You don’t really do parties.　You’ve never thought too hard about them.　When you’re a teenager,　you were always made to come straight home,　awkwardly slinking away from whatever attempts at friendship the guys your age would weakly pitch in your direction in favor of Father’s heavy hand.　All bets are off once he’s home for good from Pohang,　no longer sheltered by the perpetual back-and-forth,　your mother half-dissociated for each of the countless hours he is away and still failing to occupy reasonable space once he’s home.　Sister after sister stepped up to the plate to bring you up,　soften the skin of your palms;　there are years of tender damage for Father to undo,　and he starts as soon as he can.　You learn to love it　⸻　it’s what you’ve had to do with most things　⸻　learn to love your Father,　his teachings,　his hopes for you　⸻　learn to love life and the earth that insists you carry on,　day after day.　And so you are never quite granted access to this fabled ritual of teenage bonding,　wherein you do not have the capacity to ponder what exactly you are missing out on.　There is you,　Father,　the contusion across your hip or your thigh or wherever god permits it,　and you have never taken it upon yourself to wish for more.

And so she insists upon a party.　Your knee-jerk reaction is to grimace,　play off your discomfort as though you’re above such a juvenile conception.　The partiers are those with no future to claw their way toward,　and they waste away their extant days with libertine intemperance until the very end.　Alas.　Light won’t stand for it,　and somehow　(you know exactly how you fall to her wiles,　irksome as it is)　you’ve been roped into pledging your attendance.　It gets worse.　You’ve got shit smeared on your eyes,　shimmery and sunset-toned and completely unlike you.　It took a lot of sweet-talking,　and a bit of wrestling on your part until the rigid aggression summoned forth to protect you sheepishly regresses back.　Fine.　So you’ll go.

And maybe then the events of the night are a blur,　you hopped up almost entirely on adrenaline as you stumble helplessly through the thumping bass and blinding lights,　a constancy of neon strobes.　You would never,　ever go so far as to say you could tolerate the party-going crowds.　You’re there to linger behind Light like a shadow,　keeping your gaze low and your eyes half-squinted to keep the light out.　Are you getting too old for this shit?　(Jesus Christ,　you’re only 27.　Feels like your life has only just started away from the panopticon of Father,　off where you make your own living with your own form of fulfilling career;　it might not be an age thing,　merely the way you were put into this world.　Maybe it doesn’t matter.)　Though it wouldn’t be so bad on its own,　that little pest keeps teasing you.　You initially try to overlook it,　assuming your own perversion has inserted itself into an innocuous scenario.　That doesn’t sound like Light,　though.　They’d probably push and push and push you until your only option was taking them in the bathroom　⸻　the measures are not quite that desperate　⸻　you can exhibit restraint,　patience,　something.　

Though every dream of opening you up had readily been dashed by the flat line your lips were pressed into and the dead stare squared from furrowed brow,　you survive the social-facing half of the night with as few blows to your ego as possible.　That whole introvert and extrovert thing always sounded like bullshit to you.　You liked people,　despite your distance from them;　couldn’t it have just been a fault of your inexperience rather than a matter of charging or draining?　And yet Light blows whatever social extroversion you thought yourself in possession of completely out of the fucking water.　Aflame,　chipper and sleazy as always.　Sometimes you can’t believe he goes out in public presenting himself the way he does.　Then you realize that you’re following right behind him,　a few inches diminutive,　and whatever perception of him surely shallowly reflects back onto you.　Unclench,　dickhead.　Liven up like she has.　Both past and future have decayed from your constant stressing,　and it wouldn’t kill you to loosen the fuck up.　Maybe even crack a smile for the fact that you’re spending time together.

Or crack a smile for what’s supposed to come after.

The greatest force impelling you through the night’s span is all that goddamn teasing.　A hand ghosting just shy of your waistband,　maybe a stupid wink,　some approximation of dancing together involving a little too much friction and whatever goddamn abomination your dance abilities are.　You don’t dance,　but she was certainly grinding on you.　You wonder what people will think of you,　you in this stupid makeup,　with your loathsome quote-unquote date　⸻　Father always had language for people like this,　and the vitriol with which he spat it always terrified you to your core,　knowing he could hate you this much,　he should,　he would,　he does　⸻　and it finally dawns upon you that you think about yourself way too much.　Everyone here seems to be just like you,　or maybe a little more toward Light on the spectrum.　But they are enjoying themselves,　free of the prison cell of external judgment,　and so you make your best attempt at doing away with your self-hatred.　If only for now.　The feelings will undoubtedly creep back in once you’re alone,　questioning what’s wrong with you or what you’re attracted to or any other question branded onto your skull as a learned behavior.

Your attendance comes with the caveat that you retire back to your own apartment afterwards,　whether they join you or not.　You need that time to unwind,　be it through sexual gratification or a drawn-out night time routine.　Light tags along,　because of course they do,　and you at least find some satisfaction that this half of the night favors you and you alone.　(Okay,　that one’s bullshit too.　It wouldn’t be any good if they weren’t just as eager as you were,　and relatively speaking,　they’re such a freak in the vastest sense of the word that it seems difficult to find a sexual pursuit that wouldn’t get them all fired up.　So you’re both happy,　then.)

The hardest part is showing restraint until your front door clicks shut.　The taxi you hail back to your place is operated by a bitter-faced older gentleman,　and you briefly debate canceling.　Goddamn inner critic.　You see the way he looks at you,　but he says nothing.　From your reflection in the side-view mirror,　the duskiness redacts the gleam of your makeup.　You look overtired and miserable,　but you’d like to think you don’t look like a fag.　There is something seriously wrong with you.　Coupled together,　you both slink into the backseat,　listening to a recorded talk show the driver broadcasts from his phone.　Odd choice of revelry.　He’d probably say the same thing regarding your pastimes.　Call it even,　then.　A lump stagnates in your throat,　bitter and cold and suffocating.　You swallow,　then swallow again,　then draw in a deep breath that forces from your nostril in an exaggerated blow of dissatisfaction.　Against your better judgment,　you reach out,　blindly guiding your hand to rest on Light’s thigh.　You squeeze.　Maybe things aren’t all bad.

When the tires grind to a halt in the parking lot,　you bow your head reflexively,　going both to pay and tip handsomely.　The driver grumbles something you pretend not to hear.　Maybe you slam the door shut a little too hard,　then.　It’s always been a bad habit of yours.　You reach out for Light’s hand to hold it:　you are eager to get inside　/　you don’t want to be seen outside　/　one or the other,　or maybe both.　More than anything,　you are tired of thinking.　They can fix that.　They’re good at that.　And so you drag them through the side door,　up the stairwell,　down the hallway until you and your keycard can announce your arrival to the entire building with a blissful beep of successful entry.　Finally,　some fucking relief.　The door clicks shut.　You lock it,　look through the peephole for good measure,　and after way too many hours,　finally you let your guard down.

❛❛　You think you were funny all fucking night?　❜❜　These words of yours carry some bite,　acrid and scathing.　It’s half an outlet for whatever misery manifested in that stern taxi driver,　but mostly just you getting ahead of yourself,　too eager for this muscled frame that contains you.　It’s bad,　it’s so bad,　it’s terrible enough that it verges upon abysmal:　unmistakably,　you’ve been Pavlov’d into getting just a bit turned on whenever you smell cherries.　As though slightest dose of her was instantly injected into your subconscious,　gift and a curse,　burden and a relief that rides steadily through you.　Though you don’t find it too frequent a scent on its own,　there have been few times too many where it inadvertently imparted olfactory beatitude upon you,　a hazard thrust at you,　a misery.　No way in hell could you ever disclose this information.　Christ,　it wouldn’t surprise you if it was done with a particular form of deliberate intent,　repetitive action taken to train you like a dog.　Maybe you are a dog,　the kind too large for the couch they’re nevertheless hellbent on climbing up onto.　Maybe you are a dog,　for the sheer fact that you’re all over her before you’ve even made it past your fucking kitchen.　You lean in close to nurse at her neck,　teeth barely grazing the flesh before the goddamn cherry fragrance hits you in full force.

Fuck it,　then.　The likelihood that you’re making it to your bed is a stark zero.　The odds of stumbling desperately over toward your couch aren’t any better,　and soon the only destination left in sight is the stiff surface of your kitchen island.　It will have to do.　You’re palming at him through the thin fabric of your shirt　⸻　can it even be called that?　You will never understand fashion and you’re not about to start,　definitely not when this goddamned raiment stands solely to separate you,　right now,　from what you want　⸻　and gradually goading him over to new surface to pin him against.　Not that he makes it fucking easy.　God,　no.　He puts up a fight that will only ever result in you emerging victorious,　a bit of resistance intended purely for you to break through.　A hiss of annoyance,　and you move in,　lips jammed against his in one bitter movement.

Pulling back,　panting,　looking over them　(looking up,　slightly,　and doesn’t that piss you off?)　with feverish feelings you’d never have the lexicon to make sense of,　❛❛　Fuckin’　—　fuckin’ teasing me like that.　You little bitch.　❜❜　And you love it,　that’s the worst part.　Light has forced introspection from you,　with thought processes otherwise left to fester and wither away if not dredged up to reality.　Who gave them the right?　It’s borderline comedic.

You press another kiss against their lips,　a single hand weaseling up to hold at your throat.　The implication of pressure only,　never sensation enough to sate all those illicit desires you know they house within.　You wouldn’t expect anything less.　It’s why the two of you are such a good match.　Throughout all of your life,　you doubt you’ve ever known love.　Love in its truest,　purest form,　at least.　You have known violence from Father and quiet indifference from your mother,　and you have known assembly line of sisters all trying their hardest to build you into something you are not.　All you know of love is that it hurts people,　changes them,　ignores them.　You really hope you don’t love Light,　then.　Whatever swells in your chest is something greater.

Fingers dance up her abdomen,　hand smoothing out flat at her chest.　You’d tear that goddamn tank off of her if you had to.　You’d take one of the knives and lay waste to the fabric without a second thought.　Thankfully,　not necessary.　Your grasp slips around,　and fistful of the shirt’s back tugs up over her head,　launched over toward the living room with an excess of force.　Ten points if you can land it on the couch.　And so it happens:　your lips latch just below her collarbone,　mouthing pitifully at the skin until you leave a sloppy,　wet patch in your wake.　The ideation clicks into your mind like a gift bestowed onto you.　You heed it carefully,　soft tilt of your chin to indicate the thought.　Perfect,　perfect.　

There’s something so dreadfully alluring about his frame.　Addictive,　you think,　having reeled you in from the very first time you two were on each other with no holds barred.　He can take it,　and you really cherish it.　You do.　You pour out your rage onto him in a manner healthier than nearly any other so-called remedy.　Light introduces you to concepts you never in your life would have stumbled upon organically,　and your eyes bulge wide the first time you hear of such perversions.　Just like that,　you’re spun up into his world,　finding it easy to forget your own relative inexperience when he’s got you experimenting with the unimaginable.　

You’re not yet satisfied,　though.　Now you’re fumbling with his stupid studded belt,　weaving it out through its loop and sliding it out and away from his hips.　You’ll be needing that,　maybe.　Then the button clasp and fly,　and soon you’re working ripped denim down his legs until the pants are slumped in a heap on the floor,　at his feet.　Drawing nearer and nearer,　thank god for that.　Your cock strains against your pants,　desperate for any semblance of relief as you drink in more of his incredible body.　No matter his stupid fucking goddamn height,　you think he’s perfect.　(You can never tell him this.　This is for you to know and you only,　as you can never risk the adoration inflating his head a few too many sizes.　He’d get away with anything.　Already,　he does.)　Candied heat suffuses across your cheeks,　embarrassing as it is.　Maybe it’s the goddamn cherry scent,　but you’re so turned on that you can barely think straight.

It’s kind of your biggest downfall,　when you really think about it.　You look at them like they’re the best thing you’ve ever seen,　and you really could kill them for that.　Eyes flickering with just a little too much exuberance,　too eager,　too exhilarated,　too much,　just too fucking much.　It never stops you from having your fun,　but it does provoke their smart-ass mouth into action.　Annoying,　but nothing a bit of aggression can fix.　Or exacerbate.　You know they like the attention.　You know you like the attention,　the depravity of it all,　the deep seeds of lust that only Light could plant in you.　They flourish,　they bloom.

Her panties are cute,　but they’re in the way.　A show of appreciation marks the trace of your fingerpads,　heart-shape outlined against the waistband before you hook in,　tearing them away.　Shame you couldn’t spend a little longer appreciating them　⸻　maybe if she wasn’t such a fucking tease.　Alas.　She had this coming,　simply put.　There the two of you are,　pressed against your kitchen island,　one fully clothed and the other fully bared.　This is intoxicating.　What you intend as a proud simper is instead on your lips as an overzealous grin,　and,　squishing her cheeks together to press her lips into a pout,　you kiss her.　A gentle tug at her lip piercing.　Every drop of blood in your body has traveled on the mission of coaxing yourself to utmost stiffness.　

Small problems have simple solutions:　the lack of lube at your immediate disposal is easily supplemented with a bit of tender loving care.　Two fingers move in towards her lips,　then,　slow and steady,　bouncing and bobbing in an exaggerated,　demeaning display that culminates in an unceremonious shoving.　You’ve never been one for gracefulness.　Lucky you,　though,　as she seems intent on lending her aid,　lips moving to form and suck at your fingers.　Fucking bitch.　You need relief as soon as feasibly possible,　lest you’re relegated to desperately humping at her through an excess of layers.　How embarrassing that would be,　letting your libido get the best of you.　When you’re satisfied with the saturation,　you withdraw your fingers,　forcibly maneuvering her around to face away from you.

Maybe you are desperate enough to bend Light over your kitchen counter and fuck him.　So what?

You’re a half-step from pushing him forward,　bending him as you please.　A slight bend to your knee grants you easiest access to his hole,　and you prod one finger in first,　easing it in slowly before coupling the second alongside it.　Hopefully you don’t have to waste too much time prepping him like this.　Then again,　god fucking forbid you tear him in half with how urgently you’ll be fucking into him.　Your fingers pump,　in,　out,　in,　out,　your free hand gripping to hold him open.　When you’re satisfied with the preparation　(see here:　when you really,　really can’t hold back anymore),　you pull free,　directing your eyes to his belt on the table’s surface.　Into your hold it goes,　studs reversed inward as you bring the buckle toward the end tip,　forming a loop shape.　You belt him once,　reveling in the loud crack as the leather meets skin,　how it already flames an irritated red at the sight of impact once you set the belt back down.　

❛❛　So cute,　❜❜　you absentmindedly muse,　finally,　finally moving to pry yourself from your own constraints.　You decide to retain the momentum of having Light fully naked with yourself all covered up,　and so you’ve hardly wrestled your pants and boxers down before you’re lining yourself up and finally fucking pushing in.　A groan pours out in excess,　teeth locked in your maw tough enough to delineate it as a growl.　Your breadth pins them against the island,　one hand coming to rest at the back of their neck to keep them down.　No use in starting slow,　not when you know exactly what you want.　

What you want is them,　obviously.　To take them like this,　here,　or on your couch,　or on your bed,　up against the window,　somewhere the two of you run the risk of getting caught　⸻　with them,　you are always either entirely unlike yourself,　or too earnest in your self-adjudication.　You aren’t sure which one is worse.　What you are sure of is how good they feel,　how your other hand slinks around to curl onto their hip,　gripping as to pull them down onto your cock with every single time you drive yourself in.　

You’re not gay,　Dae-ho.

This shouldn’t feel good.　Not in the way you know damn well the two of you prefer to handle things,　clash of tongues and teeth and fists and blunt nails a constancy you grip onto with bruising force,　like a rope burning your hold.　If you two were anyone else,　it would be a default state of being,　something to fall back on as soon as fingers wander and cotton shirks up and off.　But the two of you are exactly who you are;　annoying individuals,　those who seek solely to get beneath the other’s skin,　to push and prod and pinch and pull until a satisfactory reaction is tugged forth.　And yet…　this isn’t like that.　For now,　with this exact moment which contains the two of you in your bedroom　(like usual),　sweating into your wrinkled gray bedspread　(like usual),　things are to the contrary.　Call it a game of your own,　something you to do to sate the numbing boredom of monotony.　You always love the fight,　complete adulation for where the two of you constantly brawl for the upper hand　⸻　you physical,　her psychological,　a flip and a switch and a complete reversal until it’s you pushed onto your back beneath her taller frame　⸻　but change is a good thing,　too.

It starts with the kissing,　soft press of lips into theirs that verges upon a tentativeness.　Treading foreign waters,　waters that typically thrash and screech and try to drag you under.　It’s just kissing.　(It should feel weirder,　then,　so much gentle emphasis placed on an act otherwise utilized to debase.　It feels good.)　When your mouth is not occupied,　still you say nothing,　biting your tongue after embarrassing yourself one too many times by fumbling over flowery dialogue.　Not now,　not yet.　You do not bite them,　and you are not burdened by any compulsion to dig your teeth into the plump flesh of their bottom lip.　The swelling would suit them,　no doubt.　It’s just kissing,　a quiet whimper into their mouth that you try and recant too late.　Already,　this makes you desperate.　Despite your better judgment,　your hands are gentle,　dragging them forward and up onto your lap,　their legs astride.　Despite your better judgment,　you do not grind your waist up into them.　Restraint is a bitter,　miserable thing,　and still you power through it.　It will all be worth it.　This is what you tell yourself.

You pull back,　studying the features adorning his face.　So cute,　even if it feels like a pain in the ass to admit it at present.　The palm you use to tenderly cradle his face is minute in its movements,　angling just enough to permit you a greater look.　It’s something about his lips,　you think,　trying your best to speak to the feistiest and most aggressive parts of yourself.　The very same parts that would be tugging at his hair and pushing him over to climb on top　/　stilled and deactivated,　for now,　letting foreign part of yourself surface in service of your own little mission.　Sedate in your pace,　simper creeps onto your lips,　leisurely and languid and loving.　Your head tilts up,　bridge of your nose meeting to nuzzle affectionately against his.　Everything is ephemeral,　a temporary bliss you put into the world only to feel it to its fullest.　Gluttony,　or something of the sort.　Something that takes the shape of all your wanting,　typically inhibited inside iron-cast armature.　Movement of your hand leaves your thumb resting against his bottom lip.　You pull it down slowly,　firstly pinning it in place of exaggerated pout before sliding the digit closer to the inside of his mouth,　brushing against bottom teeth.　(Normally it’d be your index and middle finger jabbing in without a second thought,　pressing against tongue to inhibit speech,　coating yourself in saliva that you’d then use to scissor him open.)　Every ministration is something you put forth with utmost deliberation,　careful in what you deign to follow through on.　Your thumb hooks in deeper,　knuckle slid beyond the hold of lips brought together,　and your fingers come to rest at the side of his jaw for stability.　Another tilt to the side,　and you plant another kiss,　hungrier,　against the span of skin.　

❛❛　So pretty,　jagi.　❜❜　The words leave you almost as a coo,　lilting and sacchiferous and so unlike you.　Even the way in which your lids raise and fall is uncharacteristic,　dreamlike quality embedded into all that you carry out,　flutter of lashes accompanying your broad-lipped,　insincere smile.　The reasonable thing to do next is to disrobe,　to lean in and mark another patch of skin rosy with the force of your lips against it before your fingers fiddle with fabric.　Maybe it’s yours,　first,　or maybe hers.　Before you know it,　you’re both bared:　hand snakes up to the small of her back,　and the position shifts,　Light on her back and you on top of her,　skin against skin.　It’s almost peaceful,　the slow in and out of your breathing that picks up only with the dull flame of your desire.　A moment of stagnation leaves only your weight pressing her into the mattress,　a gradual pressure,　closeness different to yanking at her hair and fucking her bent over your couch.　Different,　but certainly not bad.　Gentle fingers at her chin angle her head again,　open canvas for you to decorate as you please.　Everything about you is uncharacteristically gentle.　It’s not a part of yourself you willingly make Light privy to,　perhaps because Light tends to bring out the worst in you.　She doesn’t deserve your tenderness,　and yet you are kind enough to treat her well.

(Then again,　you’re fucked in the head for going about it this way.　Your fingers buzz with that same damn urge,　to slap or hit or choke or do something tactile enough to make you feel alive.　Torturous for the both of you,　then.　At least you hope so　⸻　cognizance leads you toward the understanding that Light is somewhat of a crazy slut.　Loving,　intimate sex has always been entirely off the table.　Walking away with only a few bite marks or bruises feels like too little.　You’re both fucking greedy,　insatiable things,　ruled by lust in one miserable capacity or another.)

Frivolities,　in all of their foreplay-laden glory,　are not your concern.　It would be nice for them to suck you off,　or for you to levy control of their head and fuck their throat until they have no other option than to swallow everything you’re generous enough to deposit within.　Or you could,　no matter how unbecoming you find it,　return the favor,　and wrap your lips around their length until they have no choice but to get weak in the knees for you.　That,　too,　would be nice.　You have a specific goal in mind,　though,　an image so intoxicating that you needed to bring it to actuality the next time the two of you got together.　What a goddamn routine the two of you have made of this.　You like burning the energy,　letting the steam out,　finding an outlet for your aggression that culminates in climax.　Whatever Light gets out of this　(for whatever un-fucking-believeable reason,　you cannot wrap your head around it and never will;　you wonder if the innate humiliation of violence’s receiving end ever occurs to them)　does not concern you.　It works to your benefit,　and you’ve learned not to question what feels good.

One belt strewn diagonally across his hips,　the other thicker and diagonal in the opposite direction.　Who the fuck needs two belts?　You lack any fundamental understanding of his fashion sense,　only finding appreciation for thin,　narrow waist shielded beneath ridiculous patterned tanks.　Still,　you do away with all that seek to keep you out,　ridding them onto the floor below in unceremonious pile.　Then it’s your fingers at his stupid fucking jean clasp,　and you cannot for the life of you see why he would find them enjoyable to wear in any capacity.　The notion of putting that much effort into your external aesthetics unnerves you.　It’s something inherently unmasculine,　the queer preening of a peacock you deliberately avoid.　Zip goes down too,　tantalizingly slow,　and you shuffle the denim down his frame.　Your pants can go,　too.　Far less flamboyant by comparison,　stiff black cargos with enough give to permit your grinding and fluidity.　Gone,　just like that,　abandoned into that same heap on the floor,　something to pluck free piece by piece once the haywire pulsing of lust finally settles down.　

Trace of your fingertips at the black lace of her waistband,　and you prod just beneath it,　just enough to dip your fingers in.　Your attention is elsewhere,　back up to her lips,　kissing her softly　/　you’re so fucking annoying,　you’ve decided,　already bestowing onto yourself far more credit than you truly deserve.　You kiss her until you feel yourself kickstart into overdrive,　until your cock pleads against tartan boxers and you’re forced to ignore it,　just a little while longer.　You keep kissing her,　then,　devoid of teeth and even of tongue.　Kissing her only like something adored.　Something.

Another chaste kiss against their throat before you tug the underwear down,　finding more amusement in its embellishment than you ever would otherwise　⸻　oft too caught up in the frantic nature of your desire　⸻　and then you follow suit with your own,　springing to life once fabric fettering has been laid to waste.　But you have to be patient.　You are not stooping to the desperate measures of their spit or yours gathered in the palm of your hand.　Weight leans over the edge of your bed,　arm outstretched towards your bottom bedside drawer.　Inside is the bottle of lube you seek,　and you squeeze a dollop into your hand,　smirk adorning your features once you’ve resumed your position atop them,　looking down onto them.　It’s what feels most natural,　what makes your chest glow most vibrant with pride.　Free hand spreads their legs apart,　forging space for yourself that you’d like to think you’ve rightfully earned.

You coat your fingers,　shoulders shifting back slightly while you acclimate to the cold temperature,　and you bring the rest on your fingerpad to spread onto his hole,　generous in your application.　Index finger prods in,　slow and steady,　exercising a modicum of restraint.　Withdrawn without much fanfare,　and you apply more to both index and middle finger.　Gentle prod transitions into slow maneuvering of your digits inside.　Every moment a specific decision,　attentive enough to coax him open for you.

Another spurt of clear jelly into your palm delineates where it will subsequently be stroked onto yourself with a few quick jerks.　Absolutely no use in skimping　/　you are not brutish enough to covet Light’s discomfort.　Not right now.　When you find satisfaction with your handiwork,　you shove the tube back onto your bedside table.　You’ve always wondered about the difference between fucking and making love.　So much of intimacy is violence,　encoded even into the language.　You don’t think a distinction can be drawn,　not for someone like you.　(This language,　too,　comes with heavy scorn.　You are not happy with yourself and you never have been,　and that’s what makes this fun.)　Doesn’t mean you can’t try,　though.　You can do gentle.　You have tried to be gentle.　

Chewing at the skin on the inside of your teeth,　dentition grinding the matter down to nothingness,　you line yourself up,　about to push in.　Flit of your gaze to their countenance,　surveying for something you haven’t decided.　You want to drive them insane.　You want them to adore this and to savor it.　You want them to hate you and love it.　You want them to love it.　You want to be loved by something,　and this doesn’t make it any easier.　Another breath drawn in,　and you push,　gently working yourself in.　A hand hooks beneath where their knee bends,　allowing you to move them with more ease,　pliant like a doll.　Slow,　for now,　a near-inconsequential pace of your hips that sinks deeper into them until you bottom out.　Your head drops down,　drooping hair shielding your face.　It’s blissful.　You want to hate them and love this.　You want to ███████████.　

❛❛　You feel so good.　D’you want me to go harder?　❜❜　You only ask because you have no intention of following through:　what cements this is how your hand resumes familiar position,　dipping between her lips,　tracing at the tip of her tongue.　As if you were capable of making good on what you ask,　you shift,　dragging yourself out before fucking back in,　agonizingly slow.　❛❛　Mmm…　I dunno.　You just feel so good like this.　And so pretty underneath me.　❜❜　Gradually,　you ease into adoring pace,　filling her with every inch of yourself,　prying fingers holding her close.　Adjusting her,　inch by inch,　waist lifted up and supported by the angle of your frame until you’re folding her in half.　Hitting deeper and deeper,　leaning over her until you’re able to bring your lips back against hers.

This time,　you allow the heightened desperation,　kissing him with almost as much passion as any other day.　Hard.　Pressing him into the mattress.　He feels like heaven.　❛❛　Taking it so well,　too.　❜❜　All these nothings you purr might as well be coming from a completely different person.　They do not reflect you,　they do not resemble you.　They are words you say with as much gusto as you can fathom.　You believe them,　but…　something’s missing.　That must be it.　You aren’t sure if can touch anyone without hurting them,　and today is not the day you find out;　it will always be your first reference,　the recurrent reel catching on the same two frames as it plays in the back of your mind.　Hurting is all you know how to do,　and all you’ve been raised to do.

Large hand shifts down,　overwhelming the column of their neck.　You put pressure,　squeezing your fingers at the sides and pressing down on the larynx.　Slow.　Always slow.　There is no adrenaline-laden pleasure to be found here,　only the slow limiting of their air intake until you are completely satisfied with your supremacy above them.　Not yet,　not yet.　For once in your life,　you take your time with something,　watching their expression contort below you.　A sharp drive in of your hips.　You want them to feel good.　You want them to resent you.　When saturation suffuses through their cheeks,　perhaps from a bout of panic　⸻　fuck,　do you hope it’s panic;　Light is ever shifting enigma to you,　and so you cannot lay down this knowledge with complete certainty,　but that’s what makes it exciting,　too　⸻　you let up.　(Maybe you’d be capable of it.　Wrapping hands around their neck until you strangle.　Watching them go blue from the damage.　The apple never falls far from the tree.　In the short distance it travels,　it will always rot.)　

❛❛　I’ll do it.　❜❜　Your voice is a whisper,　inkling of a promise jammed between your lips:　you don’t ever want her to forget this little fact,　to lose sight of it and forget exactly what you’re capable of.　You figure she enjoys the thrill,　or at least part of it,　and otherwise she’d stop coming around.　And you,　pitiful man that you are,　need to feel certain that you could do it,　that you are not at odds with the violence that raised you.　You are it and it is you.　❛❛　Promise you I could,　jagi.　❜❜

Pace still leisurely,　you fold him further in on himself,　forcing his thighs back against his abdomen so you can fuck into him even deeper.　You’re almost getting bored with this,　even with how you cage in his throat beneath your palm,　the threat of further choking looming and impermanent.　Perhaps most odd of all,　you do your best to keep quiet,　restrict every wanton moan and utterance that would otherwise drool beyond your lips.　You don’t think he deserves it,　not now;　maybe you want to appreciate exactly how well you can fuck him,　how well you can fuck each other,　how maybe,　just maybe,　you want to feel special to him.

He’s so fucking pretty.　You don’t want to admit it,　but you know it to be true;　a thought process,　grown on you like the sickly roseate of a rash.　Every time the two of you fall into this obnoxious routine,　you think it.　It’s a desire to touch his face,　to caress along the slope of his cheeks with your thumb pad,　or dig your fingertips into the follows to guide his head like a toy.　And god fucking forbid,　that shit makes your heart flutter.　For awhile,　you weren’t sure if it was still functioning,　a broken clock correct only when striking the subject of Jun-hee.　With Light,　there’s much more ambiguity.　That’s frustrating.　The circumstances here would be much more palatable without it.　Easier to cope with the atrocities,　easier to cope with the wail of gunfire that eats away at you.　He makes it all…　messy.

He looks up to you,　wide-eyed,　terrified.　You love it.　Really,　you weren’t sure if you were capable of loving anything.　A heart that does not tick,　that does not serve your interests with tenderness and affection.　Goddamn visage of his is irrefutable evidence of the contrary.　You savor every minute of it,　downright staring　/　fuck,　what is he thinking?　Maybe he figures you’ll really do it this time,　that this is a game there could only ever be one winner of.　It’s all thanks to how the barrel of your pistol pushes past her already swollen lips,　prodding and prodding and prodding　⸻　you want to force it in deeper.　No need to be trigger happy,　not with the beautiful scene you’ve established.

Having her kneel before you,　undamaged face level with your cock already stiff through your boxers.　Amusing thought that it is not,　for once,　the source of your exhilaration.　That,　of course,　would be the gun you jam into her mouth,　a mandated inspection of the orifice.　Making her suck on it.　Enjoying it almost as much as you would the real thing.　One hand is steady upon the grip,　the other finding purchase at the back of her head,　digits stroking through her hair in an exaggerated,　palliative gesture;　you’re ready for potential resistance,　no more and no less.

Your lips pull into wicked simper,　artificial buck of your hips to accompany another shove inside.　There is stagnation,　then,　the hold of her teeth coming only to ruin your fun.　An eyebrow cocks up,　head angled askew as you question,　briefly,　how best to nag for sympathy.　There’s always another road.　❛❛　Hey,　don’t get any teeth marks in this one,　bitch.　I’ll blow your fucking face off.　I　—　I will.　❜❜　The more you try and flesh out your argument,　the weaker it becomes,　a faltering of your conviction.　Whatever.　Reeling back of your eyebrow prides the implement free enough,　with a tap against her bottom lip like it was you,　half-slick with precum and saliva,　awaiting reentry.　❛❛　Come ooooon,　❜❜　you petulantly whine,　❛❛　Open.　Wider.　❜❜

When they heed your command,　the gun slides back in.　Deeper this time,　without barricade of pesky dentition to keep you out.　The metal settles back into that confined space,　wet heat mingling against frigid steel.　Those eyes of theirs are irresistible,　and you would be a fucking fool to waste a single moment of this,　all eye contact binding the two of you to your innate depravity.　Deeper.　You want them to take it deeper,　and you want to watch them struggle and gag on the intrusion　/　you want to cherish the swelling of your cock at the sight of tears pooling in their eyes,　knowing it’s all thanks to you.　And,　when you’ve satisfied yourself of merely holding the gun in place,　you interweave motion,　dragging it in,　out,　in,　out.　Slow,　at first.　A leisure they could acclimate to.　It’s never enough,　though.

You tut,　tongue snapping down from the roof of your mouth.　❛❛　Head back.　❜❜　Sigh of annoyance you heave is indicator enough that the onus falls onto you,　and you take an impatient fistful of hair to anchor you in dragging the back of their head down,　chin now pointed up.　And,　with so much fucking love,　you ram the barrel in further.　The glimmer of tears on their lash line rewards you with very sight you have thus far fought so hard to witness,　and it makes you throb beneath restrictive fabric.　Fuuuuuuuuuck.　Because you cannot resist the temptation,　❛❛　So pretty when you can’t talk,　you know that?　I like you so　—　so much fucking better.　❜❜

(That,　like half the bullshit you spew,　isn’t exactly true.　You’d be bored out of your skull without the pushback or the struggle to rightfully come out on top.　That’s what feels so good,　too,　putting them in their fucking place.　You feel powerful right now,　and you desperately need to savor it,　a world away from your relative powerlessness.　Desire has a real shape.　Strangely enough,　the urge to pull the trigger doesn’t cross you.　Nor does any heavy-handed compulsion to impishly toy with it　—　somehow,　it would desecrate the moment,　and you’d really hate for that to happen.　This is your leisure time,　lapse in your stint of putting bullets through the head of every traitor.　That’s all Light is:　a toy for you to play with,　something to be discarded and done away with when it no longer provides you any value.)

Simple man with simple desires.　You can’t take it anymore.　Your aching cock begs to be freed,　begs for a touch,　contact,　something,　anything;　hand at the back of his head drops down,　releasing your unkind grip at his hair.　Then,　with shift of your midsection to aid your one-handedness,　your boxers tug down.　A smirk.　Kindly,　you withdraw from him,　presenting your flat,　open palm just below his chin.　❛❛　Spit,　❜❜　you insist.　It grows glaringly apparent that any voyage beyond your terse jurisdiction would render you blubbering like a goddamn idiot,　so you don’t.　Not worth undermining your authority.　Light still obeys,　naturally,　and you have a hunch it’s because of sheer terror cast in his gaze.　You really,　really love it.

Your slather his spit up and down yourself,　tingling sensation pulling at the center of your spine.　Fingers curl around,　stroking and seeking that friction.　Selfish beast you are,　it’s not enough　⸻　he can service you much better than that.　This time,　it’s your tip that prods at his lips,　impatiently waiting when you can push inside.　Open,　Light.　You stare down to him,　countenance as cold and unforgiving as you can manage.　In you go,　coaxed into the cavern of his mouth;　drawn out sigh of relief delineates your temporary respite.　Grip of your hand back to thread into his hair,　again controlling him like a toy　—　your favorite toy　—　in how you demand access to his throat.

❛❛　Fuck　—　at least you’re good for something,　❜❜　sputtered among the labour of your breathing,　every bout of air taken in a struggle compared to the depth of your pleasure.　You can’t get ahead of yourself,　though,　and you press the barrel into the center of his forehead,　kiss of indentation forming gradually.　Just to ensure he doesn’t lose focus.　That’s all.　Or it’s a surprise for when you buck your hips,　rocking deeper into that tight space.　Pretty,　pretty,　pretty.　You trace the muzzle along his skin,　pinning loose strands back where they had obfuscated his gaze prior.　Your eyes connect,　wholly and truly,　enraptured by the proximity and the pleasure and everything.

It disturbs you,　really.　All this brutality is a learned behavior,　and you aren’t sure what to do about it.

The plight in her finding value for nil beyond lips stretched around your cock is that it feels so goddamn good,　so good to where you already feel yourself inching nearer and nearer to inevitable climax.　No matter how you attempt to pace or still yourself,　slowing the pace at which you damn near grind your hips into her face with how far you thrust yourself down her throat　/　closer,　closer,　closer.　It’s despicable,　unraveling like a ball of yarn wound too tight,　coming apart thanks to Light and her stupid fucking goddamn eyes.　(What ignites your ire worst is that you truly have no idea what she’s thinking:　the easy thing to do is write it off as fear,　that she looks to you with bulging eyes only because she’s afraid.　The truth is far murkier,　tangled all within the effervescence of hers that pisses you off so badly.　Maybe it doesn’t bother her.　Maybe she even finds it exciting.　Sheer ideation of that almost compels you to nudge at the trigger,　really give her something to be scared of.　Evidently,　you don’t.)

Pinch of your teeth restricts the airflow through your mouth,　a sharp hiss emitted as you tear them off of you.　In your place,　the pistol returns,　jammed haphazardly first against their lips and then their teeth as you rush in feeble attempt to force it in.　Nothing’s going to ruin your fun.　Nothing.　Your brow creases in how tightly it furrows,　ensuring you hold direct line of site with little Light beneath you,　bottom lip shifting and quivering as you try and steer yourself away from the edge.　Just a little while longer,　that’s all you need.　Fucking hell,　the whole gun thing is overblown,　isn’t it?　This one for shooting,　this one for fun.　It’s perverse and egregious,　and yet you can’t help how it now amuses you.

All your hands have done is move,　to their head,　in their hair,　around yourself,　their head again,　rinse repeat until you’ve exhausted yourself of the monotony.　For the final act in your grand performance,　you bring fingers to curl around your shaft,　grip a little too tight and pace at which you jerk yourself a little too needy.　The gun pushes in deeper,　until roadblock of trigger guard cuts things short.　You angle it however you must to push deeper,　just a little more,　stretch their lips even more taut with the breadth of the firearm.　You,　yourself,　are something entirely pitiful,　borderline whimpering to yourself as you try and settle back towards your climax,　cacophony of whines and gasps and grunts,　touch touch touch touch touch touch touch touch⸻

❛❛　Fuck.　❜❜　Spoken gruffly,　with your eyelids clamped down in focus.　Despite your better judgment,　you force them back open,　speeding up your already frantic pace until you’re shooting thick ropes of cum onto their face,　aimed with as much precision you can muster.　You couldn’t waste any of it,　after all.　This is mere embellishment to reward their hard work.　Damn shame that they’re absolutely coated,　strewn across their forehead,　cheeks,　brow line,　swollen lips still formed around the barrel.　You stifle a chuckle,　dragging your gun out for the final time,　raising it up to your face for inspection.　Teeth marks,　obviously,　but that’s the appeal.　They’ll be with you on it every time you shoot someone,　and it’s unclear if you’re meant to find that fact a comfort or a nightmare.　They’ve burrowed in like a parasite,　as gun powder needs a war.

The gun is done away with,　placed gently onto shitty carpeting below to evade inadvertent discharge;　it’s damn irresponsible of you,　isn’t it?　Going through with it fully loaded.　Toying with the magazine well like it could heighten the sensation.　It all worked out in the end.　You squat down,　then,　leveling yourself to Light.　Inspecting all your finishing touches upon their face.　It really suits them,　and something sickening within you glows with radiant pride.　Large palm crowds their face,　angling it as you please,　up,　down,　to the side.　You sweep to wipe a dollop off their cheek,　flicking it off without much thought.　Then,　as the most natural response to come,　you lean in and join your lips to theirs.　Trying not to flinch at the taste of yourself that seeps in,　invades your tongue,　strange and salty and entirely foreign.　You kiss them harder,　hungry for something you just can’t name.

When you pull away,　irritation has staked its claim onto your own face.　Slight flare of your nostrils in tandem with unremarkable glower.　Nothing anyone should ever take seriously,　not with your licentious track record.　You’d let them get away with anything so long as they touched you.