Azelfty

"I'm getting old," The first man said, eyes glowing neon magenta as he manifested a sickle and chain, spray painted with flashes of vibrant artistry. "But they're gonna need a lot more than that."

A little more graceful, a little more collected, the second man emerged a spear, long golden handle and shining silver tip in that same glowing magenta light. "There's more. Irene's boy is here too." His voice wavered.

"Irene's boy? I thought— I liked him."

"Well, when you're on top," he concluded, fear in his voice gone. Or hidden, at least. The pair looked around in the hall, nearly devoid of light as their eyes flicked to the dark figures waiting in the shadows. "That's not it. Even 4th and 5th gens. Too many to name. They're trying to tip the balance."

The first man rolled his shoulder, loosening it. "You scared?"

"No. We're Twice's boys."

The first man chuckled softly. "The girls, where are they? They performing?"

"Yeah. They'll be fine."

The dark figures surrounding them too briefly flashed with light, some purple, some pink, too many to count.

"The rest are on their way?"

"I think it's too late for that." The pair shared one last aching look at each other. "It was an honour."

The first man nodded, before loosing his chain and sickle.

---

Later that night, as the lights shined down upon Twice as they sang and danced, somewhere far away from Korea, a pang in Mina and Chaeyoung's heart shook them to their core. Still they smiled. Still, the crowds screamed their names.

In any case, they weren't the only one's who lost champions that night, courtesy of a spear, a chain and a sickle.

"Something happened on that stage, I'm telling you!" You yelled.

"What are you on about?" Your friend asked as you left the arena. "The girls were perfect."

"I never said they weren't perfect. I said that something happened! It was right at the start of BDZ. Mina and Chaeyoung shared a look! I swear!"

Your friend rolled his eyes. "They shared a look? Oh no! What ever could that mean! You mean to tell me two people performing on the same stage shared a look? It must be code red!" he mocked.

"It wasn't like tha—"

"I think this concert is getting to your head. Listen, I know you're the self-proclaimed 'number 1 Chaeyoung stan in the world', but don't you think you're reading into things? Hell, I'm a Chaeyoung stan too."

"Maybe— maybe you're right," you sighed.

"Hey, it was a great concert. I get it. Post concert tacos?" he asked.

You let the memory wash away from your head. That pained look in their faces. First Mina's, then Chaeyoung's. Then a look between them. And you could've sworn the whole group danced just a little more tense after it.

Maybe your friend was right. Maybe you were too deep into this. It was a great show.

"Hey, look at this," your friend said in line for tacos. The crowds had thinned out, most taking the first couple trains out, or otherwise finding restaurants to dine at.

"What is it?" you asked, grabbing his phone.

"Something about Shuhua. She collapsed during a show tonight. Hope she's alright. Anyway, did you see Nayeon? She was so perfect. I think— now don't kill me— I think she's my bias wrecker after this. What about you? Anyone challenge the hold Chaeyoung has on your heart?"

"Never."

Post concert depression was a real thing, you concluded. After highlighting the entire set list for the 6th time over a 4th order of tacos, discussing all the little details you two could remember, you finally decided to call it quits and head home.

Still, you couldn't shake the feeling that something happened during the concert. Now back at home, you analyzed the videos you took, but clearly, you weren't the best photographer (recording while singing your heart out is pretty hard). Hopefully fancams were out from tonight.

You sat at your computer desk, scouring the internet for fancams, so lost in it you didn't even notice the footsteps outside of your room, or the soft creak of your door.

Nice, at least 3 different angles of the BDZ performance. None of Chaeyoung yet, but you had Mina's. And Chaeyoung was in the background of the Jihyo fancam.

Nothing, maybe you were wrong? Maybe it was just your— no there. A slight pang, barely noticeable, as if out of nowhere. Not during a straining dance move or anything, but Chaeyoung's face screwed up in pain, and God it hurt you to see. Like, physically, which was kind of weird.

Bang

The noise rung out with such power your ears popped. You wouldn't have even noticed the windows to your balcony shatter if its glass hadn't scattered onto your floor.

Another bang.

You turned to your balcony, and a man in heavy mercenary gear stood there, poised and ready, dual pistols trained at you.

Not you, you realized, as the bullet whizzed behind you.

It clattered with a blade, so pale it looked like moonlight. It's holder stumbled back as the force ricocheted his swing.

Your first instinct was to run, but as you went to make your escape, the sharp shards of glass dug into your feet.

Still, whatever the hell was happening here, in your room for god knows what reason, you had to get out.

You ignored the sounds of battle behind you, ignored the screaming pain in your feet, and made for your bedroom door.

It flung open before you even reached a hand to it, and another entered. Ice blue clothes with a bow, already strewn. His eyes found yours.

The mercenary slammed into the bow carrier, knocking him down, before turning to you.

"Let's go!" he said, grabbing you with a rough hand, lifting you to your feet.

All you could do was scream as he dragged you to your balcony, kicking the sword carrier who lay already sprawled out on the floor, no sword to be found.

"L-let go!" you yelled, squirming in the mercenaries hand.

"H-hey! Calm down!" he yelled.

"What the f— let— me— go!" you struggled.

He sighed as you wrestled with the single arm hoisting you up by your shirt. "Sorry about this." He pressed the finger of his free hand to his ear. "I'm knocking him out."

"L-like hell you are! I know kara—"

With glowing magenta light, a gun manifested in his hand, and it's butt met your nose giving way to blackness.

Then light. Blurry, woozy, but light.

You shook, but restraints held you in place.

So, you started to scream again, because what else would you do?

"Hey, hey!" a voice rang. The same one that kidnapped you.

"What the fuck is happening! Where am I?"

"I can't believe you all left me to deal with this," he said to god knows who, voice grizzled. Now that you got a good look at him, he looked like he sounded. Battle hardened, stern. "Hey, just calm down. You like Chaeyoung, right?"

The question took you off guard, so much so you actually stopped screaming. "Ch— what the hell does that have to do with anything?"

He knelt down, hands open in front of him to signal 'I mean no harm'. "Everything." He slowly untied the rope around you. "Hey, Chaeyoung's boy. I like Momo."

You sat there incredulously. "You kidnapped me!"

"You're welcome."

"You're welcome!?"

"For saving your life."

You remembered the two intruders in your house, the way this man's bullet ricocheted a sword that looked like it was headed your way, the way he slammed the bow-wielder before they could sling an arrow into you.

"Can you just— tell me what's going on?"

He sighed, body losing it's tension. "You're—"

"Goof," a voice rung out from a walkie-talkie laid on a table nearby. "Not yet."

"What do you mean 'not yet'? You can't just keep me here!"

"You want to leave this safe house? Deal with those two again?" Goof (or, yeah you thought his name was Goof, which didn't match him at all) asked.

"N-no."

"Let me handle them," Goof said into the walkie-talkie. "Send someone else here for the kid. I can take them."

"We don't even know what's going on. Plus, we're not even there yet. You were the closest one," a voice, different than the first said.

"What, you think I can't handle Aespa's champions? I'm Momo's boy for God's sakes!"

"You only won because of the concert tonight. Karina's boy is dangerous. He felled a whole hate page in a night. Saesang's hate to see him coming."

"Tch, lucky. And now they're coming after us? Was Karina's boy there? Was he there when Art— Swan— was he there when they were killed?"

"We don't know."

Something wasn't adding up. This had to be some sort of sick joke. What it sounded like was you were kidnapped because you liked Chaeyoung, which didn't make sense at all. And apparently this guy hated Karina? I mean yeah, you liked Chaeyoung, but you liked Aespa as well! God, you were used to weird Kpop fans, but taking things to this level? It was all too much of a joke.

"I'm going after them."

"No! You still have the newbie!"

"He'll be fine," Goof said, clicking the switch of the walkie-talkie, silencing it. "You ready?"

"Wha-no!"

"Look, I know you haven't met her yet, but just think about her. Think about Chaeyoung, and you'll be fine."

"Wait— what your saying is… I'm gonna meet Chaeyoung?"

"You really are a champion," Goof said, smirking. He picked you up, again by the shirt. As if you weighed nothing, and ran, kicking the door open.

Seemed you were on a roof, the night lit up with the light of the moon. He plopped you on your own two feet. "Follow me."

You could've ran away, really, but you had no idea where you were. And, yeah it was probably a joke, but he did say something about meeting Chaeyoung. You couldn't just pass on that.

Your mood kind of changed when Goof ran across the roof, jumping a whole 15 feet to the next.

"Cmon," he yelled, waving casually for you to follow.

Okay okay, yeah this is all probably some joke. And yet, you did see glowing moon blades, and pistols manifest out of thin air. Not to mention Goof, jumping 15 feet.

Okay no, that didn't mean you were going to jump 15 feet to another roof.

A crystal blue arrow split the night sky, so fast you barely noticed it. The whole rooftop went cold.

A familiar bang sounded, bullet breaking the arrow and restoring the warmth of the summer night, but a quick look behind you and, even from this distance, you could see a pale moonlight blade shine white as its holder hopped from roof to roof.

"Fuck! Run!" Goof called.

Your feet started towards the edge of the roof without even thinking.

"Think of Chaeyoung!"

So you did— you thought of the first time you laid eyes on her, on a little mobile screen as 'Fancy' played, you thought of the first time you saw her in concert, of her smile, of that little mole on her face— and you jumped.

Your feet did not find purchase as gravity carried you lower. You opened your eyes, screaming as the ground grew closer.

Again, Goof's hand closed around your shirt as he jumped in after you. He wrapped his arm around you, spinning to orient the both of you.

"Nngh," he groaned as he landed in the empty alleyway.

You still screamed as he put you down.

"Do you ever stop screaming?"

"I knew it! I fucking knew it! This is all some sick joke! We should've stayed in that safe—"

Goof pushed you out of the way as an arrow whizzed past you. You ran to the wall, placing your back against it as the same man in ice blue clothing landed in the alley.

"Shit—" Goof started, before firing another bullet to intercept the arrow fired in your direction.

"Who— is that?" you asked, backing away slowly. Goof angled himself in front of you, but both him and the bow-wielder stepped slow, weighing each other out.

"Winte— Frost. Used to be a friend," he said quietly. "Hey Frost! Mind telling me what the fuck is going on?"

Frost lifted his hood, revealing pale white hair and vivid blue eyes. "Tipping the scales," he said.

"A lot of that going around. You didn't happen to be there when Art and Swan were killed, did you?"

"I had nothing to do with the Chaeyoung or Mina boys fall. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Goof lowered his guns, just by a bit. "But you must know why. Why? What did we do!?" He gritted his teeth, voice pleading, desperate.

"It's not what you did, it's what you have. All of you."

"What we—"

Frost loosed an arrow at him.

"Jesus, Frost," Goof said, shooting the arrow down. "I'll defend myself if I have to," he continued, and it wasn't a wall, wasn't a barrier, but a threat.

A crash from the other side of the alley signaled another. Not the moonlight blade carrier, but someone maybe just as terrifying.

A huge sword, as tall as you and a foot wide landed with him. Jade green outlines with ornate carvings making a beautiful dragon, the new person heaved its tip in your direction. "You're gonna have to," he said.

Glowing magenta light, and Goof's guns were back in his hands. Everyone moved with precision, practiced and powerful, and if you weren't glued to the wall in fear, you're sure even had you chanced to run, you would've been slashed down anyway. Goof's guns shot bullet after bullet, taking down arrows headed your direction, all while he flipped and ducked out of the way of the giant sword.

He was like an acrobat, finding angles to dodge you couldn't believe possible, before closing in with a strike to the sword holder, either a kick or a butt with his gun.

Goof worked like a machine, even against the two, whose teamwork looked practiced. Every now and then, an arrow would launch at Goof, and when he inevitably dodged it, the massive sword would propel the arrow back in his direction.

All while protecting you. You felt stupid to question him, but then again, what were you supposed to have done?

An opening? Maybe not the fault of the sword-wielder, but one forced open by Goof's expertise. Now, with a direct line of sight Goof's bullet pierced the swordsman's hand.

He dropped his sword, but in creating that opening, Goof's attention left you. Frost capitalized on it, hopping the distance between you two, gliding towards you like on ice.

Your hands flew up to defend yourself, but Frost launched a punch to your gut and your body went limp.

A bullet went straight for his head, but as if swatting away a fly, Frost brought his crystal blue bow up to deflect it.

Goof rushed him, stepping over the floored swordsman.

"You're not taking another fucking champion tonight!" he yelled in a fit of rage. Frost brought his bow up to block the dual pistol-whips trained for his head, but as the guns bounced, Goof brought a leg up, kicking him with force.

The blow was so hard, the brick wall around Frost's body shattered.

"I don't want to do this," Goof said, holding the gun to his head. "Just tell me what's going on!"

"It's… happening… you're not the only ones…"

"What's happening? We're not— who else!?"

"The great… song. Art and Swan, they died because they had to—"

Bang

Your eyes widened as the bullet entered his head, skull caving in around the entrance with a spray of blood.

"Shi—" was all you managed, before you heaved onto the pavement. You collapsed, still emptying your dinner. "Y-you killed him!"

"He was trying to kill us. He mocked them."

"T-this isn't a fucking joke anymore. That— that guy is dead! Blarghh" you heaved again.

A blood curdling scream pierced the air, and from above, a slash as white as moonlight streaked towards the two of you.

In your heaves, you had fallen to your knees, but Goof wasn't so lucky. The slash hit him in the chest, spraying another gush of blood into the alley.

He fell against the wall. "It's R-Rina's boy. Run!" he managed, but the moonblade wielder landed in the alley. His jawline was screwed up in anger, but even so, it was sharp. Maybe even sharper than the sword he brandished.

Goof struggled to stand, and his guns flashed in and out of corporeality.

You'd seen what Goof could do, seen how skilled he was, but as Karina's boy stood in front of you, you understood there was no way he could do anything in this state. His aura alone could make you cower. It was a miracle you didn't notice it in your room.

Gauntlets blazing like the Sun trailed from above, as a punch aimed at the moonlight wielder was deflected by his blade. Yet another had entered the battle.

"Take him and run!" the gauntlet wielder yelled.

"They— they said we weren't the only—" Goof stuttered

"Run!" the gauntlet wielder yelled again as his fists collided with the moonblade

Goof grabbed you, dragging you out.

The sounds of fighting rattled in your head. It sounded fierce— the other swordsman had probably awoken. In Goof's injuries, he stumbled.

"G-Goof! You're gonna need to, fuck Goof!" you yelled, but his eyes went unfocused as he coughed blood, collapsing with his arm around you. "Just stay with me."

"4…87 Tavern Lane…" he said, before collapsing unconscious.

"Go!!" a voice, bright yet commanding rang behind you.

Getting Goof to the address wasn't easy. How did it look for you to be dragging an unconscious bleeding man 12 blocks? It wasn't even downtown proper anymore by the time you got to the address. Still, you managed to get him there without too much trouble.

Looked like an abandoned garage, spray painted and caked with layers of dirt. A door at the side of the building sat unlocked, and upon entering, a cozy lounge welcomed you. Velvet carpets, plenty of space, workbenches, and soft couches.

You dragged him to one of the couches, laying him down. He was pale white, the scar on his chest stretching its whole length.

You collapsed too, huffs of air signaling your exhaustion.

You should've been helping Goof. Okay, look around here. There must be some bandage here. You got up, fighting through aching muscles to look around.

Still, you took nothing in as you searched. The events of the night kept replaying, how you got broken into. How Goof had kidnapped you. How he had killed someone. Right in front of you. The memory kept replaying over in over in your head. How the archer's eyes popped out of his head as the bullet entered his skull.

You dry-heaved again. But you knew one thing— this wasn't a joke anymore. Whatever this was, whatever was going on, it was real, and it was dangerous.

Seriously, no first aid kits here in this mercenaries hideout? Seemed like poor foresight.

So what now? Did you just, stay here? You couldn't in good consciousness leave, right? Not with Goof here, bleeding out.

On one of the other couches, you found a comfy looking blanket. Maybe you could make a tourniquet with it? Not that you knew how, but well, might as well try.

Approaching Goof revealed something odd— his wound looked better. Almost smaller. What the fuck was he? A superhuman? Shouldn't be surprised, really. He could manifest guns out of thin air.

A creak of the door jerked your attention as you wrapped the blanket awkwardly around Goof.

Fuck. Did they find you? You grabbed something, anything to defend yourself.

It slowly opened.

"Stay back! I—I'm armed!" you screamed.

A man collapsed through the door, his fitted black shirt and sweats looking ragged. He hell to his knees, but even battle worn he was handsome. It was as if the Sunlight itself had walked through the door.

"Armed with a pillow?" he chuckled brightly. "Help me up."

You faintly recognized him as the gauntlet wielder. You were drawn to help him, so much so you were sure, even if you hadn't recognized him you would've helped.

"Goof! He's unconscious!" You told him as you rushed to help him up, tossing the pillow aside.

"He'll be fine. Fans are going crazy, especially after that concert tonight." He struggled to his feet, taking you in. "You're… different than expected. Sorry for the chaotic welcome," he smiled.

You helped him stumble to the couch. "What welcome? What is this? What the hell is going on?!"

He paused, eyeing you. Weighing you. "You like Chaeyoung, right?"

You clenched your jaw. "Yes! And Goof likes Momo! What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"Yeah, well, I like Jihyo. I guess, you can call me Cap'n."

"I like Jihyo too! What do Kpop idols have to do with— with all this?"

The pretty boy smiled again, and though you'd never admit it, it calmed you down. "Yeah, well, I like her a lot."

You balled your fists up. You were in no mood for this enigmatism. "Can you just tell me what's going on?"

"Never thought Chaeyoung's boy would be a yeller. Listen," he started standing up, "you're a champion."

"A… champion?"

"You feel it too. You have to. The touch of the soul, the connection, something here," he pointed to your chest, "something in your heart, when you listen to music. Don't you?"

"Yeah, well, doesn't everyone?"

"I should hope so. When do you feel it strongest?"

"When I'm listening to Twice, of course." You said it with confidence. Maybe the only thing you've said with confidence since this whole thing started.

"Be more specific."

"When I— when Chaeyoung is singing."

"Exactly! You're a champion!"

"You still haven't told me what the hell a champion is!"

"We're— you're a manifestation of the spirit of her music. The spirit of her song."

The words hit you like a truck, and the world around you disappeared. As implausible, as crazy as it sounded, you felt it. You've seen it. Still, you needed more. "How can that be true? I'm— I didn't even know who Chaeyoung was until like, 7 years ago!"

"It's more like, I don't know, the spirit of her music has manifested itself in you. I don't know the details."

Okay, so you're Chaeyoung's champion. You sat down on the couch, next to Goof who looked substantially less pale. "And what? Champions just, fight other groups champions? Doesn't feel very 'spirit of the music' does it?"

"No," Cap'n said, disappointed. "This has never happened before. Champions, they defend that spirit of music."

"Defend? Like how?"

"Music, it brings people together, it shares and amplifies positivity and joy, sometimes to the whole world. But with it comes fame, and fame, it's like the opposite. All those akgae's and saesang's you see, that's the shadows of fame trying to infiltrate the spirit of music. Trying to corrupt it. Those haters, they manifest beings. Beings from other worlds that look to take down musicians. Make their music unfit for joy. That's where we come in. To protect them from those spirits."

"Okay, so what you're telling me is some… some spirit has chosen me to be Chaeyoung's champion against the haters?"

"Kinda, yeah."

You felt a depth of gratitude spur from your heart. Chaeyoung's champion. How did that sound. Unbelievable yeah, but from what you saw today— today. Someone died today. Right in front of your eyes. What did this mean for you? That you too would be responsible to fight?

"So… wait. If champions are meant to fight the haters, why are we fighting with other champions?"

"I have no idea. They just… attacked us. Yesterday, everything was fine, and then tonight…"

You paused for a moment. "I assume I'm not Chaeyoung's first champion?"

Cap'n looked down, sorrowful. "Mina and Chaeyoung's champions were killed during the concert."

You leaned back in your seat, taking in the weight of it all. "I… and I'm their next target?"

"We all ar—"

Goof shook awake with a gasp of air, sitting up. "NMIXX! ITZY! Oh God! Cap'n!" he yelled as he jolted back into consciousness, "Frost said there were others! Do you—"

"Calm down," Cap'n said softly. "Goof, calm down."

"They said there were others!" Goof repeated. "We need to check on our dong-saengs!"

"They're fine, Goof. It's not Itzy or NMIXX this is happening to as well." His voice was strained and wary.

"Oh thank God," Goof sighed. His breathing mellowed out as he took in his surroundings. "What the hell happened to you?" he asked, nodding at Cap'ns worn appearance.

"It was Karina's boy. He's so damn strong. If we were in Korea, it'd probably have gone worse."

"You're Jihyo's champion! You don't lose to anyone! We're Twice for God's sake."

"I never said I lost."

"The rest? Are they okay?"

"Timbre and Flow are at the JYP building, Wink and Sha are getting Mina's new champion."

"Those are… the rest of Twice's champions?" You asked.

"Yeah. You caught him up on the whole 'champions' thing?"

Cap'n nodded.

"You'll meet them soon enough."

"You… you said that about Chaeyoung."

Cap'n laughed. "You really are a champion. Don't worry, she's always around."

"Oh, and you'll do more than just meet her. From what I heard from Art, Chaeyoung is quite vorac—"

"Goof."

"Sorry, Cap'n."

A haze of magenta light manifested a small drone no bigger than a house fly between the three of you.

A scrawny voice sounded through it. "Le Sserafim. They're targeting Le Sserafim next."

Goof and Cap'n didn't seem fazed by its sudden appearance. "Le Sserafim? How do you know?"

"I did some digging. Cap'n, they're gonna need help. They're already dealing with the backlash from Boompala."

Cap'n sat there in thought. "Why them?" he pondered out loud.

"Cap, we have to help them! We can't just leave them alone."

"How long 'till they're attacked? Do you know?"

"I think it's happening now."

"We need to help them Cap! Call the girls. Ask their jet!"

"They need it for the tour. No matter what happens, it's not their job to get involved. It's their job to be idols. Think about what we're protecting."

"But they—"

"They'll be fine." Cap'n concluded. "Timbre and Flow can help if they need to."

"We don't even know who's attacking us yet! It could be every champion in Korea"

"They'll be fine. Those Le Sserafim boys survived the Easy era. They're probably more battle hardened us."

Chaewon arched her back as he kissed down her belly. "Holy shit, Sticks, calm down."

Sticks propped her up, sliding his hands down to her ass. "Mmm, but you just taste so good, baby." His lips kissed lower and lower, before reaching her black panties. "I wanna taste more."

"Nngh, fuck, baby," Chaewon moaned, grabbing his hair and stopping him from going further. "D— don't you have a job to do?"

"Oh, because of that damned comeback of yours? You love to keep us working, don't you. Plus, my only job is to take care of you."

"So go deal with those demons like you always do," she purred, stroking his hair.

"I have to take care of this. You're so wet, clearly you need it."

Chaewon lessened her restraint letting Sticks's tongue brush against her wet pussy.

Sticks wrapped his arms around Chaewon's legs so they rested on his shoulder, snaking them around so one of them landed on her belly, caressing it softly. The other hand found her clit, thumb rubbing it softly.

"Nngh— shit. You— you don't do it like this with Zuha, do you?"

He licked harder at the mention.

"You didn't get more turned on from hearing her name, did you?"

"Please," Sticks groaned through licks. "I'm your champion."

"That doesn't answer the question."

"Then maybe this will."' He shifted his hands so they reached her breasts, licking up to her clit.

"Nngh, Sticks!" She moaned as he tongued her while playing with her nipples. "Sticks, shit, I'm gonna cum." Her legs tightened around his face as her wetness coated it.

"Cum for me, baby."

"Nngh!" She groaned, clenching her legs even tighter.

Sticks stayed there, licking as she squirmed around him, before she eventually came down, loosening her hold.

He kissed up her belly, collapsing on her chest, feeling her hands wrap around him.

"I should probably go."

"Or you could stay?"

"Weren't you telling me to go like, 5 minutes ago?"

"Yeah, but you're comfy."

"I can practically smell the fame ghouls from all the way up here. You chose some fucking songs to release, Chae. Haters are going crazy."

"I like the songs."

"I do too baby."

"Liar. Well, can't the other champions handle them right now?"

"The rest of them are still dealing with the all the ghouls celebration brought, so thanks for that. With Boompala, we're going to be busy all damn week. The building is probably swarmed with them right now."

"It's just going to be you tonight?"

"Don't think I can handle it?"

"I know you can it's just— I'd like it more if someone else were with you."

"I'll be fine," Sticks said, leaving the bed with a grunt. "I'll see you tonight?"

"Ugh, fine."

"Are you pouting?"

"Yeah," she said, fighting back a smile. "Is it working?"

"Almost."

"I'm kidding, go. Be careful."

He propped himself up, hovering over her. "When am I not?"

Sticks stood at the edge of the roof, looking at the skyline of Seoul. He'd come up here at night sometimes, when Chaewon was on tour. The city lights seemed sharper, more beautiful. If he listened close enough, he could hear it. The city singing.

Especially at this time of night, when all of the chaos subsided. The people of Seoul sleeping, it created its own song. That's why he loved Chaewon, she had this knack, this ability to take the songs of the world and turn them into something palpable. Into art. But today, like the last couple of days, was far from unchaotic.

Though, even the ghostly purple glow of the fame ghouls, who stormed the building en masse, filling the streets below looked pretty. At least, they did now that he was used to them.

Even the breeze was nice, the howl of the wind was music in its own right. It helped calm him, remind him why he fought. His eyes glowed fearless blue as he manifested an odd sort of weapon, but one that fit his relationship with Chaewon perfectly. A pair of nunchaku dangled from his right hand.

He closed his eyes, let the rhythm of the night dictate his next move.

He could hear the battle below, creating its own song— discordious, but beneath it, hidden right under the surface, something beautiful.

Eyes still closed, he let himself fall, let the wind around him rush as he climbed lower and lower towards that discourse.

Then, the song rang its loudest. He opened his eyes, swinging his nunchaku around as he oriented himself, landing. The purple mist around him faded as the fame ghouls he struck were released from this world.

There was more tonight. More than usual. He swung his weapon around him, releasing ghoul after ghoul.

If he wanted to, he could've felled the ghouls faster— the spirit of Chaewon's song was strong, but Sticks liked this. The slowness of it all. Watching the ghouls release with swing after swing; it was peaceful, cathartic.

He could spend hours out here. At times he'd close his eyes, let his ears do the work.

Like most nights, the sound was wrong, but in the middle of it all, a song so harmonious and beautiful pierced through everything. Bright and beautiful, the song filled his mind, giving him joy. He knew this song well.

Sticks opened his eyes, the street now a haze of mist as every single ghoul rose from this plane of existence.

Atop the HYBE building stood another champion, long red whip flowing, cutting the night sky in two.

Sticks smiled. He'd worked with her before. "Been a while, Luck!"

Luck stood there, her own hair flowing like her whip.

"Everything okay?"

Even from down here, Sticks could see the look on the face of Wonyoung's champion. Usually happy and smiling, it was different. A somber sort of expression, maybe even angry.

Like lightning, the whip cracked towards Sticks, circling around him and burning like passion.

"L-Luck? If you wanted to spar again, you could've just asked!"

In an instant, Luck pulled herself towards the nunchaku holder, landing beside him with a crash.

"I'm sorry for this. Really," Luck said, voice low. She gripped the handle of her whip, pulling tight. The rope constricted around him.

"Luck, what the fuc—" Sticks started, before his lungs too were squeezed.

Luck's long dark hair shrouded her face. He could barely make out her expression. "The one true song is coming.

----

A/N:

I think if someone were to ask me to recommend them one thing by me to read, it would be this. Truly, I am really excited for this. Let me know what you think other champions weapons should be. Really fun coming up with ideas for this! Doesn't even matter from which group. Clearly, this story involves the entirety of the Kpop world, so who knows, maybe groups you wouldn't expect me to write will show up.

Two of those three villages would be used to train the way she walks because it’s perfect: classy, poised, elegant. The other one would have to work on her outfits because god would she need those. Hopefully the village doesn’t operate a Shein style manufacturing line. She’d hate that.

Her face is the definition of “striking the gene pool lottery”, and so is the rest of her body. Lanky arms and legs; toned, slim tummy; big, bright eyes that glimmer under the flashing lights. Personally, you like her “you’re on camera” smile the most. She knows this, and she always makes it a point to shoot it your way as she struts towards you. She stops half way to get a flute of Champagne, make that two actually, then grabs another. Those long legs can cover one hell of a distance, and they bring her right to you in a matter of seconds.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” she hands you the Champagne flute in her left hand, and the rings on it shine in the light, “cause it’s starting to feel like you’re just stalking me now.”

Of course, it’s the snarky remarks that open the conversation. Jang Wonyoung, airheaded as ever m’lady, and you sip on the Bubbly that she’s very nicely delivered to you. Wonyoung is, of course, a little bit of an airhead in your books (only because she believes that you’re always there for her, nothing else), and it’s never not hilarious to watch her draw her lips into a thin line. It’s not the first time she’s hearing this from you; it certainly won’t be the last. You can’t control where you’re posted to, but you know for a fact that you’ll see her again a couple months down the road.

Cause your meetings with Jang Wonyoung are through pure serendipity really, and you certainly will start calling it that after you read that one story. You know: the one where this guy cheats on his idol girlfriend, who he has a tense relationship with, with another idol that he happens to meet just about everywhere. There’s 0 communication between the two of you when these types of events come around, and neither of you know if either of you will be there or not. Actually, it’s just you really; neither of you know if you will be there. 

“Here for Kwon Eunbi again? Or are you finding someone else?” This question of her’s is customary at this point. Never once has it been perfunctory.

“Well, I was actually here to try and catch an interview with Jo Yuri, but I guess you’ll do,” you reply. Wonyoung scoffs—so I’m second place then?—and you have to assuage her oh-so-damaged ego, “you’re making this inference on your own Princess. I never said anything remotely close to that.”

And it’s that smile on her face that makes you want to kiss her really. It’s gorgeous, it’s cute, it’s beautiful. She’s given you that damned smile so many times that you could probably draw it from memory, though you’d definitely butcher it. The dress is certainly doing it justice, and you watch it brush against the skin of her legs as she shifts her weight to the other foot. I’ve never been that good at inferences. You’re far better than me, Prince, and she’s playing with her hair: twirling and untwirling it around her finger. That ribbon atop her head… Her stylist certainly knows their stuff.

“Think I’ll win an award this year?” Her question draws you away from your thorough examination of her. You take a moment to think, and you have to say, it depends, but I think you could definitely get something in some category. She gives you this inscrutable look, and she’s chuckling to herself as she looks at the crowd and sips on her champagne. You can guess what she’s about to say next: quite the crowd today, huh? And you’d reply, “Don’t think that they’re all here for you”, and that would prompt her to shoot back with, “Then who are they here for? You?”. 

But of course, when do things ever go according to plan?

“Have you thought about my offer?” she asks, and you’re caught off guard. 

Cause here’s the history between you two: Middle school best friends, always kind of inseparable. She was the beauty queen, it girl, and she still is; you were the writer, head of the school magazine, and you’re pretty much writing for the rest of your life. Wherever you went with her, rumours followed—Are they dating? I think they’re just friends. Maybe she’s trying to be the front of the magazine?—but you never thought much of it. It was just a simple friendship to you, nothing more. 

Then the kiss she gave you in high school changed it all.

It was a party, hosted by one of your mutual friends. She kissed you, and no, it wasn’t a Spin The Bottle forfeit, nor was it a dare of any sort; it was a sincere, tender kiss in the garden—unprompted, and away from any prying eyes and soft like silk chiffon. You have to admit, the sensation had your brain mired for a minute or so. But when you came back to your senses, you kissed her right back, and things got complicated after that. 

No one knew of it; it was your little secret. Wonyoung became closer than ever, and next thing you know, she declares the two of you “exclusive” but not dating. It’s because her agency has that funky dating ban thing, and Wonyoung was desperate to find a loophole, albeit a little complex. Of course, you’re willing to stay “exclusive” with Wonyoung in secret, but you started to worry that it can’t stay this way for long after the two of you get out of high school. 

But as fate would have it, your career paths meet at the crossroads, and now you see her every other month or so. You still text her when you can, and the “exclusive” relationship has sustained. Now that she’s an adult and she’s bringing in mad bucks for the agency, she’s informed you of some changes in her contact. From there, the offer was birthed, and you have left it unchecked for the past four months or so, “grey ticked” as she liked to call it.

“You haven’t texted in a while, thought you died,” she continues, leaning on her elbows against the table. “Thank god you’re alive, huh?”

You hoped that she’d just forget about it, but she’s more of a mnemonist than you give her credit for. An award show is the last place you expected to be caught off guard by Jang Wonyoung, but she’s definitely a master of surprise. I uh… I haven’t really thought about it, is a lie you tell her and yourself. She smiles enigmatically, downs the rest of her Champagne. 

“Let’s talk about it tonight,” she touches your chest, and it’s soft like silk chiffon, “you know where to find me, Prince.”

She struts off to join the rest of her members, stops halfway to return her Champagne flute, then looks back at you over her shoulder to give you a small wave. You sip on your Champagne as the silk brushes against her skin. 

It’s a heavy breath that leaves your mouth, and it’s the rest of the Champagne that goes in.

*

302.

Gold lettering, black plaque. It’s grand, pretty elegant. Suits her well. 

Then the door opens. 

In her bathrobe, Jang Wonyoung shoots her “you’re on camera” smile. You’re earlier than expected—she lets you in—Matter of fact, I thought you might not show at all.

And it’s a must to quip back, “thought you’d be asleep by now you big baby.”

When the door closes, it’s straight to work, and here’s how that normally goes: kissing, undressing, foreplay, then finally—fucking. Not that it has to follow that order or anything, but it’s the unspoken schedule that Wonyoung’s written up. God forbid anyone goes against what the princess is comfortable with, not that you’d ever try to either way. Your voice is barely a mumble past her lips—aren’t we supposed to talk about something?—and Wonyoung’s quick to dismiss any queries, “later. There’s always time for it later”. 

So it’s the kiss that’s pulling you back into her. Her front teeth capture your bottom lip, pull, drags it back a little like she’s trying to unwrap you like a present. You hold her waist, and with gentle hands, you push her back against the wall. It’s not that you’re trying to get control or anything; you’re just attempting to give her something to work with, a place to rest as she starts to work on the buttons of your shirt. 

“Are you already naked underneath that?” you whisper, though it’s more of a drawl than a whisper. In response, she momentarily stops with your buttons to slide a section of her bathrobe away, giving you a good look at a column of her naked, milky skin. 

In short: Yes, she is very much naked under that robe.

“Don’t get distracted, my prince. Eyes up here.”

“You’re the one that made me look, princess.”

She’s evidently struggling with the last button of your shirt, and you have to let go of her for a moment to help her get it done. Then it’s off with the shirt, and she flings it against the door for convenience sake. Your belt’s next, and that’s taken care of before you can even say, let me undress you Princess. It does make her hesitate at the clasp of your trousers for a bit. Just for a bit.

“I’d like,” her fingers are moving again, and they’re awfully quick at unfastening your pants, “for you to unwrap me on the bed instead.”

How raunchy of her. Makes you want to try her on.

Your pants fall. Your hand slithers into the bathrobe. Her jaw drops. Wonyoung my darling, and your fingers have captured one of those perky breasts, the right one to be exact. How do you ever—it’s light pressure to the nipple for you; it’s mind melting for her—get away with being such a big slut? Look at you, I’m barely even squeezing here. You’d like to save that face she makes in a supercut of her other memorable faces: eyes wide, mouth agape and her chin tucked into her neck. Frame it up, take a step back, admire it. It’s the face of someone who’s pent up, the expression of a needy girl who’s been aching to get some dick. Maybe if you guys had met a little sooner, she wouldn’t be this sensitive. But now? A twist of your forefinger and thumb is all it takes to draw a cry out of her, a little more pressure is enough to rain hellfire upon her. What a crazy-hot mess she is; only god knows how to clean her up and get her sorted out.

Open mouth straight to your ear, Wonyoung lets out a breathy gasp. In your fingers, the stiff peak rolls between the pads—back, forth, back, forth: motions that make her weak in her knees. It’s with great effort that she pulls your face back to hers, captures you in her quivering lips. Elegance has long been thrown out the window by now, and it’s not going to be returning for quite some time, as if you ever need it at a time like this. She’s barely holding herself up at this point. Where did the prim proper Jang Wonyoung go? 

The answer’s in her kiss—gone, dusted, she was here just a minute ago though. She’s grasping at whatever inch of your skin she can find, and her nails are definitely gonna be leaving marks on the sides of your neck. You let out a small, wry laugh as you silently observe her behaviour, watching her implore without speaking, badger without requesting. It’s an art form really, the form of expression for the horny and desperate and bratty. When her hands grip your face and her nails sink into your cheek, you pinch a little harder and relish the pleasant vibrations that are sent into your mouth as she gasps. Her palms press into your jaw, and they’d probably crush it if you press any harder. Her feet patter against the wood as she starts to direct you to the bed. You kick off your shoes together with your pants. 

It’s definitely a sight to take in: Jang Wonyoung in a massive king size bed, a thin bathrobe being the only thing between you and that wonderful body being the bathrobe. Maybe if she wasn’t in this state she’s in, she’d gesture to you with a come hither motion, and invite you to remove the fabric from her body. Instead, she opts for a spine tingling mewl, and that’s your invitation to her body. It’s hardly an insinuation; the fact that she wants to be unwrapped like a present is undeniable, she used the word unwrap herself. The bunny knot holding the two pieces of fabric is symmetrical—has Wonyoung’s fingerprints all over it. If it weren’t for the fact that she’s watching you with a half-open mouth, maybe you’d compliment her on her efforts a little, maybe even call her “princess” a couple more times before you properly ruin her.

(But she’s already ruined, ruined by a mere bit of pressure to the nipple. What else can make her tick now?)

Her body is at your mercy and it, quite literally, jerks as you start to pull at the knot, undoing it centimetre by centimetre, millimetre by millimetre, inch by inch. You want to see how long she can watch for, how long she can witness herself be undressed in a painfully slow fashion. Needy as she is, she’s patient as she watches one end of the rope grow longer. 

Longer. 

“Do you want me to speed this up, baby?” The smirk on your face would earn you a pout from her if her nerves weren’t in a bundle at the given moment.

“W-Whatever you want,” she answers, and her voice is brimming with breathy arousal. How are you getting away with all this? She’d grab your wrist and pull by now if she wasn’t so damn needy right now.

You give a dry laugh. “Then I’ll keep at this then.”

Longer.

“Fuck. Just pull it all the way already.” She looks you right in the eye as she begs you to hurry, and now you can see the need brimming in those large, round eyes, the ones that stare back at you with soft intensity, if that’s even possible. She’s good at mixing emotions into her stare.

“I thought you said—”

“Just fucking do it!”

Slack.

And the knot comes undone, and together with it, the robe falls off to the sides of her body—it’s beautiful. Never have you taken so much pleasure in undressing her, but you sure-as-hell have taken this much time to admire that wonderful, slender frame. From your standing view over her, you get down to her level to get a better look at her. It’s all part of the game of course: the way you look her in the eye, the way you touch her jaw ever so slightly to turn it towards you. The kiss is sickly sweet, and she’s starting to taste more and more like that cherry lipstick you gave her when you saw her some time ago at another event. Into your mouth, she lets out a sonorous moan. Your fingertips brush along her skin, slither down from her collarbone to her cleavage—down to that flushed pink region between her equally flushed thighs. Almost instantly, the tip of your digits are coated in slick fluids, and you raise an eyebrow at the girl on the bed.

“I literally touched you.” It’s amusement permeating your voice more than anything. In the sheets, she squirms in the slightest, eyes locked on your fingers that rest against that dripping heat and breath caught in her throat. You know that if you were to shift your finger in the slightest, you’d trigger a chain reaction that you have no power over. Her legs would clamp, her abdomen would tense, her eyes would roll. In the midst of it all, she’d maybe scream, or maybe she’d moan; either way goes. As far as you’re concerned, she’s needy as fuck at the moment, and she’s not going to let anything stop her from cumming.

“Yea, well… I can be sensitive.” Her defence is hardly a solid one, more of a perfunctory reply. Her head’s far from able to formulate a quip to throw back at you; that ability went out the window together with classy Wonyoung. “Put them in.”

You go against her request, and your fingers start to skirt the edges of that swollen, pink slit of hers. A crime—you’re going against the princess’ wishes, but realistically speaking: she can hardly be called a princess at the moment, so why comply? 

A portion of the bathrobe is still clinging on to her breast. You use your other hand to push it away, and the split second of contact makes her flinch. “Jesus. You’re so fucking turned-on right now,” you can’t help but muse, all while your fingers retrace te outline of her swollen lips. She’s shivering, she isn’t breathing quite right. “Do you want to moan, baby? Do you want to moan like a good little slut for me?”

And she fixes you with a glare. “F-Fuck you… Put them in.”

No “please” this time. Shame. If she were more polite, you would’ve obliged; now you’ll just have some more fun with her. 

Your thumb finds the swollen nub, and a little brush is all you need to get her straining like a psycho in a straitjacket. What will I ever do with you Wonyoung?—and she’s getting wetter by the second—You look so pretty when you’re so needy, you know that?—why would you ever, for a second, think that she’d be as refined as the last time? She doesn’t play with herself when she needs to get off; she waits till she sees you again to get off on your cock, your fingers, your mouth. Sexting was off the table, she wants you to be physically there, driving her insane as she lets herself come undone. 

“You know,” and you’re almost laughing as you watch her face twist even further, “that I could do this forever right? I could just lie here, tease you for as long as I want… Or maybe that’s what you want?

She’s messy, so fucking messy. Juices are starting to soak the bed—you can feel it as your fingertips round the bottom of her slit. Housekeeping would certainly question the spot, and the two of you wouldn’t be there to reply anyway. Her cheeks are flushed, the veins of her throat are popping. It takes a considerable amount of effort to stay this composed, but you know that she’s breaking more and more. With each round your fingers make, cracks start to form along that perfectly sculpted face. The fine lines on her forehead begin to show as her brows start to furrow. Strained sounds are coming from her throat as the urge to moan is slowly winning the battle against her will. She wants control, but she can’t have it when she’s a wet, hot mess next to you. She’s being bratty for the sake of it. Your fingers are your leverage against her. It’s killing her. It’s delighting you.

And just like fine China thrown against concrete, her will shatters. 

“Please! Put them in!”

And your fingers stop just at the top of her pussy. It feels like a long minute, but she isn't about to take another second of this. Her thighs clamp against your arm. Her fingers wrap around your wrist in desperation. She begs again. And again. And again. And again, again, again. The bed starts to creak as you start to move your fingers down her lips, down to the very end of her cunt.

God is she dripping.

“Will you moan for me?” you drawl huskily. A finger, two, three rest themselves against her heat. 

“Yes.” There’s barely any of her original self left in there. “Please just—”

The fingers breach her opening. She screams, a high-pitched, keening cry. The noise makes your cock strain in your boxers, and you have to grit your teeth as her inner walls wrap tightly around your intruding digits. A moment of stillness comes, a moment where she’s just breathing raggedly, struggling to process this pleasure that’s racking her body faster than she can comprehend. She’s a ticking time bomb of nerves; the slightest movement in this state could send her into perdition, and she’ll barrel past that point of no return faster than both of you can imagine. God, she’s sensitive. God, she’s a mess. 

The chuckle that departs from your mouth is one of perverse pleasure. “Baby,” you whisper, right into her ear as she struggles to catch her breath. She squeezes her eyes shut, and you watch with a grin as her chest rises and falls. The grip on your wrist is a vice, knuckle-white and unrelenting. She’s begging you, with her eyes, to start moving, and you have to tell her, “I can’t start till you let go of me, baby.”

And it’s with reluctance that she slips her hand off your wrist, but that hand won’t stay empty for long. You guide it to her own breast, and with a soft whisper, you tell her to squeeze. She’s servile. She complies without protest. Her eyes slowly open themselves, and you relish the way they’re lust-glazed appearance looks under warm light while her breaths level themselves out. For a moment, there’s calm. For a moment, it’s tender.

Then your fingers start to move. All hell breaks loose.

Everything she did to calm herself quickly becomes futile; it becomes undone as her back arches in a way that catches your breath in your throat. Your fingers graze her walls, pressed into each other as they slowly draw in and out of her. And mind you: you’re going slow, slow enough to make her feel every bit of your fingers brush against her insides. But it’s enough to make her curse, enough to get her mewling like a damn kitten while her hips start to rock, rubbing her clit against the base of your palm. There’s no way to describe how needy she looks; her want is beyond words, and you’ve barely even started. Three fingers is the most you’ve ever put inside her. Clearly, it’s working wonders for her.

And now you yourself have to admit: you’ve wanted her for some time now. Since the last time you saw her, you’ve fantasised about that slim tummy twitching, about holding that snatched waist once more, about those long legs wrapped around your neck while your tongue and fingers turn her into a pliant plaything. For weeks, you’ve wanted nothing more than pulling Jang Wonyoung apart, reduce her into a withering mess wherever you guys are and get her screaming till she’s sore. You can’t even begin to describe what you’ve done with her in your dreams, nor can you ever convey how it feels to desire her as much as you have. So, you put all of it into action, sordid sentiments channelled into your fingers that are making those cute features twist and contort in perverse pleasure. She’s rambunctious, and her juices are quite literally soaking your hand, spilling the strongest sillage of lust all over the bed. 

“Why do you always have to be so fucking messy?” You’re really just trying to see how much you can get away with at this point, though the answer seems to be: just about everything. Your fingers start moving faster. You love the way her cheeks are starting to flush even more. “Are you always this wet? Or is it just for me?”

The squelching is lewder than you can ever imagine. The sound of her slick, wet heat being breached by your fingers is enthralling. Add the sounds she’s making into that and you have the ultimate erotica audio that can bless mankind. She’s panting, she’s moaning, she’s whining—she’s doing it all really, and you’re just using your fingers. God knows how she’ll react once you’re inside of her, rock hard meat stretching her out instead of a few fingers fiddling around in warm walls. 

But hey, the sounds she’s making are ever so erotic, and she’s definitely making your blood flow to all the right places. She feels out of place; you can’t put your finger on what’s wrong in this whole thing. It’s probably a small detail, something you’d overlook over the sight of her chest heaving as air shoots out and gets sucked back into her mouth, her whole body straining and convulsing against the bed while you get a thumb on her clit and rub at a languid tempo. Probably something miniscule, not worth mentioning because all your attention is focused on the look on her face (you want to mess up the makeup so badly it’s almost frustrating). And no, you’re not trying to make her cum in five seconds; she’s just really riled up—bundle of nerves and trigger happy. Probably hasn’t been treated this way in a while, probably hasn’t had three fingers twisting around, sliding in and out of that tight wet hole slow enough to make her feel every bit of skin against her walls; fast enough to make her combust if you were to speed up, in, like, forever. 

“I–I…” She’s quite literally mewling, and the sharpness in her voice is so cutting that it makes an incision in a bag inside you that’s keeping all the perverse thoughts at bay. The thoughts are leaking out now, and it’s almost impossible to stuff them back in. You want her against the glass: tits against the window and ass in your hands while you pump and pump and pump into that slick tight hole; you want nothing more but to pick her up and have her lock her legs around you, tight frame flushed against you while you nail her against one of these walls that surround you; you want to unhinge that jaw and watch that pretty mouth—now parted to let the stream of moans flow—take your cock in and out between those kiss-swollen lips and watch the drool leak out the corners of her mouth. Shit. It’s killing you. Jang Wonyoung, dolled up. She’s killing you. 

(No way in hell are thighs meant to be this hot, and lips are not  supposed to look this delicious. Yet Jang Wonyoung somehow goes against every fucking norm, fights it naturally and effortlessly and wins like a seasoned warrior. So just for her case: her thighs can be this hot and flushed, and her lips can look this fucking appetising. You kiss her; it’s sloppy, it’s lewd, it’s hot and everything in between. Mark her neck, mark that row of skin above her right collarbone, mark her everywhere. Cusses are flying—god forbid her agency finds out about the things hse says while she’s getting fingered. She's making a mess out of herself. She’s making a mess out of you.

Fingers, just fingers and she’s already looking like this: hair fanned out, frazzled, looking like she just went through a car wash and yet somehow has her make-up intact. Fuck. You want to watch the mascara run, watch it streak while she tears up as she’s choking down cum and she’s struggling to take in air. Pretty little princess, messy and glacially being turned into some improper slut. It’s hard to not smirk while you ruin her with the same fingers you use to type articles about her—fingers that sing praises and can also make her moan enough to make her throat hoarse.)

The rhythm of your hand makes her body roll. Her toes–painted over, fresh manicure—curl into the sheets. Doe-like eyes stare back at you, plump red lips part to gasp your name, throat muscles strain trying to  curse and moan at the same time. The fingers are gliding in and out and in and out and she’s begging you to not stop (like hell you ever would) in those choke up little sobs while she’s—

Oh fuck baby I can’t I can’t I can’t — Anything. I’ll do anything. Please just let me cum. I’m so fucking close baby. Please just let me fucking cum. I’ll be a good girl. I-I promise I’ll be a good fucking girl for you just… Fuck!

—blue screening on your fingers: lost in the sauce or whatever. Pliant plaything, docile doll. You’re certain she hasn’t gotten off in at least a month if the way she’s taking it is any sort of yardstick. She’s far beyond drenched, far beyond salvation and way off the deep end of the “needy” pool—drowning herself in her own sea of sighs and gasps and moans and loose phonics that slip out of her mouth. Ostinato of your fingers squelching in her cunt; half time rhythm of the creaky bed; melody of the chorus of Jang Wonyoung’s voice—music to your ears.

And there’s lots to unpack from the moment you locate that soft spot at the top of her pussy. There’s a lot of cussing, a lot of jolting, a fair amount of whining and your name is thrown somewhere in that mix. You find her lips, she kisses back, one of her hands grabs your arm, nails dig in and stay there. Flurry of actions, filthy language—fucking hell, someone stop her.

Bottom line: lots of action. You find it congenial to start from the part where it quite literally ends her world. Once your digits curled up into that sensitive patch of flesh, it was all over for her.

You can pinpoint the exact moment where the orgasm rips through her body, the exact moment where her muscles seized so perfectly that her back arches. The pulse around your fingers is strong, walls tight around your digits and your thumb gently rubbing on her clit while the pleasure rolls through her body, molten iron libido converting the feeling between her thighs to electricity that makes her short circuit. The moan is breathy if anyone’s asking, and the look on her face—twisted, perverse satisfaction: superimposing need and want—has a whole foot over the line of pornographic. Wires are fraying in her head, her vocal cords are strained, she’s ruining the sheets with her juices; you’re complicit in every damn part of this, and guilt is the last thing on your mind.

Then her back falls back flat against the mattress, and the sheets ripple as her body makes a dense thump against the bed, punctuating the sigh she releases into the air. Nerves are unbundling themselves. She’s sweaty and panting. Your fingers are beyond soaked.

“Messy,” you muse, slowly drawing your juice slicked fingers out of her cunt. You bring them to her mouth. She languidly tastes herself, sweat-darkened sheets hugging the muscles of her shoulders and lining her ribs. She looks so tiny in the bed if you looked over the fact that her legs were dangling over the edge of the mattress, and that’s easy to do once you lean in for a kiss.

(It’s not hard to slip your tongue into her mouth, and there’s barely any fight left in her as you roll her nipple between your index finger and thumb. The sweat-matted hair sticking to her forehead adds a nice touch to her face.)

“Such a good girl.” Your tone is warm as you praise her, and a hand moves to cup her cheek in an act of tenderness. Her eyelids flutter shut. She puts the weight of her face into your palm. 

“Do I get my reward now?” she whispers, and it’s more of a plea than a question really. You take a moment, not to think, but to drag out the suspense for a little more before you give her an answer. You take guilty pleasure in knowing that you could keep her on tenterhooks for the whole night—the only thing stopping you is the throbbing of your cock in your boxers and the look of sheer need on her face. If you could: you’d drag this out a little longer, maybe tease her a little and call her more names. You still could do that, but you’d much rather fuck her instead. 

“Where do you want it?” your thumbs hook into the waistband of your boxers and hook them down. Your cock springs free from its cottons confines, and Wonyoung’s eyes instantly dart to it. She may be a little obsessed with your cock, but only a little when she’s depraved (which is right now). Before you can even react, she has your shaft in her hand, lanky fingers wrapped around it and pumping it with considerate strokes. 

“I want a big load in my ass.” she requests, far from innocent and banking more towards improper, which seems to be a pretty big theme of hers tonight. “I’ve been wanting to feel daddy’s  hot load leaking out of my ass for a long time…” The strokes delivered to your length grow firmer and firmer by the second. “Please?”

The spikes of pleasure her small hand delivers to your system is really making it hard to say no at the given moment. Of course, she’s well aware of it, and she’s definitely feeling so damn smug right now. And so with a very clouded mind, you nod. She smiles smugly, unaware that you’re about to fuck that smug little smirk rig of her pretty face. Conveniently, she’s already on her back—it’ll make the process so much easier. 

“I take it that the lube is in your bag?” You raise. She grins and nods. 

Sure enough, you find it in the exact same place as it usually is: side pocket, right next to her lipstick. You toss it towards her and move around her, slip her ankles over her shoulders. She lies still, unmoving and obedient as her left calf goes past her head, then her right. You lean forward, and she gasps as she's almost bent her completely in half. She’s flexible; this position won’t bring any harm to her, but it is congenial to ruin her asshole and leave her sore for the next day or so, which is exactly what she wants, but probably not how she imagined herself getting it. She cracks open the lube, and with precision, squirts a generous amount of it on the tight ring of her ass, making eye contact with you all the while as the clear liquid gathers at the puckered ring of muscle. The tube is discarded to a side when she’s done, and she uses her hands to spread her asscheeks for you, inviting you to take your liberties with her hole.

“Come on Daddy,” she urges you. “Come fuck this ass,” she continues, her hands spreading her ass cheeks even wider as you start to line yourself up with the tight ring. “Wreck this fucking hole Daddy, I can fucking take it.”

To hear her say those words was almost enough to have you cum right there and then. You press the tip of your cock at the open, gaping hole of her ass, swirling it around the entrance, collecting more of the copious amounts of lube around it. She was generous with the amount of lube she dispensed; you're about to be generous with the strokes you're gonna make inside that ass.

(She yelps when you slide inside her ass. God does it feel so fucking divine.)

She is so tight and wet and hot that you think you could’ve cum with your first thrust inside her. Her pussy was tight and hot, but her ass was even tighter and even hotter. Even though your cock was slick with lube, it did close to nothing to keep the sheer tightness of her asshole from clenching around you like it was a really small glove. It wasn’t the first time you’ve been inside her ass, but it sure as hell felt like a novelty every single time you entered that tight ring of muscle. Fuck. The heat, the tightness—sublime. You think you could cum in a matter of seconds if you didn’t have self control.

“Go!’ she hisses, through the pain and discomfort. “Fuck me. Fuck my ass!”

You would have been happy to stay there, buried balls deep in Wonyoung’s ass, but her own words goad you into moving—slowly at first, but with a steadily increasing pace, you begin to fuck Wonyoung’s ass with long, slow strokes. She hisses—part glee, part discomfort—as your shaft starts to pump itself in and out of her ass. You draw yourself out till only the base of you tip remains inside of her, and then you thrust back in, hard, hard enough to make her yelp out in pained pleasure while she grits her teeth and watches your rock hard shaft fill her ass. It's a perverse show for her, and it brings you a sort of dark satisfaction in knowing that past all that discomfort she’s feeling, she loves the way your cock stretches her out and fills her defenceless little hole. 

With her ankles over your shoulders, you’re practically spearing yourself vertically into her ass, fucking her deep and making her feel every inch of your throbbing meat inside of that hot, tight hole. Every penetration is punctuated by a deep, guttural groan from Wonyoung, sometimes a curse, or something along the lines of: fuck. So fucking full. You know for a fact that the pained sounds you hear now will turn into airy gaps of pleasure once she gets used to the discomfort, and that she’d probably be a mewling mess by the time you reach the stage where she can take you in and out of her ass with only pleasure in her system and no pain. For now, you’ll settle with the pace you have—slow, long strokes in and out of her ass while she squeezes her eyes to block out all sensations distracting her from enjoying the sensation of her ass being filled with cock. You have to admit that she’s doing a great job at it, and your praise vocalises itself in the rather harsh form of, “what a good little slut.” 

(And here’s something interesting you noted: never once in this whole thing did she ask you to stop, nor did you ever think about stopping to let her adjust. If this was anyone else, you would have given them a moment to breathe upon entering, and you certainly would be checking on their wellbeing throughout it all. 

Thing is—the two of you know her too well to know that you could only dream of stopping once you got started with her, and it could only end in two ways. 1) You cum in her. 2) You cum on her. Edge her and you’ll never get the end of it, you would know. The last time you pulled a stunt on her like that, she left you tied to a chair with a vibrator taped to your cock till you were begging and a cummy mess. It wasn’t pretty. She could dominate if she wanted to, but she preferred to be a manipulative brat instead.)

It’s not long before she’s desensitised to the pain, and your slow pace is not enough, no, not for Wonyoung. Next thing you know it, she hissing for you to go faster, fuck her harder—I told you to fuck my ass Daddy. Don’t hold back on me now—and deeper. She swears, all three languages that she knew strung together shabbily like they were put together on some shitty production line and thrown out at random—and while you made little sense of the sounds coming out of her filthy mouth you knew what they meant.

Harder. Faster. Rougher.

Then you fuck her ass. Hard and fast.

You almost surprised yourself with the liberties you were taking, drilling in and out of her butt with the same speed and depth that you would use with her mouth and pussy.

“Yes!” she shouts—a loud, full shout. “Yes! Fuck me like this! Pound me, fuck me until you cum in my slutty little ass!”

You grunt in reply, because it was all you could do. The faculties of human language have long since abandoned your grasp and ability, and nothing else exists in your mind except the thought of filling her tight, hothole with warm, white semen. Her eyes lock with yours and you only find that they’re full of need, nothing else (not like she’s capable of displaying any other emotion at the moment). The rest of you, every fibre of your being, was focused on pounding Wonyoung’s tight little hole as hard and fast as you possibly could. Her ankles bounce helplessly behind your head, her knees press into her shoulders and her breath is ragged; sweat drips off your forehead and onto her tits, and your hot breath mixes with hers as you struggle to keep yourself propped up with your arms.

In short: the two of you are sweaty and messy (one more so than the other. Take a pick, not sure if there’s a prize for guessing right), victims of lust and slaves to pleasure. You blame Wonyoung just because you can.

For a few delicious moments, there is absolutely nothing in the world aside from the tight hot sheath of flesh around your cock, the warm flesh of her legs against your shoulders and the strands of sweat-slick hair that fly just about everywhere, all topped with the lewd, filthy, obscene words spilling from Wonyoung’s mouth. For a few delicious moments, she feels nothing but the feeling of her tight hole being stretched and used by the cock that turns her face into a wrought outlet of pleasure while she lets filthy words and exclamations spill from her lips. 

Try as you might, you couldn’t have it last forever. Not when you were already so turned on from watching her writhe and twitch under your fingers. Not when the sheer, pure pleasure overwhelming you was more than enough to cause you to cum at any moment.

And when she orgasms for the second time, her ass tightening exponentially around you—there is little you or anyone else could have done to stop the inevitable.

“I’m gonna cum in your ass, Wonyoung,” you hiss through gritted teeth, your lust and pleasure-addled brain on the edge of losing all comprehension.

“Cum with me! Fill me!” 

And so you do it, burying yourself hilt deep inside the quivering woman’s asshole before filling it with the last of your cum, giving her every last drop you had left in your body, leaving rope after rope inside her sore, well-used, cum-filled asshole. You almost black out, and you quite literally have to dig your nails into the sheets while Wonyoung’s own orgasm takes over her body, making her twitch and her ass contract—milking every last bit of cum from your throbbing, twitching length till it was nothing but a dry, hard rod inside of her creamy asshole. 

There’s silence that is punctuated by both of your ragged breaths. She looks at you, you look at her. And the two of you can’t help but chuckle at the mess you’ve made of each other. You want to remember the way her nose wrinkles as she teases you, “you fucking animal”, and you want, so badly, to burn the image of a sweaty, weary Jang Wonyoung, folded in half beneath you like she was a piece of origami paper, panting and gasping as a fresh load of cum spills out of her ass. 

It takes energy, but you bend down and kiss her, letting her sweaty calves slide off your equally sweaty shoulders as you do. She’s satisfied, for now, and she pulls you down next to her on the hotel bed with one hand and gathers the cum leaking out of her ass with the other. 

“Look at this,” she whispers, and your eyes train themselves on the pearlescent, sticky, slimy, fluids that run down from her fingertips slowly. “You made such a big mess inside my ass,” she chides before bringing her fingers to her mouth and sucking your cum right off her fingers like it’s a delicacy. “Now I have to clean all of this up. You’re lucky I like the way your cum tastes.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Um… Ew?”

Wonyoung smirks and gently nudges you with her left foot.

“It’s okay,” she tells you, all smug and everything. “I know you love the way I taste too.”

* In the dark, her small hand creeps around your torso and grasps yours. 

“You’re awake, aren’t you?” She’s whispering right into your ear, and it’s a sensation you want to be able to hold on to for the rest of your life. “I know your eyes are open.” The feel of her small fingers rolling the knuckle of your index finger sticks itself in your head like a post-it. “ I can hear and feel you tossing, you know?”

Okay. No dodging. 

The sheets stay still as your shoulders turn. You roll over, face her, and you really just want to capture the way the night lights paint her face: doe-like eyes reflecting glimmering pools of moonlight, warm yellow light painting her cute-yet-so-fucking-gorgeous face in a manner that not even Van Goh could copy, lips parted slightly as if in mid speak. She’s right there—you can kiss her if you really want to.

“Are you still mad at me?” She asks, tender with her tone. “I know that I fucked up, okay?” You can tell that she’s not even trying to look pitiful at the moment, but the way her face is sculpted really makes you want to just hold her to your chest and stroke her hair. Sincere are her words—heart heaved into her mouth. “I don’t blame you if you’re still mad. It’s your right. But… Just hear me out? Please?”

If you were mad, you wouldn’t have let her hold your hand the way she was now. If you were mad, you would’ve pretended to be fast asleep; ignore her pleas and just close your eyes and fall asleep. Alas, you can never stay mad at her for too long.

“I was… Never really angry, Wony.” Your tone is a lot softer than you would ever expect, but you know it’s because you probably needed this talk more than she did. “I... I’m sorry if it came across that way.”

And she studies you for a moment, lets the sound of your breathing fill the space as she furls her upper lip into her front teeth, and it’s a perfect moment for you to try and understand what’s happening in her head. She’s a complex creature really; understanding her is like finding a meaning that everyone can agree on when you look at abstract art.

Down below, you can still hear the cars moving through the street. Billboards and screens are still on, and from the window in your bedroom, multi-coloured lights filter into the room past the blinds like moonlight through bamboo leaves. The sheets you lie in are fresh, and they feel nice and smooth against your skin, and they smell like roses. The mattress creaks a little as Wonyoung shifts her weight, and you have to admit that you’re half-drunk on the scent of her shampoo. 

“You must have been scared,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I got really emotional. I… I shouldn’t have walked out. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t know how to reply to that. Not now at least. Maybe it’ll come to you the next morning.

You give her a sweet smile. You hug her to your chest. You want to remember how she feels in your arms.

*

The gentle trickle of water down the arch of her spine is really something—a steady stream flowing down her back, running over the muscles of her shoulders, the curve of her breasts and fraying at her plump ass. You can’t remember the last time you showered with her, but you certainly remember the view being this good. 

In the shower of room 302, Jang Wonyoung lets the warm water hit her skin from the rain shower nozzle. Her hair—wet and freshly shampooed (and conditioned)—sticks to her back. Creamy skin glistens, small beads of water affix themselves to random parts of her body, stay there for one or two seconds, then roll down in streaks, almost as if they too were admiring Wonyoung’s well-sculpted figure.

Slim fingers grasp locks of hair. She lifts and looks over her shoulder, the whisper of a grin on her face as she shoots a beckoning wink. “Are you gonna help me soap my back? Or are you just gonna keep staring at my ass?”

“Don’t you have to, like, turn off the water first?” you ask, and you already know what she’s gonna say, but you just want to hear her say it. For memory sake.

“Mmmm.” Her humming as she ‘ponders’ reverberates in the shower, floating over the sound of water from the shower head falling to the floor like rain. “No… Adds to the atmosphere, don’t you think?” 

Ah. There we go.

“Then could you at least step back?” you request. This shower is comically huge—long length, breadth about the same length as your arm span. In the space, she looks so tiny, but you know for a fact that she could probably walk to the other end of the shower in a stride. You’re not one to disregard the facts, but you do like to live with a bit of imagination.

Wonyoung chuckles, low and sonorous. She pushes her hair over her shoulder, then—painfully slowly—walks back till she’s out of the stream of water. Water wastage is the last thing on her mind. She stops when she feels your hands on her back, and she looks over her shoulder, expectant. You move your hands and the soap lathers as it’s spread. You start from the centre of her back, rubbing gently in the section where the muscles of her shoulders meet and working your way outwards and upward to her shoulders. Then it’s down from there, your palms moving in small circles and covering every inch of skin.

“You’re good at this,” she mutters, watching with intent as your hands start to trail to her lower back. “Maybe you should’ve been a masseuse instead of a writer.”

“Uh… Patronising much?” You chuckle, watching as her back muscles twitch a little when you apply gentle pressure. “The pay’s about the same,” the soap makes patterns across the area above her ass—spirals of foam that stick to her skin like styrofoam flowers. “The hours are probably the same… But I don’t think I can live on rubbing someone’s back really hard. I Think I’ll just save this service for you, but only for when we meet.”

Humored, Wonyoung offers a giggle, high pitched and cutting above the sound of water striking the floor tiles. She shifts her weight to her right foot, making her body slant a little. Her skin is soft under your palms. Your hands are going lower and lower, slowly spiralling towards the curve of her ass that’s literally just a centimetre away.

“You know…If you take up my offer, you can do this for me everyday.”

Your hands slow to a stop. You raise your head a little to find her searching for your gaze over her shoulder. “Oh?”

“Yea.” Her voice is low, like a mother trying to persuade her child to eat their vegetables. “Every night, we can be like this: you soaping my back, us chatting… Doesn’t it sound wonderful?”

Your lip furls behind your front teeth. “Yea… It really does.”

And in her gaze, you sense her sensing your apprehension. “What’s stopping you from taking it up then?”

(For context, here’s the deal proposed by her company: the two of you go public with the relationship, get clout for the company, and Starship will let you lead your lives together—no qualms, no disturbances. She can visit you whenever, live with you, appear outside together with you like it’s a regular Tuesday night; you get to date the girl you fell in love with all those years ago for real. Only issue: once you get the last stroke of your signature out on the contract, you practically agree to blurring the line between your private and public life. Press will be all over you like ants after you step on their nest, you probably won’t get to enjoy a cup of coffee in peace, everyone will suddenly want to curry favours with you… Was it worth the sacrifice?)

You find it hard to meet her eyes, and so your gaze affixes itself on your hands. It’s not like you don’t love her or anything, but your apprehension makes you feel like shit. It shouldn’t be this hard to say yes, yet the idea of selling your life of privacy to live a life with her makes you screech to a halt at the crossroads. Sometimes (in these moments), you wished that you didn’t always make decisions with your head and your heart. 

As the shower continues to run, Wonyoung slowly turns around. One hand finds yours, the other gently takes you by the chin and raises your eyes up to her. She’s tall, and the two of you are staring eye to eye; same height, different trains of thought.

The hand on yours guides you to her breast. Eyes locked with yours, she lays your palm flat against her tit. The skin beneath your fingers is slippery, but it doesn’t remove any of the familiarity from the sensation. Then she squeezes, and the flesh spills out between your fingers like putty. She gasps—airy. 

“Don’t you want me?” She whispers, and it’s raunchy more than anything. It isn’t aggressive, but it’s certainly blurring the line between demanding and caring. “Don’t you want to be able to fuck this pretty little pussy every night?”

She’s really far from home base. “Wony…”

“Don’t you love owning me?” She’s squeezing harder. Her knee twitches. Sopa’s spilling out of your fingers. You’re certain that you’re gonna mark her. She doesn’t care. “Don’t you want me all over you? Every night?”

“It’s not that Wonyoung.”

“Then what’s on your mind?” She’s not prodding for an answer, nor is she trying to demand a reason for your silence. She wants to understand you, to internalise what’s going on inside your head. You have no reason to lie.

“Will it all really be okay?” you ask sincerely. “My family, my life… Will… Will it all really be…”

She understands where you’re coming from (if the relieving of pressure around her own breast is any indication), and she’s starting to tune herself to the frequency of your worries. “If you’re wondering if you’re gonna be harassed—you won’t.”

“Yea but—”

“I promise you: I will do everything I can to make sure that you will be safe. You and your family–if so much as a finger is laid on any of you, I will quit.”

“Wonyo—”

“No one will intrude on you. You won’t have to live with the flashing lights. I give you my word: I will make sure that everyone who wants to invade your privacy will leave you alone. You and your family will all be left alone.”

If it’s possible for sincerity to ring clear, Jang Wonyoung has absolutely made it happen. Sweet like honey; she’s left you feeling like you had a spoonful of it. And just for good measure, she steps closer and repeats once more: “I promise.”

Considering that your hand was at the left side of her chest, this was really a “I swear. Hand to my heart” type of deal (whether it’s intended or not is purely up to your discretion). 

And as you gaze into those eyes, you want to remember the way she gazes at you softly, gently, tenderly. If it weren’t for your hand on her tit, you would’ve considered this one of the more tender moments you’ve shared with her. Not that it’s not or anything… Just that it’s a little hard to call this a loving moment when you can literally feel her nipple poking into the flesh of your palm at all times of the conversation.

“Are you sure you won’t land yourself in trouble?” you ask her, and she’s quick to scoff.

“Of course. I make too much fucking money fo those higher up fuckers to not listen to me,” she reminds you. 

Well… Then that settles about everything then.

“Okay,” you tell her. “Okay… I’ll do it.”

The corners of her lips play up in a smile. She leans in, kisses you—no tongue, closed mouth—and lets the hand keeping yours at her breast fall. Long arms wrap around your waist and she pulls you close, flushing her tight frame against your body. When lips part, she whispers a soft I love you, a sparkle in eyes that lingered for a moment.

But only for a moment.

Then—without you noticing—her hand snakes down and grips your rapidly hardening shaft, and she squeezes. This time, the line between demanding and caring is clear as day, and she’s chosen to play her ball to the court of demanding. With a gleam in her eye, she begins stroking with her closed fist, and she pumps your stiff length at a slow but steady rhythm, adding an occasional twisting motion to her wrist, corkscrewing her fingers around your cock, increasing the pleasurable shocks she was sending through your system with each pump of her hand. It was almost like she wasn’t the sweetest, loving girl in the whole world just two seconds ago.

“Jesus fucking…” You can’t even finish your sentence. Your teeth grit. Your fists clench. It’s hard to breathe. “Maybe… A little bit of a heads up next time?”

She smirks proudly, watching as you tilt your head back and let out a groan. “Where’s the fun in that?” And gently, she pushes against your chest, guides you to the wall. When your back presses against the cool tile, she presses herself against you. She leans in, hot breath on your skin, and then the feeling of her lips against your jaw almost makes you yelp. She kisses a path down your jaw, paves a way towards your neck to get cheeky: sucking, nibbling, licking the skin of your neck while she keeps the movement of her hands slow and considerate. The shower continues to run.

Do you know—she breaks contact with your skin for just a second—how fucking horny—her breath’s tickling your ear, sending shivers down your spine—you make me?—and she squeezes a little harder around your shaft, not enough for it to hurt, but enough to feel you throb in your hand and make you gulp a little. She starts going faster—jerking, fucking pumping your length in her closed fist, and it’s almost impossible to keep your eyes open; your eyelids flutter shut. Your head rests against the wall, a sigh slipping past your lips. It’s filthy really—down from the way she catches you off guard to the way she makes your skin sore after she’s done feasting. Almost every interaction with her in a private space is as X-rated as this; it’s hard not to get into a situation like this around her. You know: a situation where the two of you are naked and getting really touchy and actively trying to get each other as many times as humanly possible. 

“Fuck yes baby…” you rasp, your nails starting to eat into your palms as she the sound of her hand sliding up and down your dick starts to cut above the steady stream of water. With each rise of her hand, the pad of her thumb plays with the head of your member, and when it sinks down, she twists her wrist in a screwing motion. Rinse and repeat; up and down and up and down and fuck. “You’re so fucking good at this.”

She hums in reply, and she has your earlobe between her teeth the next second, nicking you mischievously, sending small pricks of pain shooting through your system as she adjusts her grip on your cock without ever breaking her motion. Next thing you know, your tongue is inside your ear, and she’s leaning in so close that when you open your eyes, you’re practically looking over her shoulder, looking down the curve of her back that glistens with moisture and soap bubbles.

“I love this cock so fucking much,” she whispers, a bit of a hiss in her words as she takes the head of your cock between her forefinger and thumb and pinches lightly. “It stretches me out when I need it.” her fingers start to trail down your slipper shaft, letting the smoothness of her palm rub against your whole length, “fills me when I want it.” She’s milking the precum out of you, making you all leaky and squirmy as she starts pumping faster. “And it’s so fucking big that I can choke on it. You know how much I love being choked.”

She chooses that last bit to make eye contact with you, and she’s practically served you what she wants next on a silver platter. The next move is clear cut and simple; no words need be spoken. You were going to fuck her—and you mean properly fuck her—with a hand wrapped around that small throat. How you were gonna do it was still a mystery, but you figured that it’d slowly come to you, but it will definitely be related to the mirror and the sink outside and the mirror in front of it. At once, you reach over to the handle of the shower, and you turn it down to the handheld showerhead mode. Wonyoung bites her bottom lip, perverse glee painted all over her face as you use it to wash the soap off her back. She’s watching, waiting, probably drenched down there and aching to be stuffed full of cock.

She’s almost shaking with excitement as you finish washing all the soap off her body. You’d hardly consider her clean, but it won’t hurt to hop back into the shower again once you're done with her. The shower door swings open and you’re cupping her pussy, dripping wet while stumbling out with her, lips locked on hers and her hand on your cock as you push her against the sink of her hotel room. From the moment her mouth opens and let the moans pour out while you rub her clit to the moment her hand leaves your cock to cradle your face, she’s practically radiating need from the pores of her skin. You can’t help but playfully remark, “you’re such a fucking loser”, while your thumb thumps against her clit and sends pleasure tearing through her system. Weak in the knees, she holds on to you for support.

And the moans (those fucking hair-raising moans), they tumble out of those plump lips like marbles down a ramp, and they mix with the sound of your lips smacking against her skin as you start to leave a trail of kisses down her neck, doing to her what she did to you in the shower; you give her a taste of her own medicine, and the way she’s titling her head back to let you mark her freely makes it almost seem as if it’s the intended outcome of her actions. It’s like she knew that you would get back at her, and it wouldn’t come as a surprise if you ever find out that she gets off on knowing that she can manipulate you in her own bratty ways—get you wrapped around her finger and have you doing all the things she wants you to do without having to tell you. Not that you have something to gripe about it, but you’re just so amused (and that’s just one word to describe how you feel) by how she goes about her ways.

“Come on,” she manages to whisper, all while you’re busy sucking on the skin just below her collarbone till it’s sore. She has a lot of pride in her voice for someone who’s quite literally quivering. “You know you want to fuck me. Give me a good creampie again.” 

You lift your head for a moment, and you take in the look of almost childlike excitement on her face as your hand finds its way to her throat. It’s perverse excitement, that lewd exhilaration of knowing that she was about to get what she wanted, and albeit a little messed up, it was pretty hot in its own way. When your fingers gently wrap themselves around her throat, you can feel every muscle in her body tense in anticipation, as if she didn’t get enough from the bedroom earlier.

“Up on the counter baby. Let me see how messy you are down there,” you whisper.

She knows what to do, and she has herself propped up on the counter and engaged in open mouth kissing. She doesn’t need you to tell her to spread her legs, and she definitely doesn’t need you to tell her how cute she sounds when your fingers slip inside of her, feeling around the mess you’ve made of her and coating your digits in her fluids. Your index and middle finger are slick with her juices when you retract them from inside her, and you can’t help but chuckle. 

“Messy as ever,” you muse, making a show of sucking her juices clean off your fingers. She’s sweet and borderline tangy—a taste that you’re accustomed to, and you will never get tired of it. She’s biting down on her lower lip, the skin wrinkling under the pressure of her front teeth as she makes a sound that’s close to a purr. 

“You made the mess.” She has her eyes locked on yours as you raise an eyebrow, prompting her to follow up after her first statement. Not that you didn’t know what was coming, but more that you wanted to gently coax it out of her, because it was so fucking hot to hear what she had to say next. “You clean it up.”

And you’re more than happy to oblige. She watches you with intent eyes as you sink down to your knees, waits with bated breath as you lower your face till the glistening, pink folds of her pussy are right in front of your face, flushed thighs around your ears. Her excitement is almost palpable, and you can hear the sharp inhale she takes when your palm finds its place on the inside of her left thigh, pushing gently to give you better access to her heat (you’re really just trying to drag out the tension if you were being completely honest with yourself). You lick your lips, lean forward till your mouth is hovering above her slit. 

“You better moan for me this time,” you tell her, and you’re making sure to make your breath hit her slick as you speak. “You have such a wonderful voice. Put it to use.”

Praise mixed with the slight hint of authority—it’s enough to make her nod furiously and implore you with doe eyes to just get on with it. With a smirk, your lips find the swollen nub at the top of her entrance. You suck on it. Hard. And almost at once, her thighs clamp around your ears and her hand is on your head, like it’s some sort of natural instinct for her when you’re eating her out. Keeping to her word, she cries out—keening, whiny and ever so fucking bratty, and it’s the the holy grail of every wet dream. Nothing in the world could bring you more satisfaction than that shrill, airy cry she lets out when the pleasure ripples through her body, and you’re just getting started. 

Your mouth opens and your tongue flattens itself against her folds, (She tastes so good. You want all of it, all of her) and you drag it up her folds, deliberately, painfully slow as you start to lick up that wet cunt. Her back arches; you can feel her struggling to keep a hold of your head; she throws her head back and lets out a gasp; her thighs clamp down a little harder around your head. The pleasure in her system builds up with the slow movement of your tongue, only rising and rising as you lick from the base of her slit to the mid section to the top. When the tip of your tongue flicks her clit, it's almost like an explosion, enough for her other hand to join its pair atop your head, enough to make her cry out in a perverse plea, “Daddy, please!”

(For the record: she’s wanted this from the moment you guys stepped into the shower. She’s willingly turned herself into some pliant little plaything, and she’s probably getting off so hard to it. Frankly, if she wanted to order you around, you’d be up to it, but this is what she prefers.)

And nothing else needs to be said really. You put your whole mouth on her—relishing the shiver that runs up from her thighs up to her body—and get right into making a wreck of her. You lick, you devour, you ravish her: working your mouth on her pussy, lapping up the juices that spill forth from flushed lips with broad, sharp strokes that make her body grow taut and her legs quiver. You tongue her clit, lick up sweet fluids, make her messy and needy and hot in all the right areas till she’s drilling her nails into the back of your scalp and pushing your face against her sweet slick. In half whispers, she tells you just how good you make her feel—oh Daddy I’m so fucking wet!—and you feel a dark part of yourself be fed by these lecherous words—Oh god oh fuck I’m gonna fucking cum if you keep… Fuck!—that leave her half-parted mouth and linger in the air, reminding you of just how wanton she is and how you’re the only person in the world she ever wants to fuck and be satisfied by. You’re hers; she’s yours—a relationship with Jang Wonyoung that any guy would kill for. 

“Daddy—” she gaps, her voice a whole octave higher than it should be as her nails turn into claws at the back of your head. “Fuck I’m cumming. Daddy I’m cumming!”

The pulsing of her pusy against your tongue grows. You continue licking, lapping. One stroke, two strokes—three. She moans, blue screens. You hazard a look up.

Nothing else matters. Only: the sight of that back arching off the marble counter, her thighs around your head trembling and quaking as her hips roll and her mouth parts in a silent scream. You’re certain that there’s blood being drawn from the back of your head, but you're more certain that she’s got enough heat in her core to melt molten iron but a lack of breath that makes her gasp for air as you lick and lick and lick your way into her. You can feel her orgasm getting closer by the second, it’s in her breathing, and in the way her hips are practically thrusting her into your mouth.

And just like the bathrobe from earlier, she comes undone—falls apart and ceases to keep control of her body. She tenses, her thighs go rigid around your ears. Her breath is caught in her throat, her eyes are closed. You stop your work, admire the way she glows as her body twitches and her face twists. Pleasure rips its way through her muscles, her nerves—splits her very being in half as the orgasm rolls through her system. She’s beautiful, and she’s a messy work of art that you’ve created. 

You rise to your feet as she winds down, and her hands leave your head to rest on the counter while her body struggles to process the aftermath of that orgasm. It’s not the first time she’s cum for the night, and it certainly won’t be the last. Her eyes open, and she instantly locs them on you as you brush back some of the hair that sticks to her sweat slicked face. You take her hand and give a gentle tug, and she slips off the counter obediently. You grip her jaw—tenderly but rough enough for her to like it—and tell her to turn around. Servile, she obeys, and in the reflection of the mirror, she watches as your hand snakes its way to her throat and grips it. You’re not squeezing, not yet. 

“I’m gonna fuck this pretty little pussy now,” you drawl, gripping your shaft in your hand and slapping it against her slit. The contact makes her shudder, but she remains silent as you place a kiss on her cheek. “Your face is gonna be so pretty when I choke you and fill you.”

“Yes Daddy.” Her reply is a whisper, a borderline drawl that’s airy and raunchy and makes your hairs stand on their ends. She’s looking at you through the mirror, plump lips slightly parted and eyes glassy. “Own me. I’m yours, forever.”

And you’re all too happy to hear that from her.

You slip into her, hilt yourself inside her in one swift motion. 

(Tight. Hot. Wet. So tight.)

She lets out a sigh, low and sonorous, harmonising with your own groan as you press her against the edge of the counter and make the fingers around her throat squeeze. The sound that leaves her throat is the sound of her sigh being truncated, and it delights that dark part of you. Being inside Wonyoung was otherworldly, as it always was, but here, in the bathroom of her hotel, on the night where you’ve agreed to seal a deal with her, she felt downright heavenly.  She squeezes her walls around you, her body thankful for the sensation of being filled by cock, if the intense tightness and slick wetness were any indication; she looks over her shoulder and bites her bottom lip. And when she has your gaze, she mouths something. 

Fill me.

The silence is deafening, but it’s all you need to hear. 

When you withdraw your glistening shaft for the first time you relish in the feel of her walls gripping you, not wanting to release you—but just as quickly they welcome you back inside as you penetrate her again. Soon you are pumping in and out of her at a slow, steady pace, her soft gasps turning quickly into long, drawn out moans as she is fucked against the marble. Her hands steady her body against the counter, her back arched in a way that lets you get a wonderful top-down view of her breasts as they roll together with her body. It’s a concerted effort, but she makes it seem effortless. 

“Be honest.” With the hand around her throat, her voice sounds a little hoarse. It’s hot. “Do you think about this, Daddy? About fucking me like a good little slut?”

“Wonyoung,” you reply, speaking through your gritted teeth. “You have no,” and you punctuate the sentence there with a deeper thrust into her tight slick, a thrust strong enough for her to let out a strained gasp. “fucking idea…”

(In the mirror, you watch as she curls her lips into her mouth and tilts her head back into your shoulder, like she’s submitting her whole being to you and letting you take liberties with her body. You take the invitation, and your free hand finds itself on one of her soft mounds and gives it a squeeze—rough but tender enough to elicit a low moan from her throat that makes your hand around it vibrate pleasantly. 

At the given moment, she’s doing all she can to make herself a pretty little fuckdoll for you, doing her best to encourage you to treat her rough, treat her like you own her. She wants nothing more but to feel the rockhard meat penetrating her tight little cunt stretch her out and fill her the way she wants, all while she’s begging and pleading obsequiously while being obsessed with your cock. It’s a lot to take in for her for sure, but she gets off on it, and you get off on it too—the fact that she’s being all needy and pleading just so she can implicitly tell you to fuck her till she’s raw and can’t fucking walk the next morning. The fact that she’s actually in control while being such a bottom. Bratty manipulation.)

“Then fuck me Daddy,” she tells you, almost pleading. “Use this pretty little pussy. I want it. I fucking need it.”

With her invitation to do more with her body, you’re more than ready to do what you’ve intended to do from the very start. You increase your tempo, and before long you are truly fucking her, drilling in and out of the tight hot warmth of her body with quick, deep strokes. With each stroke you don’t pull out more than halfway—you concentrate instead on pumping hard and fast, getting as deep as you could inside her given your standing position. She takes it well, like she was made for this. In her world, this was what fucking looked like, and it was the only definition that she was going to live with and she’d take it to the grave. She indulges in the roughness, the almost animal-like way your cock fills her again and again and again, all while she encourages you with cries and moans and sighs that are music to your ears. 

And a notion hits you: she’s going to make you fuck her till she’s the only thing you can possibly think about. She’s going to draw out every single primal urge within you, make you want her like she’s some form of drug and you’re the abuser, and then she’s going to get exactly what she wants—your cum in her pussy. You can’t let her win like that, you can’t. You can tell that to yourself now, but you’re not sure if you can remember it later, not when she practically reeks of the strongest possible sillage of sex. 

Her pussy throbs around you, pulse strong and just a beat behind your thrusts as you thrust yourself in and out of her slick walls, filling her up and drawing yourself out before filling her up yet again. Pure filth spills from her mouth, expletives, sordid sighs and cries and any sound or word that comes to mind. She's a quivering and squirming mess, and from the mirror you enjoy the way she’s almost writhing in against the counter. Ample breasts bounce with each thrust that shocks her body, and it’s almost hypnotic if it weren’t for the fact that that pretty face was stealing the show. The face that was marvelled, the face that was the source of jealousy, the face that was on the face of so many magazines and posters and adored by millions, if not billions—scrunched up, improper and so fucking lewd that it looked like it belonged in a porno instead of an idols face, and you take pleasure in the fact that your cock is ruining the face of a princess, turning her dissolute and so fucking needy that she was as good as a fan begging her for an autograph. This side of her was reserved for you, and only you—her duality is reserved for your eyes only. 

Her body is slick with sweat, rubbing against your own sweaty torso while her body rolls together with your thrusts. “Fuck—” you’re saying, but it comes out as more of a growl than anything given how hard yur teeth are clenching. Your fingers squeeze tighter around her throat. The slightly reduced airflow at her throat causes her pussy to clench even tighter around you—and the added tightness brings succulent pleasure to your mind that makes you think you’re going insane. You probably are at this rate. “This pussy. It’s so fucking good baby.”

Her reply is a strained gasp, but you get the gist of what she wants to say. She wants, so badly, to tell you how good your cock is making her feel, how well it fucks her, how well it fills her and stretches her and how it’s her favourite thing in the whole world. The squelch of your cock filling her pussy is loud, but not loud enough to drown out the smacking of skin against skin as you press more of your weight against her, pushing her a little more into the corner of the counter and a little more over the line of pathetic. She moans in response to your actions, and it’s telling you: fuck. Harder. It’s better when it hurts. 

And you can feel her juices leaking down the back of her thighs, wetting your crotch and making the smack of skin against skin louder than ever, almost as if it was an announcement: I’m being fucked like a good little slut and I love it. She doesn’t know what she’s doing to you,and for clarity, it’s something along the lines of turning you absolutely feral with her moans and the divine tightness of her pussy that makes you want to cum on the spot. Okay,maybe she is cognizant of how crazy she makes you when you fuck her, but you barely have the capacity to think, let alone rationalise wether thai girl in your arms that your chocking and fucking feel smug in knowing that she’s driving you insane. 

Oh and she loves it when you play with her tits. The way you fondle them is almost aggressive. Scratch that—it’s really fucking aggressive. You’re slapping her tits, leaving red marks all over the milky white skin and pinching and twisting the stiff nubs atop her breasts, all while she mewls and cries out in that strained voice that makes you throb even harder inside of her wet walls and makes you grit your teeth like your a dog waiting to chew on a bone. 

“D-Daddy,” she pushes out, past the fingers that close her airways and past her groans and moans and sighs. “Harder.” And your thrusts are starting to cut her off, but she has more to say. When it comes out, each word that she spits out is punctuated by a thrust of cock into her pussy, and it’s the hottest thing you’ll ever hear. 

Fuck.

You thrust deep inside her. 

Me.

Your cock drives itself deep into her, slicking itself with her juices.

Harder.

And if words could linger in the air, hers certainly would. 

You fuck her hard, and fast, and deep—hammering her into the counter, nailing her defenseless pussy with a pace that you would have thought was rough and callous were it not for the fact you knew this was exactly how she wanted it. All she can do is hang on, grasp onto the counter with a knuckle-white grip with her hands as you take your liberties with her body, fucking her as hard as you can, as deeply as she can take it. The cups on the counter shake, the toothbrush inside one of them shaking under the force. It’s loud,  but you hear none of it. You hear only the sharp sighs of pleasure that leave Wonyoung’s lips, and the wet slap slap slap of your crotch as it hammers her cunt again and again and again, your cock drilling her, pounding her, making her yours if you weren’t already doing that.

It takes a little long, but the haze of lust parts for a moment for you to realise that you're getting closer and closer to getting what she wants out of you. While the thought of burying yourself inside of that quivering, pulsing pussy to let it milk every last drop of cum from you is ever so enticing, that small part of you that wants to own her pushes you to fight against the urges. Not that there’s any harm in giving her what she wants, but it’s just that you don’t want to reward her bratty, manipulative tactics. She knew for a fact that she could tie you up and ride you over and over till you were dry—she’d done it before. But instead, she’s chosen to fulfil her needs in a less direct manner, maybe for fun or maybe just because she felt like it. 

“Yes,” Wonyoung hisses, spit flying into the mirror and her palms slipping on the counter. “Just like this Daddy.” And she’s making sure to make eye contact with you through the mirror, letting her eyes do most of the talking. If anyone’s curious, the look she gives you is saying, I’m your good little slut. Fuck me. Use me. Fill me. Please, and it's nothing short of hot and tethering far over the line of lewd. At this point, neither of you are in a state where you're capable of coherent thought, nor are you capable of thinking about anything else except each other’s bodies and the wet, lewd squelching of cock filling Wonyoung’s pussy. It goes on and on and on, a cycle of your hips hammering the back of her legs and your cock spearing deep into her cunt.  She takes it so well, drinking you in hungrily, coiling around your shaft like a snake as if it was begging for you to stay in her forever. The sight is enough to make your balls tingle and your toes curl, and your hand around Wonyoung's throat tightens to the point where the only thing that can leave her lips is a groan as her airflow is reduced. 

She’s tighter, hotter, wetter. Her pussy fits you like a glove, moulding around your cock as it pumps in and out of her at a pace that you had no idea you were capable of. The hand around her neck is nothing but an outlet of pleasure for you, and she’s loving it. “Such a good girl,” you mutter, watching from the mirror as her mouth slacks and opens while she’s being pumped full of cock. “You were made to take Daddy’s cock, weren’t you?”

Her equivalent of a yes is a sharp, strained groan—an amalgamation of phonics and whatever sounds the lack of air flowing to her throat permits her to make. She’s so fucking messy down there, and your cock is sliding in and out of her with ease, aided by her slick juices that coat your shaft and let it disappear and reappear from between her legs with ease. The motion is almost graceful if it weren’t for the fact that it was a sordid one, and you take a moment to admire the way your shaft glistens in the light of the bathroom while you fuck her the way she wants it: rough, hard and tethering over the edge of callous. If it weren’t for the hand around her throat, she’d be making herself hoarse with all the moaning she’d be doing.

And the hand around her throat is bringing her so much pleasure, if the way her pussy squeezes around you when you choke her is any indication. She wasn’t lying when she said she liked being choked. While she didn’t like gagging on your cock, she sure as hell loved it when your fingers clasped around the muscles and made her gasp. She liked the sensation of being deprived of air, be it when she was riding or when she has her kness buried into her shoulders and was being fucked into the bed like a slut. You were always afraid of hurting her, but when she shots you that look, the one that says, come on, you can do better, you know that she’s getting exactly what she wants, just the way she likes it. It was just a matter of how hard you squeeze around her throat before she either cums or passes out, though the latter has rarely happened before the former.

“Daddy!” she chokes, and you know exactly what she’s about to say next. So you release her throat from her grasp, bunch a lock of her hair in your closed fist and you pull back. Her eyes squeeze themselves shut. Her back arches deliciously, her voice now free to finish shat she’s aching to announce. “I’m fucking…”

You never expect her to finish her sentence. Wonyoung’s eyes open, and a gasp leaves her open lips. Her walls, already vice-like, tighten so hard around you that you think you might come there and then. You feel how close she is. 

“Fucking cum for me, Wonyoung. Cum around my cock like a good little slut.”

Wonyoung does as she is told—and the quivering, trembling orgasm she experiences is almost frightening in the way it overwhelms her body, turning her into a wet, hot mess. Her pussy tightens and pulsates, her fingers claw against the marble counter, and her entire lower body shakes violently, as though she had lost control of her nerves and muscles. For a few beautiful seconds she is utterly overwhelmed by the sensations, until finally she slumps forward in your grasp, breathing heavily. 

It's good. It's so good, but it's not quite enough to get you to your finish. Not yet.

(And if anyone’s asking: it’s not that the sex isn’t good. It’s mind blowing, amazing, and whatever word that can be used to describe “fucking incredible”.  She’s hot, so tight and fucking soaked down there. You’re horny, throbbing and on the verge of filling her full of your seed. But you’ve said it before and you’ll say it again—you’re not rewarding bratty manipulation. As tempting as it would have been to simply pound her from behind until you gave her needy pussy the load of semen she so desperately wanted, you knew that there was something even better that you could do.)

You pull out of Wonyoung, your shaft glistening under the hotel light. Her eyes are wide with shock as you withdraw yourself from her body, pulling her away from the counter—but only enough to have her lean back against you and not stand up completely. Her mouth opens to say something, but she's interrupted when you turn her face to you and kiss her. She moans into your mouth, and you swallow it, your tongue slipping into her mouth and massaging her own, lapping at the roof of her mouth as her tongue swirled around your own. You bite her lower lip, and it's not rough, but enough to get her attention. When her eyes flutter open, you whisper, "I'm not finished."

She nods, and you relish the disappointment in her eyes. You turn her around, push down gently on her shoulders. She goes with the motion, and you're not sure if you can ever get over the image of Wonyoung on her knees with her pretty little face staring at you with anticipation. You think about fucking her face, letting your cock thrust into the back of her throat over and over and over till you finally bury yourself inside and cum down her throat, but that would just be a repeat telecast of every other night with her. Spice things up; give her the liberty of creativity with your cock. 

And of course, Wonyoung perfectly understands what has to be done. You step up to her. She parts her lips and takes your cock right into her mouth. Grasping the base of your cock and pumping it with one hand while she gently cups and squeezes your balls with the other, Wonyoung quickly launches into a hard and fast blowjob, taking the top half of your cock in and out of her wet mouth with a rapid pace while her fingers work your shaft in a corkscrew motion, just like she did in the shower. The suction of her mouth is almost lethal, and the audacity she has to look up at you while she takes your cock in and out of her mouth is so exhilarating that it makes you weak in the knees. Your hand finds a clump of her sweaty hair, and you close your fingers around it, holding them in your fist. No, you weren’t going to push her head down onto your cock; you had to give her the space to work on her craft. 

And of course, she exceeds every expectation out there. Your eyes shut involuntarily, your brain unable to handle any sensations beyond the wet, hot cavern of Wonyoung’s mouth sealed tightly around your shaft with tight, soft lips. With the first entry into her mouth her wet tongue is pressed tightly against the underside of your shaft, lathering it with her spit. With each subsequent entry her tongue becomes more adventurous, beginning with quick swipes left and right on your shaft with each entry and ending each exit with a swirl of the tip around the head of your cock. While she tastes herself on your cock, letting her juices mix with saliva, her hands work in perfect concert with her mouth, one joining her lips at your shaft and pumping up and down, a twisting motion to her wrist while her free hand works gently with your dangling balls, fondling them with considerate fingers. She plays with them softly yet hastily, her fingertips working their magic between the sacs with expert attention.

You are content to stand there with your eyes shut, simply enjoying the feel of your cock pumping in and out of her mouth at a fervent pace, but a small part of you knew that you had to see it happening in order to truly believe it was all real—and so with a not insignificant amount of self-control, you force eyes open to watch the spectacle unfolding between your legs. Black locks bob up and down frantically above your cock, doe-like eyes glazed with pure lust staring right up at you as her cheeks hollow and her jaw unhinges even more to accommodate your length. 

It all becomes too much, and it hits you all at once—having her pump your shaft in the shower, eating her out then fucking her—and you quickly find yourself nearing that inevitable peak.

“Fuck, Wony—” is all you manage to say before your orgasm overtakes your world.

Wonyoung releases your cock from her mouth a split second before you erupt, shooting long, thick strands of hot semen all over her pretty little face. Her face glazes over in pleasure and you are all too happy to watch as strand after strand of cum lands on her cheeks, her pretty little nose, and finally her open mouth and jaw. You watch, through half-lidded eyes drunk with pleasure, as the thick streams of cum flow down her face, dripping onto her upper chest and those perfect breasts of hers. Her face is flushed and her mouth open, as though she herself was on the verge of orgasm (she probably was, and she was going to make it your problem as soon as she got your cum off her face).

You want to remember the way she wipes your cum off her face with the back of her hand, how she licks it all up like a cat licking its own paw before moving to clean the stray strands of cum off the tip and sides of your cock. You want to remember how she rises so gracefully even though she was a sweaty mess, and how she gently takes your hand and guides you back into the shower for another clean up.   

And back under warm water, you want to remember how she kisses you, and how she whispers, “next time, I want that big load in my pussy.”

*

“What?”

And it’s hard to meet Wonyoung’s eyes as you set down the papers from the doctor. You can feel her confusion, her frustration, her rage from across the dining table in your apartment. It isn’t pretty. Nothing about this situation is. 

“It’s a neurological disease,” you tell her, all while you’re looking at the MRI that’s in the middle of the table. You’re really just regurgitating what the doctor told you—it’s the only thing you have the capacity to do right now. “They ran their tests. They told me what I suspected. I’m losing my ability to read and write, to understand language. In 2 years—give or take —I won’t be able to express my thoughts. I’ll be spouting gibberish. What people say, what I see — on pages, street signs, everywhere — they’ll all be unintelligible to me.” She’s silent, and it unnerves you in every way possible. You haven’t even gotten to the worst part of it all. “My mental competence will deteriorate. I’ll have to live off a tube cause I’ll forget how to eat and drink. Dementia will follow shortly.”  

Now would be a great time for her to say something, anything to break this silence. But she is silent, unmoving and reticent in her seat from across you. You have no choice but to gulp and deliver, in your personal opinion, the worst part of it all, “By the time I forget how to breathe I… I would’ve lost all my memories by then.”

She chooses the moment after the last word leaves your mouth to pick up the MRI scan and look at it. 

“So… Everything we’ve built up till now will just… Disappear?” she whispers. She sounds hurt, scared and everything in between. You bite your lower lip. 

“Yes.” There’s no point sugarcoating it, it’s inevitable anyway. Face it now, sulk later… You think that’s the best way to deal with this piece of news. You hope that the matter-of-fact tone of voice that you’ve chosen doesn't betray how frightened you are by the prospect of losing everything you know. “We can’t stop it. It’s in my genes.”

She sets down the scan, and when you look up, you see the tears flowing down her cheeks and it makes you want to cry as well.

She stands up, shoulders her handbag and walks towards the front door. 

“Where are you—” you begin. “I’m going somewhere else to think,” she interjects. 

When she slams the door behind her, you feel like you’ve let her down in so many ways. There’s a burning in your chest that you can’t describe. The first hot tear rolls down your cheek, and you let the rest that well in your eyes flow down without resistance. 

You don’t want to remember what it feels like to be helpless—the emptiness, the rage, the sadness, the confusion is all so overwhelming. But you figure that you’ll have to feel it again at some point down the road. 

Might as well figure out how to cope with it now, when Wonyoung isn't there and you're all alone with your thoughts.

*

When you awaken later that night in your bed in the apartment, it takes you a few moments to determine whether the soft, slim body climbing atop you is real or part of some wonderful dream—but the familiar warmth of your girlfriend, and the soft, pleasant smell of her hair, convinces you that this was all real.

Wonyoung places soft kisses on your neck and jawline, before moving to your mouth and kissing your lips softly. You are still only half awake, but your senses and instincts take over, and you find your mouth welcoming her kiss and returning it with one of your own, your hands moving to either side of her hips and finding, to your surprise, that there was only bare skin there and no clothing.

“Wony…” you begin, as she deepens her kiss, her lips pressing more firmly against yours.

“Shhh,” she answers, “please. I need this. I need you, right now. Please.”

She’s suddenly reappeared after walking out on you, and you have yet to process the slew of emotions that have come your way. Part of you wants to stop her, to talk things out with her so that you could: a) figure out if she was still mad at you and; b) verify that she wasn’t drunk. But the part of you that formed the majority of your conscience knew that she needed comfort as much as you did, and that she needed something to assuage her and make her feel like everything would turn out alright. So you find yourself relaxing underneath her, letting her scent fill your nostrils as her tongue dances with yours.

She straddles you, and your hands begin to run up her naked body, up from her slim thighs to her chest where the ample mounds sat proudly, her nipples erect and stiff. She isn’t wearing any underwear, and your fingers brushing against the slick of her pussy is enough to verify that for you. She’s naked atop of you, kissing you like you just confessed your love to her or like you’re about to go on some mission and never return. It’s not lustful, but it’s full off passion and aims to soothe not stir. 

She breaks the kiss. Her eyes flutter open. In the dark that is pierced by the street lights of the city, you want to remember the way her eyes glimmer and shimmer as she breathes heavily. There’s no alcohol on her breath, and from the way she’s cradling your face, you can infer that she’s not mad at you in the slightest. 

“You okay?” she whispers, and her tone is soft and warm, like that time she spoke in the shower of her hotel about signing that contract with her company so that the two of you could officially start dating. It’s been some time after that, but you still hang on to the way her words made their way to your heart. “I didn’t mean to startle you if I did.”

You respond by nodding, and it’s enough to convey: I’m alright. You brush away the hair that falls in front of her eyes, and you really want to remember how silky smooth her hair feels in your hands. 

“What are you doing?” you ask her, making sure to keep your tone as warm as her own. She blinks, goes silent for a moment, then answers, “I’m making amends.”

She holds your gaze, you hold hers. The staring contest ends when you gently pull her in for another kiss, and you want to remember how she softly moans into your mouth while her thumb, smooth and tender, caresses your cheek.

When the kiss breaks again, her hands snake their way down to your sweats. You assist her in removing your shorts—a very clumsy affair: tangled hands and arms and lots of chuckling. But your cock does finally spring out from your boxers, the ones that have been discarded in the corner of the bed, together with her clothes. When it’s all done, you have the pleasure of witnessing the sight of her slim frame straddling you once more, long legs surrounding you on either side of your thighs while she peppers kisses on your chest. 

“I’m sorry I left you to deal with… Everything. Alone.”  she begins, “I shouldn’t have walked out on you like that… I’m sorry. I hope you aren’t angry”

And from your lying position, you lift a hand to cup her cheek. “We can talk later.”

She gets the message, but bends down and kisses you nonetheless. You’d probably have trouble falling asleep later in the night, and she’d wake up and you’d have this same conversation again. You’d rather have it later than now, not when the wound is still fresh.

Wonyoung lets a soft smile play on her lips. You are slightly aware of her raising her hips, her right hand finding its way between your bodies to grasp your wet, erect shaft, and line it up with her entrance. She breaks the kiss for the third time that night, searches your eyes for approval to continue with this. Was it make up sex? You didn;t know if it was for sure, but it sure as hell felt like it. What you do no for certain is: you’d like to experience this now, and you want to etch this in your memory for as long as you can before it fades with the rest of your mind. 

You give her the slightest of nods, and you feel the head of your cock press against her wet, tight opening. Slowly, carefully, Wonyoung lowers herself down onto your shaft, your cockhead parting her tight lips to impale her pussy. She gasps loudly as she impales herself fully, and she opens her eyes slightly to match your gaze. You brush stray locks of hair away to reveal her face fully, and you bring her mouth back to yours to kiss her deeply. As your tongues duel, she begins to raise her hips, drawing your shaft out of her body before lowering it once more, and soon she has found a soft, slow rhythm as she rides you, grinding her warm, tight body against yours. 

She raises herself upright and lets her hands rest on top of your chest. You’d like to save that face she makes in a supercut of her other memorable faces: eyes closed, lips slightly parted and the wisp of a smile on her lips as she rocks her hips. From where you lie, you watch as Wonyoung takes you in and out of her body with soft grinding motions, riding you slowly, enjoying every entry and exit of your shaft as it fills her over and over in slow, tender strokes that make her shiver. You watch as your shaft appears for a split second or so before driving back into her, each disappearance accompanied by a soft spike of pleasure. As always, she’s letting moans and sighs and gasps tumble freely from half-parted lips as she takes you in and out of her slowly, rocking her hips with innate grace and elegance. All you do is let your hands rest on her thighs, moaning softly to encourage her as she rides you lovingly, tenderly, a far cry from what you’re used to when it comes down to sex with Jang Wonyoung. 

Through the night, your cock glides in and out of that perfect pussy, elicits moans and gasp and sighs and cute little cusses when you hilt yourself deep inside of her and tug a little at her hair. Her hands were always active, sometimes caressing your chest, sometimes on your jaw, sometimes behind your head as she snaked an arm behind your head to keep you locked where you were just so she could sneak in a kiss. You came in her mouth, her ass, her pussy. She came on your fingers, your cock, your mouth. She cussed a lot, almost passed out once or twice. You cussed a lot two, and you caught her when she almost rolled off the bed (the two of you laughed for a minute about that situation before you ended up spooning on the floor, her leg in the air and your cock pumping in and out of her while she had your back to you and your face in her right hand). 

Bottom line: it was wonderful, wonderful make up sex that ended with both of you sweaty and panting and wanting more from each other but you guys just don’t have that energy to keep going. It was a novelty for both of you, and you wanted to remember just how special she could make you feel, even in the impurest of acts. 

*

The flash of the polaroid camera is almost blinding, but you power through and keep your eyes open. Like a child that’s seeing snow for the first time, Jang Wonyoung watches excitedly as the polaroid emerges from the slot in the camera, and she’s all too eager to grab it and lay it face down on the coffee table in your apartment.

“I thought you’re supposed to shake it?” you ask, watch as she fiddles with the camera for a little bit before she snaps a selfie with her newest purchase. She gives you a look that basically translates to, “uh, are you dumb?” and waits for the next polaroid to emerge from the slot before she launches into her lecture. 

“Shaking the polaroid to make it develop faster is a myth,” the way she sounds so official and everything is so cute. You can’t help but smile a little as she sets the other polaroid down. “It shifts the pigments and blurs the photo, but an idiot like you would need a genius like me to tell that to you.”

The remark is clearly meant to be biting, but it’s nothing short of hilarious to you. “When did you become a camera nerd?”

“Ever since I got this,” she lifts the polaroid camera up and hits you with that you’re on camera smile. “Maybe I should do an ad for this brand. Increase their sales, you know?”

She leaves you to think on that and retrieves the first polaroid she took: a picture of you and her on the couch of your apartment. Not the grandest first photo, but hey, a memory is a memory, and you really are just focusing on cherishing those at the moment. As she leaves the couch to clip the polaroid onto the photo rack (a bunch of metal wires on a metal frame with wooden clips to hold photos) she just set up, you grab your journal next to you and flip it to the page you wrote on a few hours before. With your pen (that you now carry around just about everywhere with your journal), you scribble down a new part of today that you want to remember. It was her idea to journal down everything you wanted to remember. 

The entry goes right under the one about Wonyoung’s new camera.

She looks so happy with that new camera. Bet she’s going to go back to the dorm and show it off to all of her members because she’s a fucking child. I hope that…

And you trail off in your writing, What you wanted to say was just on the tip of your tongue just a second ago. Why can’t you remember it? It was literally just in your head a minute ago…

No. 

You shut the journal. It makes a soft yet substantial thud as the leather cover slaps against pages. You place your pen in your pocket, set the journal back down on the couch and stand up to walk towards your girlfriend, who is currently adjusting the angle that the wooden clip holds the polaroid at. She senses you walking up to her, steps aside and makes a space for you to watch her struggle. You would offer help, but you know that it removes half the fun for her when you do something for her. 

She fiddles around a little more, makes a couple of grunting sounds under her breath, curses a little, and next thing you know, she exclaims, “tada!” while pointing at the first occupant of the photo rack. You roll your eyes, throw an arm over her shoulder and look at the slightly blurry photo within the white frame. 

“With the camera,” she tells you, her tone soft and warm like… Like… Fuck. “I hope that we can help our memories live on. Sounds pretty deep huh?”

You can’t help but chuckle in agreement. You take a moment to stare at the two faces that occupy the space in the polaroid, and you hope to God that they will never, ever look foreign to you. It’s a futile prayer, you know, but a glass-half-full mentality is the best chance you have at not spiralling out of control. 

Wonyoung lays her head on your shoulder, silent and all sentimental as she closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath. She lets out a shuddering sigh, and you know that she’s trying not to cry, cause in this situation she’s the one that will end up hurt at the end of it all. You’ll forget the pain of forgetting; she’ll remember the pain of being forgotten. It sucks, but it’s just the way it is. You hug her, hold her close and stroke her hair. You don’t want to forget what she means to you, what you mean to her.

How many more polaroids left till it all ceases to matter?

____________________

Hello! Hope you guys enjoyed this fic. I'm a bit rusty so this one might be a bit funny, but hopefully the style of storytelling I chose didn't fuck you up too bad. Non-linear storytelling will be the death of me. Also: I kinda didn't edit this one too much. My bad hehe.

This was really more of a PSA to cherish the ones you hold close to you, because you never know when they will just disappear. Love the people close to you, cherish them forever.

“Let’s just finish this final paragraph, okay?”

“Fine. I’ll read it.”

“Then we’ll have this shit over with.”

“No cursing in my classroom!”

Snickers from the girls to your right, quick, mindless reading to your left, someone drops a pen. Didn't this happen yesterday?

“Very well done. Class is over, have a nice weekend.”

“But Ma’am, it’s only Thursday.”

“Oh. My bad. Then we’ll see each other tomorrow.”

Two dozens of bags get lifted from the ground, books and paper crammed into tight spaces, someone drops their smartphone. Yes, definitely deja vu.

“Shit!”

“Well done, Yena. I bet it’s cracked now.”

The slow turn of a delicate hand. Hundreds of scratches make the glass look like a spider’s uncarefully spread web. Someone cracks a laugh. Am I dreaming?

“I told you. Now, now, don’t cry. I’ll get you some ice cream, hm~?

Yena’s sobs and Chaewon’s coos can still be heard down the hallway. You shake your head in disbelief. Of course, this exact scenario didn't happen yesterday. It is as close to impossible as winning the yearly lottery daily, but your feeling of deja vu remains. The days blend into one another, nothing significantly changes.

The setting? The same. No one is going to paint over the old, dirty walls of this school to give them a new color, new life. They remain as a seemingly immovable constant, just like the yellow lights at the ceiling or the barely cleaned windows separating the outside from the classroom and the classroom from the floor. Maybe the weather changes, but at this point you’re even uncertain of that. Gray clouds lay on the world, an impenetrable layer that reeks of rain.

The time? The same. Your school's schedule is its most stable factor. The principal enforcing it is as certain as taxes and death. If too many teachers are missing to fill in the gaps, he himself will step in to ensure the absolute maximum of education, even if it’s 5pm. Part of this tyrannical precision is the teacher’s right to extend a lesson past the bell’s ring. It is utterly ineffective, as no one actually listens anymore, but it will never change.

The characters? The same. Not a day goes by where mostly bubbly Yena isn’t whining about something, be it the grandest of issues or a lost hair. Her best friend Chaewon is always on her side. With her calm, kind words and envious patience she is the perfect Yin to Yena’s Yang. Then there is Eunbi, the class representative, with amazing grades, amazing visuals and eyes colder than the arctis. Sakura is everyone’s crush, a girl who adores video games, looks absolutely beautiful and is a social magnet. Sadly for all the boys, she only has eyes for girls.

You could go on and on about all the other colorful characters in your class, friends, enemies, classmates, but it all leads to the same hole. The hole of repetitiveness. Not only the lives around you seem to be in an endless loop— you play along perfectly. Your thought processes all wander off into similar directions, your banter with Jimin and Chan is always about the same topics, hell, even your yawns during Mrs. Bae’s classes are perfectly timed. Day in day out, you always stay to your routine.

Isn’t it time to break out? To stand up and instead of going home, go to a friend's house? Walk through the park for another hour? Run downtown to eat some fresh churros? Your desire to break out grows, but it cannot overcome your rationale telling you:

Why am I concerned about this? Everyday life looks similar at times. So what.

A shuffle. The sound of a chair scratching over the floor brings the battle ensuing in your mind to a screeching halt and you jump. Someone is still in the classroom with you. This is unusual. Usually, you are the last one to leave. You don’t need to take a train or bus to get home, it’s just a fifteen minute walk, so unlike your classmates, you don’t need to hurry to the awfully timed public transportation. Today, however, someone decided to break with the loop.

You turn your head to search for the culprit. In the last row, someone sleeps, their head on their crossed arms, chair pushed lightly back to make the position more comfortable. In your many years of school, you have seen a couple of students sleep like this, even during class. Mingi was one of them, but he transferred last year. Yoongi as well, but he got his act together and is almost on par with Eunbi in terms of grades. 

You are sure it’s her when you see chestnut-colored hair dripping down on all sides of her head. Kim Minju, the quietest person in the class. It’s been years since you heard her speak a word louder than a whisper. She is always reserved, unapproachable and frankly, you sometimes forget she is still in the same class as you. She is a fitting last remaining option for someone sleeping at their desk.

“Hey,” you speak into the room, waiting for Minju to react. She does, by lifting her head up from the scratched surface of her table. Her eyes, slightly hidden by hair all over her face, dart around the room until they find you.

“Hey,” she says in a sleepy voice. You can’t help but smile. Minju looks somewhat adorable and helpless like this. Although most of her expression is behind curtains of brown locks, she looks like a lost child searching for her parents in a crowded theme park. 

“Are you okay? Don’t you want to go home?” 

“Later.”

“Later? But class is already over.”

“You’re still here too.”

You chuckle a little. Her voice sounds like she is still in dreamland and her head is unable to be upright. She lays on her arms once more. She is odd and you can’t help but be intrigued by it. Carefully, you stand up and take the seat next to her. Minju looks at you with surprise in her damp eyes. You wish you could read them better as she hasn’t shown signs of being talkative. 

“This must not be comfortable. I’d choose a bed over this any day.”

“It’s fine.”

You sigh as Minju turns her face away from you. This has been fun while it lasted, but she is frustrating to talk to. If she’d resent you, she would have already told you to piss off, but with this not being the case you feel like you’re just annoying her. 

“Your choice. I’ll go now though.”

“Okay.”

“See you tomorrow!”

No further words from her. Minju is clearly not mentally in this place. Is this the fate of those who only dream and don’t listen in class, you ask yourself while stepping out of the room. If so, she needs to be pulled out of it quickly. Somehow.

#

Today is not going to be the same. This sentiment has been stuck in your mind ever since you woke up. However, you haven’t really acted like it. Your alarm went off the same minute it always does, you listen to the same three songs while chewing on your favorite cereal and watching the same show. Teeth brushing and time to sprint to school have remained at their bare minimum, hell, the list could go on and on. Your sentiment has just been a faint thought. Until you step into the classroom.

“And then, and then he didn’t respond.”

“Aw, I think it will be fine. You wrote him so late, he probably just fell asleep.”

“Everyone, please stay calm! The teacher is coming.”

Yena is whining about something, some boy from the grade above or below. Again. Chaewon is comforting her with the patience of all the angels in all the heavens. Again. Eunbi is urging everyone to sit down with pronounced gestures and a loud voice. Again. It’s like you’ve heard these exact sentences before. This is beyond absurd and you have to do something. You will do something. 

Before Mrs. Kang starts the lesson, you take a longer route to your desk. With full intention, you pass by Minju’s desk and knock on it twice. Like yesterday, her messy head lifts from her arms and you try to find her eyes through the veil of her greasy hair. 

Doing something absurd like this has left you without a plan, without any words to speak, so you just put on a dumb smile. Minju doesn’t return it. She simply flops back onto her arms. It’s like reality is forcing everyone into their positions and if you don’t fight back, it might just get you as well. You sit down on your chair and look at the unamused girl as the first couple of lines are drawn onto the board. 

The lesson comes and goes like a soft wind. As soon as Mrs. Kang wraps it up, you have already forgotten everything she said. Your mind is solely stuck on how to get this terrible loop of everyday life out of your system. For some reason, you feel that the answer is with Minju, this one girl you never had anything to do with. She looks like the epitome, the greatest victim of the problem. It's time you do something for real, with a proper plan.

“Hey,” you approach her again, as the rest of your classmates fall into their usual, loud chaos.

“Hey,” Minju responds. It scares you how she has the same tone as yesterday. Maybe she hasn’t had enough sleep and rushes to school just for attendance. Her hair has also not been washed, it’s even dirtier and messier now. She kind of reminds you of a lone wolf, abandoned by everyone. 

“Uhm, I don’t know how to say this and maybe I’ll sound stupid, but—”

You grab yourself a chair and sit down in front of Minju’s table. Finally, she is bestowing you with a look over her folded arms.

“—I noticed, like, how do I put it, everything is so repetitive and bland, it’s really bugging me.”

“You think so?” she whispers dryly. 

“Of course! Everyone is saying the same stuff, does the same stuff, like—just look at Yena! She is always whining. And Jimin is always teasing Jun. And you’re always sleeping. I’m sorry, it’s just bothering me.”

You end your small tantrum with a sigh and hope that none of the mentioned took notice of it. It felt good letting off this steam, you were really pent up until now. However, you doubt that it was the right way to start a conversation with someone who is basically a stranger. 

To your surprise, Minju starts to sit upright and plug some of her long strands behind her cute ear. Her eyes scrutinize you while her face remains blank, unamused. Then she bluntly speaks, almost at a normal volume:

“Uh-huh, and why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want to do something I have surely never done. Something that will end this vicious circle at least for a day, maybe two.”

“You can do that on your own. Why do you need me for that?”

“W-well, I think maybe it could be something interesting for you too.”

Minju still doesn’t look convinced. Who could blame her? The way you come out of nowhere and act like a slightly crazy person wouldn't convince most people to take action. In panic you stare at the ground to your left, to your right, trying to find some words to explain yourself, before—

“Hmph, you are weird. Would it be enough if we met on the weekend?”

You look at Minju in surprise. Did she just suggest that? The whisper, the calm, dry voice with not too much enthusiasm couldn’t be anyone else.

“I think we never saw each other on a non-school day, so why don’t we just meet at the gate?”

“I knew you would understand me!” you shout triumphantly and almost jump from your chair, “We can meet at the gate and see where the day leads us. You okay with that, Minju-ah?”

Minju nods slowly and a faint smile appears on her adorable cheeks. You find it amazing how she still looks so pretty, even with her lack of make-up and wild hair. She could look superbly stunning with just a bit more care put towards her face, hair and body. But you won’t judge her on that. Maybe she just had a bad day. Maybe she never cared about stuff like this in general.

“Great, then we’ll see each other the day after tomorrow?”

“Okay.”

#

Tap. Tap. Tap. The tip of your blue and gray shoes hit the paved ground in front of the closed gate. After all these years, it’s the first time you notice how smooth the black rocks beneath you are. All the footwear scratching over them for all those years polished them to the point where faint sunlight gets reflected. 

It’s been quite a while since you woke up this excited. Your alarm went off at nine and with an unbridled excitement and unwarranted, but great expectation, you filled your backpack. Water, snacks, spare clothes, small games, more snacks—it’s like you prepared for a children's birthday party, sleepover included. 

And like a child you stormed out of the house, early enough to not annoy your parents and take a very different route. You wandered through small alleyes, the smell of rain still oozing from the gray asphalt and beige walls. Although you enjoyed it, you wished for the sun to come out—rain, rain, go away—you are literally a child and for today, that is okay.

Your wish came true. The light gray of the clouds was no match for the sun and small patches of sky blue pop up with every minute you wait. Now, it’s only Minju who is missing. The catalyst for why you finally got over the hump and out of the lulling everyday life. She’ll be here any minute. She’s never been late for school, something she obviously isn’t very fond of, so she won’t be late for this either. 

But why her? Why did it take her for you to do something like this? There is a weekend for your taking every five school days. You could’ve just ran out or called a friend and do anything but mold in your room for endless hours. It might be the thrill of something absurd, new, unnecessary but necessary. Your questions come to a halt when you hear footsteps.

You look up to see all the perfect variations of brown. Minju wears a wool dress with a stylish checkered pattern in various dirty colors, orange, green but mainly brown. Underneath the dress, a tight, cozy looking turtle neck wraps around her torso and arms in the color of chocolate chip cookies. Across her chest is the leather sling of her almost black handbag. Above all however, is the brown of her hair. Not greasy and unwashed as the days before, but smooth and combed, tugged behind her ear it hides her shoulders. Brunette excellence that delights your heart.

She stops before you. With an awkward sway, she avoids looking at you. The way her lips press together looks adorable, you can’t help but smile and disrupt the silence.

“Hello, Minju! So awesome that you could make it.”

“He-hey,” she waves at you instead of keeping eye contact for long. This seems to not be her cup of tea, but you won’t let your mood get dampened. She will hopefully get into it.

“I had a lot of ideas of what we could do,” you begin and straighten your back. Even like this, you aren’t that much taller than the girl wearing her, of course, brown shoes, “But first, I wanted to know what you think. What are you feeling today?”

“What I feel?”

Her eyes force your attention on them. Now that you can look into them mostly undisrupted with better lighting than in the classroom, you see a certain dullness, listlessness, even lifelessness in them. It takes you out of your childish dreams, the naivete that builds up. You take a step closer towards her. She tenses up.

“I-I just mean, what you felt like doing today. If you’re not feeling well or anything, that’s fine. A-are you—”

“No, no, it’s okay.”

She laughs it off with a wave of her soft hands and takes a step back. You can feel that something is off. Maybe you got her on a bad day. Or maybe even in a bad time, judging from how she looked throughout the week. It’s not the perfect day to make her jump over some mental barriers. Or maybe, this is the perfect day after all. The day to wake up, to get life back into your veins, to feel it again. 

You smile at her and scratch the back of your head.

“Okay then. Do you have anything in mind? Your dress looks unfit for a round of rugby, so I guess…”

“Wait, what?” Minju furrows her eyebrows, but then falls into laughter when she sees your playful smirk, “Oh, for a second I thought!”

You see her laughing face for just a split second before she hides it behind her hand. It’s cute, heartwarming even and you instinctively join her. In this moment, where all tension is lost in a simple joke, you forget that this is the first time you heard Minju laugh. In your presence, she’s never been this loud and bright before. 

It’s like the clouds open just a tad bit more—the same way your relationship might open up a bit more on this simple day.

“I can’t believe you thought that, Minju-ah. How should I fit a rugby ball and a dozen other players in this backpack?” you playfully mock her and she gets shy, while still giggling.

“I dunno, I’m sorry. That was just dumb.”

“Nuh-uh, you’re fun. I might not have a ball inside here, but I have this.”

You open up one of the many zippers and pull out two candy bars. The see-through plastic holds sweet caramel and toffee wrapped in chocolate. Sweetness wrapped in brown goodness—just like Minju, but you won’t make that joke. This is not a date with flirts but a rebellion against dullness. You hand one of the bars to Minju. Her eyes light up.

“What? I love those! How did you know?”

“I guess I’m good at guessing, I guess.”

“Ts, you sound like a child,” Minju mockingly replies, but opens the plastic wrap with child-like anticipation and urgency. You chuckle and observe how this sleepy head became lifely with just some candy. 

“I’m okay with being a child. We can go to the playground if you want.”

You take the first steps downtown and Minju follows you, her full mouth protesting your decision. 

“No, stop. I, yum, made up my mind.”

“You always speak with your mouth full?”

“N-no. Shush, let’s go grab something. I want, hm, a smoothie. Or ice cream.”

You smile that she finally found something, but you can’t stop teasing the cutie that finally caught up to you.

“And then we go to the playground?”

A hit on your shoulder.

“Yah! I’ll make up my mind, pabo.”

#

“Oh man, that was something,” you sigh, taking off the 3D-glasses. From smoothies and ice cream, you somehow got out of her that she wanted to go watch a 3D-movie at the other part of town. It still took more convincing from you until she told you which movie it was. Although it’s certainly not your type of film, you still went with her. 

“It was so good! When I thought I got all the clues, they still tricked me.” 

Minju has her fingers cutely formed into a fist as you too walk out of the theater and onto the street. Although it’s not yet completely dark, you feel the evening coming and this fun day ending. As Minju still goes on about how intriguing the case was and how she thought the gardener was the murderer, you tap her shoulder.

“I still don’t get why this is a 3D-movie. Like, why? Why have these effects for a detective movie?”

“You’re a pabo. It’s to pick up on the clues better! Ts, I told you that.”

“Well, maybe I’m just too dumb for these movies,” you rub the back of your neck and watch the annoyed, but finally fully alive Minju become flustered. She pouts and pulls at your arm.

“I-I didn’t mean it like that. I hope you still liked it, I’m sorry.”

“Minju-ah, I’m playing around! Looks like you’re the pabo.”

It baffles you. How can this girl look even cuter, with this shocked, angry, playfully fun expression on her fairy-like features? You feel your heart filled with warmth. Your mind is freed at the sight of Minju and at the thought of how the two of you got out of this loop. Nothing is the same as before. 

“It’s getting late,” you say and take a quick look at your phone to confirm the time, “Should I accompany you home? It might be dark before you get there.”

They fall. Minju’s bright eyes sink. The glow in them gets tainted by the dullness from before; but also pain. Pain that’s also in her weak smile that she can’t keep upright for long. Minju frowns and looks to the side, away from you. Suddenly, it’s all reset. Back to the beginning. You can’t let that happen.

“It’s of course fine if you want to go alone. O-or I could call your mum and…”

Minju fidgets, her delicate hand tightly wrapped around the leather of her handbag’s sling. She stares onto the tip of her feet. She looks cold, lost, like a forgotten child in the midst of an endless crowd of people. Things turn dark, not only because the clouds once again hide the sun, but also because Minju’s voice isn’t filled with excitement, but downright mourning.

“Mum, no. No, it’s okay. Thank you, but I’ll go home on my own.”

“Are you sure? Is there, is there some way I can help?”

“I think—”

Minju hesitates. Her fingers fiddle with her dress, then with each other, before she stuffs them into her pocket. She gives you an apologetic look, one that tries to convince you that there is nothing to hide and that things are just the way they are. Your heart tells you to not play along. There is something that’s really hurting her. So bad that it turns her back to the Minju, sleeping through life and all it has to offer. You have to lift the veil, you—

“—I should go on my own. It’s not that far, nothing will happen, hm.”

“Okay, uhm, was nice though.”

Your tongue betrays you. This is not what you want. It might be a smooth way to get out of the awkwardness, but it doesn’t get you closer to the problem. Something hurts her and you want to know it. 

“Yeah, it was. Guess I’ll see you in school.”

The last chance, but you won’t take it. No reason to stir up conflict. The day was good, it got you two closer and things inevitably changed. Why risk it?

“Yeah. Have a great Sunday, Minju.”

“You too. Bye.”

She gets a hand out and gives a small wave. A small wave, a small smile, but it’s all rushed and it's painful to look at. The beauty wrapped in all the chocolate colors turns around and quickly steps out of your reach. The reach of your hands, of your eyes, of your voice. 

“Bye.”

#

Sunday went by quickly as it always does and Monday greets you with the usual. Not the kind of usual you can always return to. The restaurant with your favorite vibe, the table in the hidden corner, the always comforting food. This 'usual' is what you're looking for, not the same old gray in the sky, same old cracks in the walls, same old chatter in the classroom. It's jarring. 

It makes you appreciate your new friend more. Minju is not quite usual today. She doesn’t look gloomy, her silky, clean hair is crested with a cute, pink barrette and she greets you with a smile and a wave. The usually dark bags below her eyes are partially hidden by a simple, yet effective touch of make-up. Minju’s beauty shines through her imperfections and you find yourself slightly blushing at the sight.

“Hey,” you say with a small smile and carefully place your elbows on her desk.

“Hey,” Minju responds, backing off a tiny bit. She reaches for her notebook. It’s blue, mostly tattered and the pages are empty. ‘Oh no,’ she mouths, eyes still drawn to her bag below.

“Are you alright? Need something?”

“I… I think I forgot my pencil case,” she whispers shyly and tries to hide her face. 

“Oh, I can give you one of mine.”

Hand her the pen and she bows thankfully. You both smile at each other a final time, before the teacher enters the room. You get ready to shuffle your chair back to your desk, but Minju’s soft voice makes you freeze in place. It’s like she opens the gate to new possibilities with just a couple of words.

“I hope, uhm, that you had a nice Sunday.”

“Th-thanks, Minju, I hope you did… too.”

#

Tuesday rolls around, and you couldn’t care less about the mundane things. You are excited to go to school, to meet Minju. You are excited about the brewing suspicions of your friends, which takes them out of their usual character a bit and makes the bickering interesting. With all this excitement, you swing open the door to the classroom. Everything, everyone is in order. Their eyes are on you as the door crashes against the wall with a loud boom. Your eyes are on Minju’s seat. It’s empty.

“Ey! Watch out!” Chaewon yells at you, as she tightly holds Yena’s hands. The duck-like girl quivers in fear. You must have scared her quite a lot. Tears pool in her eyes and you give her an apologetic bow.

“I’m sorry you two, I should have been more careful. Do you by any chance know where Minju is?”

Both girls shake their heads and Chaewon continues to glare at you, like she wants to stab you with a poison-filled syringe. Not that you would care. Minju not being here is a far greater concern to your mood. You fear that the day might immediately fall into the same rhythm, so you hold onto the hope that she is just late and will walk through the door at any moment. Maybe she will have the same enthusiasm as you did.

But it doesn’t happen. Not on Tuesday, not on Wednesday. The clouds do not part for two days. To say that it dampens your mood would be an understatement. Worry and annoyance have a hold on your thoughts, what teachers, parents, friends say is a nuisance and mostly forgotten. In some moments, it feels like a foul stench lingers around the campus. It gets even worse when, out of spite, you walk the same route you and Minju took a couple of days ago. 

You get angry at every stop, but this anger is short-lived and when you stand in front of the cinema, it turns to sadness. The kind of sadness that twists your stomach and leaves you speechless at its intensity. If only you knew where Minju lives or what her phone number was. Those irrational worries that brew in your mind could just be gone. They range from her just being ill with a cold to something terrible has happened with her mother. You clearly remember how quickly all her joy and hype faded when you just mentioned the word ‘mum’. 

Shake your head and head home. Tomorrow, Minju might just be back and if not, you’ll do everything in your power to confirm that she is alright. On Friday, you will ask her to meet again, and visit the park. You want to ask her a lot of questions and then, everything will solve itself. 

#

You breathe a sigh of relief when Minju is in her seat early Thursday morning. Most of your classmates are probably still riding the bus or just waking up, depending on how they usually go about their day, so it’s just you two and Eunbi in the far corner. She studies geometry with her black headphones on. It basically feels like you're alone with Minju. 

You cheerfully walk up to her, hand raised for a greeting. When you take a closer look at the girl however, you see her hair in a worse mess than ever before. It’s like someone took a pair of scissors and cut strands off at random spots. The hazelnut chaos spreads over her cheeks and what might look like bad bangs partially covers her eyes. Dark, tiny, motionless, except there is something flickering in them with unbridled ferocity. Minju’s pale skin is exceptionally pale against the large, black bags below her eyes. Her lips are dry and purple.

“Minju, are you alright?” you carefully ask and lower your hand. Your delighted mood is gone, dead, like the look on Minju’s face and her sorry posture. She looks frozen to the chair, only her knees shake as if she were in the arctic desert. 

“I’m cold,” she answers, her voice tiny, dry. She coffs and you almost leap to help her. But you are not there yet. There is still no proper friendship where you can just cross the boundary and touch her. 

“Can I help you with that? I can turn up the heater… or give you my jacket.”

You take off your jacket and Minju remains motionless. Her hands are in her lap, one resting on the other, the nails painted awfully messy. Her gaze mostly stays on them. 

“No need, I’m just cold.”

Minju looks like she is falling, continuously, into an endless void. It’s darker than her eyes as they close and she starts to cry. However, there is no sob to hear or tears to catch. Minju just cries, in her own way and you feel powerless to step in. You can’t catch her, something is physically pulling you back. Your heart may mourn at the sight, but what is there to do, to say, to make things better?

“C-can I ask what happened? You looked so lively a couple of days ago, and now—”

Your heart spoke those words. They are like a scream to evoke some reaction out of her, but Minju doesn’t stop the sorrow overtaking her more and more. You groan in sad frustration. This sight hurts you, you can’t deal with it. You gently place your jacket on her desk and see her looking at it for a second. 

“I’m sorry, I have no right to just—” You pause and ponder on a better choice of words, “I’ll be at my seat. If you need anything, I’m right there.”

Soon, all your other classmates stream into the room and take their usual positions. None of them seem to acknowledge Minju. For them, she is a figure in the background, one that might have changed a bit and even missed a couple of days, but they remain the same. Illness with two days absence plus a new ‘haircut’? Surely you wouldn’t notice it on a random classmate. 

At the start of the first lesson, your very picky and meticulous math teacher immediately notices your jacket on Minju’s table. You know his eyes are locked in on it and he will call Minju out any second now. But then he hesitates, takes a closer look at the disheveled girl, and looks through the class register. His face contorts like he is in pain. This is very unlike him, and it would’ve intrigued you more if it weren’t for the gloomy feeling in your heart.

“Okay everyone, let’s start… start with, uhm. Chaewon, please tell the class what we did last lesson.”

The teacher continues to be out of sync with how he would normally act. At the end of the lesson, he calls Minju upfront. Now you’re the one frozen on the seat and watch helplessly as he calmly and concerningly speaks to her. You can’t hear him this far back, and the question is, if Minju is able to pick up any of it. She looks down at the tip of her shoes and does not react at all. 

This goes on for the entire day. You can’t bear it anymore. With a final look over your shoulder, you dart out of the classroom quickly. The image in your brain is still the same: a helpless, frozen Minju, a withering girl with an unhearable cry. You notice the only difference a little bit too late, as it is barely noticeable.

Minju’s tender cheeks have the wet trails of tears.

#

Once again, Minju is not at school. This occurrence is so unusual, everyone is acting out of character. Different rumors shoot through the classroom, and they all negate each other. No one has a clue of what is happening, but they all do have an opinion. Chaeyoung in the last row says that she is probably just late, while Chan strongly believes that she is still sick and that the math teacher told her to stay home for longer. Julia has the harshest opinion though.

“I bet she is fully embracing her lazy life. She will either fail or drop out soon. That’s how it goes.”

You cover your ears. Everyone spouts nonsense, although they didn’t even talk to her yesterday. How can they be so sure? What do they know about her? Nothing. It frustrates you. The only people not involved in this except for you are Jimin, who stands by your side against these unnecessary allegations, and Chaewon and Yena. The two girls are entangled in a tight embrace and their heads are probably in a very different place right now.

Suddenly, the door bursts open. Your home room teacher and the principal walk in, both wearing a very serious expression on their faces. The rowdy class shuts up instantaneously. As if connected by one strand of nerves, everyone’s backs straighten. A gut wrenching tension fills the room, as the home room teacher sighs deeply and leans onto the front desk.

“I—this, this is hard. Excuse me, I need a second,” he says and stumbles a step forward. He is clearly not drunk, but his mind is dizzy with some heavy burden. The principal walks next to him and guides him towards a chair. Then he takes his glasses off, all fingers in a light tremble. You notice cold sweat all over his features. It’s contagious and creeps up your back.

“Class, I need you to stay strong, okay?” he begins and rubs the inside of his eyes, “I hate that I have to say this, but I hate even more that it happened. This morning, your classmate Kim Minju was—”

The principal pauses. It’s not long enough to make a large difference in his sentence, but it’s so big, you can hear the rapid pace of your heartbeat. It’s in your chest, your ear, your thumb. The burning red liquid rushes through your body. It meets the cold feeling of the goosebump and cold sweat on your skin, and this fusion almost makes you throw up. Your body gets torn to shreds, your mind is clouded. All in one pause that doesn’t really exist.

“—found dead in her home. She, she took her own life.”

In one moment, reality couldn’t be more surreal yet realistic. The stark contrast between a fragile dream and concrete reality resonates with everyone. It cannot be true, but it is. This is where they start with denial and move all the steps up to acceptance. But how can you accept the unacceptable? The voices of your classmates are background noise, but they are also all that is left. Air, matter, gravity, light, life, they all do not exist. Only the sound of gasps, cries and everything in between.

Then there is you, in pale freefall, just like the snowflakes outside. No one said it was going to snow today, yet it does. No one said Minju would kill herself today, yet she did. No one said deal with it, yet you do. You deal with it. Life goes on.

You throw your head forward and vomit over your desk. A lie knocks on your brain, on your stomach, and you vomit again. Sadly, you don’t have a reflex that will expel the disgusting shield of cold indifference out of your head. You know you will stop caring but you want to suffer. You want to hold on to Minju, the beautiful, quiet girl in class that was never supposed to walk down this dark aisle. 

She never wanted to die. No one does. 

But why?

Why?

Isn’t life beautiful?

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

“You’re such an asshole at times, I swear to God.”

Yena giggles as her head rests on your shoulder. Her bare hand rubs over your sweaty, equally bare pecs. These muscles were forged in the nearby gym and Yena has them all to herself. It’s basically an equivalent exchange, because Yena is no slouch when it comes to taking care of her own body. Abs and a thin waist, they look the best when she’s fully nude. And nude she surely is. You’re each other's trophies.

“Am I?” you ask and blow out the smoke of your cigarette. You told her a story about something, something you don’t care to remember. What or whoever it might have been about probably lost and you won. Such is life. You carefully put an arm around Yena and look at the orange-gray glow of your cigarette. Your girlfriend pouts.

“Babe, be real with me for a second.”

“I’m real every second, Yena, I don’t ever lie.”

“Babe, I’m serious here!”

Yena turns to you. Her stern eyes pin you to the backboard of the bed. This is no time to joke. You hastily put the glowing stick in the ashtray and the two used condoms out of harm's way. Yena then puts her arm on your nape and you have a hard time not staring at her heaving bosom but instead at the duck-like lips that pout cutely.

“Do you really love me?” she asks quietly.

“Oh, I see how it is,” you respond with a relieved sigh. Poke both her cheeks as you usually do in these types of situations. Yena’s tension comes out through her nose like the air of a balloon. 

“You are the hottest, prettiest, most desirable and most likable girl in the class—no, in the entire school.”

“Babe,” Yena blushes,”those were too many. You’re supposed to only list three things.”

“Huh? But what if I wanted to list more? Cuz it’s true.”

“Forget it,” she waves off, still blushing. ”Am I though? What about Yuri or Eunbi?”

“Okay, if you want me to list all of them,” you say, slightly annoyed, but you clear your throat regardless. ”Yuri is too crazy and not even close to your body, Eunbi is probably already married, also aloof, Sakura is gay, Hyewon is gay—”

“Wait, Hyewon likes girls?” 

“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. Seriously, the way she stares at Yuri all the time. Anyways, she is gay. Hitomi is not my type cause she’s too small, Chaewon is your best friend and not as pretty as you—”

“But she is so pretty!”

“Jeez, Yena, we’ll never finish it like this. Who did I forget?”

Both you and Yena ponder for a second, but if you’re quite honest, you do not want this argument to continue. You surely forgot a couple of girls in your class, but none of them can match Yena. She should know that, even if you don’t throw the L-word around a lot. When you do it, it’s only towards her.

“There is Minju,” Yena says in a moment of enlightenment.

“Who?” you respond. Don’t bother with the jarring task to remember who this might be.

“The quiet girl that sits in the middle of the classroom. With long, brown hair, it’s literally super long, I bet she never cuts and rarely washes it.”

“Oh I see. Yeah, no. Who the fuck cares about Minju?”

You turn to the side to cough. Yena’s face still doesn’t look amused so you do the one thing that will surely shut her up. Cup her cheeks in your strong hand and kiss her on the ducky lips. Add a simple “I love you”, and she relaxes. Her slender, naked body topples atop of yours. Finally, it’s time to go to sleep.

#

You wake up to the sound of a bell ringing. History class is over, and as per usual, you took a nice long nap at the end of it. Or throughout it. History has always been boring to you. Old guys did some things sometime in the past, wow, so impressive. It would only be a slight nuisance, but Yoongi and Eunbi always have to act smart about it. As if it actually mattered. 

Can they touch the past, like you can touch Yena’s midriff right now? Surely not. The young woman squeals at your touch and you quickly pull her onto your lap. Thank God she cares as little about any dress codes as you. Even on these mild spring days she already wears clothes exposing, no, downright flexing her abs to your classmates. They see and they drool, but the only one allowed to touch them is you.

“You look sleepy, babe,” Yena says as she cups your face to inspect it. 

“History, Yena, history,” you respond and force your tiny eyes wide open. Five more minutes until the next teacher arrives. Might as well enjoy the time by showing off your best trophy. Yena is better than the push-up and benchpress records, not only because she is great in bed, but also because she actually makes other people jealous. 

Lift her onto your lap and give her a loud, proud and obvious hickey on her exposed neck. Yena holds onto your shoulders and holds her breath as if she would burst into moans and groans at any moment. After your deed is done, you triumphantly turn your head around. Scan the class, because someone is always looking. They can’t help themselves. Poor bastards.

“Look at her,” Yena whispers. She must be doing the same thing.

“Who?” you respond, unable to find the girl Yena alluded to.

“Minju, the one with the long, messy hair, right in the middle.”

There she is, barely three meters away from you, yet in a different realm of existence. Brown eyes lock onto yours, though you can’t make out what emotion they convey. Envy? Disgust? Pity? Well, the last two can easily be attributed to her. Minju’s entire look is appalling. Greasy hair that sticks together in clumps, dirty clothes that probably smell rancid, and an expression that lacks any kind of care or passion. Truly pitiful.

“What are you looking at, huh?” you bark at Minju. The entire class goes silent. They don’t have to hide their gazes anymore. They are only bystanders, witnesses to a tension that you know all too well. This is power, this is the way to victory. You will get your way.

Minju simply shakes her head. She rests her head on her crossed arms and goes back to her routine of dozing, as if nothing has happened. Her attitude of indifference is something you did not expect. You cannot allow such disrespectfulness. 

“Get off,” you whisper to Yena, the anger in your voice not directed at her, but she still follows your command immediately. Slow strides bring you next to Minju’s desk, who senses your presence. She turns her sleepy head towards you and looks up, the same look in her dark orbs, darker than even the greasiest parts of her hair. You clear your throat in annoyance.

“I asked you a question, didn’t I?

“Care to answer it?”

Minju does not budge. She remains frozen below you, but it’s not in the way you want her to be frozen. She should be in fear, trembling, yet not moving at all, but your words, your rough tone does not seem to affect her.

“Lemme ask you again: Why were you lookin’ at us?

“I don’t care which way you swing, okay? Just letting you know there is nothing to get from us. Yena is mine, okay?

“Okay?”

You’re basically shouting at this point. Minju finally moves to put her hands up as a shield. You did not intend to punch her, not even a fist of yours is ready to strike. It’s a relief that your words can still evoke something from her. In a tiny voice that mirrors mice more than humans, Minju answers.

“O-okay. I didn’t me-mean to. Sorry.”

“You didn’t mean to what?” you growl back, voice dripping dissatisfaction from her vague response.

“Ma-make you envious.”

Pin the palm of her hand to the table below. Minju clearly lacks a quick reaction time. She only starts to gasp when the nail of your thumb drills into her sweaty hand, the pale skin growing paler, then white, and finally red. Minju hisses, but only you can hear the words.

“Stop, please.”

“Get lost.”

You leave her be, but not before giving her an angry stare. Behind the helter-skelter of her curtain-like hair, her eyes receive your wrath like a well-deserved punch. Minju drops back into the back of her chair and holds her palm with her other palm. She is reeling like a beaten down boxer. 

“I’d congratulate you,” Yena snarks when you return to her. “But she is just a girl, so no respect.”

“I can never let my guard down. Not in front of anyone. Not when it’s about you,” you hum as the usual noise of chatter and laughs returns to the class. A surge of fire fills your chest, your lungs, like you’re a dragon breathing flames of destruction. The feeling of power, of being the strongest, the one who is not reckless enough to let his guard down around the seemingly weak.

If Minju really likes Yena—

“I cannot allow her to take your heart.”

“Shut it babe, you know I only like guys,” Yena giggles and playfully pushes your shoulder. “What am I saying? I only like you.”

Then you kiss her. A bit too passionate for a setting like this, but not passionate enough to still your hunger for more. More of Yena, but also more of this control. No one else can have her, not even a piece of her. 

#

Damp concrete, a preferable alternative to the deep mud and grass of the nearby forest. You jog with intensity and focus, conquering the streets of your neighborhood. Usually you'd be the king of the trees, sucking in the fresh forest air around you while on the way to the gym, but today you need to take a detour. 

It's a welcome change if you're honest, especially because the lousy weather keeps prying eyes away. No one to interfere with you and your in-ears, the loud music blasting through the cords as you turn corner after corner until your heels come to a screeching halt on the fine gravel in Rainbow Street. 

A girl sits on the sidewalk of this street with its very unfitting name. Worn down buildings in a tiny, ugly array of gray and brown shades sit right next to each other. They are a stain in this otherwise genuinely pretty part of town, Rainbow Street my ass, such a tiny street with all the human filth in one spot—and for some reason, this girl decided to sit here, her butt probably sore from the gravel poking it.

"Looks uncomfortable," you say down to the stranger and pull out one of your in-ears. She doesn’t move her head out from in between her knees. Hell, in this posture she is certainly developing back problems. With wind blowing into the sleeves of her loose t-shirt, she’ll catch a cold first though. 

“It’s fine,” she whispers in a low voice, still firmly staring at the ground as if your comment came with the wind and just passed by. Give her a weak, confused smile in pity. Usually, you’d not bat an eye at something like this. This girl probably has a house, where she doesn’t have to freeze and she probably also has water and soap to clean her dirty hair, so why bother with pity?

“Is it though?” you say with raised eyebrows. “You sit on the ground like a pile of misery and wait for the next wave of clouds for what? To let the rain wash your hair?”

You start to laugh at your own joke, which got the girl to finally move a muscle. Slowly she turns towards you and lifts her head even slower, like it hasn’t been lifted in a hundred centuries. Your laughter fades as you stare into grim, miserable eyes which stare back in hurt, agony even. 

“Oh, it’s you,” you say and move to put your in-ears back in. “No business with you.”

“You’re so mean,” Minju states, her real emotions held behind the blunt statement. “Why?”

“Get lost, Minju. That’s why.”

You jog off, further down the street to quickly reach the gym. Never in your life have you felt the rising feeling of compassion switch to coldheartedness so quickly. For a second you felt like a hero that could save this cute puppy, but in the next, you realized that it actually was the disgusting, wretched Minju who had to flaunt the fact that she clearly lost control over her life.

She doesn’t even bother to take a shower or pretend to have any character. No wonder she’ll continue to be nothing but a loser in school.

#

During your workout, you thought more about the wrong classmate than about the right one. Minju, being the wrong one, has no reason occupying the free spaces in your head. You’d much rather think about Yena, the right classmate, the one with incredible charm and wit. Yena is respected, Yena is envied, Yena is your girlfriend and absolutely amazing. Minju is none of that.

Enraged about Minju’s sulking expression popping up in front of your inner eye again, you throw down the dumbbells. Someone’s shouting in anger, others stare. Enough workout for today, you need a distraction. A distraction served by the right classmate.

“Yena,” you blurt into your phone’s speaker the second your girlfriend picks up. “I’ll be at your place in 30 minutes, you down?”

“Oh my~” she responds and you can already feel her turn in her bed in excitement. “I don’t know, don’t really like sweaty boys coming into my room~”

“Since when did I come into your room sweaty?” 

“I’ll make sure you’re gonna be sweaty, babe~” Yena whispers, voice sultry, dripping of lust like the sweat from your forehead and drool from your lips. 

#

“Babe, promise me something.”

Yena fondles your hair and looks at you with anticipation. It’s something serious again.

“Anything for you, Yena.”

Wrap your arm around her hip and look at her, relaxed, sweaty, just like she predicted.

“Don’t, like, don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t terrible, but please, babe, don’t go too hard on her. She’s a girl, you know?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Minju and what happened in class.”

You sigh and look away in annoyance. Pull out a cigarette from the back on the nightstand. Your hand recklessly pushes off packets of pills and condoms. Why am I shaking?

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say and search for a lighter. “She was annoying, right? And disrespectful. And I know that there are girls that like girls and that there are girls that might go crazy, especially over you. I know you’re smart Yena, so you get me, right? It’s not like I beat her up or something.”

You stop yourself from falling deeper into an incoherent mess of bad explanations, but Yena is already side-eyeing you. At least she has a flame for the stick between your lips.

“Yeah, you did not beat her, but you went too far. Raising your hand and pressing down hers? Babe, that was not necessary.”

“I did it for you, baby.”

These words roll from your tongue so easily. Whatever counterpoints Yena brings up, you can easily melt her with them, reducing any valid criticism to nothing but dust.

“But, but she’s a girl—”

“And you’re the only girl for me,” you hum and blow out the smoke before turning towards her. Yena clings onto you like a koala, pouty lips, trembling eyes, and best of all: still fully naked. Press a kiss onto her lips and she gasps.

“Babe, I—”

“I love you, Yena.”

“Me, me too.”

“Let’s forget other, stupid girls and classes. You’re the hottest thing since the sun and I want you now, baby.”

Take another drag and Yena basically jumps onto you. At this point, the two of you won’t have enough sleep for the classes tomorrow. Doesn’t really get better than an extended weekend, you’ll take it with glee. Throw away the cigarette, Yena throws away the blanket. I love truancy on a Friday.

#

“You should really take your girl now!”

Chaewon’s shout is tiny compared to the ear-drum shattering bass of the large speakers right above your head. You look at her, confused, and point at your ears. Chaewon rolls her eyes and points at Yena, who is stumbling through the crowd, a large stain on her pink tube top and a half-empty bottle of vodka in her hand. 

“Better. Get. Her. Out!”

Her message is clear, and it should shame you that she is more worried about your girlfriend than you are, but you’re too used to it. Yena is magnetic to parties and the parties are magnetic to her. They need each other, and usually, you enjoy yourself alongside her, but for some reason, she went over the top today. Shot after shot after shot, down her throat until her dance moves became laughable. 

“Fuck, fine!”

Growl in annoyance to make Chaewon back off to her clique and drinks while you grab the wrist of your completely dazed girlfriend and drag her through the crowd. Your eyes are always at her back, her hips, her bottom. If any filthy bastard tries to touch her, you will tear off his hand and shove it down his trachea to make him regret not respecting you enough.

Outside the old barn at some outskirt of the city, Yena suddenly starts to run, bottle still in her hand, her feet faster than usual. She is an excellent sprinter, but for some reason, the alcohol pushes her to a sudden sprint. You can barely keep pace but soon catch up to her when Yena leans to a wall and—

“Yena, what are you doi—hey, are you ok—”

—violently vomits out the hard liquor and her last meal, some noodles and meatballs. You bunch up her hair and turn your head away in disgust. Yena pushes out more, the unbearable sound not seeming to end in forever, until finally, she gasps for air.

“Sorry, sorry, babe, are you—”

“Jeez, Yena,” you groan and scrunch your nose, unable to look at the pile of half-digested food without feeling your stomach tighten painfully. “Just sit down over there, and try not to—you know?”

Unsure if she understood any of your words, you guide her to a nearby bench in front of the highest point of the wall. Except for the occasional breeze rustling the trees and Yena’s heavy breaths, it’s eerily quiet. You scan the area attentively, no possible attacker will go unnoticed, not even the figure on the far end of the wall. Why would someone sit there and stare skywards? There are barely any stars tonight.

The person has spotted you and jumps off the wall. You’d prepare to fight for your honor and Yena’s safety, but then realize that the person is pretty small and frail. You pull out your phone and point the flashlight at the approaching figure. Dressed in a thin black jacket, it’s none other than Minju. Again.

“Did not expect you here,” you snark at her and point your flashlight closer to her face. “Why the fuck are you here?”

“Hey! Is-isn’t that Min-Min-ju?” Yena bursts out in laughter and rises from her bench. “Best friends, best friendos!”

She steps towards her classmate in deep drunken delirium and tries to hug her. Instead she loses her footing way earlier and is about to crash face first onto the ground. You’re unable to react on time, but Minju is. She catches Yena’s fall, knees painfully digging into the gravel as both her arms catch your girlfriends’ fall. Slowly, the two of them descend onto the ground.

You stand there frozen, as Minju reaches into the pocket of her dirty jeans and pulls out a surprisingly fresh tissue. She carefully wipes Yena's dirty mouth, not shying away from the abhorrent smell and delusional smile. Minju holds her still like a baby, and Yena giggles stupidly. 

“Get off of her!” you shout at the top of your lungs and push Minju off at her shoulders. She jumps and lets go of Yena, who almost meets the ground below if it weren’t for your arms on her back. In your rage you pick your girlfriend up so she stands and sways again. Her good mood fades as she struggles to stand upright, even with your arm around her.

“What is your game, huh? Stop trying to get her, she’s mine,” you snarl down at Minju, who sits on the ground, her legs shivering in this mild spring night. She should have worn more than a skirt if this is still too cold for her, but for some reason, she still has this unusual determination in her eyes. 

“Can I have this?” Minju asks, oblivious to your rant, pointing at the vodka bottle still firmly in Yena’s grip. Your girlfriend doesn’t react to the question and instead rests her head on your chest. She sniffles and weeps, tears soaking into the fabric of your polo shirt. Enraged, you kick a bunch of gravel onto Minju—she should get fucking buried beneath it.

“Fuck off, really. Are you really that desperate? Pathetic.”

“I-I’m not, I just want to drink.

“Would you let her drink it? Yena is already looking bad.”

Furiously reach for the bottle. This fucking bitch. Throw it as hard as you can against the wall. It bursts into a million shards, the vodka running down the gray surface. Someone opens a window.

“Hey! You fucking rouges! Stop this shit or I’ll call the police!”

You’d love to curse back at them, but Yena pulls at the hem of your shirt. You look at her teary eyes and sigh. This has been a big enough mess, no need to push the limits. Stare down at Minju, who still looks at the spot the bottle hit, her eyes big yet blurry. She looks absolutely miserable.

“Back off,” you say to her. “Don’t come close to her again or you’ll regret it.”

#

Monday comes and goes, the same goes for Tuesday. You might sit in class, attend each of the lessons, but you’re not listening to a word the teachers say. Nothing special, if you’re being honest. You’d usually guide your hand on Yena’s thigh and watch her smirk knowingly as she tries to pay attention. This would go on until she pinches you. She tries to keep up with school a lot more than you do, it shows in her grades.

Today however, she is not in the mood at all. She swats you away from the start, her gaze focused, yet angry, as she tries to copy the teachers’ scrabble from the blackboard. You roll your eyes, this is not uncommon either, especially during that time of the month. 

You roll tiny pellets of paper, your ammo for today. Simple, childish entertainment, sure, but you can’t wait to see the reaction of today’s target. Minju had it coming for a while now. Usually you’d send the paper flying over her head at one of the stupid classmates behind her; now she is in full focus.

At least she would be if it weren’t for her absence. You only notice it when you turn around to ready your first throw. She is not there. You drop the pellets to the ground, the only form of disarmament that actually feels like it. How can she not be there? The teacher didn’t even notice, no one noticed—and no one cares, except you.

But why do you care? Students are absent all the time and a loser like Minju has all the reasons not to go. For some reason, it still grinds your gears, brings them to a screeching halt and makes you form a fist. Feel your own fingernails dig into the palm of your hands; this is getting a bit out of control.

Suddenly, Yena’s hand is on your thigh, a surprising twist to your usual shenanigans, however, she is a lot less gentle. You spin around, meet her gaze for a second before the angry hum of your teacher finally gets your attention. She must have been standing there for quite a while, trying so hard to do her job by teaching you something, something, something.

“Oh, so you are still among us,” she notes, looking up and down at you above the rim of her large, blue glasses. “I bet you now know all the details of the French Revolution.”

“Of course,” you respond, voice and posture as nonchalant as ever.

“Do you mind explaining the root causes that led to the Battle of Verdun?”

“Actually, I do mind.” Let your smirk fade for something more sympathetic. “Excuse me, Miss Kang, I just have a terrible headache right now. I think I should leave for today.”

#

“You should pay more attention in class. You can’t always skip the lessons you don’t like.”

You put your phone on speaker and throw it on the desk. On the other side is Yena, thoroughly annoyed from the moment you started this call. If you’re honest, her annoyance is getting on your nerves as well.

“But I don’t care,” you groan into your room, loud enough for your girlfriend to hear. “It’s really hard to pay attention when it’s just boring shit, day in, day out.”

“I know it’s boring to you, but you know how grades work and that they don’t give a fuck about you not giving a fuck. At least try?” Yena tries to bargain, but you shatter her away.

“Why the fuck are we still talking about school? I should be by your side right now. Should I come over?”

You smirk in lust, one hand opening a drawer with countless condoms in it. Let a pack of it glide through your fingers before you hear a loud sigh coming from Yena.

“Not today, no. I-it’s better we not.”

“Huh? Why is that?”

“Look, it’s…”

A long pause. You almost slam the drawer shut, instead catching yourself at the last moment and only closing it carefully in deep regret. There is a deeply rooted hate in you for evasive behavior like this; it’s terrible in movies or TV shows, but when it is happening in real life, it makes you snap quickly.

“Yena—”

“I-it’s because… you wouldn’t… look, we can’t do it, okay?”

“Oh. It is that time of the month, huh?

“Ew.”

Another pause, this time a lot more tense.

“What did you just say?” Yena growls furiously. “Oh my God, you’re such an asshole!”

“Yena, I—” Your words face an impenetrable wall, not even reaching your girlfriend’s ear.

“No! Shut up! You insensitive idiot, I don’t want to deal with you too right now. Fuck. Off!”

Yena hangs up. You smash the pack of condoms to the ground, a nerve struck by her entitlement. Oh well, that’s how they are during this time. She’ll calm down by Thursday, maybe Friday. You get to sleep, not willing to even see the school building tomorrow.

#

The tide doesn’t turn on Thursday, but for some goddamn reason, you still went up to that school. For the first time since you two became a couple, she completely ignored you. You’ve been waiting at the gate for an extra twenty minutes, which meant less sleep for you, which means more annoyance, which leads to—

“Watch your fucking step, bro!” you growl at a random student, who was unlucky enough to be in your walking lane. This has quickly turned to a day where everyone is better off either treating you like the irritable King Saul or disappearing all together. A day like a threat; it all hangs by a thread that could tear at any moment. 

Your patience is thin and so is Minju’s arm when she tries to pick something up. Too bad for her, she is right there when you try to pass her. With the grace of an elephant you pass by her, painfully squeeze her arm against the table and hear a whimper of pain. 

“Watch it, Minju,” you bark at her and aggressively take your seat, eyes locked on her. Everything about her looks has gotten worse, her posture looks like it’s about to break, she could fold in half at any minute. Any hobo would have more dignity. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit.”

“I—it hurts.”

You can hear from the tone of her voice, stiff and pained, that her arm really hurts. Minju wraps her fingers around it gently and looks at you, but all you see are her shimmering eyes with nothing left inside, dull and dead—and so absolutely infuriating. 

“Like I said: not in the mood.”

Minju hisses. Blood spills from her elbow. The class has taken notice of the situation and looks on in awe as you stand up and in front of Minju. Someone is brave enough to sneak out, probably to get a teacher to check on Minju and the open wound, from which beads of blood slowly drip to the floor.

“What have you done?” Yena suddenly whispers from behind you, makes herself beside Minju and looks at that twig-like arm. You can’t channel your focus on her for long, Minju’s sniffles drive you to the edge of insanity. 

“She was in the way, okay?” you respond, not bothering to give Yena another second of your time. For this lone, fleeting moment of your life, you can get it all out on this loser—that no one would miss, that no one sees—in all honesty, you might do her a favor with this. Now, she has everyone’s attention. They can also see how dreadful she looks and smells and dresses.

Minju is undeserving of life in your eyes—and your eyes are on her cheek.

“Maybe you should apologize?!”

A smack heard around the world. You could’ve done it so many ways: grab your wrist and use both fists to hit her or maybe angle your elbow to hit her eye socket. Instead, you went straight for her cheek with your left, swung like a boxer and Minju flew off the chair. No way she could’ve dodged this.

Knocked down after one punch, but there is absolutely nothing satisfying about it. It’s all just a mess. The puddle of Minju on the floor, swollen face, bloody mouth, lifeless limbs. The crowd of classmates that surround her, take photos, groan in shock, turn around to not vomit. The hands of Yena all over your face, push you back towards your seat, into the arms of a teacher, then an officer. 

Her face tells you everything. You’ll never see her again, not as your girlfriend, not as your trophy. Those times have ended with this punch heard around the world. In the end, it wasn’t worth it. The ambulance arrives and you hear the principal yelling, not the words, just that he is yelling. To your surprise, Minju never looked better than now—with that maniacal smile on her face as they carry her towards the ambulance.

#

To your surprise, you’re not in a jail cell on Friday, but in the principal's office again. The sound of that smack you gave Minju, it finally left your ears. You’re not deaf anymore and ready to take a chance at redemption. Of course your fist could not have slipped, not with all the witnesses and the power behind it, but maybe a couple hours of anger management will save you from a trial or whatever punishment may await you.

The principal looks angry, you expected as much, but the anger is mixed with shock, speechlessness and disbelief. He must have seen a ghost last night, or God himself. You’ve never seen this serious man look so at a loss for words. 

The door opens, a young woman and a police officer walk in. She is crying, he is stern. They both wait for the principal to say something, but he just points at you, unable to come up with words that could describe you. At this point, you’ve had it with their hesitation, their overreaction. 

“What am I doing here?” you ask, calmly, quietly, as not to show your slight annoyance. 

“T-tell him, Miss Kwon, please.” The principal’s voice is about to crack, so he turns around, hands in his hair, while Miss Kwon sits down next to you. You slowly remember why she is here. She is the confidant teacher, the kind soul, the one who cares for everyone. Even the likes of Minju.

“Min-Minju came to the hospital yesterday,” she begins, her sniffles stopped temporarily when the officer hands her a handkerchief. “She, she looked good. Yes, she did, sur-sur-surprisingly.”

For the first time, you look at Miss Kwon, but she averts you. Her posture is frozen. She continues to talk as if you aren’t there.

“I remember, she smiled, said something about you. We shouldn’t be angry, you showed it to her. I asked her, but she just smiled. The doctors said she was free to leave tonight, to-to-tonight—”

Miss Kwon bursts out in tears again, her ruined face hidden behind two fragile hands that try to keep up her composure. Behind her is still the officer, the only one to look at you in the entire room, and his dark orbs are full of disgust, like he hates your guts to the core. 

“We found her.” Miss Kwon tries everything in her power to get out another sentence, you feel your breath halt for a bit. “She was, she was hanging from the ce-ceiling—”

Miss Kwon wails, but all you hear is a clock ticking in the background. 

“What?”

“She killed herself!” the principal screams and slams his fists into the desk.

“She is dead, she is dead!

He slams down again and again, the floor starts to shake.

“Do you understand me!? Do you regret it!?

He hits it and you realize—

“Do you regret it!?

—he’d love to hit you like this, over and over and over again. 

“Do you regret it!?”

Do you regret the single tear rolling down your cold face?

I can‘t take this anymore!

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

An interest in photography. A camera in your hand since you’ve been four years old. A nice motive. Click.

Other hobbies don’t come to mind. Friends are none of your concern. Just a camera and the desire to one day make money with it. The grades have to match that desire though. Click. Back to study.

You have pictures of all of your classmates. Most of them taken in secret. All of them show how they grew the last couple of years. Yena and Chawon have matured, fit and attractive. The main bully has gotten bigger, meaner. He’d kill you if he ever found your pictures of Yena. They might not be inappropriate or unflattering, but he is scarily obsessive.

One motive catches your eye. While most of your classmates have bloomed to varying degrees, one gorgeous girl has withered. Your pictures of Minju portray her as increasingly less well-dressed, less combed, less happy. You can barely catch a glimpse of her full, uncovered face. It bothers you how she hides it.

No, it’s intriguing. You can’t keep your eyes off of her. Starting someday in the middle of the school year, you can’t stop looking over to her, sitting in the midst of the classroom while being outside everything and everyone.

Snapshots here and there with your phone and a small digital camera during class. They form a collection of this disheveled girl. You’d much rather have something truly worth framing, taking with your best camera model. This will have to do for the time being, you tell yourself.

Suddenly, one day, you swear that she seems to light up more and more. It is not noticeable for anyone else, no classmates, no teachers — only you know that Kim Minju shines like a star today. Dozens of pictures fill the folder of your phone. Your heart starts to race a little bit. Maybe you could approach her, get more of this glow, hell, even a full portrait—

Don’t be ridiculous! A picture like this is impossible to ask for. You never asked anyone for such a favor, let alone someone whose connection to you only exists in your mind, in your fantasy.

Minju is not in class. A day ago she was glowing; now she is hiding. Call her a solar eclipse and you a solar flare the way you burst. The thrill is burning in your veins, blood rushing to your head as you head out, towards Rainbow Street, your most expensive camera hanging around your neck. You stop next to one of the many older, Japanese style houses. There is a police car. You quickly hide behind a tree across the small street, much more akin to a trafficless avenue.

Two officers walk out, with them a few more people, dressed in black with sorrowful and disturbed faces. Minju is not amongst them, even though this is certainly her address. They murmur and whisper and cry about something, someone — they will miss him, why did he do it, oh this poor girl. The officers drive off, the crowd disassembles.

Right before you decide to leave, the sliding door to the small building opens. A fence and a wall obstruct your view, so you decide to climb up a few branches, just a few feet off the ground to maybe catch a glimpse off—

Minju lays in the doorframe, the sliding door not fully opened. Her head rests against the side, tears endlessly streaming down her face. Small sobs, contortions of her beautiful features, her hair everywhere yet at the same time, you’ve never seen so much of her face.

Her features are flawless. This moment feels like a personal show for you. Instinctively, you reach for the camera and take a photo. Then climb higher, take another photo, then again. Minju does not notice you, but her crying intensifies once more. Her hands try to grab something. She wants to hold on so bad. Click. She gasps, cries out. Click. Words stuck in her throat, lips dry and torn. Click.

A hundred more clicks as you try not to overdose on this perfect moment. You have never felt such a rush. Minju is all yours, these pictures are your proof. Nobody gets to see her like this. Your heart races at the thought that this might be the only moment, your only chance to see this spectacle. A spectacle for you and to you only.

With a hint of disgust about yourself you walk home an hour later. Jerk off to her once because what is one more sin for today? The next day, she isn’t at school, but you don’t visit her either. The day after that she is back, but you can barely stand looking at her. In the one picture you take Minju looks her absolute worst, worse than her endless sobbing and crying and screeching and hair pulling. 

You decide to go back to Rainbow Street the very next day, early in the morning. One hour from the start of school and you stand before the house again. You carefully glance at the sliding door. There is a gap, it’s open.

Your heart skips a beat. The thrill of just having a peak is enough to push you forward. Nobody is out here this early, nothing will disrupt your trespassing. Increasingly rapid breaths leave your nostrils as you put an eye to the gap. It‘s completely dark inside, just a faint white reflection hovering in the hallway catches your attention.

Your heart now races. Fingers push open fully the door that was ajar. The dim morning twilight floods the dark house and the faint white turns to a clearer picture. A simple gown, worn out, hangs from the ceiling.

A scream gets stuck in your throat as your knees give out and you collapse on the floor. Minju‘s eyes are wide open, dead and with yet to dry tears in them. Bruises on her neck, bruises on her hands, lips in a hideous purple. The noose barely holds her at the jaw, blood drips from the corners of her mouth.

You have never seen nor imagined something as utterly horrifying. It‘s like every negative emotion is flooding you for your sins. Sins you have committed, sins you still commit. You find Minju more beautiful than ever.

Beneath her dangling feet you find a letter in crude hand-writing.

To my dearest daughter

I know you won‘t understand this but this is necessary. Ever since your mother passed, I haven‘t had a clear thought. My head is a mess, my mind isn‘t mine. But I have to take responsibility. I have to stop this voice, this feeling for you. You look so much like her, it‘s too painful for me, I can‘t look at you. Please forgive me, I‘m going to her now. For your sake too.

Please forgive me, Minju. I love you.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

„Where is your dad?“

„Out. Somewhere. Drinking, probably.“

„It‘s been a year, huh?“

„What are you doing here, anyways?“

„Keeping you company. Wanna play Mario Kart?“

„So you just wanna game? Play something else then, at home.“

„Hey, Minju, wait! We can do something else if you want. I just need some — excuse to stay with you, something to pass today.“

„But I don‘t want to see anyone today.“

„Not even me?“

„Definitely not you.“

„Okay, that‘s fine. But promise me that you‘ll call me if you need anything — and text me before bed.“

„What are you? My lover?“

„Just a worried friend.“

„I‘m doing fine.“

„You don‘t look like you‘re fine. If you want to be alone, I‘ll go now. But I‘m only a call away.“

„Thanks. Bye.“

#

„Minju! Minju! Open the door, please, open it now!

„Minju! Why weren‘t you in school yesterday? Are you okay? Open the door!

„I swear I‘ll kick it down right now!“

„He is dead! He is dead, fucking dead and it‘s my fault!“

„I‘m coming in!“

„No! Go away! Don‘t look at me, I‘m a demon, a devil! I killed him!“

„Calm down, please. Put, put that away.“

„No!“

„Put the rope away, Minju. Please.“

„…“

„Okay, now breathe. Slow, calm, ste—“

„I don‘t want to breathe — I want to suffocate like he did.“

„Minju, please.“

„I killed my father. I‘m a murderer, I should die.“

„Minju, please. You need to breathe. No more sobbing, no more screams. Listen to my heartbeat.“

„I-I can‘t, I don‘t deserve to!“

„Then I will hold you closer, until you‘ve given up this awful plan, until your tears are dried, until you can tell me why—“

„…“

„Minju,

„I don‘t want to lose you.

„You‘re my best friend.“

„Please, let me, let me go. I‘m a demon, a monster.“

„Even if you were, I‘d stick with you. I‘m not going to let you die tonight.“

„…“

„What is in your hands?“

„My reason.“

„Your final letter?“

„My dads final letter.“

„Whatever is written in this — it does not mean that it‘s your fault and that you need to die too. Minju, isn‘t life beautiful?“

„It‘s fucking not. I can‘t do this anymore.“

„You‘re right to feel this way. But it‘s the only life you got and even if this is just me being selfish, I want you to continue trying, continue living.“

Yeah, the best possible thing you could do is ignore her, open your apartment window, and throw yourself out. Or, better yet, pick her up, and toss her instead, or fuck, get your hands around her throat and squeeze—if only you weren't certain that she'd be so happy when you did, that she’d lift an eyebrow, flash that smug grin, all delighted that you've added a new dimension to whatever doomed tangle the two of you are in, and say:

"Didn't know you had it in you."

So you just slump.

Drop your bags, your jacket on the floor—whatever, you'll get to them later. Walk past her, like if you don't acknowledge her existence you can delay the inevitable for a touch longer, stop her from digging any deeper into your brain. But if there's anything you know about Ningning—she has all the patience in the world.

Happy to keep raiding your kitchen, letting the milk sit on her lips, timing it to the exact second you slip up and look her way—then licking it clean with one swipe of her tongue.

You ache more than you'd ever willingly admit.

Not that she'd have any trouble making you.

It’s who she is: Queen of dark corners and thick fucking air that suffocates your lungs. A tiny little nightmare half your size, always one careless glance away from splitting you open like it’s nothing.

She doesn’t even need to try.

Hair a messy shawl down to her shoulders, lips a light pink hue. Traces of eyeshadow, curled lashes, chipped nail polish. She clearly had something far more important to deal with earlier—you're just another box to check off today’s to-do list.

She pushes off your fridge. It’s inhuman. She knows exactly where your eyes will go.

You can’t stop it, you’re staring straight at her tits the moment her body shifts—the tiny crop top clinging snug, doing obscene fucking things to all the soft weight underneath. And below all that, just a scrap of panties. Nothing else. Makes you complicit the second you look.

"Had fun playing hero?" The glass makes a hollow ring when she sets it aside. "Yuha's been blowing up the group chat since you left her—oh, forty minutes ago?"

You freeze when you reach your kitchen island. Lean back, and wait for her to come to you. It’s the only scrap of resistance you can still muster at this point.

"Sounded fun—going to the movies, holding hands in the dark, hugging her close when she got scared. Did you like the outfit she was wearing?"

It only takes one step.

She crowds you against the counter, hands planted on either side of your waist, caging you in. Even her smile is pissing you off. Her top’s cut low, and it hits you like a vision—this exact angle that's been burned behind your eyelids.

One thin strap still clings to that dainty shoulder. The collarbone you’ve licked and sucked and worshipped more times than you can count staring back at you.

And it’s slipping lower still, a small shift and the whole top will give—tits spilling free, nipples begging for your mouth.

She leans in, a whisper sticking against your skin that she stamps in with a kiss. "I helped pick it out for her, you know."

Your breath catches. You groan. You need to move, shove her away, tell her that this needs to end tonight; the guilt, the depravity is a mountain looming over any blackmail she hangs over your head.

But you can't do anything. Not until you have her permission.

Instead your hips twitch towards her, and your cock strains underneath your pants, hitting her belly like a trained dog.

She pushes forward, a shoulder into your sternum, backing you up as far as you can go into the countertop, and reaches down.

Her fingers skate up the inside of your thigh, and the strap of her top drifts down until she's exposed and she doesn't seem to mind at all.

No, she's flawless. Devastating. Pushes her body against yours and her tits are so full and plush and squash against your chest and you need her to fucking stop before—

She squeezes you tight, and you inhale sharp, choking on her scent.

And it fucks you up, because she smells exactly like Yuha.

"Yeah," she says, twisting her wrist, her grip, careless with how she fists your cock, your balls through your slacks. "She let me borrow her perfume as a thank you.”

Ningning leans, grinding the fragrance deeper down your throat.

“Isn't she so nice? Isn't this so nice? You get to think about her while you're with me."

She doesn't expect an answer.

But it drives you mad—she tilts her head so you can see how it clings to her; her throat, her collarbone, her tits. It’s sweet, it’s soft. It’s wrong. It makes your cock throb.

And you'd touch her, reach for her, run your hands over that smooth skin, the soft curves; take a handful of her in your palms and squeeze her right back, twist that nipple and tell her you can dole out the same amount of punishment—but Ningning drives her shoulder into you again, fists clenching around you, and pulls, and it's with deft hands and practiced fingers that your belt clinks open, the button and the zipper fall apart with it.

"Turn around."

For the first time, you manage some small protest. "Yizhuo."

She smiles at that, tricks you into thinking it’s fond. Glances low and yanks down your briefs. Frees your cock and lets it slap against her palm. Hard, throbbing, undeniable evidence of everything she does to you.

And she is—what the fuck is she to you? Your girlfriend's friend. Her senior, her pseudo-older sister.

Your client. Or, your boss.

Or just—she's the person that caught you sneaking around backstage—bored, horny, stupid.

You're the help, security—company’s hired muscle. Already neck-deep in the shit by dating Yuha; and you dug your grave and carved your own tombstone the second Ningning caught you in their dressing room—panties smothered over your face, cock in your fist, chasing a peak you couldn’t quite summit.

That was the first time you gave her everything she wanted.

She was smiling then too. Like she'd been waiting for the excuse.

She looks back up at you, fixated on your lips.

"Yizhuo?" She mocks you, and reaches up with her other hand, pressing it to your lips. You let her in, as easy as you let her into your home, let her force two fingers in until you gag, until she has you choking on her digits when they tickle the back of your throat.

She twists her fingers in your mouth, has you drooling down them, leaving them slick with your own spit.

And then she drags them out, pulls the strings of your saliva down to your cock, and runs her hand over it in one, decisive, torturous pump.

"Yizhuo is what my friends call me," she says, taking you from head to base, and slathering the underside, underneath your balls. "Are we friends now?"

You choke down another breath when she starts to stroke, achingly slow, always patient. You buckle under her gaze and it has you confessing, "No."

"I didn't think so," she tuts. "Don't make me repeat myself again. Turn around."

Ningning steps away, gives you just enough room to move. To show her your back, make yourself vulnerable to her.

Let her know she could do anything at all and you'd just take it.

And it's fucking embarrassing when she reaches around and finds you so humiliatingly hard. You know the look on your face must be even worse, because Ningning's laughing.

"My, my, my," she says, clicking her tongue against her teeth as she gets the full measure of you. Taking her time—she needs it to navigate the length of you—revelling in every second. "So hard already? You look so ridiculous in my hand."

And then:

"This would snap tiny, pretty Yuha in half," and it does its job, provokes you, but every chance of resistance is drained from you when she wrenches her hand tight and takes your cock rough from base to tip. "How nice of me, doing both of you a favour."

Your knuckles go white against the counter, there's plenty you could do, but with Ningning all you can ever manage is brace yourself—ride it out, let her have her way.

She keeps herself busy, crafting slow, deliberate strokes. Getting off on this, her skin so deliriously hot against you, burning, like she knows—knows if she twists her grip like this she can rip out something raw from your throat; knows if she rushes her palm down it'll make you hiss through your teeth.

And she knows if she squeezes and pumps you fast—filling your kitchen with these slick, messy noises, this rhythmic schlick-schlick-schlick—you'll call her name again and she'll have to bite into your shoulder and warn you: "What did I say about calling me Yizhuo?"

You close your eyes. It's just a hand—it could be any other girl, you spend your days in proximity of so many of them.

"I'm the only one for you," she tells you, finishing a thought you didn't realise she could hear. "No other girl would know how to use you right."

She pulls a moan out of you when she palms your tip, smearing the beads there, before gliding her hand down—and you hate that it sounds like an affirmation.

"They wouldn’t even know where to start,” she continues on, steady torment. “They’d need you to teach them, guide their small hands, be their first big strong man.”

You open your eyes, catching her other hand tugging your pants down and under your ass; your shirt’s already unbuttoned, dropping down your shoulders and leaving your chest bare, free for her nails to mark up and dig into.

"Yuha sure as hell expects that." She laughs again and it's evil and she's on her toes now, sucking something hard into the line of your throat—and it's going to leave a mark, something you won't be able to hide, will need to explain away to your girlfriend, to the other girls, to the company in the morning, but that's the last thing in your mind when Ningning adds her teeth and makes it hurt.

"Fuck," spills out, and you're seething, seeing red, gripping into the counter so hard you could make a dent.

"You love it." She kisses into your new scar, soothes you, the sick kind of tenderness only she can grant, and it makes you bend into her, lets her fold her body over yours, and her words hit you like a healing balm, the feeling of her body slotting over yours, enveloping warmth, tits slick with sweat squashed against your back, leg hooking around your knee like she's trying to crawl inside you, lips so close to yours and reflex has you turning to meet them.

"Please."

"Just this once," she tells you, and you’re so thankful when the pace of her hand builds, and her nails start to draw a circle around your nipple, and you twist your head far enough that she can breathe in every sigh and pained gasp she drags out of you before swallowing it all in a kiss.

She leads it with her tongue, and you're falling into her, into her grip, into her mouth, into the soft wet of her lips against yours, and there's so much she's doing, forcing on you—pumping, squeezing hard, pinching, twisting your nipple, and there's something in this that you want to deny so much: her control, her promise of where she can take you, it feels so good now, she can make it feel even better later.

Until she bites into your bottom lip, and you’re tasting copper, and she pulls away.

"Baby," she says, with a last, messy peck on your chin, the strands of saliva hanging there, another binding she has on you. "You're so pathetic."

You groan when she gets close, thigh brushing the back of yours, knee splitting between your legs to keep you spread open. Grinding herself into you, forcing you still with a single hand wrapped around you, and you can hear how hot both of you are—the squelch of your spit, your slick making your cock all glossy.

Her fingers tighten—just enough to make your knees buckle. And she builds, this aching pace, she knows the rhythm, knows how to make your skin crawl.

"You're a pervert, a filthy degenerate," she lists off, breath scalding the shell of your ear. "Bet you were sweet and gentle with Yuha on your little date. Calling her baby, telling her how pretty she looks in that dress. Kissed her like a good boyfriend would."

You wouldn’t dare, it’d be fucking audacious, to read anything into it—believe there’s a twinge of jealousy there, envy at her own junior. Pure disaster. Your brain’s already too fried to untangle the implications of that anyway.

"Tell me, tell me how good you were to her," she says, and she twists on your nipple again, pierces you with her nails. "Or were you too distracted counting down the minutes until you could come crawling home to me."

"I was good," you rasp; you're barely keeping it together. There's no hiding anything now—your body, your moans, it all betrays you any time you try to do anything other than what she wants—and if that wasn't enough it's the sound of her stroking you, so goddamn loud it rings in your ears and laughs at your whines. "I am good to her."

She punishes you with these fast, brutal strokes, and snaps, "Liar. How can you say that when you love this so much?"

"I—"

But you can't finish, Ningning gives your nipple one last tug and slides her hand around your body, dragging a nail down your lower back, engraving a path that ends right at your ass, between your cheeks.

"Yizh—"

"That's the third time," she grunts, and pushes her finger against the tight ring of your asshole. "The third time you've tried to call me by my name. But that's not what you get to call me, is it?"

Something raw, something that doesn't belong to you surges from your throat when she pushes, finger tight against your rim, and it's just a fingertip inside but it has your knees banging against the marble in front of you and you're not sure what hurts worse but you're absolutely sure of what feels best.

"Don't say another fucking word, unless it's the one I want to hear," she says, and she's grinding herself harder against your leg, fucking herself on your thigh, soaked panties dragging hot and slippery over your skin. She's so warm, like a sick, twisted embrace and through the corner of your eye you can see her—the delirious grin on her face, the violent delight she's taking from you and you can't help but think it:

She's so gorgeous.

Ningning pushes until she's knuckle-deep inside you, your whole world narrowing to this single point. It’s sharp, burning, before melting into something disgustingly good as she curls it, squeezing that spot that rips the word out of you like it was always waiting underneath your tongue:

"Mommy."

And she chuckles, twists her finger, driving it all the way in, forcing you to fuck yourself deeper into her hand.

"Mommy, it's—"

"I know," she kisses it into your neck, licks it across your cheek, tastes the tears that you can't stop leaking from the corner of your eyes. "Mommy's got you."

She fucks you like this—like there's no time left, like either of you might drop dead any second now so there's only this—fucking your ass like it's the light at the end of the tunnel, having you fuck her hand just the same.

“This is all you’re good for, isn’t it?” Her breath hitches, she pants against you, wet, parted lips sliding across your cheek. “Being a good slut, a fucktoy for your Mommy, isn’t that right?”

And you’re already so far gone, air’s going thin, it’s getting worse with every press, and she just keeps pushing deeper, punishing you into this merciless pace.

“All of this—all of you. Your cock, your tight little asshole—mine, mine, mine—say it.”

“Yes—fuck—it’s yours—it’s yours—” You’re whining, exhaling hard with every stroke, there’s nowhere else to go, just do your best to tell her whatever she wants to hear. “Always been yours.”

And it's pressure building, cooking inside of you, the marks she left on you, the pain you'll remember—blood in your mouth, your shoulder, red on your chest, blooming around your asshole, she's fucking banging you into the counter now, and whatever squeeze your ass has on her finger she's matching around your cock.

"Come on, baby, just for me," she coos, and you try to close your eyes but her voice stops you in place—"Don't look away—look me in the eyes, so I can see you. See who you really are—a filthy boy who gets off on getting broken by his Mommy."

So you look, stare, see that glassy wash of pure joy, the hunger there, how she's living for this, dominating, being in control of you, punishing you with this ruthless, this rough, this brutal kind of fucking.

“Nothing will ever make you feel as good as me. You want me to make you feel so good, don’t you? Suck your worthless cock. Fuck every drop of cum out of you—take every single inch,” Ningning tells you so easily, sincerely, like it’s already planned, destined, it’s all in the cards, and—“I can do it for you, baby, I can do it all.”

She shoves her whole body into your back, fucking her finger deeper; it’s insane, all of it—her digit curling inside your ass, stretching you out, finding all sorts of angles to exploit.

“I’ve got a surprise. Mommy’s got a gift for you. A nice, big toy. A brand new cock. I’ll show my cute little slut how to really fuck.”

That makes you cry out something guttural, makes your cock throb painfully in her grip, another thick bead of you sliding over her knuckles.

“You'd love that, wouldn’t you? Love to have Mommy ruin your tight, tiny asshole. Stretch it out wide.” Ningning bites it into your ear, “Greedy.”

“Yes—please—Mommy—fuck—please—” You’re sputtering, it’s all too much, a miracle you’re still somehow coherent, just repeating the same begs, the same pleas, the same prayers because you're feeling it—feeling her everywhere. “Please—my ass—I can’t take it—”

And that's your excuse—your out, this is all just a bodily reaction, inbuilt instinct, natural chemistry, biology, whatever the fuck.

She's stroking every sensitive nerve of your cock; fucking you deep, reaching mind-numbing points you could never dream to find yourself each time she invades your asshole and god, Jesus, fuck, Mommy, she's forcing a second finger inside you, splitting you open raw and—

"Cum for me, cum on my finger, cum all over Mommy’s hand, do it for me—now."

Maybe it's not so bad that it feels so fucking good to not be ashamed, not try to hide, you can embrace who you really are around her.

Maybe it’s right to listen to her—do what she says, tell her you’ll be good and obedient for her; your body’s already ahead of you, so, so close, every nerve of yours in a chorus of agreement with how she’s fucking you.

It's for the best—it's what you need—let her have her way, let her call you her bitch, her slut, her tight, perfect hole, let her get deep in your guts, let her pull every shameful drop of cum from your cock—it's protection, it's your job, that's what it is.

You're protecting Yuha, protecting your relationship, so it's fine, it's okay, it’s okay, she can fuck you like this, make you cum, and later when she swallows your cock whole and rides you until you’re screaming, and rails your ass with her strap until you’re in tears and cumming all over her cock, you’ll be good, it’ll be over, because it's not like you need her, not like you need your—

"Mommy, I’m going to cum!"

“So cum then.”

It's a split second, like a gunshot—hot searing pain firing through your body and tearing a hole right through you—and it must look the same, it's written all over Ningning's face, hanging off the tilt of her plush lips.

All of a sudden: you're gushing, spewing cum all over her hand, shooting past her grip and her fingers go deep inside you and you're hitting the marble, splashing all over, across the bench, serving dessert for Ningning on the same counter you've prepared so many dinners for Yuha on so many nights before.

Ningning’s all over you, her full weight on you, she's been moaning in your ear this whole time, chewing up your lobe, tonguing inside, she's in your ass, she's in your fucking head, flooding your mind, telling you:

"That's it,” she coos, the praise dripping straight into the mess she’s made of you, “Keep going, keep going for Mommy, my good boy—"

And you’re gone.

It's splatter after splatter of cum across the counter, and she's pushing you into it and you would be face-first in your own release but you're somehow able to keep yourself propped up.

You cry for your Mommy one last broken, wrecked time—and everything blurs into a flash of white—painting the counter, your stomach, your open shirt, Ningning's hand.

She doesn't stop. Milks you through every pulse until your thighs shake and you're not sure you can stand on your own anymore—and you're leaning on her for support, whimpering into her shoulder, oversensitive, over-fucking-whelmed, spent dry.

Only then does she ease up.

You sob when her fingers leave your ass. Groan when her hand pulls back from your cock.

She looks at the mess, the art she's made.

Leaves you to collapse in your own heap over the counter next to it. Catch your breath.

And then she takes a small step to the right, leans forward over the counter, bending low—and drags her tongue up the island in one, long scoop. Taking care to collect every single drop, every spurt you had, getting it all on her tongue, slow and thorough, and you just lie there, heaving, cock still twitching, ass still flexing open and close, staring, hooked on her.

She takes her time, tongue dragging slow, savouring it, leaving not a single inch of the counter unclean. Reclaiming every drop you wasted on anything that isn’t her.

Then, she drops to her knees, licks a long stripe up your cock, runs a finger under your balls, over the twitching shaft, wringing out the last pathetic beads that never reached the marble.

Ningning rises, presses her cum-slick lips to your chest, slurps the rest off your skin, and hums the entire time, like it's Sunday cleaning, like you're her furniture she's putting back in order.

And when she finally gets to her feet, towering over you, eyes on yours, lips sealed shut, you realise she’s kept it all, every single drop—hasn’t swallowed once, holding it all just for this. For you.

For a second, you wait.

You open your mouth.

She drools your cum inside.

Globs of it, sticking to the inside of your mouth, salty-sweet, making you cough, gag, filling up your head with the scent of you, but you can't do anything about it because she's taking you by the chin and kissing you before you can breathe.

It's hard, it's full of her tongue, full of your cum, it's—it’s so fucking hot. It’s dirty. Almost loving. She makes you feel it, fastens her body to yours, has you collapsing to the ground and she straddles you so easily, so naturally, and it feels so right and good that it has you swelling angrily against her and you’re finding new ways to hate her all over again.

She takes your hand, fills it with her pretty tits and squeezes your palm against her, mewling into your mouth when you find a nipple and twist.

Rolling her hips against your cock, she's fucking drenched, cunt drooling all over you, and you’re bucking up to meet her, struggling against the lace she's left on but you think if you try hard enough you can rip straight through.

Her hands are in the back of your hair, and she's pulling, tugging, wrenching you closer, breathing all of you in and sucking every drop of cum back into her mouth before pushing it down your throat with her tongue and making you swallow it all.

You know what she's declaring, loud and clear.

She could have you anytime, anywhere, any way she wants.

And when she's done, she slides her lips off yours, down your cheek, to your ear and tells you what you already know.

"You're disgusting."

She breaks away, stands tall. Peels her top off her body, tosses it onto the counter. It never mattered. Steps out of her panties without breaking her stride, rounding the island, hips swaying down the hallway towards your bedroom.

You hear her when she’s out of sight, "Do you need me to say it?"

You’re scrambling to your knees. You’re not sure if you'll make it to your feet.

You'll crawl if you have to.

"I'm coming, Mommy—"

You take a deep breath. Really feel it in your chest. And when you exhale slowly, letting the drag of air on the way out tickle your nostrils, you lock in as time slows down to a blur all around you.

You scan the room.

Slashed purse at Table Fourteen. Half-filled beer bottle at the DJ’s mixing pad. Fingers thrusted at the bar area.

Index to thumb, you snap. Then it all comes back to life.

You strut over to Table Fourteen and grab the idiot with curly hair by the inside of his belt, preventing his escape. “Huh? What—?”

Smack. You backhand the son of a bitch and take the opportunity to grab the wallet he was just holding as he stumbles backwards onto the floor.

You sift through the I.D. cards and glance at the group of unaware ladies who are now looking at you in confusion. “This must be yours. Keep an eye on your things please. Our staff can only do so much.”

After the ponytailed woman nods at you in silent gratitude, you whistle and call over a triad of bouncers. They immediately swarm the perpetrator and have him pinned with his arms behind his back. “You know the drill. Put his photo up on the wall. Then give these ladies a bottle from the top shelf. On the house.”

The same lady from earlier gasps and shakes her head. “No no, it’s fine. Getting my wallet back’s more than enough.”

But you calm her down with a gesture of your hand and signal to one of the bouncers. “Hennessy. On me.”

When her drunken friends scream in elation over hearing this, the lady smiles and lifts her glass up to you. You salute with two fingers before trudging towards the dance floor.

Cutting through should be easy, but the ongoing rave makes the crowd feel like an actual ocean.

Shoulders bumping. Backs pressing into you. Whispers exchanging at decibels higher than they should be. You don’t part the crowd—you know better than to do that. Instead you run your hand through your hair and get with it. Get with them. You go with the flow. Head bopping. Arms in the air. Swaying and shimmying past person to person. All until you reach the elevated podium.

One of the bouncers stationed at the front sees you and snaps into a straighter posture, but when you lift both your hands at him he learns to relax a bit. “First night?”

He glances left and right to make sure you’re talking to him. “Y-Yeah … s-s-sorry, boss.”

“Relax. Take it easy. Just remember: make sure everyone’s having a good time. The safe way.”

“Y-You got it!” he wheezes, unclipping the velvet cord so you can pass through. You pat him on the back and squeeze his shoulder before jogging up the steps towards the sound booth.

Pressing fingers against your ear to fold it shut, you dip forward and jab your waist at the DJ. You give him no time to complain. This sudden motion makes the wire connecting his headphones to his laptop coil around his bottle of beer and would have sent it toppling onto the mixing pad had you not swiped it up in time.

“Jesus Christ—you fucking scared me. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a set here?” Hajoon groaned, unraveling the wire. 

“I said no drinks while you’re on set. This is the third time this week.”

He flaps his lips in mockery, snatching the beer back from you. Downs it in one go. Sighs in contentment. Then shoves it back to your chest, dampening the fold of your blazer. “Whatever, bossman. Learn to loosen up a little. Here—ready for the drop?”

As soon as he pushes one of the doodads on his device, you hear the music start to quicken and pulsate throughout the room. You can feel the hastening thrum in the back of your throat. When you think you can’t take the tension anymore, Hajoon flicks his wrist and throws his hands in the air.

“Everybody make some noise!”

Then the drop happens and everyone’s cheering to the beat. Tongues out. Fists pumping. Bodies yielding.

Hajoon jabs you with his waist and wraps an arm around your neck. “You see that, bossman? That’s the kind of magic we fucking enable each night. So will you cut me some slack? If it helps, I’ll cut back on the drinks too. I only got to sneak one in because you sent a newbie to guard me tonight.”

You peel his sweaty arm off you and dust yourself off. “We’ll see. Maybe play some good music first, then I’ll think about it.” 

He hisses. “So fucking cold. But that makes me respect you all the more—not gonna lie.”

You ignore him and duck under the cord to rejoin the shifting masses. The new bouncer doesn’t even get a chance to say goodbye as you slither your way once more through the crowd to get to the other side of the room where the bar is.

“I fucking told you—we paid for our table in advance. What do you mean we need to show you ‘proof of purchase’? Fucking bitch. Your place is already expensive—.”

“Gentlemen, what seems to be the problem here.”

The gravitas you exude is enough to silence the four men trying to overpower and intimidate your bar staff.

“Is there anything we can do for you?” you repeat, making sure they hear you over the second beat drop Hajoon just laid out for the people. “You can relay it to me directly.”

One of the guys tugs on the sleeve of his complaining friend, but he swats him away. He’s the only one who still looks arrogant despite his face being as red as a raspberry. “Ya … who the fuck are you? Are you their manager? I’d like to speak with the fucking manager.”

“You’re talking to him.”

“O-Oh … oh, then good,” he flinches. “Like I was saying—your club’s trying to fucking scam me and my friends. Bleeding us dry, huh? We paid for the table reservation fee AND the three-hour extension for our table. And they say we can’t get more fucking drinks?”

You gesture to the poor girl just trying to do her job. She hands you one of her small tablets and you begin scrolling through records. “Says here you paid in full and still have some credit for your tab. What do you want to order?”

He scoffs. “Was thinking of getting me and my boys a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. Each. But you’re all ruining our fun, so maybe we’ll just—.”

“You can’t afford it.”

The man raises a brow. “Excuse me? The fuck did you just—.”

“I said. You can’t afford it,” you utter once more, diction sharp enough to penetrate through their thick skulls. “The table’s a million won. You already spent nine-hundred thousand on other liquors. Four bottles of this gin will cost you two-hundred-and-forty thousand more—over your cap.”

“I can—.”

You point to the lanyard one of his friends wears. Then to the knock-off Ray Bans on his other friend’s forehead. Then to the crumpled envelope in his right pocket. “Keep burning your stipend money and you’ll be out of college faster than I can kick you out of this club.”

His little group inhales so tensely through clenching teeth over what you just relayed to them that their little leader starts to physically fume in the well-deserved embarrassment. “Y-Yeah? Well fuck you, asshat. Let’s go, guys. We’re leaving—.”

You hold your arm out to stop his lanky body in time, grabbing some middle shelf liquor in the same stroke. “Here. Bit over your tab, but on me. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

You don’t get the privilege to see his dumfounded face. You salute the woman working the bar before heading towards the back wings.

This was you. This is your nightly life as the manager of SAXO. It’s never dull. Not with the constant flow of people like these it isn’t.

When you lean against the wall adjacent to the restrooms, one of the bouncers notices you and offers you a seat by one of the empty tables along the balcony area, but you reject it with a shake of your chin. Hard to patrol when seated. Hard to monitor without a vantage point. There’s never any rest for the wicked, so you don’t allow yourself any either. Instead, you fix the grip of your watch against your wrist and check the time.

Twelve-fifty-three.

Glancing back up, your hairs stand on edge.

You find yourself as if you were on the roof of the building. Atop SAXO. Where the humdrum of the club below can blur enough to the point that it can almost be considered silence. You take what you can get. In this spec of solitude amidst your night to night affairs for work, you enjoy being able to stare up at the evening sky and just gaze. Stargaze.

When you look at the stars, you never really focus on a single fixed point. There are many stars out there, constantly burning, some already having died out, some whose light have yet to reach your eyes. They all look the same to you. Same shining orbs. Same glow and halation. Same patch of freckles that dot the expanse of the universe. But once in a while, once you let your guard down—if you can even let it—you find yourself drawn to a star that calls to you. Grabs your attention. Not brighter. Not differently-colored. Not even more attractive.

It just pulls you in. And before you know it, it’s all you look at. It’s all your weary eyes focus on.

It’s all you see.

That’s the same thing she does to you.

Chests lift and drop. Shoulders form waves that veil her visage. Strobe lights paint everything around her in a light haze. She whips her head around, hair fanning out downwards. Dip of the chin. Rise of the nose. Lock of the eyes.

She isn’t just looking at you. She’s caught you.

And the pull of her lips into a smirk is enough evidence of it.

You know very well that meeting someone’s gaze at the club is a death sentence. You know their appearance now. How they act. What they do. Where they are. You can track them down around the dance floor. Pinpoint their table. Vibe check their company. Note how intoxicated they are. Check to see if they’re hitting on someone. Or if anyone’s hitting on them.

But when someone catches you staring? That isn’t just a death sentence.

It’s an execution. And she drops the guillotine on you the moment she bites her lip.

You look away. You just meant to look respectfully. You hope you did. You didn’t linger, did you? If you did, it was just out of appreciation. Admiration. She’s beautiful. That much you can glean from an initial glance. Not enough to mark her in your mind, but enough to make her relevant in your field of view.

You’re an idiot. You look again.

Honey blonde hair, dark at the roots. Freshly threaded brows. Slender nose—sharp at the tip, softer around the sides. Oval-framed visage that looks soft upon a caress but sharp upon provocation. Lower lip so plump you forget she has two to form the curve of her smirk.

But really. What catches you are her eyes. 

Because they’re staring right at you now.

You look away. For good this time. You’re certain because you push off the wall and walk a few steps away from your initial perching position. Not stopping until you’re sure that she isn’t looking at you anymore

You brush past a pair of heaving girls rushing to the toilets to vomit. 

Nope, still looking at you.

You lean over a group of college kids playing King’s Cup and ask them how their night is.

Nope, still looking at you.

You run a hand across the bar counter to inspect its cleanliness. 

Nope, still looking at you.

She won’t fucking stop looking at you. And you hate it.

Because you can’t stop looking at her either.

She shifts. Hands behind her head, hips swaying in a figure eight to the music. You’re still pissed at Hajoon, but you have to thank him for the boppy track he’s put on now. It makes her thrust her elbows out. Side to side. Doing a little spin. And when she comes back around, she smirks at you again.

It’s only then that you scan the rest of her. Filling out the form of her figure.

Buckled corset tight around her petite frame. Red pants dotted with silver buttons that you just know jingle with even the slightest movements. Nails painted silver. Armband dripped in gold. Boots that cheat her height and allow her to look taller men in the eye.

But really. What catches your attention this time isn’t in the seen. It’s in the unseen.

At the swell around her cleavage that’s threatening to spill out.

You look away. But you’re not sure you’ve done so because you can still see her in your peripheral. Like what happens when you stare at the sun for too long like a dumbass and it imprints its afterimage so fucking deep into your retinas.

You move over to the receiving area where there’s still a line steadily being processed by your diligent staff. A pair of bouncers recognize you and one of them dips their shades to greet you. You hang around them for a moment. Cross your arms. Return to the crowding dance floor. Let out a sigh.

Holy shit she’s moving towards you now.

One guy’s blatantly looking down her top. Another’s grinding against her. But she pushes past them, body still enslaved by the beat. But honing in on you like a beacon. 

You make the mistake of looking her in the eyes again. She smirks wider. Like she’s got you in her clutches with a lasso, she shimmies through the sweaty bodies around her until she’s parted from the crowd.

You snap behind your back, and time pauses.

You scan the room.

Wide hips flaring out of the confines of her fitted leather pants. Gait so resonant you can almost hear its cadence amidst the blasting music. Face dyed a myriad of colors, but her expression remains unchanging.

“Are you just going to keep staring?”

It didn’t work.

She’s right in front of you now. Three steps away. You fail to realize it until she points it out. “Not much of a dancer?”

“I dapple. Just not tonight. Just not here.”

“I’ll only believe it when I see it. Too pompous to join the crowd? Are we not good enough for you?” she remarks, voice lilting like a tease towards the end.

“Got business to attend to—always. Can’t mix work and play.”

“Didn’t seem that way when you were eye-fucking me just now.”

The bouncers on either side of you flinch. You can tell because of the way these two burly buffoons fucking twitched. She can tell too because she’s two steps away now and pressing the matter still.

“I wasn’t eye-fucking you. Just patrolling. Just work.”

“Is your job supposed to be undressing wasted girls like me in your mind? You’re doing a terrible job then. I’m pretty fucking wasted right now, but I don’t feel very naked.”

“You’re not—.”

She’s one step away now.

“Hm?” she raises, and so does her brow. “Too on the nose for you? Or are you still ‘working’?”

Her hand finds its way to your chest as she presses into your clavicle, wiping away that one bead of sweat that rolls down your blazer. Your eyes never leave her face. Even as she tugs on and adjusts the rise of your collar. “What’s it going to take to be supervised by you? Directly.”

You tilt your head to the side. When that isn’t enough, you step as far back as you can before bumping into another velvet cord. Then you sigh. “Respectfully. Hands off. I’m an employee here.”

Her eyes widen like she just caught something. “Part of the background? Boring. Someone like you being off-limits—such a waste.”

You don’t know how to respond to that. That’s fine. Because she doesn’t let you. “Is it company policy to not mingle with your clientele? I just saw you getting real handsy with a group of girls earlier. You’re making me jealous just thinking about it.”

The implication of that statement is something you just keep to yourself.

Before she can move closer, you hold your hand out. “If there’s anything I can help you with, just let me know. But this?” you pause, pointing your finger to her then back to yourself. “Not a chance.”

She clicks her teeth and backs away too. Finally. But her eyes are what do you over. She’s rolling them at you. Mockery. Frustration. Disappointment. “You’re no fun. Keep eye-fucking me then. Hope you get a kick out of it.”

Before you know it, she seamlessly rejoins the crowd, dancing with the masses once again.

What the fuck was that? What the fuck just happened? 

You don’t know. You’re not sure. 

All you can think of is finishing your patrol so you can get some rest. You want to make sure everything’s in order for the evening before you leave the rest to your second. So you continue on your nightly routine. Just like nothing happened.

But god forbid this woman is making it difficult for you to pretend like nothing happened.

You can’t explain it.

When you patrol the lower tables—the ones closer to the dance floor—you see her spiraling around the edges of the crowd. Not really lingering too long at any one spot. Like she’s trailing you. Following you. You had to make one of the customers repeat themselves when you got distracted by the way she ‘fixed’ her top, flashing you enough skin to imagine the rest of what’s hidden beneath it.

Over by the entrance, while you were in the middle of resolving a dispute over fake I.D.s, she was hovering behind you. At a safe distance. Behind the barriers and bouncers. She’s watching you work. Observing how you tell someone off without needing to raise your voice. Smirking at you, twirling her hair, staring at you as she’s playing thoughts in her mind that you can only assume are no good.

Even when you sneak away to relieve yourself at the staff washroom. The moment you come back out, she’s sipping on a glass of whiskey. Staring daggers at your surprised face. With that gaze of hers that short-circuits your brain. She doesn’t say anything. Just sips. Just drinks. Just relishes in your flushed state as you hurry yourself away from her.

She’s not even meddling. She’s not even provoking.

She’s just there.

She’s going around you, but god does it feel like you’re the one orbiting her. Because this woman knows she’s got you.

She’s got you good.

“Anything else I missed? I’ll leave the cleanup and closing to you. Like always,” you tell your second, who’s already writing things down on his notepad. “And Minho, please, for the love of god, will you stop wearing those ridiculous ties?”

Minho peeks up from his sheets and pokes the yellow rubber-ducky tie with his pen. “This? My mother bought it for me, boss. It’d be a waste not to wear it.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “At least wear it somewhere else. Well—whatever. Before I go, make sure to keep an eye out on Table Nine. Got a feeling they’re runners—.”

“Boss!”

The beckon rings like a siren. You register it immediately and are ready to strafe past Minho when you see one of the serving staff runs up to the both of you. Panting. Completely out of breath. “Boss, there’s … ha … there’s a commotion on the dance floor!”

Your eyes first dart over to Hajoon. But oddly enough, he’s not trying to hit on anyone again this time. Instead, he’s watching something. Watching someone.

In fact, everyone on the dance floor’s watching someone. Noticeably so now that you realize there’s a small circular parting in the center of the crowd.

You follow the staff over and freeze at the outer edge of this commotion.

You see her.

She’s dancing like she owns the place. Like she owns the dance floor. Hajoon’s got his hands on the beat, but she’s got her hands all over her body. She’s being a diva right now. Bathing in the glow of the lights shining down on her. Feeling herself. Basking in the attention that’s being dripped all over her.

She ropes in one guy at a time. Dancing with him. Swaying next to him. Grinding on him. She slides her back up and down the front of one of them. Wraps her arms around the neck of another. One of the poor blokes makes the mistake of moving in to kiss her. She immediately bites his lip and gets a kick out of his pained reaction.

Your fist is clenching tightly by your side, and you’re not sure why.

Before you know it, you’re pushing—no, shoving—people aside just to get to the center of it all. Just to get to her. Tugging on the length of your necktie, when you make it to the lady in question, you hold out an arm to stop the next guy from entertaining her, and just grab her by her arm.

“What the hell are you doing?” you demand. She reeks of alcohol and sweat. “You’re drunk. You’re making a scene.”

“Yeah? Is that not allowed?” she prods, stepping closer to you. She shrugs your grip off and crosses her arms. “Didn’t think it wasn’t, but hey, made you look didn’t I? I knew it was the only way to grab your attention.”

You glance past her. To Hajoon. The man scrambles for his headphones and changes up the music, inviting everyone to return to the dance floor and party like there’s no tomorrow once again. Back to the regular routine of things.

But you don’t let up on her.

And she doesn’t let up on you.

Because her hands are now resting on your waist.

“Saw you talking to shorty over there,” she announces, pointing at Minho with her lips. “Thought you’d be off the clock now, manager. Didn’t think you’d eye-fuck me again that quickly though.”

“I was not eye—.”

She pulls you in. Whether it’s with her hands or with her gaze, you can’t tell. “Just shut up and dance.”

You indulge her.

You lied. You’re not a very good dancer. And she notices this. She leads you both. At times she lets you do your stupid little shindig while she’s busting out a move. Other times she’s holding you by the wrist and guiding your hands to either her shoulders or her hips.

And you’re starting to come undone.

How could you not? 

Every run of her fingers across one of your shoulders to the other. Every bump of her butt against your crotch. Every nick of her knee against your thigh. She’s toying with you. She’s building you up. Leading you on. Because she knows.

She knows you can’t do a single damn thing about it.

You don’t keep track of time. But after what feels like an hour of working the dance floor with you, she finally pulls away enough to give you your own personal space again. She walks you over to the wings to where her table is. Table Twenty-Three.

First thing you see are two couples engaged in a contest to see who could be the sloppiest when making out.

“Don’t mind them. They won’t get naked. At least, they told me this isn’t that kind of club,” she explains. She casually reaches over one of the couples, who you are pretty sure are sneaking in some fingering on the couch, and grabs one of their drinks. She sniffs it. She reels. But she downs it anyway.

“Are we done here? Had your fill yet?” you ask. Unsure of where you’re trying to go with that.

“Yeah. Be seeing you.”

What?

You swear you almost hear yourself say that out loud. You don’t know what face you’re making, but it must be an entertaining one—for her at least.

“Was fun. Maybe we’ll come back here again.”

She followed you around. She stalked you like a hawk. She dragged you into her little shenanigans in the middle of work. All for this? All for nothing?

It was your turn to feel dumbfounded tonight. Dumbfounded because you were a fool for expecting anything bigger to have come out of this.

You bit your tongue enough to bleed iron into your tastebuds before nodding stiffly. “Right. Right, be seeing you.”

To add insult to injury, she waves at you with a smirk as you lug your body towards the staff exit.

---

“Boss, Table Eleven’s going red.”

You know that signal. You know that queue.

In moments, you’re already halfway towards said table, when your shoes screech against the polished floor. Stopping yourself.

“Hm? Care to join us?”

It’s her again.

Honey blonde hair pulled behind her. Black ribbed plunging half-sleeve top baring a fraction of her upper midriff. Bandeaux bra on full display. Exposed skin moist from collecting the condensation dripping from her glass.

You clock the empty vodka bottle on the table. You scan the eight different people gathered around the table with her. You take note of her challenging half-lidded stare.

“If you’re done with that drink, I’m taking it.”

“Tsk, we’re just playing spin the bottle. Is that not allowed?”

“Your little ‘game’ is disturbing everyone else. Take a hint,” you warn her, eyes fixed on her face that remains unflinching before you.

“It’s a fucking club. Of course we’ll be loud. Don’t want your customers having fun, manager-nim?”

The way she addresses you makes your blood boil all the more. “Give me that—.”

She beats you to it and spins the bottle. Lo and behold it lands with the snout facing you. The bottom facing her.

Smirking, she taps her lip with her newly painted red nail. “Five shots of scotch. In a row. Think you can do it?”

The crowd around her table is clapping and leering at you. But you ignore them. “I’m not playing—.”

She loops an arm around you and blinks innocently. Twice. For just a moment. “Aren’t you supposed to be the life of the party? Let’s get this night started properly. Shots! Shots! Shots!”

They begin to mimic your chant. “Shots! Shots! Shots!”

The other tables begin to chime in. “Shots! Shots! Shots!”

Soon even some of your serving staff applaud you. Egg you. Even when you give them the eye.

You glance at the bottle of scotch conveniently already at the table. You glance at the clubgoers surrounding you now. Then you glance at her.

“I don’t drink. Not anymore.”

You get booed in a heartbeat.

Shrugging, she dips down and fills up one of the shotglasses for herself. “Suit yourself.” Before you know it, she’s already drank one. Then two. Then five. All down the hatch.

Just as you are about to leave this brewing cesspool, someone tugs you from behind.

You’re not one to take that lying down. Ready to unwrap your arm from them and shove them to the ground. But the lightness of the grip is what throws you off.

And it’s enough hesitation for her to pounce on your lips and kiss you.

You don’t pull away. You can’t. 

She’s holding your face. Both hands. One on each cheek. When you tug upwards, she follows, moaning into your mouth. But where you expect her bare tongue, something liquid is in its place. When you realize what’s happening, it’s already too late.

She just snowballed five shots of scotch right into your mouth.

When the taste of liquor hits your tastebuds, something fires in your brain. Something reflexive. Something ingrained. You rip your lips from her and spray out the alcohol. The two dudes behind you are fucking pissed, but you apologize sincerely and call for some staff to help clean the mess.

Returning to her, you grab her by the elbow. “I told you I don’t fucking drink—.”

“That wasn’t a drink. That was a taste,” she corrects you, smirking once more. Using that fucking gaze on you again. “Taste of me. Don’t get too drunk now.”

You’re unable to react. You let her kiss you once more on the lips and giggle before rejoining her posse for the night.

“Are you alright, boss? You look—.”

“Don’t just stand there, Minho. Get me some damn water,” you snap as you feel the liquor burning your tastebuds still. Thank god it didn’t drip into your throat. A taste was more than enough to give you goosebumps.

As Minho disappears towards the bar, you just watch as this woman pours cognac down her throat. Straight from the bottle. While looking at you.

With a smirk.

“B-Boss …? Boss!”

“What is it newbie? I don’t have all night,” you huff at the bouncer. You could have been nicer to him. Nicer about it. But doing arithmetic manually on a calculator and a physical spread sheet for hours would put anyone in a fuckass mood. “What do you need from me?”

“S-S-Someone’s um … stripping—.”

You don’t even have to ask for context.

As soon as you burst out from the break room, your eyes immediately train on the sound booth. On Hajoon.

On her.

You claw through the crowd. Is it to get closer to the unfolding scene? Is it to stop it? You’re not sure. You don’t fucking know. All you can picture are the things that will spread about your club after tonight if this continues.

When you make it to the divider, the newbie watches your back as you jump over the cord. From the first few steps up towards the elevator platform alone, you get a clear view from the side.

The twin-tailed little brat’s undressing in the fucking DJ booth. And Hajoon’s just letting her. Of course he fucking would.

Her tail point fur jacket hits the floor first. Pools at the ankles like shorn elegance. Pure irony though given the debauchery that persists to unfold. Her hair whips forward. Then back. She’s dancing in place like she’s boxed in a tight circle. Hands draw forwards and slide down Hajoon’s chest as she sways downwards herself too. When she shoots back up, she makes the extra effort to jut her butt out.

If you didn’t have any self-control, you would have slapped the fucking tease out of her voluminous rump.

It’s a miracle they’re still contained within her shorts. Those things are cut closer to her crotch than her knees. You cut her some slack. It compliments her plain white crop top that exposes the expanse of her navel.

Your focus drifts to the jewel affixed above her belly button. Sparkling. Beckoning to you.

When you glance back up again, she’s caught you once more. “Eye-fucking me up close this time? Get in line, manager. This one’s a public show.”

Hajoon notices your arrival and lifts up his beer, nearly fucking spilling it on his setup like an idiot. “Yo, bossman! Where’d you pull this baddie? She said you knew each other? You two banging or something?”

But the woman between you both hushes him with a finger and whispers something you can’t hear from all the music. Hajoon licks his lips when she pulls away and winks at you. “Fine shit, man. Fine fucking shit! Let’s turn this party up!”

As the tempo of the song speeds up, so does her dancing. She’s got a way with her body—you’ll give her that. Even as you walk back down, you can’t help but take a peek. When you do, you see her flex and swirl that torso of hers like she was goddamn built for it.

She locks eyes with you a final time before digging her thumbs into the hem of her top. “Think you can handle this?”

Just when you lunge for her, she chuckles and puts her hands back down. “Did you really think I was a slut? Disappointing. And here I thought you cared about me more than that.”

Clenching your teeth so hard they could shatter, you pick her coat off the floor and dump it in one of the chairs behind Hajoon. The last thing you see before heading back is her playing up the role she’s taken on for the night and acting as Hajoon’s eye candy for his set.

She manages to catch you in the crowd and licks her lips, biting her tongue midway.

“Fucking brat.”

“Fuck me—boss!”

You quite literally snap your pen. The ink fountains forward but you’re faster. You wrap it up in some of your old quarterly reports. Cursing under your breath, you dump the blotting mess beneath you and drag your fingers across your face. “What the fuck is the problem this time, Minho?”

“It’s her. Again.”

That’s not possible. It’s almost five in the morning now. Club’s been closed for an hour at least. What the hell was she still doing here?

No matter. You push out of your chair. Don’t bother to put your blazer back on. Just lower your head and allow Minho to accompany you to the scene of the next crime.

You hear it before you see it—the sound of glass breaking.

Then it all comes into view.

The closing staff standing frozen outside the bar. The three bouncers exchanging looks at each other in an attempt to figure out what to do. Hajoon who’s finishing his order of truffle fries while recording the whole thing.

Not a single one of them dared to stop her.

“All of you. Out. Now.”

Your command echoes throughout the now empty club. All eyes are on you as you tug on your tie and tilt your head to the side. Vein along your neck threatening to pop. “I said. Out. Now.”

“Manager, she’s been causing—.”

You raise your palm up to one of the bouncers. “I’ll take it from here. Leave closing to me. And Minho, go take our closing staff out for some fish sticks. Use my card.”

“Boss …”

You toss him your credit card and gesture for them to get the hell out of here. They look confused. They look concerned. But by the end of it, they all feel relieved. Even Hajoon whose set finished earlier tonight tagged along with your staff to freeload. You let it slide. You have bigger fish to fry.

And she reminds you of this with the sound of another glass item shattering across the floor.

“Oops. That one was accidental this time.”

You saunter over to the bar and lean on the counter. Arms folded against each other. Eyes trained on this little goddamn devil in front of you. 

Her outfit surprises you.

You thought you had her figured out. The more comfortable she got here at SAXO, the less you’ve seen her wear. But tonight, she’s all covered up. Long sleeve leopard print. Matching ankle length tights. Pink nails. Some glitter sprinkled across her eyes just above her splash of blush. For someone’s who’s been clubbing all night, she looks like she just came fresh out of the shower.

She smirks. “You just love eye-fucking me, don’t you?”

“Cut the charade. It’s just you and me. What the fuck is your deal?”

She raises a brow. Runs a finger across the convex surface of a bottle of Patron in her hands. Contemplating. “Does it always have to be something in here?”

“There’s always something with you.”

You could never understand her. Even if you tried. She does everything she can think of to be an absolute thorn in your side. But she never acknowledges you beyond the provocation. She pushes and pulls. But she never reaches. And you’re not sure what irritates you more.

The fact that she keeps doing this each night. Or the fact that you want her to reach you.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t enjoyed the attention.

Looking at that flirty smile of hers that dances dangerously across the boundary of your tolerance, you can’t help but acknowledge it. She’s played you. She’s played you good. Attention-seeking. Body-chasing. Mind-filling. Every night—every fucking night—she’s on your mind. What she’s up to this time. What she’s wearing. If she’s looking at you. Looking for you. Testing you. Teasing you. Tempting you. You’ve thought about what it might be like if you weren’t surrounded by other clubgoers. What you might say to her if you had the chance to pull her away in private. What you might do to her if you were away from any prying eyes.

And now, as you’ve said, it’s just the two of you. There was no need to pull on any acts.

That’s what you want to believe, at least. It’s immediately shattered once you see the bottle smash onto the floor. Spilling alcohol across her boots.

“Oopsie,” she utters without a hint of fucking remorse. “That didn’t taste good anyway. I’m doing you a favor.”

As she reaches out for another battle, you exhale roughly. “What … What do you want from me?”

“Want? From you?” she repeats, swinging her next victim between her knuckles. Just waiting for one wrong move to let it slip and shatter. “You’re already doing what I want you to.”

“Which is—?”

Shatter. “Entertaining me.”

She doesn’t even pick up the bottles anymore. She’s just flicking them off the shelves.

“Ooh, expensive.”

Down goes the Armand de Brignac.

“Expensive?”

Along with the Magnum Moët & Chandon.

“And oh, most expensive.”

And so does the Rosé 1959 Dom Pérignon.

“You see what I mean?” she spins around and leans against the remaining shelf with alcohol still lining the higher echelons. Prodding at you as if you’ve already proven her point. “This is why I’m having so much fun with you. You can’t do anything to me, can you? You’re not allowed to.”

“You just manage—.”

Your hand’s already gripping her wrist. Pinning it to the corner ledge. She gasps. And for the first time since you’ve met this lady, she flashes you a look you’ve never seen before.

Fear.

“You,” you pause, trying to control your breathing. Your eyes are scrambling for something to look at but they’re stuck on her. Just her. “Do you know … how much fucking money … all of this … is going to cost me?”

“H-Hey … relax. If it’s really that much—?”

“Don’t try to slither your way out of this one. I asked you a question. Answer.”

She trembles. You can feel it in her pulse. You can sense it as you tighten your grip. “I-I … I don’t. But I swear, I didn’t think—.”

“What? You didn’t think it was ‘this serious’? Thought you were still ‘playing games’ with me?” you retorted, scoffing mid-sentence. “Where the fuck have you been living all your life? Under a rock? Top shelf liquor is so fucking expensive to import. I bet recovering all of this is going to cost more than the clothes you’ve been wearing here, or the fucking dingy ass pad you live in.”

“Stop, I-I-I was just—.”

“Just? Was just? Just having fun with me?” you fill in. “I run a fucking business here. And god forbid, you have been really bad for it. Just fucking terrible. This?”

You gesture to the liquor seeping into the cracks between cabinets and the counter. Mixed scents of shattered spirits wafting between the two of you.

“This is the last straw. I’m—.”

“Going to punish me?”

What was that? What the fuck was that?

There it goes again. The glint in her eye. The pull of her lips. That snarky tone of hers when she says, “Going to write me off? Report me to the police? Call my parents or something?”

It’s almost like she’s nudging you. Pushing you past your bloody fucking limits. 

Like she’s challenging you.

Like she’s enjoying it.

“Go on. What are you going to do with me? Squeeze an apology out of me? Fine me? Blacklist me?” she lists, shaking off your grip when she knows you’re stunned and crosses her arms. Just under her bust. Highlighting it. “Go ahead and try. I fucking dare you.”

“Make me.”

There’s at least seven different things you could have done in this moment. Each likely more effective than the last as you play them out in your head. But when you’re face to face with her like this, bodies inching closer to one another, you can’t fucking take it anymore.

It’s time to show her who’s in charge. 

It’s time to show her her place.

“Strip.” “What?”

“Don’t make me say it again,” you press, stepping so close to her that your feet are now directly parallel to hers. “You’re right. Maybe I’m here as your ‘entertainment’. Then if so, let me ‘entertain’ you some more. Could bring you to the station down the street. Could make you call your lawyer or something. Could even just ban your sorry ass from SAXO myself. But that’s no fun, is it?”

“Strip. Now.”

Her mouth is taut. But it quivers. And you catch that.

“Ya … Isn’t this harassment, manager? I don’t think you’d want a case against you and your little club now, would you?” she tries to bargain. 

But you see through her chicanery and subterfuge. “After all you’ve done, this is child’s play. Strip. I’m not repeating myself again.”

Growling, she rolls her eyes and pushes you away. “Fine. Pervert. But I’m not doing it with you around—.”

“Oh, you will.”

You turn around only to remove yourself from the slimy pools of spilt liquor on the floor. Vaulting over the bar counter. Dusting your hands off. You face her again. Arms crossed. Eyebrow cocked. Waiting.

“Are you for real right now? Are you fucking serious?”

“I am. You love putting on shows, don’t you? Then put on a show. Just for me,” you fired back. Smirking. “What? You’re the one who said I kept ‘eye-fucking’ you. Shouldn’t you have expected this much from me? Strip.”

You see her knuckles go white. But you also see her mask crack.

Then you see her do as you’ve told.

She whips her hair back. Of course she does. This little princess always has to have her hair fixed. The bangle earrings she’s wearing doesn’t make it any easier for her either. Digging her thumbs against her ribs, the same way she did on the night she got into the sound booth, slowly, she starts to peel upwards. You watch as the cloth of her patterned print top tantalizingly comes undone. And you get an unfiltered view of her compliance.

She hooks the hem of her top around the back of her neck, flashing the elastic band she’s using for a bra. “There. Happy?”

You shake your head. “I said strip.”

“You said strip, and I did. This is the best you’re getting out of me—.”

“How much do you make in a day?”

“What? I’m not some fucking hooker,” she chimes. And you appreciate the sass now. Because the raise of her voice makes the soft spots of her body ripple ever-so-slightly.

“Never said that. I just asked—how much do you make in a day.”

“I don’t work.”

You chuckle again. “Then you’ve got no frame of reference for how much this all costs. How much is your top.”

“My top?”

“Yeah, how much is it.”

“I don’t fucking know. Just bought it off an app. Around ten thousand won I guess?”

“A shot of that first bottle you broke costs six times that amount. A bottle can last about twenty shots. Each. Is the math computing?”

You see the exact moment the life drains from her eyes when the math, indeed, computes.

Whistling, you click your teeth to draw her attention back to you. “Strip. Before I start thinking stripping isn’t enough.”

She’s moving. She’s stripping. But she’s doing so in a way that feels different. As her top fully comes off, she doesn’t throw it. She folds it on the countertop. Not minding your direct view from above her bra. She does the same for the tights, peeling them off like a second layer of skin, folding it on top of the former.

The fur belt around her waist remains for a while. She’s using it to cover her crotch. And you realize why.

She’s wet.

“Do … do I have to also … the underwear …?”

“What part of ‘everything’ do you not understand?” you clarify mockingly. You know she’s not getting away without undressing all the way. She knows it too. “If you don’t hurry up, my second might come back to check on me. Want him to see you like this too?”

She glowers. Even though it’s a lie. “Fuck you.”

The panties come off first. Only because the belt’s in the way. It stretches against her ankles like a spiderweb when she tries to move away from the puddle she’s standing on. You catch a glimpse of the inside. It’s darker and more prominent—the stain.

Leaning forward, she holds the counter for support before grunting to take off her panties fully now. Folds it beneath her previous layers. 

“Now the bra.”

“I fucking know,” she grunts back. You know she doesn’t need a reminder. But you let her know anyway.

Her bra isn’t the usual. Not a hook type. Not a strap type. Not even a clip type. It’s an elastic type. Just comes over the chest. Supports it naturally as gravity does its thing. Your knowledge of women’s undergarments is proven almost immediately right as you watch in utter astonishment at the way her swell of a chest comes loose from her final piece of clothing.

The recoil into one another. The ripples. The gentle sag.

You hate to admit it. But it’s fucking perfect.

She forgets to put it aside. To fold it. She just tosses it to the counter because she’s got her hand and arm across her bare tits now. You let her. Because this allows you to dip forward and tug on the long end of her belt.

“Hey, what—?”

“Walk with me. Walk to me.”

You tug on her belt. Lead her like it’s a leash. And she follows. She resists a bit, and you feel it against the tightness of the garment. But you tug back and she winces. Then moves again. Until she’s all the way out of the bar area and is now hovering next to you by one of the tables in the wings.

You clear the surface of the sturdy glass and gesture to it. “Get on.”

She doesn’t question you. Not while she’s naked. Not when you hold her dignity in her hands. In order to mount the table, she had to let go of her chest, and when she lays down, you finally get to see it.

Her full form. Naked. Unadorned. Natural. All of it for you to see.

All of it laid bare.

“God, if you weren’t such a fucking brat, you’d be perfect,” you whisper. You mean it. 

Her smooth pale skin. The shape of her chest and the sheen of sweat across it. The quiver of her thick full lips. The spread of her legs. The clasp of her thighs against each other. The bare and kempt state of her nether bits. 

They’re all right there. Laid out on the table. On full display.

Just for you.

“Yeah? Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s told me that,” she replies. Halfway between a smirk and scorn. You then realize you had said it out loud. She chuckles. Gestures to you with a finger. A hither-to motion coupled with that stare of hers again. Those ‘make me’ eyes. That ‘fuck me’ gaze. “Gonna do something about it? Or is that against company policy again, manager?”

Oh she’s asking for it now.

You loosen your tie. You kneel on the table. She looks frightened for a moment—worried the glass might break. But you prove her otherwise when you lean forward between her legs so your face is level with hers now. Hovering above it.

“I’ll show you what a fucking tease like you deserves.”

You press your lips against her and feel no resistance. Instead, she welcomes you. Her own soft hydrated folds part for you. Nibble on you. Suck you in. Her tongue is a welcome mat that unfolds into a stretch of red carpet for your own tongue to gloss and strut all over. She whimpers and moans the moment she gets her own tongue caressed in velvet. But she doesn’t complain. Doesn’t react.

Doesn’t resist.

Her hands come around your neck now as she pulls you further in, and you take this opportunity to get a little handsy yourself. 

You go for her tits. God, how could you not go for her tits? 

You’re cupping them. Fondling them. You know better than to just squeeze them like a child—no. You lift them up. You caress down the inner curve of each, polishing down and along her cleavage. If you weren’t kissing her right now, you’d have smothered your face between them. Sniffing them. But you save that for later. For now, you register the sensation of her in your head.

Hefty. Heavy. Fucking heavenly.

She gasps sharply when your right pinky hits her left nipple. You notice when you peek open an eye that she’s hard. Both of them are. Both of her nipples. They’re stiff and rounded little peaks that tempt you to oblivion. So you succumb.

One pinch and she forgets how to kiss you. Another and she’s gasping for air, breathless in your clutches. A third and she’s arching her back upwards.

“Fuuuuck,” she groans, her face getting flushed. “Do that again …”

You press your pointer to her nipple. Thumb on the other side. Wind her up by rubbing them together. Before pinching on the supple tip and pulling it upwards. Polishing it. Relishing it. Treasuring it.

She shudders more intensely now. You do the same to the other side and she’s willingly showing you the column of her neck as her body lifts from the table. “God … shit, you’re … you’re actually good with the—AHHH!”

You lick her neck. 

One stripe. Two. Slow. Tracing over the parts that make her quiver. Prolonging over the parts that make her moan. You lick upwards to her chin. Over her lips. And press a kiss on them before repeating the cycle.

Her eyes flutter open and close, unable to focus. Whenever your gazes meet, she doesn’t turn away. She stares deeper into your soul. The facade from earlier having crumbled completely.

She reaches for your chest. However she can in this tightened position. She runs her hands across your pecs, down to your abdomen, where she then hitches her fingers into your waist and belt, and unbuckles it.

While you’re licking her nipples now. suckling on them, teasing them with the sharp of your tongue alternating with the long flat wall of it, you notice she’s grinding against your thigh. There’s a noticeable dampness. A moisture. Permeating your supposedly waterproof slacks.

You chuckle and bite down on one nipple. And this makes her scream in absolute ecstasy.

One hand moves from your fly to the back of your head, gripping your hair, guiding you to where she wants you to kiss, suckle, and lick across her full fucking tits. The other unzips you. Hastily pushes your pants off. And tries to get you out of your clothes this time. When the back of her palm hits your bulge however, she freezes.

“Wait … wait—NGHHH—stop, I-I want to see this …”

You withdraw from the addiction that are her breasts and wipe the slobber from your lips against the cup of your shoulder. “What?”

“Your dick. I … I just want to see how it looks like, ok …?”

You push up from the table, nearly slipping from how sweaty your palms have gotten, and right yourself so she can sit up against the edge and be leveled with your crotch. Taking a deep breath, she palms over your bulge that’s on the verge of bursting against your boxers.

“Oh. Oh wow, you’re …” she stutters. Fails to find the right words. She looks up at you and blushes. Nothing like the incessant little prick she’s been previously. Instead, she has this yearning look on her. Like she wants to know. Wants to see. Wants to feel.

So you let her.

You don’t even move. You let her do it herself. Nails digging into your waist, prying your black underwear downwards until it slides off. You flick it off once it’s just around one heel, and you present this woman with the unadulterated direct view of your cock.

She doesn’t speak.

Her face hovers closer and closer until her left cheek presses against your semi-erect shaft. “Fuck … you’re bigger than my face … I-I … I don’t know if I can …”

“You’ll work it out. Otherwise, I’ll make sure you manage to.”

She licks her lips and bites her tongue. “Mmmh, yeah? Make me then.”

One palm on the top of her head. Another beneath her chin to angle it the right way. You press your swollen tip against the entrance to her mouth and groan. “Then fucking take it.”

You push open. Burst into the warmth. Get enveloped by the wet velvety walls past her little locked lips.

She whimpers from the first breaching. You take it slow. Knocking down an inch more. Then two. Then she’s taking you halfway in. Then, you’re knocking against her uvula at the back of her throat.

Her neck stiffens rigidly against your persistent hand, but she’s not strong enough to break free even if she tried. So you keep her there. All the way down. Lips forming a tight ring around your base as she gags and hlurks and spews her own saliva out from the small tears in her vacuum sealed mouth. You keep her there for god knows how long, taking pleasure in both the physical sensation of her mouth and the knowledge that you’re finally getting to see her use it for something other than provoking you.

Once her eyes redden beyond reason, you let go of her head, and in moments, she spits you out with a guttural groan as she could breathe properly again.

“Nguh … ha … ha … You fucking psycho … Could have—I could have choked to death on your fucking dick,” she spits out, smudging her hand across her chin. “But … ha … that was good.”

“Good?”

She bites her lip and nods, gripping your cock now with a hand. “Yeah … fucking delicious. I want more.”

“Then suck it like a good little slut.”

Knees spread, bending at an angle now, she closes the gap and licks up from your base to your tip before suckling on the head. Just a few swirls with her tongue. Before she throats your cock herself.

No prompting. No input. No hesitation.

Her head and neck work in tandem to bob her salivating mouth back and forth along the length of your shaft. Lips cruising down your sensitive skin. Tongue flattening and caressing your underside. Whenever her lips meet her hand that’s gripping what she can’t reach, it makes this popping sound that you want to hear more and more.

She’s got no technique. She gags too easily. But fucking hell—the raw and primal energy she exhibits is relentless. It’s fucking intoxicating.

This woman’s moaning in between violent gags, and you notice it whenever her nipples bump into your thighs. You smirk. You push deeper into her, making her eyes go wide, hit the back of her throat, and force her to adjust while sucking you hard and fast still. But this time, her nipples graze your inner thigh each time and you see her eyes melt from their initial panic and hesitation.

When she pulls you out with a loud smacking sound, she’s gasping, panting, eyes wet, lips swollen, but tongue licking up your precum on the tip oh-so-fucking-hungrily.

“You taste so … fucking … good, mmm,” she murmurs, stroking your first few inches, thumb rolling over the head. “Who knew the uptight manager was packing so fucking much?”

“Consider yourself the exception and not the rule,” you barely get out in one full breath as her stroking is getting more intentional rather than lazy.

“Lucky me then,” she mutters, blowing your tip a kiss. She licks up once. Then twice. Then circles around ridge of your head. Playing with it. Toying with you. Face disappearing beneath you as her eyes almost glow. “This is all mine—.”

The doors to the club open and you hear footsteps.

Time doesn’t afford you the luxury to curse. You’re both scrambling. For clothes. For refuge. Anything.

You only manage to put your pants back on. Not even to fix your underwear. Your belt’s not even buckled. When you see who it is walking into the open space of the club, he shoots you a weird look. “Boss?”

“Already done? Thought you’d all be enjoying spending my money a bit more,” you reply, hands in your pockets to stop your slacks from falling down. “Where are the others?”

“Um, home, boss. It’s six in the morning.”

“Right, right.”

“Boss, you haven’t been drinking again, have you?”

You gesture to yourself with a thumb jutting up from your waist. “Me? Why would I be?”

But Minho shakes his head, one hand smoothening the folds of his brown and white checkered tie that reminds you of brownies. “Nothing. Just making sure. Did you manage to sort out the issue? With the lady?”

You nod. That’s all you can give him. That’s all you really want to give him. Because your dick’s being bent at such a bad fucking angle in your tight slacks that you want to just let it free again. It would rather be inside somewhere else too. “Told her off. She got scared easily when I talked to her alone. Said she’ll ‘behave’ more—whatever that means.”

“Is she still here?”

You freeze. Muscles behind your thighs tighten. “She left just after you and our staff did.”

“Then why is her fur thing still there?” he asks, pointing to the peeking belt the woman left behind. If Minho hadn’t pointed it out, you wouldn’t have seen the terrible fucking hiding spot she chose. On all fours behind one of the table’s walled legs. Buck naked.

As Minho approaches, you casually just pick up the belt with your left hand and tug on it. Even when it goes taut. She gasps and shakes her head nervously, but you continue as you stare down at her. “Must have left it. I’ll hand it back when she comes back. I know she will. Leave it to me.”

Those final four words are always enough for your second to stop in his tracks, just a few meters away from your table, and nod. “Got it. You should get some rest too, boss. If, you know, only if you can. I don’t want to pressure you if it doesn’t—.”

“Thanks, Minho. I appreciate it.”

“And hey, if you ever need someone to talk to or share the workload from admin—.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Go home, Minho. I’ll see you tonight.”

He nods and salutes you with three fingers. “See you tonight, boss.”

Once you’re certain your second’s walked out the door and is well beyond the entrance of SAXO, you pinch the bridge of your nose and feel the other end of the belt shifting between your knuckles.

“Is he always like that? Sounds like he sucks your dick more than I do.”

“He’s enthusiastic. He’s a godsend,” you tell her, helping her up to her feet. But you don’t let her go. Not the belt. Not her waist. You pull her in until she’s arching her stomach towards you. Dipping backwards. “And you? I’m not done with you yet. Let’s head to my office.”

Her drool-covered mouth shifts into a smirk. “Yeah? Make me—.”

You crash your lips onto hers and she jumps into your arms. You lift her up by her thighs and support one arm around her lower back as you stumble across the wings of the club to get to the staff-only area.

Kicking the door open, you slip in before it can close. And you feel her tongue lapping at your lips and teeth as she grips your head firmly like she doesn’t want you to leave. Oh boy, do you have no plans to leave her at all.

You hasten down the corridor. Shoulder bumping into the water dispenser. Then, you fish for your keys and unlock your office.

Once you’re both in, your elbow flies to the button and it locks with a click. She pulls away from you and presses her forehead against yours, caressing your cheek. “Hmm, you’re sexy like this. Taking control. Not holding back.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she giggles lowly as you put her on your desk. Her ass is compressing against your laptop as she sits on it. She takes a moment to look around. At the only light hovering above you both. The two sofas on either side of the front of your desk. At the pictures, certificates, and permits on one wall. “Never done this before. Banging in the backrooms of a place.”

“Who said I was going to fuck you?”

She slaps your neck and points her chin at you. “Really? You worked me up like this just to—.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Her sentence is choked off immediately when you rub two fingers against her clit. Her hand instinctively flies to your neck, holding you for support. You rub steadily in circles, occasionally swiveling over the hood, swiping back and forth over her sensitive little button. And which each motion, you watch her progressively soften her face up from a glower, to a whimper, to a moan.

“Yeah—NGHH MHHH—yeah I think I-I like you like this best.”

“Like what?”

She inhales through her clenching teeth. You’re still swiping down her clit with your thumb like you’re flitting through bills at the bar counter during closing time. “L-Like you … hnghh … like you know just what to do.”

“Do I?”

“I-I-I don’t know. I’ll … mmh—give you a point for the kissing, but—.”

She interrupts herself with a moan. The culprit? Your tongue.

“But what?” you raise, licking once more from her entrance all the way to her hood. Her pussy tastes like it smells. Sweaty. Musky. Bit of tang.

Tastes like need.

You feel her fingers knit through your hair. “But … I nghh … but I was the one doing most of the kissing …”

Palms to her thighs, you keep her legs parted. Eyes up to see her reaction. Nose bumping into her button as a tease at first, but now you’re intentionally grinding the pad of it against her clit. Tongue swiping up and down her slit like a credit card that won’t register at the terminal. “Go on. I’m sure I’ve got more points in there somewhere.”

Her fingers dig into your scalp. “I’d … I’d give you two points for all … the fucking things … mmm you did to my … to my tits …”

You kiss her clit. Suckle on it. Pin the hood between your flaps as you peel it back gently with the sharp of your tongue and swirl around her now-exposed button like it’s your favorite M&M. “I sense a but there.”

As you say that, you grip her ass now, finger jammed between her plush bottom and the edge of your laptop. “Continue or I’ll stop.”

“But it’s not fair because—AHHH—because I-I … I’m always sensitive there anyway …”

You figured. But you don’t excuse her.

Your tongue flattens itself against her and does this perpetual motion that makes her feel like you’re never running out of tongue. Up and down. Side to side. Rotations in both clockwise and in reverse. You don’t let up. You never let up. Not until you feel her dribbling that delicious nectar against your chin. Not until she’s moaning up a storm from just your tongue alone. Not until she’s yanking your fucking head lose.

“Sh-sh-shit … nghh … yes … YES! Fuck—I’m close, I-I-I’m—.”

You press your cheek to the side to catch your breath. Rest your tongue. “How many points am I getting for this?”

She dunks your head back against her pussy. “Shut u-up and just eat me … please …”

You smirk. That’s what you want to hear. You slow down your pace though. No longer giving her endless stimulation. No longer lapping her up like a hungry dog. You take your time. Build your pace. Get her closer and closer to that fucking point of no return. But don’t send her off into the deep end.

“Faster … please faster fuck … nghhh you’re—I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing? Tell me,” you say between medium-paced strokes. Like you’re enjoying a vanilla soft serve. Taking your time. But not letting the cream melt off. “Lost your words? You were so full of them—.”

“You’re teasing me,” she pushes, groaning with her back arching up. “Please … fuck … please …”

“Please what?”

“Please … eat my fucking pussy out like you own it!”

That’s all you need.

You slide your wide palms up from her butt, down her thighs, until they’re behind her knees, pinning both of them next to her face, folding her in half. Her back arches. Just the perfect height for you to lean forward and eat her the fuck out.

“OHHHH FUCK YES! Shit … shit … too much—TOO MUCH!”

But you don’t stop.

Your tongue hones in on her clit. Spreading around your saliva and her juices like a butter knife against smooth toast. She’s trembling, then shuddering, then palpitating. And that’s your queue to keep it steady. You lap at her like you’ve been starving for days. Even when your tongue numbs. Even when your jaw slacks. Even when your mouth is now full of her fucking scent and flavor.

You. Don’t. Stop.

“Fuck—CUMMING!”

She’s a squirter. She’s a goddamn fucking squirter. 

When she erupts she glazes your face with a warm spray. It lasts for more than ten seconds. Not stopping until the mess she’s made is dripping down onto your long-sleeves. She can’t breathe. She’s forgotten how to. So you decide to not be a dick and let her have a moment to herself first.

And the moment she’s regained her senses, she looks up at you and sits up. “That … ha … ha … felt amazing. You were amazing.”

But you hold your hand out against her thigh and push her back into that folded ball, knees to her head, ass up in the air.

“What—?”

“Hold it. Hold yourself like that for me.”

Reddened at the face, she nods and tucks her hands beneath her knees to hold herself in position—in offering—for you.

Now that? That is a picture-perfect moment.

You press your thumbs to the highest button. By your neck. You pop it open. You do the same for the second. Pop it open. You have about eight of these. And you take your time with each one. Because you know she’s watching you. Waiting for you. Wishing she could be the one to just rip your polo from you and finally see your bare body. You know that much. You know it because while her mouth may lie, her eyes? They don’t.

Her eyes never lie.

Once you’re finally pulling your arms through your sleeves and dropping the polo on the floor, she groans when she sees what’s underneath. “Are you kidding me? That must be fucking hot in there. You wear that every night?”

You don’t answer. You pull your undershirt off. Shove your slacks down with your boxers. And step forward. Pressing your hands next to her knees, which are next to her face. You lean in and grin. “Manager’s choice.”

You slap your cock against her pussy like you would her lips, and she responds with a tremble. Her pussy has a life of its own. It’s throbbing. Pulsating. Even after an orgasm. Such a fucking greedy little hole on an insatiable little brat. But no matter. You’ll feed her soon enough.

You grind into her. Rub your length against her folds. Poke your tip into her receding belly button. Make her feel the heat between her legs. Giving her the appetizer. 

Her eyes flicker with the fire of someone who just can’t fucking wait to burn. But you don’t move. Not much. Not anything beyond some grinding and dry humping. If you can even still call it ‘dry’ at that point. Considering your underside is being conveniently lubricated with each caress of her pussy.

“Are you going to fuck me or just stare me to sleep?” she spits. You have to admire her spunk despite how she’s folded on your desk like this. “Maybe I should call your little errand boy to do me instead. Maybe he won’t waste my time—.”

“Beg.”

She falls silent. Like you pushed the right button. 

“No.”

You slap your shaft against her pussy and wake her up. Like you slapped her across the face too. “Beg. Or I can just walk out of here, head to a strip club, and fuck one of the girls there instead.”

“Like hell you could. They don’t allow that.”

“I could. I know people.”

She bites her lip. “Fuck you. I’m not going to beg. You either fuck me or you don’t.”

You pull away. Motioning just the slightest bit for your undershirt. But immediately, you feel a grip against your arm.

“If you put that fucking undershirt back on, I will never forgive you.”

You chuckle. “Yeah?”

She spreads her legs. Wider. Lifts her butt. Higher. Makes it so her body is parted not just in invitation, but also so you can see her face clean down the middle. Past her tits. Resting against the fan of hair draped behind her like a veil.

“Please. Fuck me. Or whatever—.”

You push your dick in.

The enlarged tip meets some resistance already, noted by the pitch of her moan. There’s a ring. A tight fucking ring at the entrance. And for a heartbeat you’re afraid you might rip something. But just like her attitude, her body learns to cave in to you.

You’re in now. Not just the tip that flares at the base of her. Not just the first few inches that part the tight clenching walls of hers. But all the way in.

You’re pressed in so deep that there’s nowhere else to go. And your cock isn’t even fully inside her.

Her eyes widen. Whites glowing as her pupils dilate. “Shit. Fuck. Y-You’re stretching me … T-T-Take it slow—please—AHHH!”

You don’t take it slow.

Pressing her hands firmer against the back of her own knees, using that grip to slide her closer to you. You pull out and then ram your cock deep inside her. Once. Twice. Repeatedly. Faster. Gaining pace. Gaining momentum. Knocking on her womb with everything you’ve fucking got.

And she is just a mess.

“Is this what you fucking imagined when you were messing with me? Is this what you fucking wanted when you were acting like a little brat every night? Answer me,” you demand, pressing into her thighs now, gripping them, pounding incessantly. You haven’t had sex in god knows how long. It only felt right to dissolve completely into the temptation of her. “What? Lost your words?”

Her eyes can’t focus on any one thing, drifting here and there. Mouth agape. Tongue firmly planted between her lips. She’s moaning with each of your thrusts. So you fuck into her faster to hear it. To hear more. You’re immediately rewarded by the change in pitch, the change in frequency, and the added percussive of her tits slapping together.

Sweat dripping down your face and neck, you grip her ass from the side and slap it. Watching the pink blossom. Feeling her skin heat up. You spank her again. And again. And again. Until she finally screams her reply.

“YES! Fuck … fuck … FUCK—YES! Pound me like this. Keep fucking going. NGHHH you’re going to fucking ruin me!”

“Yeah? Then get fucking ruined.”

You press your thumb to her clit and start rubbing it fast. No direction. No patter. Just fast flicks and rotations.

“FUCK! YOU’RE—.”

Smack. Smack. Smack. Your hips meet the swell of her ass as she’s bouncing on your dick. Matching your pace. Meeting each upward thrust of yours with a downwards stroke of hers.

“C-CLOSE! Don’t stop—DON’T FUCKNG STOP!”

You pull her ass off the edge just to knock her knees into your desk. Her eyes are glazed over. Pure fucking bliss. You’re working double time with your heels and your waist to deliver blow after blow deep into her pussy. She’s clenching. Squeezing you. Craving your fucking release. But you don’t stop. You don’t give her that luxury. Not yet.

“Who’s fucking your little pussy right now?”

“MMMH … wh-what—?”

“Answer me! Who’s fucking ruining your little pussy right now?” you grunt, fucking the daylights into her while fiddling with her clit.

“Y-You … AHH!”

“Yeah? And who’s going to make you cum? Answer me.”

There’s less hesitation this time. She spits it out, “You! Fuck ….fuck I-I-I can’t—.”

“And who fucking owns you? Tell me. Say it. Moan it. Fucking scream it—.”

“YOU FUCKING OWN MY PUSSY, MANAGER!”

That was it.

You smudge your thumb against her button, really grind into it. You force whatever remaining strength you have left to thrust specifically upwards into the soft spongy spot that kept making her lose her breath. And you lean in to kiss her. Passionately. Sloppily. Possessively.

Claiming her. As you claim her squirting orgasm all over your cock.

She can’t even moan. Just whimpering into your kiss as she lets go of her shaking legs. You grab her ankles and feel her feet tensing into a point. But she slaps your arms and pulls them closer to her, tugging on them like reigns so she can feel your full erect length stretching her pussy down to the final spasm of her release.

Then, it’s your turn.

“Fuck … fuck that—wait … wait wait wait—AHHHH SHIT—!”

One arm behind her back, holding her close. The other lifting her leg up so her knee’s hooked over your shoulder. One hand gripping her waist. The other palming her clit. You send her into a state of borderline catatonia as she moans and groans and scrambles to try and break free as you overstimulate her senses. But you don’t stop. You chase after your own release while inside her clenching and spasming death-grip of a pussy.

“Going to fucking—.”

“GIVE IT TO ME! GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING LOAD!”

You burst.

Your whole body’s tensed. Did you know that? You didn’t up until you allowed yourself to let go. To let it all loose. The first shot burns your tip with how rapid it fired out. With how tight she’s clamping around you. The next few shots spread pleasure all over your stomach, racing up your spine, and then finally scattering across the back of your head. The last few shots send your mind into a daze as your first orgasm in arguably months finally escapes you. Finally finds its place. Finally fills her the fuck up so bountifully.

Unsheathing yourself from her warm, sweating, and pulsating orifice, you let your cock droop against your thigh. Semi-erect still. Sensitive to the cool air of your office. Dripping an ounce or two of leftover cum.

And she’s there. On your desk. Unmoving. Naked, heaving mass. Sweaty all over. Arms flayed out to the side. Chest rising and falling unsteadily. Nipples perking from the cool. Ass hanging off the edge. One knee pointed upwards. The other outstretched with her leg to keep her steady.

There she is. Cum dripping out of her like a mark. Like a signature.

There she fucking is. No masks. No games. No resistance.

Completely laid bare.

---

The door to your office bursts open. But you’re not flinching this time. You’re focusing on transferring your hand-written computations from the pile of papers next to you. Digitalizing them.

“What’s the matter this time, Minho? We haven’t even opened yet.”

“Sorry for not knocking boss, but it’s Hajoon. He … let’s just say he ‘pre-gamed’ a little too hard and is um, throwing up all over Table Thirty-One—.”

“Well, clean it up. Do I have to be the one to deal with every single mess?”

Minho’s eyes lower to his polished shoes. “I … You’re right. I’ll handle this myself.”

He pauses. Looks at you now. You know this despite being deep in your sheets. You can see him from your peripheral. “And?”

“Boss, are you … eating something?”

You shrug. “Haven’t had a meal all day. Haven’t caught any shuteye either. All the damages. All the losses. Marking them all down first.”

“Want me to grab some food then before we open? What are you craving?” he asks with a smile. And you can sense that he’s quite hungry too.

“Think that American place a few streets down’s still open? I could go for a sloppy joe right about now.”

He snaps and winks at you. “You got it boss. I’ll be on my—huh. There’s that sound again.”

“Must be a leak in the vents. I’ll call plumbing later.”

Minho grins and nods. “Always one step ahead, aren’t you, boss?”

You nod in reply and return to your sheets. There’s a brief pause. Then, Minho’s finally disappeared behind your closing door.

In moments, her head resurfaces from underneath your desk. Face sweaty, half dripping with cum half drying in it, thick lips pursing and bubbling over the tip of your cock.

“You like it sloppy, don’t you? Mmmmh,” she teases while wiping your thick shaft against her softer features. “Who could have guessed?”

You reach down to lift her chin and say, “If you’re going to pay off your debt, you might as well get back to it. We’re opening in two hours. So unless you want my staff to wonder why one of our clubgoers is walking around ruined like a cheap little whore, I suggest you make it worth my while.”

Giggling with that same teasing energy of hers, but just converted into something else now, she nods and kisses your tip again.

“What’s with the noise?” The biggest girl in the class said. Waking up from her nap, raising her head from the table and crossing her arms.

“I-It’s nothing! Gaeul-sunbae, Hanwoo’s just choked up since he ate too fast,” The broad-shouldered guy said and dropped me after being choked for a minute.

“Kggg! Ugh- S-spare me.” I begged, and they laughed at me.

Do you know why I am getting choked by the rock-body guy? It’s because the sandwich I bought for him didn't have enough filling. Crazy right? Yeah, I’m getting bullied by these motherfuckers. It started when I transferred to this school in Seoul from a rural seaside town. I never thought they'd treat me like dirt; the main reason was just that I’m a countryside pumpkin.

“You'd better stop it while I’m being nice,” Gaeul said before going back to her nap.

“You heard her, Hanwoo? Stop whining! HAHAHA!” He laughed, they’ll laugh.

It’s annoying, I wish I could stuff my socks into his mouth and muffle her irritating laugh. But I can’t since I’m weak. I didn’t even bother to fight back; it’s better to go home abused and not beaten up.

These guys are the rulers of the school. Their leader, Seunghoon, is untouchable. Even other big guys don’t dare to touch him. Then the guy who just choked me is his underling, Minjun. He’s as bitch as his boss. They’re not scared of anything, except Gaeul.

Speaking of, I said that she’s the biggest girl in the class. It’s because she’s a repeater, a year older than us, and she had a different kind of family. Her brother is an alumnus and the former president of the judo club. Her father’s a well-known loan shark executive, and her mother is a former politician. What a family.

I heard she had to stop her studies last year since her dad got into trouble from his past station in the depths of Busan. So they had to hide from the authorities even though they’re basically miles away from his dad. That’s what I heard, and that’s what all of us know. She didn’t tell stories about it, and I don’t think she had to since that story had spread already like a pandemic.

*****

The next day, I messed up. Again.

“Where’s the change?” Minjun slapped me with the buns I bought from the store nearby. He’s sitting in his seat like a king.

“I-I gave it to you… just now.” I’m kneeling in front of them like a fucking servant, well, basically I am.

“I didn’t get anything, come on Hanwoo, it’s just 5000 won, and you dare to steal?” He’s mocking me, and he’s lying. I definitely gave it to him.

“I swear I-” I stopped when I saw one of his underlings fanning himself with the 5000 won bill that I gave to Minjun. So this is it, now they want to go farther than they used to.

“What? You stuttered since you stole. Pay me.” Minjun offered his palm, and they laughed. What a laughing stock I am. He’s extorting me now.

“S-sorry.” I pulled 5,000 won from my wallet. I feel bad about my pathetic self. I want to explode, and beat them all up, no, I want to kill them. But what can I do? I’m helpless, weak, and pathetic.

“Hey, Minjun. Isn’t that too harsh?” One of my classmates jumped in; she’s Yeji. She’s one of the officers, but I know where this was going.

“You'd better think of getting into this, if you still want to remain peaceful. Right?” Seunghoon entered the room and pushed her back to her seat. Their officer title is just a word, not a fucking power.

“Why just 5,000 won? I thought you lost 20,000 won?” Seunghoon approached us and brushed my hair. I’m frozen in terror.

“Yeah? Hey! This is too little, how dare you trick us and still try to steal?” Minjun slapped me with the buns again.

“B-but you just gave me 10,000 won- ughh! Kgghh- ohh-” I’m about to complain when a kick connects right to my torso, I feel it deep in my guts.

“If Seunghoon said I have 20,000 won from you, it exists. Remember that. Give it to us.” Minjun pulled my hair, and I kept coughing.

“Y-yes…” He let me go, and I pulled the last three 5,000 won bills. Now I’m penniless.

“Why only 15,000? You dare to steal again?” Minjun pulled his hand and was ready to slap me this time.

“Silence,” Gaeul said. We stopped everything we’re doing, and even the whole class refrained and looked at her. “You said 20,000 won, right? He already gave you 5,000 won, so he gave you the remaining 15,000 won. Are you dumb?” She mocks Minjun.

“Y-yeah, I remember my friend gave me 5,000 won already. Here, Seunghoon, 15,000 won.” Minjun gave Seunghoon the 15,000 won I gave him.

“She called you dumb- Ouughh!-” One of their shrimps teased him and got punched on his side.

“Because of you, she called me dumb!” Minjun pulled my collar and whispered in my ear. Why is he blaming me for his dumbness? This guy’s just pure muscleheads. I feel more trouble coming.

“Teacher’s here.” Gaeul fixed her posture and glanced at us.

“Boys, teacher’s here.” Seunghoon kicked me before going to his seat at the back.

“Yeah. Backyard, after class. Got it?” Minjun said before letting me go. I stumbled to my back, and they laughed. Looks like I had to deal with them later on.

“Sigh.” Gaeul sighed. I went back to my seat after that. I’m penniless, have no confidence, and am weak. I already tried dropping out, but my parents won’t let me. I'm an only child, and I am their future. I wonder what the future will hold? If my present is already fucked up.

*****

“Ughh!-” I spat blood after a punch on my temple and fell.

“BECAUSE OF YOU SHE CALLED ME DUMB!” Multiple kicks on my body this time.

“HAHAHA!” They kept laughing while he beat me.

“S-sowwi (Sorry)”, I can’t speak up since my lips are swollen and bleeding.

“Ugh! I’m so mad right now!” He looked up, fixed his hair, and stretched.

“Stop it, if you kill him, that’s a bigger problem,” Sunghoon said while smoking cigarettes. “Hey, just tell them you fell from the stairs, got it?” He threw his cigarettes at me, landed right on my nape.

“Y-yes Ughh!-” It stings, of course. They kept laughing, like I’m made for their entertainment.

“You'd better join the upcoming field trip, it’s not fun without our toy. Let’s go.” They walked away, but gave me a farewell kick. One of them did.

…

“W-what did I do to deserve this?” I started to cry, mumbling regrets through my bleeding mouth. My tears are falling from my swollen eyes. Did the heavens leave me for good? Or even God making fun of me? Why do I have to suffer like I don’t deserve to live?

…

“Why are you sleeping there?” I know that voice, it’s Gaeul.

“N-no, I’m not.” I stand up, head down. My bruises and swollen body stings; I know this will be much worse the next day.

“What the? I thought you were a zombie.” Gaeul approached me. “Can you even walk? Look at that, you’re unrecognisable.” She looked down to take a look at my face, which I turned sideways.

“What happened?” She asked, crossing her arms. Now acting like my damn guardian. She should stop it before I can’t even recognise her as a woman.

“I fell. Stairs.” I passed through her, still with my head down. Walking unstable since my whole body aches.

“Why won’t you fight back?” Gaeul asked me.

“Do you know who you are asking that question?” I said, not turning back on her.

“Yes, you’re that countryside bumpkin. So, I’m asking you why you’re not fighting back?” I’m curious if she realises that she’s asking the weakest guy in the class why he doesn't fight back.

“I- I can’t.” I took a step.

“You’re just being a coward.”

“I’m used to it.” I took another step.

“You’re like a pulp right now.”

“It’s just today.” Another step.

“I hate the weak.” That sentence hit me.

“What is it to you? You’re not weak! I AM!!” I stopped and yelled. Head still down, tears flowing once again.

“I don’t want to see weakness from anybody else; it irritates me.” Gaeul remained calm. She just said that I irritated her.

“Then don’t look, just be yourself. That sunbae, that queen.” I walked away, and there were no words from her after that.

*****

The next day, I come to class, and I can sense their fear. Only Yeji showed me empathy and worry. But she was pushed aside by Seunghoon and his gang. As usual, I’m getting bullied. From the classroom, in the cafeteria, in the backyard, and even outside the campus. This time, they kept extorting me, and I’m getting used to walking back home, penniless.

Then it’s field day, it’s an overnight stay. 2 days and 1 night. But before that day, they ordered me to buy liquor and sneak it in. As pathetic as I am, I did what they told me to do. Sneaking in at least 5 bottles of big liquor.

“Nice! You’re doing well, now go back. Don’t ever speak a word of this, remember you’re the one who bought this.” They laughed. They were in their room, a cabin which was huge enough to accommodate at least 5 people.

“Hey, did you bring it?” I heard Minjun speak in an unusual lower tone. I purposely slowed down, since it’s something that they haven’t told me. It must be something very important that he even asked his shrimp to bring it instead of me.

“Yes, I did. It’s the strongest one. I got it at a very high price.” I heard a plastic rustling; based on its sound, it’s just a tiny one, like a pack.

“I don’t care how much it is, I’ll definitely use this to teach her a lesson.” I heard him flicking the pack. “It will dissolve really fast, right?” He asked him.

“Yes, no one will notice you spiked her drink. Even us!” They are grinning like a pack of wolves, planning to lay a trap for their prey.

“Good! That Gaeul calling me dumb isn’t a very good idea. I’ll fuck her tonight and make her beg for it!” Minjun is spilling his plan without noticing that I’m still there. Gaeul’s right to call him dumb.

“Don’t forget us, Minjun! I can’t wait to fuck her ass!”

“Share her with us after you! I always wanted to fuck her, she’s so hot!”

“Don’t cum too much! I don’t want to fuck an already filled cunt.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll have your share after me.” All of them laughed maniacally. This fuckers planned it really well, but they’re still dumb as fuck, they disgust me.

“Hey! You’re still here!?” One of his underlings yelled at me. They turned around and spotted me walking slowly.

“What the fuck?” Minjun sounds annoyed, so I should get out immediately.

“Sorry, I tripped. Bye then.” I excused myself; I didn't even dare to turn my back on them to avoid any more trouble.

While walking on my way to my cabin, I give it a thought whether I should tell Gaeul or not. If I tell her, there will be trouble, and they’ll definitely blame it on me. Plus, they’ll put the sneaking of drink on me, too.

But if I don’t tell her, they’ll screw her for sure. I don’t know what that drug can do, but I’m sure it is to take advantage of her. They even mention they’ll share her afterwards. It means that the drug was strong enough to last that long.

“Should I tell her or not?” I asked myself countless times that day.

*****

“Do the teachers fall asleep already?”

“I think so.”

“They won’t hear us, right?”

“Yeah, this is the farthest cabin. We also have eyes out there; they’ll warn us if ever they’re going here.”

“Nice. Ehem- Let’s get it!” Then the guy at the mic started the party.

The farthest cabin roared with trapped EDM music. Students started to enjoy the party, some dancing with the music, and some were playing. Seunghoon and Minjun are minding their own business, bullying other students. I should get out of their sight before…

“Hey! Hanwoo! Come here!” Minjun called me. Nice, I should not have gone here in the first place.

I walked towards them. Other students were bumping me on my way there, some even whacking me on the back of my head.

“Drink.” Seunghoon gave me a drink.

“I- KGHH!-” As expected, it’s unusual for them to do normal things. Not even a normal drink offering. He shoved the shot glass right into my mouth; it tasted so bitter.

“Sit,” Minjun ordered, and I obeyed. We sat in a circle; he and Seunghoon sat side by side with their girls. They’re thugs who're drinking the liquor I sneaked.

“Ohhh~ there she is, Minjun.” One of the shrimp caught Minjun’s attention. I also looked at where he pointed, it’s Gaeul.

“Damn! She’s hot as fuck!”

“Minjun! You'd better share her with us!”

“Look at that frame, I can’t wait to drill that!”

“I’m an ass guy, I’ll savage that fine anal of hers.”

“Let her piss at me, I’ll drink it.”

“Relax, boys, I think Seunghoon wants to go first~” Minjun calms his underlings down.

“I will, can’t you see how fine she is? I fuck her tight cunt before you guys.” Seunghoon smirking.

These guys are helpless. I should tell Gaeul, but I should get better timing. But I felt something unexpected. Is Gaeul always this pretty? Come to think of it, it’s my first time seeing her in casual clothing and not in our uniform. She looks chic and awesome, too.

“Gaeul-sunbae! Here, join us!” Minjun called her and pushed one of her girls to fetch Gaeul.

“I-” I feel like Gaeul wanted to refuse, but Minjun’s girl clung to her arm.

“Come on, sunbae~ let’s have some fun.” That girl said.

“Just two shots, it’s enough.” Seunghoon offered her the glass. I stared at the glass, and there was nothing suspicious on it. I should also keep an eye on them, carefully.

“Sure, just two.” Gaeul drank it up. Minjun and Seunghoon looked at each other; they worked so well that they built up telepathic communication.

With that eye contact, Minjun swiftly poured the drugs into the next cup. Seunghoon talked to Gaeul for a short time to shift her focus to him. They thought they'd set it up completely, but I saw it. I should stop it.

“Here, the second shot. Cheer for Gaeul-sunbaenim!” Minjun screamed, and they all cheered for her. Through their cheering, I can see the primal lust in their eyes. They are already stripping her with their lustful looks. I guess some of them even fucking her in their minds. That’s how low they are; it’s disgusting.

Gaeul took that cup, and-

“Whoa!”

“Hey! What are you doing!?”

“This fucker!”

I stood up and took the cup from her. Not just that, I drank it bottom up. I’m crazy, yes, I must be out of my damn mind. They spiked that drink, and I just drank it up

“Pwah-” There’s nothing special in it, or so I thought. That drug must be insanely strong. I started to get dizzy, which caused me to drop the plastic cup. This bastard should pick something lighter than this if they planned to be more sneaky. Not like this, its effect is appearing immediately.

“Hey, are you good? Why did you take- hey!” Gaeul looked confused as I collapsed. I’m still conscious, but my body feels really weak. My consciousness starts to twirl like I’m on a roller coaster ride.

“What are-” Gaeul looked at the cup; there were still visible granules of the drugs. “They spiked it up.” Gaeul looked at them furiously.

“Hyunjung! Chanmin!” Gaeul yelled the names of her underlings. Yes, she had her own, too. But, they’re more like proper guards compared to them.

“What?” Hyunjung arrived first.

“What’s up? What happened to him?” Chanmin followed.

“They tried to spike me up, and Hanwoo took it for me.” Gaeul was still looking at them furiously, then her two big friends stretched their muscles.

“How dare they do that?” Hyunjung’s bones crack in every step. He’s a judo club member, Gaeul’s brother's junior.

“You guys better have a medical excuse after we beat you guys up. Gaeul, take Hanwoo somewhere safe.” Chanmin said, the school’s taekwondo pride.

“Hey! You said it will dissolve quickly!!?” Minjun looks scared and mad at the same time.

“I-It's supposed to! But you put too much!” That shrimp who bought it looks terrified as fuck.

“I thought the more I put into it, the stronger it would get! Fuck! I thought I’d get to fuck her tonight.” Minjun is preparing to fight Chanmin and Hyunjung.

“You screwed up, so we've got to take care of this.” Seunghoon stood up. His broad shoulders make her the bigger man than the two.

“You guys are disgusting!” Chanmin’s the first to strike, one shrimp down in one kick.

Actually, I watched them fight while I still lay on the ground. They’re upwards, then sideways, then upwards again. My sight’s a mess!

“Let’s go. Can you walk?” Gaeul tapped my cheeks.

“I-I don’t know. I think I can.” I stood up as fast as I could before we got involved with them.

We walked, and walked. That drug made me think that I was walking in an endless maze, but I’m not getting tired. I feel more like I want to run, but my body can’t.

“H-hey! Over here!” Gaeul pulled me, and put my arm over her head. She’s having a hard time holding me. We were swaying left and right. But at that moment, another effect of drugs kicked in. I feel something’s burning inside me, it’s something primal, like a part of me awakening. I’m in heat.

“L-let’s go to my cabin, yours is too dangerous for now. They might come after you.” Gaeul is still holding me steadily while walking. She felt nice, she’s also warm, and she felt squishy.

“Hey! That’s my chest! Keep that hand up!” Slapping my arm that wrapped around her neck.

“Sowwi (Sorry)” This is bad, my words starting to rumble up. The drug’s getting stronger, and that heat within me too. It’s aphrodisiac after all, it's supposed to kick my lust through the roof. And being with Gaeul, sticking with me, wasn’t helping at all.

“Here we are.” We entered her cabin, and I think she’s alone in here since I only saw her belongings and only one bed.

“We’re here?” I asked goofily. Those drugs make me do it; it’s embarrassing. I sat at the edge of her bed.

“Yes, we’re here. Rest up. What do you want? Water? Cold or hot?” Gaeul asked me. She unzips her hoodie.

“I want… hot.” I was staring at her, watching her remove her hoodie swiftly. She’s sweating beads; she struggled to bring me here. She wore a tight white tank top beneath it, together with her denim shorts.

“Okay, wait a minute.” She goes to her kitchen and gets some hot water.

I watched that sweating hottie get hot water for me. Her hips swaying side to side on every step she takes. Her pretty face added hotness to her already fiery body. Those thighs are so smooth and milky, and her chest felt so handy and soft earlier.

“What the hell am I thinking??? This isn’t me!” I momentarily gained control of my brain before it drifted out, lusting after Gaeul again.

“Here’s the– what the heck!?” Gaeul approached me with a glass of hot water, then stopped. She looked shocked and disgusted while staring down at me.

“Hmm, what?” I looked at where her eyes were resting. It’s on my boner, poking through my pants, hard and proud. “Oww shwit~ (Shit)” I tried to cover it with my wobbly hands. There’s no embarrassment as I laugh afterwards. My normal self would have killed myself with shame, but I’m under the influence right now.

“S-shit.” She puts down the glass on the nearest table.

“Thwe dwags (The drugs), iwts apwodiswac (It’s aphrodisiac).” I hope she got that, and not personally take me the other way.

“Really? Those fuckers.” She picked the glass once more and gave it to me. I drank it up, and somehow, it sobered me up just slightly.

“What else do you know?” She sat on the chair near the bed, crossing her legs. I did not answer her and just stared at her smooth legs. “You- yeah, you’re under the influence.” She snapped her fingers, and it caught my attention.

“Uhhh yeah, right. I heard hic- them talking about hic-” I make a nice beat with my hiccups.

“Drink.” She said, I drink the remaining water and set it down at the table.

“I heard they planned to hic- spiked your drink and take advantage of you,” I said, while my thoughts drift around the cabin, on her, and on her thighs.

“Why did you hic- save me?” She asked me. Did she just hiccup?

“I feel like hic- I should,” I answered, staring at her eyes.

“Thanks.” She said, it’s heartwarming. It’s so warm that I can feel myself… burn.

“I should hic- go out. I sense danger hic- right here.” I stood up, still wobbly.

“Your cabin’s very dangerous.” She grabbed my wrist; she had no idea what it did to me. The heat that I felt within me rushed to my brain.

“It’s not–” I tried to flee, but I’m too weak.

“Stay here– oouhh!-” She pulled me.

She used force on my weak body, which caused us to stumble. Our feet tripped from one another; my dizzy state didn’t help either, as I let my body fall with gravity. Her back landed on the bed with a hard thud. I landed on top of her, not enough to crash my head against her. My body is perfectly in her, with her legs on both sides of my hips. 

For the first time, our faces are mere inches from one another. I can see why those bastards want her so badly; she’s like an embodiment of an angel.

“Uhmm hic- can you move?” She said, I kept staring at her face. She’s cute and pretty at the same time.

This used to be a romantic scene. A man and a woman, stumbling to their backs, and facing each other, create tension between the two characters. But, this one’s different. There’s no tension, I only feel pure lust.

“H-hey! What’s that?? Is that your–” She looked down. My bulge directly poked her crotch through the layers of our garments.

“Move, or I’ll beat you up.” She threatens to beat me up. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?” Gaeul noticed my drowsy look at her. But my focus is not entirely hers; it’s specifically on her lips. It looks glossy and soft. She had this cute mole on the side of her lip that I wanted to kiss.

Kiss?

“Move or– hmp!” My lips crashed against hers. Her eyes widened in shock. She didn’t even have time to realise what was happening as I ate her lips in an instant. Chomping her soft lips, it tasted sweet and slithery because of her lip gloss.

“Hanwoo.” She called my name in that split second when I shifted my head to the other side. It’s the drugs, it’s not me, is it?

I felt no resistance at all, and she even spread her legs wider. My bulge rested perfectly on her crotch, even if it's clothed, I can feel heat radiating on our bodies. I used my tongue to feel her lips, and not too long, until my tongue met hers.

!!!!

She’s kissing me back and fighting my tongue with hers. I thought this is one sided, is this mutual?

*****

(Fighting group POV)

“You fuckers are so consistent with arggh- It!” Chanmin landed another kick, then a roundhouse one. Knocking two bad shrimp.

“It’s because you two are haaa- strong.” Minjun’s panting; he’s exhausted.

“You guys, what you did is something unforgivable,” Hyunjung said while he buried another shrimp’s face to the ground with a stomp.

“I thought the first drink she took did the job, but I guess she needs two shots of it. If she goes down at first shot, we would have fucking her right now!” Seunghoon said.

Their fight continues.

The first drink that Gaeul took was a while ago.

It has an aphrodisiac on it already.

“Hey Hyunjung! Should we be concerned? Those two, Gaeul and Hanwoo.” Chanmin called Hyunjung to his attention.

“I think so, Gaeul always liked him, but she’s too cold to show her emotions,” Chanmin answered, taking down another shrimp.

“And they had taken shots of that drug. I’m worried about Hanwoo.” Hyunjung said.

“I can’t believe Gaeul-sunbae likes that nerdouhhhhh…” That shrimp who just talked got his wacked.

“Yeah, Gaeul had this wild animal in her, especially when drunk.” Chanmin went to Seunghoon directly.

“Let’s finish this before something bad happens to Hanwoo!” Hyunjung and Chanmin went to Seunghoon and Minjun to finish it.

How the tables turn.

*****

(Back to Gaeul and Hanwoo.)

“Haa~ Gaeul hmm!-” I’m now lying on my back and Gaeul’s on top of me. She’s eating me instead of me eating her. How the hell did this happen? Every time I tried to speak, she'd shut me up with her mouth. She’s chomping me alive.

“Quiet Hanwoo~” She whispered, sliding her lips from my mouth to my ears. What the hell is happening? I’m the one who drank those drugs, but why is she the dominant one?

“L-let me sober you up. This~ got to be taken care of, right?” She reached down, cupping my hardened bulge.

“Yes– I mean hic- no– ughhh~” She started fondling it.

Then she got off me. When I tried to stand up, she pushed me down, causing me to plop on my back. I watched her reach the hem of her top. She pulled it up. I could see her smooth belly, then her black under, until she yanked it out of her body. Throwing her shirt on the floor. Then she reached behind her, and her bra loosened. She slid it down her petite arms, and her perky breasts with her pink peaks proudly welcomed the warm air.

I did not watch idly as my hands instinctively reached my pants, tugging it down without unzipping them. I struggled pulling it out, but I eventually did. Next, I pulled my boxers down, freeing my hard rod pointing to the ceiling. Unusually, my top came last as I stripped it out.

“It’s damn hard.” She stared at my dick, gulping. Now it’s her turn. She unbuttoned her shorts, unzipped them next, then let them slide down through her smooth legs. She didn’t waste any time either, as she tugged her wet underwear and stripped it off.

I’m salivating over her full glory. Everything’s perfect: her face, her tits, and even her glistening, shaved pussy. I can see that she’s soaked down there. She climbed over me and started making out with my mouth again. It feels like she’s the one who got drugged and not me.

“Haa~ G-Gaeul hic- What are you- oughh-” She grabbed my dick with her soft hand and wedged it in her pussy. No teasing, no playing, just straight up wedging.

“Hmm, too hard– it should go in ouughh–” I watched her hips slowly descend. Her pussy’s eating my dick, as I watch my shaft disappear in her lower lips inch by inch.

“Aggghhh! G-Gaeul!”

“Ahhhh!” She let her weight do the last push. It’s fully inside her, penetrating her a hundred per cent.

“Ahhh… it’s in… it’s gripping me, sunbae.” I can feel her insides gripping my cock, it’s throbbing inside. Everything’s moving, her walls and my dick’s moving independently.

“Finally.” She’s breathing heavily. What did she mean by it? 

She cupped my cheeks before leaning and kissing me, our tongues intertwining in a very smooth rhythm as if it was made for each other. Then she started to move her hips, pulling it upward, accompanied by both of our moans. Then slamming her crotch against mine in a fast drop.

“Fuck!”

“Ahhh shit! This is it, hmmm~” Gaeul sounds so horny, but why!? I’m the one who took the drugs.

Her movement eventually became buttery smooth. She pulled her ass up and dropped it down. My dick scrapes her insides as her wetness provides the missing lubrication from the sudden penetration. Her ass jiggled every time she slammed against my hips. I grabbed her ass with both hands, feeling how smooth it was before gripping it and spreading it.

“Haaa~ hmmppp~ ahh~ ahhh~” We could only moan, letting all our emotions in incomprehensible expressions through it.

She straightened up her body, then ground her hips on me. She started riding me as she held my hand with hers, fingers interlocked. I watched her ride me with her jaws open, letting out her lovely moans. Her breasts bounced up and down in rhythm with her whole body as she bounced on me.

“G-Gaeul!” I stood up and kissed her. We’re in  Louise's position, facing each other as we kiss. She started moving once again when our lips broke out. While holding my nape with her left hand, she bounced like crazy. I can see her face closer in this position, as her body bounced endlessly.

Her tits look enticingly good as well, it’s right below my face. I cupped it with my hand to feel its jelly softness. My thumb brushed its hard bead, and I pinched it together with my index finger. She screamed in mixed pain and pleasure.

“Ahhhngg! Suck it.” My sunbae ordered me to comply.

I sucked it as she told me to, and sucked it as if I were a newborn baby eager for his mother’s milk. It feels so soft, like a jelly I can’t bite. I switch from left to her right nipple, then back to the left. Sucking both of her tits. It’s like a drug that I want to get addicted to.

Speaking of, I feel like the drug I took earlier is starting to wear off. I can finally think straight, and I’m now aware of what's really happening. But who gives a fuck? I’m enjoying this, and no one’s stopping us right now.

“Haaa– Gaeul– Behind, I want to do it from behind.” She stopped bouncing and acrobatically adjusting her body without pulling my dick out of her.

She’s now on fours, as I pressed my palm on her middle back to jut her ass out even more. I pulled out, watching her pussy lips stick to my shaft. I left an inch inside and plunged back in. We let out a lovely moan right after it, then I pulled again and plunged right back in with the same force.

“Ahhh~ ahh~ hmm~ that’s it! Fuck me! Tear my cunt apart!” She’s moaning endlessly. It’s not the expressionless, cold Gaeul I knew.

I did what she told me to do. I fucked her pussy from behind. Holding her waist and pushing her back with my hands while watching her ass ripple with every impact. I’m enjoying it, and I know that the same goes for her.

I stopped momentarily and leaned in, placing my head next to hers and kissing her. She kissed back right away, sticking her tongue out. I lifted her body, and I lay on my back. She rested her back against my chest while our tongues clashed.

I thrust my hips on her; she bounced on top of me, facing the ceiling. She rolled her head beside me, and I could also see her eyes rolled back. We fucked in a similar to Pearl Gates position.

“Y-yes hmnng~ fuck me like you mean it!” Gaeul roared, echoing in her cabin. I kept fucking her as she told me to, thrusting in and out of her. Her juice oozes from her, which my dick scraped out of her pussy and splashes onto the sheet. We kept fucking in that position until I felt my calves stiffen and my hips numbed.

“Ahhh~ w-why did you stop?” Gaeul looked sideways at me with her droopy eyes, her cheeks flushed red. Her mouth kept hanging for two purposes, one is for moaning and the second is to help her nose from breathing.

“I’m numb.” I held her by her waist, my fingers digging into her waist tightly, and swiftly turned her to her back. She watches me as I hold her legs, raise them up and spread them wide on both sides. Very similar to the captain position.

“Haa~ Yes hmm~ go deeper.” I’m more excited than earlier, harder than earlier, and hornier. Her thighs were wide open for me as I drilled her. Watching my dick get swallowed by her pussy lips must be considered one of the seven wonders of the world, but for my eyes only. She stuck her tongue, almost mindlessly, while she let me control her body.

“Sh-shit! Gaeul, I’m close!” I grunt, I’m having a hard time holding it back.

“Haa~ yes! Fuck me! I’m close to– no.” Suddenly, she looked at me with a mean look. Don’t she want me to cum on her?

“No, I’ll decide whether you’ll cum or not.” With all of her force, she shifts our position again, back in cowgirl as she rides me. We kept shifting positions without pulling out my dick inside of her. Should I have my dick acquire residency inside her evil pussy village?

“Y-yes! You are made for me.” She moves her hips, nonstop, at a fast pace. I watched her bouncing on top of me with her perky tits jiggling up and down while her midriff rippled from the impact.

“G-Gaeul! ahh~ I can’t stop it anymore!” My core tightened, my dam full of semen is about to open.

“T-then let it out! I’m close too! Ahhhh~” Her inner walls clenched my rod, it’s violently moving inside.

“AAHHHNNGGG!~” Together, we let out our synchronised grunts. We cum as one, I erupted deep inside her while my dick head kissed the opening of her uterus. Filling her womb with my capable seeds, splashing my thick white cum inside her, filling her tanks.

While I kept cumming inside her, her body was convulsing and twitching like a damn loose hose with high-pressure water coming out of her. Her juices covered my shaft, down to my balls, and splashed to my thighs.

“Haa~ haaa~” We pant, and catch our breath. We know it’s dangerous if my seeds meet her eggs for the next few minutes. But we are young, and youth loves to gamble. She collapsed in front of me, resting her head next to mine.

“Gaeul-sunbae?” I tapped her, but there was no response. Then I can hear her soft breathing; she’s sleeping.

I shift lightly below, careful not to wake her up. I pulled out as my dick started to soften and pulled it out of her. A pool of thick gooey cum sipped out of her swollen cunt, landing on the sheets. It keeps dripping out of her until it leaves a dried string of cum, it signifies how much cum I put inside her. I hugged her gently, and we shared warmth through the night as both of us fell asleep.

*****

A day after that educational trip, I heard the news about those bullies getting expelled. It includes Seunghoon and Minjun. The news of them sneaking drinks, trying to take advantage of Gaeul, and even fighting the school's athletes spread throughout the entire city and even made it to the news.

“How embarrassing.”

“They should be in jail.”

“They’re fucked up really good.”

“They deserved it.”

“Did you hear what Hanwoo did? He’s a fucking saviour!”

I was sitting in my chair, looking at the blue sky peacefully. Hearing them say that made me happy for a while. Knowing that for the first time, there are a lot of them siding with me. I can’t blame them on not showing it earlier, they’re as scared as I am. And now that they’re gone, I wonder if I’ll be able to taste freedom from now on.

“Holy shit! At the oval track!” A student crashed into the door of our room. “Gaeul’s brother is about to kill them!” He announced. Our classmates are running to witness it, and I’m not surprised by it. I stood up and got curious as well, though there’s a part of me that really wanted to witness my bully’s shrimp die.

Gaeul's brother crashed on campus, beating up everyone involved. One got his nose misaligned in a single kick, some got their jaws loosened, and others were casually tossed far away, with their bodies landing on the concrete tracks.

“Holy shit, they’re done.” One of the onlookers said. Luckily for those shrimps, other guys stepped up, including Chanmin and Hyunjung, calming Gaeul’s brother down.

I'm frozen upon realisation of something, I am scared as fuck, I'm definitely dead if they knew what happened to Gaeul and me. There’s no way her brother would let me live if he knew that we fucked and I planted my seed in her womb, a chance that may ruin their lineage.

Speaking of that incident, thankfully Chanmin and Hyunjung didn't find out what happened to us that night.

*****

(Flashback)

We woke up before they even saw us. Both Gaeul and I are completely sobered, no drugs and liquor blocking our minds, and realize what just happened. We analysed our situation quickly. Both of us are naked, sweating heavily, and both of our lips are swollen as if we sucked them roughly, which we actually realised that we did. Gaeul even looked down at her cunt and saw my cum kept spilling out of her, even hours after we did it, though some of it dried already.

“Shit.” She panicked, I panicked, we both panicked. She rushed to the bathroom, tried to clean herself off my cum since it’s risky and got out washed up in no time. We’re both blushing like tomatoes. There’s no talking, just straight-up tidying as we put our clothes back and fix everything we ruined.

“Bye.” She said and left her room.

“Bye… huh?” I'm confused. There’s something wrong.

Then she came back, flustered.

“R-right, it’s my Cabin.” She’s gesturing to me to leave upon realising it’s hers and not mine. That’s actually the wrong thing that I've been thinking about. I wonder if this is still the effect of that thing.

“Then, bye sunbaenim.” I left, bowing to her.

(End of flashback.)

*****

Days after it, we still met, and I kept lowering my head every time our eyes met. Both of us for sure were aware of it, but we never really talked about what happened, or was it just me?

“Hanwoo–” Gaeul actually tried to talk to me when one time we met in the hallway

“Have a nice day.” I bowed and passed through her.

I brushed her off; I didn’t want to, since I also wanted to know what would happen to us. But I feel like I should avoid her and forget about it, especially since I saw her brother almost kill other students. I don’t want to die yet.

But she kept on approaching me. She’s eager to have a word with me. 

“Do you have plans tonight? Can you help me with Mathematics?” Yeji asked me with her cutest smile.

“I–” I was interrupted.

“Hanwoo and I need to talk, go.” It’s Gaeul. She butted in when Yeji and I were talking, with that scary aura emanating from her.

…

“Hanwoo! Help me with my History, pleaaassse?” Karina from the next class asked me to help her.

“I–” I was interrupted, once again.

“He’s weak in history since he can’t face the PAST. Go.” Gaeul butted in again. Scaring Karina away and shooting laser beams with her eyes at me.

She'll scare Karina, the popular cat from the class next to us, when she asks for my help in studies multiple times. I'm grateful that other students are approaching me now, but she kept shooing them away.

I feel like every single day passed, her killing intent was rising as well. As I kept telling myself, I  don't want to die yet, but I also got another feeling that I'll die in her hands in just a matter of time if I keep brushing her off.

Until one time.

“G-Gaeul– Have a ni–” I came across her on my way to the gymnasium.

“There’s nothing nice whenever you keep pushing me away.” She sounds mad already. I should leave.

Gaeul felt she had had enough. She grabbed my wrist with unbelievable strength. She easily pulled me all the way to the backyard where she and I first talked. I remember when Minjun and Sunghoon beat me up right here, and she asked me why don’t fight back.

“Don’t ever, ever avoid me! And don’t ever push me away again!” She threw me like a piece of paper.

“Y-yes sunbaenim!” I tried my best to stand straight, but my wobbly legs can’t keep up since I’m so scared of her.

“You should take responsibility!” Gaeul said.

“No way, she’s pregnant!? What the–” I was about to speak when she roared again.

“Face what you did to me and be a man!” Gaeul roared again.

“Wait a minute, why is she acting like she’s not crazily begging me to fuck her that night!?” I was about to speak when she cut me off once again. She loves cutting people, does she? I have to be careful since she might cut me in half, literally.

“We just had sex! And you kept denying it!” She took a step closer. 

“I like you.” She said with the calmest tone she had that day.

I can’t even answer her, and now she dropped a very unreasonable thing that may exist in my fucked up world. Why me? How did she like me? Since when? Countless questions suddenly flood my mind.

“I don’t know why, but I felt it. I don’t know if there’s a reason for someone to like others; I believe that it doesn’t have to be specific. So I stopped myself from asking why and when I fall for you, all that I know is I like you.” That’s the longest blabbering I've ever heard from her.

…

So she really likes me? It took several seconds to process in; I even called it blabbering. What an idiot I am. She looks so serious about it, and I can feel her sincerity. She took another step, closing more gaps between us.

“Speak up, or do you want me to cut your head off so no one knows what I’ve just said?” She took another step, finally closing the gaps. She’s just inches away from me.

“I–” I was about to speak up when she cut me off again. Damn it.

“Will this be enough to show my sincerity?” She grabbed my collar and pulled me with a kiss. Her lips pressed against mine, and left me breathless and unblinking.

“So, what now?” She pulled away.

Upon realisation, Gaeul’s the first one to tell me to fight back. She didn’t directly intervene in my businesses, but realised that every time their bullying went too much, she was there to make it stop. Is she always there for me? Or it’s just a coincidence.

“I–” I put my finger on her lips to stop her from cutting me off. “I think I like you too.” Those words didn’t pass through my mind, it’s from my heart and straight to my mouth.

She smiled and pulled me in for another kiss. I felt the same sensation, similar to that night, it’s romantically erotic. We ate each other's mouths, tongue intertwining, and catching our breath orally. She let go of my collar and wrapped her arms around me as I grabbed her waist and pulled her to me.

We looked into each other’s eyes and realised that it’s mutual. We shared our warmest smiles.

“Since your bullies are gone. I’ll handle you now.” She said, She sounds scary, not gonna lie.

“Y-yes, I’m all yours.” I submitted. She pulled me in for another kiss.

After that, we openly talked in public. Some students found it unusual, and some even found her scary. Rumours spread that Gaeul took over the bullying rights on me, but honestly, I’ll let Gaeul ruin me as much as she likes. Yeji looks concerned and worried as usual, especially Gaeul smirking and grinning at her like she won a war that never existed.

Gaeul insisted on sitting beside me in class, in the cafeteria, and even when walking outside the campus. Hyunjung and Chanmin happily watched us, as they watched our backs too, since some of the surviving Seunghoon’s and Minjun’s shrimp were still scattered around the campus.

“Gaeul,” I called her, our fingers interlocked as we walked side by side.

“Hmm?”

“You love cutting people when they’re speaking, right?” I should clarify this and get used to it.

“Honestly, it’s just for you.”

“What? Why?” Am I special? Yeah, right. I’m her boyfriend after all, I must be special.

“I just feel like cutting you off when you’re speaking. Actually, try cheating on me.” She challenged me.

“H-huh?? Why would I?” I looked at her, confused.

“I’ll cut you literally, your head, your arms, and your dick.”

I’m scared, but I love her.

Outside the open doors, the training ground rings with disciplining shouts. Your Green Standard troops drill in neat squares, spears thrusting in unison, bows drawn and released with sharp twangs, officers barking corrections. The red-and-gold banner with your coiled dragon, wave, and crossed sword-anchor symbol snaps overhead in the sea breeze. You glance up now and then to watch the formations shift, satisfied with the crispness after months of Penghu blood and sweat.

A young servant boy - barely sixteen, one of the new household additions - bursts through the side door, sandals slapping against stone. He drops to his knees so quickly his forehead nearly kisses the floor.

“General!”

His voice cracks with haste.

“Lady Xinyu bids you come at once to her chambers. She says the matter is urgent and cannot wait.”

You set the brush down. The ink bead trembles on the tip, then falls. Urgent from Xinyu is never trivial. You rise, robe whispering against the mat.

The boy scrambles ahead. You stride through the middle courtyards, past lotus ponds where carp glide beneath lily pads, past the private theater where musicians sometimes play at dusk, then through the moon gate into the women’s quarters. The garden here is quieter, jasmine heavy in the air, silk lanterns swaying gently even though it is still daylight.

Xinyu’s pavilion stands at the center. It’s the largest and most ornate. Red-lacquered pillars, silk curtains the color of ripe persimmons, carved peonies climbing the screens. Already a small crowd has gathered on the stone path outside. Maids in plain blue ao stand with lowered eyes. Your chief steward hovers nearby, hands clasped behind his back. And then there are the three of them.

Tzuyu waits closest to the door. Her posture is perfect, hands folded inside wide pale blue sleeves. Her long hair is pinned with a single jade hairpin shaped like an orchid. The silk of her robe catches the light so it shimmers like water. She meets your gaze for only a heartbeat before looking down again. She looks elegant, composed, yet you know the quick pulse at her throat betrays her.

Shuhua stands a step behind, arms crossed loosely under her chest so the vibrant green silk pulls taut across her figure. A small smirk plays at the corner of her mouth, but her eyes are sharp and watchful. She has added a thin silver chain with a tiny shell pendant around her neck. Something she brought from the island.

Nien casually leans against a pillar, in soft peach silk, sleeves rolled to her elbows as though she was in the middle of some light chore when the summons came. She twirls a jasmine blossom between her fingers, but the playful tilt of her head does not hide the way her gaze flicks between you and the closed doors of Xinyu’s chamber.

The steward bows low as you approach.

“General.”

You nod once. The crowd parts. You push the curtain aside and step into Xinyu’s receiving room.

The space is warm, perfumed with aloeswood and a faint trace of medicinal herbs. Xinyu sits on the low platform bed, back straight despite the slight curve already visible beneath her loose rose-pink robe. Her hands rest in her lap with her fingers laced. She looks up at you and, for the first time in weeks, there is no carefully schooled calm on her face. Only quiet, radiant certainty. Behind you the three concubines enter in single file, silent, each taking a place along the wall. Tzuyu to your left, Shuhua to your right, Nien nearer the door. The maids withdraw, letting the heavy curtain fall.

Xinyu draws a slow breath.

“My lord, this morning the physician confirmed it. I carry your child.”

The words drop into the room like a stone into still water. You feel the shift in the air at once. The way Tzuyu’s breath catches, the way Shuhua’s smirk vanishes, the way Nien’s fingers still on the jasmine blossom until the petals bruise. Xinyu’s gaze moves past you to the three younger women. Her expression is gentle, almost kind, but there is steel beneath it.

“The household will rejoice.”

She continues softly.

“But the child will need brothers and sisters to strengthen our line. I trust my lord will see to that duty… in due time.”

She looks back at you, eyes shining.

The evening arrives with the slow fade of sunset over the harbor, turning the sea into molten gold. Lanterns are lit along every path and pavilion, their warm glow pushing back the creeping darkness. In the grand banquet hall, long tables are set with lacquered trays. Steamed abalone glistening in ginger soy, crisp-skinned duck glazed with honey, platters of fresh crab from the morning boats, bowls of fragrant rice studded with lotus seeds, and delicate sweets shaped like peaches, symbols of longevity and fertility.

You sit at the head of the main table, Xinyu to your immediate left. Her rose-pink robe has been changed for one of deeper crimson silk. The wide sleeves are embroidered with subtle phoenixes that rise as she gestures. She looks radiant, the faint curve of her belly hidden but somehow announced by the way she carries herself. To your right sit the three concubines in careful order: Tzuyu closest, then Shuhua, then Nien. Tzuyu’s pale blue silk falls in perfect folds, her movements careful. Shuhua’s vibrant green catches the lantern light every time she leans forward. Nien’s soft peach seems almost to glow against her skin. They sit with the practiced grace of women who know they are watched.

A handful of guests fill the other seats. Two wealthy Fujianese merchants who supply your ships, a minor magistrate from the nearby prefecture, and Lady Wei, the wife of a coastal garrison commander. She’s sharp eyed, silver haired, and already deep in conversation with Xinyu about midwives and auspicious birth dates.

The congratulations begin almost immediately. Cups are raised again and again.

“To the General and Lady Xinyu. May the child be strong, wise, and bring endless prosperity!”

Xinyu inclines her head with perfect modesty, accepting each toast with a small smile. The women cluster around her, asking about cravings (none yet, but she jokes about sudden desires for Taiwanese mangoes), sharing remedies, laughing softly over old birthing tales. For this evening, at least, the household orbits her.

Your own conversations pull in a different direction. The merchant across from you leans in, voice low beneath the music of the pipa and erhu players in the corner.

“General, the new trade route from Tainan is open, but the pirate remnants still lurk near Penghu. If we could station another squadron-”

You nod, swirling wine in your cup.

“I’ve already drafted the request to Admiral Shi Lang. Two more junks with swivel guns should suffice. The Emperor wants steady rice flowing north before winter.”

The magistrate chimes in about tax exemptions for settlers willing to farm the interior. You listen, respond, commit details to memory. Politics and business weave through every sip and every bite.

Then the musicians shift tempo. A livelier melody rises. Strings get plucked in quick, playful runs. Nien sets her chopsticks down. Without a word she stands, smooth as water, and steps into the open space between tables. No one seems surprised. In households like yours, especially after a victory feast or good news, a concubine dancing is not unusual. It is entertainment, a display of grace, a way to honor the host. Nien moves as though the music has simply pulled her in.

Her peach silk flutters as she turns, arms lifting in slow arcs, wrists flicking like willow branches in wind. She spins once, twice. The hem rises just enough to show the delicate curve of her calves, then sinks low, one knee bending, head tilting back so her dark hair spills like ink. The lanterns catch every motion, turning her into flickering light and shadow.

You glance at her again and again. Her form is elegant and fluid, unmistakably inviting. The way her hips sway, the intended pause when she extends a hand toward the musicians as if offering herself to the melody…it is artful and practiced, but tonight it feels personal. Her eyes find yours once, twice, three times. Each meeting lasts only a heartbeat, yet in that look there is no coyness. It is direct. Hungry. A silent question.

You look away, toward Xinyu. She watches Nien with calm amusement, one hand resting lightly on her belly. Lady Wei says something. Xinyu laughs softly, then replies. There is no tightness in her shoulders, no flicker of irritation. The pregnancy has shifted something fundamental. Xinyu is no longer merely first among equals. She is the mother of the heir, the uncontested center. The three foreign concubines, beautiful as they are, suddenly seem less threatening. Almost decorative. The dance ends to polite applause. Nien returns to her seat, cheeks faintly flushed, breathing a little quicker. She does not look at you again, but you feel the weight of her earlier gaze lingering.

The evening stretches. More dishes arrive. lotus root stir-fried with pork, clear broth with fish maw, and more wine is poured. Guests begin to excuse themselves one by one. Lady Wei departs with effusive promises to send her best midwife. The merchants bow and leave with assurances of loyalty. The magistrate lingers longest, finishing a quiet discussion about harbor patrols.

Xinyu rises at last, graceful despite the hour.

“My lord, I will retire. The child demands rest.”

You stand and offer your arm. She takes it briefly, presses your hand once, then slips away toward her pavilion, maids trailing like shadows.

The hall empties slowly. Servants clear trays. Musicians pack their instruments. Only the last merchant remains, the one who spoke of pirates earlier. You walk him to the outer doors, sealing the final details of tomorrow’s orders. He bows deeply and then vanishes into the night.

Silence falls over your estate. You turn left toward the moon gate that leads to the inner garden. Halfway down the shadowed corridor, you round the corner.

Shuhua stands there. She leans against a red-lacquered pillar, arms folded loosely under her chest, the green silk of her robe catching the faint lantern light from the garden beyond. Her chin lifts when she sees you. She doesn’t say anything at first, but her face is in conflict with herself. A mischievous smile tugs at the corner of her lips, but her eyes are full of determination.

Shuhua straightens from the pillar as you approach, her arms unfolding slowly. The moon light catches the silver shell pendant at her throat, making it twinkle a little.

“My lord, I dislike seeing you walk these corridors alone at night. Must be tiring, carrying the weight of the household on your shoulders.”

You stop a few paces away.

“It’s a familiar burden.”

She tilts her head, studying you.

“The banquet was long. Everyone fawning over Lady Xinyu and her precious news. You barely touched your wine.”

“I had business to attend.”

A small laugh escapes her.

“Always business.”

She pushes off the pillar and takes one step closer.

“Did you like Nien’s dance at least? She moves like she’s trying to remind everyone she exists.”

You don’t answer immediately. Shuhua’s eyes narrow, pleased by your silence.

“She’s sweet.”

You say at last.

“Sweet.”

Shuhua echoes, rolling the word like it tastes sour.

“How boring. You must be starving for something with bite.”

The air between you thickens. She closes the last distance, stopping so close you can smell the faint jasmine oil she favors. Something she brought from the island, stubborn and defiant against the mainland scents of the estate.

“Walk with me.”

Not a question.

She turns without waiting, green silk whispering as she moves down the moonlit path toward her pavilion. You follow. The garden is quiet. Only the distant lap of waves against the harbor and the occasional rustle of leaves break the silence. At her door she pauses, glancing back over her shoulder.

“You’re still here. Good boy.”

You raise an eyebrow at her attitude, but it’s not unfamiliar anymore.

Inside, the room is smaller than Xinyu’s but brighter. The lanterns hang low, casting warm pools of light across silk screens painted with crashing waves and distant islands. A low bed dominates the center, piled with embroidered cushions and a thin quilt the color of young bamboo.

Shuhua doesn’t hesitate. She turns, places both hands flat on your chest, and shoves. You fall back onto the bed, the mattress yielding under your weight. Before you can sit up she’s on you, straddling your hips, knees bracketing your thighs. Her robe parts at the front just enough to show the smooth line of her collarbone and the dip of her breasts beneath thin silk.

“You didn’t look at me all evening. Every time Nien spun, your eyes were on her. But you’re mine now.”

Her breath is warm against your skin. You slide your hands up her thighs, feeling the heat of her through the fabric. She shivers once, then presses harder into your lap.

“Not slow tonight. Never slow with me. You know that.”

She starts with kisses. Quick, hungry ones across your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. Then she finds your neck. Her teeth graze just enough to sting before she sucks a mark there. Her hips roll in a slow, heavy grind, pressing her heat against the growing hardness beneath your robes. Your hands move higher, cupping the firm curve of her ass through the thin silk. The fabric is slippery, barely a barrier. You squeeze. She gasps softly against your throat, then bites down again, sharper this time.

“Good. Touch me like you mean it.”

One hand leaves your neck. She reaches between your bodies, deft fingers working the ties of your trousers open. Cool air hits your skin for only a second before her palm wraps around your cock.

“Look at you.”

She whispers, lips still at your ear, voice dropping lower.

“Already so hard for your bratty little island princess. You pretend to be so composed in that hall, but here? Here you’re just a man who wants to fuck me raw.”

She continues to stroke your cock with slow, teasing up-and-downs, then squeezes at the base.

“Say it.”

Her demand is soft, almost sweet.

“Tell me you want this. Tell me you’re going to ruin me tonight while your perfect wife sleeps with your heir safe inside her.”

Her hips rock forward again, grinding her clothed heat along your length. The friction is maddening. You grip her ass harder, pulling her down so she feels every inch of your dick pressing up against her. Shuhua laughs and leans in to kiss you properly this time, all teeth and hunger, no gentleness at all.

You flip her, rolling so Shuhua is suddenly beneath you. Her back hits the quilt with a soft thud. Her green silk robe fans out around her like a bed of grass, dark hair spilling across the embroidered cushions. She gasps once, surprised by your switch, then immediately tries to mask it with that familiar smirk. You brace yourself on one forearm beside her head, caging her in. Your free hand pins her wrists above her head.

“You’re being unusually annoying tonight.”

Shuhua blinks up at you, eyes wide and innocent for half a heartbeat before the mask cracks. She flutters her lashes.

“Me? Annyoing? I don’t know what you mean, my lord. I’m just… keeping you company after such a long day.”

You don’t smile. You don’t need to. You can see the calculation behind her wide-eyed act, the way her thighs shift restlessly beneath you. You don’t particularly care about the quiet tension that simmers between her and Xinyu. Petty jealousies, veiled barbs in the garden, the way the three concubines sometimes glance at your wife like she’s stolen something they never quite had. As long as they keep it away from you, let them claw at each other all they want. But tonight? Tonight she didn’t even give you the chance to choose whose pavilion you’d visit. She ambushed you in the corridor, dragged you here without a word of invitation or permission. You can put two and two together.

You lean closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“I don’t care what games you play with Xinyu. But when it comes to me? Be a good woman. Look pretty. Stay quiet.”

Shuhua’s breath hitches. Then she laughs, clearly defiant, the sound vibrating against your chest.

“Quiet?”

She whispers back.

“That’s no fun. That’s what Tzuyu does. You like it when I talk back. Admit it.”

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you shift your weight, turning her over so she’s on her stomach beneath you. She lets out a startled huff, palms pressing into the quilt as she tries to push up. You plant a hand between her shoulder blades, applying pressure. Your other hand finds the hem of her robe. You drag it up, bunching the silk at her waist until her lower half is completely bare to the lamplight. The curve of her ass, the smooth dip of her spine, the faint sheen of arousal already glistening between her thighs…it’s all exposed. You settle behind her, knees bracketing her hips. Your cock, still hard from her earlier teasing, nudges against her entrance. You lean down, chest pressing along her back, mouth at her ear again.

“The only thing you need to know tonight is how to take my cock.”

Shuhua opens her mouth, probably to fire off another bratty retort. But you don’t give her the chance. You push in with one steady thrust. She chokes on whatever words were coming, body arching sharply beneath you. A raw, broken sound escapes her - half moan, half gasp - as you sink deep, stretching her open in one go. Her walls clench wildly around your length, hot and slick and greedy despite her earlier bravado. You don’t pause. You pull back almost to the tip, then drive in again, harder this time, hips snapping forward. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the pavilion, louder than the distant waves outside. Shuhua’s fingers claw at the quilt. Her cheek presses into the cushion, mouth open, breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. Every thrust rocks her forward, every withdrawal drags a whimper from her throat. You keep the rhythm steady, just like she would if she were on top: deep, punishing, no gentleness. One hand slides up to grip her hip, holding her exactly where you want her. The other tangles in her hair so she can’t hide her face. She tries to speak again, but it dissolves into a moan when you angle your hips and hit that spot inside her that makes her whole body tremble. You lean down once more, lips grazing the nape of her neck.

“Quiet.”

You remind her.

“Pretty and quiet.”

She shudders beneath you, walls clenching hard around your cock. But she doesn’t talk back. At least not yet.

You keep the rhythm harsh, each thrust slamming deep, hips colliding with the soft curve of her ass in sharp, punishing slaps that echo through the small pavilion. The bed frame creaks under the force. The quilt bunches beneath her fists. Shuhua’s earlier pretense of quiet vanishes entirely. Instead, she moans. Loud, unrestrained, throatier than you’ve ever heard from her. The sounds spill out raw, carrying through the thin silk screens and into the garden beyond.

She wants the whole estate to hear. Every cry is pitched just right, high enough to pierce the night, drawn out enough to linger. It’s not pleasure alone, it’s performance. A declaration.

“This is me. This is who he’s choosing tonight. This could be the one who carries his next child.”

Your hand shoots forward, clamping over her mouth. Your palm seals tight against her lips, fingers pressing her cheek into the cushion.

“Quiet.”

Shuhua’s eyes flash. She doesn’t obey. Instead, she bites down hard enough to sting, teeth sinking into the meat of your palm. You hiss through your teeth but don’t pull away. She twists her head just enough to speak around your fingers, voice muffled but dripping with bratty triumph.

“Mmph-make me.”

She manages, the words fractured by another loud, broken moan as you drive in particularly deep.

That’s enough. You decide she doesn’t get to keep that smug little voice tonight. You pull your hand free only to slide it down, fingers wrapping around the slender column of her throat. Not choking…yet. Just firm enough to feel her pulse hammering against your palm. You give a light squeeze, then another, timing them with your thrusts. Each press makes her cough, short, startled gasps that cut off her moans mid-note. Her walls spasm around your cock in response, slick and clenching like she can’t decide whether to fight or surrender.

You pound harder. Relentless. No pause, no mercy. The wet slap of skin on skin grows louder and faster. Your hips snap forward with bruising force, burying yourself to the hilt every time, grinding against her cervix until her whole body jolts. Shuhua’s moans fracture completely, reduced to choked whimpers, then to breathless little ah-ah-ah sounds that can’t quite form words anymore. Her nails rake the quilt. Her back arches sharply, trying to take you deeper even as her lungs fight for air. You feel the heat coiling low in your gut, the telltale tightening. Your rhythm stutters for half a second as you chase the edge. Shuhua feels it too. Her body knows exactly what’s coming. She tries to speak again, voice wrecked and trembling, forcing innocence into the words even as her hips push back desperately against you.

“Please… fill me.”

She whispers, soft and sweet like she’s begging for a favor.

“Inside… please, my lord…”

You see straight through it. The wide eyes, the trembling lower lip, the way she clenches around you like she’s trying to milk you dry...She wants your seed. Wants the chance to swell like Xinyu, to claim the one thing your wife already has secured. After tonight’s attitude - the corridor ambush, the loud moans meant to taunt the entire household - you’re not in the mood to reward her.

No. When the pressure builds to breaking, you pull out quickly enough. Shuhua lets out a sharp, disappointed whine, cut short as you stroke yourself twice and spill across her ass. Thick ropes of cum paint her skin in hot streaks, dripping down the curve of her cheeks and pooling in the small of her back. She trembles beneath you, thighs shaking, breath ragged.

You release her throat. She coughs once, twice, then goes still.

For a long moment there’s only the sound of both of you breathing. Shuhua doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Her face is half-buried in the cushion, hair tangled, cheeks flushed dark. The disappointment is plain in the way her shoulders slump, the way her hips twitch once like she’s still hoping you’ll push back in. But she doesn’t dare say it. She doesn’t dare ask why you didn’t finish inside her. She just lies there - marked, used, unsatisfied - while the night outside stays quiet, as if the rest of the estate never heard a thing.

Eight days later, the morning sun filters softly through the carved wooden screens of the garden pavilion. The air carries the fresh scent of sea breeze mixed with jasmine from the nearby bushes. Servants move quietly, setting out steaming bowls of congee topped with pickled vegetables, fresh steamed buns, salted fish, and fragrant tea brewed with Taiwanese herbs. Xinyu is absent this morning. A maid quietly mentioned that the lady woke with mild nausea and chose to rest in her chambers. No one questions it. Pregnancy has its demands.

You sit at the head of the low table. To your right, in their usual order: Tzuyu closest, then Shuhua, then Nien. All three wear light morning robes.

The conversation flows easily, as it always does at these meals. Nien chatters about a new shipment of mangoes that arrived from the island yesterday.

“They’re so sweet this season, my lord. Much better than the ones we get here in Xiamen.”

Shuhua laughs and teases her gently.

“You say that every time a ship docks. One would think you’ve never tasted mainland fruit before.”

Tzuyu adds a soft comment about the weather and how the garden lotus flowers are beginning to bloom. She serves you a perfectly steamed bun with her usual grace, placing it on your plate without drawing attention to herself.

You eat steadily, nodding at their words, but your mind keeps drifting back to last night.

Tzuyu’s pavilion. The way her long legs wrapped around you, her quiet gasps turning into soft cries as you filled her twice. Two creampies that left her belly slightly swollen with your seed by the time you left her bed. The memory is still vivid: her elegant face flushed, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction, whispering your title like a prayer while her body trembled around you.

You glance at her now. Tzuyu catches your eye for a brief moment, a faint blush coloring her cheeks before she looks down at her bowl. You wonder silently what would happen if Xinyu gives birth to a daughter… while Tzuyu, after last night, carries your son. The first male heir coming from one of the Taiwanese concubines instead of the principal wife. The shift in power, the whispers among the servants, the way the household balance would tilt…You picture Xinyu’s face. That carefully controlled expression cracking into agitation and quiet fury. The drama that would ripple through the inner quarters, the three girls suddenly competing even harder. The thought amuses you. A low chuckle escapes your lips before you can stop it.

At that exact moment, Shuhua is in the middle of telling a light, exaggerated story about one of the kitchen maids mistaking a crab for a sea monster during yesterday’s market trip. Her delivery is sharp and funny, the timing perfect. Everyone at the table turns toward you, assuming your laugh was for Shuhua’s tale.

Nien giggles.

“See? Even the General finds it amusing!”

Tzuyu smiles softly, though her eyes flicker with a hint of curiosity. Shuhua’s back straightens instantly. Her shoulders square with visible triumph, a small, satisfied smirk tugging at her lips. She usually doesn’t get open favor when all three of you are together. You keep things balanced to prevent open jealousy. But this morning, that chuckle lands squarely on her. She sits a little taller, her emerald robe shifting as she leans forward just enough to emphasize her figure.

“Thank you, my lord. I’m glad my silly story could brighten the morning.”

You don’t correct them. Instead, you take another sip of tea. Shuhua’s eyes sparkle with quiet victory, while Tzuyu lowers her gaze again, fingers tightening slightly around her chopsticks. Nien watches the exchange with open curiosity, popping a piece of fruit into her mouth. Conversation picks up once more around the table. You glance at Tzuyu one more time. She meets your eyes again, before looking away. The breakfast continues with the gentle clinking of porcelain. Nien is now telling a lively story about a mischievous monkey she once saw near the harbor in Tainan as a child, while Shuhua occasionally interjects with teasing remarks. Tzuyu eats quietly.

You set down your chopsticks and reach for the tray of letters next to you which is holding several folded papers sealed with wax or tied with silk threads. You take the tray and begin sorting through them one by one while the girls continue eating and talking around you. The first is a routine report from one of your merchants in Fuzhou: dull matters of silk prices and shipping delays. You scan it quickly and set it aside. The second is a polite note from the local magistrate, thanking you for the recent favor regarding harbor patrols. Nothing urgent. You unfold the third letter. The paper is fine, the handwriting elegant and careful. The seal belongs to a respected Han family from the Tainan region. Tzuyu’s parents, a merchant-official clan that had aligned itself with the Qing after the conquest. They address you with the proper respect due to a victorious general.

“Honored General,

We are overjoyed to hear of the great blessing that has been granted to your household - a child on the way. May Heaven continue to smile upon you and grant your line strength and prosperity for generations.”

“News travels fast.”

You murmur with an amused scoff. The three concubines glance up at you almost simultaneously. Tzuyu’s chopsticks pause mid-air. She must recognize her family’s seal Shuhua’s eyes narrow with interest. Nien tilts her head.

You continue reading. The tone shifts from polite congratulations to something more direct, as expected from ambitious parents who see their daughter as a bridge to greater favor.

“We humbly pray that you will also bestow the same blessing upon our daughter Tzuyu. She is dutiful, graceful, and eager to serve you fully. A son from her would bring even greater glory to your household and secure the bonds between our families. We entrust her completely to your wisdom and care.”

You lower the letter. Your eyes lift and meet Tzuyu’s across the table. She is watching you now, a faint flush creeping up her neck, probably able to guess what the letter of her parents includes. You remember last night vividly: the way she clung to you, the two thick loads you pumped deep inside her, her quiet moans as her body accepted every drop. The thought flickers through your mind again: what if Xinyu bears only a daughter… while Tzuyu is already carrying your son from last night? The potential drama makes the corner of your mouth twitch.

You set the letter down without further comment and pick up the fourth one. This one carries the official seal of Admiral Shi Lang’s command. The handwriting is brisk. You unfold it and scan the contents. It is an order.

“General,

Pirate remnants loyal to the old Zheng cause have grown bold again near Penghu and the southern Taiwan coast. They have raided three merchant junks in the past month and threaten the new settlement routes. You are commanded to take your squadron of ships and two hundred Green Standard troops to suppress these bandits. Depart within ten days. Stabilize the sea lanes and ensure safe passage for imperial trade.”

You read the key lines in silence, then fold the letter neatly and place it on the tray. You take another sip of tea, mind already turning to preparations. Ships to ready, troops to muster, supplies to organize. A campaign of several weeks, perhaps two or three months if the pirates prove slippery.

The morning sun climbs higher as breakfast ends. You leave the garden pavilion with the weight of the military order already pressing on your mind. Preparations for the campaign will take most of your upcoming days.

A few hours later, in a shaded pavilion overlooking the lotus pond, Xinyu sits across from Lady Wei, the wife of the coastal garrison commander who had attended the dinner the night she announced her pregnancy. They play a quiet game of Weiqi on a low rosewood board. Xinyu moves a white stone with elegant precision.

“Your defense is as sharp as ever, Lady Wei.”

The older woman chuckles, placing a black stone to surround a small group.

“One must stay vigilant, especially when new life is growing. How are you feeling this morning? The nausea has passed?”

“A little better. The physician says it is normal in the early months.”

Lady Wei nods knowingly, then adds with a light smile:

“A strong son will make all the discomfort worthwhile. The household will feel more secure once the heir is born.”

Xinyu’s fingers pause over the next stone. The word “son” lingers in the air. She had said the same thing to you many times. She is certain it is a boy. Yet the comment makes her think. She knows you have been spending your nights with the three Taiwanese concubines ever since the pregnancy was confirmed. It is expected, of course. A man of your status cannot be left wanting, and she herself had told you to seek siblings for the child. Still, the reality stings more than she cares to admit. Every morning she notices the faint marks on your neck, the way the girls glance at you with fresh satisfaction. What if one of them is already carrying? What if she gives you only a daughter while one of those island girls produces a son? Her position as principal wife is secure in name, but influence in the household is something else entirely. As the game continues, Xinyu turns the stones over in her mind. She should actively support one of the concubines in front of you. Better to guide the choice than let the competition spiral out of control. Tzuyu is quiet and reserved, but Xinyu suspects it might be a clever front. The girl could be far more calculating than she appears. Shuhua is too wild, too unpredictable. Her sharp tongue and bold nature would make her dangerous if she gained real power. Nien, though… Nien seems the safest. Cute, playful, loveable. She doesn’t scheme openly for status or influence. She simply enjoys attention and seems content with whatever affection she receives. A son from Nien would be easy to manage.

Just as Xinyu settles on that thought, she glances toward the main path and sees you walking toward the outer gates, already dressed for the day’s duties. Dark robe with a military sash, boots ready for the harbor. She excuses herself gracefully.

“Please continue without me for a moment, Lady Wei. I must speak with my husband before he leaves.”

Xinyu rises and walks over to you with slow steps, her crimson robe flowing around her still modest belly. You stop when you see her.

“Xinyu. Are you feeling better this morning?”

She smiles softly, placing a hand lightly over her abdomen.

“Much better, my lord. The boy is behaving himself today.”

You nod, eyes flicking to her hand.

“Good. Take care of yourself…and him.”

Xinyu hesitates only a moment, then speaks with careful subtlety.

“The girls have been attentive lately. Especially Nien. She has such a gentle, cheerful way about her. It brightens the household.”

You acknowledge the comment with a small hum, already thinking about the campaign preparations. Xinyu continues, making it a touch more obvious.

“She would make a fine companion for your nights while I rest. Playful and easy to please. I think you would enjoy her company more often.”

You raise an eyebrow, finally catching the suggestion.

“Nien?”

Xinyu meets your gaze.

“Yes. She seems the least likely to cause unnecessary trouble. A good choice for now.”

You study her for a beat, then nod once.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She smiles again, satisfied that the seed has been planted.

“Go safely with your preparations today. The household will be waiting for your return.”

You bid her farewell and continue toward the gates. Once you are out of sight, Xinyu stands still for a moment, then turns to a waiting maid. She knows your weaknesses well. You can be firm with troops and merchants, but when it comes to the four women in your life, you sometimes let things flow too easily without seeing the undercurrents.

“Call for Nien. Tell her I have a small errand for her in the Xiamen market. She should fetch some fresh Taiwanese mangoes and herbs for my tea. Make sure she leaves soon.”

The maid bows and hurries off.

The midday sun beats down on the bustling Xiamen docks, turning the sea into a glittering expanse of blue. You stand on the raised deck of one of your junks, overseeing the final preparations for the upcoming campaign. Sailors and soldiers swarm the ships, loading barrels of fresh water, crates of dried provisions, bundles of arrows, and extra matchlock muskets. Officers shout orders while carpenters hammer reinforcements onto the hulls. The air smells of salt, tar, fish, and sweat.

You gesture to one of your lieutenants, pointing at a list on a bamboo scroll.

“Double the rice stores. We may be out for two months if the pirates scatter into the smaller islands.”

While the man nods and hurries off, your eyes drift across the crowded waterfront market that sprawls along the docks. Merchants hawk goods straight from newly arrived ships: bolts of silk, crates of tea, Taiwanese fruits, and baskets of wriggling seafood. Fishermen call out their morning catches, their voices blending into the lively chaos.

Then you spot her. Nien moves through the crowd with a small group of maids trailing behind. She wears a simple but pretty peach-colored robe suitable for an outing with subtle floral embroidery that catches the sunlight. Her dark hair is loosely pinned with a few fresh flowers, and her face glows with genuine delight as she examines a stand piled high with ripe mangoes and exotic herbs. She laughs at something one of the maids says, her smile bright and carefree, completely at ease in the noisy market.

You watch her for a moment from your higher vantage point. She looks beautiful, youthful, playful, radiating that innocent charm that always seems to lighten the mood. For a few heartbeats you simply enjoy the sight, the way she tilts her head, the gentle sway of her robe as she reaches for a piece of fruit. Then you remember Xinyu’s words from earlier.

“…Nien. She seems the least likely to cause unnecessary trouble. A good choice for now.”

You hesitate, fingers tightening around the railing. It is broad daylight. You are in the middle of important preparations. Usually, you do not ask for such things so directly, especially not outside the privacy of the estate. And Nien… she is always so bright and cheerful, almost too pure for the kind of raw hunger stirring in you right now. Taking her in some semi-private corner of the market feels almost sinful. Like treating her like a common dockside whore instead of one of your cherished concubines. But the order to depart in ten days hangs over you. The campaign will keep you away for weeks, maybe months. And Xinyu herself planted the suggestion.

You descend the gangplank and stride into the crowded market, your military sash and commanding presence causing people to part instinctively. Merchants bow quickly as you pass. Your eyes stay fixed on Nien. She is standing at a merchant’s stall, happily bargaining over a bundle of fresh Taiwanese herbs when you approach from behind. One of her maids notices you first and quickly bows. Nien turns, and her face lights up with a bright, surprised smile.

“My lord! A wonderful coincidence!”

You nod, suddenly unsure how to steer the conversation. The usual elegance of the inner quarters feels far away in this noisy, public place. Nien tilts her head, still smiling that sunny, innocent smile.

“The mangoes are especially sweet today. Would you like me to pick some for the journey?”

You look at her.  At the way her eyes sparkle, the soft curve of her lips, the way her robe clings lightly to her figure in the sea breeze. Xinyu’s suggestion echoes again in your ear. For a moment the contrast hits you hard. She looks so cheerful and lovable standing here among the common people. It almost feels wrong to pull her away for something so base in the middle of the day.

Yet the hunger wins. You step closer, voice dropping so only she can hear.

“Nien… come with me for a moment.”

She blinks, still smiling, though a flicker of curiosity enters her eyes.

“Of course, my lord. Where to?”

You glance around quickly. The market is crowded, but you know this waterfront well. There is a large merchant warehouse belonging to one of your loyal suppliers just a short walk away. The upper floor has private rooms used for business negotiations, and the owner would never dare question your presence.

You gesture subtly in that direction.

“Follow me. Quietly.”

Nien hands the bundle of herbs to one of her maids with a quick instruction to continue shopping, then falls into step beside you. As you lead her through the crowd toward the warehouse, the sinful contrast lingers in your mind. She chatters lightly about the market finds, completely unaware of what you have in mind, while you feel the growing heat of anticipation. The warehouse door looms ahead. A quick word to the guard at the entrance, and he bows, clearing the way without a single question. The heavy warehouse door slides shut behind you with a solid thud, cutting off the noisy clamor of the market and the sharp smell of fish and salt air. In the sudden quiet, the only thing left is Nien. Her soft, feminine scent hits you immediately. Warm skin, faint jasmine from her hair, and that sweet, light perfume she always wears, mixed with the faint tropical sweetness of the mangoes she had been handling. It floods your senses and triggers a rush of memories. Her giggles in the dark, the way her body arches so willingly beneath you, the soft little sounds she makes when you’re gentle with her.

Your lust surges hard and fast, climbing with every step you take deeper into the dim corridor. You never make it to the private room upstairs. Two steps in, you lightly shove her against a tall stack of wooden crates and barrels. Nien’s back meets the wood with a soft gasp. Her eyes widen in surprise. The playful sparkle is replaced by genuine shock.

“My lord…?”

She stutters, voice small.

“Are you alright?”

You don’t answer with words at first. Your mouth is already on her neck, lips pressing hot against that sensitive spot just below her ear. The one you know makes her knees weak. You kiss, then suck gently, tasting her skin. Nien melts instantly. A shaky breath escapes her. Her hands come up to clutch at your robe, but she still tries to hold onto some dignity.

“W-wait… my lord.”

She whispers, voice trembling even as her head tilts to give you better access.

“Shouldn’t we… go somewhere more private? My chambers… or at least upstairs…”

“I can’t wait another second.”

One hand already roams over her body through the thin peach silk. You cup her breast, squeeze her waist, slide down to grip her hip.

“I’m sorry, Nien. I hate doing this to you like this… like you’re some commoner’s whore in the middle of the docks.”

Nien gasps sharply at your words, her body shivering against yours. Then, to your surprise, a tiny, cute laugh bubbles out of her. Nervous but genuine. She pulls back just enough to look up at you, cheeks flushed pink.

“Do you… want me to act the part?”

You blink, stepping back half a pace in surprise. Nien lets out another soft laugh, shy but playful, covering her mouth with her fingers for a moment.

“I love how careful and loving you always are with me.”

She admits quietly.

“It makes me feel special. But… whenever I hear Shuhua moaning so loudly through the estate, or when I walk past Xinyu’s chambers and hear her begging for more… I can’t help but wonder how it feels to be treated rough sometimes.”

You stare at her, caught off guard by the confession.

“I only treat you this way because of how you look and act. You’re always so cheerful and loving… like a beautiful flower that should be handled gently. Shuhua is just exaggerating when she-”

Nien shakes her head, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

“You really don’t believe the three of us talk about these things? Shuhua brags about it all the time.”

She closes the small distance you created, stepping right up to you again. Her small hands reach down and slowly start undoing the ties of your pants, fingers deft and steady despite the blush on her cheeks.

“You can treat me however you want, my lord. Even if that means I’m just an object for you to release your lust into. I’d… appreciate being treated like that from time to time as well.”

Her fingers finish loosening your pants and slip inside, wrapping gently around your already hard cock. The innocent, cheerful Nien is still there in her bright smile, but now there’s a new spark of curiosity and desire in her gaze. A quiet invitation to be rougher, dirtier, to use her the way you use Shuhua.

“So… what will you do with me, my lord?”

She asks sweetly, almost innocently, while her hand works your length.

“Here, against the crates… like I’m just your little dockside toy?”

The contrast between her cute voice and the filthy offer makes your blood burn even hotter. Your hands tighten on her waist, the raw need from moments ago now completely unleashed. You spin Nien around without warning and shove her forward against the stack of wooden crates. You’re careful not to be too rough at first, just enough force to pin her in place, her palms flattening against the rough wood as she braces herself. Nien lets out a sharp little gasp, her body jolting. A moment later she pushes her ass back against you instinctively, grinding softly, silently asking for more. Your hands roam over her body from behind, sliding up her waist, cupping her breasts through the thin peach silk, then moving down to grip her hips again.

She tries to speak. Her voice is a little awkward as she attempts something filthy.

“I… I’m your little… dockside toy now.”

She stammers a little, the words sounding almost cute despite her effort.

“Use me… however you want…”

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

“You don’t have to try so hard.”

You murmur against her ear, one hand already pushing her robe up. You bunch the silk around her waist until her lower body is completely exposed. Nien whimpers softly.

“I’m sorry… I’ll learn. I want to pleasure you as good as I can. I really do.”

You line yourself up and push into her in one thrust. Her pussy is soaked. She’s hot, slick, and surprisingly tight around your cock. Nien moans immediately, a sweet, surprised sound that echoes softly in the dim corridor.

“Oh… my lord…”

She pushes back against you again. You start fucking her from behind, slow and deep at first, letting her adjust. But the hunger from earlier is too strong. You gradually lean into it, picking up speed, pounding harder with each thrust. The wet slap of skin against skin fills the narrow space between the crates. Nien does her best to keep up. Her hands grip the edge of the crate stack tightly, knuckles whitening. She’s never taken you this roughly before, and it shows. Her body trembles as she tries to get used to the intensity. Still, she keeps trying to talk, her voice breaking with every hard snap of your hips.

“You… ah!… you feel so big like this…H-hurry… before anyone sees us…”

There’s no real worry in her tone. If anything, the idea of getting caught seems to excite her. Her pussy clenches tighter around you with every teasing word, and her moans grow a little louder, a little sweeter. You grip her hips harder and thrust deeper, the pace turning rougher. Nien’s legs shake. She bites her lip, trying to stifle another moan, but it slips out anyway.

“I… I can take it…Please… don’t hold back… I want to be good for you…”

Her walls spasm around your cock as you pound into her, the contrast between her usual bright, cheerful self and the way she’s bent over crates in a warehouse only making you fuck her harder. Nien’s breathing turns ragged. She’s clearly still adjusting to the rough treatment, but she’s doing everything she can to please you, pushing her ass back to meet your thrusts, moaning softly with every deep stroke, even trying to keep up her awkward dirty talk between gasps.

You grip Nien harder and start fucking her with real roughness. Your hips snap forward with sharp, punishing thrusts, driving deep into her soaked pussy again and again. The wooden crates creak under the force. One of your hands slides up her back, tangles roughly in her dark hair, and tugs her head back. Several of the pretty flowers she had pinned in earlier tumble to the dusty floor.

“Ahh-!”

A loud, broken moan rips out of her, much louder than before. Her body jolts with every hard thrust, but instead of tensing up, she starts pushing back to meet you, her hips rolling greedily. The awkwardness from moments ago has completely vanished. Now her words spill out naturally, filthy and eager, each one making your cock throb harder inside her.

“Yes-! Fuck me harder, my lord…! Use your little dockside whore… I don’t care if someone walks in right now-I’ll still take every inch of your cock!”

You pound into her faster, the wet sounds of her pussy echoing in the narrow corridor. Nien keeps going, her voice growing bolder with every thrust.

“Take my sweetness away… ruin me…! Fuck the cheerfulness out of your cute little flower… Make me your dirty toy every single day… Please-use me like this whenever you want… I’ll spread my legs for you anywhere!”

You’re genuinely surprised by how loud she’s getting…and how much she’s talking. Shuhua has always been the loudest by far while Tzuyu is the quietest, usually only soft gasps and whispered pleas. Xinyu and Nien normally fall somewhere in the middle, depending on their mood. But right now? Nien has clearly surpassed Xinyu. Her moans are high, sweet, and shameless, filling the warehouse corridor without restraint. If she keeps this up, she might even challenge Shuhua for the top spot. The thought sends another surge of heat through you. You yank her hair a little harder, slamming into her with deep strokes. Nien’s legs shake violently, but she doesn’t try to quiet down. Instead, she cries out even louder.

“Harder-! Please, my lord… I can take it… I want you to break me… Fill me up right here where anyone could see… I don’t care-just use me!”

Her pussy clenches rhythmically around your cock, slick and hot, clearly loving the rough treatment. Every dirty word that leaves her mouth turns you on more, the contrast between her usual bright, innocent personality and the filthy things she’s begging for right now driving you wild. Nien’s voice cracks into another loud moan as you pound her without mercy.

“Do you like hearing your sweet Nien talk like this…? I’ll be louder for you… I’ll scream if you want… Just don’t stop-!”

You can feel her getting closer, her walls clenching around you with every rough thrust. Her cheerful, lovable demeanor has cracked wide open, revealing a hungry, surprisingly vocal side you never expected. She’s still pushing back against you desperately, flowers scattered on the floor around her feet, robe bunched uselessly at her waist, moaning and babbling dirty promises without any shame left.

But the rough pace suddenly changes the moment Nien reaches her peak. Her walls clamp down hard around your cock, fluttering and pulsing in strong, irregular waves. A loud, trembling moan tears from her throat. Then it softens, breaking apart into the familiar sweet sighs and delicate gasps you’re used to hearing from her.

“Ah… ahh… my lord…”

She whimpers, voice turning small and breathy again. For a few heartbeats she sounds exactly like the same old Nien - cute, sweet, almost innocent - as if the filthy words from moments ago had never left her lips. Your body reacts on instinct. You slow down immediately, thrusts turning gentler, almost protective. Something inside you refuses to keep pounding such a sweet, soft girl against dirty crates in a random warehouse. Your hips roll slowly, carefully, letting her ride out the aftershocks while you stay buried deep inside her.

Nien’s breathing gradually steadies. Her head rests against the wooden crate, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed a pretty pink. Then, to your surprise, her soft voice returns. Still gentle, still sweet, but now carrying a new, shy request.

“…Please… give me your cum. I want it inside… Fill me up, my lord…”

You blink, caught off guard. Nien has never asked for your seed like this before. The words sound almost too filthy coming from her usual bright, cheerful tone. You wonder if she picked that up from listening to Shuhua’s loud bragging sessions through the walls. You aren’t pounding her anymore, just slow, gentle thrusts, keeping her full while you process the contrast. Her innocent voice begging for something so dirty makes your head spin even harder than the rough fucking did.

“I want to feel it… deep inside me… Please cum for me…”

That sweet, lovable tone combined with her filthy plea finally pushes you over the edge. Your orgasm hits hard. You groan low against her neck and spill deep into her waiting pussy, thick ropes of cum flooding her warmth. Nien gasps and moans sweetly as she feels every pulse, her walls shaking again around you as if trying to milk out every drop.

“Thank you…Thank you for using me…”

Your lust slowly drains away, leaving your body heavy. You slump forward slightly, pressing her gently between your chest and the stack of crates. She’s trapped there, unable to move, your cock still buried inside her cum-filled cunt as it slowly softens.

For a long moment neither of you speaks. Then Nien lets out a shy little laugh.

“I… I enjoyed that very much. I don’t want to ask you to be so rough with me all the time… but whenever you’re in the mood for it… you can have me like this. Anytime.”

You lean down and press a soft kiss to her naked shoulder. The robe had slipped down earlier when you were tugging at it. Her skin is warm and slightly damp with sweat. Your eyes drift to the floor. A few scattered flowers lie among the dust. You make a mental note to buy her new ones on the way back to the estate later today. Her favorites.

You stay locked together like that for a while longer, your body shielding hers, cock still nestled inside her. Then Nien’s usual bright energy slowly returns. Even with you still buried deep inside her, her mind seems to drift far away from sex. She starts chattering again in that cheerful, playful voice you know so well.

“After you come back from your duties today… do you think we could play a game together? Maybe Weiqi in the garden pavilion? Or that new card game the merchants brought from the south? I’ve been practicing!”

You can tell she’s genuinely excited. Not about more sex, but simply about spending time with you. Her tone is light and happy, as if the intense moment against the crates had already become a fond memory rather than the main focus. You smile against her shoulder.

“I’ll make sure I have some time before dinner.”

Nien lets out a delighted little hum, her body relaxing even more against you.

A month has passed. The campaign against the pirate remnants has been grueling. Weeks of chasing shadows across the Taiwan Strait, stormy seas, and tense night raids on hidden coves near Penghu. Your squadron has sunk three pirate junks and scattered the rest, but the work is far from over.

Three days ago, while your ships were resupplying at a small harbor on the western coast of Taiwan, a messenger arrived from Nien’s family. Somehow, they had learned of your presence and extended a formal invitation. You and a small retinue were welcome to stay at their modest but respectable estate near Tainan for the remainder of the campaign. It would give your men safer anchorage and better provisions while you coordinated with local Qing officials. You hesitated for several reasons. Staying with the family of one of your concubines carried political weight. It could be seen as favoritism. It might also encourage the very competition you preferred to keep balanced. But refusing the offer outright would have been a grave insult to a family that had already lost much influence after the conquest. So, you accepted with measured gratitude.

Now you stand in the guest quarters of their estate, quickly cleaning yourself after another long week at sea. Servants bring fresh hot water and clean robes. You wash the salt from your skin, change into a simple but dignified dark silk robe, and make your way to the main hall for dinner. The hall is warmly lit with lanterns and candles. A long lacquered table is set with an impressive spread of fresh seafood, braised pork, fragrant rice, pickled vegetables, and delicate soups. Nien’s father, a scholarly looking man in his late forties named Master Lin, rises to greet you with a deep, respectful bow. His wife, Madam Lin, stands beside him, elegant in a muted green robe, her expression warm.

“General.”

Master Lin gestures for you to take the seat of honor.

“We are deeply honored by your presence. Please, make yourself comfortable. This humble home is yours for as long as you need it.”

You bow slightly in return and take your seat.

“I must thank you again for your generous hospitality. Your offer has made the campaign far more bearable. My men and I are grateful.”

Master Lin is tactful and measured as the meal begins. He speaks of the weather, the recent trade routes, and the stability the Qing has brought to the region. He never directly mentions Nien or any expectations. Yet you can read between the lines. This invitation is strategic. By hosting you, he strengthens his family’s ties to a powerful general and hopes his daughter will rise in your household. Still, he remains polite and respectful.

His wife is different. Madam Lin smiles sweetly as she serves you a choice piece of fish.

“Our Nien has always been such a bright and loving child.”

Her eyes flicker toward you.

“She brings such joy wherever she goes. We pray every day that she continues to bring that same joy… and perhaps even greater blessings… to your esteemed household.”

The hint is gentle but unmistakable. She doesn’t say the words “get her pregnant,” but the meaning is clear. They hope Nien will soon follow Xinyu’s example and give you another child…ideally a son.

You nod politely, murmuring thanks, but inside you feel the weight of the conversation. Eating with Nien’s parents is proving almost as exhausting as fighting pirates. Every smile, every carefully worded comment feels like navigating hidden reefs. As Madam Lin continues praising Nien’s sweetness, her gentle nature, and her “pure heart,” your mind drifts unavoidably to memories that make you feel strangely guilty. The warehouse a month ago. Nien bent over those crates, moaning filthily while you fucked her raw in broad daylight. The way she begged you to ruin her sweetness, to use her like a toy. The flowers scattered on the dirty floor.

And then the night just two days before your departure from Xiamen…You had gone to her chambers expecting another gentle, sweet night. At first it was exactly that - soft kisses, her bright laughter, her body warm and welcoming beneath you. But then, to your surprise, Nien had gently pushed you onto your back. For the first time ever, she climbed on top of you, straddled your hips, and slowly sank down onto your cock. She rode you with shy determination, her small hands on your chest, her hair falling around her face as she moved. Her moans had been softer than in the warehouse, but there was a new hunger in her eyes. She had whispered things she had never said before, asking if she was pleasing you, if you liked the way she took control for once. You can still picture the way her breasts bounced gently with each roll of her hips, the cute, concentrated expression on her face as she tried to ride you to completion.

Now, sitting here at her parents’ table while her mother praises that same “sweet, innocent” daughter, the contrast hits you hard. You feel almost like you’ve corrupted something pure. The cheerful, lovable Nien who chatters about games and flowers is the same girl who begged you to treat her like a dockside whore and then sweetly asked for your cum while riding you.

Madam Lin’s voice pulls you back.

“…and we are certain that with your guidance, our daughter will continue to grow and flourish in every way.”

You raise your cup in a polite toast, hiding your thoughts behind a calm expression.

The dinner continues. The food is excellent, but the conversation is a careful dance. Master Lin steers topics toward safer waters like local governance, the pirate situation,  and your recent victories. Madam Lin occasionally slips in another gentle hint about family, legacy, and the blessings of many children. You eat and respond with politeness, all while vivid memories of Nien, both the innocent and the surprisingly eager versions, linger at the edge of your mind.

Your ships slipped into Xiamen harbor just before midnight, the sails heavy with salt and victory. It took nearly two more hours to organize the docking, unloading wounded men, securing captured pirate banners and weapons, assigning guards, and sending preliminary reports to Admiral Shi Lang. By the time you finally mounted your horse and rode toward the estate, the moon was high and the streets of Xiamen were quiet.

As you approach the main gates, you notice something unusual. Despite the late hour, lanterns are lit along every path and courtyard. Warm golden light spills from windows and pavilions. The entire estate is awake. The moment the heavy gates swing open and you step into the main courtyard, you are greeted exactly as expected. Nearly the entire household has gathered. Servants line the sides holding lanterns. Your steward stands at the front with a deep bow. And in the center, waiting for you, are the four women who rule your inner world.

Xinyu stands slightly ahead of the others, her crimson robe flowing around her noticeably larger belly. Three months have transformed her. The gentle curve has become a full, rounded swell that she carries with quiet pride. Her hair is neatly pinned, and though fatigue shadows her eyes, she holds herself with the dignity of the principal wife. Behind her stand the three concubines in a neat row. Tzuyu on the left, elegant in pale blue silk, posture perfect as always. Shuhua in the middle, vibrant green robes hugging her figure, a small smirk already playing on her lips. Nien on the right, soft peach silk glowing in the lantern light, her bright smile lighting up her face the moment she sees you.

As one, they all bow deeply.

“Welcome home, General.”

Xinyu says first.

“Welcome home, my lord.”

The three concubines echo, their voices blending together.

You return the greeting with a nod.

“It is good to be back.”

You step closer to Xinyu, eyes dropping instinctively to her swollen belly. You reach out and gently touch her arm.

“Are you doing alright? You shouldn’t have stayed up so late or woken the entire household just to welcome me. You need rest, especially now.”

Xinyu meets your gaze. There is clear love in her eyes, soft and genuine, even beneath the exhaustion.

“It is my duty as your wife.”

She replies simply.

“And… I wanted to see you return safely.”

You nod, then turn to address everyone.

“Go back to sleep. All of you. The night is late and tomorrow will be busy enough.”

The servants and steward immediately begin to scatter with bows and quiet murmurs of:

“Yes, General.”

Xinyu starts to turn with you as you guide her gently toward her chambers, one hand resting lightly at the small of her back to support her. Before you’ve taken more than a few steps, Xinyu pauses and glances back at the retreating maids.

“Prepare some warm food for the General. Light congee, steamed buns, and tea. Bring it to my chambers.”

The maids bow and hurry off to obey.

The three concubines remain standing for a moment longer, watching as you lead Xinyu away. You can feel their eyes on your back. None of them speak, but the air is thick with unspoken anticipation. They know you have just returned after three long months. They know the nights ahead will be filled with competition once again.

You continue walking with Xinyu, the lanterns along the path lighting your way toward her pavilion. Her steps are slower now, weighted by the growing child inside her. She leans into your touch, the love in her eyes still visible even in the dim light.

You reach the entrance to Xinyu’s chambers. The heavy silk curtains sway gently in the night breeze. Xinyu looks up at you, one hand resting protectively over her rounded belly.

“Will you stay with me tonight, my lord?”

She asks softly, though she already knows the answer may not be simple. You look down at your salt stained robes and travel worn appearance, then gently shake your head.

“I do not dare enter your halls in this state. I smell of the sea and weeks of campaign. Let me bathe first. I promise I will return afterward.”

Xinyu studies you for a moment, then a small, teasing smile curves her lips.

“Very well, my lord. But do not take too long. A wife can only be patient for so long… especially when her husband has been away for three months.”

You give her a nod and a faint smile before turning toward the private bathing courtyard.

The bathing pool is one of the few luxuries you allow yourself. Set in a secluded corner of the inner garden, surrounded by high screens and flowering jasmine vines, it is fed by heated water carried in by servants. Lanterns hang from the wooden beams overhead, casting a warm, golden glow over the rippling surface.

You sink into the pool with a low sigh of relief. The water feels impossibly soft and clean compared to the harsh, salty waves you have lived in for months. Heat seeps into your tired muscles as you lean back against the smooth stone edge, closing your eyes for a moment. The night is quiet except for the gentle lap of water and the distant chirping of insects.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you catch a shadow moving near the edge of the lantern light. Your body reacts instantly. Your hand shoots out toward the knife you had placed beside your folded clothes on the low bench behind you.

Before your fingers can close around the hilt, the shadow steps fully into the light.

It is Tzuyu.

She stands at the edge of the pool, wearing a simple but elegant white inner robe that clings lightly to her figure. Her long hair is loosely tied, a few strands framing her face. She looks slightly more confident than usual. Shoulders straighter, chin lifted just a fraction higher. The change is subtle, but you notice it immediately.

You relax your hand and let it fall back into the water.

Tzuyu has always been quiet and reserved, but right now you cannot help wondering if she has schemed something while you were away. The letter from her parents three months ago still lingers in your memory. The polite but clear urging to get their daughter pregnant. If Tzuyu takes after them at all, she might be here with similar intentions. Yet, just like Xinyu, you can never quite tell with her. Is this quiet confidence a calculated move, or simply her natural grace?

She hesitates at the edge of the pool, fingers lightly twisting the sash of her robe. You watch her in silence, already expecting what is coming. Tzuyu finally meets your gaze.

“My lord… would you allow me the honor of your company?”

She takes one graceful step closer.

“After all, a man of your status should not have to wash himself alone.”

She stands there, waiting, the lantern light casting a gentle glow on her skin and making her eyes shine with quiet expectation. You lean back against the smooth stone edge of the pool, the warm water lapping gently at your chest.

“You don’t have to be so formal when we’re alone, Tzuyu.”

Tzuyu lowers her gaze for a moment, a faint blush touching her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, my lord.”

Then, after a small pause, she adds, almost shyly:

“Since we are alone… it should be fine if I join you in the water.”

You don’t answer right away. You simply watch her. Tzuyu takes your silence as invitation. She reaches for the sash of her white inner robe. With slow, teasing movements she unties it, letting the fabric part. Your breath catches as she begins to undress right there on the other side of the pool. The robe slides off her shoulders first, revealing the elegant line of her collarbones and the gentle swell of her breasts. She continues, letting the silk glide down her body like water, exposing the smooth curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, and the long, graceful length of her legs. Finally, the robe pools at her feet, leaving her completely naked.

You have never seen Tzuyu like this before. Fully bare, standing at a distance where you can take in every inch of her at once. In the dim lantern light of her chambers, it was always darker, closer, more intimate. Here, under the warm glow of the lanterns, she looks almost unreal: tall, slender, perfectly proportioned, with smooth pale skin and long black hair cascading down her back. Her breasts are full and firm, nipples already slightly hardened by the night air. Her waist is narrow, hips gently curved, and between her thighs you can see the delicate line of her pussy.

Tzuyu seems a little shy under your undivided stare. She shifts her weight slightly, one hand instinctively moving to cover herself before she catches the motion and lowers it again. But there’s also a quiet pleasure in her eyes, as if she enjoys the way you’re looking at her. She steps slowly into the pool. The water ripples around her ankles, then her calves, then her thighs as she wades toward you. When she finally stands directly in front of you, the water reaching just below her breasts, she hesitates for only a heartbeat. Then she leans in carefully, giving you time to pull away if you wish.

Her lips meet yours in a soft, tentative kiss. You respond naturally. Your hands rise from the water and find her naked body, roaming slowly over her wet skin, tracing the curve of her waist, sliding up to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples. She trembles slightly under your touch.

When she finally draws away just enough to look at you, you are too relaxed after the long campaign to take charge. You simply watch her, hands still resting on her hips under the water. Tzuyu’s cheeks are faintly pink. She moves closer, carefully straddling your lap beneath the surface. You feel the heat of her body even through the warm water. Your now hard cock presses against her tight, flat tummy as she settles on top of you.

You let out a low chuckle.

“You said you’d wash me.”

Your voice is rough with amusement and growing desire.

“Not pleasure me.”

Tzuyu’s blush deepens, but she doesn’t look away.

“Can’t I do both?”

The warm water laps gently around your bodies. Lantern light flickers across her wet skin. She is beautiful, elegant, and clearly offering herself to you after three long months apart. You lean back against the edge of the pool, the warm water lapping at your shoulders, and give her a slow smile.

“I’m sure you can do both.”

Tzuyu’s lips curve into a gentle, pleased smile.

“Then I will try my best, my lord.”

Her hand slips beneath the water. You feel her slender fingers wrap around your hard cock, stroking you slowly from base to tip. The sensation is smooth and teasing in the warm water.

“I’ll start with this.”

You rest your arms along the stone edge and watch her. Tzuyu’s naked upper body is beautiful in the lantern light. The elegant curve of her shoulders, the full swell of her breasts with water droplets sliding down them, the graceful line of her neck…She keeps her eyes on you as she strokes, her touch growing a little firmer, a little more confident with every pass.

After a few moments, Tzuyu rises slightly on her knees. She positions herself over you, one hand still guiding your cock. Then she slowly lowers herself. You watch her face closely. Pleasure washes over her features the moment the head of your cock parts her folds. Her lips part in a soft gasp. Her brows furrow slightly as she sinks down. Her eyes flutter half-closed, and a quiet, trembling moan escapes her. It’s clear she has been just as eager for this as you have been for her. Three long months apart have left her hungry too.

You feel every inch as her tight, silky pussy lips glide down your length, enveloping you slowly, warmly and completely. She is wetter than the pool water, her inner walls clinging to you with familiar perfection.

Tzuyu is not like Shuhua. She prefers it slower, especially when she’s on top. She begins to move with graceful rolls of her hips, grinding down deeply, then lifting and bouncing in a smooth, controlled rhythm. Her hands rest on your chest for balance as she rides you, doing her best to make your head roll back with every motion.

For several long minutes she works you like this: slow, deep grinds mixed with gentle bounces, her breasts swaying softly with the movement. The water ripples around your joined bodies in steady waves. Tzuyu’s breathing grows heavier, her quiet moans filling the night air. Then she leans down, pressing her wet breasts against your chest. Her lips brush your ear.

“My lord…”

She breathes, still moving on you.

“I think… I am with child.”

The words hit you like a quiet thunderclap. She continues riding you slowly as she speaks, her voice trembling with both pleasure and nervousness.

“All the signs are there. The missed courses, the tenderness, the way my body feels different… but I haven’t told anyone yet. Not even the physician. I wanted you to know first.”

Tzuyu pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, still gently rolling her hips, your cock buried deep inside her. She searches your face, waiting for your reaction while her body keeps moving on you with that same graceful, needy rhythm.

The night is quiet as Nien stands just outside the kitchen courtyard, hands clasped in front of her peach-colored robe. She had been waiting patiently for several minutes when the two maids finally emerge, carrying a lacquered tray with warm congee, steamed buns, pickled vegetables, and a pot of fragrant tea. Exactly what Xinyu had ordered for you.

Nien steps forward with a bright, innocent smile.

“Let me take that to the General.”

She offers sweetly.

“He must be very tired after such a long journey. I would be happy to bring it to him.”

The maids exchange a quick glance, but they know better than to refuse one of the master’s concubines. They hand over the tray without argument.

“Thank you.”

Nien says cheerfully, balancing the tray carefully as she turns and heads toward the private bathing courtyard. She knows exactly where you are. The lanterns glowing softly in that direction are impossible to miss.

The garden paths are dimly lit, the night air cool and filled with the scent of jasmine. Nien walks quickly but gracefully, her mind already imagining the your tired smile when she arrives with food. She rounds a corner near the moon gate…

… and nearly collides with Shuhua.

Both women stop short. The tray wobbles dangerously in Nien’s hands. A few drops of tea splash over the edge. Shuhua startles, stepping back with a sharp intake of breath, her vibrant green robe swirling around her legs.

“Nien!”

Shuhua hisses.

“Shuhua!”

Nien replies, steadying the tray with both hands. Her usual bright tone carries a hint of surprise and wariness.

For a moment they simply stare at each other in the half dark. They don’t hate each other - there has never been open hostility between any of the three concubines - but Nien has always found Shuhua suspicious, and Shuhua clearly feels the same about the overly cheerful youngest.

Shuhua crosses her arms, one eyebrow raised.

“Going to the bathing courtyard? With food? How thoughtful of you.”

Nien tilts her head, still smiling but with a sharper edge.

“Xinyu asked me to bring it. The General needs to eat after his long journey. Why are you heading in that direction so late?”

Shuhua lets out a short, scoffing laugh.

“Don’t play innocent. You’re trying to get to him first.”

“And you aren’t?”

Nien shoots back, voice still light but now clearly defensive.

“You’ve been waiting for him to return just as much as I have. Don’t pretend you were just taking a midnight stroll.”

Shuhua steps closer.

“At least I’m honest about wanting his attention. You act all sweet and harmless, but we both know why you’re really bringing him food at this hour.”

Nien’s cheeks flush, but she doesn’t back down.

“And you act all bold and fiery, but you’re doing the exact same thing. We’re both trying to gain his favor tonight. There’s no point in denying it.”

A tense silence stretches between them. The tray remains steady in Nien’s hands, but the air crackles with mutual suspicion.

Finally, Shuhua lets out a sigh and rolls her eyes.

“Fine. We both want to see him. There’s no use fighting over it right now.”

Nien nods, her bright smile returning, though it’s a little tighter than usual.

“Exactly. So… shall we go together?”

Shuhua hesitates for half a second, then gives a small, reluctant nod.

“Together. But don’t think this means I’m sharing nicely.”

The two women fall into step side by side, heading toward the glowing lanterns of the bathing courtyard. Nien carefully balances the tray while Shuhua walks with her usual confident stride. The rivalry simmers just beneath the surface, but for now, they have reached an uneasy truce. As they approach the entrance to the private bathing area, both can see the warm light spilling out and hear the faint sound of water rippling.

Nien and Shuhua step quietly into the bathing courtyard together, the tray of food balanced carefully in Nien’s hands. They both stop dead in their tracks the moment they see what is happening in the pool. Tzuyu is in your lap, facing you, her long bare back and elegant shoulders glowing in the lantern light. Her hips move in slow, graceful rolls as she rides you. The water ripples gently around your joined bodies. From behind, they can see the elegant line of her spine, the way her muscles flex and shift with every movement, and the subtle bounce of her long black hair.

Tzuyu lets out a soft, needy moan.

“More… please, my lord…”

Shuhua’s expression instantly darkens. Her jaw tightens and her eyes flash with fury. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest, practically vibrating with irritation.

“Tzuyu is such a slut.”

She hisses under her breath, loud enough for Nien to hear. Nien bites her tongue hard to stop herself from snapping back that Shuhua is easily the biggest slut in the entire household. Instead, she feels a quiet wave of sadness wash over her. She isn’t really angry, just disappointed. She had hoped to have you to herself tonight, even if only for a little while. Now she will only get a third of your attention.

While Shuhua is still fuming, Nien sets the tray of food down on a nearby stone bench without a word. She doesn’t want to fall behind. Shuhua makes the decision first. Without saying anything else, she starts pulling off her robe, letting it drop carelessly to the ground. Her naked body is revealed in the lantern light: bold curves, smooth skin, and an unmistakable air of confidence. Nien quickly follows her example. She unties her peach robe and shrugs it off, stepping out of the silk puddle at her feet. Her own body is softer and more delicate than Shuhua’s, but no less beautiful.

Both women move toward the pool together. They step carefully into the warm water, the liquid rising around their legs, then their thighs, then their hips. The ripples they create spread outward, disturbing the calm surface.

Tzuyu is still riding you slowly when the sound of their movement reaches her. She doesn’t stop, but her head turns slightly, eyes widening as she notices the two new arrivals. Shuhua and Nien wade closer until they are only a few steps away from where Tzuyu sits impaled on your cock. The air in the bathing courtyard grows thick with tension, jealousy, and unspoken competition. Tzuyu’s hips continue their gentle, graceful motion as she looks at the other two women, a faint blush on her cheeks. Shuhua stops with her hands on her hips, water lapping at her waist, and stares directly at you with a challenging glint in her eyes. Nien stands beside her, quieter, her expression a mix of envy and shy hope as she watches Tzuyu’s flawless back and the way her body moves on you.

You notice the movement at the edge of the pool and lift your gaze. Nien and Shuhua stand there, both completely naked, the warm lantern light dancing across their wet skin. Shuhua’s body is bold and curvaceous, perky breasts and strong hips cutting through the surface. Nien’s figure is softer, more delicate, her skin glowing with that same innocent charm she always carries.

The moment you see them, your cock twitches hard inside Tzuyu. Tzuyu feels it immediately. Her walls flutter around you in response, and she lets out a tiny, surprised gasp, her hips stuttering for a second before she continues her slow ride.

You can’t help it. An amused chuckle escapes your throat.

Tzuyu’s cheeks flush deeper as she realizes the other two are watching her ride you so openly. Shuhua’s usual confident smirk falters for half a heartbeat, replaced by a flicker of awkwardness. Nien’s bright eyes widen, her hands instinctively moving to cover her chest before she catches herself and lowers them again. They’ve never seen each other fully naked like this. The usual private intimacy of the bedchambers has suddenly become very public. None of them quite know how to act now that they are all together in the same pool. You feel a brief moment of uncertainty yourself. Three naked, beautiful concubines surrounding you after three long months away is almost overwhelming.

You motion with your head.

“Shuhua. Left side.”

You turn slightly and gesture to the other side.

“Nien. Right.”

Shuhua moves first, wading through the water with that bold stride until she’s pressed against your left side. Nien follows more shyly, slipping into the water on your right until her soft body brushes against you. The moment they settle, Tzuyu - clearly not willing to lose her place on your cock - starts putting in more effort. Her hips roll deeper, grinding down harder, her tight pussy squeezing around you with renewed determination. Her breathing grows heavier as she rides you more purposefully. You reach out with your left hand and grope Shuhua’s perky tits, squeezing the firm flesh and rolling her nipple between your fingers. Shuhua lets out a sharp, pleased breath and arches into your touch. At the same time, you pull Nien closer with your right arm, tilting her chin up so you can claim her mouth in a deep, hungry kiss. She melts into it instantly, her soft lips parting for you, a tiny whimper vibrating against your tongue. While you kiss Nien and fondle Shuhua, Tzuyu continues riding you steadily, her long legs flexing under the water as she works herself on your cock.

In the back of your mind, the news Tzuyu whispered earlier still burns. The possibility that she is already carrying your child. The thought sends another throb through your length, making Tzuyu moan softly.

You hope Xinyu doesn’t mind you indulging a little tonight. After three months away, and with her own belly growing heavier by the day, she might even understand. For now, you focus on the three women surrounding you. Shuhua presses her breasts more firmly into your groping hand, her usual bratty energy already starting to surface again. Nien kisses you back sweetly, her smaller hand resting shyly on your chest. Tzuyu keeps riding you with quiet determination, clearly trying to remind everyone that she was here first.

The warm water laps around all four of you as the night air grows thicker with tension and desire.

The morning sun beats down on the training ground, turning the dirt courtyard into a haze of dust and heat. You move through the forms, wooden practice sword clashing against your partner’s in sharp, rhythmic strikes. Sweat runs down your bare chest and back, soaking the waistband of your trousers. Your breathing is heavy, muscles burning after weeks of pushing yourself hard since returning from the campaign. You parry a strong overhead blow, then counter with a low sweep that forces your opponent to jump back. The soldiers watching from the sidelines murmur in approval.

Just as you reset your stance for another exchange, you catch sight of a servant hurrying across the edge of the training ground. The man is moving quickly, his face tense. You raise your hand and step back, lowering your sword.

“Enough for now.”

You tell your practice partner, who bows and retreats. You wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your arm and motion the servant closer. He approaches, bowing deeply the moment he’s within speaking distance.

“General, Lady Xinyu… she has gone into labour.”

You straighten immediately, chest still heaving from the exertion. Sweat continues to trickle down your temples, but the fatigue in your muscles is forgotten in an instant.

“When?”

“Just now, my lord. The midwife and her maids are with her. Lady Xinyu asked that you be informed right away.”

You nod once, already turning toward the inner quarters.

“Prepare hot water and clean cloths if they haven’t already.”

You order as you start walking.

“And send word to the physician if he isn’t there yet.”

The servant bows again and hurries off to carry out your commands.

You stride across the courtyard, practice sword still in hand, sweat cooling on your skin in the morning breeze. The training ground and your soldiers fade behind you as your focus narrows entirely to Xinyu’s pavilion. Your mind races with a mix of anticipation and concern. Xinyu’s belly had grown significantly. The child - the one she has been so certain is a son - is finally coming.

As you pass through the moon gate into the women’s quarters, you can already hear faint activity ahead: maids moving quickly, low voices, and the occasional strained sound that might be Xinyu.

The three concubines are nowhere in sight yet, but you know they will learn of this soon enough. The news will spread through the household like wildfire.

You reach the entrance to Xinyu’s chambers. The heavy silk curtains have been pulled back, and several maids hover nervously just outside.

One of them bows deeply when she sees you.

“General… Lady Xinyu is in her bed. The pains have started strongly. The midwife says it is progressing well, but it may take some time.”

You hand your practice sword to the nearest servant without a word and step inside.

The room is warm, scented with medicinal herbs and incense meant to ease the birth. Xinyu lies propped up on the large bed, her face flushed and damp with sweat. Her crimson robe is loosened and pushed up, her swollen belly clearly visible and tight with another contraction. She grips the sheets tightly, breathing through the pain with determined focus.

When she sees you enter, her eyes soften despite the discomfort.

“My lord…You came quickly.”

You move to her side, taking her hand in yours. Her fingers are surprisingly strong as they squeeze yours during the next wave of pain. The midwife, an experienced older woman, kneels nearby, quietly giving instructions to the assisting maids.

Xinyu looks up at you, her free hand resting protectively on her belly.

“It is time. Our child is coming.”

Outside the chamber, you can already hear hurried footsteps, the news spreading fast through the estate. The three concubines will likely arrive soon, drawn by the commotion and the weight of what this birth could mean for all of them.

"You've been thinking about my tits all week, haven't you."

Not a question. Her hips roll forward. Everything leaves your body at once. Breath, thought, whatever you were holding onto. She watches it go. That's the thing about her. Her eyes track every reaction and she takes note, cuts it into memory, only to use it against you at the exact right moment.

"Haven't you," she says.

She's been doing this for twenty minutes. Same deliberate pace, hands flat on your chest, the city light from the window cutting her jaw into something architectural. The slip dress is on the floor—black satin, still warm. The white lace underneath stayed on longer than everything else and now that's gone too. Her hair is down, loose from where it was pinned up when she walked in. She looks nothing like the woman who walked into that seminar four years ago with a paperback tucked under her arm and sat two seats ahead of you and didn't look at anyone.

She looks better. The city light on her collarbone, the flush already working down her chest and throat, her thighs spread warm across yours, the bare heat of her pressed right where you're hardest—she looks like something you don't deserve and she knows it.

"You miss this," she says, rolling her hips slow—deep, measured, the pull of her enough to wipe your mind clean—watching your face come apart. "Don't you. You miss how tight I am."

God, yes. You miss exactly that. The grip of her, the slick heat of it, the way she takes you so completely that there's nowhere for your brain to go but here.

She leans forward just enough that her chest is in your face and she feels you inhale and she smiles, easy about it. "Say it."

"Yes." You can barely get it out. "God, yes—I fucking miss you, Jimin—"

"How much." She doesn't speed up. She never speeds up when you want her to. "Tell me specifically."

"Every day." Your hands tighten on her hips and she lets you grip but doesn't let you move her. "I thought about you every day—"

"About me." She rolls forward and holds there, walls tight around you, and the sound you make is embarrassing. She holds it a beat—tilts her head, like she's reviewing footage. "Or about this."

"Both." Honest. Completely honest. You have no capacity for anything else right now. "Both, Jimin, please—"

"Please what."

"Move. Please move."

She considers this. "Since you asked nicely." Her hips start moving faster, tight walls gripping your cock at every thrust. "And since you admitted that you missed me."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"You missed the unit about Wong Kar-wai"

First thing you said to her. The elevator was slow. It was always slow. You'd been standing in it together for eleven seconds and your brain, apparently, produced: you missed the unit about Wong Kar-wai. Accurate. Devastating as an opener. Fucking smooth you dumbass.

She looked at you. Eyes that always look like they're about to say something they won't. Slight angle of the chin. Zero defensiveness.

"I watched them on my own," she said.

"All of them?"

"All of them."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

She rolls her hips forward—slow, deep, the whole length of her taking you in—and whatever you were thinking evaporates. You don't even catch what it was. Just gone, replaced by the heat of her, the tight grip of her around you, and nothing else makes it through.

Of course.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Of course she came back.

Second semester she disappeared for six weeks. No explanation in the syllabus, no note to the class. Her seat just stopped being occupied and the seminar felt structurally wrong the whole time, like a wall had been quietly removed and no one could figure out which one.

You watched the empty chair. Took notes. Checked the attendance sheet once—her name sitting there unsigned, week after week—and told yourself it was fine.

She came back on a Thursday and sat down and opened her notebook and caught up on six weeks of coursework in one session without appearing to try. Like she'd never left. Like the six weeks were a rounding error.

You considered saying something. You'd been rehearsing it. Landed on nothing that wasn't embarrassing.

You watched her from two rows back the rest of that semester and thought: where do you go? And what do you do?

You think it was a Thursday. You've been saying Thursday for four years. It might have been a Wednesday.

You still think that. Even now. Especially now. You always look for her.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"Look at me."

You do. Her hair loose around her face, the flush starting at her throat and working down. She moves and you feel it everywhere—that tight heat, the pull and grip of it—and your hands find her hips without asking your permission.

"Don't close your eyes," she says. "I want to see what I do to you."

She rolls forward and holds. Just holds. You make a sound that has no dignity in it and she tilts her head, almost clinical.

"There it is," she says quietly. "That's the one." A slight grin. "Cute."

"Jimin—"

"I'm not moving until you look at me properly."

You look at her properly. Flushed but controlled, voice still level, watching you come apart from a position of complete safety. This is the version of her that destroys you—not when she loses it, but right before. When she still has it and is choosing, piece by piece, to take it from you.

She moves. One slow roll. All the way down.

The breath leaves your body and doesn't come back the same way.

"Good," she says. Quiet as a set just after the director shouts action.

She sets a pace then—measured, controlled, hips rolling in long deep strokes that pull every nerve ending you have to the surface. The tight grip of her eases on the pull, clenches on the push, her weight shifting forward and back with the kind of control that makes it hard to think in full sentences.

You can feel exactly how wet she is. Every stroke makes it obvious.

She keeps her eyes on yours the whole time. When yours drift she stops completely, sits there full and still and warm around you, and waits.

"Eyes on me baby," she says. "I'm not a film you can look away from."

"I know—"

"Then prove it."

You keep your eyes on her. She rewards you by moving again and the sound you make she tucks somewhere behind her eyes for later.

"You're so… hard," she says, almost to herself, one hand sliding flat down your chest. "You've been like this since I walked in, huh? Since before that. You were already thinking about me, weren't you." Not a question. "I could tell the second you opened the door. The way you looked at me."

"How did I look at you?"

"Like you'd been waiting." She rolls her hips and holds again and your hands tighten on her and she lets you. "Had you been?"

"Yes."

She keeps moving, finds the angle that makes your toes curl, and she says it low—almost casual, like she's correcting a minor factual error: "I have a manager. And a stylist. And about thirty people whose job is to make sure nobody knows I'm here."

It lands at a delay. The way information always does when she's doing what she's doing—somewhere behind the sensation, working its way forward.

"Nobody," you say.

"Nobody." She doesn't stop moving. Her eyes are still on yours. "That's been the thing. That's why I kept—" She stops herself. Jaw tightens. Keeps moving.

You let it sit. You've learned, with her, when not to push.

She looks at you for a long moment. The evaluative look—the one that means she's decided something.

"I'll tell you everything," she says. "Not yet." A roll of her hips, slow and certain.

"Yes baby, I'll be patient."

"That's my good boy."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"Good."

The professor said it to the room after her answer. She'd been the only one who spoke in the first ten minutes of the Wong Kar-wai discussion—In the Mood for Love, the corridor scene, whether the two leads are actually in love or only performing love so perfectly they can no longer tell the difference themselves.

"They can't act on it," she said, "because acting on it would end it. The wanting is the point. That's the whole film."

The room was quiet.

"Good," the professor said. Moved on.

You wrote down her exact words. You still have that page.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Okay. You're trying to do this in order and you keep losing the page.

First year—seminar, elevator, the pen she borrowed and never gave back. You don't think you mentioned that part. She just kept it. You kept waiting for her to return it and she never did and you never asked. You still have the cap. You don't know why you kept the cap.

Second year—the six weeks. The editing bay. The argument about the film. Those things happened in second year, you think. Or third. The stairwell was—the stairwell might have been end of second year. December was definitely third year. You're almost certain about December.

You're not going to write about December. Her hands were cold. That's all you're giving.

The problem is she's the only fixed point and everything else keeps sliding around her. You try to pin one thing down and something else moves. You try to—

She's the only thing that stays still when you're trying to remember and you don't know what that means. You've thought about it for four years and you still don't know what that means.

Actually. There was a convenience store. 9pm, ramen aisle. That was early third year, you're sure of that one. She was reading the sodium content on a cup noodle like it had personally offended her—coat still on, bag on one shoulder, like she'd walked in mid-thought and hadn't decided to stay yet—and you said: time or choice. That's what your thesis film is about. A man who misses his train by thirty seconds every day.

She said: "you should decide."

You said: "I know."

She put the cup noodle back. Picked up a different one. Read the sodium on that one too.

Early third year. You're almost certain. It might have been late second. The coat—was it a winter coat? You think it was a winter coat. That would make it third year. Unless she just ran cold.

"Ok that, I like. Hold on to that."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"Hold on," she says.

Her hips have gone still. She's just sitting there, full and patient, looking at you with the expression she uses when she's decided to wait you out.

"I'm here," you say.

"You're not." Her hand comes to your chin. Certain. Tilts your face up to hers. "Where do you go?"

The question lands differently than you expected.

"I don't know," you say.

"Stay here." She moves again—slow, a single roll—and the thought dissolves. "Just here."

You grip her hips and she lets you this time, lets you feel the weight and warmth of her, the softness of her thighs against yours, how much of her there is. She's watching your face the way she watched rough cuts in the editing bay—complete attention, looking for the thing you're not saying.

"You feel so good," she says, quiet, almost to herself. "God—you always feel—" She stops. Her breath catches and holds.

"Tell me," you say.

"Don't."

"Jimin. Tell me."

She looks at you and something moves across her face—half warning, half something that hasn't been named yet. Her rhythm stutters. Just once. She knows you felt it.

"You're doing that on purpose," she says.

"Yes."

A breath. "I hate that it works."

"Does it work?"

"Shut up." But she's moving again, less controlled than before, breath catching on the upstroke, and you can feel the composure thinning in real time. "Stop smiling."

"I'm not smiling."

"You are." She rolls her hips hard and you stop smiling. "There. That's better."

She leans forward and her chest is against yours and her mouth is at your ear and she says, low and unsteady: "You want to feel how wet you make me baby. Don't you. You want to feel what you do."

"Yes—"

"Then feel it." She moves and you do—tight and slick, so warm it makes you stupid, the wet heat of her gripping around you on every stroke like she's trying to keep you in—and the sound she makes against your ear isn't controlled anymore, not even close. "This is what you've been doing to me all night. Every time you look at me like that. Every time you—" She cuts herself off. Nails in your shoulders. "Don't stop. Stay. Don't—"

Then, mid-breath, face tucked against your neck, she says it the same flat way she says everything that matters: "I'm an idol. There are thirty million people who think they know who I am."

You go still. She doesn't.

"They don't—" she says. "know who I am." She keeps moving, slower now, something more careful in it. "You're the only person from that life who does."

You don't say anything. She doesn't seem to need you to.

"Don't stop," she says again, quieter. "I'll explain everything. Just—not yet."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"Don't," she said.

Half an hour in the editing bay—blue monitor light, the two of you too close together for the argument to be only an argument—about what In the Mood for Love actually was. You said restraint. She said the opposite.

"It's not about restraint," she said. "Restraint implies they're holding something back. They're not. They're waiting to see if the wanting survives contact."

"That's the same thing."

"It's not." Her voice had dropped, which you'd learned meant she was about to be right. "Restraint is discipline. What they have is something else. They don't know what happens if they touch, so they don't. The not-knowing is the whole film."

"That's a very clean reading for something that messy."

She looked at the screen for a moment. "The clean readings always come from messy things."

You looked at her. She was looking at the paused frame on the monitor—the corridor, the two of them almost touching, the space between them doing all the work.

"Don't," she said. Before you could say whatever you were about to say.

You laughed. She watched you laugh with the complete attention she gave everything worth watching, and the corner of her mouth moved.

She kissed you on the stairwell landing. Twenty minutes later—or earlier, you've never been sure. Hand flat on your jacket. Her mouth on yours, unhurried, like she'd thought about the angle. Five seconds. Maybe ten. You've counted it differently every time you've remembered it.

She pulled back. Looked at you with that almost judging look of hers.

"Okay," she said.

You didn't ask what it meant.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"Say it. Tell me what you meant."

Her voice has roughened. The composed woman from thirty minutes ago is going thin at the edges, something more immediate replacing her, and she doesn't look unhappy about it—just less armored, less certain of her own face.

"Tell me what you want," she says.

"You." Rough. Honest. "Jimin—you, I want you—only you."

"More specific." Her breath catches.

"I want to feel you come." You don't recognize your own voice. "I want to feel it. Please."

Something in her opens. Just slightly. Just enough.

She moves harder then. Chasing it. The rhythm has nothing careful left in it—just need and friction and the two of you in this room in the city light.

Her voice is coming apart. Sentences starting and not finishing. Her hands are in your hair now, fingers curled tight at the root, and she's riding you like she's forgotten to be careful about it.

"Like that," she manages. "Just—don't stop, don't—"

Her rhythm stutters and recovers and stutters again, thighs clamped against yours and trembling, the slick heat of her getting messier with every stroke.

She's stopped pretending she's in control of any of it. You can feel it—the way she grips you, pulling you deeper when she comes down, her breath in short useless pieces against your neck, the way she says your name like nothing she planned.

"I’ve got you baby," you say.

She makes a sound at that. Not the controlled ones from earlier. This one got out before she could stop it.

"Junho—baby!"

Her walls clench around you—once, hard, then again—her whole body pulling tight and going still.

And then she breaks. Not loud. Not the way you'd have guessed. She goes quiet first, breath held, the whole weight of her sinking into you, her hips grinding down like she's trying to take you deeper. Then it moves through her in a long shudder and the sound she finally makes has nothing of the seminar in it, nothing of the editing bay, nothing composed at all. Just her, just this, just now.

You hold her through all of it. She holds back harder than you expected.

When it passes she lifts her head. Looks at you. Something in her face is still open—not the evaluative look, not the composed one. The one underneath those.

She slides off your lap. Kneels.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

She kneels like she means it.

No performance. No architecture. Just her, on the floor, hair loose, taking her time with you the way she takes her time with everything that matters.

She looks up once. Light across her cheek, the slight upturn at the corner of her mouth that isn't quite a smile, the beauty mark. The real version of her face—the one that doesn't exist in any photograph anyone else has ever taken.

You lose about thirty seconds of your life.

"Jimin." Your voice doesn't sound right. "I need to ask you something."

She pulls off. Tilts her head.

"What's your name," you say. "The other one."

She holds your gaze for a long moment.

"Karina," she says.

You sit with that. The shoots. The schedule. The thirty million people. The six weeks every semester, the way she moved through spaces like she'd already mapped the exits, the way she never once let anyone photograph her on that campus.

"So what you're telling me," you say slowly, "is that this lucky son of a bitch —" you gesture vaguely at yourself—"has been getting the best head of his life from an actual idol."

She looks at you for a very long moment.

Then she laughs. The real one—surprised out of her, shoulders shaking, forehead dropping against your thigh. About four seconds. Then she looks back up.

"Don't make it weird," she says.

"I'm not making it weird. I'm making sure I understand it right."

"Junho."

"I'm just saying—statistically—"

"Junho." She wraps her hand around you, not moving, just holding, watching your face go completely blank. "Do you want me to finish, or do you want to do statistics."

"Finish," you say immediately. "Finish, please, I'm sorry—"

She doesn't smile. But her eyes do.

She goes back, and the city is quiet, and you think: I would burn every draft of that film for this. The man who keeps missing his train. You understand him completely now. The thirty seconds isn't bad luck. It's a choice you keep making because the missing is the only time you feel anything.

You stop thinking after that.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

December was a Thursday. Or was it a Friday? God what day was it again? Fuck.

You'd been in the editing bay until eleven, threading the same forty seconds of footage over and over—the train, the platform, the doors closing. She showed up at the door at eleven-fifteen. Or thereabouts. You've never been precise about times where she's concerned. Two coffees, no explanation, sat in the chair beside you and watched the screen.

You didn't ask how she knew where you were. You'd stopped asking things like that.

"It's too on the nose," she said, after a while.

"What is."

"The train. The doors closing every time." She was still looking at the screen. "You don't need to show it. The audience already knows he's going to miss it. Let them feel it before it happens."

"Then what do I cut to."

"His face. Before." She took a sip of coffee. "That's the film. The moment before he decides."

You looked at her. She was looking at the monitor. The city outside the window was doing what cities do in December—cold light, wet streets, everything slowed down.

"What if he doesn't know he's deciding," you said.

She turned then. Looked at you with the full version of her signature look—the one that takes its time, the one that means she's already three steps ahead.

"Then that's a sadder film," she said.

You didn't say anything for a while after that. The footage ran. The doors closed. You watched his face and thought about what she'd said and understood, slowly, that she wasn't only talking about the film.

She left at midnight. Hand flat on your shoulder as she passed not a goodbye, just a mark. The way she always left.

You cut the train. Kept the face. Turned in the thesis in March.

She came to the screening. Sat in the back. You only knew because when the lights came up and you turned around, she was already at the door—coat on, leaving—and she caught your eye across the room and nodded once.

That was December. That's what you didn't want to write about.

She left at every chance she had. She always left.

She never stayed.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Afterward she stays. That's new.

Back against the headboard, one leg folded under her, looking at the city through the window.

You're looking at her.

"So," you say.

"So," she says.

She's still looking at the window. Not avoiding—just somewhere else for a moment, turning something over. Then her eyes come back to you.

Then she reaches for you.

Just her hand finding your wrist in the dark—and she turns, and you follow, and for a moment neither of you says anything. Her facing the window now, the light from outside on her hands when she presses them flat to the headboard. You behind her. Her hair loose down her back.

You push in slow—she's warm and wet and takes you easily, all the way—and she drops her head and the sound she makes is low and open, pulled out of her before she could stop it.

"How long were you going to—"

"Don't." Breathed. Her hips roll back into you, finding the angle, taking what she wants. "Just—don't stop. Keep going."

You keep going.

The angle is deep, deeper than anything from earlier—she's softer this way, warmer, and every small shift she makes presses her back against you like she wants more. The wet sounds of it fill the room.

She moves with you and the pace builds in increments, her breath catching on every stroke. You get both hands on her hips and pull her back into you and she goes still for a second, just takes it, just holds there—and then the sound she makes is sharper, cut short like she caught herself.

"Fuck," she says, quiet. "Right there baby. Don't move."

You don't move. You hold that angle and work it and she says your name into the headboard, not a question, just something that needed to come out.

"How long," you say again.

A moment. Her hips stutter back into you.

"I didn't know how to." Flat even now, even like this, though her voice has a catch in it she can't quite smooth. "I needed to know it was real before it got complicated." You push deeper and she exhales hard. "And it kept being—god, Junho—" She stops. Her shoulders pull in, just slightly. You see it from here. "It kept being real."

"So you kept coming back."

"Yes." Like a confession. "Every time."

You move and she moves with you. The rhythm settles into something slow and thorough, each stroke measured, pulling back until you're barely inside her and then driving back in until your hips meet hers. Nothing to prove in it—just the heat of her, how tight she still is even now, the way she keeps pressing back into every stroke like she can't help herself.

Her knuckles white on the headboard. The city indifferent outside.

"There are things that come with it," she says, breathier now, less careful. "Rules. Things you can't—" A sharp inhale as you shift your grip. "Can't say. People you can't tell." Her head drops forward. "It's a lot to ask."

"Are you asking."

She turns her head. Just enough—the line of her cheek, the corner of her eye, the beauty mark. She can't quite face you from here. That might be why she chose here.

"I'm asking," she says.

You think about the seminar. The elevator. The pen she never gave back. December. Every semester you can't put in the right order, all of it orbiting her like she was the only fixed point because she was, she always was, and you were just the idiot who took four years to understand that the orbit was the point.

You lean forward. One hand flat on the headboard beside hers. Your mouth to the back of her shoulder.

You keep moving.

"Okay," you say into her skin.

Something releases in her—you feel it before you hear it. Her back settling against your chest, her hand finding yours on the headboard, fingers lacing. The long exhale.

"Okay," she says.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Okay. Her graduation was February. She told you two weeks before. Same voice as everything that mattered—flat, like she was reading off a schedule. You said okay. She said okay.

You know what it means now. Both okays. It took you a while.

She texted. Not often. Enough. Conversations mid-thought, no preamble. In March she sent the corridor still from In the Mood for Love. No caption. Just the image—the two of them almost touching, the hallway doing all the work.

You watched it for a while.

You: I know

Jimin: good

You kept the notebook page with her words. You moved it to every jacket you've owned since, without thinking about it, which is maybe the most honest thing you've ever done.

She found it once. Asked what it was. You told her. She didn't say anything for a moment.

Then she said: you still have that.

You said: I told you I did.

She took it out of your jacket pocket and put it in her bag. She still has it. You know because you've looked.

You've never asked for it back.

She told you you could. You're saying it out loud now.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Out loud, your mother is calling your name from somewhere in the crowd.

Graduation morning. Yours. Main courtyard, April, families with flowers. The sun warm in direct light and cold the moment you step out of it. You're in a gown that doesn't fit right and your mother has already taken twelve photographs and will take twelve more and you will look like yourself in none of them.

You see her before she sees you.

Or she lets you see her first—you've never been able to tell. Far edge of the courtyard, no reason to be here. Cap pulled low. Plain zip-up. Looking at her phone, or the performance of it.

Her graduation was February. She has a schedule. There has always been somewhere else she could be and frequently was, that has been the entire shape of it—the disappearing and the returning and the way you could never tell if they were connected or just the pattern of who she is.

You know now. Both are true.

She looked up. Found you across the courtyard without apparent effort, like she'd already done the geometry.

Too far to read her face clearly. Just the dark eyes and the line of her jaw and the fact that she hadn't moved toward you but wasn't looking away.

You stood in your graduation gown in the April light and held all of it—the attendance sheet, the borrowed pen she kept, the elevator, the editing bay, December, every semester you can't put in the right order—and waited.

She put her phone away.

Took one step.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

One step. That's where it ends. You don't know what came after that.

Actually, you do. She happened. You were there. The sun was in your eyes and she crossed the courtyard and your mother took a photograph she will never be allowed to keep, and after the ceremony you walked to the car park and she told you the rules—all of them, quietly, like a briefing—and you said okay after each one.

"You sure?"

"I decided a long time ago."

She was quiet for a moment. "I know. I was waiting for you to figure it out."

The wanting is the point.

I hope you enjoyed this take on how I wrote Karina. I had a lot of fun working on this piece, especially weaving in some of the things I used to nerd out about. I tend to jump between hobbies, and there was a time I was completely hooked on filmmaking, so it felt good to bring a bit of that back here. If the structure clicked for you, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Let me know if you want more pieces like this in the future.

“You don’t want to make this a regular thing.” Still, Pharita is looking down at the floor, as if trying to look hesitant about what she’s going to ask eventually. “No,” It’s cold outside; you would’ve escorted her to either of your places if you loved her.

When you loved her, to be more precise. “You don't.” You've been through two winters with Pharita. You thought no warmth could replace hers. No coldness couldn't replace hers either, it turned out.

What you despise is that she keeps talking about that night. The night when she called your phone, the night she came over to your studio to meet you.

It is yet to be opaque in your head the moment she put her lips on yours. It felt so illegal you didn't want to pull back. Her lies might’ve dirtied her name, but that body, the physique, her face—those lips—never left her. Never left your mind, even though you did your best to reject.

“You need to leave, Pharita.” You say this, yet being dangerously uncertain about whether you'll be able to turn down the temptation to lay your hands on her flesh one more time.

It's to the point where you’re beginning to think that you're no different. Should've cut her out from the first place. The first time you met her after the breakup was catastrophic. You helplessly fell for the trap.

“You can't keep doing this. Find another guy that's dumb enough to-”

“Don't say you didn’t miss how good I made you feel in bed.” She then turns to face you, leaving you no space to move or think. She's unforgivable enough to attempt to lock lips with you once more; you're dumb enough to let it happen.

You tried to say no—technically, you said no. All she gives you is things to struggle with. You get the feeling that if you go further than this, the mourning you suffered definitely would go in vain. You frown at the look of yourself. Then you pull her deeper into your arms, probably into your naked soul.

The way she lets out a lengthy, satisfied moan sheerly disgusts you. It's as if you lost, not once but twice.

******

Four months is a long period of time, especially without Pharita. You didn’t want her near you, or, you thought so. Hate to admit that you actually spent a few nights crying.

You felt deceived; you might’ve found out what people call toxic is.

Deceived?

“Hey.”

It's nothing more than a cheap comedy. “...hey.” Probably as cheap as her words, and yours. Because what you told yourself, what you carved into your own heart was to never let her near you ever again. That provided, it should’ve been the easiest choice to hang up and block her number when she called you.

“Been a while.” You pick up. For a few seconds, you forgot to move a single muscle. On your way home it seemed like the world around you came to a halt. The way she said ‘Been a while.’ was obnoxiously calm. So calm it left you speechless.

Several seconds of absolute silence reminds you that you just dramatically stopped walking. Your eyes squeeze shut as you agonize over whether to just hang up and end it.

“Why did you call me?” Questions beget more questions. You just picked up her call, and failed to hang up while you could. Then you yourself started a conversation that could lead to misery.

“Why did you pick up?” Suddenly you remember how sweet she used to sound. But that was until she bittered your heart with her lies. To think she did all that to sleep with someone else, you couldn’t stand the hatred.

The way you can’t just put the phone off of your ear and end the call makes the hatred spread over to yourself. It’s like how toxins take over your whole system. “Are you outside?” You know—sometimes you don’t even notice—it’s ruining you, but you can’t stop it.

You still refuse to reply. How vulnerable can a human being be? “Pharita.” How weak does one have to be to still drown in the remnant of love for the one who had literally ditched you. It’s a rotten love. Spoiled love that is indistinguishable from regret.

You answered the call because you wanted to. Needed to. You knew Pharita was toxic. But drugs aren’t just toxic; they’re addictive. You don’t do drugs to wreck yourself and die, but you still do it knowing it will someday. You realized that the hatred for her was an ugly mixture of misaimed loathing towards yourself.

“It’s cold outside.” But still, abhorrence is what a betrayed love eventually turns into. What makes you feel even more helpless is that you are sure you’ll be giving in to whatever she offers. And you know she won’t offer you anything safe.

“Pharita.”

“I’m actually near your place.”

Last winter was the last one you shared with Pharita. You still vividly remember that one day when it snowed heavily. You two made a lot of snowmen. It was only a few inches shorter than her, which made it easier for her to cuddle while taking pictures with it.

You are not sure if you ever want to consider it thankful to have such beautiful memories. Heartwarming, wholesome, but that's what highlights how cruel her betrayal felt.

You thought she loved you just as much as you loved her. Pharita and you made a perfect pair—so perfect once when you were blinded by her you thought it was spiritual. Then she enlightened you that everything has an end regardless of your will.

It all happened within just a few months. All of the night-and-day differences. It went from hot cups of coffee to throat-burning alcohol. From a scarf around her neck to tattoos and piercings. The contrast was clear. It was so sharp you felt it stinging from the very inside of your heart.

What still remained solid were the nights you spent for each other. The true nakedness—of your bodies, of your souls and of your sensations—could never be breached by anything fake. You could always tell it without any doubt because she always moaned for more.

It was perhaps the only thing that she wanted to have no end, while for you it was one of many. But even when you were touching each other, you believed that it was romantic, not sexual. A physical expression of love, not lust. Which didn’t last so long, unfortunately.

“Did you miss me?” Yet she chose to come toxic as never before. You were trying not to say ‘yes’ on the phone but you found yourself almost shouting it. People don't change. You still love her. So desperately you would probably forgive everything she's ever done if you could feel her lips on yours.

“Pharita, I need to hang up. I can’t be doing this forever.” But she is with no intention to stop. Rather, it seems like she wants to step on and see how it would end up, because calling you alone must've been the point of no return. And you picking up helped yourself make it to the point of no destination, tragically.

One of so many things you fear is that you couldn't detect any sign of hesitation from her voice.

“...Did you miss me?” You can find no clue of hesitation on her face, either. The decision to ever dress up and meet you on a freezing night like this itself is a vivid proof of determination and need, come to think of it.

Think?

Her hands are already climbing up your sleeves to your forearm for a subtle clench. It reminds you of how hard you had to hold yourself from everything you didn’t want to do. It’s a dilemma, an irony, a paradox: a demolition of your mind. You could’ve said you’d forget everything you had seen and be together again. But even when her shameless ‘sorry’ was closer to a mere sigh than a farewell, grabbing her arm and hugging her again was the last thing you wanted yourself to do.

“Because I did.” All you see is her innocent smile without any hint of seduction, as if what her fingers are doing is all she needed to vaporize your willpower to resist. She makes you feel like you didn’t want to reject at all in the first place. “You won’t say no, will you?” To hear her whisper love in your ears one last time. To touch her pulsing chest, to taste her leakage of pleasure for the last time.

To feel her for the last time. You even start to hope that there was no such thing as the last time. You find it impossible for your gaze to stay anchored to a single point. “Pharita, you really should–”

“Is it still set to your birthday, the doorlock?” But from somewhere deep inside, you feel disgusted. Utter grossness. And maybe anger. You sense that if you lose it, there will be no bailing out. And you sense that you are on your way to losing everything.

Pharita entwined her leg around yours, trapping itself between your legs and the brick wall. You try to act fed up, surprised that you have to act that way. Perhaps the disgust has been toward yourself. Raging at what she did to you, but hesitant to push her away unlike what you told yourself more than a million times.

“You don’t want to do this.” You look away from her luring gaze and you are already out of breath. Something is strangling you from the very inside and you might know what that could be. “Oh, yeah?” Her voice is low, airy and hot. You see her breath vanish into the cold air.

Her fingers never leave your forearm alone as she approaches half a step forward, slightly pushing her breasts against your ribs. “What do you want, then?” She notices your eyes unable to settle between her own eyes and lips and gives you a small victorious smirk. Then you feel her whole body pushing upon yours a little more.

Her thigh between yours feels so soft and you are convinced you aren’t built for rejecting her. Her flesh is warm, even through your pants. On the inside you wanted her back, but on the outside you acted angry. Pharita brings her lips closer and closer to yours in the span of seconds.

“I think you want to fuck me.” You immediately grit your teeth as she unveils what you unknowingly but so obviously want. It is as if she wants to see you lose it. And if that’s true, it is working, aimed at the very bottom of your composure.

You somehow lose any willpower to even resist or dive deeper; it could be considered a good sign, since you don’t sense the flame inside you spark even when her tongue is invading every corner of your brain. There might still be a chance to pull back. It’s just a kiss and both of you are fully clothed.

The cold air visualizes how hard you two are panting into each other’s mouth. It sends you back to when you two were new to each other. The first winter was freezing—freezing enough to emphasize how warm she was. Sex wasn’t in the list of why you fell for her.

Pharita and you lived in a melodrama. One of those boring ones with no antagonists. Snowmen, warm hands, hot coffee and matching pairs of gloves and beanies. It was after all these that a loving kiss that led to sex happened. It was cold. So cold your noses and cheeks got strawberry-red. So cold you let her hands inside your pockets while locking lips and tongues.

It was the corruption that devoured her that disappointed you. You can’t tell since when, but someday her crave for physical love began growing obsessive. You really should’ve sensed the red light blinking.

It was a hard-earned peace. Telling yourself constantly that this is for you to grow up as a man, from an unguided boy blinded by love, by Pharita. It stings how she bites your lower lip. It hurt more when you saw her getting railed in pronebone in your room, in your bed, in your soaked sheet.

******

It’s nothing more than an addiction now. Seeking for the sensation with empty eyes, empty emotion. “Didn’t you need a night like this?” It has been days since the things she asks for in bed came to you as overwhelming. What you cherished was how soft you two were, locking eyes, lips and fingers. Just the right warmth without any concerns of getting burnt.

What makes you torn now is that Pharita has been trying new things; you hate it, but you can’t stop it. “Like what?” She leaves you a smirk before bending down to get rid of her underwear. Almost everything has changed about her: how she dresses, how she undresses, how she touches you, and how she touches herself. Yet her body never fails to stun you.

“I got a new piercing.” The smirk stays on her eyes as she tilts her head to look up at you. A piece of metal on her left nipple subtly shakes as she sits on the edge of the bed. Speechless, you just follow her on the bed. You hate that she’s turned away from what you visioned you two to be like. You hate that you’re irresistibly turned on by the look of it.

You hate that you don’t actually hate it, and it looks like you surrender yet again to her. Uncomfortable, really. But Pharita pulls your pants down and the inconvenience is gone. Your back is flat on the mattress already. Her torso is lined up with your body already.

“Do you like it?” Pharita crawls up and smothers her tits on your face as you wrap her naked back with your arms. It’s like her seduction is the anesthesia to your reason, stimulant to the animal inside you.

(You weren’t like that; you never slapped, never throttled, never even thought about manhandling her. It all started when she started.)

You don’t want to call it an unleashed beast, because you’ve never put a leash on anything so far. It is more like Pharita opened another pair of eyes, another set of nerves. You’d rather call it a newborn beast. And what is the most dangerous about a newborn is that it grows.

You already feel your heart race. It pounds into your head, makes your cock throb. “Didn’t it hurt though?” You lay her down next to you before hovering over her. A little pinch on the pierced nipple makes her purr with a lipbite. “Actually, it felt good.” The atmosphere is being saturated with all the sex appeal she emits, and you're breathing all of it in.

“It felt just like you’re biting on it.” A playful smirk emphasizes the word ‘bite’ as if she’s pleading you to. You’re half naked with your top still on. A dark green knitted vest over a white shirt. You won’t like it if it gets wet or the buttons rip off. The coat that was previously on has been on the floor for quite long.

You aren’t sure about anything. Something is keeping you from freely indulging her. It’s not her, vividly. But at the same time it’s her. From a lover from a soap opera to a girl with a pierced nipple. The animalistic you would say it’s an upgrade.

But you view it as a decadence. It’s an addiction, and sadly but realistically, you understand her since she still has got the one you felt the tingle inside for. You’re on the course, maybe. On the course to the realization that the one you used to know is for the past, and it is a foreseen future that she is leaving you.

It’s not just a flying-by thought, it’s been growing and haunting you. It gave birth to millions of dilemmas. “Babe, you tell me this time,” It is as pointless as it looks, since there is no solution and there will be an only outcome.

“You fuck me, or I ride you.” It’s a mind trick, a simple one. Because she’s asking me to choose while half of your cock is already being consumed by her wet folds as she mounts on your crotch. Your hands find her breast with the piercing and the waist on the other side. It’s a shame that you complain about her becoming lusty and your hands land on her body like a habit.

Under that motion must lie the filthy side of yours, too. A few months ago, the nights you shared were full of pillow talking and movies. You found the calmness of it lovely. You thought Pharita was the one with that atmosphere.

“You ride me.” She thumps down on you, which makes you gutter out any air left in you. Helps stop feeding your brain the air it needs, helps the uneasiness from all the concerns stop poking you. Both of your mouths are open with no breaths and it stays that way for a while.

The stimulation coming from her grinding hips accumulates. You feel the metal piece on her tit has gotten warm in your palm. Her hands on your stomach slightly push down as she raises her hips once more. Your eyes are seeing the most majestic face you’ve seen put on the most desirous smile. Your body is taking all the sensations at once and is barely holding on.

Her moans sound the same as when she cums—she might've actually did, you don’t know—and you know she’s not making anything up when the moans are low and guttural. Those unintentional, almost accidental screams that only you can force out.

Pharita sits down deep again before suddenly upping the pace to half a second. It still feels half the rate at which your heart is punching. The smacking sounds are so loud her moans are stifled that she’s trying to hold back.

Her arms give up so she collapses upon you. Her forehead lines up with your nose, her teeth with the side of your neck. You feel her nipples pushing down on your ribs. Her ankles are hooked beneath your thighs as both your legs are locked by hers. She then hums into your collarbone at the rhythm of the pounding.

Your palms find the back of her head and her ass each as if those are their scripted positions. Not only scripted, but also rehearsed and filmed. You can’t neglect the chemistry, really. It’s your fear and desire.

“You’re going too fast, Rita.” She takes a mouthful bite of the side of your neck and begins slurping on it. It makes you grip her hair harder. Her saliva ticklishly runs down to your nape, probably touching her own hands on the sheet. It’s an unaffordable boost to your nervous system, on top of the selfish speed she’s rocking her ass on your cock.

“I’m not fast enough. It’s not fucking enough.” The closer you get, the faster she goes. Her intentions are clearly not her orgasm, but yours. It surely is by far the hardest to take, since this is the first time you are experiencing this kind of rabid sex. First time for something this pornographic. You feel somewhat stuck in between love for her and the urge for her body.

“Inside me. Do it deep inside me.” You squeeze her ass cheeks as hard as you try to hold back. It feels sick. But sick only because it’s so good. It’s like eating an overly sweet caramel. You can’t ignore the guilt that comes from it. There must be consequences.

Look how it is: her soft tits smothered on your chest, her candy voice slurring nastiest profanities right into your brain, a handful of her cheeks in your hands and above all, there’s this needy girl’s insides preying on your release. All of this at once, overloading your senses relentlessly for minutes so far.

A stream of clean liquid begins to gush out from her hole to your testicles and all over the bed. Pharita nevertheless keeps on pushing herself deeper down on you. The only clue of her climax is that she is almost biting your skin off of your neck, that her whole body spasms irregularly, and that the yelp she let out is hitting your eardrum from the inside.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fu–” It is too late when you find out that all the water she squirted was merely a premonition of a back-arching orgasm that soon hit her with a literal splash. Her toes catch the underside of your legs as they curl into a clench. Her back arches, and you see a strand of her drool that links her tongue and your neck.

You have never seen her cumming this hard. It’s a profound impact on you to see her so wrecked like that. “Are you okay?” You lay her on her back as you sit up between her spread legs.

The aftermath bliss seems to have wrecked her system, but not completely. Chest up, her skin is hot and red. Mouth agape for air needed for recovery, breasts heaving up and down in sync with her ragged breath while her eyes never leave yours. Her hands fondle her own tits as the fingers play with her nipples.

“I said ‘fuck me’. Fill me up.” It's a cursed spell. Almost feels like a trigger pulled inside your head. Pharita might be a possessor of the sexiest ‘fuck’ you've ever heard.

Being strict with yourself feels rather useless when it comes to her naked body pushed onto yours. Wet sounds everywhere, her tongue forces yours to duet with it and she sucks whatever air that's left for you to squeeze out a groan as her ass thumps down on your crotch.

The pitch of her panting sound rises as the pace at which her body rams down on yours de-orbits out of her hand. From the slightest spasms of her wet inside to the vivid shakes of her chin due to the brutal bite on her lower lip, it’s a sign that she’s blinded as of now. Even deaf, maybe.

But what is so sure is that all her other senses—taste, touch and olfactory—are taking up the leftover capacities of them. Her head is buried deep in your neck soon after as her moans heat your blood running through your throat. It overheats your brain easily and helps you feel the beat of your heart in your head.

“You’re just so good at this. Too–” Her tongue stops forming words just to lick and suckle on your lower chin. The smacking sounds have turned wet and squelchy and Pharita is having a feast on your face. You’ve never felt this dirty. You have never felt this shameful.

You’ve never felt this heavenly, this hot and this fucking good. Your orgasm spurts deep inside her gripping pussy, threatening to mark her wavering womb as yours. Your toes grip and drag the sheet underneath while your fingers are pinning her ass down on you as Pharita tries to keep pistoning.

It is beyond your abilities to keep breathing. Thinking is gone, too. “Too fucking good to be true.” That was what she gave up murmuring to make you cum, but unfortunately it leaves your brain as soon as it enters. To be honest, nothing even enters your brain and it is like you are just floating around the haze she gifted you.

Pharita lets go of your cock and crawls up a bit to feed you her tits. Her hands are put beside each side of your head for support, the pierced side of her breast is pushed on your face as it cuts off air again. Her feet find your still-tweaking cock and begin a half-baked, no-look footjob.

It’s the moment where the balance breaks. Where the seesaw tilts, where everything becomes a silent tug of war. It was always mutual, even the way you two mixed bodies in bed. Now you find yourself receiving overwhelming lust from her. It’s like you’re trying to jump in higher gravity. Invisible, yet it holds you down.

You’re lethargically letting her do anything, however. “It tastes good, doesn’t it?” The overstimulation is damaging your sanity, backed up by the softness and the heat of her tit pressed down on your face. She positioned it perfectly for the nipple to be between your lips as it stifles your breathless groan. Your fingers are desperately reaching deeper into the mattress, same as your toes.

Soon your soul is splattered all over her feet and lower back. It hits you like waves, spurt after spurt. Those waves are single-handedly drowning you. You feel it in your guts that this will be irreversible.

“I love seeing you cum so hard like this.” You have come a long way from just a simple “I love you” to this. Is the one that loved you as you are gone? Thinking about it only makes your head congested, even worse when you’re recovering from an unexpected blissful sex.

******

“What do you mean it was too much? You loved it.” She gives you a light scoff. “It’s never too much, baby. I just like you that much.”

“Don’t be like you’re different, I know you’re just the same.” It runs you over like a truck. Your pupils shake looking at her. It might be easy to just admit and enjoy, but you still feel something off. It’s an endless conflict. You cherish the romantic, pastel-tone days with Pharita. You can’t say you hate how vibrant and bold colored your relationship has been the past few days.

“You like me that much too, right? We’re the same.” You’re in a cafe with her. Her brown hair is magically running down her shoulders, complementing the beige knit that shows off her curves. You love the way she never misses to stun you.

“I’ve said it a thousand times,” She leans back on the chair she is seated on. Your head is so complex with so many thoughts it feels empty.

“You break up with me, you break up with yourself.”

******