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wen-kexing-apologist · 7 months

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Bengiyo's Queer Cinema Syllabus

For those who are not aware, I have decided to run the gauntlet of @bengiyo’s Queer Cinema Syllabus and have officially started Unit 2: Race, Disability, and Class. The films in Unit 2 are: The Way He Looks (2014), Being 17 (2016), Naz and Maalik (2015), The Obituary of Tunde Johnson (2019), Margarita With a Straw (2014), My Beautiful Laundrette (1985), Brother to Brother (2004), and Beautiful Thing (1996)

Today I will be writing about

Naz and Maalik (2015) dir. Jay Dockendorf

[Available on Amazon, Run Time- 1:24, Language: English]

Summary: Two closeted Muslim teens hawk goods across Brooklyn and struggle to come clean about their sexuality, as their secretive behavior leads them unknowingly into the cross-hairs of the War on Terror.

Cast: Kerwin Johnson Jr. as Naz Curtiss Cook Jr. as Maalik

Another great film down, and plenty more to go. I very deeply appreciate the authenticity of this film in the way it highlights religion and the shittiness of cops.

I like that there is a kind of war against the older ways and the newer ways between Naz and Maaling. Naz appears to be much more religious than Maalik, he wears a kufi, he gives alms, he tries to pray five times a day. Not to say that Maalik isn’t religious, but he isn’t as hung up on what is and is not haram, he’s more comfortable in his sexuality, more willing to engage in PDA, but he’s less idealistic about the world.

I love the hustle and grind we see from these boys, but even more so I love when they spend time alone together. I love how much time we get to see them goofing off, touching shoulders, flirting, racing, just having fun. I love how much time this film dedicates to showing how Naz and Maalik’s relationship works. How it could work. I love that in New York City they have so many shots dedicated to just the two of them, to the peace and quiet and light that follows them when they are together.

I love even more that they fight, that they are messy and complicated, and how much of that is driven not by themselves, but everyone else around them. This film takes place post 9/11, during the War on Terror. For those who are not aware, the War on Terror is/was a global counterterrorism military campaign following 9/11. And like I said, this film does some pretty decent realism, especially when it comes to the portrayal of the FBI agents that spend all day tailing Naz and Maalik because they have been #profiled.

One of the main conflicts kicks off when an undercover cop tries to sell Naz and Maalik a gun. Maalik, trying to be funny, haggles for the weapon but does not end up buying it. But engaging in a joke like that is enough for this FBI agent to decide they should be followed. At which point, these two FBI agents essentially end up acting as voyeurs to Naz and Maalik’s secret love life.

The FBI waits until each boy is alone and isolated to question them, and Maalik is completely honest while Naz, scared about his parents finding out about his sexuality, lies about where he had been the night before. Once again, I loved the portrayal of this, of two eighteen-year olds trying to navigate the system that was built to punish them. Not because I’m thrilled they are being harassed, but because I am appreciative of not being subject to propaganda about law enforcement and how “good” they are.

I liked seeing the dichotomy between Naz and Maalik’s handling of the FBI agent, versus an older Black man handling questioning. How he’s trying his best not to give her any information, how he cites his right to not say anything to her without an attorney present. And in response he is treated with suspicion, the FBI agent tries pressing and pushing for more information, because that’s what cops do.

And I remain unsurprised when the FBI agent pulls a gun on Naz when he reaches in to his bag. I think there are statements being made when the FBI agent is pissed at Naz and Maalik for “wasting her time” and that the boys are compelled to apologize for the inconvenience, despite the fact they were literally just existing as Black muslims and the FBI agent decided that not buying a gun was enough of a reason to tail them all day.

But it is those outside pressures, the concern that they will be outed, that they will be disowned, that they will lose everything that starts driving a wedge between Naz and Maalik. That Naz’s sister finds out and Naz is scared she’ll tell their parents. Those all start when the FBI starts questioning them, though there are multiple other forces at play.

Now. I think I wrote up a post after I watched Love of Siam, and how fucking furious I was that they ended that film on a separation. But that does not mean I hate separation narratives in queer cinema (I hated the one in LoS because I felt tricked). But Naz and Maalik separating at the end makes sense given their circumstances. There is no winning here. Naz is too kind to slaughter a chicken, Maalik feels compelled to show that he can do it, and Maalik ends up wounded and the chicken ends up dead without either of them laying a hand on it. There are repercussions here, a car accident, an injured person that could have been spared by just killing the chicken. I like that despite the fact that Naz and Maalik do have multiple fights in the film, it is not a fight that breaks them up.

They both knew this was an inevitability, there aren’t hard feelings about it. It’s sad for both of them, but it happens almost casually. TI did find the ending of the movie very interesting. Because they chose to end it before Naz arrives home. Naz gets on the subway, sad about his separation with Maalik, scared about what is waiting for him at home, and he is stopped by the very same cop that tried to sell him a gun the other day. He is ticketed for riding his bike in the subway, and one of the last lines Naz has in the movie is something like “don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Because no matter what, he’ll just never catch a fucking break.

As an aside, I love how frequently homeless people are included in this film and how they are never regarded as scary or terrifying. One guy is mostly quiet and he either stares or sleeps. Another man is loud, rambunctious, and fucking funny. Naz and Maalik talk to a homeless woman, talk to some boys begging for money for medical treatment. I just love when homeless people are humanized, and I am glad that Naz and Maalik spends time focusing their lens on the people society often refuses to look at.

By/For/About Queers

Naz and Maalik is loosely based on an interview director Jay Dockendorf did with a closeted Muslim man that he sublet a room from. Dockendorf used this man’s life story as a jumping off point for his film. And it certainly feels like a film that is made for queer people, the way that it is structured. So ultimately, I think this is a gay trifecta.

Favorite Moment

My favorite moment is near the end of the film. Naz and Maalik have just made out and Naz has rejected the offer to take things further. Naz and Maalik lay in bed together, in just their boxers, and they read each other these shitty little poems that are attached to beanie babies that Naz acquired earlier in the film. I just love gay boys and their plushies, I’m a simple person. And once again considering that Ben created this syllabus to be a wind up to BLs, I think the plushie moment is worth noting because boys and their plushies is a recurring theme in a number of BLs. Teh and Oh have matching monster plushies in I Told Sunset About You. Bai Lang’s entire apartment is covered in plushies in My Tooth Your Love. Chinzilla keeps a plushie of a chinchilla on an alter in the music room in My School President. etc. etc.

And I love plushies every time because I love seeing moments of softness portrayed on screen.

Favorite Line

“Barack Obama*. It’s crazy. It makes white men smell like black men, so white women will like black men more.”

*fake name of a scented oil

I mean…come on. It’s perfect.

Score

8.5/10

I think the story was pretty good, and there are these incredible bright spots of powerful acting. But the director allowed space for a lot of improv, which in some capacities I think is good. However, it does often result in awkward line deliveries, that tend to take me out of the story because the acting fluctuates so much between brilliant and smooth, to conscious and stilted.

#bengiyo queer cinema syllabus #queer cinema syllabus #naz and maalik #naz & maalik #jay dockendorf #the way he looks #being 17 #the obituary of tunde johnson #margarita with a straw #my beautiful laundrette #brother to brother #beautiful thing

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celluloidrainbow · 11 months

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मार��गरीटा विद ए स्ट्रॉ | MARGARITA WITH A STRAW (2014) dir. Shonali Bose Laila Kapoor is an aspiring writer/composer with cerebral palsy studying at Delhi University who receives a scholarship for a semester's study at the New York University. Despite her father's reservations, she moves to Greenwich Village, Manhattan with her orthodox Maharashtrian mother Shubhangini Damle, where she meets an attractive young man named Jared, who is assigned to help her in the creative writing class, as well as the young activist Khanum, a blind girl of Pakistani-Bangladeshi descent. Laila is then in a crossroads, enamoured by Khanum's fiercely independent personality and her positive perspective towards her own disability, while also feeling attracted by Jared and his easy-going nature, and hiding everything from her disapproving mother. (link in title)

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dailysapphiccharacters · 7 months

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Today's sapphic character of the day is Khanum (Margarita with a Straw)

#margarita with a straw #lesbian #sapphic #wlw

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jem-in-eyee · 1 year

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“Margarita with a straw(2014)”, dir. Shonali Bose / ‘Class of 2013’ by Mitski

#margarita with a straw #art #tumblr #mitski #motherhood #film x song parallels #art parallels #artists on tumblr #web weaving

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cannondisabledcharacters · 1 year

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Today’s disabled character of the day is Laila from Margarita With a Straw, who has cerebral palsy. She also uses a wheelchair and other mobility aids

Requested by Anon

[Image Description: Photo of Kalki Koechlin playing Laila. She has long brown hair and brown eyes. She is wearing gold wire earrings and an orange shirt. She is smiling and squinting her eyes. She is holding a blue curly straw on her left.]

#cerebral palsy character #wheelchair user character #mobility aid character #Margarita With a Straw #Margarita With a Straw laila #disabled character of the day

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jaideepkhanduja · 1 year

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Margarita with a Straw: A Heartwarming Tale of Self-Discovery and Disability Advocacy

Margarita with a Straw is a 2014 Indian film directed by Shonali Bose, featuring Kalki Koechlin as Laila, a young woman with cerebral palsy. The movie follows Laila’s journey as she explores her sexuality and identity while living with a disability. The film addresses themes of love, sexuality, disability, and self-discovery in a way that is both heartwarming and thought-provoking. The movie…

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#cerebral palsy #Disability Advocacy #diversity #Kalki Koechlin #Margarita with a Straw #Representation in Media #Self-Discovery #sexuality

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rabbitcruiser · 2 months

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National Margarita Day

It may be hard to believe, but a drink exists that embodies the very essence of joviality, the patron saint of fun, and the joyous expression of life at its absolute best. That drink is the Margarita!

On a hot day while gathering with friends, it’s hard to find something better to bring everyone together than a pitcher of this tasty refreshment.

But do be careful, as Tequila has been known to T’kill’ya if you drink too much (or at least it may make you wish you were dead). So it’s best to know where the limits are.

The good news is that virgin margarita drinks (with the limey-orangey flavor but without the alcohol) can be consumed with much less risk. This is also an excellent option for those who need to work on National Margarita Day but would still like to celebrate with a lunch-time cocktail (or mock-tail).

National Margarita Day celebrates this marvelously-delicious drink, and the rainbow of colors and flavors it comes in. While it might seem like just some ice cold tequila, triple sec, a little salt and a wedge of lime, this beverage is so much more than the sum of its parts.

In fact, a version can be found for almost any occasion. From Roasted Blueberry Basil Margaritas to the far more punchy Strawberry Sriracha Margarita. From Smoked Mangonada to Spicy Grilled Pineapple—National Margarita Day is a perfect excuse to try them all!

History of National Margarita Day

National Margarita Day was established by Nationalmargaritaday.com to help celebrate this amazing alcoholic beverage.

The history of the Margarita is a bit mysterious and varied, and several stories describe its origin. One of them says it was invented at Rancho La Gloria, down by Tijuana, when Carlos “Danny” Herrera created the recipe for Marjorie King, a Ziegfield dancer who had a distinct allergy to many spirits.

Another legend says it was invented in Galveston, Texas by Santos Cruz for a favorite patron of his, singer Patty Lee. These are just a couple of the stories of this delicious invention, and no one really knows which one is true. It’s entirely possible that they all are!

National Margarita Day Timeline

Early 1930s Tequila Daisy and Picador are popular

Ancestors of the Margarita, these two drinks evolve, likely during prohibition when tequila would have been sourced from Mexico.

1938 Carlos Herrera makes a Margarita

One of the earliest origin stories of the Margarita involves Carlos “Danny” Herrera and his restaurant called Rancho La Gloria near Tijuana. He says that he created it for dancer Marjorie King who was allergic to many spirits, but not tequila.

1953 First know publication of a Margarita recipe

Esquire magazine publishes a recipe calling for an ounce of tequila, a dash of triple sec and the juice of half of a lime or lemon. Although a similar drink called “Tequila Daisy” is published 20 years earlier, this is the first with the name, “Margarita”.

1971 Frozen Margaritas machines are created

Mariano Martinez, a Dallas entrepreneur, repurposes an ice cream machine and fills it with Margarita ingredients, making the first prefab frozen margarita.

2008 National Margarita Day is founded

Begun by Todd McCalla, a commercial real estate agent, National Margarita Day is started with a passion for sharing the love of margaritas with the world.

How to celebrate National Margarita Day

Oh National Margarita Day, how to celebrate you? Probably with a big ol’ pitcher of Margaritas to start the trip to Margaritaville. (You knew that was coming, we couldn’t possibly go through an article about margaritas without referencing that song.)

Consider the following fun ways to pay homage to this iconic beverage:

Try a New Margarita Recipe

A great way to celebrate this day would be to mix up a glass (or pitcher to share) of a unique version of this classic drink.

Host a Margarita Blend-Off

If it doesn’t sound appealing to go out to the restaurants and bars that are hosting National Margarita Day events, it’s always fun to host an event of your own!

For instance, invite friends to an after-work Margarita Blend-Off party on a Friday night. Sort of like a bake-off—but it’s about mixing up the perfect ‘Rita instead. Assign different participants to bring the basic ingredients (tequila, triple sec, limes). Of course, for frozen margaritas, blenders will need to be made available.

Choose two or three creative mixologists to compete to prove who can make the best margarita. (They can bring their own exotic ingredients to add into the mix.) Everyone can vote on who makes the winningest version of the drink.

The great thing about this type of party is that everyone wins because fun is had, and Margaritas are enjoyed!

Choose Tasty Food Pairings

Even a party that revolves around this delectable drink will need some nibbles to balance it out. Margaritas are traditionally served with south-of-the-border tastes such as taquitos, churros, or the simple ‘go-to’ chips and salsa

But to really get into the spirit of the day, consider serving Margarita-themed foods! Of course, that will mean giving up some of those precious drink ingredients, but it will totally be worth it.

· Try a Margarita Pie, which is similar to a Key Lime Pie but adds in some tequila. Some recipes are so easy they don’t even have to be baked, just chilled.

· Margarita Dip is a hit for those who like to add pizzazz to their fruit (or pretzels for a sweet-and-salty flair). The dip is easy to make, including cream cheese, whipped topping, tequila and lime (of course!).

· Margarita Grilled Shrimp is an easy appetizer to throw on the grill. Just marinate shrimp ahead of time in a garlicky, lime-y, spicy, tequila-and-triple sec mixture and then grill to perfection!

Wear Festive, Margarita-Inspired Gear

In celebration of this festive occasion, consider inserting lime-green and yellow themes into the wardrobe of the day! Some people like to paint their nails in a shimmery lime green, while others choose to sport a pale green tie with their shirt and trousers.

Since the word “margarita” actually translates to “daisy” in Spanish, incorporating daisies into the day’s apparel or décor would be a perfect addition to the festivities.

Limes, tequila, salt and triple sec are simple ingredients, and yet they bring about such joy and delight. No matter how big or small, National Margarita Day can be celebrated in all kinds of ways, with adventurous recipes, a party, or just a personal wardrobe nod!

National Margarita Day FAQs

What is in a Margarita?

Margaritas are very simple, containing only a few ingredients: tequila, lime juice and triple sec. The drink is often served in a stemmed glass with a salted rim and placed over ice.

When is National Margarita Day?

Margarita Day takes place each year on February 22. It is celebrated in a variety of ways, most of which include tequila, triple sec and limes!

How to make a Margarita?

For a Margarita, simply add 4 ounces of tequila, 2 ounces of triple sec, 1 ½ ounces of lime juice to two glasses with salted rims. Add ice and garnish with lime wedges. Frozen Margaritas are made similarly but are made with more ice and placed in a blender.

What does a Margarita taste like?

Many people think a Margarita tastes like a sweet limeade made for adults. It is both citrusy and sweet, with an agave flavor because that is the plant that tequila comes from.

Why do Margaritas have salt?

Salt intensifies the flavors of sweet and sour that are inherent in the citrus and sugary ingredients in the Margarita. For many people, salt brightens up the sour flavor and provides balance.

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wen-kexing-apologist · 7 months

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Bengiyo's Queer Cinema Syllabus

Today I will be writing about

Margarita With a Straw (2014) dir. Shonali Bose

[Available on Amazon, Run Time- 1:40, Language: Hindi and English]

Summary: A rebellious young woman with cerebral palsy leaves her home in India to study in New York, unexpectedly falls in love, and embarks on an exhilarating journey of self-discovery.

Cast: Kalki Koechlin as Laila Kapoor Revathi as Shubhangini Kapoor Sayani Gupta as Khanum

___

I would like everyone to know that at the time of writing this, I was still crying about this movie. It is perfection. I literally…I have so much, too much, and yet nothing to say about this film. If you had asked me before tonight if there would ever be a reality where I was nearly in tears over watching a character on screen masturbate, I would not have really believed it, yet here we are. THIS FILM IS PERFECT BECAUSE THEY MADE THEIR DISABLED CHARACTERS ACTUAL FUCKING PEOPLE WHO ARE HORNY, INDEPENDENT (within the scope of their own physical abilities), AND FLAWED HUMAN BEINGS. Like???????? That in my lifetime of watching films the existence of characters with disabilities is rare enough already, and if you get in to the more stigmatized/infantilized disabilities, say for example, having a main character and romantic interest with cerebral palsy, the acknowledgement that they are people with sexual attraction and desire is almost non-existent.

Like, how many power wheelchair users have I seen being a subject of romantic interest? This film does not shy away from any aspect of being disabled, while simultaneously eliminating any and all possible feelings of the film itself being some type of inspiration porn for The Struggles Of Existing As A Disabled Person. This is not a “aww look the able bodied girl falls in love with the quadraplegic man isn’t that lovely?” types of stories. This is a film where disability really just happens to be included and life and the conflicts in the film have absolutely nothing to do with their actual disability or overcoming some aspect of their disability.

The closest we get to Laila and Kahnum’s disabilities even mattering to the central conflicts in the story in my mind, is the implication of the way society has viewed them that has fed in to their own insecurities. A huge part of Laila’s journey is self-love and self-acceptance. Laila is obviously feeling dejected after a round or two of rejections from boys she has been interested in. And then she meets a girl, Kanhum who is blind, and hot, and wonderful, and they start a relationship. At some point, Laila cheats on Kanhum, having sex with a boy from her college, Jared, who she has been crushing on since her first day of classes.

One of the heaviest moments in the film for me was when Laila finally admits to cheating on Kanhum by having sex with Jared one time while Laila and Kanhum were dating. For an explanation as to part of what caused Laila to have sex with Jared, Laila says, to her blind girlfriend “Jared could see me, that’s why” and Kanhum walks away. But here is the thing, this movie trusts its audience, this movie lets the full weight of that admission hang in the air, but doesn’t beat you over the head with what that line is actually saying.

gif by @celluloidrainbow

To me it is clear as day that Laila wanted to have sex with someone that could see her so she could feel desirable in the body that she is in. Kanhum has her own way of seeing, in a beautiful hands hands hands moment Kanhum sees Laila by feeling her body, her face, her lips, and she tells Laila “you’re so beautiful” and she is fucking right. But I can see how Laila, after multiple rejections, may have a hard time believing that someone that does not have the ability to physically see her body [In a similar way to Frankenstein’s creature finally finding kindness and acceptance from a blind man, and being chased away from that warmth by his children when they physically saw what Adam looked like].

And for Kanhum, it is clear how much that line devastates her, because she can see, she can see in the way she has learned how to see, and she sees well enough by feel to know that Laila is beautiful. You can tell how much she is hurt by the implication that Laila needs to have her beauty validated by a “normal” (as the movie names them) in order to believe she is desirable, even after Laila has been in a months long relationship with Kanhum, and they’ve caressed each other, and made out, and fucked. Kanhum’s reaction makes me believe that Kanhum is worried Lalia doesn’t trust her opinions on beauty because she can’t see the way everyone else can. But neither of these insecurities are voiced aloud, they just hang in the air between them instead.

I love how much this movie demonstrates the balance in a family’s relationship to disability. That the film understands that Laila cannot bathe herself, or go to the bathroom unassisted, but on the flip side, Laila is able to help her mother bathe, or warm her mother’s feet. Kanhum needs to have her swim suit handed to her, but she can also help Laila change in to her own swim suit. Laila’s mother cooks for her, because she’s her mother and that’s what she would do anyway, but once her mom flies back to India, Laila is shown cooking meals for herself. And they take the time in an hour and forty minute film to show Laila’s multiple attempts at frying an egg, and all the ways she ends up adapting and improvising in order to make it work. I love that they show the wasteland of broken eggs, that Laila shoves in to a trashcan with a spatula because she doesn’t have the grip strength or range of motion to just sweep those off the counter and in to the trash with her hand.

I love the way that sexuality and disability intersect in this film. When Laila comes out to her mother as bisexual, her mom is pissed and does not speak to her for a day or two, and Laila calls her own mother a hypocrite: “Abnormal. That’s what the world said about [my disability] too. What’s your problem now?” And it’s such a great point, because we are at a time in this story where every aspect of these characters lives are part of their normal, or added accessibility tools are just swiftly adopted in to their lives. Laila is never infantilized, she is trusted to be independent, to live abroad without her parents there, and her mother is about as anxious as any parent seeing their kid spread their wings for the first time would be. Laila has a caretaker in New York that we literally never see, because it isn’t relevant, and every time we see someone taking care of Laila or on the flip, Laila taking care of someone else, there is a level of intimacy to it. Familial, platonic, sexual, romantic, you name it.

gif by @celluloidrainbow

I love the complexity this film is able to build between its characters, especially in the way that Kanhum was deeply wounded and betrayed by Laila, but Laila is still the one that comforts her when she is crying about the information late at night. And Kanhum is the one to hold Laila and comfort her while she cries over the death of her mother.

My only criticism is that they did not hire an actor with cerebral palsy or an actor who was blind for the roles, though Shonali Bose did initially set out to hire an actor with cerebral palsy. But according to the Wiki on this, there were no actresses with cerebral palsy in India, and the woman Bose wanted to play Kanhum initially, is blind, but was uncomfortable with the sexual elements of the film and opted to act as an advisor to the actress who ended up playing Kanhum. Kalki, who plays Laila, spent a lot of time working with Bose’s cousin to learn the physicality and speech patterns of people with CP.

By/For/About

I would say for me with this one, it is not For the queers, but it is CERTAINLY FOR DISABLED PEOPLE. Like you can tell the writer has some very personal experience with disability from the depiction of disability itself in the film. But, Shonali Bose wrote and directed this film as a result of a conversation with her cousin, who is disabled, where she talked about her desire to have a normal sex life.

Favorite Moment

gif by @celluloidrainbow

Literally every single one, every time Laila had sex, every time she flirted with a hot boy, every time she made music, every time she smiled, every moment of sexual tension between Laila and Khanum.

Up until the very last scene I would have said that my favorite moment was when Laila is dancing with her family the night she leaves for NYU. It’s just so full of warmth, and love, and joy it made me so happy. But then.

BUT THEN I GOT TO THE LAST SCENE, WHERE LAILA TAKES HERSELF OUT ON A DATE AND I BURST IN TO TEARS!

Hands down that is my favorite moment. Laila looks absolutely stunning with a new hairdo, and a fancy dress, and she’s sitting in front of a mirror, cheersing her reflection with her margarita with a straw. It made me so happy, this understanding that Laila loves herself, and is committing to loving herself. GOD IT’S SO GOOD AND KALKI WHO PLAYS LAILA HAS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SMILE AND HER EYE SHINE IS OFF THE CHARTS AMD GAH IT’S UTTER PERFECTION.

Favorite Quote

Again, I have a couple. Laila, upon having her professor say he found someone to type for her: “Actually, I can ty-” *sees the hot boy that would be typing for her* “That would be wonderful”. Yeah girl, get it.

Laila, trying to come out to her mother: “Mom, I’m bi,” // Her mother: “Am I any less of a bai (maid)?” Ah good old multilingual problems used for comedic effect.

But, ultimately, I had to settle on:

“This is scary for me. It’s wonderful, but so scary,”

Because, I love me a good, candid conversation around how it feels to be queer, to embrace that queerness, and to know that eventually you will have to share that queerness with others (aka potentially come out to your parents). I also love it because I didn’t really see a struggle for self-acceptance around Laila’s sexuality. She is having a good time, being cute with her girlfriend all the while she is trying to figure out what her sexuality is. I just love when I don’t have to see a character struggle with realizing they are queer, and being scared feels like a natural part of being queer, and having to acknowledge that queerness to others, especially if you don’t know how they are going to react is, can confirm, terrifying.

Score

10/10

this is my favorite film in the syllabus thus far.

#queer cinema syllabus #margarita with a straw #everyone should watch this movie

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neo-percs · 7 months

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OVERSTIMULATION:: ( day 6 )

WARNING:: one night stand, fingering, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, unprotected sex, drinking.

SUMMARY:: in which you sit at a bar drinking when the guy next to you begins to ask you questions about yourself instantly clicking. By midnight he's escorting you to his apartment.

WORD COUNT:: 3.5K

The club was buzzing, everyone gathered under clouds of smoke and dancing as sweat gathered on their skin. The walls and floors were vibrating from the hard base booming through the gigantic speakers propped up on the DJ booth. Ignoring all of the drunk women and men stumbling to the bar asking for bottles and shots with chasers. You play with the straw jammed in between the melting ice at the bottom of your drink and occasionally sipping from it. Being left by your friends in exchange to mingle with whoever they could dig their nails into a bitter feeling swirled in the pit of your stomach.

Your eyes attached themselves to the screen of your phone as you scroll mindlessly as you feel a pair of eyes burn right through your side profile, you choose not to look in case the person happens to be some random or worse. "What kind of drink is that" the person besides you finally speaks making you look up in his direction instantly taken aback. He was fitted into a black button up the sleeves rolled to the elbow, his hair a pale shade of blonde and his sharp features make you blink thinking the alcohol was finally taking its toll.

He was looking at you, he was speaking to you and yet you hadn't uttered a single word back only glancing at the glass with a clear drink and lime wedged onto the rim of the glass. "It's a margarita, I'm not very wide range with my drinks" you shrug as you finally let the words ripple through your throat, speaking loud enough over the music for him to hear you. He nods as he waves down the bartender who was cleaning off cups with a white towel. "What can I get for you?" The man asks his eyes are round and his bright magenta hair makes you eye him more at the interesting choice in hair color.

"Can I get the same margarita as her please?" He asks only getting a firm nod and smile from the worker who's name tag had been blurred out due to the bright flashing lights. "Nice manners" you laugh, he seemed to be in your age range and for him to have manners was almost like being the tallest dwarf. "It's the bare minimum, I don't want him to spit in my drink or anything for being rude" he shrugs which makes you bite back a smile. As a minute of sheer silence between the both of you.

"Why are you here by yourself? Shouldn't you be with friends at a place like this?" He asks, although he doesn't mean for it come off in weird way and you knew that and wouldn't take it as anything less than a sheer question of curiosity. "I am here with friends, but I'm pretty sure their off wondering around trying to get laid by some random girls in the corner over there" you wave off to the back right corner where you assumed Mark and Taeyong had wondered off to without even a second glance. He hums "what about you?" You ask delivering with a curious glance at him as he takes a sip out of his drink.

"I came here with a friend to look out for him on his date but he left to get laid too" he shakes his head with a smile thinking of Jaemin stumbling out with his date on his arm and a warm smile. And as time went on you and Jeno learn each others names, ask each other about hobbies, and what you do for a living. It was almost as if you were on a first date over drinks in one of the weirdest circumstances as to why you're both alone.

But as you continue the both of you grew to have a flirty banter going, and when you finally see people are starting to leave you both not end the night. Walking around the empty streets talking your arms brush against each other, you could feel the ache in your feet as you both walk down one of the still bustling streets when Jeno pitches the idea to walk to his place as it's closer. By the time you had both reached the front doors your stumbling and giggling holding onto each other's hands in case the other falls. Pulling the door open for you, you both walk to the elevator with dopey smiles resting on your lips without even realizing you had yet to let go of his hand.

Your breathing gets heavier as you realize that you were now alone, holding hands with an attractive guy you met at a bar. "You okay?" Jeno mumbles as he looks over at you with concerned eyes "you look like your burning up" he says as his free hand reaches to cup your cheek feeling how warm your face is his eyes flickers to yours not realizing how close he had gotten and how intimate his actions were. You look up at him nodding without a single word closing the gap between you both.

As your lips collide the both of your press into each other eagerly, not breaking until you could hear the elevator door open, both of you pulling away shyly as you meet the gaze of an elderly couple. You both apologize and scurry out of the doors lighting speed. Jeno guides you to his door embarrassed at the last encounter until he opens the front door. The both of you topple inside smiling as you once again latch onto each other. The room is dark yet the feeling of each other is all you need.

The both of you shedding clothes throughout the halls until you make it into his bedroom with nothing but your underwear on. Your both messily kissing each other until your back is pressed against the bedsheets and your head rests against the pillow.

pulling your panties down and sliding them off your ankle he discards them. The view of your pussy practically shining in all its wet glory. Jeno was desperate. To touch, taste and fill you up in so many ways he couldn't even think straight.

His hands unclip your bra watching your breasts spill out of the fabric and padding. Discarding it his hands palm your chest as leans down to lick your sensitive nipples making you let out a small moan.

Nobody had ever made you feel so good just by barely touching. Until Jeno had decided to drag his face down your stomach, littering small kisses on your sweet supple skin until he stopped at the place you needed him most.

Kissing down your inner thigh sucking hickeys into your skin you shiver at the feeling of his warm tongue giving your puffy lips a small lick. Whispering a curse under his breath he licks again this time he is much more confident.

he holds your thighs when the pleasure starts seizing your limbs, as the feeling of his warm tongue licking from your hole to your clit and sucking needly. You moan as your hand reaches for the back of his head pushing him against your pussy.

Groaning against you sent vibrations all over as you let out a small giggle that broke into a moan feeling the harsh pad of his thumb rub against your clit while his tongue worked to push inside you.

The sounds you make are music to his ears. He presses his nose on your clit, inhaling your scent deeply before his tongue dives inside your waiting pussy. You pull onto his hair, writhing against his face. "Feels so good" you moan as you roll your hips against his face.

You could feel his lips curve against your pussy sending shivers down your spine. The wet muscle repetitively enters you, eager to gather your nectar. It feels like heaven, stomach tightening with each second.

Pulling away his thumb Jeno flattens his tongue against you licking from your entrance to your clit again, kissing it he sucks harshly on the bud with no regard as you moan his name mindlessly.

"Oh fuck" you manage to whimper out you tug at his hair as he groaned, your eyes shut as you "please use your fingers" you moan neediness dripping from your tone.

His hand moving from your plush thigh, his thumb rubbing harsh circles on your clit he pulled away licking your clit once more his middle and ring fingers make way to your entrance.

Pushing in slowly you groan at the penetration, easing your tight walls around his thick fingers as he pushes them deeper you feel the cool metal on his rings all the way at the knuckles of his fingers as it grounds you from the euphoric feeling.

Pulling his head he looks up at you with your juices on his swollen lips and on his chin his fingers begin to move opening your eyes. You look down at him feeling his gaze as he watches you react gasping as the feeling you grind down against his fingers "you like that? Hm?" He says as he licks your essence off of his lips.

His hair now disheveled as his cheeks were blooming with a soft blush, you nod eagerly "yeah? You want me to go faster for you?" He coos feeling you clench around him at the sound of his lewd words, you clench harder "yes please" you say losing your mind on his fingers as you absentmindedly grind down on them.

Without a single falter in his movements his fingers began to rub against the gummy part of your walls at a faster rate as the sound of your sopping pussy getting pounded by his fingers made you squeal.

"Oh my god" you cry out hoping to god he wouldn't stop the rewarding pace he had set. Your hips involuntarily buck against his fingers as his assault of pleasure on your pussy consumed you whole.

"I'm close" you whine as the sloshing sound and the sound of you and Jeno's mixed heavy breathing had been the only thing you could hear "yeah, you gonna cum all over my fingers?" He asks teasingly as his tongue licks a long stripe against your clit that had the feeling in the pit of your stomach churning in anticipation for your orgasm.

"Yes, wanna cum just for you" you whine under your breath as he pushes and pulls his fingers in and out of you faster watching you come closer and closer to the edge waiting for him to catch you. He sucks and licks your clit harshly making you let out a loud moan as you cum all over his fingers.

Not stopping his actions he presses his fingers into your thighs pulling you against his face as you try to wiggle away whimpering. The feeling of pleasure had become overwhelming his tongue and fingers making your legs shake around his head as your fingers found the roots of his platinum hair tugging harshly wishing he'd let up. "It's too much" you moan as your thighs tightly wrap around his head. His fingers moving faster earns a loud moan as your back arches off bed sheets.

You could feel another orgasm building up as you hiccup out babbles and pleas from pleasure. The sloppy sounds make your head spin. one of your hands moves to grip the hair on the back of his head and you push his face into yourself even more.

you breathily moaned his name and that made him piston his fingers in and out of you faster and curling them to hit your g-spot your jaw drops as you let out a silent scream as the knot in your stomach is finally released once again yet more intense than the first one.

"So good" he hummed as he fucks you through your high slowing down as he kisses your clit that's now sensitive making you writhed under him. "Doing so good for me" he smiles as he pulls away from you kissing your thighs as if he was rewarding you.

You let out a small huff that turned into a choked moan when his long fingers pulled out of you. With no hesitation he sucked on his fingers licking off any essence and cum you had left on his digits.

Pulling them away he leans in to kiss you letting his tongue brush over yours to taste yourself. Pulling him closer, the kiss becoming more intense and rough, your hand cupping his jaw as the other rests against his naked back you drag your nails against his skin leaving behind red rails of irritation, groaning against your lips Jeno strips out of his remaining clothes. "Do you want to keep going?" He asks sincerity dripping from his tone, you bite your lip nodding as you take this chance as a poor attempt to catch your breath.

"I do, really badly" you huff. Smiling Jeno presses his forehead against yours as his hand falls between his legs he stroked himself before pressing his tip against your clit teasingly he grinds against you moaning at the slick sounds coming from between you both. Your warmth against his shaft has him eager and twitching in his palm yet he's just addicted to the feeling of how warm and wet you feel.

pressing a chaste kiss to his lips and rubbing his tip against your entrance makes his head spin.

Pressing his hips against yours he watches as your soaked and tight walls envelope him with a choked moan "you feel so good" he says as he presses forehead against yours which makes you giggle. As he pushes into you deeper and slowly you whine your legs without a second thought push his hips into you deeper earning a gasp at your own actions "fuck" you moan at the feeling.

"Such a slut, can't even wait for me to be inside you all the way huh?" He says rhetorically as he begins to thrust into your sharply, your moans are the only thing egging him on to keep going while your hands rest against his shoulders; nails begging to drag against his skin.

Your warm puffs of breath against his face has him in a trance. You smelled of cigarettes and cherries and it was so intoxicating for Jeno who's hands greedily need your hips as he drags them against his. The sound of skin against skin in the air made Jeno's eyes roll back. "So good" you babble as your head falls back against the pillow. Your hair was scattered against the leaning space for Jeno to kiss and mark your neck with purple and red splotches.

"Yeah? I fuck you good right?" He says as he pulls your legs over his shoulders and hits a new spot that makes your jaw slack and mind go blank. "Tell me. Tell me how good I fuck you y/n" he demands making you moan even louder "you fuck me so good Jeno I swear" you whine as your nails drag against his skin leaving behind red trails in their wake.

The bed thumps against the dry wall as your moans cover the sound. The sight of Jeno over top of you with a clench jaw and your legs on his shoulders as you clench around him tighter. The sight of his hair falling over his face as sweat begins to trickle against his skin under the red and blue hues from the window.

"You're so big" you slur seeing how good he filled you up to the brim your arms wrap around his neck your foreheads pressed together as you watch him begin to slowly move. Jeno couldn't get enough of the sight as his cock disappeared inside your Pussy.

His cock buried deep inside you that you moan and dig crescent shaped dents into his skin. set a pace for grinding against his lap. The feeling of your velvety walls tightening around making him choke back a moan.

"Oh- god" you whisper shakily. His hands holding onto your hips guiding a pace, the sound of skin slapping with your small moans could be heard throughout the room.

You looked so good with your chest bouncing and your hair all messy. You looked good with a small sheen of sweat on your skin and your makeup smeared, he was addicted to the sight.

Stopping his hips completely and pulling out you whine at the feeling of emptiness "lay on your stomach" he says his tone low and raspy making you not miss a step as you roll over onto your stomach and propping your knees into the mattress.

Arching your back gives Jeno the perfect sight of your ass. You could feel his palm caressing and needing your skin before giving it repeated harsh slaps that had you quivering. Nothing compared to the beautiful stinging feeling on your skin given by him.

"Want you inside me so bad" you mumbled as your fingers grip the sheets, you were so needy that you were dripping down your thighs and it didn't take much for Jeno to run his tongue over his lips and grab onto your hips pushing his tip against you again letting him bottom out fully.

The sharp grip he had on your hips kept you grounded as he set a steady pace that had you panting and moaning. Hearing yourself made your face heat up, dropping your head into the sheets hoping to muffle the pleasure falling from your lips.

"Don't get all shy on me now" Jeno says as his hand pulls your hair into a makeshift ponytail, pulling your head away from the sheets "I wanna hear you. Don't hide from me" he says breathily as his thrusts become more sharp and the sound of him pounding into you was hard not to hear.

"I can't help it. It's too good" you slur your words as you begin to bounce and grind against him to meet his hips. It felt like he was in your stomach and you didn't mind at all, your hands clutching the sheets tighter as he used his other hand to wrap around your throat.

"Aw look at you, all fucked out." He asks as his grip around your throat tightens, you couldn't even gather your words as he hits a spot that has you breathing shakily and your moans are even more louder.

"Right here? Does it feel good here?" He asks as he drags his cock against that same spot again and again "yeah, it feels so fucking good Jeno" you moan as your eyes roll back. The feeling of his sweet lips on your skin as you feel like you're in heaven.

Your thighs are practically shaking at the feeling, pleasure practically taking over your body as Jeno pounds you into his mattress without a single care in the world. Pushing your face against sheets while he becomes sloppy and rougher with every passing second you could feel the pressure in the pit of your stomach growing and waiting to be released.

"I can't take it" you moan as you shake your head "I'm gonna cum" you whimper as you feel warm tears slide down your cheeks. "I think you can baby, you wanna cum so bad right? So take what I give you" he orders sweetly in a faux tone. His thrusts are non stop and you can't help but let the pleasure envelope you.

"Oh fuck" you gasp as the feeling of release comes closer "cum on my cock. I know you can" he coos at you while pulling your hips into his harder than before tipping you over the edge as your walls clench around him sporadically earning a guttural moan ripping through Jeno's throat.

"I'm close, where do you want it?" He asks as he continues to fuck into you "inside. Please cum inside me Jeno" you whimper before you feel the pressure in your stomach let loose "I got you, you're okay" he praised as his fingers rubbed down your spine leaving goosebumps up and down your body.

A few more thrusts slow and deep have your toes curling and sending Jeno into an orgasm struck daze. "Fuck you feel so good" he groans as his hands rub against the red warm skin of your ass. Leaning of you and kissing up your spine as you both bask in your pre orgasm clarity.

Pulling out you turn over and lay on your back Jeno following suit on the other side of the bed still wracking his brain he lazily turns to look at you "please tell me you'll stay the night" he whispers and it makes your heart soar in your chest "I'll stay however long you want" you mumbled as you move closer towards him basking in his warmth.

#𖦹—( neo percs )#nct smut #mark smut #nct dream smut #haechan smut #nct 127 smut #jaemin smut #nct x reader #jeno smut #jeno x reader #jeno imagines

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nichuuu · 4 months

Text

Lemon.

Word count: 13k+

You decide that you don’t quite like Balls (get your head out of the gutter).

Music: odd. Yes, it’s a fancy mansion—5 floors, the works… But you don’t know how to feel about the sole pianist in the centre of the foyer, the one that’s playing some classical piece that has the people around you murmuring about his technique and sound (whatever the hell either of those meant).

People: you don’t know a good half of them. Scratch that—it’s a sea of strangers

Drinks: strong, way too fucking strong for your liking. The drinks are free of charge, and the bartender clearly didn’t shake this Pina Colada well, but you have to drink it if you want to even try and get into the mood of the party. Around you, men in posh suits and women in flamboyant dresses skirt each other, talk to each other with placid smiles—hoodwinking each other with their highfalutin laughs and smiles to establish connections that probably won’t matter in a couple of days. The only person you’ve talked to tonight is the bartender, and that was just to order your drink.

This whole place stinks of capitalism, and you feel out of place in your cheaper suit and dress shoes. On your right, some guy is talking about how bitcoin and blockchain will make a grand return, some lady is gossiping about the latest Gucci handbag on your left. In front of you, a man and a woman are clearly flirting with each other, bashful grins on their faces as they hold their fancy drinks in their hands and talk about god knows what. You’re wondering if you should ask for a straw from the bartender just to dip your toes in social interaction.

Wonder why Cinderella was so hot on attending a Ball, thing seems pretty bland to me, you’re thinking, watching the tip of the ice that was shaped like an iceberg melt away and sink beneath the surface of your margarita. Some guy in a tux comes by, orders two glasses of Prosecco—one for him, one for the woman next to him. He’s talking loudly, disrupting your peace and quiet. Your solution: move seats.

From a distance—two chairs away from your original seat—you watch as he takes the two glasses from the hands of the bartender, hands one to the woman, then clinks his glass with hers. He’s preternaturally genteel, and you’d know because you recognised him as the guy that got slapped at the start of this whole thing because he grabbed the ass of someone’s wife. Impropriety, but it’s the behaviour of the newfangled rich.

Now he’s bragging about his car. Nissan GTR fitted with this engine, this ventilation, blah, blah… Whatever it is he’s saying, the woman’s having none of it. You’re no psychologist, but you can tell that she wants to get out of a conversation; her smile is awfully sweet, but you can see that she’s silently importuring him to shut his trap—her eyes give it all away. You pity her, silently sending her your best wishes as the man grabs her by the arm and leads her back into the sea of people. Personally, you’d be screaming if you were in her shoes.

(Off to your left, just at the edge of your vision, you see your boss talking to a woman. She’s getting touchy, really touchy and really flirty; her hand’s on his thigh, fuck me eyes out to play and on full display—A trite tactic used by these types of women to get lucky with a rich man at these type of events. Luckily for her, your boss is quick to bite on to such bait. God bless them both.)

For the record: you’ve never really enjoyed Balls or anything of the ilk, because quite frankly speaking, you’d much rather burrow up in your bed at home and binge Kimini ni Todoke till you were giggling and squealing like a little schoolgirl. Maybe I’m still young, I’ll learn to like these types of events later on, you tell yourself, I’ll need connections at some point, maybe I should start—

A sickly sweet fragrance crawls up your nostrils, truncating all thought. Perfume, you’re quick to identify, and then you’re aware of the presence of someone on your right. Your grip on your glass grows tighter in the slightest; you’re praying—Please just be ordering a drink, please be ordering a drink.

Frankly, you don’t know why you’d ever think anyone would talk to you, an unimportant cog that just tagged along with his boss because he had nothing better to do. Irrational fears are really a funny thing.

Sharp, clear, resonant—three words that came to mind when you heard the voice of the person next to you, the voice that delivered the simplest of orders: Yamazaki. I want it neat.

Your first thought is, Damn… Neat Whisky? Someone’s having a horrible night, as you turn your face away from her (if you couldn’t see her, she wouldn’t be able to see you, right?). And just as you’re wondering if she’s gonna take her drink and leave, your question is answered by the soft creak and even softer rustle of shifting fabric from your right. You bristle.

The glass makes a sound against the wood as it’s gently placed down on the table.

(Now would be an excellent time for a subtitle to come in, one that states in square brackets: Awkward silence.)

You can hear her swirling the liquid around in her glass. Fuck, now this is awkward… You’re thinking, and then you’re wondering if you should just get up and leave, absquatulate, skedaddle—any word that can convey the act of disappearing in an instant—right out of there. But as you start to slide your butt off the chair, that voice rings out once more.

“Not much of a talker, are you?”

She doesn’t know how her simple sentence has caged you in the most challenging position (to you at least). Now you’re sliding your ass back into the bar stool and you turn and face her—

(Now that you’re looking at her, your second thought about her comes in: God, she’s beautiful. Dark brown hair that falls just past her shoulders like velvet curtains, soft yet somehow piercing eyes, a smile that makes you feel fuzzy all over—probably one of the most attractive women you’ll ever meet. She’s the woman from earlier, the woman that you saw smiling and nodding placidly to that guy who got her the Prosecco. She must’ve found a way to slip away, and she has your full respect for that.)

—and you find that you’re drumming your nails against the base of your glass.

“Shy, huh?” she’s throwing out a guess, watching as the Whisky in her glass slowly swirls to a stop inside the chilled glass. “It’s been a while since I met a shy man. You’re a breath of fresh air.”

You shift in the stool, and your first instinct is to ask her if you two had met before. It’s only after that last syllable leaves your mouth that you realise how stupid of a question it is. You don’t know her, and judging by the fact that she hasn’t called you by your name: she doesn’t know you either. You let her decide whether to oust you as a fool as she scans you up and down.

(Update on your boss and that woman: She’s kissing him now, full on making out. It’s an unsettling sight to behold, and you attribute your queasiness to the fact that they’ve somehow found they’re way behind the woman you're talking to. Your boss doesn't see you; you choose not to see him. God bless them both.)

“Well… Considering that you don’t look the least bit familiar,” she sets the glass down, “and that you haven’t been introduced to me like some product by a crusty, old man… I think it’s safe to say that we’re.”

Now her eyes are on your drink. What are you drinking this fine night? She’s asking, using her chin to gesture towards your Pina Colada. You tell her exactly what it is, and she cringes slightly. They say Pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza, I say it doesn’t belong fucking anywhere. Oust it as a fruit! she’s telling you, making sure to add a little more emphasis on the word “oust” as she couches her firm belief, something you find rather hilarious considering that it’s your first meeting with her. She sips the Whisky, grimaces a bit, then sets the glass back down to say, we skipped past a lot of formalities, didn’t we?

And here comes the part of talking to strangers that you’re the most comfortable with—Introductions. You think that it is safe to assume that just about anyone would find saying hello and telling someone your occupation much easier than holding up a conversation, what more with a beautiful woman like her. You give her your name, tell her what you do for a living, the usual stuff. She listens, the gleam in her eyes that comes when you’re done talking ever so enigmatic and cryptic.

“Lawyer huh?” She’s playing with her glass again, “considering were we are right now, I really shouldn’t be this surprised… Yet I am. Little shy for a guy dealing clients on the daily, no?”

Somehow, by the grace of some supernatural force (you call it alcohol), you crack your first joke of the night—I know. The most I ever talked is in court—and you’re relieved that she’s kind enough to humour you (or maybe she really does find it funny. You’ll never know), and gives you an elegant chortle, one that makes your hair stand at their ends as your third thought about her goes through your mind: even her laugh is attractive. Is there anything wrong with this woman?

And when she tells you her name, you realise why she seems to be exuding this inexplicable aura; Minatozaki Sana, pleasure to meet you, she introduces herself with a generous amount of pizzaz. You’re scanning her up and down at this point, and only now do you take in the expensive dress that dons her slender frame, the same dress that’s accompanied by a glimmering necklace and earrings, 3 rings on her middle, index and ring finger respectively.

“You’re…” you begin.

“The host’s daughter? Yes.”

Now you’re at a loss for words. Well uh… It’s an honour to meet you, is what you plan on saying, but it comes out as a simple, more blunt manner: Oh damn. Sana’s giggling to herself, swirling her Whisky as she watches you struggle to find things to say to her.

“I take it that you don’t come around here often?” she asks. When you raise an eyebrow, she explains how her father hosts a Ball like this every other month to try and find her a “suitor”. Apparently, 27 years old is “too old” to still be single, so my Dad just gets a bunch of men together and parades me around, she’s carping. The glimmering chandeliers, the array of drinks and food, the vanity of all these people; the dazzling marble floor, the glass sculptures, the embroidered tablecloths; this event, in all its glory and prestige, is all about her.

Christ, you’re thinking to yourself, money really gets you to places, huh?

Now she’s explaining how some of the people here are frequent visitors. Mothers and their sons, fathers and their sons, young business men, old business men, middle aged businessman; whoever can afford to come to this lavish Ball—all of them frequent this mansion like moths to a flame, all looking for a chance to ingratiate with the Minatozakis so that maybe, just maybe, they get a chance to get Sana’s hand in marriage. It’s a glorified yet obsolete form of Tinder really.

(Your boss is nowhere in sight now, and you’re pretty sure that the two of them have gone off somewhere to get it on. Maybe this event isn’t just about Sana, it’s about finding a rich person that can spoil you for the rest of your life too. God bless everyone here.)

“So what brings a man like yourself here this fine night?” She seems oddly interested in you (and also very hot on using this fine night as well apparently). You give her the truth that carries your watered down emotions in your tone—My boss asked me to tag along. Apparently all attendees were to bring a male plus one.

Sana chuckles, but it’s one of bitterness.

“So Dad’s reverted to these tactics huh?” you hear her whisper before taking an alarming large gulp of Whisky. She swallows, then sighs, “wonder what he’ll do next… Maybe an arranged marriage?”

Past the frustration and utter disappointment, there’s amusement in her voice. It tells you: if I could, I’d kill my Dad. It’s more of an inference from your end than a message that you’re sure that she’s trying to imply. You always had a bad habit of reading between the lines—probably picked it up from your job.

Sana downs the rest of the Whisky in a flash, wincing as the alcohol burns her throat. She scratches her nose, then turns to you and asks, “say, you don’t look like you want to be here, and neither do I.”

Behind you, you can hear the voice of a man approaching. He’s talking to someone—my daughter should like you very much, you seem like a man that suits her taste—and Sana bristles. Her father, you deduce, noting the way that the woman before you is searching around for an exit. Then you blink, and in that split second, she grabs your hand.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Just like that, you’re running through a crowd of people, spewing a million-and-one apologies as you jostle your way through the crowd, in tow behind a woman you've known for a grand total of 5 minutes.

A very unlikely start to a romance really.

Now the gears in your head are whirring, your stomach’s churning—there’s no other way to describe how you feel when Sana’s looking at you like that from across the table: small smile, a slight gleam behind those eyes, hand under her chin and fingers tapping against her cheek… She’s got you in perdition just with a look. You’re a guy of relatively taciturn nature, and the last time you went on a date was in university. That date went horribly, and now you’re wondering if this one was gonna go up in flames as well. Your brain urges you to say something to her, but your mouth seems to be sewn shut.

On the other hand, Sana’s poised as ever. “What’s wrong?” she’s cocking her head and pouting slightly, “nervous?”

You're not ashamed to admit that you indeed are, and that you’ve never really gone out on dates in a long time. Sana seems tickled by this—It’s been a while since I’ve seen a shy man. I like it, she tells you—and assures you that she won’t bite. In fact, she’s glad that you’re quiet and not rambling off about some business venture. She tells you, I don’t recall the last time I’ve been with a guy like you, though I’d appreciate it if you assist me in starting some conversation, and you’re slightly ashamed of your reticence.

There’s a gleam in her eyes when you start asking her some questions on her personal life, and she finds it congenial to gesticulate in a moderate manner as she answers your questions. Her outgoing nature leaves you flummoxed, and there’s barely enough space in your brain to remember everything she tells you about herself. Born in Osaka, likes yoghurt smoothies, likes to take walks in the park, likes this, likes that… You vaguely remember her telling you this on the night that the two of you escaped that event.

(To jog your own memory: She took you to the garden, where the two of you spent the rest of the night strolling amongst shrubs and other greenery that thrived in Spring. The Pina Colada in your system allowed you to hold a conversation, one that lasted long enough for her to take a liking to you. At the end of it all, she gets your number, you get her’s, and a date’s been settled in some french restaurant she patronises.)

“Now, I don’t expect you to remember all of this,” she’s watching the wine leave streaks against the glass, “but if you do, I believe you're entitled to some extra points.”

“Points?” you’re keen on inquiring, “we’re keeping a scoreboard?”

Sana simply smiles. For asking that question, minus 2 from you, is her answer—not a very good one if you were to be blunt. You can’t suppress a chuckle as you take a sip from your own wine.

Unwittingly, Sana has eased you into her presence. It suddenly feels like you’ve known her forever (if forever meant 2 weeks that is).

A smooth start to a relationship if you do say so yourself.

“Sana, there’s people out there.”

“I know.”

“They might hear us.”

“I know.”

“We could get caught.”

“We won’t.”

It’s the confidence in her voice that irks you really. The lack of hesitance combined with the sheer lack of shame towards the fact that anyone outside the changing room in this damn Prada store could easily raise a phone over the door and start recording. It’s not that she’s not cognizant of this, but more of the fact that she doesn’t give two shits if someone captures a video of her blowing you in this dressing room. Shameless, aplomb, obstinate, are the three words that come to mind when dealing with Sana at the given moment, but there’s no energy in you to convey this to her, not when she wraps her lips around your cock. The outfits that she chose remain untouched behind her, fabrics still in light while the person that chose them remains active on her knees.

(Almost a year. Almost a year the two of you have been dating. You thought you’d learned all there is to know about her, yet she’s hitting you with new facts and surprises every day, left, right, and centre. There are probably many more things that you have yet to figure out, but they’ll all come to light in due time.)

Really, it’s on you for not exercising due diligence upon entering the store; you should’ve known better from the moment you saw that look in her eyes while she was looking at a dress. But there’s nothing you can do about it now, not when she’s already enraptured you with that damn gaze—the one that exudes want and lust, the one that’s the leaven to your morality in her eyes. She knows that she’s got you wrapped around her finger when your hand rests itself atop of her head as she slowly bobs her head over your crotch. She’s taking her time despite the situation that she’s placed the both of you in.

“This has always been on my bucket list,” she’s letting her hand run along your shaft, spreading her saliva with each stroke of her palm. Her nails, freshly done just over 2 hours ago, glisten under the light—partially because of her spit and partly because of the gloss. “Everything about this is just so… Eroctic, isn’t it?”

Christ, she’s really into this thrill-seeking thing, you note as you choke out a reply: Not particularly, but whatever floats your boat Sana (obviously, it doesn’t come out as smooth as it should. No one would be able to get out a full sentence with phonics properly strung together if they too were getting blown in a changing room). She’s got a glint in her eye, but it’s covered by your shaft as she slides her tongue down your cock, nose brushing against the base of your cock, just behind her tongue. She knows what she’s doing, she’s given you head before; she’s building up the suspense and waiting for you to beg for more. You really don’t want to indulge her, you really don’t, but there’s not much you can do when she starts placing kisses on your shaft—base to tip in a fervently slow fashion. How far is she gonna go with this, you can’t help but wonder, but you quickly have your question answered in the next second or so.

“Unenthusiastic?” she quips, “minus four”.

She wraps her lips around you and pushes her head forward, and you almost let the people in the store know that something’s going down in here.

You figure that the feeling of her lips wrapped around your shaft will never get old, not when it sends electricity up your spine and makes your hand ball into a fist in her hair. Her eyes seem to glint as you let out a sharp gasp. Yes, you could be caught by an employee at any second. Yes, you could very well be caught on camera by a customer at any second. There were a lot of things to consider when assessing the dangers of the circumstances that Sana has put the both of you in. Yet, none of them take anything away from the pleasure she’s bringing you, not as she starts to bob her head in beat to the metronome in her head. There’s no point in trying to figure out her pace.

“Jesus… Fuck… Sana I…” Your voice is—somehow—hushed as you struggle to convey how weak she’s making you, but it’s not like you need to anyway—she knows exactly what she’s doing, and she’s loving every second of the havoc she’s wreacking upon your senses. The slight tug in the corner of her lips is the suggestion of a smirk, and the muffled noise that rises from her throat is the implication of a giggle.

There's a knock on the door and you bristle; Sana slows down, but she doesn’t stop. Past the door, the voice of the staff that led you to this very room asks if everything is alright in there, and you’re praying that her eyes aren’t set on the floor. Sana locks eyes with you, then darts her eyes to the door to tell you—Answer it goddamnit. Of course, she doesn’t make it easy for you as you open your mouth, applying light suction to your tip as you find the strength to say: Yep, just give us a few more minutes please, making you choke on that last word and sending alarms blaring in your head. Thankfully, the store assistant is kind enough to leave you with a take your time sir, and the shadow of her feet disappear from the gap beneath the door. It’s then that Sana pops your glistening cock out of her mouth.

“A few more minutes, huh?” She’s got drool on the corner of her lips as she rises to her feet. “Better make this quick then. You gotta keep your word as a lawyer, don’t you?”

Her wit is certainly better than most of your colleagues.

(There are customers outside now, you can hear them talking to the store assistant. They sound vaguely familiar… Maybe you heard them at the restaurant? Or maybe they’re colleagues… No, that can’t be it, at least you hope so).

Now for the record: you’ve seen Sana naked on multiple occasions, be it voluntarily or not. The shower, the bedroom, even a public shower at the pool… You could name a lot more places where she’d shamelessly flaunted her nude body before you off the top of your head. “A body to die for” is a fitting expression for Sana; you’ve always wondered if you’d find her on the top of the Google image search if you were to look up “dream bodies”, and you figure that you can probably get her there if you could somehow take pictures with your eyes as she undresses before you. She’s more methodical than anything, straying away from her usual teasing nature for the sake of being quick (that’s what you infer from her behaviour, but really, she could just be extremely horny and desperate. There’s never a solid answer to Sana’s behaviour). Mini skirt, then top, then bra; she’s going through the motions that she’d usually drag out just to get a reaction out of you preternaturally quickly.

Why is she getting naked in a changing room? You have no clue. Your best guess: she’s doing it for the thrill of it. The thought of getting caught completely nude with her boyfriend speared inside of her must be sending lethal doses of adrenaline through her veins. A pretty solid guess if you do say so yourself. No time for anymore guesses anyway—she’s already brought your hand up to her right breast, and she’s closing her eyes to enjoy the feel of your fingers closing around the semi-firm flesh. Her top lip’s furling behind her front teeth, she’s letting her other hand rest on your arm. She’s telling you where she wants it—did you cum in my ass yesterday? Or was it the day before? Ah, whatever… Give me a fucking creampie—in this soft, low voice that sends a velvet chill down your spine. Then she's kissing you softly, sweetly, nibbling on your top lip as usual, all while pushing you to the corner of the room where your feet aren't visible to those outside, flushing your back against the wall. It’s an uncomfortable fit, but that quickly changes when she grips the middle of your shaft and lines you tip up with her slit. The hand on her tit is guided to that slim waist, your other hand quickly finding its place on that symmetrical, slim figure.

“I don’t care if I cum or not,” she drawls, trailing a finger down your chest, “I just want your load inside me, right here, right now. Just focus on that, nothing else.”

(Half request, half demand—give her an award for being so damn ambiguous. Subtitles that could translate what she truly means would be really, really handy right now. Alas, such a system doesn’t exist.)

Describing how Sana’s pussy felt would be doing her injustice. The feeling was ineffable. From entering her to hilting yourself inside of her, there was never a second of that process where you had an easy time breathing or thinking. You’ve never been so reliant on your senses to keep you grounded in reality, nor have you ever been so glad that Sana’s nails are digging into your shoulder. This position—facing each other, standing and fucking against the wall of (all places) a changing room—is a stranger to the both of you, but the sheer tightness of her cunt working hand in hand with the intimacy of it all has you welcoming it with open arms.

Your hips are moving on their own, taking liberties without signals from your fried brain as you start thrusting into Sana. For long, wordless minutes, you're thrusting into Sana in a mindless, slow fashion, relishing the feel of her skin in your palms, the look on her face, the soft moans that are slowly slipping from her ever so slightly opened lips. Then your ability to think slowly returns, and you’re thinking like a damn neanderthal—tight, wet, hot, so fucking good—as your grip on her waist tightens. Your shaft glistens in the light of the changing room, slick with her sweet juices as it slips in and out of her slick, spearing into her with depth, making her legs weak. Sana cups your cheek, lifts your head, and it’s now that you see how her eyes have been completely glazed over with lust and want. Her face, her figure down to the sounds she’s making; everything about her, about this, is the phantasmagoria of a wet dream.

If you were being completely true to yourself right now: You couldn’t care less if you got caught.

And as if on cue, the voices approach as soon as you finish that train of thought.

“Do you provide altercation services?” It’s the voice of a man, closely followed by that of the store assistant: Of course sir. After you try on the suit, you can note how you’d like it to be altered to your liking.

A shadow of feet appears at the base of the door. Sana cups a hand over her mouth as the door rattles—the customer trying to open it. You stop your movements, breath caught in your throat as the store assistant tells him to use the other fitting room. Sana’s breath is loud in your ears as a second set of footsteps approach, followed by a female voice that asks, “Is my husband in there?”

Yes ma’am, is the assistant’s reply. Of course, this is hardly the end of it.

Now, as the woman engages the store assistant in conversation right outside your door, Sana lets the hand on her mouth drop. She flushes herself against you as the store assistant answers, and she whispers, “Keep going”.

Endlessly seeking thrill. Classic Sana.

The logical part of you warns you against doing as she says. Sadly, there’s not much room for logic in your head in the given circumstances, not when your balls-deep inside your girlfriend in a changing room. There’s barely enough room for dilemma to occur; Sana’s the sole occupant of your mind, rent-free, free-hold, and really: she’s the only thing that matters right now.

She almost, just almost, lets out a cry when you spear yourself back inside her. You didn't expect to start so soon, and neither did she. However, catching her by surprise is a novelty to you, and you relish in that brief rush of smugness before you restart your movements. Her mouth is frozen in a silent scream, but her eyes say all that she wants to: smug asshole, I’ll kill you later. You reply by letting your index and forefinger slip into her still-open mouth.

“Personally, I enjoy the Italian selection more…” The store assistant’s voice is barely audible to you over Sana’s small, muffled moans that manage to skirt your fingers and Sana’s closed lips, and as the lady starts talking about trench coats, Sana coats your fingers with a fresh layer of saliva, turning your fingers slick and slimy with her tongue as she looks you dead in the eye, as if challenging you: Is this the best you can do? Is this the riskiest you can be?

Every question from her deserves an answer, and your’s is to remove your saliva-slicked fingers out of her mouth, draw a circle with her spit just above her collarbone, then whisper right into her ear: I’m gonna mark you right there. The involuntary gasp that she lets out tugs the corner of your lips up into a perverse smile. Slowly your lips drift down to the glistening spot, and you wait just a moment to build up that sweet-sweet suspense. It’s a split second, but it’s a second too much for her to bear—the way her body tenses when you finally make contact is the clearest indication you will ever receive. And when you start sucking, God does she almost drive you over the edge: she tightens, she gasps, she starts twitching; she loves it, every second your lips stay locked around that sweet spot of skin is bliss to her.

You can hear the door to the other fitting room unlock, and you hear the man’s heavy footsteps as he walks out, no doubt in that suit he had earlier. The compulsory question comes: how do I look?

There’s a brief moment of silence, and you’re almost fearful of the fact that maybe, just maybe, their ears are picking up on the ragged breathing and slightly audible squelching coming from the other fitting room. All consternation dissipates when the woman starts to comment on how she looks, but Sana seems to have an answer to his question as well: So good. So fucking good. Harder, let me feel all of you, fuck me harder. Oh fuck, you’re so fucking deep.

You look dashing honey. The pitch of the woman’s reply harmonises with Sana’s soft whine as your lips leave her skin, the same patch where you’ve left your purple artwork on. I think we can afford to alter the pants—

Sana crushes your lips against hers, hot breath filling your mouth as you feel her lift her leg. You hold the back of her knee (like the gentleman you are), bring it to your side, hold it there. She bites your lower lip, hard enough for her to pull and tug it as you start losing yourself in her: her scent, her breath, her skin—all of it’s so deliciously addicting. You can’t get enough.

Then she’s going straight to moaning into your mouth, letting those muffled cries permeate in the small space and hopefully not outside the fitting room. She’s wet, she’s tight, she’s everything you need right now. You want, so badly, to pull her apart, ruin her till you can’t put her back together, get her begging at the top of her lungs for you to fuck her harder and harder.

And you’re almost on the verge of calling her a slut. There’s no need for that though, she knows what she’s made of herself.

—so that they’re a little shorter. I think we could also try—

Sana’s figured out the best way to moan: straight into your ear. She’s not letting up with them, and she’s giving you one hell of an array of sounds. There’s the common ah, the not so common, oh, and the very common shit, fuck, fuck me and so good. Her phonics are so loosely strung together that they’re just a jumbled mess, and you're perfectly ensconced with that; you love hearing those lazy, sloppy cries, and they only seem even more melodic at this volume, at this moment. Fuck, record them and play them as white noise as you sleep.

—changing the colours of the buttons? Ooh! Maybe we could even change the stitching around—

She tilts her head back, and you’re peppering her neck with kisses. She loves it, you know she loves it; all this attention, all this adrenaline, all this carnality she’s invoking—all of it for her. Each time you grunt, she knows that she’s the damn reason for it. Every time your fingers dig into her thigh a little more, she knows it’s because of her. Every kiss on her neck, every inch of her pussy you fill with your rock-hard meat, all of it’s for her. She isn’t vain, nor is she a pick me girl, but she sure as hell knows how to make you treat her like she’s the only girl in the fucking world, and you’re more than happy to give her what she wants.

Because it’s always like this with Sana: if she wants it badly enough, she’ll formulate a stratagem to get it, nip her cravings in the bud before they turn into desires that she can’t control. Mind you, she’s not dissolute; she’s just “riding the highs of life” as she calls it. Pretty bullshit and circumlocutory, but you always let her off the hook.

—the pocket area? That’s my two cents. What do you think darling?

Another moment of silence follows, and Sana seizes the opportunity to nibble on your earlobe. Her leg’s sweaty, slowly slipping from your grasp and trembling from the pleasure that’s giving her voice this lilt when she says: Carry me. Fuck me. Cum in me. Please. Pleasure, coursing through your veins, makes you comply in an almost servile manner. It’s precipitous, even fatuous to pull such a stunt in a fitting room of all places, but when your hands are supporting her by her ass and her legs lock around your waist, there’s no turning back.

And as the man starts going off on his own preferences, Sana’s wrapping her arms around your neck, letting you get a look at those bouncing breasts as you reach new depths inside of those slick, warm walls. If she could cry out, she would, but those damn customers outside are placing her in a box here, and it’s clearly frustrating her. If you were at your place, her hands gripping your sheets and her juices messing up your quilt, she could moan, mewl, cry and cuss however loud she wanted. In a way, it was funny to watch her hold back, but at the same time: you so badly want to make her scream, undo her right here and now and make her a mess in your arms, but you’ll settle for what you have right now. What the two of you have created is controlled chaos, and should it be released past that damn changing room door, God knows what will happen.

Now it’s the store assistant’s turn to speak, and she’s giving them a rundown of the pricings. Outside, they’re talking about the possibility of a discount; inside, Sana’s talking about how deep you feel inside of. Outside, the man’s trying to guilt-trip the store assistant by saying how exorbitant the price is; inside, Sana’s exclaiming and pleading in a hushed voice—Own me. For the love of God, fucking o-own me!—as each thrust you make into her pussy sends her further and further down this rabbit hole of pleasure. It takes guts to fuck in a fitting room, but it takes the guts of Minatozaki Sana to be this needy while fucking in a fitting room. The risks of being caught are high, the risk of being heard even higher, but neither of those affect her ardour. At a controlled volume, she’s pleading for you to fuck her harder, faster, unravel every single bit of her being while she tries to keep herself together. It’s one hell of a show, and it’s one hell of an experience too.

(The sight of her perfect body flushed against yours as she’s fucked in the air, the smell of her sickly sweet perfume, the feeling of that divinely tight pussy wrapped snugly around your shaft like a damned glove, the way those sonorously soft moans filter into your ears. Add these together with the fact that the people outside could hear you at any second, and you’ve got one hell of a recipe for a voyeurist’s wet dream. You’re no voyeurist, but everything about this moment is making you feel like one.

Right now, this is everything to Sana. Having you this close to her, feeling that cool Prada air conditioning against her bare body, listening to you grunt and sigh as you piston yourself in and out of that slick, wet slit… All her needs are being fulfilled, all of her senses heightened and primed, aware of every movement you make inside of her pussy. Sometimes, you feel so good and oh fuck, or maybe even oh god isn’t enough to convey how she feels, so she just opts to let out this strained, strangled gasps that tells you everything you need to know—a maelstrom of emotions and expressions compressed and compacted into one simple “hngh” is enough for you to know that you’re doing something right.)

“You like this Sana?” you find yourself whispering. “You like being fucked like a damn slut with people just outside, don’t you? You like everything about this, don’t you?”

Right now, she doesn’t have that capacity to reply. Of course, you know this, which makes you feel all the more smug as you watch, watching as she slips into a state of complete, utter bliss: her mouth hangs open, her eyes are unfocused, she’s barely holding on to you. The purple mark that your lips have left on her neck sears itself into your sight, and it’s joined by the breathtaking view of her breasts loosely bouncing each time you drive yourself into her. Loose strands of hair are flying, neither of you have any hands free to fix them. Her legs are quaking around your waist, neither of you want to stop just so that she can be back down on the floor. Her eyes are closing, you can feel her heartbeat in her pussy, she’s begging, pleading, fucking imploring you to keep going.

Christ. You want her to moan as loud as she can for you.

It’s hard not to get turned on by the sight of it, and it’s even harder to keep yourself controlled under the rapidly tightening grip of her cunt. Her breaths are shallow, her head is almost completely limp. She may not seem to be aware of it, but you sure as hell are more than cognizant of the fact that the both of you are about to hit that peak that you’ve been chasing for the past God-knows-how-many minutes.

“Sana.” Uttering her name is all that’s needed to bring her back to the real world. When you have her attention, you give her the sentence that she’s been waiting to hear for so damn long: I’m gonna fucking fill you, and It’s like the air gets heavier when she softly whispers, pleads for you to fulfill her new desire; cum with me. I need it so bad.

Controlled orgasm would take strength to pull off, and you silently pray that you have that strength as you send one final thrust between her shaking legs. Your cock twitches, spasms and the first rope of your warm seed that’s sent into her waiting walls is enough to send her over the edge. She bites down on your shoulder, quick enough to muffle the cry that escapes her throat. The tightening of her walls seem to coordinate with each spasm of your cock, and they sync up, working together to get every last drop of cum out of you and into her. She lets a soft moan escape her lips with each spurt, as though welcoming it, as though each one were something she long wanted and needed. You let out a single, soft grunt, as though thanking her, as though every twitch of her walls that sends a shock down your cock is a treasure to be relished.

So the scarf that she brought in to try is no longer just an ornament like the rest of the outfits. Even after adjusting her outfit, the fabric still can't seem to cover that hickey you left on her collarbone. The simple solution: Sana waits there, you buy the scarf, hand it to her, she puts it on and the both of you walk out of the store like nothing happened, like the both of you really were in there to try on some clothes, then leave.

It’s unsuspecting, it’s smooth. The store assistant wishes you a good day, and Sana smiles and waves to her, looking exactly like she did when she entered, plus a scarf. The only difference in Sana’s entrance and exit from the Prada store is the load between her legs.

But that’s a secret for the two of you.

“Hey. Could I talk to you about something?”

In your two years of dating Sana, never have you heard her this nervous in your life. The fact that your client isn’t responding to you a day before his trial plagues you no more, and your laptop is shut before she can close the door.

Your posture—arms crossed atop the desk and back straight—is all she needs. The message is implicit: I’m here, all ears, and she smiles softly as she walks over to the bed. The frame creaks a little as she settles down.

“My uh… My Dad is organising another one of those damned Balls again.” The way she intonates her words tells you that the Ball is the least of her concerns at the moment. “It’s gonna be at the usual time.. Usual place… Not like we can move it anyway.”

You offer her a chuckle to assuage her, diffuse the tension a little. She manages a half-forced giggle at her own joke. Is this a transitional opening? Or is this legitimately the subject of her conversation? you’re thinking, and as you sip from your cup, that subtle shift in her posture is shifting the atmosphere of the room.

She’s scared, but of what?

“I was wondering,” she drums her nails against her knees, “could I… Introduce you to him tomorrow? M-My Dad I mean.”

And now you suddenly understand why she’s on edge. She’s not scared for herself; she’s scared for you. The head of the Minatozaki clan, Sana’s father—you heard much about him, partly because of the stories that Sana tells you and partly from the things you heard through the grapevine at work. In your firm, there’s a whole box dedicated to storing suits that have been opened by him on the intern’s table (it’s a hilariously off-putting thing to say out loud), and from what you’ve heard: there’s another two in the storage room. Personally, you’ve assisted a colleague in one of his lawsuits, and the emails you billed weren’t pretty. You’d be throwing out a fib if you ever couched that you never once thought: It’s a pretty bad first impression of the man, could he maybe… You know… Stop suing people? Please? but you’re not going to let a mere few boxes and one night of reading through emails determine your perception of Sana’s father.

And hopefully, he won’t judge a book by its cover too.

“I have a trial tomorrow Sha,” you remind her, but it’s not like you actually expected her to remember this; you whispered it to her while cuddling on the couch a solid week ago. “I don’t know when I’ll end. It might be a little tight for me.”

It's undeniable that she sighs in relief. The blush that follows the breath is a clear indication. She’s glad, too glad. You can't help but ask: What’s up? Think I’ll flub everything when I meet him?

Sana does that thing where she wants to answer, but doesn’t know how to: her mouth opens, closes, opens again—longer this time, then closes again. It isn’t an easy thing to talk about; what your father will think of your partner is never not a touchy matter. All touchy matters should be discussed in comfort (Sana knows that you strongly believe in this, that’s why she’s situated herself on the bed), and you join her on the mattress.

“WIll he feel that I’m not enough for you?” You’re prodding, all while you gently reach for her hand and grasp it in your own. It’s cold, really cold. You’ll warm it up with your palms, keep them there while she replies, “it’s not that… I know that you’re more than enough for me, that’s what matters to him… At least I think so.”

She’s staring down at her hand, the one that’s slowly heating up via the warmth of your hand. Then what’s making you so worried? you’re asking. She folds her bottom in, past her front teeth. You rub her knuckle with your thumb.

“Yea I… I don’t know what’s making me so worried either,” she finally muses. “Guess I’m just… New to this practice. Never had to do it before...”

Because all the men that have tried to win you over have never lasted for more than a week, you complete in your head, smiling as she lays her other hand over yours. It’s cold too—that won’t do.

And as you set another hand atop hers, she’s asking you for a kiss. Luckily for her, obliging her wants is your specialty, and your lips are quickly travelling that small gap between the two of you. Connection is made, and you physically feel her relax. You know. You know that she belides a truth that she’s not ready to divulge. It’s in her kiss, it’s in her hands, and that’s fine with you. You can infer that it’s not something that’s going to be detrimental to your relationship, and whenever she’s ready to speak about it, you’ll always be available.

Now the kiss is done, she’s asking for fried chicken. You counter-ask if the kiss was to soften you up so that she could ask for her Famichiki. Of course, you get a classic Sana reply: a “maybe”, followed by that mischievous grin. You rise from the bed to grab your coat.

You're glad that the Konbini is just next to your apartment. Sana’s glad that she gets to be close to you as you walk through the snowy street.

“You know,” she’s whispering, “I really won’t mind if you propose to me one of these days.”

You laugh it off, kiss her on her forehead.

In your head: you note to start looking for a nice ring.

Money can get you to places, but it can also get you a private soundproof karaoke room in a club. Three and a half years of dating—that’s all you need to know: you can bet your left kidney that Sana is taking full advantage of that room.

The bottle of Whisky that she opened to get the room is hardly the main event; Sana, slowly slipping out of that tight black dress she’s wearing, foreground to the default music that’s on the TV, has your unwavering attention. The smile on her face could've been mistaken for a sweet one if it weren’t for the fact that she’s getting naked, and the lack of a bra really doesn’t help with her case either.

“There isn’t a time limit to the use of this room, right?” You know the answer to that is no, the lady at the counter told you so. The question is more of a gauge, an instrument that’s helping you assess her plans for the night.

“If you’re trying to know how long we’ll be here for,” she slings her dress onto the couch next to you, and in her stockings and panties, saunters over with a sultry sway in her hips, “my answer is a secret.”

“I have work tomorrow, Sana.”

“Too bad. Call in sick.”

She picks up the glass of Whisky, raises it to her lips. When she drinks, she lets some of that amber liquid trickle out past her lips, down past her chin and onto her tits. In the light, her wet skin glistens and shimmers, and you once again find yourself in absolute awe with the woman before you. And as she straddles you, glass in hand, the way she uses her fingers to tilt your face up to the light tells you that she’s in control. She takes a sip of the amber liquid, swallows it, then brings it to your lips.

“Be a good boy,” she’s tipping the glass as she speaks, a strong way to convey that there’s no room for disobedience, “say ‘ahh’ for me baby.”

The glass is cold against your lips, the liquor even colder on your tongue as it flows into your mouth at a manageable rate. When she stops pouring, you take the cue, and you swallow all of it in one gulp. The burn in your throat is oddly rewarding, probably because Sana’s smiling down at you, stroking your hair and telling you how obedient you are as you swallow. Then she makes you open your mouth again, pours another portion down the hatch.

How does it taste, she’s asking, cupping your right cheek as she swirls the glass. You give her a short honest review of it: It’s good. The answer pleases her, and she sets down the glass in her hand to pick up the bottle from the table next to you.

“Yamazaki, 12 year old single Malt.” She’s letting you see the bottle under the light, though you have to admit that her tits right next to the bottle are a horrible distraction. “My personal favourite.”

She unscrews the cap and takes a swig straight from the bottle, swallows it without even flinching. She’s always been able to hold her alcohol well, and you know for a fact that she can probably outdrink 5 of your colleagues and maybe, just maybe, your boss too. But you’ll never have a fair gauge on how well she can drink in comparison to your peers; she only drinks around you.

Your face is back in her hand, and she’s got some more things to say—Drink it neat, on the rocks, add it to another drink, it tastes great no matter what—as she starts to lightly grind herself over your throbbing shaft in your pants. But you know what the best way to drink it is, she asks you. She’s not looking for an answer from you, just finding a way to transition from the Whisky to whatever it is she has in mind—you can tell because she leans down to capture lips right after she throws out the inquiry, kissing you deeply, her tongue playing aggressively on your lips before searching your mouth for its counterpart. The smell of Whisky is so damn strong on her breath, and the only thing hotter than the burning sensation in your throat is the fact that she’s using one hand to play with herself, the bottle of Whisky in the other. You can hear it slosh next to your ear as she raises it.

And as she breaks the kiss, the thin strand of saliva connecting the two of you doesn’t stop her from providing the answer to her question—it tastes the best when you drink it right off my body—as she straightens herself. The next second, still playing with herself, she’s bringing the bottle to her lips, tipping it just before it touches those red-tinted lips to let the golden liquid flow down her chest and breasts. There's no time to admire; you reach out and catch the rapidly falling liquid, your tongue pressed tightly to her skin to lap up as much of the bitter liquor as you could. Her skin glistens with the Whisky on it. It looks like gold in the snow. She smells like lavender and lust.

Your tongue, saturated with Whisky, finds and captures her left nipple. You close your lips around it, suckling deeply from her chest, enjoying the taste of her body and the liquor that made it spicy and bitter. Sana gasps and moans as you have your way with her chest, fondling her small mounds, suckling both of her taut nipples—roughly, hungrily. You could say that she’s wasted some perfectly good Whisky, but you say that she’s added complex flavours to an already exquisite meal. The blend of alcohol and Sana’s skin is not something you never knew you needed, but now you do. The novelty of it, the sheer lust she’s emanating, all of it makes her tits taste better than ever, and you find yourself leaving marks on her cleavage, the right side of her left breast, the left side of her right breast; every centimetre of skin that can be reached is marked and tasted—your attempt at dipping your toes in a little control in this karaoke room that is Sana’s domain.

Maybe you’re a little over-indulgent in her, maybe you’re just unaware, but you certainly can’t feel her slipping your tie off your neck. By the time you’re aware of the sudden feeling of freedom at your throat, she’s already wrapping your wrists, securing them together with an intricate knot. You know damn well that even the boy scouts couldn’t untie this one, even if they sent their best member. The theory is only enforced when Sana asks you to try pulling your wrists apart, and it feels like they’ve been superglued together. Satisfied, she feeds you some more Whisky off her body, then it’s time for her fun.

Palm flat against your chest, eyes flaring, wicked smile; Sana pushed you back against the couch with graceful authority—something that only she is capable of. Then it’s onto your shirt, and he’s unbuttoning it with practised dexterity: unfastening, pulling—motions so fast that she has your reverence for mastering the art. She takes a moment, parts the fabric covering your chest and runs a fingernail down the centre of your torso. The nail—painted black with little Sakura flowers adorning it—stops at your belt. It isn’t hesitance that keeps her finger there; it’s the innate cheekiness that makes her linger there a little longer, that makes her smile softly as the other hand joins in and starts undoing the clasp of your belt. Not a word is uttered as she pulls apart your belt, then goes straight for the buckle of your belt.

Then it’s back to kissing. Sloppy, passionate kissing. Sloppy, passionate kissing as she runs her fingers through your hair. The Whisky on both of your breaths mingle. Admittedly, you’re feeling a little floaty, engendering a pleasant tingle on your skin as she starts placing kisses on your cheek, then on your jaw. Next thing you know, she’s sucking hard at the nape of your neck, marking you with those lovely lips, as if she’s placing a wax seal on you, declaring: you are mine and mine alone. And when she successfully sears the shape of her lips onto your skin, she traces the slick outline with a finger, whispers softly, You have no idea how much I want to own you right now.

The excitement is palpable, the tension even more so. She’s whispering all sorts of things to you—most of them entailing what she’s about to do with your cock—all while she starts to slip your briefs off of your legs. Your cock springs out of your pants, slaps against her ass and twitches on the rotund flesh. The smile grows wider, devilish dimples appear. And for the record: no, she’s not gonna blow you. She’s gonna make herself cum before anything else happens, and she’s going to make you feel things you’ve never felt before.

She slides off you, gets back up on her feet. With her back turned to you, she bends forward at the waist, shaking her ass while she uses her thumbs to hook onto the waistband of her panties. She looks over her shoulder, eyes locked on yours. With a little hop, she pushes the fabric down and off her hips, kicking it to the side. She looks over her shoulder, eyes locked on yours. With a little hop, she pushes the fabric down and off her hips, kicking it to the side. Her pussy glistens in the light, flushed pink and folds tantalising as ever puffy and swollen with excitement.

She bends her knees, getting down on all fours.

She wiggles her ass at you, looking back at you over her shoulder.

“Bet you wished,” she gets on her back, spreads her legs to get the spotlight on her slit, “that you could absolutely own me like this right now, don’t you?”

She’s so cocksure. It’s driving you crazy. You swallow, your voice barely audible as you utter her name. She crawls to you, sits up, her face in front of yours, so close, so hot. Her hand touches the back of your head, her voice barely a whisper as she grips the base of your cock—but you can’t, and it’s so damn frustrating, isn’t it?—and rubs your tip between her dripping folds, lathering her juices all over your head and smiling all the way through.

And when you least expect it, she turns and sinks down on your cock.

You throw your head back, groan, the sound of her wetness as she takes your cock into her pussy loud and clear over the music. Your head falls forward again, watching her sink further and further, taking more and more of your cock inside her with every passing moment as she lets a long, drawn-out moan float through the air. When her crotch meets yours and you are fully embedded inside her, a soft, wordless cry of pleasure that leaves open lips. You meet it with a sigh of your own, somehow tearing open your own shut eyes to watch the expression on her beautiful face as you fill her.

Christ, fuck and god—just some of the words that you want to cry out as she starts to slowly grind herself against you. The ride she’s about to take is one that’s of perverse nature; it’s not going to be a slow, pleasant ride. Naturally, her habit of jumping straight into things leaves her unprepared for what she’s about to experience, so now she has to slowly slowly adjust to your size, like striking the flint over and over next to the fireplace as you hope to get a flame going. Usually, this would be a time where you’d caress that beautiful body, run your hands over that unblemished white skin and pepper kisses all over the places that she loves to be kissed. But she’s not in the mood for that, not when she has this room and you at her disposal.

Then the fire ignites, and it is merciless, a force of nature—untameable, unrelenting. In your bonds you are unable to resist. You never would’ve in the first place. She begins to move, her pussy tight and slick around your cock. She rides you like she was made to do this, like a pro. She rides you fiercely, roughly, taking you in and out of her tight wet heat, caring little for your comfort or much of anything aside from stuffing herself over and over with thick, hard meat. Throughout it all she is digging into your thigh, crying out like her life depends on it as she goes up, down, up, down—a lewd seat on a merry go round.

Yes, yes, yes—she throws her head back, auburn hair flying like streamers in the wind as she has her way with you—o-oh fuck I need this! I need this so fucking bad! The rhythmic, repetitive motion, her unbridled desire to be filled, it sends you reeling. The pressure on your leg is forgotten, the slight discomfort in your arms pushed out of the way. You can do nothing but watch her ride you. You can do nothing but marvel at how good you feel inside her, how the tightness of her pussy massages your shaft, how the way she takes you so completely into her folds, how you stretch her and make her quiver and quake.

A part of you wishes the mirror were visible from your current position, so that you could watch as Sana impales herself over and over on your cock. You want to watch the expression of pleasure wrangle her cute features, want to watch her full, round breasts bounce up and down, want to watch every muscle of her long, perfectly shaped legs work to throw her body again and again against your cock. But you’ll have to content yourself with the almost equally alluring view of her sweaty back (not that it was a particularly difficult position to enjoy. How could you call it “bad” with the view of her round, full ass as she slams it down against your crotch?). It’s not like you can change anything about this anyway. No—the only thing you can do is sit back, watch, and savour how her ass jiggles as it crashes against your crotch.

Oh fuck, oh yes! I’m so fucking full! I’m so stuffed with this cock!

You lose yourself to the sound of her voice, the feeling of her pussy as it swallows up your cock, the sight of her back arching and her hands shaking. As much as you try, you find yourself unable to move, as though your own pleasure has been drained out of your body, and you are just an observer. You watch as she pushes herself down further on your cock, impaling herself with every thrust of her hips, her voice growing louder and louder as she gets into that dangerous rhythm, the rhythm that makes you think she’s on Acid. Well-formed breasts bounce, you see them past her slender figure. Her shapely, luscious ass ripples. Long legs work overtime, cooperating with the stamina of the girl who is using them to drive herself over the edge like it’s her be-all and end-all. It’s exhilarating. It’s thrilling.

It’s so fucking hot.

Oh god. You’re stretching me out so good. This cock feels so damn good!

Two things are getting you at the moment: (1) The sweat glistening that’s building up on her back. (2) The fact that she’s pushing your thighs apart to get more of you inside her. The former sight is a breathtaking process really: beady moisture on that well built back, pooling at all the best places and making her skin glow as some of it slowly trickles down her spine. The latter’s no grain of sand either mind you, maybe even hotter than Sana’s sweaty back if you dare say. Freshly done nails sit just outside the insides of your thighs, the palms that they’re connected to pushing down against the flesh beneath them. They’re indenting the muscles of your thighs, it’s uncomfortable, but only for a second at a time.

I don’t wanna stop. I don’t wanna fucking stop!

In your restraints, your hands grasp at the flesh that’s so close yet so far, the skin that’s rippling and slapping against yours. Her ass taunts you, tempts you, teases you. It’s so frustrating yet so erotic; you aren’t sure if you should welcome this mix of emotions or reject it before it folds its wings and nestles itself in your chest. The mix of desire and vexation, exasperation and ecstasy—any two emotions that shouldn’t go together are mixing, blending, forming these bubbles in your chest that you can’t explain.

One woman; innumerable sensations.

You need more. More of everything. More of her.

You wish you could touch her.

You wish you could fuck her.

But all you can do is watch, watch as she starts going down harder, crying out even louder.

Her body, so flawlessly feminine, is in deadly motion, working you over from the inside like you’ve never experienced. The air is filled with the wet, lewd sounds of her pussy sucking you in your hips slapping against her ass, her moans and groans, her curses that seem to go on perennially, blending in perfectly with that shitty synth in the background.

And you’re just along for the ride.

You have no idea… How good this is.. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And she wants you to see it, she wants you to watch her—it is exactly that kind of attention that she is basking in. So you watch. You watch her, the way she looks back at you, the way her eyes flare as she takes you in, the way her hands claw at your leg. The way she's moaning with that lilt back in her voice. Everything about this spectacle seems like it’s been scripted for some porno, and her body is certainly making you feel like you’re in one. The only grasp on reality that this situation offers is… Well, nothing. And it’s not that there really isn’t anything for you to root yourself in this real world, rather you’re choosing not to make that mental effort to do so; every little corner of your mind is being bled with whatever colour the image of Sana bouncing on your cock is. There’s no room for reality, and it's addicting, enthralling.

Fuck. You can't get enough of her, and you probably never will.

So deep! So fucking… Oh my god!

Your breath is ragged, and it takes every bit of control you have left in you to not cum right then and there. It takes every ounce of focus not to simply give in to her, not to simply melt into the couch, not to lose your mind to the sensation of her tight, wet slick as it swallows you in, pushes you out; fucking itself over and over and over again on your rock hard shaft. You don't know how much longer you can hold out for, and as if she can tell, Sana starts to move faster, her movements getting even more aggressive. The slaps of her ass against your crotch are louder now, and the wet smacking sound of her pussy's getting faster and faster. Her fingers are digging into your leg, her moans more frequent and more desperate. You can feel her tightening around you, the way her walls clamp down, the way her legs are trembling, the way her voice is going up in pitch.

(It’s the moments of privacy that really get her going; the moments where she can scream and cuss and moan like there’s no tomorrow are everything to her.

Yes, she likes fucking in public spaces for the thrill of it, but she likes it better when she can hold you freely as you fill her, not having to care for the fact that the way her body’s positioned engenders any discomfort or risk of being heard.

Yes, she likes it when there’s the chance that someone can walk in on the two of you, but the prospect of being able to own your cock, uninterrupted and unheard, thrills her like nothing else in the damn world.

Yes, she likes to see if she can hold in her cries while you’re rearranging her insides in a bathroom stall, but she prefers it much more when she can slam herself down on your cock—be loud and be proud of the fact that she loves every inch of meat that fills her till she can barely breathe.

Bottom line: she likes chasing that thrill of being caught, but she loves those moments where she’s alone with you in private even more. Now is one of those times, and God… She’s barely herself anymore.

She is a storm of pure, unfiltered lust. And you must say: it’s fucking sublime.)

Then the game changing sentence comes from her, and it's beautiful.

"I'm fucking cumming!"

The words ring out, clear and loud. And she doesn't stop; she keeps riding you, taking you into her wet hole and milking your cock, using you to bring herself off. It's not until the final second that she slows down, her back arching as she lets out the most satisfying scream that you have ever heard in your entire life. It is all that you can do to watch as she slumps forward, breaths ragged and body twitching as you hold yourself back. It takes everything—every fibre, every cell and every last bit of will—to not cum in her right there and then. And when the final spasm has passed and the shuddering has subsided, when Sana has collapsed against you, your cock still buried inside her, she turns to you.

There are no words spoken, just a mutual understanding of what comes next. She slips off the couch, takes your slick shaft in her hands. A few pumps are delivered, and they’re considerate and slow; she’s good at building tension.

“You’ve already marked my tits. Might as well cum on them.” She’s still got some cheekiness left in her, and that smile is really doing everything for you.

“Fuck, Sana, I—” “Do it. Paint me.”

You feel the semen gather in your balls before coursing up your shaft and erupting from its tip, landing in thick, wet, warm ropes upon Sana’s creamy skin. Your tip is directed between her cleavage, and the first spurt of cum shoots itself between those wonderful mounds. It’s quickly followed by a second rope, and the third lands on her upper chest. With grace, she manages to direct your spurting cock by the base so the fourth and fifth ropes cover the front of her tits, then the rest don’t matter anymore.

The last ropes of thick, warm semen land upon her face, staining her soft, blushing features with creamy white cum. Some of it lands on her cheeks, on her forehead and onto her open mouth and the thirsty tongue within it. When you finally open eyes you hadn’t known had closed, the picture of Minatozaki Sana, face and chest painted with your warm, thick cum, is one you never want to forget. And as she scoops up your seed with her fingers, she’s got a thing or two to say.

“Excellent load,” she whispers, watching as the cum slithers down her palm. “Plus two to you.”

Just two? Is your reply of false bewilderment. Sana chortles.

Maybe if you can give me a load up my ass, I’ll consider adding another three points.

Now the ring’s oddly heavy in your pocket.

Sana’s father seems more imposing than he should for a man his size, and looking at the Yamazaki bottle on the desk, you can tell that Sana gets her liking for Whisky from him.

“I’ve never met you in my life,” he begins, “and now you come here like a friend, asking for my daughter’s hand in marriage?”

Sana’s head is bowed. In the corner of the office she sits, hands clasped over one another as she listens in silently. No amount of trials or oral submissions could ever prepare you for this tension.

“Mr Minatozaki… I understand that all of this is sudden,” you begin, but you’re interrupted by a raised hand.

“You know boy… You sure do talk like you know everything about the situation.” His voice is nowhere near threatening as he speaks, and it’s absolutely terrifying. “For a lawyer, you sure do sound quite the fool. Guess I shouldn’t have been expecting much considering your background.”

And it’s that very statement that has you on tenterhooks. You’ve never met him, never even seen his face, yet he knows your occupation which you never even touched on, and from the sound of it, knows what went down in your family. Sana’s head snaps up, her eyes wide as she watches her father produce a file from under his desk.

“It’s not the suddenness,” the air quotations he uses hold more weight than they really should, “that doesn’t sit well with me dear boy. No, no… It’s more than that.”

The broad leather chair in his office grows constricting. As he rises from his seat, the foam that holds your butt up seems to depress. And as he begins—if you sauntered in here as just a lawyer, I would’ve let you take my daughter in a heartbeat!—his explanation of what’s grinding his gears, you start feeling uneasy. For context on the severity of this feeling: the last time you felt like this was when you first met his daughter.

But you’re not just a lawyer—he’s opening the file in his hands, flipping through its contents—you’re a disgrace to this very world. You shouldn’t even be in this damn house right now.

Into the file his hand reaches, and out from it: two mugshots. You bristle; Sana gasps (and it’s not that she didn’t know, rather because she was shocked that her father knew.)

So it’s the next sentence that seals your fate. Frankly, you kind of expected it, but it still doesn’t take away from the sheer bedlam that goes down in your head when Mr Minatozaki waves the mugshots of your parents before your face and shrieks at the top of his lungs.

This isn’t the way you pictured this going.

Honestly, you never pictured this happening at all.

“Do you seriously think for a second that I’d let the son of two druggies—two disgraceful, repugnant, filthy, druggies—marry my daughter?”

It’s hard to forget what she told you over the phone after your talk with her father (if you can even call it that): we’ll figure this out. I promise you, we’ll figure this out.

Money can get you a nice fancy Ball, some nice Whisky and a private Karaoke room. Naturally, it can grant you a means to keep the son of two convicted drug abusers that hung themselves in their cells away from your daughter.

So not even 12 hours after that fate-sealing conversation did you get a phone call from your boss. Next thing you know, you’re uprooted from your workplace in Osaka, transferred to the branch in Nagoya; Sana’s number mysteriously changes itself, none of your letters ever reach her.

It’s over the payphone, months after all of this, that Sana finally reaches you, and she’s ugly crying over the phone.

We can fix this, we’ll figure something out. We’ll figure this out. I promise you, we’ll figure this out.

In a way, she ended up being right.

And in your suit, you smile as you watch her walk down the aisle. She’s beautiful as ever, and you feel like that white veil over her face is doing her the biggest disservice ever. The little boy carrying the wedding rings seems a little confused, but it only adds to his adorable aura as he stumbles behind Sana. The flower petals are being scattered, the crowd’s on their feet. They’re clapping; you’re crying. Have you mentioned that she looks beautiful?

Oh? You have? Odd…

But just in case it slips your mind, you tell her how beautiful she is in your head, all while she walks right past you and continues to the stage. It feels like the ring boy’s acting stupid to taunt you for being the fool here.

In a way, she ended up being right. If “We” referred to Sana’s father and that man on the stage, “We” did indeed end up figuring things out. The invite broke you, and this wedding is breaking you even more. You know that this invite wasn’t sent by Sana—she isn’t cruel. This has the fingerprints of her father all over it: the seat close to the aisle, your wristband to authorise your access to the venue holding the same serial code as your father’s prisoner ID… All of it is him.

But there’s not much you can do about it is there? You chose to come, you chose this for yourself. There was the option to not come, to tear the invite up and go cry in your apartment in Nagoya, but you bought the Shinkansen ticket here, didn’t you? You walked through the doors of this damn place and took your seat, didn’t you?

And the Yamazaki doesn’t taste as good as it should, and the Spring air is sharper than it should be at the afterparty. They’re over there, congratulating the newly weds and wishing them all the best; you’re over here, sipping on your neat Whisky behind a bush as the music roars on.

It really shouldn’t be a question on how she finds you; she knows you too well to know where you’d go at a place like this. And in her wedding gown, she stands where she is, this look of a god-knows-what mix of emotions simmering on her face. You rub your nose with a thumb, sip on the bitter Whisky as your remedy. No words are spoken, not even a “hey” or “how have you been”—both of you know that there’s no use in starting a conversation here. It’ll go sob, fast, and this isn’t the place for it.

There will never be a place for it.

So why not substitute words with actions?

So in her bare feet, she hikes up her gown, runs over to you, lunges to close those years of separation between you two to hug you like she used to. The Whisky is knocked out of your hands; you’re knocked off your feet. And in the grass, she buries her head into your shoulder and weeps.

You always thought that only death would make you cry, but now as you hold her for what may very well be the last time, you realise: you're not as tough as you think.

Like a Lemon, the realisation that comes is bitter, and it has you bawling.

Cause maybe in a world that wasn’t so cruel, you could’ve been the one on that stage.

(Then the two of you could be in love, happier than ever.)

#minatozaki sana #twice smut #sana smut #kpop #fanfic #writing #smut

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dailysapphiccharacters · 7 months

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Today's sapphic character of the day is Laila Kapoor (Margarita with a Straw)

#margarita with a straw #bisexual #sapphic #wlw

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oldtvandcomics · 10 months

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Happy Queer Media Monday!

Today: Margarita With a Straw (2014)

Starting Disabled Pride Month strong in a way I know for a fact I won’t be able to live up to in later posts.

(Laila and Khanum introducing themselves to one another.)

Margarita With a Sraw is an Indian movie about Laila, a teenage girl with cerebral palsy. The story follows her as she fumbles her way through multiple crushes and relationships with three boys and a girl. Being queer is explicitly discussed. Laila even comes out to her mother, who first doesn’t understand what “bisexual” is. Both Laila and her longest-time partner, Khanum, are disabled, and said disabilities seriously influence the way their relationships work. Laila has difficulties moving and speaking, and Khanum is blind.

The writer and director explicitly set out to make a movie that deals with physically disabled people’s difficulties in all things sexuality. While she didn’t succeed in finding actresses with the disabilities of the characters, she did make sure to get advocates as consultants. Many elements are taken directly from her own personal life and that of her disabled family members.

You can read the Wikipedia article, if you like, and the movie itself is available on Netflix.

Queer Media Monday is an action I started to talk about some important and/or interesting parts of our queer heritage, that people, especially young people who are only just beginning to discover the wealth of stories out there, should be aware of. Please feel free to join in on the fun and make your own posts about things you personally find important!

#and once again I must state that India is making some really good movies #which comes as a surprise to exactly no-one #but the three queer Indian movies I've seen are all three really good #I'm seriously looking forward to the rest #anyway this movie sure doesn't pull any punches #the bisexual rep is really good too #deserves a better-written entry to be very fair #but I'm tired so this is the best I can do #anyway go watch this thing #movie rec #Margarita With a Straw #disability #disabled representation #queer representation #bisexual representation #indian cinema #queer movies #disabled pride month #Queer Media Monday

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