, her needing. All that wet heat - your stomach tightening, then slack, muscles stiffened up and falling loose as your grip becomes too tight, too heavy around the girl whose fist you're fucking and jerking and riding through this white-hot-blinding-orgasm, her wrist buckling to let you use her.

It's all that cum, lathering Wonyoung's palm, the space between her fingers, wrist and your shaft, slipping, easy. A whole puddle.

It's a few, careful strokes of her thumb and she's holding you up through that oversensitive high, forcing all that cum onto her belly, the hem of her nightshirt, all sorts of slick and messy. "Fuck, shit-" your hand still over her hot cunt, while hers just lays her weight over you, her lithe, slender body landing like it had lost any preference for form, for structure.

"Ugh," Wonyoung finally manages to get out.

"God." You collapse, leaning into the headboard behind you. With Wonyoung wrapped over your chest. Into your arm. Around your waist and mouth buried somewhere into the sweep of your neck: exhausted, entirely.

When she comes around, she does, however, make it an effort to use her tongue. Teasing along your jaw. A slip. And that makes you wonder.

"Messy," she says, wiping the back of her hand on your thigh, because where else should the proof end up.

"Ah."

She bites in, then tugs - lips on yours, until you lean up and wrap around the middle of her back, down into her hair and her hips. Because this part of her has never had a preference: to be treated either with the kind of affection and reverence afforded to an object of worship, or manhandled like someone, someone, no doubt has their fingers on her the instant she turns her ass this way or that.

"I could," she says, eyes unfocused and foggy - licking over the swell of her lip, "use a hand cleaning this up."

"Shower?"

“Mhmm.” Wonyoung slides her long legs off you, and in a look that's all too intentional, turns to move away and slip her nightshirt up, and-

Oh.

Right over her head. Then she tosses it aside like it's nothing. Wears the same sort of look that someone who hadn't had your fingers buried between their legs might. "Or, a bath sounds nice, if I’m allowed to change my mind."

"Say less, princess."

#wonyoung smut #ive wonyoung smut #ive smut #male reader #kpop smut #capslocked kinkvember

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capslocked · 6 months

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KINKVEMBER DAY: 1

[prompt: against a wall window]

male reader x huh yunjin

5k words

You're not entirely sure where the jacket to your suit has gone.

You know you should know; it’s a rental and you need to return it in a week. But Yunjin told you to take it off, and since then, things have been... a little hazy.

More concerning - or it would be, had Yunjin not also lost some part of her attire - is what her thumbs are hooked into. Like she's peeling out the silhouette to her skin-tight, backless dress - the way she can't keep from leaning against the elevator wall. Your lips have the taste of her red lipstick all over, and her body melts with every little flick of the tip of her tongue against yours, puddles that much further when she feels your fingers curling into the folds of that skin-tight black material.

The motion to push the fabric up and over the rise of her hips is a purposeful kind of thing.

For the past hour, her skirt kept brushing over the fabric of your pants while you went from shaking hands to kissing hands to her placing yours on the hem of her dress, in the quiet space of a balcony the hotel staff had clearly marked as off-limits. A kiss behind the shell of her ear, a suggestion, a shiver.

Now, things are happening in a sort of reverse: from slow and curious, to needing more and wanting less, and suddenly, neither of you want to wait - until her thighs are spread wide apart, with your free hand slid over her smooth thigh, fingers skirting the edges of her lace, cupped over her heat - right, there. The throbbing.

"Do you have any idea what you're doing to me," is what she's asking.

"Something awful," you reply, but there's only a gasp out of her throat to prove your point. No words.

Just the look: desire clouding over the expression. The not-so-subtle display of want, need. Tongue pressing to lips and tugging along the corner. A moan, two, quieted behind the knuckle she can't quite help putting in her mouth.

You consider shoving her panties down the curve of her thighs and spinning her around - leaving her arms to brace the railing and keeping the dress around her waist while you fuck. Quick, rough.

The mental image is too nice to let it go.

You consider how much she might genuinely prefer to that to whatever she'd had in mind when she suggested you really ought see the view of the city from her room - oh, the skyline, it's gorgeous, she offered, lips tugged into a perfectly practiced little quirk that said: the view of me, on all fours, face down into a mattress as my ass swallows down your cock - I can't wait to have you.

You can feel the thought concrete itself to the base of your skull when you roll the flat of your finger over her clit and start sliding up and down between the lips of her pussy - finding her a little wet already, dripping onto the fabric in the most obvious way. When the elevator stops a few floors shy, you try to play it off by squeezing at her rib cage and tugging the fabric back in place, hiding the tell-tale lines between the fabric, just as Yunjin starts that gentle laugh from the very base of her spine. A real beautiful timbre in its sound.

But things get more muddled, admittedly, when the doors ding and the group on the other side piles through.

There's an exchange of glances, where they're asking if this is allowed, is there enough room, can they make room. One of them, in a dizzyingly plunging, strapless blue number that has you pressing your palm into the small of Yunjin's back just a little more than you have been up to that point, considers, carefully.

"Yunjin," she says, fingers brushing through the fringe of a smart-chic bob, prim cut of jet-black hair.

Yunjin shifts her weight onto the other heel. "Chaewon."

"By the looks of it," she says, and the way she looks you over has all the judgmental verve of an older sister, a real cold stare. "You've got a I'll-be-staying-in-tonight kind of vibe."

A deeper laugh now, rolling out across the backs of her teeth. "If it's all the same to you," is what you hear from her, "it'll be an early night for me."

“Don’t make it a habit,” she tells Yunjin.

“We’re just going to go enjoy the view.”

“Yeah.” Chaewon gives you one final, disapproving expression. “I bet he will.”

The elevator isn't totally silent, not for the subtle hum and whir of machinery. But everything is a lot closer now. Especially your thoughts, the way Yunjin pulls herself closer against you by a hand on the back of your dress shirt - her fingernails mapping the ridge of your spine, finding your hip bone, thumb curving back and forth against the curve of it.

The four girls at the corner are just making chatter in their corner of the lift. They've got a reservation - in name, anyway. If things were as simple as getting from the hotel to the elevator and beyond, no need for the next forty floors to pass at a snail's pace.

In fact, the four have this sort of tense, concentrated way to them that suggests otherwise - like maybe they came all this way and made that sort of promise to have the whole night end the way some things ought: alone.

"Don't stop on account of us," one of them says after a while.

Which is enough to set off this glare into the furl of Yunjin’s brows. Not her friend's intention. But they laugh it off.

When the doors scuttle open, finally, the two of you stumble out, feet not catching up to the rest of you before Yunjin has her fingers around your wrist and drags you out. Her heels - red-bottomed and not entirely flat but definitely a lot less heel-ey than others (she’s tall, she says, it makes her self-conscious), are clacking quick across marble tile until she arrives at the door of her room, pulls her keycard out of her clutch and leans shoulder-first into the door after the click and whir of entry.

She takes a step backward.

The door locks at your back when it's kicked into its frame.

The first thing you notice is her dress: pooled on the floor around the arches of her heels, cast off like a cloak or some overcoat - to be tossed aside once the sun goes down.

"Make a habit out of this, huh?" you ask in an effort to keep yourself busy - gawking's never been a good look on anyone, even with your natural gifts, the glint in your smile, all your charm - but the curves of her body are stunning, curves that start where her thighs begin, wrap around her hips, cut in at her waist, bloom from the perfectly-small-breasts that now are showing their dusky pink nipples, firm and on full display.

All of Yunjin, like this, beneath pale moonlight pouring diffuse through the fish-bowl-glass of her hotel room, is nothing short of an invitation.

A good look, is what you're about to say if you don't come up with anything else.

"You do this kind of thing often?"

"What's that," Yunjin says over the sharp line of a grin.

"What I mean to say is: I hadn't pegged you for the," and you gesture, rather elegantly, with the flop of your wrist, "lure-some-poor-sap-away-from-a-party-and-take-advantage kind of type," before managing something like a genuine laugh. "Not to knock that lifestyle or anything."

"There's not a thing in the world you know about me," is what she offers. Which is, unsurprisingly, totally true, and slightly unfair.

Yunjin is walking toward you while you consider it.

Drifting when she comes around. It's that close. You can smell the warmth of her skin, a whiff of that vanilla, an infuriating softness - the room is dark, but the moon is bright and the city is glowing, reflecting its light and the various hues from neon signs below, outside, until Yunjin stops, standing right in front of you, just, waiting.

Then, the steady rise of an eyebrow that, for a second, feels like a challenge.

“So," you kiss into her lips, and that's the first. "Let me know you."

The second is when her hands slip up and over the back of your neck and you can't keep from reaching for her sides, pulling her closer. Her hips and ass and those fucking gorgeous, full, legs that can't decide which direction to take - until she's pressed, warm, soft, and perfect against your body, and she's sighing this sigh, heavy, a moan.

The third time, she's licking into your mouth, tongue rolling in and around the taste of your own.

"Too many clothes," she murmurs, and you can feel the pull at your half-undone bowtie, the collar to your dress shirt. She's working the buttons off their slots with deft, clever fingers.

"That's what happens when I'm trying to look sharp."

"Sharp, and hot."

"Is it working?"

Her eyes are as dark as the hair framing the smile that plays at the edge of her mouth. "I'm taking your clothes off, aren't I?"

"Mm," you reply, a smirk of your own. Pressed right into her jaw, her neck, the column of her throat, where she tastes sweet and salty. Like the sea and the night. Before you can even ask, with your fingers teasing the elastic of her underwear, I'm guessing you want me to do the same.

Yunjin makes a sound like, mm-hm.

The hotel room is quite standard, which is to say, nice. But, for what it is, it's not too fancy. There's a large, king-size bed with the crispest sheets you've ever felt. A little kitchenette. Some counter space and a fridge. A TV hanging opposite the bed, with an armchair and a love-seat positioned to face the screen.

"Do you want me to tell you what to do?" Yunjin asks, and her voice is low. Almost a husk, a whisper.

"What did you have in mind?" you say to her, and there's a hand on the nape of your neck, a fist of soft, slender fingers wrapping the length of your cock.

"You're going to fuck me until I'm cumming on your cock. You'll get me on my knees, first, though."

"That's the plan?"

"Unless you have another." Yunjin grins, a smile so full and bright and genuine. You don't know anything beyond her name and the perfectly sculpted curve of her ass. She could be anyone, an actress, a singer, a model. A girl-next-door. A friend of a friend.

She could be yours.

And in a way, when she's on her knees, her mouth hot and tight around the shape of your cock, those fucking lips pressed into the base of it, sliding easy with the spit she leaves on your shaft, that's exactly what you tell her.

"Yunjin," is all you're saying, a sigh, a hiss. You're helping her get your pants off the ends of your feet while your cock is lathered and bathed in her spit, feeling her slender fingers pull up and down your shaft. "That feels so fucking good, baby. Just like that." It's fast, sloppy, she's taking you in and out of her hot mouth like it's the most natural thing in the world. A slurp, a cough, and she's completely unfettered, sucking down and swallowing another breath - not to mention all that about her tongue. A swirl over the head of your cock and you show how much you like it, letting her read the bite into your lip, inventorying every little wince through your brow.

But see - you have your fingers in her hair, holding the strands away from her face. Away from where Yunjin's eyes are breathtaking and glittering, blinking back up under upturned brows, looking up at you from where she's taking you into the hot wet of her mouth, inch-by-inch. And the part of you, this cruel, twisting sensation, would hate for her to think anything of your hands - how they're at the top of her head, cradled behind, and easing her forward, the head of your cock teasing the roof of her mouth.

The back of her mouth.

The back of her throat.

Fuck, her eyes go wide. She's good. She takes it.

And just from the pretty look she keeps on her face, Yunjin loves it. Loves to be pushed, loves to have her hands running along the ridge of your thigh until her fingers are prying the very bottom, the underside, your balls. Like this, with her kneeling down between your legs, the flexing muscle of her upper arms to her palms squeezed tight on either cheek of your ass, where the heat starts to stir deep - to pull. Bring the full length of you to the back of her throat.

The choked sound from deep in her chest should surprise you.

And for the shortest moment, you're holding still and forcing her head, your hands keeping her perfectly put: just there, right there. Exactly like that - where she could look like the perfect mess and feel a twitch right between those lips that keep asking so kindly, go ahead, fuck a load of cum down my throat, baby, use these lips - the soft swell of these lips until you're cumming for me.

Or something else along those lines.

The thought of it crosses your mind: cum spilling from the corner of her mouth as she tries to take everything you have. The flutter in her throat wringing it all down. The mess that all would make. Not that she isn’t already a perfect sight.

You tug on her hair again.

Yunjin's eyes sparkle.

Her eyelashes go a little droopy, hazy. Dark.

And she starts humming across this wistful note of a sigh as her lips start slipping over your shaft - dragging in that slow, agonizing, blissful way over everywhere sensitive and aching. Taking her time, while one hand goes up and strokes what her mouth can't touch, while you pull her head, those perfect strands, just a touch further down, because if she can't quite deep-throat you then Yunjin can give a goddamn masterful impression.

Her cheeks hollow, and the suction - god.

You could cum right in between the pretty little pout of her lips, over the flat of her tongue. Right down her throat.

But in a turn of events neither of you anticipate, you don't do it; you are, much like anyone else, not without limits. Which is probably how you end up lifting Yunjin back up by the underside of her elbows, asking, "that feels a little one-sided, no?"

It's only fair to pull a smirk, kiss, all the best tricks - all for the best parts of her, full, curving, down from her neck, shoulders, her arms, the palms of her hands, every part of her: that perfect shade of peach, pink. From there, everything else falls away. The slow way Yunjin sneaks away with the kind of saunter you'd expect, hips swaying all the way up, sashaying out this inviting side-to-side before you realize it's working -

And you're asking, "Yunjin?" then telling, "I want you up against that window."

The sun's long set - but it'll come up soon enough, over the edges of skyscraper-blocks and shining up out from the base, until everything is bright and gleaming.

"Which window?" she teases.

So you swat at her ass. A not-so-delicate slap. "I don't care so long as I fuck you into it."

"And if someone sees?" she laughs out, still intent on teasing you, and the small edge in her voice is some combination of excitement and worry.

"Then we better give them something worth seeing."

Yunjin's palms land flush to the glass, fingers spread out - wide, wanting, willing - where the blue, yellow glow of city lights shines in over the curves of her profile, the slope of her cheek, the bright pools her irises turn under the warmth. She's the only thing worth seeing, and there's nothing that could possibly stop you from needing, wanting more, right now.

There's no other explanation. No other reason, really, to explain how you're desperate: to fill her, bury yourself inside her - to where you're promising, coming up behind her and guiding her over - so you can spread those creamy thighs apart, push her shoulders up against the cold surface of the window. Where she'll catch a view of her reflection staring back at her: beautiful, exposed, and hers.

"I'm going to fuck you now," is exactly what she's been begging you to say, is why she ends up feeling, with the deep, twisting need building somewhere, how you'll work your cock so deep into her wanting cunt that the only thing that makes her legs go weak - wobbling, really - is the promise of cock rubbing so close and teasing the slick folds between her legs. Until she's a little more demanding, needy - and fuck, where is all the foreplay you'd promised earlier? That perfect, thick cock of yours is missing. She knows what all this really needs.

"Yeah? You need me here?" and she gets this whine, a little pathetic, but in the cutest way.

Yunjin turns her eyes to you, over her shoulder, just the faintest bit of a sneer.

Because she needs it, right now - rough, quick, good.

A gasp catches in her throat when you drag your cockhead through her wet heat, once, twice, and the slide of it against her clit becomes the only thing that matters in the entire goddamn world.

"Inside," her teeth are clamping hard on her lip now, holding it from trembling as she tries to put words together, "Put," is where she loses focus and you're sucking, and kissing, and biting at her shoulder, "put, fuck. Please, put your, put - that cock of yours in my-" You slip into her hot-soaking-wet cunt, and after you've clenched a fist and brought a palm to the center of the window, so that you could open up your body around her a little easier, her muscles squeeze and grip and milk the first few strokes so tight. So-fucking-good.

There's not even a word for it, how she fit like a glove around the first thrust, but if the expression on your face says anything, it's everything Yunjin wanted and more: the shape, the angle, how you're pressing your fingers so hard into the impossible geometry of her waist, the round of her ass - oh, she’ll be a mess of red marks, shapes and lines, reminders of how good you fucked her - these long deep strokes in and out of her creaming pussy - evidence left where the heat inside her builds and pools.

And god, Yunjin is so, so easy to fuck: you can pound into her as rough and steady and fast as she'd begged - there with your other hand, pulling hard, hard, at the loose, dark locks of her hair. Where it has Yunjin gasping, moaning, the whole nine. She has to look to find her balance - and meets the two silhouettes framed inside the reflection on the window. Two shapes, lost in the blurred shadow and outline of lights outside the hotel window, behind which the whole city and its crowds might have stopped the way they'd started, with the rest of you caught between these strange moments:

First, the mindfulness. The purpose and meaning in movement, sensation. In being alive and young, hot, gorgeous and dumb as you can afford to be be.

Yunjin's murmuring, "right there, I want you," or telling, or begging, "don't, you have no idea, I, no-" until your body presses flush up against hers, hips rocking into her perfect figure - taking you like she was built for it, and everything feels so much tighter now, so much closer. Her palms and cheek against the glass, her knees are all shaking and ready to fold at any moment. "So deep, fuck. Fuck me right there, just like that."

Then as you suppose, the unbridled lust on display: Yunjin's turned to this kind of abandon - she's swearing out loud, saying things that have no name and very little form until you've dragged the roughness of your fingers all over her body and found she needs a palmprint on her inner thighs, her ass. That she's whimpering with every deeper plunge until, finally, she gets what she's after - and the words are falling out of her mouth. All it does is mean nothing now - whatever you've been waiting to hear, the pleas to fuck her harder, the cocksleeve talk, or any other request or order.

It's a small miracle, really, considering how she'd gotten you throbbing and aching with just the press of her lips and the dangerous little curl of her tongue - the tight heat all in the back of her throat - but Yunjin cums first.

Loudly.

Messily, too, as she rides out the feeling - tightness gathering right into her core. But her head, it's in the clouds and a little far away, the skyline bathing her skin in shades of glittering silver and gold. And god, the heat of her tight, twitching, soaked pussy - pulsing around the thrusting curve of your cock: the sublime kind of place, spot, rhythm.

How her arms give out and she's pressed, flushed, back to chest with you, right there. Her words are soft. Wholly unimaginative: yes and fuck, yes and oh, she wants you, loves how well you fuck. The murmur comes from that gorgeous body of hers, the exact shape of everything that feels good to feel. The jut of her hips and her legs are longer than her height suggests they'd be, flawless from the ankle and foot to her thigh to where your arm wraps around the base of her ribs, hugging her from the back.

It's a perfect fit.

And not in the glass-slipper kind of way that means there is such a thing as a soulmate, no.

"Cum in me," she breathes, and then - all over. That's it. The moment your fingers are splayed back out over the pane of window, she can't hold her gaze steady. Those tears prick up at the corner, where they get caught. Where her voice is too high and pitchy - begging, a whining noise and some syllable. Something inaudible that has pressing these hot, open-mouthed kisses right into the pretty rise-and-falls of her spine. The sloppy-wet sound from your cock slipping back in, and back again, until you're just left fucking these little ragged breathes out of her chest.

The space between her lips and the glass, the white-ghosting breaths of air out between those plump little pouts that have shaped and molded themselves into some version of words, a few half-finished pleads: “kiss, hold, fill, fuck, just," and, "my body, love-

"Your fucking pussy, Yunjin, holy shit, it's - fucking - so, god," you all but growl out.

Pounding into the tight clench of her cunt.

The bed in the other room might be the better choice, the sheets and pillows for more support than the hard wall she's propped against. But the glass, to see the view and take her up against it: it feels nice, cool and comfortable, even when your motion makes it fogged and sticky with condensation. She had, when your first thrust pushed inside the molten heat of her pussy, reached around the corner - fingertips splaying wide apart, up, along the foggy pane, watching the shadow of her palms turn blurry and indistinguishable against the soft glow of neon beyond.

"I'm cumming," you tell her, "I'm cumming - fuck," before shoving her body even further into the glass. Fucking her hard - just short of bending her to the point of where she might break.

That last stroke or two goes a little wild; all that coiled and pressurized want and need, boiling over the moment you fuck your cum deep into her trembling body. This time, your sounds aren't just the thoughtless hum and groan from the depth of your lungs, but some collection of dirty words, grunts. Nasty things. A whole host of obscenities: like how it's for the sake of claiming, leaving something of yourself behind. How you're pulling the smooth, curve of her hips into your body to push as much of yourself inside the gripping warmth of her. How your hot cum is starting to spill from her pink, perfect, hole - all for the better because when you take your thumb and swirl and trace and smear all along her slippery-wet slick, she gets like this: squirming in these lazy, needy little wriggles against your touch.

It takes the two of you sometime longer to move. Not long, but, you know, a little while.

When it is that Yunjin comes back to herself, you feel the smile as the ghost over your arm.

The kind of thing to ask, though you're too fucked to pay attention, are questions about life: where do you go to school, how long will you stay? All of that. There's a quiet moment where your mind plays back, vaguely, a little more intensely, the realization - and regret of it, the waste - of fucking a stranger for a night.

And in a real short moment:

"That was - really good," she says, still not recovered quite enough to walk.

Yunjin sounds all that same: a stranger. Not familiar. That's, like, your last chance or whatever. Before this becomes a one-off.

("Stay for a while?" is what she doesn't manage to ever ask.)

"Have to leave early tomorrow." And she looks at you, shoulders dipping at the ends. She says things like: "my work," and "we have an international flight. Customs is a bitch."

"Oh," is what you say to all that, looking her body over again, drinking down all the small details of her. The ones you'll lose forever after tonight. All of them, you know.

All because that's how it had to be, from the start.

"For sure."

Yunjin's hands are twisting at the end of her hair, stroking and brushing through the silky, black strands. Just for something to do: maybe, optimistically to keep herself occupied with some semblance of a thought that has nothing at all to do with how she can't seem to shake this sudden, cresting wave of frustration - how there's an urgent throb from deep within, pushing into her skin like a force.

You swallow. Try to smile. "It was fun."

The hotel's checkout desk is staffed by a cheerful looking man, almost fresh out of high-school. Too cheerful a smile, perhaps, and maybe a little too bright for the time of day. You'd been busy pacing the lobby, trying not to stare at your phone for the third or fourth time since stepping out of the elevator. Your feet have scuffed the ground under the coffee table, around the floral couches - almost tripping over the boutiques lined in the middle of this path. Likely you'd have considered them if you weren't focused elsewhere.

Thinking about how you'd put off any discussion about piecing back together your rental suit.

"Did you have a good stay, sir?" the concierge asks, reaching out across his desk to pick up a card. He's placing a machine in front of him.

Your face warms ever-so-slightly. "Wonderful."

"That's what we like to hear. Just swipe your key here."

The machine's screen flashes and there's another cheerful beep, indicating everything was processed.

"Could you get me my receipt?"

"Absolutely. One second."

And the printer whirs to life: spitting out line-after-line of printed data. Until there are twelve characters of nonsense and garbage, including but not limited to the link to a questionnaire and an explanation for all the boxes marked 'x'. It also indicates your total costs (minimal, really) and lists a detailed breakdown of services: breakfast, in-room bar, laundry, towels - all the necessities.

"There, would you like- wait. Sir? Someone asked me to hand this to you," and after reaching under the desk, "looks like a suit jacket of sorts."

"Oh."

He raises an eyebrow. "From the event, I'm assuming."

It's hard to tell what it's about. But as you wrap your fingers into the cloth of the fabric, tug at it a bit, there's a note that slips and falls to the floor.

You sort of frown, skeptical. Fumble with the note. And the note says this:

In your absence, I helped myself to your jacket, your wallet, an extra serving of breakfast, as well as a large iced-coffee. Promise you I'll get the next one. Call me: (xxx)-xxx-xxxx.

Affectionately, your (girl)friend for an evening,

Huh Yunjin

#yunjin smut #le sserafim smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember

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capslocked · 6 months

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KINKVEMBER MASTERLIST

I lowkey fucked up and forgot it was october. 30 days, 30 kinks, 30 fics. (mostly) male reader x idol

against a wall // LE SSERAFIM Yunjin

mutual masturbation // IVE Wonyoung

fingering // LE SSERAFIM Chaewon

roleplay // IZ*ONE Hyewon

facesitting // IVE Yujin

blowjob // LOONA Hyeju

praise kink // Kep1er Xiaoting

phone sex // ITZY Ryujin

problematic relationship // woo!ah! Nana . to be continued .

size difference // WJSN Luda

public sex // IZ*ONE Yuri

mommy kink // TWICE Mina

mirror // ITZY Yuna

hate sex // Red Velvet Irene

breeding // IZ*ONE Minju

overstimulation // BLACKPINK Rosé

voyeurism // Red Velvet Irene & Seulgi

spanking // APink Chorong

feet // BLACKPINK Jisoo & Rosé

shower/tub // IVE Gaeul

rough sex // WJSN Yeoreum

lingerie // TWICE Tzuyu

moresome // LE SSERAFIM Chaewon & Sakura

titfuck // Jeon Somi

daddy kink // Dreamcatcher Gahyeon

anal sex // ITZY Chaeryeong

hair-pulling // GIDLE Minnie

begging // aespa Karina

romantic sex // TWICE Dahyun

petplay // NewJeans Minji

#le sserafim smut #twice smut #itzy smut #ive smut #blackpink smut #red velvet smut #aespa smut #izone smut #loona smut #kep1er smut #wjsn smut #dreamcatcher smut #apink smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember

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capslocked · 6 months

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PART & PARCEL

male reader x sana && tzuyu

18k words

“Is it too late?” Sana asks, and here’s how it always starts with her.

Nevermind that it’s not a question in search of an answer. A normal person could, should, text you. Hey, what’s up? or something equally inconspicuous before turning up the dial, are you busy? can I, like, come over?

Instead, she’s at your doorstep again, twirling a bundle of honey-blonde between her fingertips as if she doesn't know what all that does to people. Some people say, incorrectly, that these are the hours of the night shared with ghosts. And to that you say: No, these hours belong to Sana, clearly, and apparently nobody fucking else.

Now in a way, you do get it. It’d be easier to turn back over in your bed and ignore the elegant simplicity of a text message, or one step beyond that, do the unthinkable and finally tell her no, but when she’s standing there - there with that face, like a thousand different excuses or a million little reasons why she needs something from you, right now - and all she has to do is push her lips together, eyebrows going high -

It is a bit like magic, after all, this feeling when she comes around.

Everything that happened before - her visits, the first one and then the next - no matter how impossible, gets washed away, and suddenly all you have is her. Her voice, her hair, and a sneaking suspicion that the time apart really isn’t such a bad thing, because you don't always have a guess as to what comes next.

Of course, you were always going to let her in.

“I saw the lights were on,” she adds, starting to shrug off her coat like she knows you will.

“I mean, I’m here,” you say, non-committal.

“Yeah. I can see that.”

The door's half open and the only substantial hesitation you have is when you peer over her shoulder. There’s another girl, propping herself up against the doorframe, with a pretty head of glossy, sable hair falling gracefully down her shoulders, and she looks at least a few years younger than Sana. You smile cautiously at her before giving Sana another, much longer glance. In response, you receive a wink that's as subtle as a brick through a glass window (which only raises more questions). You ask the one that seems most important.

What else would Sana, of all people, possibly want to bring you if not some plaything or another. You've seen it all: girls who liked her money, girls who liked her body, girls who just flat-out liked girls, whatever. The dynamic always seemed to be, as long as everyone is having a good time, nothing to get hung up about - because at the end of the night, everyone comes around to Sana again.

And she comes around to you.

Why question it.

“This is a little… irregular,” you say with a nod of your chin, as you step back from the door. "Who's the plus one?"

Sana motions the girl in with a sweep of her hand and throws you another disarmingly flirtatious smile - the same one that'd first left you utterly hooked by this strange person, who had, when you first met, walked into your life for five minutes, then fucked your lights out the way she wanted. She goes further with this, of course, teasing a warm smile and slanting an eyebrow.

"I figured I'd bring you a gift," she coos, in this sultry, dusky sing-song of a voice that really needs no followup whatsoever, other than maybe take my clothes off right now, as she makes a show of how she's pushing her shoulders back, like there's an audience to be impressed with the curve of her bust. "Since we were celebrating."

"Uh-huh. What's the occasion?"

"Whatever the hell you'd like," Sana chirps.

With that, she takes you by the collar. And even though the girl she brought is in the middle of, like, peering around curiously in your foyer, Sana leans up on the balls of her feet and kisses you hard. It's a real kiss - no preamble - which is sort of funny, given you would have been more than okay with some. So, naturally, you're caught entirely off-guard. It takes a full ten, fifteen seconds of feeling her hot little mouth pressed insistently up against yours, your mind gone blank with the suddenness of the moment. Your body taking it for granted.

Meanwhile, the other girl blinks - long, dark lashes batting the curve of her cheekbones slowly until Sana has moved to stand in front of her with the full, earnest intention to cup her jaw, tilt her head down a smidge, and kiss her too (very thoroughly, also, in her own way).

Sana lets the girl go with a sharp draw of air and a peck. Then she looks at you, just this side of playful. The way her teeth flash over her bottom lip suggests how she's enjoying, to her bones, this state of affairs: a dalliance with control, with desire, where she can flaunt it.

She tells you to relax, unwind, which you suppose is code for taking another of Sana's friends and bending her over every horizontal surface in your flat and fucking someone the way you've wanted for the last however-long it's been since Sana dropped back into your life. You've done as much. Some rotating cast of characters: Mina, Chaeyoung, Nayeon, the raven haired girl with the perfect tits; some names and faces starting to run together the more Sana pops up at your place with a girl under one arm, usually looking half bored and half shy - or at least putting up some pretense that might justify Sana telling them to strip down while she's already eyeing you with this look like she's wondering which article of clothing you'll be ripping off her first.

"Does she have a name?" you ask, with a nod vaguely in her direction. Of course it's a loaded question. What's her name doesn't matter. You don't know most of their names.

But when you do a double-take, remembering to steal a good look, you're not sure you've ever seen anyone pull off that perfect little white dress quite the way she does - the kind that goes right up the back, tucked under the neck, sleeves coming to a neat point across her fingers. Sana may or may not have a thing for pretty girls in cute dresses, but this is, without question, the most obvious bribe you've ever witnessed in your life.

Sana's still smirking - so much for being considerate, you think for a second, until you’ve got a dainty hand stretched into yours like you’re brushing up with royalty. And well, maybe you’re getting a better look now that she isn’t bathed in the calm, assured wickedness that two A.M. might only ever know - the dark curling like wind around her fingers and down the lines of her spine, cajoling.

She is gorgeous.

And she says -

“Chou Tzuyu,” in this charming little voice that’s even more mesmerizing than you anticipated, this taut thread winding itself up between the two of you. She says her name with a gentle sigh, a light in her eyes that you know, intimately, not to trust, but you get the sense that she'd rather you make an exception for her - or at least for the night. “Everyone calls me Tzuyu.”

You feel a squeeze at your fingers, an anxious reminder from Sana's thumb, as if she feels the reverie in which you've lapsed. It draws you back, just slightly so.

"Tzuyu," you say, taking mental note of the faint smile that shadows in at the corner of her mouth when you do. "How much do you know?"

She twists in Sana's direction, and oh, look how eager and innocent and coquettish Tzuyu's making herself in front of her, smiling. What do I say, the gesture is asking. You can see her effort to hold back a giggle or two as she bites her lip, trying, as all the pretty girls who come through these doors often try, to come up with something cute and modest and small that'll allow you and Sana to picture exactly the right thing. You can tell when a person is not used to having an audience.

"I know Sana..." Tzuyu's voice trails as she gives Sana a furtive glance. "She talks about you a lot. And I figured, you know."

"What? That we were good friends?"

"Sure," Tzuyu laughs to herself lightly again. "Whatever makes it easier."

Sana has her fingers threaded beneath Tzuyu’s chin, studying her like she’s an artifact that belongs behind glass. Expensive. One of a kind. And oh-so-excessively fragile.

The way Sana touches her, she may be trying to prove the point, guiding her body's angles and edges towards whatever form she sees fit, with just fingertips and the slightest tug, showing you exactly how malleable the girl can be. The look on Tzuyu's face is hardly discomfited when her dress slides past the dips of her shoulders or the slope of her waist, when the fabric gets crumpled in Sana's hand like the most expensive balled-up tissues in the universe. You can't decide what animal comes to mind: perhaps a deer, some cute, unknowingly doomed elk.

"No underwear," you note, watching.

Sana draws herself a little closer to Tzuyu with an appreciative gaze, lips gently landing at her shoulders, neck.

"Why bother?" Tzuyu muses. "What were we going to use them for?"

A pull here, a tug there, and the dress puddles around Tzuyu's feet, silk shimmering like the inky dark of a starless sky. And just shy of a pedestal and perhaps a fucking moonbeam, she's the spitting image of perfection: porcelain skin stretching out over a masterwork of curves and bone and muscle. A sculpture, a study in the form that so frequently leaves people just absolutely dumbstruck and thirsty in their wake.

Sana trails her hand around the width of her hip - drawing your eye along the skin of her leg, up and around the perfectly curved thigh - stopping to splay her fingers just so at the base of her spine, as if in demonstration of ownership. Like this: mine.

"Don't get it confused," Sana tells you. "The whole naive innocence thing is a total fucking misdirection."

"Tzuyu," you say again, this time noticing the way it feels in your mouth, syllables sweet and sticking to its roof like honey - maybe something more of an excuse to move forward and touch her yourself, palm her face, brush your thumb over her bottom lip. A taste, something subtle but intense, spreads to the back of your throat, the moment her teeth graze gently over its pad. "Is that true?"

"Are you asking me what kind of girl I am?"

"I didn't put it exactly like that."

"Just answer, sweetheart," Sana says, brow quirked in a faux-display of nonchalance, fingers still pressed, spreading gently at her neck. She's enjoying this a little too much. Though, you're enjoying this too. It doesn't have to be an either-or kind of scenario.

"It's better if you say it," she adds after a second of consideration, and even though it's obvious by now she's only prodding and that this is a foregone conclusion, Tzuyu puts an emphatic twitch in her lips - red, wet, a vision in crimson - like the thought is deeply troubling and will likely require lots and lots of thorough explanation later.

"Fine, okay, in that case," Tzuyu starts with a weary sigh, and then with a blink-and-you've-missed-it flash of a smirk, there's no way anyone's buying any of this, "I’ll say: I'm whatever kind of girl you want me to be."

Sana was right, and she didn’t even need to go so far as to say it. It’s clear - you want her.

But it's half as easy to pinpoint where it all starts: there's the way Tzuyu melts, sinking just that much further when you guide your hands around the curve of her ribs, fingers following the flow of her soft edges, the slopes and valleys of her breasts, and she parts her lips even before yours touch the seam of her mouth, her breath warm, heavy, the kind of anticipation that sends jolts down her neck, her spine, the body electric - a real live wire.

Or, it's because of the way she likes it - like, really likes it. There's something exceptional in a girl who will wrap her legs around your waist and suck your tongue and whimper just by a feather's touch around her hips or between her thighs, where it's damp and hot and holy shit, this is unreal in a very tactile, visceral way. There's no mistaking the noise for anything but genuine pleasure when Tzuyu's trying, unsuccessfully, to bite down the whine sneaking up her throat and into your mouth - where you're kissing her, still - the kind that presses heavy at the bottom of your stomach.

Or, there's Sana yet, pulling her clothes off, and instead of leaving a trail in her wake, folds each piece neatly until she's bared down to this fine little number of lace and cream-colored silk that'd make your head spin if you weren't, y'know, pretty busy, mouth occupied by Tzuyu's pliant moans, both of your tongues colliding.

"God," Tzuyu groans out quietly as you pin her to the wall, and again after another string of kisses, sucking your lip.

There are fleeting moments that slip through like sunlight that have you thinking: Right, this was a good idea, nothing other than a sweet girl like this all messed up and squirming with the shallow dig of your nails. But only close to perfect.

Sana will explain it.

"Mm. Not god." Sana is grinning when she leans up for the same kiss, but she takes her time with it: mouth slotted tight against Tzuyu's as her long fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of Tzuyu's neck, working her grip up slowly so that the strain gets more noticeable until the girl is a gasp on a choke of breath. The curve of her back is drawn out by that same hand and her ribs pressed, pert and rosy, into the cool air.

"Sir, and please," Sana then instructs, voice just harsh enough for Tzuyu to understand.

You might imagine she's also drawing in with her nails, teeth, a full-body drag up her exposed front, like some kind of prize, marking and tasting and fucking every inch. There's a whimper, desperate sound of, yes, right, fuck, please, and sir slipping like a sigh off the edge of Tzuyu's tongue.

"Or better yet," Sana adds, with another searing press into the junction of her collarbone, "say daddy, please," then follows through on the plea with another slow-pull.

You try not to roll your eyes. It's Sana's kink, not yours. It's a whole thing. And with Sana, like most things, you find it best when you simply play along.

More than that, you indulge her. You both do.

"Okay, daddy." Tzuyu's teeth catch the corner of her mouth in a self-amused bite. Twisting and twisting the swell of her lip further until it snaps forward. "I want you to tell me something," she says, which, for the way this typically goes, is a little more self-assured and pressing than the usual fare. Even Mina, who was perhaps less than enthusiastic about the - uh - title in question, came around eventually when she had Sana's fingers, your cock, all sunk so deep inside her she forgot what any fucking words were anyway.

So maybe Sana does know what she's doing with this one. Maybe you oughta thank her.

Tzuyu just lifts her chin, says, "this isn't what I expected when I showed up here."

"Obviously, it's not," Sana says.

"What I mean is, this is all good fun, of course," Tzuyu explains. A charming indignance that slips past, like the fingers down her belly. She swallows hard, muscles clenching as your palm runs slow over a hip, squeezing. "Though I guessed when we left Sana's, I would've been bouncing on his cock five minutes ago."

Sana's lithe little frame ends up closer - nearly naked in lace and wholly difficult to miss. She's a half head shorter than the girl in front of you, but with a tilt of her chin and a beckon of her hand, it's a powerful look about the lines of her face: eyes slightly hooded, mouth curved and devastating. It's as if, at every hour of the night, the simplest glance will have the fabric of someone's clothing coming undone, regardless.

Tzuyu is just slowly trading looks between the two of you. So curious. "So what then, do I have to do," her words curl like smoke up her throat, "to get fucked by both of you, hm? In, like, the next five or ten more minutes, preferably."

"He's not going to fuck your brains out simply because you ask." Which by the way, is the first real lie Sana tells tonight.

Tzuyu is unimpressed, or maybe she's a stoic. "Clearly," she deadpans.

Whatever the expression is that is fluttering those gorgeous lashes, eyebrows pulled down, adds a faint mark of distrust across her brow. The prettiest scoffs you've ever heard. "Isn't the point to get me spread out on your sheets so you can use me like a little fucktoy?"

A sigh from Sana: heavy, calculated. She does not reply in any obvious way to that, no flimsy assurances that it would be whatever the hell Tzuyu likes (though you think maybe Sana might want to take this whole fucking opportunity, all this thinly veiled begging for it, for the first taste of what will probably be the main thing that'll hold her over the edge of an orgasm or two).

So, instinctually, Tzuyu pushes it, just enough - she tilts her head, and the motion is followed by a wide sashay of her hips as she gently presses a fingertip to your chest, encouraging a step back to better your balance, like the pull between you has a little more gravity.

"Don't go quiet on me." Another sultry note pulls from her mouth when she guides you another foot - or however many, until the foyer opens up into your living room. The chair, the sofa, a table, you watch her eyes wander like she's mapping the territory. And then finally she drops her hands from your shoulders, reaching instead for Sana, taking her waist in her palms.

Holding her. Kissing her.

There's a delicateness about both of them, clearly, and not only how Tzuyu angles their lips, as if she doesn't fully intend for the two to merge but instead taste the line, test the edges, or something; but Sana doesn't fight this. In fact, when Sana's being drawn gently, but confidently into a deeper, harder press, a very eager give, her eyes slip closed. There's a war, and Sana - though she'd be the last to admit it - is losing.

Tzuyu, at the end of a particularly sharp draw of air, simply turns to you, eyes peeking over the tousle of copper hair atop Sana’s head, and asks: "How does daddy want to play with his toys?"

It clicks in your head immediately: she's a natural, could be an actress, maybe a pro - you have no idea where Sana found her - even if that doesn't exactly match with the diction; daddy, and sir, and the baby-girl pout. There are the things she does to Sana, this slipstream of control passed back and forth and back and forth again - a fevered tugging, the give of one or the other. An entirely different dance. Beautiful, fluid, intense.

Eventually, it lands in your lap. Literally and metaphorically. Tzuyu looks up from where she's kneeling between your legs and with a little pinch of your hips, tells you with that intoxicately sweet, melodic voice of hers, that you seem like the sort who wants someone who just takes initiative.

And she's right.

"May I?" she asks, breathlessly, fingers at the zip.

"Of course,” Sana answers for you, settling into her side like you both belong to her. Like she’s about to enjoy this just as much as you are.

What does the room sound like, the darkness giving away? Everything. The hum of the appliances, the purr of the heat, something in the walls is settling into its final position for the night as the floorboards sigh. Breathing. Listening.

What you don't hear:

Chou Tzuyu moving - whether she shifts onto her knees, or adjusts how her slender fingers fall from the waist of your pants, doesn't matter - no crunch, no shuffle. She doesn't swipe away the hair from her eyes or drag the pad of a thumb over her swollen, bottom lip. All she does is pull, just a bit, and the zipper breaks the silence, comes apart down the way.

Sana clears her throat gently, hoping, possibly, that Tzuyu might be the kind of girl who just loses herself to the moment, caught in the headlights. The way every delicate, doe-eyed girl is supposed to do. Sana likes them a little helpless like that - makes her feel big.

It's too bad really, because Tzuyu doesn’t appear like she's awash with anything in particular. Or at the very least, she's done a fairly convincing imitation of not being the slightest bit off-put, completely disarmed or whatever Sana had been looking to see.

She does look up though. Long, pretty face still managing a bit of devastation from this angle. Those full lips slightly pouted and slick in red: such an inviting color against her pale skin.

"Sana," she coos, eyes wide and brilliant - innocent, yet taunting all at once - and she's deliberate in what she says next, flitting her tongue across her canines to punctuate every sound: "Isn’t daddy going to use me now?"

"Oh." Sana leans in, eyes flicking up at you, Tzuyu's hands, her body, and starts slowly, like she's exacting a punishment, "Tzuyu, baby," her own anticipation beaming off the surface of her thousand-kilowatt grin, "you're going to take that perfect cock," the words dripping off Sana's tongue, heavy, sweet, "you're going to take it, get your pretty little lips all over it sweetie, you're going to show him just how good you can use that filthy fucking hole of a mouth for him. You're going to take him until he cums in your throat, and then you're going to beg him for more. And if you can do that, well. Then we’ll fuck you exactly how you wanted."

Tzuyu blinks - doting and innocent like the angel everyone probably thinks she is.

But then what you've learned about the angels that Sana brings you: they're devils in disguise, well familiar with the sin and lust that resides in these places; sunk into the cushions of the couch, pressed against the cold pane glass of a window, wound tight in the springs of a mattress. You had long thought - and think, you do, particularly when doing the unthinkable - it's easier that way, to leave aside thoughts of right and wrong and ask: Just how far can an angel fall?

"Ah. Perfect," Tzuyu says, sounding like an answer, and her eyes widen as she peels past that band of elastic.

Your cock springs forward and bumps into the pad of her finger, which traces the length of it like it's hers to own, to pleasure.

"God," she hums with satisfaction, and even without looking up, or even before you say a damn word, she draws her tongue up along the underside in one swift, wet lick. "Sana you weren’t exaggerating: daddy's cock is fucking gorgeous."

There is that tiny whine, or more precisely a tiny, oh fuck when Tzuyu curls her hand around your shaft. Sana gives her a push. "Say it, Tzuyu," she all but growls at her.

"Daddy," she says, always pausing on the word. Testing it further. "Please."

"Please," Sana mimics in faux-sweetness, repeating it again once you start to nod.

Not that it changes much - the stare that Tzuyu fixes you is charmingly determined, like a challenge. Then, she inhales.

Deep.

That slide into her mouth is smoother than anything, hot and slippery and oh, right - you remember faintly with a shudder: those pretty teeth hidden away behind a perfectly lascivious mouth, so much that a couple sharp, expert brushes are enough to send lightning dancing along your spine. Sana moves her hands across your hips, to the buttons on your night shirt, working her way up until the fabric has fallen to the side and she can open your chest up to the air, let Tzuyu swallow the rest.

This, Tzuyu likes. "Ah," she gasps around you, or she tries to, your cock propped up on her soft little tongue.

She likes the way that feels. The way you fit in her hands, her mouth. And it shows. Her posture curls deliciously, under the satisfaction of her lips wrapping finally having something to wrap around tight, tight, tighter - under Sana's roaming touches, the skirting of her nails down Tzuyu's chest, reaching with slow deliberation across her stomach until there's a whisper of skin across sensitive flesh.

“She’s so fucking wet,” Sana tells you, smiling at Tzuyu from above and fitting a fingernail between her teeth. "Good fucking girl, aren't you Tzuyu?"

The moan that leaks out around the weight of your cock is pure. Pure lust, pure pleasure. Pure perfection. Her tongue flattens beneath you and finds you surging even deeper, a firmer slide of Tzuyu's wet lips that brings you right into the roof of her mouth - as she twists her face around you, a soft scrape against the inside of her cheek.

You sigh.

And Sana sighs back.

"Of course. Always such a hidden talent," she notes, as Tzuyu's perfect mouth moves and plucks and teases your nerves, twirling her tongue around your tip. Again as she swallows you down, slow, savoring.

“Tell me,” you say, because the heat of Tzuyu’s mouth is starting to remind you of a daydream, “how exactly do you know each other?”

"Work," Sana answers, flatly.

"Like-"

"Yup."

"She sings?"

"She does - rather, she will." Sana glances sidelong with a bit of a grin. "You have no idea what that tongue can do to people when it's got some good backing tracks, when it knows a goddamn fucking thing about rhythm. Speaking of," Sana looks down at where Tzuyu has her silky brown head of hair bobbing between your legs.

And then it's clear what she means, Tzuyu humming and rolling your shaft through the flat of her tongue. It's all slick, soaking heat and the tension building and building in your balls, aching, just absolutely desperate for more friction, to be taken and used and stuffed in her throat - or just more of this.

"Here," Sana's fingers are hooked in your pants, helping them off your legs, your ankles, pulling you further to the edge of the sofa. Let me, she's telling Tzuyu, this slight murmur of want she just can't wait on.

"Wait, I'm -" Tzuyu attempts, pulling her lips off the curve of your cock, to where pre-cum is weeping out of its tip, and she kisses it so very tenderly, going back for round two. Round three. She floats her fingers up over her eyebrows, into her fringe, all to tuck some dark, wispy hair gently behind her ear when she starts to hollow her cheeks and again suck your cock in earnest.

Until -

"Tzuyu," Sana reprimands her, "don't play, daddy's got his work cut out for him tonight. So be a good girl, and let me show you what he likes."

It takes a second, maybe three. It might take longer if Sana didn't have her fingernails digging into her thighs, sliding further to grab hold of Tzuyu by the hair and pull her lips off your shaft. There's a thin trail of spit coming off her mouth and stringing across you. Sana closes her fist in the back of Tzuyu’s hair and doesn't so much as blink while studying the look on her face: lips glistening, just absolutely needy, like she can't help the whimper in her throat.

"Hm?" Sana cocks her head to the side.

"But... sir."

"You are his toy," Sana explains, flashing her eyebrows because apparently it needs to be said, "not the other way around."

And it may be the first time you've seen it happen since Sana walked in with Tzuyu and declared her intentions: the fluster, the pink spread across Tzuyu's features like some scarlet-lettered stain. Defenses dropped like a draw-bridge. She's not quite every bit as cool and composed as she wants the two of you to think she is. (They never are.)

But the fact that Tzuyu's coy little smile returns into her lips - how she's wiping the spit off her mouth with the sharp edge of her hand and pointing your cock in Sana's direction with a delicate, arched brow, how she then moves on, untangling herself from Sana's grasp, eyes heavy, but on her - is a marvel in and of itself.

It’s an amusing surprise, a welcome one, for the simple reason that Tzuyu keeps showing both of you that she can have anything she wants exactly like this: wrapped around a slender fingertip, flushed and helpless, and without breaking a sweat.

"Have you considered daddy wants both our mouths on his cock and maybe a few less words?" Tzuyu scoffs. And even though Sana does scoff right back in retort, that's exactly how it plays out.

(And you may, upon occasion, reflect: you're a real lucky bastard.)

Sana always puts on this act. One that you’ve learned to see right through.

Like she isn't too eager to follow the momentum, that she hadn't just been just as impatient to touch you - to be on her knees with Tzuyu, all aside this beautiful girl who gives you a pretty smile when her tongue finds the base of your cock. Who likes being bossed around but can just as easily turn her face towards yours - in what seems almost like a taunt - as if saying: You know what else I like? to be challenged, and sometimes when the mood’s right, pushed and punished.

But Sana doesn't let you see what kind of resolve she has until she's gone another minute, licking, lapping her tongue around your cock - this is her idea, after all. The little white dress in a heap, the adoration and worship that comes with fucking girls she knows are the prettiest things to see ruined.

Listen - even if Sana’s veneer is as blatantly obvious as it is shatterably thin, she’s no less dangerous.

When she first pushes the very head of your cock inside her mouth, and just that - because why rush it, she's so fucking perfect with those pretty lips - the rest of your brain is shouting something to the tune of fuck me sideways because she knows you better than anyone, knows what really gets your blood burning.

A few slow brushes, one kiss, this lick that goes bottom to top and over and around. It’s like she's testing the surface, dragging her lips across your aching cock as she settles on a rhythm, a tempo that starts to mirror the movements of Tzuyu's hand.

Tzuyu lets you see: this slow twist, this slide of skin up and down the length of your shaft, her soft fingers rubbing tight circles up and down the path of her palm until it meets Sana’s mouth. And like it’s the most simple thing in the world, she dips down, finds a place at the base of your cock, where Sana’s lips can’t quite reach, and drops a hot, messy kiss right across the spot.

Fuck.

She kisses you everywhere.

"Sana," you start to say, and she looks up through the strands of blonde fallen slightly in front of her face. Her lips sink further down the length of your cock - until she hears your breath catch in the bottom of your throat. Until she’s pulling you up and out, again, just barely past her teeth.

Fuck.

"Mm." She hums it right into your skin, and her eyes are hooded, dipping right down with another pull of spit, and then another, before her lips are at the tip once more, flicking across the slit with her tongue - wet and rough.

"Sana," you try again, biting into your lip as you reach a hand into the gold locks of hair framing her deceptive, pretty little face, and tug, a warning, a reminder. You need. It's too early for you to be repeating yourself, and Sana knows that.

A pop, the release of her mouth slipping off the top of your cock, and Tzuyu moves - wrapping her lips tight and silken around the sides, the rest. It all happens in an instant. You're being taken with the sudden, harsh suction of one mouth, the other, fluid and slipping back and forth again and again.

Sana's nodding along, impressed, as she watches Tzuyu take you - completely, nose to your hip - and has a glint of pure hunger shining through her eyes when you hiss, when she kisses along the lines of Tzuyu's stretched lips. There's another flick of a tongue, and you can feel Tzuyu moan something muffled and choked, a frantic pulse at the base of your spine - pressure gathering like a fucking flood.

"Just how you like it, hmm?" Sana says, her breath warm on your balls as she seals her own mouth right over the base of your shaft. And you swear there's something about this: the drag and suck of both their lips as your hips stutter forward, the feeling of them pressed together in a perfect line, heads tilted and mouths fucking dripping with saliva and sin - your hands, resting on the backs of their heads as they're returning you these greedy little moans that vibrate off the top of your cock and nearly kill you in the process.

“Tell me,” Sana adds, dragging a hot, hazy kiss over the sensitive skin up your shaft. "How's daddy feeling? Hmm? Feels nice and perfect, doesn't it. Feels like you could just let go and release, a hot, sticky load of cum, right down her fucking throat. I know she’ll swallow every drop."

"Fucking hell, Sana-"

Sana doesn't exactly answer to your begging, only hikes Tzuyu a fraction higher over your body to gain better control of the rhythm, and a better view: the hollowed out cheeks, her watery, half-shut eyes, tears welling in her lashes - because the prettiest girls always come apart in the most perfect ways.

You grip into all that silky brown hair, thumb running gently up and over the soft skin behind her ear as she finds an exacting little movement with her lips that will have your spine twitching uncontrollably as you fuck deeper down the perfect arch of her throat, Sana keeping rhythm, guiding you all the way in - a searing heat, and then a new rush of saliva dripping off Tzuyu's chin and back down into the tangle of tongues, fingers, throats, mouths.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The pair of them. The things they're doing.

"Or maybe," Sana muses, tilting her head on an angle that suggests she's weighing her options, and then, massaging a quick, firm twist into the very base of your cock she finally lets spill: "You could make a mess of that perfect face," Tzuyu's faint whimper hardly slips out unnoticed, "I'd hold her hair for you while you cum all over her - how about that baby, should we make a big mess of your pretty face?"

The whimper grows louder - Tzuyu moans long and low, right up against the tightening tension gathering between your hips, right as your balls pull, that familiar coil about to break - and, god, if there's some part of you committed to holding the moment, waiting and wanting to stay in the vision of these two perfect mouths pressed together, it's a fleeting and useless notion - but, as usual, Sana already knows.

The way they're blowing you in perfect tandem, their mouths locked together, kissing around your shaft as they continue to pleasure you, filthy and open - a little more, the thought percolates, a little longer, to let the pressure swell.

"Sir," Tzuyu says, swallowing her next breath, and that's the first you've heard her sound like that: whining, pleading.

She slaps your cock against her lips, her tongue - it's all so wet with spit and precum and slick that her chin is coated, her fingers. A demonstration of what you should have already known: Sana's girls aren't just straight down the line. They want the messy, roughness that comes with the sin; the split in the seam, the wail, the raw, uncut want.

You watch Tzuyu’s lips curl, this quiet smile pressed against your cock, and after a slow draw of air, they fall open again. Asking, "aren't you going to fuck your toy's slutty little mouth?"

The silence of the night swallows up the sounds of Sana's low chuckle and the responding squelch of her fingers tearing free, her hand trailing after. Here’s three bodies in the otherwise ordinary emptiness of your living room, on the edges of the leather sofa, so completely drenched in anticipation and hunger.

There’s a flash across Sana's rounded cheeks, hot, like she's just this small space shy of smirking, or giving into something, you don't know. Tzuyu, however, you've got a fairly clear view of - how her eyes glaze, pupils going wide and dark, staring up at you as she places the shape of your cock so acutely up the length of her perfect features: chin supporting its base, the cute, button-like tip of her nose teasing the soft underbelly of skin pulled taut - a fucked up preamble to whatever the hell it is going to feel like, once she's ready for more.

"Say please, sweetie," Sana says, fluttering her fingers over Tzuyu's neck. And then to you, as an aside: "If there isn't a better way to break in a toy."

When Tzuyu doesn't immediately reply, Sana leans over her, with a fingertip under her chin, guiding her hot, wet lips to the edge of your cock.

"Ask daddy to fuck his filthy little whore."

"Ah," Tzuyu lets out an awkward exhale. "Daddy?" she pauses to swallow, licking her lips, then, with just the slightest inflection, this tight line, right at the border, somehow managing to hit both notes of I'm going to make you beg for it and is it okay for me to be begging you for more: "Please, daddy. Fuck my face."

But then the way she fucking looks - petulant, needy, like if you don't shove your cock down her throat in seconds it could kill her - that's the realest thing you've seen from her since she shuffled through your front door wearing a dress that belongs in someone's heaving, pent up fantasy and left it in a careless pile in the middle of your foyer, tits bouncing on her way into the living room. And somehow, that's a lot to take in: to think this whole debacle has led up to her, this girl you're probably never gonna see again, pressing the pucker of her perfect, pretty lips to the underside of your cock, and -

"Open," Sana cuts in, "your fucking mouth."

Tzuyu gulps thickly and stretches her jaw, blinking expectantly as her pink, slender tongue sticks out the faintest, most insinuating inch.

You lift your hips with one good thrust, the plushness of her mouth becoming soft and velvet as she opens wider, and wider still, and you're balls deep, hilt hitting her lips as she opens her eyes, taking you down her throat, slick and slow.

"Good girl," Sana grins, watching Tzuyu swallow around you.

You may be buried into her throat but the sound of Sana's encouragement has Tzuyu keening, this wrench in her brow like she wants to focus so fucking badly. Only made worse when Sana bundles a handful of Tzuyu's long, glossy hair into a fist and gets her voice into the shell of her ear.

"I know you love it, Tzuyu, how he's fucking taking you, huh? That's it. Show daddy how good of a toy you can be."

And oh, the reaction - the very clear one, no less. Tzuyu grips onto the cushion of the couch, a full set of fingers curling around Sana's forearm, any part of you - the one closest and she's digging her sharp nails into your skin and whimpering for Sana to keep talking like her life depends on it.

"Let me see if you can be as good as you think you are," Sana murmurs, and you shift forward again, bucking your hips just barely but getting there, and then there's more, fuck - getting closer to a good steady pace. Slow, forceful. Hitting the very back of her throat, the bottom of her lips.

Tzuyu can only respond by taking you impossibly deep.

"Remember what you told me?" Sana's biting her lip, finding as much satisfaction out of the mere display.

"Mnnph," Tzuyu chokes out before slipping off your cock, only long enough to gasp for another breath, "I said, I said - all the things I would let him do to me." Her voice sounds so wrecked. Broken. Desperate. Filthy, the kind that needs to be fucked. "Please, please," she says again.

"Tzuyu." Sana's fist tightens in Tzuyu's hair, and down Tzuyu goes. "You sounded so sure, baby - when you said you'd making him fucking cum so easy, how you'd make him bust over and over with this mouth, so -"

You're getting too close. It's really not your fault, it's the two of them. Every wince on your face a result of Tzuyu's swollen, shiny lips wrapped tightly around your cock, cheeks flush and hollow with every move of her mouth. She keeps doing this little flick of her tongue as her lips slide around you - even while Sana lifts her jaw up, down, up down, fucking her mouth onto your aching cock with a sort of callous disregard for how it's fucking her up - how it's fucking you up.

"-the prettiest girls make the best fucking cumrags, you know. Really - makes your toes curl," Sana finishes, giving one particularly pointed tilt of her head at the sight of how bad your knees are shaking.

And then, out the corner of her mouth, teeth locked over her lip, because you're so caught up in how good it feels fucking your length through the vice of Tzuyu's mouth, sliding across her wet tongue - "she's not lying baby, is she? Fuck, I bet she feels so fucking good on you doesn't she" - her voice hoarse and desperate, a hint of something caught at the back of her throat like she can almost taste what it's like. What it must feel like.

Sana pushes, and even she can probably feel you pulsing at the way Tzuyu chokes when the tip meets the drain of her throat.

It gets... it ends up too much, too fast. Borderline abusive - and not just the speed, or the sheer roughness - Nayeon was here on her knees, like this, in the middle of the night not too long ago, and deepthroating you is far from the unusual or accomplished, at this point. But, fuck if that isn't something you build up to.

The slight curve of Tzuyu's arms, rising as they tremble with the effort, the little tears that slip down her cheeks, and those lovely sounds she makes. It's not at all intentional - and you're so stupidly certain Sana didn't think you'd be this riled so quickly, like there's not an ounce of willpower in the world that could save you at this point.

And while that's not too surprising on its own - Sana knows you well, this is what she agreed to - Tzuyu must have understood (it was part of the plan, in fact) what she was walking into, what she was signing up for. But fuck it: she was still pretty new, an amateur. And an amateur just wouldn't be capable of doing the things she does, and looking the way she looks, not to the same extent as this.

"Can you cum from nothing but the feeling of daddy's dick hitting your throat? I'll have him sit back and relax while we work," Sana tells her.

It'd make two of you.

"Would you like that?" she's asking you, tilting her head when you've gathered yourself long enough. "No touching, just take my orders while we pleasure you. How does that sound, daddy?"

"Sana, easy," you practically growl, biting down on the inside of your cheek because the twitch in Tzuyu's pulse has you coming far too undone, her chest hitching and lungs heaving and face wet with spit and tears and cum as it's spilling down her chin. You're seconds from telling Sana to dial it back when a low, guttural sound, sputtering, leaves Tzuyu's throat.

The grip in Tzuyu's hair goes loose enough that she pulls herself up, swallowing up as much air as she can.

And fuck, look at the damage: that swollen mess of her red, glistening mouth; the dark runs of mascara and drying tracks that make a ruin of her face, her neck; a heart-stopping shine of white drool. She blinks the tears off her lashes in a moment.

Sana’s eyeing her over the same way a surgeon might approach a task with a scalpel and a careful hand, or perhaps a fisherman surveying the quality of a catch - before tossing it to the back of a truck to be hauled back home. Like the kind of sight she gets just a little too much satisfaction at. And it's the eyebrow she shoots up into her mess of toffee-blonde hair that asks, quietly, too much?

Fuck. Maybe.

But Tzuyu's eyes shift toward Sana's, and without even an ounce of hesitation - without anything more than a heavy exhale - she opens her mouth again so you can see her tongue run across her top teeth, incensed in her lust. More, fuck me, have me, use me she's saying, telling with you the slight indignance in her eyes that Sana finds perfectly irresistible.

Then, as if unbothered by how far your cock had been slotted in her throat, she swallows. Says, "is that all, sir?"

And the sound that follows it, that shuddering sigh - breaking, cracking, shattering into the calm quiet of your apartment - Tzuyu takes you like it's more than enough. She's swallowing it all back down again.

“Fuck, Tzuyu, you’re-” you try, only to have her moan loud, so loud, when she drags her tongue down your cock and swallows around the whole thing in a way that has you gasping. Your hands end up wound tightly in her hair, weaving through the smooth waves, knuckles straining when it really sinks in. Just how deep down her throat you go, so perfectly deep, the stretch of her lips holding on the side of a grimace because she needs it that way. She can't have it any other.

"Go on," Sana murmurs into the side of your face, drawing closer so she's got her nails curled down into your thighs, leaning in to place a wet, hot kiss into your cheek. "C'mon baby, she'd told me she'd let you do anything - said she'd swallow everything, like the fucking cockslut she is."

Sana's chin digs against the bone in your shoulder, eyes unwavering on where you disappear over and over inside Tzuyu's throat. And it's not just that - Tzuyu's hair clenched tight in Sana’s one hand, the other curled hard into a fist around the base of your cock, her harsh breaths washing over the bare skin of your neck. It's fucking indecent, how needy she's gotten. How needy she always gets. You can feel her greedy little lips finding your ear and biting just shy of savage enough to break skin, and licking - flicking across the vein beating down in your throat, and then -

"That's right," Sana says with a low growl when you look at her. "Cum."

An impoverished sound rips right through your chest. Spreads through you like wildfire.

And just like that, you're spilling inside her, thrusts growing unsteady and lost in the wet, searing heat of Tzuyu's perfect, wet lips, slapping and sliding into her throat, spilling on her tongue with every surge of pleasure drumming in your blood.

Tzuyu sinks down further. So deep that the brush of the back of her throat feels like a hand on the hilt of a knife, tearing into the ends of your nerves, where they’ve come alight and been set ablaze.

Sana picks up again whispering into the cuff of your ear. It makes your head feel like it might explode. And you're almost entirely certain that's what will actually happen, when the combined pressure between your ears and that of your cock becoming so desperately spent builds and builds and doesn't stop, as though waiting.

Biding time for some perfect snap.

Only, a tickle at the back of Tzuyu's throat has her choking out. The same uncontrolled way your hips start to falter - shaky, jerky motions instead of any precision or rhythm - and you're tilting and winding your head in circles, jaw tensed, squeezing her scalp and oh, oh fuck. Tzuyu's mouth slides itself all the way off you in one hurried gasp, then two and three, just barely giving her a chance to steady herself, all while you're still leaking thick, white cum all over the slick swell of her bottom lip, up over the ridges of her elegant features, the curves of her cheeks, the high arches of her brows.

Look - you're cumming all over Tzuyu's face. You’re cumming all over her pretty face and she just takes it.

She's, fuck - she's so, so good. And not just because her mouth is fucking perfection, or her eyes are all at once bleary but wide open, watching you twitch, her own cheeks flushing as she stares up at you - trying desperately to breathe, taking a quick lick off the end of your cock, flitting her tongue between her knuckles, because apparently another taste can't hurt.

"Ugh," Sana hushes, right into your neck, "would you just fucking look, see that - god, Tzuyu, how does it feel, does he taste as good as you hoped he would?"

There's a subtle, unmistakable bob in Tzuyu's throat as she's swallowing everything down, the evidence, and a small flash of her tongue. "Good, mmn-" and you can see how she struggles in her restraint to simply say so, to let her hand drift to the 'V' between her thighs and sate that ache.

But even if her body seems ready for more, Sana's finger finds its way underneath Tzuyu's chin to prompt, with one, simple command, "let's get you cleaned up before we give you what you came for. Go on, get our little girl up to the shower, won't you daddy?"

It's a minor miracle the three of you make it upstairs and down the hall without so much as a trip or stumble, the girls with their fingers woven together and hips swaying as you all stagger up. It's a minor miracle you don't pin either of them against drywall or up against a doorway or do any of the number of filthy things on the mind of a man just fucked, still coming down, with two gorgeous, perfect faces - two perfectly sculpted asses - all in arms' reach.

The bath mat is still bunched at the back of your bathroom door. Still damp from the last shower - Sana's last morning here - which you have to pry apart just a little so the two of them can file in.

And well - it does happen. Eventually.

At the sink.

Just inside the en suite of your bedroom.

With Sana, being the way she is.

While the faucet in the shower starts up a shallow stream of water - tap running warm, steaming the length of the mirror and condensing the glass that Sana will soon have Tzuyu's face up against if she has any say in the matter.

"Tzu," Sana says, carding a hand through her hair and bringing a damp washcloth up to the bend of her jaw. There's a slow trace of fingertips across the lines of her neck. "Keep your eyes right on his while I clean you up, ok?"

And then there's the mirror in the center. The three of you arranged - a sort of hierarchy - with Sana stepping forward and adjusting her stance in order to survey, and clean the mess she's made. (What you've made.)

In profile, you can't exactly make out a distinct detail about Tzuyu's face in the reflective surface, only the silvery blur that is the curve of her neck, and the silhouette of the small frame that her long, slim legs form against the cabinet. But the idea's always the same - she's being used like a perfect canvas. Like an empty, ready-to-use doll that you can twist and turn in the ways you want until all your control breaks and you're just fucking into her, or having her lick and suck all over Sana's gorgeous fucking tits while she's bouncing in your lap.

Whichever happens to come first.

"You missed a spot," Tzuyu tells Sana, as though she hadn't missed several - her head tilts in your direction, eyes wide still, endless in depth. Her mouth gives away what's already burning its way through her blood. "Maybe another pair of hands will help?"

"Mine are a little rough around the edges," you explain, coming in close. The bathroom is this tight, congested space, but at the right angle there's plenty of room, even if your hips knock slightly into Sana's body. Tzuyu's delicate body already has her back flush against the sink basin. "You want to feel them?"

She shakes her head, and even though the hunger on her tongue hasn't been satisfied, even after having a good fill, there's something else she'd rather have now.

"I think," she starts, her words cut off by a hitch of breath when Sana's lips travel to the very tips of her hair and work their way up to the soft skin behind her ear. "Rough is good, when... when I'm being," Tzuyu's closing her eyes - partly so that she doesn't fall off the edge so easily, partly to lean into the sensations of two warm bodies, all attention placed solely on her.

"When you're being worked over?" Sana offers.

"Ngh," she responds - with an attempt, as best as she can, at a smile. And then there's one, light, teasing stroke across her jaw, her mouth. Sana's thumb pressed gently into the crease. "When the fucking gets..." and you'll have to fill the gap - finishing her thought with your hands slotting themselves onto the gentle arch of her hips, pressing a kiss that doesn't even come close to satisfaction on the supple dip of collarbone.

She lets out this pretty sound at the feel of your lips, Sana's, all ghosting down her throat.

"Hard and deep?" you say. Sana smirks at this - continues the effort, "A little fucking nasty, huh, sweetheart?"

"Mhm." Tzuyu is, above all else, a little helpless. “Because - you know me so well.”

But make no mistake: Tzuyu is exactly where she wants to be. With the heat radiating off her bare body, she leans into it all, only flinching when your teeth catch her nipple - when Sana's tongue laps a rough circle over the other. The scene, the feelings, all of it orchestrated precisely - these are the things she likes, maybe loves even.

And after the soft sounds slip through her lips, a moan and another hum, she finds her words and voice, "hard and deep and, rough and, ff-"

"And?"

The quick brush of your tongue flickers across the hard tip. The sensation draws from Tzuyu this very faint cry and the exhale of a word: "Fast."

"Naughty little thing," Sana presses into her jaw, pulling back to regard you both. To lift a finger, wet the pad with her tongue - and reach down, down, down until her fingertips brush the very line of her thigh, into the slick between her legs. "I love it when girls get all messy."

"Please," is all Tzuyu has to say, barely anything but, as Sana's finger drags slowly inside her folds.

"Patience baby," she murmurs into Tzuyu's open mouth. The exchange is swift but thorough; you watch, all tongue and spit, and your fingers twitch with a sense of loss. "Why don't you remind me how this went last time?"

"Mm, listen here," Tzuyu says in an astute breath, the sound of it like tables turning. There's a firm pull on your wrist - the grip on it guiding you, encouraging you, just where she wants them, into the band of lace around Sana's impossibly narrow waist. You feel Sana sigh in relief, shiver at the touch of a warm palm up against her thighs, and into a pulse-wet cunt, as though the slightest touch will kill her. "I think you might be remembering wrong, Sana."

"And why might that be?"

"Weren't you the one begging me? When I had two fingers up your cunt in your apartment," Tzuyu presses forward, voice lilt and darkening like ink, and Sana whines and crumbles in her palms, knees buckling when there's one sudden and rough slide of fingers right on the base of her spine.

"Yeah?" Sana asks with a rising blush, already knowing the answer - it's her fatal flaw: she's all sharp edges and pointed teeth, right up to the point there's a finger at her own throat, a cock in her hands and a girl working at her clit until she's drooling. "Are you suggesting I'm easy? Is that where you're heading with this?"

Tzuyu's leaned up against the counter, turning Sana's slender frame around in her hands, until she has her fingers up on the over the wire of Sana's bra, palms hot beneath the thin cups, feeling for her nipples, and the change in dynamic is as palpable as the steam rising in the room.

"Let’s not put words in my mouth," she responds simply, dropping another kiss into the back of Sana’s hair. There's another one laid along the sweep of her neck, like a careful bite, and with a lift of a brow, a look that tells you what you've always known, "but if you’re asking, then sure, the sluttiest of all sluts. Easy," she pulls the cups down Sana’s chest, "as fuck."

It gets to her, clearly, as if that moan falling out of Sana's parted lips could mean anything else.

"Daddy?" Tzuyu asks, because apparently she's enjoying the bit, easing into all parts of the character. She can't seem to contain her grin.

"What is it, sweetheart?" you ask, dipping your finger down into Sana's cunt, and fuck - the girl is so, so slick for it. She needs to be taken and torn, that much is clear. Her whimpers don't get softer as your hips drive into her stomach, pinning her between the two of you.

"Is she always this much of a bratty tease? Or is that just how she gets when she gets all worked up over your perfect cock. I know she's aching to feel it stretch out that tight little cunt of hers-

"It's never been all that clear," you answer, before Tzuyu can start to say anything further. A moment of composure, in case Sana wants you to step in.

Except that, she doesn't exactly interrupt the play you and Tzuyu are setting up: "So," Tzuyu remarks instead. "Just for me then."

"It's possible."

The room suddenly feels very full, very small.

"Right. Okay. Well then," you say - watching carefully, when Tzuyu gives you an appraising glance. Sana squirms again beneath the pressure of all these fingers printing over her sensitive skin - she'd love to fuck this. Or be fucked.

"That means you'll have to take good care of your needy little princess, won't you daddy?"

It's surprisingly fitting.

Though it hasn’t been that long, all things considered.

Not since Sana effortlessly waltzed her way into your life. And slightly less-than-that, the time it took her thereafter to find herself bouncing in your lap and tugging at your hair while you struggled for breath between her tits. This perfect storm, caught somewhere between laughing and choking and definitely, definitely falling.

It's been a year, maybe. If that. But that's plenty to know.

Know every tilt of her mouth, every sly grin. The different moans that shake loose from the curve of her lips.

Know what it means when Sana's palms hit the tiles of the shower wall, fingers splaying as she goes quiet and submissive, letting out the barest noise of frustration as Tzuyu spreads her tongue over the pucker of her ass - know that the knuckle you curl up in her cunt has her that much closer to unraveling in a stream of whimpers, needy fucking pants and a hoarse sound of gratitude.

Ostensibly for getting her so perfectly, perfectly raw.

"Fuck, yes, that," Sana barely manages, between the messy swipe Tzuyu's tongue makes over her hole. Just this thorough lick, drawing tight, swirling circles around her, lapping at the wetness before making a hot and steady pass over the sensitive stretch of skin, drenching it in spit until Sana's scrambling against the hard surface.

She's not close to going quiet: her cheeks look rounder, like she can hardly keep her noises under control as Tzuyu eases a single fingertip inside the tense muscle of her rim and uses the stretch and warmth of the water raining down her spine, to slip in deeper. Sana's sighing as Tzuyu eats her like an act, an invitation.

You push your fingers deep, deeper, slick, pulling, rubbing, coaxing Sana's mouth apart even as your lips press wet into her cheek. She groans louder, needier, with your hand flexing up a three-finger graze over that bundle of nerves. The kind that makes her back fucking arch.

"You," Sana sputters open like a struck match, burning bright in the steam-cloaked shower, "you, you, you," and it’s not really clear who she’s cursing, "going to - you're going to - you're going to make me-"

"Oh no," Tzuyu sings, starting to straighten herself out - until she’s reminding Sana that she’s the smallest of the three of you and in a possible sort of danger.

She reaches an open palm into the stream of water and splashes off the slick running down her mouth, her chin, her neck - gaze anchored to Sana's trembling figure. It's just one, heavy exhale into the hot, hazy air: "You've got it all wrong.”

Sana twists her head around, face still so wildly attractive amidst the look of worry and that flush of pink taking over from the bottom half. The tiny, imperceptible dip in her brows.

But before she can give voice to a complaint, Tzuyu has her spun by a rough grip around her waist, pinning her back to the tile - water beating down the rise of her breasts and the tops of her shoulders.

"If you're going to cum baby, it'll be all over his thick cock, getting your whole cunt so stretched and stuffed full it'll feel like he's cumming up inside your guts."

You and Sana share this wistful groan of a sigh after Tzuyu wraps her long fingers around your cock, aims you true, and brings you close. Closer. Until you can feel Sana's pulse at her cunt, lips wet and slippery and dripping, just a few inches from where the tip of your cockhead nudges the insides of her thighs. Sana's stomach is seizing in a fluttering of heat and -

"Do you like hearing her beg? That's good. Because this girl's gonna do everything she can to make sure you fuck her raw before you even let her come," Tzuyu's voice lowers, a deep register. "How long can you last, Sana?"

Sana gives you this look, all anticipation and pleasure, holding it for longer than is strictly necessary - and then, her pert little mouth falls open, keening, hissing out a shallow, almost painful, "fuck" the moment you bend at the knees and slip inside.

The feeling that washes over you is a beautiful elixir of relief, an indomitable kind of want, tinged with something heavier, and with just the tiniest hint of longing in the sense that this is not enough, nowhere near enough. It never is.

"God, Sana," is all you manage. All you want to.

Sana doesn't wait around any longer before giving you an impatient shimmy of her hips, fucking herself further down the length of your cock, like she wants to choke on it. And the feeling of it, well, she does it well - the tight warmth swallowing you to the base, her cunt squeezing you all at once, slick and smothering. Fuck, it's all in her eyes. How badly she wants to be held down, split apart. How tightly your fist finds itself locked around Sana's long, wet strands of golden hair as Tzuyu closes any semblance of distance - brushing her lips over where she can tease Sana's open and slack mouth, licking down inside, panting.

"Baby, you are so close, I can feel you trembling," Tzuyu teases, running her fingers up Sana's stomach, cupping steady the breast she can fit in her palm. She drops another messy kiss on Sana’s throat and hums: "Go ahead, cum. I'm sure he doesn't mind.”

"You're such a prissy fucking- nnh-" Sana's words skirt right over Tzuyu's fingertips before they're shoved roughly across the swell of her lower lip and into the back of her mouth. If Tzuyu's intent was to prove a point, she's about as successful as can be - Sana can only gag quietly around her digits, working her jaw over them.

"Sana, shh-shh-shh, baby, don’t fight it; just cum around around his cock, don't put yourself in a corner and try to play games - he'll fuck you right, until you scream, I promise, and-"

It hardly ever takes much. That's something you've come to appreciate: Sana can't ever help it. With the way it actually feels, you pressing right up against where the rest of her cinches so impossibly tight. She was practically teetering on the edge, on the very cliff and within reach of falling right off of it the instant you fit the very hilt of your cock up the molten-hot stretch of her perfect cunt, sliding, fucking into her while water sprays all over her quivering body, so soft beneath the wash of rain.

One of Sana’s long legs gets wrapped around your waist and you can feel her nails start to dig through the muscles in your shoulders.

Tzuyu smirks right into Sana's temple, biting at the slickness of her skin, running the curve of her thumb around the length of Sana's jugular, and sucking with her teeth when Sana cries out. "How does our girl feel wrapped around you? Wet, huh? Needy?"

"Unbelievable," you answer honestly - and maybe that's the point; Sana's pussy is incredible. Hot and silky and absolutely unreal. There’s no question, whether she's a work of art, or if she'll fuck you up, but you love that part.

“Ruin her for me, won’t you?” Tzuyu prompts, with that twinkle of mischief you're rapidly becoming accustomed to. "She looks even prettier when she's fucked out. I know you know that."

She does, she does, she does.

Your hips snap, up, fuck in - Sana mewling around the shape of Tzuyu's first two fingers - then back, drawing the motion slow, long, full - until you’re crashing forward and sinking up into that warmth you know is spreading across every inch of Sana’s body, swallowing her up inside-out as her legs start to shake and give and her tongue laps recklessly along the outline of Tzuyu's knuckles.

Sana knows she likes to play at coy and control, but this is never part of the act - your cock fucking her submissive pussy apart - it’s hard to argue she doesn’t love how you can come to own her: hot and fast and filthy, leaving her breathless and desperate, every thrust into her tight cunt punctuated with some pretty whimper. And here, she just… there isn't the luxury, there's nowhere to hide.

Nowhere to run or shy or look away.

Tzuyu curses when finally Sana bites down, part of a long sequence of reflexes that bloom from the depth you fuck up into her cunt. And with her voice back in her throat (Tzuyu's fingers shaking out the sharp pain) she fucking whines into it, unable to stop the steady line of nonsense tumbling past her lips, incoherent except for the single-minded purpose of her own release.

"Fuck, daddy, fuck," Sana repeats in the same way she always does, getting fucked, the letters collapsing into each other. "I'm cumming, fuck, fuck, so fucking wet. God, you're, fuck, right there, oh - I'm cumming, daddy, I’m fucking cumming," is the all further she gets, muddied with the sound of your slicked-up thighs moving in quick rhythm with the beat of your heart, slapping loudly against her skin - loud enough so that the neighbors can probably listen in through paper thin walls.

Then she goes silent, face painted with it all. She isn't crying, the tears won't come, but she's gone this quiet sort of wide-eyed that matches the way she's mouthing, cumming, over and over, you’re pulling me a-fucking-part.

And you believe her. You have to.

Just look at the way her legs are doing all the wrong things. Thighs tensing taut, muscles giving out - she’s slipping down the tiles, back bending and flexing and going limp all at once. Tzuyu's already moving, scooping her up like it's something rehearsed, before you even have to ask, "Tzu, help me hold her up, won't you?"

“Tzu, huh?”

It's not much, but it is worth noting: how Tzuyu, her fingers curling and interlacing between Sana's, holds the girl like she's breakable. Tenderly, cradling Sana's small body against her chest.

"Do you slip into pet names and all that with every girl Sana brings around? Or am I," and when Tzuyu tilts her head, her smile has this very palpable bite, "the exception?"

"Every pretty girl thinks they're special, sweetheart."

Tzuyu just glimpses one downward look into Sana, shivering, riding her orgasm down into nothing, and drops a kiss into her hair. A gentle chuckle: "And when have I ever given you a reason to doubt it?"

"Shameless," is all Sana offers up, beyond exhausted, trying and failing to take more than a passing, somewhat disgruntled interest in the scene unfolding around her, while she clings to the strength Tzuyu and the tile and your hands are putting into her body.

Meanwhile Tzuyu, this devil of a daydream - this tall, skinny thing of long hair and smirking lips and cheekbones as sharp as her wit, has her gaze locked. Still curious, and all but relentless - there's more she's dying to say. It seems almost impracticable that such a lovely woman would really be this way, weapons concealed under all that good-girl charm. And in its most uncomplicated form, that's what it is: an open invitation.

You've only managed the vaguest outlines, after all. "Do you mind?" you ask again.

The next movements feel more elegant than they probably are. Cradling Sana's limp body between you, finding a steady hold.

There’s a slight shuffle to discover a proper balance, a hand slapping the glass of the shower door, and yeah, Sana's fucked out. Slurring out sounds that might resemble the shape of words if she had the presence of mind. The rest are whines and whimpers, obscene in all ways.

“Baby,” Tzuyu tells Sana in a growling kiss to the back of her ear. "Keep your fucking legs up."

(That’s a cue if you were looking for one, to get your arms fastened around Sana's small waist as she leans heavy into your chest.)

"More," The girl in your arms starts to complain, when you truly start fucking her.

"Hurt - hnn, please, more - fuck - harder," and all those sharp edges, that arrogance and conceit, it's all gone. Her pupils are blown out, an animal-like-desire set in its place - these are your invitations to wreck her, you realize, pushing so deep into her well-fucked cunt that she arches, and that her head knocks against Tzuyu's, that the small room is entirely empty save for these movements under the metal cloud of shower water, falling like rain.

This is all there is.

Tzuyu, smirking like she herself might get off on this.

Sana, begging.

And when Tzuyu buries a hot smile at her throat, nibbling at the skin - urging her, urging you, this sharp, "now give her the fucking dicking of a lifetime, will you?"

When Sana’s reduced down to her pleas of, please, harder daddy, and deeper, god, I can feel you so deep -

Well,

You’re all instinct. You sink your fingers into the firm skin of her ass, grab at the soft, slippery flesh around her hips. You sink your cock into her hole again and again.

The stretch is obvious and absolutely devastating, making Sana cry out and muffle her face in your shoulder. She makes a weak sort of sound around your neck - it could be anything, maybe please don't stop, or maybe please do - it doesn't matter.

"You look incredible like this baby, does he fuck you well?" Tzuyu croons, curling around her so her head rests on her shoulder - eyes watching Sana, meeting yours. "Oh, come on, aren't you always telling me about how it makes you feel - all this, full and hot and better than anyone? Now's your chance, no hiding from him. Or me."

"It's so, god it's - I -"

"Come on," Tzuyu squeezes out one long, eager moan with her hand dropped onto Sana's breasts, pulling and kneading like she owns it. "Tell him to cum in you baby, like the good fucktoy you are, let him cum up into that creaming pussy until you’re all sticky and leaking cum all over, just the biggest fucking mess."

There is measurable irony, you suppose, in how Sana brings these friends of hers back with the clear expectation to be fucked and torn apart, how they each want the same, all wanting to get her unraveling and her knees buckling. Only Tzuyu manages, more efficiently than anyone you've ever seen, to leave her all wanton and squirming against your hard, relentless thrusts into her needy cunt.

It's easy: this isn't difficult, there is nothing hard about falling for each and every promise her face has to offer - knowing her body's secrets and drawing the story out, line by line, so you can fall in love with it over and over, all while Sana starts to go helpless at the shape of your cock filling up that tiny, wanting cunt.

So you cum. Inside her. In one final push, filling her completely.

Sana opens her mouth like she's trying to say something - say yes - say daddy, say fuck yes daddy.

"That's it," Tzuyu strokes down Sana's belly. "I knew it - now keep your pretty thighs shut. Can't let even a drop out, understand?"

"Yes, fuck. It's - fuck - good, he feels," Sana finally sobs, chest heaving as you grind the last little bits of cum deep, so far and hot as it can get. All the way in. Where it's hot and wet and throbbing and slick.

Where it should stay, because you never pull out. You savor the last bit of your pulse, sporadic and lethargic. Because in truth - your mind is made and your mouth won't say it because you don’t need to.

Tzuyu's wringing the water out of Sana's hair, picking the strands into careful folds. "Alright then," and her grin is positively lecherous.

There's a bench in the corner of the shower where you eventually arrive, panting now that you realize it, and Sana makes herself at home right in your lap, face buried in your shoulder. Grinding her hips down in this almost imperceptible circle, circling back and feeling. Holding you inside and murmuring into your collarbone.

(Fucked, Sana is simply and unfairly beautiful.)

It’s all in that exhale of a moment, when Tzuyu catches water in cupped palms from the shower-head, wiping away what stray tracks of soapiness left on Sana's shoulder-blades and breasts and thighs. Her hands all up and down her body, sudsing the crease between leg and torso, down lower still, around her sensitive pussy and her folds.

You wonder if she can hear you swallow.

"Maybe we should actually wash up before we go again?"

The first thing Sana's free hand goes for when she stumbles through the threshold of your bedroom is a hair band you didn’t know she was storing in the top drawer of your dresser. She fidgets around keeping her towel wrapped tightly around her chest as though modesty were an option at this point.

"What?" she asks, fixing you with a slightly-irritated, slightly-teasing smirk. "You look like you have something you want to say."

"Nothing." You laugh out loud. "It's nothing. I'm just waiting."

She makes this face at you, guilty - so sorry about the contraband - as she twists her wrists and pulls the hair band round her middle-finger, wrapping her palms around her knot of wet blonde and bundling it into a half-assembled ponytail. It leaves the length of her nape exposed and vulnerable, neck flushed pink-from-showering in all the most wonderful of places.

"Waiting," is what she hones in on.

Tzuyu is pulling out of the bathroom. Her hands, washed clean and dried off with a fluffy, off-white towel. When she sets it down, she steps back, leaning on the frame. "He's waiting, for what I wonder?"

She's made of all things smooth-and-sharply-cut. Even from here, even through the sleep-haze fog, the silhouette of her nude figure gives itself to a small sense of anticipation. The long and smooth sweep of her chest, from breast, up and out, and then tapering along down to where her hips flare. She takes a step and then another and lets her fingers ride her side, from the very top of the shallow indentation in the dip of her waist, up. Then the tautness of her abdomen and further still, running slow and over the breast, coming to cup its full weight, pushing the bottom of the curve outwards.

"Waiting to," and she wets her lips in something akin to expectation. "Pound me into the fucking bed?"

You’re smiling when you explain, "I was going to say a request…"

Tzuyu’s dimples deepen. "You mean, like, we can tell you what to do?”

You sit on the bed, which is actually more of a proposition than you realize. "I suppose."

"Sana, sweetie, is there something I should be doing for him," Tzuyu looks up, wearing that trademark kind of playful expression that is definitely deliberate and not at all a tell. "Or maybe I've got this all wrong and you know exactly what you want."

"Well," you manage in reply, sounding surprisingly sane. "Don't both start coming forward with any ideas you have no intention of following through."

"And what if I have no ideas at all? What would you tell me then," is the challenge you find hanging around the slender outline of Tzuyu's wrists, and then at the back of her fingers, as she cards her hands through her hair and pulls it prettily over rise-and-falls of her collarbones, until it's barely curtaining her breasts.

(Barely.)

She crosses over to the bed - to you and Sana - and without much other movement than that, finds a knee on either side of you to let a lone fingertip skirt the tops of your hips. Flirting with the towel around your waist.

"For the record," Tzuyu says, flicking a glance at Sana and leaning down into your jawline. The palm she slides over your thigh is so warm, so promising of its heat and pressure you'd swear you can almost taste the touch of her. "I never, ever go back on my word."

"Try me," you tell her.

"I do have some, ideas." Every time her fingernail ends up between her teeth, it’s another drop in a well that runs god knows how deep. "Though very few of them involve this towel."

“And about the ones that do?”

"Well," Tzuyu starts to purr - reaching a hand down and spreading the flat of her palm on your chest, "I figured if I ever wanted something to bite down on, well, you know."

It's just a subtle little rock - and the perfect view: she starts like this, her hair all tucked behind one shoulder, the arch of her back lifting. Slow at first, Tzuyu only pausing after every other short breath to lick and kiss your lips with hers, and the edges of her teeth, all soft and insistent. You are sure - that with a subtle twitch, a minor jerk of the knee or hip - she is almost right over the perfect place, and when her hips grind in these micro-friction little motions that have her sighing and pushing herself flush, it's clear that all she's looking to do is rub her cunt down all over the erection you've been holding in since the last time your towel was hanging somewhere above your waist.

"Hold, please," Sana interrupts, when she leans over and plucks something out of the messy contents of the nightstand - a few hair clips, and, more importantly, a condom. She swears aloud when the package tears the wrong way, but she's quick to apply a lip balm-slick finger-tip on the inside of the ring, and hands the thing to Tzuyu by way of a passing roll, "so, I assume you've got this under control."

"Give me that."

"Mm. Have at it."

There is an intrusive thought that finds its place, wedged somewhere at the base of your skull when Tzuyu starts the careful act of lowering herself down your shaft - like this, it has an inevitability - a forward momentum, the familiar sense of excitement building a force in your heartstrings. Sana must have a similar sensation, as she scoots her ass and slides one hand over the same place you feel that force thrumming, her palm reaching right for Tzuyu's ass, while Tzuyu hisses out a tiny sound at the added stretch.

"Careful," Sana says, fingers drawn back from the cleft of Tzuyu's beautiful ass with a string of slick that's unmistakably arousal. "You try going back after having his cock. And trust me, there's nothing to go back to. Like, ever."

"That must be why you're always like this," is Tzuyu's cock-sure comeback, finding herself flush with your hips.

You're biting down. You're holding back. You're probably digging nails into your palms hard enough to break skin, because you could be double, triple wrapped, latex running up your length like a goddamn balloon and you'd still feel the hot, melting perfection of Tzuyu's pussy swallowing your cock in one, slick, seamless motion. There isn't any sound either more pleasing than that hitch-groan-slip you hear as Sana helps guide Tzuyu's hips back, forth, back again and to a steady beginning of this proper pace: smooth and full.

You both need a second, because, fuck - and she's biting into a grin. Eyes already half lidded as the speed builds. As Tzuyu starts really enjoying the drag of it, the feeling. The god-damn-fucking-stretch.

"Oh? Like what?" Sana asks, smirk filling out her lips to bridge the silence you're both groaning into. "Like what?"

"Greedy," Tzuyu says. The only part that really needs to get filled in. "Because he fucks the self-control right out of you."

Now Sana lets that settle, and it's not like she doesn't know. Or doesn't understand. And still, "Mm. That does sound like me, doesn't it, daddy?"

(Yeah, well- you- )

Tzuyu watches you watch what happens next: Sana peeling out the cotton slip of her bath towel - sizing up just how good Sana looks. Fuck-me-raw.

And then she laughs, deep and gorgeous. "Didn't he just do a number on you - hn, god. Can you hear him all up inside me? Fucking, splitting me apart."

It's true.

All of it.

The way Tzuyu rides your cock. Faster, faster, rolling her body and drawing her hands together behind the length of her hair and neck until the point of her chin is upturned, showing off the hollow of her throat. A tension that glitters with sweat.

The tightening in the space between the bottom of her ass and your cock - all of it is heaven. This slow-and-rough, rough-and-fast. Tzuyu picks the tempo of it to fuck out a particular pleasure that has you catching her and pulling her closer to your body, holding her through the upward grind, where your cock meets the heat of her cunt - pressing her closer.

That's it.

Possessive. That's what both girls have the good grace to read.

Sana's hands come up Tzuyu's ribs, fingertips skirting the muscle-taut-surface of her stomach, the bumps and grooves of her ribs, and up further still, riding the path of her breasts as they're bobbing-jostled and going full-on heavy - her thumbs go at her nipples. Rolling around the hardened tips - the faintest tug at them, enough to start to pull - then just teasing them between thumb and forefinger and loving the sight of you wincing. Loving that you love that.

"She's pretty, isn't she?" Sana laughs.

"It's a real show," you bite the compliment out. The very least you can get to.

(You'll be fucked if you can hide how much you want to stay buried in this girl and cum a fucking waterfall between those perfect, creamy thighs. Oh, she knows. The dirty little smile, the filthy laugh, you're holding tight - even if the act is useless.)

"Like how she clamps down," she hums. "That's the part I've always loved, you know. She just does everything so slow, so fucking good, so... deliberate."

There's a fist in Tzuyu's hair and no trace of sympathy or self restraint in her friend when Sana tells her, "Baby, ride him slow for me, can you do that?"

When Tzuyu sucks a hiss through her teeth, mouth caught around the sharp intake, Sana just licks a slow line along the curve of her lower lip - as though saying, baby, like the slut you are, remember who asked nicely?

And it turns out: slow is worse. You can feel every tiny tremor of friction, every little shift of Tzuyu's cunt squeezing you. Clinging tightly. Your fingers wrap around her rib cage and hold her right as her ass hits your lap, while her head rolls back into her own hair. It is enough, finally, to draw an out-of-breath little pant out of her, making a beautiful blush crawl and spread across her cheeks - there.

(Oh, fuck, your brain echoes. So, you want slow, that's what the noise from your throat says as she eases back, rising up. So slow, you-can-feel-all-of-me. She makes the effort so flawlessly, it's fucking you both over, because she's looking at Sana with this flutter-beat look, eyes wide, wet and round and pleading.)

It gets that much worse the minute Sana pushes her down by the shoulders. Giving her some resistance. Showing you both she can take you inch by slow goddamned inch.

"Harder. Deeper, sweetie."

Tzuyu does everything Sana says she'll do, loving her fingers in her hair, pulling tight. Control given as easily as that. Because she looks just how she feels: utterly surrendered. A helpless kind of want, like there's something broken in her chest when the head of your cock pushes her deep, deep. To the point she feels something more than an ache.

"Want it," Tzuyu whispers out against Sana's smile. "From the back, like you promised," she says, and takes the shudder out of your breathing.

Sana cups her jaw, laughing. She puts one arm around Tzuyu's throat and bites at her chin, at her ear. "I bet he'd do just about anything to give you what you want, baby."

Tzuyu’s hips snap down onto yours again. Melting your cock in this thick, molten heat.

And again, faster. Needier.

The kind of movements across your lap that make everything louder - a beautiful chorus of small-sounds. Slaps and squelching. Wet and gasping and begging and skin-on-skin. You'd never, ever considered the act a competition before, not with Sana. But when Tzuyu seems to be seeing who can pull the most erotic of noises out from underneath your ribcage - or the highest pitched sigh - the wetter and louder it all gets -

"Sana."

"Tzu."

Tzuyu rides the pressure and finds her voice, head thrown back, jaw slack. "Sana - tell him to, I'm gonna, soon. Tell him what to do."

"Beg for him," and Sana gives her the fakest-of-all-pouts when she slips her hand along Tzuyu's inner thigh, nearing her where the two of you meet, then slowing her pace, bringing you both to an immediate stand-still, while her fingertips continue, ghosting across the shape of your stomach. "He doesn't need anything less than the truth."

Tzuyu's face. It's the most gorgeous thing you've seen. Her hips are winding slow against you when you hit a spot you're not entirely sure either of you can recreate at your own whim: deep inside. Her eyes as wide as they can be. All of her sharp edges now just these subtle things - the very shape of the shadow beneath her clavicle, the tensing of her thighs at your sides, the gentle lines that curl up from the wide bottoms of her hips when your fingers thread up her belly, palm open flat.

"I want," is where Tzuyu starts, not hiding it any part. "I want you to bend me over the bed."

And in a breathless voice:

"Please, please let me have what I want. Just bend me over the bed, shove my legs apart and take me. Hold me down. Fuck me and fill me and don't let me move or say a thing. Until we're both fucking finished."

You swallow. Hard.

Because here's what Sana's brought you: this tall brunette with an impossibly beautiful ass and thighs to die for, a sin-full mouth. The curves in her waist and back and tits a distraction, that you might try to map out until you're so lost you forget how to leave, how to ever take your cock out of this tight cunt.

"Is that a thing you can do?" Tzuyu practically purrs in one long tone, pushing herself up your waist, until your cock falls out and hangs there. Until you can only see all of this clear, gorgeous skin in front of you and hear her pretty little moan. "God, please, daddy, I’m begging you."

(She says this last part in a way that lets you know this isn't something either of you will get over easily, the kind of pleasure, the feeling and the flash. She's unreadable - almost, not quite- just too honest, there's nothing else for you to believe. Maybe that's where the shiver comes from, or your palms itching, or the sounds of your bedding ruffling as you spin her onto her back, her tummy - pull up on her hips until they're sky high and you can palm her breasts, let her press her knees up and apart on the duvet. Until you get that first look down the column of her spine and the sudden, stunning shape of her ass in a view you never want to say goodbye to.)

Tzuyu slides her hands across your sheets, all this stretch. A flex of muscle. When she opens her hips and you push two fingers deep, inside, easy - then back out -

"How much of that," Tzuyu interrupts, blushing furiously, "do I have left to beg with? Please."

- because she's been soaked and aching all day just thinking about it. Just begging for a good fucking - or so she told Sana, who now giggles and leaves small kisses up the ridge of her spine, crawls alongside the dip-line of the mattress, and after curling her fingers around the column of Tzuyu's throat - smooths a single fingernail up and down and presses, tracing, the groove of her jaw as you nudge your cock against her.

It’s not on purpose, this needlessly drawn-out moment - simple brush of latex against her slick, dripping folds, the tightening in her core and how it matches the tension in Sana's wrist and the coarseness of the bed-linens and the hardness of you - but everything eventually folds, into her.

And you're not helping, the way you're fastened to the narrow point of her waist like it's a handle. Your thumbs riding the arch of her hips, taking every opportunity to sink your fingers hard into the flesh, grip tighter and push, pulling Tzuyu, if only to really work that friction between your hips.

"Fuck, it's all in. Finally." Sana gasps like she's the one being bent, arched, fucked from behind, then lays herself down against the length of Tzuyu's shoulder, chin bumping her cheek. Watching Tzuyu. Taking it all in.

You have a hard time making it out, but Tzuyu starts this half-whimpered litany about how she needs to be fucked (that is, roughly - deep and long, or maybe rough and short and deep, or whatever, as long as it makes her lose composure), followed with some shoddy mix of cursing and your name and Sana's - the things all three of you might consider for another chance meeting.

And as you're following up the suggestion with a low groan, that's exactly how you notice that grind in her hips - a jerk back, a twist, bucking against you. She feels so, so incredibly tight when she writhes onto you, squeezes. Like she wants to tear her heart out her chest, she's so overwhelmed. So thoroughly and totally taken by this fuck. By you. "Harder," is all she says.

This one line does it, then two more. All in-and-out thrusts from behind, fuller the second time, then the third.

Only when you find Tzuyu peering back over her shoulder with a pair of eyes that say, please, pretty-please, all liquid and warm and wanting. "Fucking ruin that cunt, I want - god. Do you have the slightest idea how much," and that is where the words disappear into a slow and sticky whine.

"Yeah baby," Sana whispers.

She knows what it is. Tzuyu wants so much more, so you give it. Give her the just-this-side-of-ruthless fucking and the slow-pace grind you know can push her right over the edge. Give her more, all of you, and get her hands twisting in the pillow and grabbing fistfuls of sheets, burying her face into the space above her wrists and nearly choking on her hair with how she moans and yelps - loud.

Her whole body jolts forward the next time. The arch to her back deepening. Body drawing in on a flawless line.

Tzuyu does cum. Eventually.

She keens and rolls and begs you not to pull out or slow, just stay put and fill her with your cum - keep fucking going, please. The only thing keeping her from landing flat on your mattress as she practically unravels around your cock are fingers you have under her hips, tightening. Bruising.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck me, you’re,” you’re railing out of her lungs, where the words hang on sex-stale air.

First with Sana whispering promises into her ears and letting Tzuyu swallow, and suck around the length of her index, then two, fingers. Then licking a kiss into her mouth, tongue tangling up hers and finishing up the act with, "cum for us, Tzu, like the sweet girl you are - you take him so well."

Then, with your hand held over her ass-

(She could cry from it. From how everything pulls you in, like a riptide, and, really, with no regard for things like safety or drowning.)

-the utterance off her lips has your stomach twisting into knots:

"Keep," you hear her ask Sana. Barely getting the words out as you ride, fast. "Please, keep, telling him that I - god."

It gets worse before it gets better.

"I can't - I need; fuck, I can’t, with the rubber, I want him," and Sana smirks like she knew all along. "Sana, please-"

"You want the real thing, sweetie. Isn't that right, baby? Hm. Of course it's okay," and Sana soothes a hand through her friend's fringe, pushes it away from her eyes and over her ears, making something that sounds like an adoring laugh slip out. "You want him to fuck his cum so deep in that pussy, I know you do, don't worry."

When you slow down the grinding, wipe the sweat from your face, Sana gets your attention and nods to the very place your cock is disappearing between the cheeks of Tzuyu's ass, "go ahead. If you want the mess-up, sweetie - let's make sure that's exactly what he'll give you."

Who exactly wants what most is hard to say. Sana's the one pulling off the condom, the rubber stretching to an obscene limit that has you fearing for your life should it snap back before it breaks. Tzuyu is already a sort of gaping mess with it all, her own fingers snuck under to rub harsh circles in the absence of cock and something firm and heavy to fill her. To feel full.

And there's you, asking, or maybe, double-checking: "Tzuyu, you're saying you want me to-"

"She doesn't care," is what you're interrupted with, courtesy of Sana. "Fuck a baby into her cunt, that's what she wants."

(Like you wouldn't fucking love it too. Or have the frame of mind to even begin to unpack all of that.)

It’s a lot, admittedly.

And not just because Tzuyu has never looked better: on all fours, pressed, and presented. Legs all the way apart and ass and thighs in your grip, with that smile all pointedly certain and wild-eyed, like, she knows, that you know exactly what to give her - what she really wants - filling her so full and marking your claim by fucking your cum right to her very core.

Tzuyu drags her head back, so she can peek over her shoulder and meet your eyes.

She does things. Like sighing this small sound and laughing and - she has this thing for noises, for things breaking under the strain, where she won't say a word, except to murmur some part of your name into your jawline, a raggedness in her breathing. Sheer hunger.

"I want - want you to, fuck me."

You will. Or you are. Or you're going to, only - Sana's lips are fast around your cock, fingers fluttering delicately between your thighs and drawing these stuttering sounds in your breath, "I will. I will. I'm - I will."

Sana just hums, copper hair bobbing in place. Her hot mouth and wet fingers pulling and sliding and pulling and sliding. Tongue moving in all the ways she knows you like.

Which, here’s a fact: Sana can be mean. No one would believe it.

But sometimes this is the price of admission. You have to be honest about what it takes, how, exactly, you intend to break this beautiful brunette whose ass is swaying back and forth in this mesmerizing little waggle of the hips. It's hard not to marvel, not to ask questions and not wonder at what a pair of friends so similar and so opposite do to each other and other people and to themselves in those small, private hours and space no one else shares, that has you panting and burning and her clasping the hollow of your neck and asking with her body if this is okay, because sometimes, in moments of absolute need, just a glance can mean your end.

So, there's no tease; Sana is well aware of what it feels like when you're throbbing and ready to burst - she's working you up and over and right to that point of no return-

"Can I? Fucking-"

"Fine," she replies, maybe having now considered every other way you might spill a hot load out and make a mess of the sheets. "Have at her," and a flick of tongue catches around the tip of your cock - the final tease, the best punishment.

And the promise of how Tzuyu makes that perfect whimpering cry. Something entirely wounded. Because as soon as it begins - your cock in the shallow depth of her creaming cunt - you're both made aware how she's wetter than she was an hour ago and clenching at nothing, hands balling themselves in frustration, palms bunched white-knuckled up in fists. She needs something, anything. Something for her to squeeze against. For her to bear down on and bounce her cunt off-

The sound all three of you make when you grit your teeth and bury yourself deep into her pussy is a guttural, aching thing, with you biting a lip and gasping. Tzuyu half-growling-half-sobbing into the sheets.

It doesn't matter that she lets Sana cover her open and slack mouth in an attempt to quiet it.

It doesn't matter because in a blink, the exact point in which you sink completely inside - where it's the first, the best, feeling of Tzuyu’s hot pussy taking your cock.

(Mind-numbing, is the word that doesn't come to you.)

Under you, Tzuyu is writhing and hot and tight into the mattress - and so desperate.

"Please," is about all that gets away from her. Which is just too cute to ignore: she's been dying to be fucked, ever since stepped into your foyer and was introduced by the softest, most deliberate of gestures that wound up being all-too intimate. "Please- I need - harder, fucking-"

Sana takes to touching you, her own little form of enjoyment that ends with her fingertips mapping the shape of your jaw. Pupils blown, "Isn't she amazing?" Sana laughs into your neck.

"Fucking," is what your first real stroke back into Tzuyu pulls out, “unreal."

The friction has you both grinding your bodies together at the base, and she arches, this throaty moan, before looking back up at you and letting her mouth fall open - this wordless sentence of plea, over and over again. She's shaking. Body-full. It's almost something painful to see, that she's so undone - and what if you were the only person who'd ever fucked her like this: into ruin.

Tzuyu clenches around the next thrust - begging, so-sore-and-begging to cum.

The demand is practically written in her muscles, and all you want is for her to let go for the second, third, last time - until she loses track of the count. To get there before you have the time to register that she is actually doing it. She's already half-way gone and at your mercy - her only choices now, being: cum, or let you chase the orgasm you're currently rubbing all around the curve of her cunt.

Sana swallows her scream when the first little cry comes, that you've edged out of her. And it gets worse and better the second time her ass meets your thighs, where she's making a real mess on your hips and all but yelling out her orgasm in her state of such incoherent stutter and disarray. The arch to her back is this thing out of your best imagination, which has you - pounding out all her noises - gripping and curving over the plane of her stomach. Until Tzuyu's beginning to make these different cries, somewhere new, somewhere you're finding a whole lot deeper.

"Hold her ass up and fuck her 'til she's full of cum," is the advice you get from Sana in the end, as you fuck her and fuck her through the tumultuous rise and fall of orgasm after orgasm, "oh baby, does it hurt so good? Do you feel that heat spreading down your thighs and getting you all slick? You always knew the best toys are the ones that get bred, sweetheart."

And from her, barely, "fuck, yes."

That's what does it: the desperation just that tangible in all your voices.

Sana manages to get her lips on yours. A kiss that could knock the wind out of your sails under normal circumstances, one that curls a fist and tugs around a familiar part of you. But Tzuyu's eyes roll and drop low, fluttering shut, while your hips crash in quickening succession:

"Fuck-you're so-perfect, cum in me again, daddy - make me," and, "please, so fucking full, just give me more. Want more of you, until it's-"

Tzuyu gets you. Just there. Just the way you needed it. Just like that.

There's something addictive in how her muscles clench and grab around the head of your cock - drawing everything you'd been holding back to a painful front, and - Sana's taste in your mouth still so sweet, mixed with salt and sweat, while you fuck and pound, with absolutely zero respite. Cum buried deeper and deeper until it's spilling and Tzuyu whines for the filthy feeling. Until you're fucked through, emptying every single drop into her open cunt. Until your legs feel sore, a slight shake all through the muscle and the tension in your neck and shoulders, and you're growling this thing that might be her name, and "Tzu, my god, baby, you feel, so amazing," in between thrusts.

It earns you an appreciative whimper.

Something breathy and not-at-all restrained. She doubles down on it when your cock slides out of her swollen, well-fucked cunt.

At first, she only hums a sleepy smile and turns her face in toward the touch, eyes closed and unresponsive. A long exhale. Even like this - especially, perhaps - Tzuyu is lovely.

Either out of exhaustion or overbearing satisfaction, you collapse into her - bodies folding up like that old-cliche about a stack of cards or dominoes - with your cheek to her back and your arms wrapping around her chest, tight, trying to squeeze. Like you're hugging someone from behind. Which isn't too far off. Because for the next five or ten or fifteen minutes or a half-hour, you lie there, pressing your face in against the side of her neck, smelling her hair - how sweet the strands are - then down along her shoulders, and under, listening to the soft way Tzuyu falls into her breaths.

In, out. In, out.

Sana follows all the while with, "should we not have let her ride, first?"

To which, Tzuyu says, "fuck off."

Sana brushes it off, crawls around your shoulders and slips two, three, five kisses into your forehead. That's when you know to shuffle over, dragging and tugging limbs and muscles and bone in the same direction - careful not to let the sticky sensation linger anywhere it shouldn't. Not even for an instant.

The three of you are laying in a total fucking mess. But it's your mess, and that's beautiful in a sort of thought-provoking poetic way.

You turn your head. Tzuyu's there, still, blinking slowly.

"Hello again, hi," you say and the smile comes up all sorts of natural. "Okay?"

Her gaze shifts into something vague, so much quieter, but she nods. So it must be. Okay.

“Is it too early?” Tzuyu asks two weeks later, and nothing has ever, ever started like that.

She’s at your doorstep, a little too dressed up for the middle of the afternoon, hair pulled away from her face in two loose braids, bright eyes, lip-gloss that shimmers just enough. Something innocent in the whole way she looks and stands and smiles. Nothing, on the surface, that gives the truth away.

You lift an eyebrow, skeptical. Always. "I wasn't expecting company."

"Yes you were," and she dangles a set of keys.

"I'm sorry, did you steal those?"

The laughter from her chest is as surprising as it is gorgeous, rich and thick like molasses, rolling over the shape of her tongue. It hits you hard that two weeks - really, any amount of time - it’s not nearly long enough.

And before Tzuyu can admit as much out loud, Sana chirps from her spot aside the door, knee bent and grinning, "maybe I did."

"Well," you say, hands on your hips, "this is all a little..."

"Irregular, I know." Sana's giving her best impression of you: so exasperated.

"Which is, honestly," she continues to explain, pushing away from her perch and approaching in these small, gentle steps. "We need, that thing you promised you'd do," she trails a finger up the buttons of your shirt, under your jaw. You're already drowning. "Whenever" - is her very worst torture - "we called."

(Might just be a little bit of trouble, is the one honest answer, to whatever you were trying to start when you saw their faces and recognized their bodies and said: yes, come inside and meet me and fuck my brains out, all that.

What a way to begin. What a story it'll be.)

a/n: these two are fucking adorable.

#twice smut #sana smut #tzuyu smut #kpop smut #male reader smut #twice sana smut #twice tzuyu smut

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capslocked · 8 months

Text

DIPLOMACY

male reader x kim minju

7k words

For those not paying attention - of which there seems to be an increasing number - it’s not that she doesn’t have the pedigree. But just shy of getting into that storied history or into the nitty-gritty of her curriculum vitae, the only thing that really matters is:

"This all seems a little beneath me."

It’s another day of this. Of you, of her, of trying to gather the mien of someone who isn’t utterly disarmed by Minju’s usual, beautiful, challenging self. Which, let’s be honest, is always an uphill battle.

Minju nearly pouts, flipping through a copy of the dossier idly from the other side of the desk in a gesture that reads both bored and dismissive and every little thing it needs to annoy you.

"Look," you offer up, graciously diplomatic all things considered, "it's about finding the right springboard, to something else more… substantial."

"Or to something else, you know, beneath me." Her red lips turn down ever so slightly. She doesn't seem so interested in playing ball on this one. And, for you, amounts to something of a huge problem.

See, Minju doesn't quite understand how the working world really, actually works. That the carrot that's dangled in front of her is your carrot just as much as it is hers - that you stand to lose out just as badly. That it's both of your asses on the line if things fall apart and Minju's shortsighted insistence to only work those certain roles befitting a name like hers puts that all at risk.

"Maybe you can tell me something,” you start, coming across more curt than you possibly intended - but not by much, “how many of your former cohorts have had their career aspirations line up with reality, Miss Kim?"

“I’m picky, not naive,” she sighs, not missing a beat, and you watch her dark hair cascade gently down her shoulder when she reaches a hand back to unfix her loose ponytail from its hair clip.

“You might see how I can get the two confused.”

“Then spare me the lecture,” says Minju.

Though she says nothing else, an unspoken you already get paid too much for that hangs in the air.

The tricky part is that no matter what else Minju does, her contract has some non-negotiable clauses to them that no talent has before, or will likely get afterwards. Things that cannot be broken. Like the requirement of her making x number of media appearances, and she gets to approve all of them.

Or that her agent's take home comes from a fixed fifteen percent of her gross earnings, with further incentives when her roles hit specific milestones. But with her refusing projects like the ones in the dossier before you, it leaves you in the unenviable position of losing out on your guaranteed fixed income or trying to convince your diva talent to do what it is she ought to be doing.

The truth is that there’s quite a long list of things no one has had the guts to say ‘no’ to yet.

And, well, it's rather simple and obvious when you look at her:

Minju is that particular blend of A-lister gorgeous. The special look that’s all kinds of mesmerizing and magnetizing, in full bloom - that makes you feel like you're suffocating in beauty. Like if she said come here, you would go; the type where a single look is all it takes and then - just like that - she's got your number forever.

Because everything about her is tailored - from her clothes to her perfect porcelain features. And they made her that way for a purpose: to sell records. (Which, that's exactly what they did.) You can hardly blame the people in power over there, wanting what's best, in a position where everyone would kill for a taste, or even just a glimmer of possibility.

"I don't suppose the part of the governor’s neglected wife is capturing your imagination.” You push the dossier closer, and she doesn’t so much as look at it. “It’s this year’s big budget political thriller, a shoo-in for awards.”

“You mean the one who ends up in a lot of very steamy shots on the apartment’s rooftop pool. Maybe I’m mistaken, but you can’t really unshow your tits.”

"This isn't about being above, Miss Kim, it's about being well regarded; it’s about proving you’re easy to work with,” you argue. “We could-"

"Find a better use of my time?" she cuts in, closing the dossier shut. There's a long moment in which she's looking you over, her gaze sizing up every little inch.

"Your big break won't happen just because you ask for it." You grimace a bit, hating to tell it like it is, but not really wanting to just coddle her either. "But listen - we work together, one project at a time - we can build up to it."

Minju crosses her arms with a loud hmph. "And what are you going to do if I decide not to accept these projects?"

There’s enough edge in her voice that it gives you pause.

"If," she says again pointedly, a teasing little grin tugging at her lips.

So - actually, another thing: when you start digging into the details, there’s more problems than just what can be seen at the surface. Which perhaps it’s too reductive, but essentially everything between you and the talent sitting on the other side of your desk is not quite so straightforward. It was never about Minju doing the best she could for either of your careers; it was about Minju making sure her needs were taken care of, no matter what.

Months ago, thanks in part to the way Minju filled out this tiny black excuse of a cocktail dress, and as a compromise of sorts, there’s an uncharacteristic mistake you ended up making. Or two or maybe a couple.

Because there’d been the perfect backdrop - an end of year party, beautiful dresses and suits, lots and lots of champagne, the kind of jovial mood that inspired one drink too many - and then you and her, taking off down one of the hallways, towards the exit.

Of course, you ended up exactly where neither of you should have ever been - where the snow was falling gracefully and melting into the pavement, behind a private accessway at the back of the venue, somewhere dark and dingy and dripping with a smell reminiscent of garbage; somewhere your hands had gripped firm fistfuls of Minju’s waist before you shoved her up against the back of the building.

In short:

You remember how she gasped when her palms hit the brickwork, how you figured you may as well give her everything she wants.

(So what, it was one time, you hear yourself explaining, mildly repentant, and to say that it’s complicated the matter is a massive fucking understatement.)

In the interest of full disclosure, you tell her, “what exactly did you have in mind?”

"That maybe," she hums, tongue flicking out over her lips before she purses them thoughtfully. "You should persuade me a little better."

"And let’s suppose, I don’t do any of that," you persist.

"It'd be a shame, wouldn't it, having such a promising future cut short so early? If word got out. From such a respectable agency too, of all places. Couldn't live with yourself," Minju remarks, leaning forward on her elbows until her eyes are level with your own. “Come to think of it, it’s the kind of thing that could totally, like, end your career.”

But as she sits there, arching that perfect brow again, you don't feel so good about the whole thing. You take another look at her - which, your mistakes start there, if nowhere else - at the girl that is somehow not the airheaded starlet she’s supposed to be. No, she’s calculating. A rarity, though you do know the type: here’s a girl who just happened to take her brains for granted in the years she was pampered by the industry - the same one that fattened on her only to later spit her out. And that thought, the look of cold intellect in her eyes and the slight upward curl at the corner of her mouth, has you frozen just a bit stiff.

She takes a key card from her clutch, and throws it onto the desk in front of you.

“Minju,” you caution, and there’s a taste of danger on each syllable of her name - more of a warning for yourself than you can conceive of it ever being for her.

"I'm only suggesting" - she’s watching you nearly fucking choke, amused - "what's best."

And when the lines get muddied between the two of you, that's exactly the issue. What's best. As though this was always Minju's aim. Maybe you've read it wrong, maybe you've gotten too lost in your own delusions, maybe - maybe, it doesn’t matter -

"For work," she adds, at which point her knee bumps yours playfully beneath the desk, leaving the suggestion open, and the implication unmistakable. "Whatever's required."

Here, you should definitely tell Minju no. Say no. Say: you're a professional, and getting involved with her, romantically, officially, personally - whatever - would lead to nothing but disaster. That’d be the responsible thing probably. It’d be generous to say you end up getting even halfway there:

"There's rules against this, you know."

Minju tips her head. “Why ever would there be rules in place against doing your job?”

She thinks that if she feigns being clueless, you'll bite, which -

“Against me folding you over this desk and fucking you until your forget your name.”

"My apologies," she practically coos, knowing that she’s not only made progress, but that she’s wrapping you around her finger. She is a bright girl after all. “You might see how I can get the two confused.”

At that, you figure, the only real move, to be perfectly blunt, is to play Minju at her own game -

To convince her to bend, just a little. To persuade her. So you lean closer, you start to promise, with your face just next to hers:

"You want me to show you how I might handle an uncooperative talent? Would that do it for you, huh?"

And now if that isn’t enough to earn you a whole look, one that’s equally a challenge and a triumph; you watch as she bites the inside of her cheek, not that she can help the smirk creeping across her pretty mouth, a grin full of want and need and all those dangerous, thrilling thoughts that're probably too predictable given your unique sliver of history you’ve already carved out.

She arches that perfect brow of hers once more, toying with the corner of her lip between her teeth.

You navigate around your desk to hand her your pen, with instructions that are perfectly clear: "then for once in your life, be useful, and sign on the fucking dotted line."

And her whole act falls apart just like that.

She’s humming almost pleasantly to herself as you settle in flush behind her, sinking into you just a little when your hand arrives at her waist, another carding through her hair. “Here,” you point out, watching her name materialize in ink on the document - pressing your lips to the nape of her neck each time she finishes penning out an exaggerated curl of a u.

“And here.”

“And here."

She signs again - and again - and that merits a reward; she’s good when she wants to be. Persuasive when she needs to be.

You can hear her murmur your name when your mouth slips just beneath her jaw, when you mark your next path across the bare skin of her shoulder and when she gets started on the last page of the documents, it happens just like this -

The pen drops from her fingers at some point, tumbling onto the desktop with a clack that might as well be a round leaving the chamber of a starting pistol. The office door isn't even locked and you have half a mind to check on the blinds, but the idea of some desperate executive running face first into this scene - where you’re smoothing your hands down the fabric of Minju’s top, down the rise of her jeans, fiddling slowly with the button at her waist - it holds an unfortunate sort of appeal; those blinds, they're mostly closed anyway. And at this hour of the afternoon, well - maybe it’s a little more clear why Minju asked to reschedule this meeting in the first place.

At first, it’s just a few of your fingers dipping under the waistband of her pants, following the curve of her hip, her thigh, then inward, and when you reach down to find her already burning up in anticipation, she inhales sharp, a noise that makes you groan in turn, low, right into the hollow behind her ear. Minju, to her credit, is absolutely willing, so very helpful and - as you pinch the soft, tender skin at her hip, she's saying something but you haven't quite paid it a moment's mind.

Her head turns, eyes looking up at you ever-so-slightly-more-vulnerable than their usual mischief and calculation, and there’s a hint of a demand dancing on her tongue, ready and waiting; she moves her leg upwards just a few inches, settling to rest her knee on top of the tabletop, a calculated little pose, angling her hips so you can sink your hand lower, closer, press your fingers into the lace over her hot cunt even deeper.

Here you figure you're probably ruining the fabric, drenching it in her own slick as you work two, then three fingertips in tight circles. You’ll ruin it, and you’ll ruin more - ruin everything and take what you're owed. As her breath hitches again, in some way that makes your senses come to life: you can feel her skin become taut and tense, gooseflesh rising when your hand untangles from her hair and slides up under her shirt, can hear the steady rush of blood in your ears, her pulse quickening, the heart in her chest beating rapid -

(She can pretend all she wants that this was an attempt at extortion. She can pretend she’s not an easy read; that she doesn’t like being easy for you, when she’s hot and whimpering and aching so wet, creaming on your fingers when you haven’t even gotten her pants off.)

- as if every part of her wasn't made for this, as you lay out your first real proposal:

“Do you remember what I asked you? The first time, right after you signed on, when you were so good for me up against the bricks in the alley?”

Minju chokes out an affirmative when you toy with her pussy where she’s craving the shape of anything, but, boy, are the rough pads of your fingers more than up to the task.

"I remember you almost couldn't answer, you didn't dare want to admit that it's what you needed - isn't that right?"

She moans with a voice thick as honey when a couple more fingers brush up against her wet lips and fuck, she does look breathtakingly good; she's exquisite, she's irresistible - the image of a living wet dream.

"Say it, baby," you croon, her voice beginning to melt a bit at the edges, her own heat burning her resolve up from the bottom up as you tug sharply at a string on her lace.

Minju sighs. Arches into your touch.

Because you’re settling into this torturous pattern, where you draw inwards, closer, so close to the little bundle of nerves, her cunt flexing and rippling hungrily when your fingers flick once or twice around it, only for her to wince just slightly as your fingers trace down towards her entrance to start all over again -

Minju steels herself, drawing in a heavy breath past her teeth. “You asked how rough you could be.”

There's something so painfully wicked, how her voice falters there - but then your own voice is rasping right back in a similar caliber of depravity.

“Hm. That’s pretty close to how I remember it.” After all, you are always taking care of Minju - her concerns, her contracts, her needs. So if she was interested, why the fuck would you hold back on providing exactly what she wants. “But help me out, what did you tell me?”

Another twist - another catch. Another push - another pull. She's going to break so sweetly if you're patient - and, ahh, patience - she's shuddering underneath your touch, squirming against you so nicely that you've already gotten away with a bit too much, this much, these fingers and you and Minju's breathy gasps.

"M-that you could be. That you could-" she stutters, all as you feel her folds start to swell, then quiver, as your thumb drags painfully over her clit again -

And in that moment Minju starts to consider if this were a good idea or not, but her back is already arching against your chest. She's gripping your arm to get you right where she wants you, and the reality of this hits her - a rush of cold clarity through her head just as everything else threatens to spiral into something else, something frantic, something hot and animal and making the muscles at her core begin to clench up.

But you just ease out of her completely, a whine coming out from the back of Minju's throat - her thighs parting further in desperation.

And oh, the disappointment, the sound, it’s incredible - a high pitch - almost a sob -

You slide your other hand in her hair to make sure she's got an earful of your words:

"What was it you said, hm?" you whisper, nipping at the skin on her neck, the side of her jaw - she's shuddering with it when your mouth lingers so close -

“As rough as you fucking want.”

God, the little things that her voice does to you. “Exactly, sweetheart.”

And how's that boundary supposed to hold up and remain uncrossed then, really, if you just give her whatever the fuck she asks for - especially if you have your mouth working it's way around her pulse-point, toying with her as she starts to tense and soften all at once.

In fact, Minju can only stutter out an okay or two as you grind forward, the hard suggestion of your cock nestling up against her rear, just shy of the perfect spot between her legs, and even with still a few layers of clothes between you, the feeling - fuck, the friction, the sight - it’s enough to get you grinning.

Enough to form this near-half-coherent thought: that it’s what's always had you on edge with this girl. She is absolutely every bit your type. Everything about her, right down to the way that she was put together.

All her hard edges and soft curves that should've never really been yours to covet and now, somehow, have become exactly that. Oh, she's the kind of temptation that's better suited for the life of glitz and glamor and the time it requires for indulging in it. You never thought that you would actually ever get here, even as the years have begun to stack up and time starts to grind everything in the back of your head and turn it all over into something like resentment.

If only Minju weren't so good at making you a sucker for those pouty lips and big doe eyes.

Particularly when she's turned around - face to face now - she's the epitome of gorgeous, equal parts aphrodite and adonis; a fucking knockout, her body sculpted and lithe and athletic. Those lines curving out and away like they might tell time, like her thighs could count the minutes and seconds until she's straddling you in your lap with her ankles locked in at the small of your back and you're rutting up into her without reservation, without doubt.

(So what, really, is your goddamned excuse? Your pride? The nature of the beast in you that demands that you must have some degree of control over yourself? The power that your position, here, now, provides? But you can hardly be blamed, even when it's wrong and filthy and so fucking good.)

"You’re stalling." Minju’s leaning back against the desk, tilting her chin up, blinking lazily, and there’s a bit of bite in her voice again.

It takes a minute for it to dawn on you that it must be intentional, trying to get a further rise out of you, the same way your hands have risen up to trace the dips and elevations of her spine, her every vertebra, your fingertips mapping the hollows and rounds of her back. To learn the geography of her shoulders and where, and when, and how to get her breath catching in her lungs, each labored intake of air a little harsher, hastier, hotter than the last.

"You know," you start, spreading your palm across a soft plane of denim, fingers pulling onto the cheek of her ass, dragging her even tighter against you, "I always figured your reputation was a little overdramatized. Most everyone's bound to have a story or two."

She laughs, full of mirth. When the mood strikes, she's the picture of perfection, and she knows it. "Well? Were you disappointed?"

As she coils an arm around your waist to slide your shirt free from the confines of your pants, and as a deft hand slips its way in, you stop asking yourself about right or wrong, good or bad, or about the kisses that land playfully at the corner of your mouth - until you hold her tight and seize her lips, hard, like you mean it - it isn't long before she's fumbling and scrambling with the zipper at your waist.

"That depends," you’re pulling yourself away long enough to say.

"I think I know the answer."

And by the way she shivers a little when you shove up the bottom of her top, the way she's melting into your mouth and demanding more and more and more, Minju does. You think she probably has since the first night that your threads got all tangled up. Especially when she slides off her top - her bra - her jeans - leaving them in a pile that lasts barely a second where it started once you sweep everything off of your desk in one broad, efficient gesture -

There's a thud when a pair of binders and a couple of books hit the floor. Someone exclaiming in recognition, the muffled noise drifting through the office door, and, oh, this would probably be the best moment to remember how painfully thin the walls are; you consider whether to walk over and lock the office door, and when Minju’s fingers run up your sides, you decide you won’t.

Too little too late, you figure.

And before you can take a second to give it the more congruent thought it deserves, Minju opens her mouth: "which, in your professional opinion," a hum and a slur as her nails find their way to your collar, "is well, that the thing I should take," she gets out, unbuttoning you at the cuffs, loosening the last of your shirt, "really," her hands palming over the fabric on either side of the lapels, working their way downwards, "how - how do you think this goes?"

“Oh, Minju.” She’s all but begging you to fuck her and still has the wherewithal to be asking for terms.

Like her fingers aren’t completely down your pants, locking around your hard cock - pumping you with soft, lazy strokes - not too different from how you have her chewing on her lip every time your fingers circle over the entrance to her cunt, tenting the last of her lace all slow and careful.

It’s driving her crazy. She just bites into the edge of her thumb in response.

"Fine. Alright. Let me explain it clearly." You dip a finger into her cunt; the whimper is short-lived when she tightens around you and it hits home, the pressure so delicious that she can barely stutter to keep up.

“A negotiation, of sorts-”

“Yeah, sure, we can call it that.”

The mental picture you have of your length outlined against Minju's tiny fist - as she works it into her hand, steady - it's all almost more than you can possibly bear: the way her long legs stretch out so pretty in front of you, the way her wrist twists with each pass and every bump at the veins of her forearm that is such a damn perfect shade of porcelain white in the dim glow of the desk lamp.

This girl with her pert pink mouth and those lips, the ones that aren't quite touching yours but rather smirking the whole time. (If only you were to make her scream loud enough, because you know she could be so much prettier.)

The thought flits through your brain, unbidden and treacherous -

"Think, fuck - think of this, as a one-way track into your career. Think of me, a guiding hand - if you want to. The key to all this," you continue, spacing the words carefully so you don't falter under the pace Minju is picking up, "is that you're going to need to be compliant. Easy."

"Mm. And in exchange?" she bites, choking down an embarrassing moan.

"Here's the basics." And there, there's no fucking reason for you not to dip the tips of your fingers right on downwards, tap into her soft heat until her hips are arching away from the flat of the desk, searching for more. “Whenever you need me to take care of you, I’m there, however you need it: on my fingers, my tongue, my cock - I’ll make you fucking cum over and over.”

"That sounds," she gasps, losing track of the end of her sentence, rolling herself along the pads of your fingers, taking them deeper into her, "very-very-oh fuck-”

Her grip around your cock releases, arms throwing themselves around your shoulders, holding on tight as she starts to trust you implicitly - to give her exactly what she wants, what she needs - and give herself over to you, to your fingers, circling and circling and circling.

“See, tomorrow,” you start, “there’s an audition,” and when you pull your finger out of her cunt, Minju lets out this sound that’s between a whimper and a whine. Her pretty mouth has dropped open, like she's all out of words, lost somewhere, chasing this. Getting dire.

“It’s this teen soap; they need someone young, someone pretty, do you think you can do that for me?”

She doesn’t answer so much as grab and tug and pull you even closer as the heel of your hand pushes and presses over her clit, just about enough force behind it that, eventually, you begin to feel a certain rigidity through her limbs, how the lines of her face and her faultless features grow more and more focused, fixed and concentrated; her voice reduced to the high-pitched huffs and half-formed syllables of pure and utter desperation.

I can, I can - she’s murmuring - please, yes, I will - putting herself right into your capable hands.

When you feel Minju tightening, flexing around nothing, then seizing and shivering, her pussy throbbing hot and wet and clenching around your finger as it again works deeper inside her, an anguished groan finds its way out from her throat.

And from yours, well -

"Show up," you command, giving her another knuckle, curling it just right - watching as her expression contorts and twists up for all her worth. "Make a good impression. Don't make me fucking beg. Show up, Unreserved. Understood?"

And if her body wasn't making her pleas utterly transparent, she's screaming in agreement. It takes you barely a couple seconds, working up inside her cunt until she's all full-body, fully, blissfully spent. She starts to nod, needy, eyes screwing shut.

“And let’s say, something else pops up. A little racy, a little more gravure, just the right amount scandalous, I need you to keep an open mind.”

When it sinks in what you've said, Minju gives this wail, low and perfect - her cunt throbbing over the pulse at your palm - inches away from cumming and shaking and creaming on your hand. You could ask for anything, you think, and she’d give it to you -

“My PR team,” she gasps out, the consonants of her words fraying at the seams, “it’s up to my PR team.”

“Minju,” you say, priming a loaded question and a half. “Do you trust me?”

She nods, expression readable and open like a book. It starts to set in just about then, how you’re going to fucking ruin this girl.

Your breath runs hot, right against her temple, and you whisper the slightest affirmation, “good girl, I’ll take care of it.”

Because to be fair, you’ve not made it this long in your career without learning how to pull a string - how you might pull up on the sensitive skin straddling Minju’s clit and get her reeling; her pussy flutters in the tight, wet heat, muscles clamping, demanding as you work yourself in deeper and then, when the timing's right, pull out to slide a second finger past the slip of lace she has covering her cunt.

She's this tight, dripping, overwhelming fit - even more than you have yet to discover, to tease and then take, the heel of your wrist landing on her clit in a heavy pattern, circles - circles - circles -

- so you figure: fuck the PR team.

If only they knew how well and thorough you were going to fuck the rules right out of Minju.

That you were going to remind her who's the one in the driver’s seat of her life, of her career, that you would make sure she stays in her lane - the proper lane - that this, you think to yourself, might become a recurring sort of negotiation, the kind she's so shockingly eager to accept.

You'd be doing her a favor, fucking a couple good lines into her head, into her skin, into her cunt.

And soon, before long -

She's gritting her teeth around the shape of your name and giving one last heave against the hard wood of the desk underneath her. It's almost beautiful to watch how Minju crumbles into herself; the way she grinds back onto the digits in her cunt. How you’re dragging her underwear down her thigh, pulling your cock into your fist and twisting her leg around your waist until finally, you press yourself right up against the heat radiating from her cunt.

“I’m going to take good care of you, Minju, don’t worry, I’ll fuck this pussy of yours just right. I'm going to make you shake and cum all over me.”

“Please.” Fuck, she looks at you sincerely - no games, no bullshit - pupils so very blown out with want, with need. You watch her adorable mouth uptick into this faint lazy smile as she tilts her head into your collarbone, lips parting slightly to remind you: “as rough as you fucking want-”

And you sink right in.

It’s all skin-on-skin as Minju practically collapses in your arms; pushing deep past her soaking entrance - your hips slotting together just so, cock engulfed by her tight heat. Minju fucking wails when you drag back from her cunt, slow - so, so agonizingly slow.

You let her recover just a bit, watching her breathing quicken and shallow.

And the word on her lips becomes something reverent, the most indecent prayer, pleading please, please, please let me have it, please fuck me with your cock-

You brace yourself, thrusting back in, and she doesn't wince this time, holding fast to you like you aren’t the one fucking her open and taking her apart.

“God, I - look, this perfect little fucking cunt, look at how you’re stretching around me, Minju,” you’re telling her - promising her really - all of which doesn't count for shit when, once, and then again, and a couple more times after that, your hips meet hers and she starts to break just so slightly around you. “I can’t believe - it’s like you were fucking made for my cock, baby, you’re taking me so fucking well.”

"Now, show me why - why the fuck everyone wants you - wants you to be their-" she's trying, in a fashion all to her credit and her fault. She should probably care more about that raw, unhinged noise you’re making right into the crook of her neck when you bury yourself deeper into her pussy. But in the next moment, with another wild crash of your hips, the tables start to turn.

Slowly at first, and then all at once.

Because the sound you’re ripping from her chest when you start fucking her - truly fucking her - becomes far, far filthier than anything you've ever heard a girl like her make. All of it coaxed out from you working the edge of her pussy open, stretching her, hitting each and every sensitive spot inside her.

Minju tips her head back to stare at the popcorn ceiling and fluorescent lights, brow creasing in the middle, mouth gaping open. You find you might have missed something, when she moves to hold you down, hold you in place with an insistent leg, the back of her heel digging into your ass. As though there were somewhere you might possibly want to go.

It all comes down to something she's murmuring, quietly, harboring this smug lilt like you aren’t fucking her raw and senseless: how maybe the key to unlocking the rest of her potential isn’t all that dissimilar, not as off-brand as you may have been initially worried about. And the notion that both of you might actually be profiting off of this - how it shouldn’t sound as incredible as it does - is doing absolutely fucking nothing to slow the brutal pace you fall into.

"Fuck, just like that," and she's smiling, grinning really, nails biting into your nape - your name and curses and a fuck you or two falling out of her mouth as you pound each short breath right out of her chest.

"The only talent I'm gonna need to show," she manages, dizzy, and with one arm hooking around your waist, she pulls the two of you close, right up against each other. The sound your skin makes, clapping against hers - her cunt tight, pulsing, quivering around you - "is my, my, my-"

Your thumb should have never left her clit, you realize, pressing down on where your cock is disappearing between her legs, pushing up against that bundle of nerves that can get her screaming. That’s how you’ll punctuate your end of the bargain, how you’ll make her cum and cum and cum -

"-talent for being such a-"

There's something ungovernable in you, something fumbling, as you find yourself drawn to her lips like a magnet - claiming them in a kiss that has you both growling with all the intensity you can muster, groaning as her jaw goes slack, surrendering to the fucking. To this hard, solid snap of your hips, a raw fuck forward that pushes Minju against the edge of the tabletop.

It doesn’t matter what she had wanted to say, though it must be evident how easy she can wind you up, and you do your best not to be too gentle. Pushing into her so rough that her breasts, oh-so-delicate, bounce up and down along her chest, nipples tight and rosy, begging to be tasted and played with.

You’re pressing your mouth on hers hard, fucking her harder - fingers digging into the flesh around her thighs and leaving marks and memories, all these reminders you’ll be sure to come back to.

But the fact is that this is your girl in so many ways: needy and a dream in all her curves, and how her waist rocks back, her body fitting so perfectly against yours - you're hooked on all of it. On her - she is temptation made real, in blood and bone and soft, supple skin, so exquisitely touchable, just like the sound that she makes, high and tittering when your thumb starts to work her clit over; each swirl and figure eight sending a jolt through her nerves and straight back into your own spine. It's difficult - hard to focus, you find - when all her exposed skin has these drops of sweat standing in saltwater relief, how it rolls down the plane of her chest and disappears where her waist flares wide.

Minju turns her cheek, mouthing falling open, and asks with a certain helpless pleading, “yes, can you-”

she sighs,

“right there,”

she hiccups,

“please, again,”

she begs,

“again, harder, i’m so close-”

Not before long, the desk is scraping loudly across the carpet, moving right into the next office over, all from where you have your hand trapping her voice back in her throat, palm over where she’s practically sobbing for you to let her cum.

From where you’ve got her locked in tight, lifting her up into your arms, into some perverse, unspoken promise to carry her the rest of the way. To do with her whatever you want.

"I'm going to show you," you're gritting out, "exactly how a professional handles their star, the girl at the center of it all, their top draw - and it's so easy, isn't it? This is - fuck, sweetheart - you're nothing more than a - just a desperate little cockslut who's aching to cum, and it's good - oh so, fucking-"

When that next shiver courses down the length of her perfect form, it's entirely because of you, when her legs are still locked and clamped over you like this, as she sputters and babbles, totally cock-addled and barely managing a coherent thought. “Please, sir, please, fuck-”

And then a keening, sounding low, lost.

“Sir. Please, sir, please just - I just wanna-" Her lips are shaping all these words that never quite materialize - because her cunt is slick, the whole of it hotter and softer than anything else in this goddamn room. Maybe anything else in this whole building. Or in the entire world. It makes her whimper and ache, her voice rising and rising, belting out, need it, need it, please let me cum -

Which -

Minju, oh god, Minju cums, and you are fucked sideways to hell and beyond when her whole body convulses, shakes, every single part of her contracting, contracting - all at once - the way her hands claw desperately onto the blades of your shoulders as the room gets taken up with the scent of her; the sounds she's making are fucked and filthy. She starts to become undone as you double your pace, aiming true - thrusting, pounding, nailing Minju right into the finish.

“Minju, sweetheart, I’m going to cum in you,” you tell her, and it’s not even a question, or a concern. You’re dictating, not negotiating when you say it to her again, when you tell her you’re going to fill her perfect pussy so full with your cum, she'll be hung up on it for weeks.

One long, stretched out moan is all it could ever take; a split second, where everything runs blindingly hot, and you bury yourself as deep into her pussy as you possibly can.

Cumming so much, spilling out deep inside - this heavy flood of cum that pools warmly at the back of her cunt and fills every corner of Minju - she whines and sobs and tells you it's too much, please, all this hot and thick white cum pumping right into her -

As you throb into her, she's having a hard time saying anything beyond your name, actually, because if anyone can, if anyone would, if Minju can trust anyone and anything in this world more, it would be you.

Her chest shudders and shudders, and she kisses you in a vain effort to quiet her own body, to quiet yours. She has all this faith she's pouring right down your throat as you rock the last of your orgasm into her twitching heat, spilling and spilling and spilling, not caring about the wetness leaking onto the carpet. Not bothering to mask the obscene slickness, how everything gets completely fucking sopping between the two of you.

When she's practically drooling over you, eyelids growing heavy and fluttering, Minju sags heavily into the bend of your arms. In that shallow heaving and gasping for air that bathes the both of you - blissed the hell out, a lazy tangle of limbs - and without warning she turns to speak into your neck, her breath cooling, like a whisper of a dream:

“Okay, and already… I guess this isn’t entirely-”

“Completely terrible,” you offer after you swallow the dryness in your mouth.

Minju smiles into your shoulder. “And sir, in the spirit of honesty and transparency, I think I - I think I really did want - this - you - the entire thing…”

You stop her there, right in the middle of that particular train wreck. A drop in your voice, and the message is clear, when your mouth works its way to hers.

(No more of her talking like that.

Besides, she looks even better on your lips like this, and fuck, doesn’t Minju taste like you will have to remember, like a little bit like desperation, but only in the way that it has you both completely hopeless, hanging on to every whimper as your cock slides lazily about her well-fucked pussy, a bit deeper, a bit further.)

Like there is something far beyond professionalism guiding the hand with which you hold her hip and let her ass spill through the gaps of your fingers.

It’s all mixed up, how in this exact moment you figure this is a terrible, terrible idea, the worst kind of agreement, this pact - because no one could look at you, could look at either of you and have any doubts in mind now. But you can see it, how you’ll both wear this little agreement like the most beautiful stain in your histories. Even though it might, conceivably, cost one or both of you dearly at some point in time.

And yet, still.

"Will you - can I - can you..."

She's clinging onto you with all her remaining energy, like she wants to see it through.

But her eyes - the poor thing - her expression is melting into this haze, her face contorted in something like pain and something else entirely: a different kind of satisfied glimmer. It's almost unreadable how that sharp mouth softens at the edges as her cunt gives this small flutter over the head of your cock, as you pump her so full, threatening to overflow.

And in your ear, you catch this little whisper. It says, “please, let me show you,” she's practically purring, “let me, let me - I'm gonna clean you up now, lick my cum right off you.”

It's true. Minju can act and perform and pose and make faces, for a shit ton of people - but she’ll play-act any facade you might ask her to, and she'll do it for you - because, this time around, all you ask her is this:

To be yours.

To be a good girl for you, an obedient little thing, in your private audience, away from the cameras and the lights, away from everyone.

When her knees hit the carpet, she is perfectly between your legs, palms on your hips and fingers splaying out against you.

And when she tries her damnedest like this, no one should bother ever pretending to think differently - least of all, you - and certainly, not while your cock is hardening again in the wet heat of her mouth, under the curl of her tongue, the gentle touches of her fingers -

How can anyone ever bring themselves to tell her that she isn't completely, indisputably the greatest.

(The very, fucking best.

And in every other way: the woman of your dreams. A woman, you realize, you ought to endeavor to keep, in all manners, and forever.

Minju, who could probably do anything, and you, who just might be able to give it to her.)

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