#chaewon smut

The terrace sits cantilevered over the cliffs of Ravello, and the Tyrrhenian Sea is performing its slow transformation at this hour, slipping from blue into burnished copper in lazy stages, a glow that polishes faces and smooths edges until everyone seems faintly cinematic, almost worth a second glance.

White tablecloths. Wine poured by the glass at prices that could cover a month's worth of groceries. The annual Ravello Literary Festival - nominally a celebration of literature, though in practice it functions as an elaborate excuse for publishing people to sunburn elegantly on the Amalfi cliffs while pretending, with great conviction, to have read each other's latest releases.

(You are not in this scene yet. Give it a minute.)

Right now, the opening belongs to Kim Chaewon.

She's standing near the center of the terrace in a cluster of three, and even from across the crowd you can tell she's the axis the group orbits around - not because she's the tallest (Chaewon is actually kind of tiny; she stands at five-four, but the heels put her around five-six, super slim, almost fragile-looking. Her stylist plays that up well) but because she holds space the way certain people do. The ones who learned to take up room with presence when they couldn't do it with height.

Tonight it's a white linen dress, thin straps, the neckline cut just low enough to show her collarbones without tipping into obvious. Her brown hair is cropped into that short bob she's been wearing all year: blunt bangs, clean edges, the kind of haircut that reads effortless and costs four hundred dollars. She's tan. Not too much. Just enough to make the white dress pop against her skin.

(Everything about Kim Chaewon is just enough. That's her entire brand.)

The woman to her left is Irene - thirty-four, silver jewelry catching the last of the light at her wrists, the composed stillness of someone who has spent nearly two decades running a publishing house and stopped being impressed by anything roughly around year five. She owns the imprint that publishes Chaewon's novels, and the relationship between them operates on several frequencies at once; business partnership, maternal mentorship, quiet mutual exploitation, and something resembling genuine affection buried under layers of professional pragmatism.

To Chaewon's right: Sana. Twenty-eight. Japanese-born. A novelist whose debut collection of interconnected short stories landed her on every "writers to watch" list last year and earned the kind of critical goodwill that Chaewon's sales numbers have never quite translated into. There's this loose, comfortable energy about her - she laughs easily, touches your arm when she's making a point, and none of it ever feels performed. She's holding a glass of prosecco and wearing a slip dress in pale ivory, and she's currently mid-sentence, telling Chaewon about the Italian translation numbers.

"Eleven days," Sana repeats, squeezing Chaewon's wrist. "Sold out. First print run. Eleven days. That's not normal, Chaewon, that's genuinely insane."

"It's the Italian market," Chaewon says, waving her glass. "They love anything with a coastal setting and a messy love story. I basically wrote bait."

"Oh, stop it." Sana laughs. "Take the win."

"I am taking it. I'm just contextualizing."

Irene, without looking up from her Barolo, interjects: "You're diminishing it. Which is what you do when you're performing humility. Don't. It's unbecoming."

"I'm not performing—"

"You are. You've been doing it since I met you." Irene's gaze flicks up, brief and precise. "Your numbers are exceptional. Say thank you and move on."

Chaewon opens her mouth, closes it. Smiles - tight, acquiescing. "Thank you. Moving on."

Sana grins and clinks her glass against Chaewon's. "For what it's worth, my Italian publisher still hasn't returned my email from March. So I'm choosing to live vicariously through you."

"Your book is literary, Sana. The translation pipeline is slower. They'll get there."

"You keep saying that. 'Your book is literary.' You know that's just a nice way of saying it doesn't sell."

Chaewon tilts her head: "That's not what I—"

"It's fine. I've made peace with my niche." Sana takes a sip. "I sell modestly to people with graduate degrees and tote bags. You sell millions to everyone else. We both have our lanes."

"Your lane is the one with the Pulitzer at the end of it."

"And yours is the one with the villa in Provence."

"I don't have a villa in Provence."

"Yet."

Laughter breaks between them, genuine enough that Sana touches Chaewon's wrist again. There's something easy in it, a honesty that acknowledges yes, our careers exist on different planets, and no, we're not going to pretend otherwise, and somehow that's fine. Irene observes from her position at Chaewon's left, Irene watches them with the faintest trace of a smile - by her standards, anyway. In her two decades running the imprint, she's seen plenty of these literary friendships curdle the moment sales figures enter the chat. This one seems to be holding.

The prosecco moves in Sana's glass. Small, idle circles. But there's nothing idle about the way she's watching Chaewon right now. That particular brand of attention that precedes bad news delivered kindly.

Her voice, when it comes, has dropped half a register: "Speaking of the Italian market, actually. I saw the whole… thing. Online. About the review."

Chaewon lifts her glass and takes a long, measured sip, letting the moment extend past casual into something pointed, before setting the glass back down. "Which thing? There were several things."

"The TikTok discourse. The Reddit threads. My agent forwarded me the sales memo - the one that got leaked."

"That memo was taken completely out of context."

Sana nods. "Oh, totally. I know. I'm just saying… it must be exhausting. Dealing with the fallout from something like that."

Irene cuts in, measured: "Sana, maybe we don't need to—"

"It's fine, Irene." Chaewon sets her glass on the table with a clink that says it is not, in fact, fine. "It's not exhausting. It's infuriating. Exhausting is a long flight. Infuriating is watching one single, self-important, pseudo-intellectual review turn into a referendum on whether my writing has merit. As if merit is something a fucking critic gets to define."

Sana exchanges a quick glance with Irene. Irene's expression says: here we go.

"Suddenly every twenty-year-old with a BookTok account and a ring light is an authority on literary value." Chaewon's cheeks are flushed (not from the wine). "Kids who have read maybe fifteen books in their entire lives are writing thousand-word threads about how my prose lacks depth. Because he told them it does. Because he wrote it in that specific way he does - that surgical little style where he pretends he's being objective while he's actually just eviscerating you. And people eat it up. They think they're reading criticism, but it's really just someone being cruel and dressing it up with fancy words."

"The review cycle will pass," Irene offers. Patient. Rational. The voice of a woman who has talked authors down from ledges higher than this. "They always pass. Three months from now, nobody will remember."

"This one didn't pass. This one metastasized."

"Chaewon—"

"Do you know what my analyst projections looked like last quarter?" Chaewon turns to Irene fully. "Because you should. You publish me. Seven percent dip. That's not a blip, Irene. That's a shift. And it started the week his review went viral."

Irene holds her gaze. Doesn't flinch. "I'm aware of the numbers."

"Then you understand why I'm not going to just wait it out."

"He is good at what he does, though," Sana says quietly. "I mean… setting aside what he did to you - his actual criticism is—"

"He's a frustrated artist who can't write fiction, so he tears apart people who can! That's all critics are. Every single one of them. People who wanted to create something and couldn't, so they appointed themselves the arbiters of everyone else's work. They sit in judgment because the alternative is admitting they don't have the talent to participate. And this one—" She presses her finger against the table. "—this one in particular has made it his personal fucking mission to convince the world that I'm literary fast food."

"You're not fast food," Sana says.

"I know I'm not."

"You're more of a—"

"Sana, I swear to god, if you finish that sentence with a food analogy—"

Sana closes her mouth. Hides her smile behind her prosecco.

Irene sets her glass down with finality and gives Chaewon a look that carries the full weight of their professional history: "Here's what I'll say. Once. He wrote a review. It hurt. It went wider than it should have. But you are still the bestselling author on my list by a factor of three, your book is still in the top twenty, and this festival invited you, not him. So take a breath. Drink your wine. And stop giving him real estate in your head that he hasn't earned."

Chaewon stares at her. The flush is still high on her cheeks, but something in Irene's calm has landed, and for a moment she looks less furious and more tired.

Then Sana, who has been quiet for about four seconds, ruins it.

She's not looking at Chaewon anymore. She's looking past her shoulder, toward the far end of the terrace where the crowd thins out near the stone parapet. The polished limestone floor gives way to rougher stone at the edges, where the terrace meets the original cliff face, and the last stragglers have drifted into loose pairs and solo contemplation. Sana's eyebrows go up.

"Chaewon."

"What."

Sana nudges her elbow and tilts her chin toward the parapet: "Isn't that him over there?”

Chaewon turns. And yes. It is indeed you.

You're standing at the edge of the terrace, one hand resting on the parapet, the other holding a glass of champagne you've barely touched. You're not engaging with anyone. You're just - there, looking out at the beach below, where the last of the daylight is catching the white hulls of two catamarans moored in the harbor. You look unbothered. Comfortable, even.

Chaewon reacts before she can hide it. She looks caught off guard, then angry, and then there’s a third emotion she locks away immediately.

She hands her glass to Sana. "Hold this."

Irene's hand lands on her forearm. "Chaewon. Don't."

"I'm just going to talk to him."

"You're going to make a scene."

"I'm going to talk to him. At a party. Where adults talk to each other." She's already pulling her arm free. "That's all."

"Chaewon—"

But she's already moving. Shoulders set. That walk she does when she's about to be very, very unpleasant to someone.

You don't see her coming. You're watching the catamarans - two of them, side by side, their twin hulls catching the copper light. There's something about the geometry that holds your attention. Parallel lines that never converge.

"Hey. You."

You don't turn around. You take a sip of champagne. The sea is really doing something spectacular right now, and you'd rather not.

"Hey! I'm talking to you."

Louder this time. Loud enough that two people at the nearest table glance over. You let the moment sit for another beat - not to be rude, not exactly, but because you know the pause will cost her - and then you turn. She's closer than you expected. Close enough that you can smell her perfume - gardenia, you think, warm and sweet from her skin. Five-six in heels and radiating enough hostility to fill a space twice this size.

You greet her. First name. Calm. Pleasant. The way you'd greet a colleague at any professional function.

"You have a lot of nerve showing up here. Half the people at this party hate you."

"I don't think that's entirely true."

"It is."

"Sana spoke to me earlier, actually." You let that sit for a second. "She thanked me for the review I wrote about her new collection. The short stories."

"Of course she did. You were nice to her."

"I was honest. She didn't need to thank me. I was just doing my job."

She takes a step closer, and you can see the flush on her cheeks, the tension in her jaw. She's been drinking - not a lot, but enough to loosen whatever restraint she might have exercised sober.

"Your job," she repeats, stressing it just enough to sting. "Your job cost me a seven percent dip in projected first-quarter sales. Your job made my publisher schedule an emergency marketing call at six in the morning. Your job turned my book into a meme, you understand that? There are teenagers on the internet making edits of my cover with clown emojis because of what you wrote. How do you just— how do so many people listen to someone so dumb?"

You look at her for a moment. Unhurried. "Your book is selling well, Chaewon. Extremely well, actually. It debuted at number three on the Times list and it's still in the top twenty. I genuinely don't understand the fuss."

"The fuss is that it should have been number one. The fuss is that I had momentum and you killed it."

"I didn't kill anything. I wrote a review. You’re experienced enough to know that once you share your work publicly, you’ll be exposed to all sorts of feedback and opinions.”

She's breathing hard. Her fists are clenched at her sides, knuckles pale against the tan. "Say it to my face, then."

"I'm sorry?"

"The review. Everything you wrote. Say it to my face. Right now. You were so brave behind your keyboard - be brave in person. Tell me what you really think."

You set your champagne glass on the parapet ledge. Carefully, so it doesn't tip. "All right."

And you do. Very politely.

"The premise is built on a foundation that's been used so many times it's essentially public domain at this point. Two strangers reconnecting after a shared tragedy - it's been done by Nichols, by Munro, by half the MFA programs on the eastern seaboard. That's not automatically disqualifying, but it means the execution needs to justify the retread. Yours doesn't. The plot follows a structure so predictable I could map the emotional beats by page number before I'd finished the first fifty pages. The second act complication arrives on schedule. The romantic false defeat happens exactly where you'd expect it. And the resolution - Chaewon, the resolution is the same resolution you've written in your last three novels, dressed up with different proper nouns."

She's staring at you. Very still.

"And then there's the dialogue," you continue. "Which is actually the most frustrating part, because you clearly have an ear for how people speak. You do. But you push it too far. You overwork every line until it sounds rehearsed. There's this compulsion to make every exchange feel hyper-naturalistic, and the effect is the opposite - it draws attention to the craft in a way that reminds the reader they're reading something constructed. You're trying so hard to give the story authenticity that it ends up feeling synthetic. Polished on the surface. Plastic underneath. Comfort food dressed as cuisine."

 Chaewon steps closer. So close you could count the lashes framing those dark, furious eyes. "You're an asshole." Quiet. Steady. Then not quiet, not steady: "You're a fucking asshole! You sit up there in your little ivory tower writing your little poison pen columns and you have never - not once in your miserable career - produced a single page of original fiction. You've never built a world. You've never made a reader cry. You've never stayed up until four in the morning bleeding onto a page because the story demanded it. You destroy. That's your entire skill set. And you're proud of it."

"Are you done?"

"I'm nowhere near done. You know what every critic in the history of criticism has in common? They couldn't do it themselves. Every single one of you. Failed writers. Frustrated artists playing judge because the alternative is admitting you don't have the talent to—"

"You're making my point for me."

That shuts her up. She blinks at you, mouth still half-open on whatever cutting response died in her throat.

You straighten up. Hands in your pockets. Relaxed. Almost amused, and you can tell the almost amused is what's making her fingers twitch toward a drink she no longer has. (Because she handed it off to Sana. Which, looking back on it, was probably not her smartest move.)

"You came all the way across this terrace to yell at me, and you haven't refuted a single thing I wrote. Not one point. You've attacked my character, my career, my motives - but the actual substance of the review? Nothing." You let that breathe. "You only go after me because you have no arguments to counter mine."

Her lips part. Nothing comes out.

"But I actually like it," you add. Your expression changes subtly - not a smile, but the ghost of one, living somewhere behind your eyes. "The anger. The theatrics. Coming over here with your fists clenched. It's cute, Chaewon."

Her whole frame stiffens. The word “cute” lands with force, cracking straight through the composed façade she’s built piece by piece.

An Italian terrace, sunset light, white linen dress, and you reduce her to cute.

She stares at you, and the flush creeping down from her cheeks has reached her chest now, you can see it above the white linen, spreading across her collarbones. Her mouth presses into a hard line. Her hands won't stop shaking, and it's sure as hell not fear making them tremble.

"You have no idea how much I hate you." She says it with her whole chest. Eyes wet - not from tears, from fury, from the kind of heat that builds behind your face when your blood pressure spikes and you can feel your own pulse in your temples. "You have absolutely no idea."

"Hate is a strong word, Chaewon."

"It's the right one."

You consider this. You pick your champagne glass back up from the parapet and hold it loosely, rolling the stem between your fingers. Below, the catamarans sway in the harbor, their hulls turning gold in the dying light.

"Sometimes I think about you too," you say. Not warmly. Not cruelly either. Something flatter than both. "I think about your mediocrity. About how someone with your instincts actively chose to write at half capacity, and still makes millions doing it. That irritates me. I'll admit that."

She opens her mouth but you're not finished.

"It irritates me because it proves something I don't want to believe." You wave a hand at the terrace, the whole scene. "That none of this has a future. Look around: beautiful people, expensive wine, conversations about absolutely nothing." You pause. "This generation either drowned in nihilism and can't feel anything real anymore, or they bought into capitalism so hard that selling out became the entire aesthetic. Either way, same result. Mediocrity sells. Sincerity doesn't.”

You place the champagne glass back on the parapet, turn, and start walking toward the stone staircase at the far end of the terrace. Narrow steps carved into the cliff face, descending toward a lower landing where the staff keeps extra chairs and folded tablecloths. Nobody goes down there during events.

"I'm not done talking to you." Her heels click behind you. Fast. "Hey. Hey! I said I'm not—"

"Enjoy the party, Chaewon." You don't turn around. You take the first step down. "Isn't that why you write? To be surrounded by your own kind? The same breed of self-congratulatory artists, clinking glasses and telling each other how brave and important they all are.”

Her footsteps stop for a second - then resume, faster, following you down the stairs. The sounds of the party recede with each step. Glasses clinking, polite laughter, someone telling an anecdote about their Parisian editor. All of it fading.

"That's rich, coming from someone who—"

"Go back to your friends."

"—who thinks standing alone at a railing makes him interesting. And don't you dare say I surrendered to capitalism.” She's two steps behind you now, her hand gripping the iron railing. "My latest book literally critiques capitalism. The entire third act is a structural dismantling of—"

"I read it."

"Did you? Or did you feed it into ChatGPT and ask for a summary so you could fake your way through another hit piece?”

You nearly smile at that. "Yeah, that would've been smarter. Could've skipped three hundred and fifty pages of freshman political theory arguments.” You take another step down. The stone is rough under your shoes, worn smooth in the center from centuries of feet. "Capitalism critique is everywhere now, you realize that? Publishing houses do it. Streaming services do it. Billion-dollar brands build entire marketing campaigns around how capitalism is failing. Writing a novel that critiques capitalism doesn't make you brave or superior - it puts you on the exact same shelf as every other pseudo-intellectual writer who thinks pointing at the problem counts as solving it."

She's quiet for three steps. You can hear her breathing.

"Here's what you're not getting," you continue, reaching the bottom. "Capitalism doesn't fight back against criticism. It doesn't need to. It just absorbs it. Packages it. Sells it. Your book retails at twenty-eight dollars hardcover. Two hundred thousand first print. Your publisher made a product out of your critique, and everyone profited - including you." You step onto the lower landing. "That's not rebellion. That's a business model with a conscience sticker on it.”

The stairs deposit you into a curved alcove cut directly from the cliff - a pocket of stone that tucks beneath the terrace overhead. The rock arcs above you where the terrace floor sits, forming a natural canopy that makes you invisible to anyone standing up there. They could lean on the parapet, scan the harbor, nurse their prosecco six feet above your head, and never know.

Unless you step to the left. That's where the stone ceiling ends and the open air begins - a gap where the architecture gives way to sky, and the sightline from the terrace parapet drops straight down to where you're standing.

It's cooler here. The party compresses into something distant and soft - laughter, the clink of stemware, a fragment of someone's sentence about translation rights - all of it reduced to murmur.

Below, the sea.

Chaewon follows you down the last step, breathing hard, and she's not done: "People are debating my book at universities. There are actual academic discussions happening about the themes I—"

"Is that supposed to impress me?"

"It means my work has substance.”

"People write theses on Taylor Swift's lyrics, Chaewon. Anything can be dissected if you apply enough academic framework to it. There are peer-reviewed papers on the semiotics of fast food branding." You lean against the stone wall, arms crossed. "Academic attention doesn't equal literary merit. It just means someone needed a dissertation topic. And while I'm sure your book provides plenty of material for a second-year cultural studies course, I don't think there's anything in it that's really worth the effort."

She's standing in front of you with the sunset at her back, and the copper light does something unfair to her - catches the edges of that bob, the loose strands the wind has pulled free, the bangs she keeps pushing out of her eyes that won't stay put anymore. The walk down the stairs and the argument and the salt air have undone about forty minutes of whatever she did in front of a mirror before tonight, and the result is better than the original. She looks wrecked and gorgeous at the same time, flushed and furious, and you clock it the way you clock everything: at a remove, converting sensation into observation before it has a chance to become something inconvenient.

You turn back toward the sea.

Which is exactly why you miss her hand until it's gripping your shoulder, spinning you. Suddenly both her palms are pressed flat against your chest, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, pulling it tight. Her knuckles have gone completely white from the pressure. When you focus, her face is inches from yours.

"You're a piece of shit." Her teeth are clenched. Every syllable pushed through them. "A smug, self-satisfied, worthless piece of shit."

"And you're a crybaby who craves validation." You don't remove her hands. You don't step back. "The worst kind of writer. The kind I genuinely can't stand. Not because you're bad - because you're needy. You need every single person in every single room to tell you you're brilliant, and the second one person doesn't, you come unraveled. And the worst part? Everyone around you lets you. Your publisher, your agent, your little entourage up there—" You tilt your head toward the terrace. "—they all just nod along and validate whatever tantrum you're throwing this week. Nobody tells you no. Nobody pushes back. They just pat you on the head and tell you the mean critic doesn't understand your genius, and you eat it up because it's easier than actually sitting with the possibility that maybe - maybe - your work has problems. And if you really can't handle it, Chaewon - if one review is enough to send you spiraling across a terrace to grab a stranger by the shirt - then maybe you should seriously consider doing something else. Because this industry is going to keep hitting you, and the hits are going to get worse, and if this is how you cope, writing might not be for you.”

Her grip tightens on your shirt. Her jaw is trembling. "Take that back!”

"What are you going to do? Hit me?" You look down at her fists, bunched in the linen. Then back up. "Go ahead. But it won't make your writing any better."

She holds there for a full second. You're seeing everything in slow motion: her knuckles against the fabric of your shirt, her arms shaking, her eyes wet and furious and searching your face for something - a flinch, a crack, any sign that you're not as calm as you're pretending to be. The party hums above you. The sea moves below. You can feel her pulse through her fists where they press against your chest, hammering, and you genuinely think she's about to hit you. Or shove you backward into the parapet.

She moves.

Her weight shifts onto her front foot with every muscle in her body coiled toward violence, and you brace for it - the slap, the shove, whatever she's winding up to deliver.

She kisses you.

There's zero tenderness in it. Zero romance. This is violence, just happening to involve her mouth. She surges forward on her toes and crashes into you, lips first, and her teeth catch your lower lip immediately - not a nibble, a bite, sharp enough to draw blood. You taste copper. Her hands are still fisted in your shirt and she's pulling you down to her height, and the kiss is angry, graceless and wet, and between the collisions of mouth against mouth she's still talking, still spitting words into the space between breaths:

"I fucking hate you—" Another kiss, harder. Her tongue against yours, then her teeth again. "You ruined my launch—" She bites the corner of your mouth. "You ruined my year—" Her nails dig through the shirt fabric into your chest. "Arrogant—" Kiss. "Pretentious—" Kiss. "Piece of—"

You kiss her back.

Not the way she's kissing you. Not frantic. You take her by the waist - both hands, firm, your fingers pressing into the linen where it sits against the curve above her hips - and you turn her. Smoothly. She makes a small, involuntary sound against your mouth as her back meets the stone wall, and her shoulder blades flatten against the rough surface, and you lean into her, and now you're the one setting the tempo.

You slow it down. You deepen it. Your hand comes up to the side of her neck - thumb against her jaw, fingers in her hair, tilting her head back. She goes with it. Hates that she goes with it. You feel the war happening in her body, the way she's simultaneously pulling you closer by the shirt and pushing against your chest with the heels of her palms.

She separates just enough to breathe, her lips swollen and still grazing yours, and her eyes are glassy and fierce at once - pupils blown, lashes wet, that flush crawling down her neck into her collarbones. Her fingers still twisted in your shirt. She swallows hard.

"If I let you fuck me—" She licks her lower lip. Tasting you. Tasting herself. "—will you write a better review next time? Is that what this is? Is that how you operate?"

You pull back an inch. Study her face.

She doesn't wait for an answer. The words are already loaded and she's pulling the trigger: "Because I've been wondering about Sana. That glowing review you wrote. Four thousand words of praise for a debut short story collection - from you, the man who hasn't said a nice thing about anyone's work in half a decade." Her jaw tightens. "You said she thanked you. She thanked you. So I'm asking. Did she get on her knees for that review? Was that the price of admission?"

"Careful, Chaewon."

"Did you fuck her in some hotel room and then go home and write about how luminous her prose was? Is that the pipeline? Because if that's what it takes, fine, here I am. At least I'm being upfront about it instead of pretending—"

You kiss her. Once. Brief. Hard enough to cut the sentence in half. You pull away slightly and look at her, and for the first time she can’t read your expression. "I would never do something that low," you say. Quiet. Measured. "Not to her. Not to you. Not to my own work."

"Bullshit. Men like you always—"

"Men like me what? Say it. Finish the sentence."

She falters. Just for a beat.

"Here's what just happened, Chaewon. Pay attention, because I know how much you value close reading." You hold her gaze. "A woman - a young woman, a first-time author, someone who spent three years writing a book in a studio apartment in Osaka - received a positive review based on the quality of her prose. And your immediate response, your gut instinct, wasn't to consider that maybe she earned it. That maybe she wrote something genuinely good. Your first thought was that she must have spread her legs."

Her lips part, yet no sound escapes.

"You didn't question my integrity. You questioned hers. You took a woman's professional achievement and reduced it to a sexual transaction. Not because you have any evidence. Not because anything about Sana's behavior suggests it. But because the alternative - that a peer of yours might simply be more talented - is so unbearable to your ego that you'd rather tear another woman down than sit with it."

"That's not what I—"

"That is exactly what you did." Your thumb traces along her jaw. Slow. Gentle, which makes it worse. "You, Chaewon. The woman with the feminist book club recommendations on her Instagram. The one who posted that essay about women supporting women in publishing. Who put sisterhood in her bio last International Women's Day." You tilt her chin up. "And the moment another woman's work gets praised, you assume she fucked for it. Because in your mind, there's no other explanation for a woman succeeding where you didn't."

She swallows. You feel it under your fingers.

"So where's the sisterhood? Hmm?" You lean closer. Your lips nearly brush hers. "Where did it go? Or was it always just content?"

Her eyes are wet. Not from sadness - from the specific, burning shame of being seen doing something ugly and knowing you can't walk it back. Her mouth works. Her fingers clench and unclench in your shirt.

"You're arrogant, Chaewon. Not in the fun way. Not in the way that drives ambition or fuels good work." Your thumb settles on her lower lip. "In the corrosive way. The kind that eats talent from the inside out. The kind that makes you tear down other women because their success feels like your failure."

She stares at you. The flush on her chest has deepened three shades. Her breathing is shallow and rapid, and she's gripping your shirt so hard the fabric is stretched beyond recovery.

Her chin trembles once. She steadies it. "Sana is talented," she says eventually. Costing her something visible.

"Yes. She is."

"And I'm—"

"Still pinned against a wall with my hands on you. So maybe save the self-reflection for later.”

You feel her swallow against your thumb. Her pulse hammers under your fingertips where they rest on her neck. Her chest rises and falls in these short, uneven breaths. Her lips are swollen from all the biting, parted slightly, and the look she's giving you is trying desperately to be pure hatred but can't quite commit.

"But," you say, your gaze dropping from her eyes to her mouth, down to her collarbones, following the way that white linen drapes against her skin in the dying light. Your hand slides from her neck down to her collarbone, thumb tracing the delicate ridge of bone. She doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. "—the one thing I'll give you, Chaewon, is that you're unfairly fucking gorgeous.”

Her pulse is hammering so fast you can see it in her throat, her pupils are blown wide, she's breathing through her mouth, and every single one of these details contradicts what comes out of it next.

"So what's the plan here, huh?” She tugs at your shirt, pulling you closer even as her mouth pushes you away. “You're gonna fuck me? Right here? Where anyone could just walk down those stairs and—" Her gaze drops to your mouth for a half-second. Snaps back up. She shakes her head. "Jesus Christ. You're a fucking pervert."

"Is that what you want?"

"That's not an answer."

"It wasn't meant to be. I asked you a question."

She glances toward the staircase - calculating distance and risk in a single look - then back to you. Her fingers haven't released your shirt. She hasn't stepped back. Hasn't created a single inch of separation between her body and yours.

"I want—" She stops. Starts over, harder this time. "I need to get this out of my system. This frustration. You have no idea how the past few weeks have been for me. What this entire month has been because of you and your little hatchet job."

"So get it out."

"I will." She straightens up. There it is: the defiance snapping back into place, the bratty architecture rebuilding itself in real time, brick by brick. "But let's be honest with each other for once. You're not going to make me cum."

"No?"

"No. I'm going to stand here and let you fumble around for a few minutes, and then I'm going to walk back up those stairs more frustrated than I already am. And you'll have another mediocre performance to add to your résumé." Her eyes narrow, and the corner of her mouth curls. "Which is kind of your whole thing, isn't it? Big buildup. Lots of tension. No payoff. You write reviews the same way."

"Interesting theory."

"It's not a theory. It's a prediction." She tilts her head. "Prove me wrong."

"I don't perform on command, Chaewon."

"Of course you don't. That would require actually delivering on all that confidence you walk around with." She pats your chest twice - condescending, calculated. "It's fine. I've learned to manage my expectations when it comes to you."

You look at her. She looks back. Defiant. Steady. Daring you with every molecule of her five-foot-four frame.

"You're still holding onto my shirt," you point out.

Her grip tightens reflexively. She glances down at her own fists.

"Force of habit," she says. Doesn't let go. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

"Are you finished?"

"I'm asking you a question. What are you going to do?" She tugs your shirt again. Demanding. "Because if your plan is to just stand there looking constipated while I do all the—”

You don't answer. You let your hands do something instead. They start at her waist - where they've been resting against the linen - and they move upward. Slow. Over the curve of her ribs, feeling each one through the thin fabric, feeling the way her breathing stutters when your thumbs graze the underside of her breasts. She's not wearing much beneath the dress. You can tell. The linen is light, almost sheer in the fading golden light, and her nipples are already hard against the fabric, two small points pressing through the white.

Your palms settle over her breasts. She's small but full in a way that fits her frame perfectly, that perky firmness that you feel shift against your hands as she inhales sharply. You squeeze. Gently. Testing. Her eyelids flutter, and she bites down on her lower lip, and she's trying so hard not to react that the effort itself is a reaction.

You slide the straps of her dress down. One at a time. Left, then right. The white linen slips to her upper arms, and underneath there's a bra - simple, cream-colored, slightly sheer. Her breasts sit perfectly in the cups, the swell of them pushed together slightly by the cut, and you can see her nipples through the thin material, dark and stiff.

You lean in and kiss her while both hands come up to cup her breasts over the bra. She makes a sound into your mouth - involuntary - and you swallow it. You squeeze, firmer, rolling your thumbs across her nipples through the fabric, feeling them harden further under the pressure. She arches into your palms. Her hands come up to your shoulders, nails digging in, and her hips shift against the wall.

You take your time. You thumb the lace edge of one cup, pulling it down just slightly, exposing the upper curve of her breast. Kissing her jaw. Kissing the spot just below her ear. Feeling her pulse under your lips, rapid and heavy. She tilts her head back against the stone and her eyes close, and you drag your thumb across her bare nipple and she gasps, this tiny sharp intake that she immediately tries to smother.

Her patience shatters in under a minute.

"Are you serious right now?" Her eyes fly open and she snatches your wrist. "Do it quickly or don't do it at all. Someone could walk down those stairs any second and I'm not getting caught because you want to play out some slow-burn fantasy." She glances pointedly at your hands still cupping her chest. "What even is this? Are you savoring the moment? Writing mental notes for later?"

"I'm—"

"Oh my god, have you literally never felt tits before? You're acting like a virgin who just got to second base. Either fuck me properly or get your hands off me.”

You stop. You pull back enough to look at her face. Then your hand comes up and catches her jaw - not roughly, but firmly, your fingers pressing into her cheeks, tilting her face up toward yours. Her eyes widen. Her lips compress between the pressure of your thumb and forefinger, and for a second she looks genuinely startled.

"I don't like being rushed," you say.

She tries to respond but your grip on her face makes the words come out slightly compressed: "Then you shouldn't be doing this in a—"

"But fine." You release her jaw. "You're right. Let's get this over with quickly. I don't want to spend another second near you."

She opens her mouth to reply but you're already moving.

Your hand drops from her breast to her thigh. You gather the hem of her white linen dress - sliding it upward along her leg, the fabric bunching in your fist, her skin warm and smooth underneath. Your knuckles graze the inside of her thigh and her legs part, just slightly. The dress rides up past her hips. Simple white underwear. Cotton. A damp spot already darkening the fabric between her legs.

You slide your hand inside.

She's soaked. Not damp, not slightly wet - drenched. Your fingers slip against her folds, hot and slick, and the contrast between the venom coming out of her mouth for the past twenty minutes and the state of her cunt right now is so pointed it's almost funny. You cup her, letting the heel of your palm press against her clit, and her whole body jerks. Her hand flies to your forearm and grips it, nails leaving half-moons.

"Fuck," she breathes. Just that. One word. Raw.

You rub her slowly. Two fingers dragging along the length of her slit, spreading the wetness, circling her clit with a pressure that's just shy of enough. She rolls her hips into your hand, seeking more, and you pull back just slightly, keeping her at the edge of satisfaction, never quite landing where she needs you.

Then you push two fingers inside her. She gasps against your mouth and her hand tightens on your forearm. You feel her clench around your fingers - tight, wet, hot - and you curl them upward, pressing against that ridged spot on the front wall, and her legs nearly buckle. She grabs your shoulder with her free hand to stay upright, her heels sliding on the stone.

She kisses you. Desperate now, her teeth catching your lip again, her tongue pushing into your mouth, and it's messy, urgent and she's moaning against your teeth as you start to move your fingers in and out. Slow strokes. Deep. Curling on every withdrawal, dragging against that spot, and your thumb finds her clit and applies a steady, circular pressure that makes her thighs shake.

You pull your mouth from hers. Your lips brush her ear: "You're so predictable, Chaewon."

"Shut up—"

"This whole performance tonight. Coming all the way across that terrace, getting in my face, making your little scene." You thrust your fingers deeper and she chokes on a moan. "You didn't come over here because you're angry. You came over here because you needed attention. My attention. And this was the only way you knew how to ask for it."

"That's not— I didn't—" She's struggling to form sentences. Your fingers are working her steadily, a relentless in-and-out rhythm with your thumb circling her clit, and her hips are moving against your hand in tight, involuntary rolls. "I came over because you're a piece of— ah— piece of shit who ruined my—"

"You're a brat." You say it simply. Factually. Your fingers don't stop. "That's all this is. You came here tonight, found me minding my own business, started running your mouth, pushed and pushed and pushed—" You curl your fingers and she whimpers, her forehead drops against your collarbone. "—all because you wanted me to do exactly this."

"No—"

"I bet in every possible version of tonight, you do the same thing." You press your thumb harder against her clit and she bucks against your hand. "Every scenario. Every outcome. You find me, you pick a fight, you act insufferable, and then you end up exactly where you are right now - pinned against a wall with my fingers inside you, pretending you didn't want it." Your lips move against her ear. "In every version of this, Chaewon, you're doing the exact same thing. Being an insufferable, bratty little nightmare until someone finally fucks you into silence."

She makes a broken sound against your neck. Her hips are grinding against your hand now, chasing it, and you can feel the tension building in her body - her thighs clamped around your wrist, her stomach muscles trembling, her walls fluttering around your fingers in that telltale rhythm.

"You're not—" she starts, and her breath hitches. "You don't get to— fuck— you don't get to psychoanalyze me while you're—"

"While I'm what?"

"While you're fingering me, you arrogant— oh god—"

You increase the pace. Your wrist aches, but you don't care. You fuck her with two fingers, fast and deep, curling against her g-spot on every stroke, your thumb working her clit in tight circles, and she's falling apart in stages - first the insults dissolve, then the sentences, then the words, until all that's coming out of her mouth are these short, punched-out sounds, each one higher and more desperate than the last. Her nails rake down your forearm. Her head tips back against the stone wall, exposing the long line of her throat, and her eyes are shut and her mouth is open and her whole body is wound tight, trembling on the edge.

"Come," you tell her. "Since that's what you came here for."

She shakes her head. Stubborn. Even now. Even here, with her dress around her hips and her underwear shoved to the side and your fingers buried in her cunt, she's fighting it. "I'm not going to give you the— the satisfaction—"

"You're dripping down my wrist, Chaewon."

"That doesn't mean anything—"

"It means your body already made the decision your mouth is too proud to."

She grabs your collar and yanks you closer, teeth bared: "I've faked it with better men than you. Don't fucking flatter yourself."

You curl your fingers against that spot and her grip on your collar falters. You press your forehead to hers, look directly into her glassy eyes and say: "Then fake it. Go ahead. Put on a show for me. That's what you're good at, right? Performing?"

"Asshole—"

"You're clenching so hard around my fingers right now you can barely breathe. Your thighs are shaking. Your clit is throbbing against my thumb." You twist your wrist and she chokes. "But sure. Tell me again how this doesn't mean anything."

Her head falls back against the stone. She's panting through clenched teeth, her chest heaving, and the defiance in her expression is crumbling at the edges but she holds it — jaw set, eyes burning. "I won't cum for you. I refuse. You don't get to have that."

"Babe, you're about thirty seconds from falling apart whether you give yourself permission or not."

"Don't call me babe, you pretentious piece of—"

You press your thumb flat against her clit, and she breaks.

Her whole body seizes. Her thighs clamp around your wrist and her back arches off the wall and her mouth opens in a silent cry that stays silent for one, two, three seconds - and then it's not silent anymore. It comes out of her in a long, shuddering moan that she tries to muffle against your shoulder, her teeth sinking into the fabric of your shirt, and you feel her clench around your fingers in rhythmic, involuntary pulses, wet and tight and relentless. Her hands are fisted in your shirt so hard the seams are straining. Her hips jerk against your hand in short, helpless thrusts. The orgasm rolls through her in waves, each one drawing another broken sound from her throat, and you keep your fingers inside her through all of it, still moving gently, dragging it out, making her ride it until she's twitching and gasping and pushing weakly at your chest.

You slow down. Stop. Hold your hand still, your fingers still buried in her, feeling the last tremors fade. She's breathing in ragged, uneven pulls, her forehead pressed to your shoulder, her entire body slack against the wall.

You withdraw your fingers slowly. She shivers at the loss.

And then you bring your hand up to her mouth.

Your fingers are slick, glistening in the last traces of sunset, and you press them against her lower lip. She opens her eyes - hazy, wrecked, furious - and stares at you. You don't say anything. The instruction is clear enough.

She holds your gaze. Defiant even now, even flushed and trembling and ruined, even with the taste of her own arousal shining on the fingers resting against her mouth. Her lips part. She takes your fingers in, slowly, her tongue sliding between them, and she sucks, hard enough that her cheeks hollow, her eyes locked on yours the entire time. She tastes herself and doesn't flinch. Doesn't break eye contact.

(She's Kim Chaewon. She'd rather choke than look away first.)

"I still hate you," she says.

"I prefer it this way." You say it against her temple, your lips brushing her hairline, her perfume mixing with the salt air and the faint musk of what just happened. "The more you hate me, the more I want to fuck you. It's a problem."

"It's a sickness."

"Probably."

Her eyes are black. Not brown anymore - the pupils have swallowed everything, blown wide, and the expression on her face lives somewhere in the space between wanting to tear your face apart and wanting to fucking consume you.

Without prior notice, her hand drops between you. She finds you through your trousers, already hard, straining against the fabric, and her fingers close around the shape of you, squeezing, measuring. Her eyebrows lift, and there's something almost clinical about the assessment, the way she traces the length of you through the cloth. Then her other hand moves to your belt.

She tugs at the buckle. "Prove it, then." Her fingers work the leather through the loop. "Show me how much you hate me."

You watch her struggle with the belt for two seconds. Then you take over - batting her hand away, pulling the leather free in one smooth motion, the metal clinking. She steps back half an inch to give you room, her shoulder blades finding the wall again, and her eyes track your hands as you unfasten the button, lower the zipper.

But you don't finish undressing. Not yet.

You grab her by the hips and turn her around.

She makes a startled sound - half gasp, half indignant yelp - as her palms hit the stone wall. The rough surface scrapes against her hands and she braces herself, and now she's facing the wall with her back to you and the white linen dress bunched around her waist. The view is nothing short of spectacular.

(Henry Miller once wrote that the best of life is lived with the brain below the navel, and while you've spent your entire career disagreeing with that sentiment on principle, right now, at this specific moment, staring at what's in front of you, the man makes an embarrassingly compelling case.)

Chaewon's ass is perfect. You've known this. You've noticed it before, in settings far more appropriate than this one - press photos, television interviews, that book signing last spring where she wore a charcoal pencil skirt that should have been illegal. Those tight, short evening gowns she favors for award ceremonies, the fabric clinging to the curve of her hips, her round ass always prominent and impossible to ignore. You've caught yourself looking more than once, and hated yourself for it, because acknowledging that a writer whose work you consider mediocre has an incredible ass felt like a concession you weren't willing to make.

And now she’s here, slightly bent forward, hands braced on the stone. Her waist is so slim it makes the curve of her hips feel exaggerated. And her ass, round and tight, is framed by the bunched white fabric above and the smooth lines of her thighs below.

You push your pants and underwear down just enough - mid-thigh, functional, not bothering with more - and you step forward. You reach down and push her panties further aside with your thumb, and you press the head of your cock against her entrance.

She inhales sharply. Her fingers curl against the stone. But you don't push in.

You hold there. The tip of you resting against her, nudging between her folds, slick with how wet she still is. You rock your hips forward - just barely, just enough to slide against her without entering - and she clenches, her ass tightening, her thighs pressing together.

"Ask me," you say.

Her head whips around, brown hair catching the breeze. "Excuse me?"

"Ask me to fuck you."

A sharp bark of laughter escapes her, echoing off the cliff face. "You're out of your mind. You think I'm going to stand here and beg you? I don't beg. I've never begged for anything in my life and I'm certainly not starting with a man who uses the word dialectic in casual conversation."

You press forward another fraction of an inch. Not inside. Just there. Right at the edge. She pushes her hips back, trying to take you in, and you pull away. Matching her movement. Denying her.

Her palms slap the stone wall. "Oh, you think you're cute with that? You think this little game is— just put it in. Stop being such a fucking tease and—"

"That's not asking."

"I'm not asking. I don't ask. People ask me for things. Publishers. Agents. Producers. They line up and they ask me." She grinds her hips backward again and you retreat the exact same distance. A frustrated growl tears out of her throat. "God, you are insufferable. Even now. Even with your dick out you have to make everything a power trip."

You lean forward. Your chest against her back. Your mouth next to her ear, and she can feel you - hot, hard, pressing against her entrance without breaching it, and your breath is warm on the side of her neck as you say:

"If you don't ask, I'll leave you right here. In a public space. Dress around your waist. Panties pulled to the side." You press the head of your cock against her clit and she shudders violently. "Arousal running down your thighs. Without coming again. And I'll go back upstairs and finish my champagne." You drag yourself along her slit, slow, agonizing. "And you can fix your dress and go back to the party, dripping wet and unsatisfied. And everyone will see the flush on your face and wonder what happened to Kim Chaewon."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"You're bluffing. You want this just as bad as I do. I felt how hard you are. You're not walking away from—"

You pull your hips back. One inch. Two. Creating distance. Her eyes go wide.

"Wait—" She catches herself. Clamps her mouth shut. Her jaw flexes. She slams her palm against the wall. The war's written all over her face: pride versus desire, ego versus desperation. Six years of hating you and the unbearable emptiness of you pulling away.

Three seconds of silence. The sea crashes below. A burst of laughter from the terrace above.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Her nostrils flare. When she speaks, the words come through her teeth, ground down, every syllable costing her something she'll never get back:

"Fuck me." Low. Guttural. Furious. "Fuck me, you piece of shit. Are you happy? Is your little ego satisfied? Fuck me good. Fuck me until I can't think about your stupid fucking review or your stupid fucking face. And if you ever tell anyone I said this I will end your career, your life, and your bloodline. Now put it in before I change my mind and—”

You thrust into her.

No preamble. No gradual easing in. One firm, deep stroke that buries you to the hilt, and the sound she makes is incredible; this raw, punched-out cry that she wasn't prepared for, her fingers scrabbling at the stone, her back arching sharply. She's tight. Swollen from the orgasm, drenched, and the heat of her clenches around you in a way that makes your vision narrow for a second.

You don't give her time to adjust. You pull back and drive in again, establishing a rhythm that's hard and steady from the first stroke - not frantic, not sloppy, but intentional in its force. Each thrust pushes her forward into the wall, and she braces herself against it, her palms flat, her arms trembling with the effort of holding herself up.

Her hair sways in the sea breeze. That short brown bob, disheveled now, the bangs plastered to her forehead with sweat, strands catching across her parted lips. Her heels scrape against the stone beneath her, struggling for purchase - the angle is wrong for four-inch stilettos and she keeps sliding, her left foot stuttering, and she compensates by leaning harder into the wall, pressing her forearms flat against the rough surface.

You grip her hips. Both hands. Fingers digging into the soft skin above her hipbones, pulling her back onto you with every thrust.

“You can be loud," you tell her, your breath coming harder now. "The sea. The music up there." Another thrust. Deep. She chokes on a moan. "Nobody can hear you."

She takes you at your word.

"Harder— Is that all you've got?! Fuck me harder, you miserable— every fucking review you wrote— every word— I hope you were jerking off to this because this is the only— ah— the only honest thing you've ever—"

You pull her hips back sharply, changing the angle, and the next thrust goes deeper, hits differently, and her sentence dissolves into a strangled moan.

"Keep talking," you say. "I want to hear you run out of words."

"Fuck you—" She grits through her teeth. "Fuck you and your— your pretentious fucking column and your— god— your superiority complex and your—" Her head drops between her arms. You feel her clench around you, hard, involuntary, and the filth pouring out of her mouth is getting less coherent by the second. "You think this means something? You think because you can fuck me that— that you were right? About my books? About—"

"I was right about your books regardless of this."

"Shut up and fuck me—"

"I'm already fucking you."

"Then do it better—"

You snake one hand from her hip to her hair. You gather the short strands at the back of her head - there's barely enough to grip, but you find purchase and you pull, arching her neck back, and a moan tears out of her that's so loud it bounces off the cliff face.

"Oh my god—" Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, her mouth hanging open. "I hate you— I hate you so— fuck— don't stop— don't you dare stop—"

You fuck her against that wall and the Mediterranean goes dark beneath you, slow and indifferent, the water shifting from copper to ink while the terrace hums above with clinking glasses and polite conversation and people who have no idea what's happening fifteen feet below them. The heels are useless now, her ankles buckling with every thrust, and the only reason she's still upright is because your hand is locked on her hip and your fist is tangled in her hair and the wall is doing the rest.

You're holding her together and taking her apart at the same time.

Her ass meets your hips on every stroke, that round, perfect curve you've spent years training yourself not to look at - in press photos, across crowded rooms - and now it's right here, bouncing against you, bare skin under bunched-up white linen, and the sight of her braced against centuries-old Italian stone with her designer dress shoved around her waist and her knuckles scraped raw from gripping the rock is fucking devastating.

"Make me cum." She says it suddenly. Her hand reaches back and grabs your wrist. "You hear me? Make me fucking cum. Right now."

You don't change pace.

"Are you deaf? I said make me cum, you useless piece of— after everything tonight, after all that shit you talked, the least you can do is—" She chokes as you thrust deeper, but recovers, teeth bared. "—the least you can fucking do is finish what you started. You owe me that. You owe me that."

You release her hair. Your hand slides around her hip to the front, finding her clit, and you press two fingers against it - rubbing in fast, tight circles while you keep thrusting. The dual sensation hits her immediately. Her whole body goes rigid, her walls clamping around you, and a high, thin sound starts building in her throat.

"Oh— oh fuck—"

"There it is."

"Shut up— don't talk, just— keep doing— shit— right there, right fucking there, don't you dare move your hand, don't you dare change a single— god — why are you so good at this, why— it's not fair—" Her hips buck against you, chasing it, greedy. "Come on. Make me cum. Make me cum, you selfish fucking— I swear if you stop I'll— I'll ruin your whole—"

She can't finish the threat.

It hits her in a wave.

Her eyes roll back (not a figure of speech), you see it happen as her head tips back onto your shoulder, her eyelids fluttering, her irises disappearing, and her mouth opens in a silent scream that finally breaks into a ragged, shaking moan. Her cunt locks around you in rhythmic contractions so tight you have to grit your teeth, and her legs give out entirely. You catch her - one arm banded around her waist, holding her upright while she shakes through it, her whole body seizing in pulses that seem to come from somewhere so deep that she probably doesn't even know where it came from. Her hand shoots back, seizing your neck, nails biting into your skin while she clings as if she might sink without you.

You keep fucking her through it. Slower now. Feeling every flutter and clench, her walls still spasming around you in the aftershocks, her thighs trembling against your hips. Your forehead is pressed to the back of her neck and your breath comes ragged and uneven and you're close - dangerously close - the pressure building at the base of your spine in a way that's becoming impossible to ignore.

"Where," you manage, and your composure is cracking, splintering at the edges, "where do you want me to—"

"Are you seriously asking me that right now?" She shoves her hips back into you, grinding, swallowing you deeper. Her hand reaches back and grabs a fistful of your hair. "Where do you think? Inside. Cum inside me. Deep. Don't you dare pull out."

"Chaewon—"

"What, you're going to get shy now?" She clenches around you - hard, purposeful, a squeeze that makes your knees buckle. "You fucked me against a wall in public and now you want to be responsible? Cum in my pussy. Fill me up."

"We shouldn't—"

"Breed me." She yanks your hair, pulling your mouth to her ear. "I know that's what you want. I know that's what this whole thing has been about. You want to mark me. You want to own something I can't take back." She rolls her hips in a filthy, grinding circle. "So do it. Pump me full. Breed this pussy. Put a load so deep in me I'll feel it for days."

"Come on—" She's panting, shoving herself back onto your cock with short, vicious thrusts. "You had so much to say about my books, so much fucking commentary, but now you can't even cum when I'm telling you to? Breed me, you coward. Knock me up. I want every drop. I want it dripping out of me when I go back to that party and shake hands with my publisher."

"Fuck— Chaewon—"

"That's it. That's what you sound like when you're not being a smug piece of shit." She clenches again, rhythmic, milking you. "Give it to me. Stuff this little pussy full. I want to be leaking you. Breed me, breed me, breed me—"

You bury yourself to the hilt and let go.

The orgasm rips through you, not gently, not gradually, but all at once, a slamming, full-body release that has you pressing her into the wall, your forehead dropping against the back of her neck, your hips jerking in short, involuntary thrusts as you empty yourself deep inside her. She moans at the feeling - the heat, the pulse of it - and clenches around you, milking every last spasm, her hand still gripping the back of your neck, her nails breaking skin.

You stay there for a long moment. Both of you breathing. The sea below, the party above, the darkening sky turning purple at the edges.

You pull out slowly. She shudders at the withdrawal.

And then - before you can step back, before you can reach for your belt - Chaewon drops.

She sinks into a squat right there on the stone, her white dress bunched around her waist, those ridiculous heels somehow still on her feet - balanced on the balls, stilettos angled against the rough surface - and your cum is already leaking out of her. You can see it in the dim light, a thin white trail sliding down the inside of her thigh, and she doesn't even seem to notice or care. She just takes the head of your cock into her mouth and starts cleaning you off with her tongue.

(It's genuinely hard to reconcile this image with the woman on the bestseller lists. The one teenage girls post about on TikTok with heart emojis and queen in the caption. Kim Chaewon, literary darling, squatting in a public place with cum dripping out of her pussy, sucking a man's cock clean while the party carries on above her.

If her fans could see her right now.)

She's thorough about it. Tongue swirling around the tip, tasting both of you, her dark eyes looking up at you through those messy bangs. Her lips are swollen and slick, and she sucks gently, almost lazily, with this expression that sits somewhere between contempt and satisfaction. Then she lets you go with a wet sound and wipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb.

"Chaewon."

"What."

"I came inside you."

She looks up at you from her squat. Blinks once. "Yes. I was there."

"That's— are you—"

"Don't be an idiot." She stands, tugging her dress down, her legs still shiny and slick. "It was dirty talk. I'm on the pill. I've been on the pill since I was nineteen." She reaches between her thighs and adjusts her panties, pressing the cotton back into place - your cum held against her skin by a thin strip of damp fabric. "You don't need to worry. The last thing I need is a pregnancy from a man who gave my book two and a half stars."

"It was two."

"Even worse." She tugs her bra strap up. Pushes her bangs off her forehead. Takes one breath, then another, and in about thirty seconds she's pulled herself together enough to pass inspection from a distance. Up close, though - the flush that runs from her cheeks to her chest gives her away. The swollen lips. That brightness in her eyes, wet and electric, that no amount of composure can disguise.

"I need to go." She straightens the hem of her dress without looking at you. "People will notice I'm gone."

She takes a step toward the staircase and your hand catches her wrist.

She stops. Looks down at your fingers circling her arm, raising an eyebrow.

"This isn't over." You hold her gaze. "I want you in my room tonight."

A beat. The corner of her mouth twitches - and the brat flickers back to life behind her eyes, bruised but not broken, her cutting tongue is quick to respond: "Already desperate for more?" She twists her wrist free, slowly, letting your fingers drag across her skin. "That's embarrassing for you. Don't get your hopes up." She takes a step back, toward the stairs. Then another. "It won't happen again."

She turns and walks up the stone steps. Her heels click against each one, steady, measured, the rhythm of a woman reassembling herself with every stride. Her thighs press together slightly as she climbs - holding everything in, and your mind goes straight there: she's full of you. Your cum inside her cunt, trapped by her underwear, leaking into the fabric with every step. You're absolutely certain she's fucking loving it. That she'll be at that party feeling you leak inside her panties, getting hornier by the minute, thinking about how you filled her up.

Chaewon doesn't look back.

(She'll be at your door by midnight.)

•••

The reality with Kim Chaewon is this: you don't hate her.

You know she thinks you do. She's built an entire narrative around it - the bitter critic, the failed artist, the man who made her his personal punching bag because he couldn't create anything of his own. It's a clean story. Sympathetic protagonist versus petty antagonist. Very on-brand for her, actually.

Very commercial.

But hate requires a kind of emotional investment you haven't made. What you feel is closer to disdain. Contempt, maybe, on your worse days. Not for who she is - you barely know who she is - but for what she's become. For the distance between the writer she could have been and the product she chose to be instead.

Her first two books weren't bad.

They weren't good, either - not in any way that would survive serious critical scrutiny, not the kind of work you'd hand to a colleague and say read this, something is happening here. But there was raw material in those early pages. An instinct for emotional architecture that hadn't yet been sanded down into formula. She had this way of structuring interior monologue that felt genuinely intuitive or accidental, as though she stumbled into moments of real clarity before the commercial instincts kicked in and smoothed everything over.

The first novel had this one passage. Chapter eleven. The scene in the laundromat.

You still think about it sometimes, which irritates you more than her sales numbers ever could. The protagonist is alone, folding clothes that belong to someone who just left her, and the prose does something unexpected: it slows down. Gets quiet. Stops trying to impress. For about four pages, Kim Chaewon wrote like someone who had forgotten she was being watched. The sentences got shorter. The observations got sharper. There was a detail about the way dryer sheets smell when they're warm, and how the character associated that specific scent with domestic failure, and it was precise in a way that nothing else in the novel managed to be. Four pages of a writer writing for herself instead of for the crowd.

And then chapter twelve started and the machinery kicked back in. The manufactured tension. The recycled emotional beats. The relentless, suffocating need to be liked by the reader, to be accessible, to never challenge or alienate or demand. But those four pages stayed with you. They're the reason you kept reviewing her. They're the reason her mediocrity feels personal.

You've never told her any of this. You never will.

(Credit where it's due: you've been editing this story as you tell it. Leaving out the part that doesn't fit the narrative. The part that came first, chronologically, and that you've spent six years pretending is irrelevant to everything that followed. It's not irrelevant. You know it's not. And since tonight has already stripped away every other pretense, you might as well lose this one too.)

The first time you met Kim Chaewon, you weren't interested in her books. You didn't even know who she was.

It was some event in New York: one of those publishing-adjacent cocktail things where everyone wears black and pretends to have read the longlist. Early in her career, probably her first or second time at something that size. You were standing near the bar, talking to an editor from The Atlantic, and she walked past. That's all. She walked past.

And you lost the thread of whatever you were saying.

She was - god. Too beautiful. That's the phrase your brain produced at the time, and it still holds. She didn't look like anyone else at that party. Not a writer, not an editor, not an actress doing press, not a journalist working a source. You genuinely couldn't place her, and that was rare for you - you could usually categorize everyone at these events within thirty seconds. But she resisted the taxonomy. She seemed a bit out of place, actually, standing near the bar with a drink she wasn't really drinking, watching the room with these careful eyes that were taking in everything while pretending to notice nothing. She was wearing a black dress that night, simple, nothing expensive, and her hair was longer then, past her shoulders, and she kept tucking it behind her ear in this gesture that was either nervous or calculated, and you couldn't tell which, and that ambiguity was what got you. You didn't know who she was, but you wanted to find out.

(And she is still beautiful. That’s what really bothers you about her. How beautiful and perfect she is. Your exact type, down to the specifics you'd never list aloud. And as a consequence, everything else about her - the commercial instincts, the Instagram aesthetics, the careful curation of a literary persona that prioritizes brand over craft - becomes something you don't just critique professionally. You resent it. Because it would be so much easier to dismiss her completely if she weren't the most attractive woman you've ever seen.)

That night in New York, you talked to her for a while. Twenty minutes, maybe. She was funny, sharper than you expected, quick with references, a little nervous in a way that made her more interesting rather than less. You asked her what she was working on. She said something vague about a novel. You asked if she wanted to get a drink somewhere quieter. She said sure, let me grab another one first - and disappeared. You scanned the room for her twice, then gave up. She'd simply left.

It was months later that you made the connection. You were halfway through her debut, reading it for a review, already taking notes, already identifying the structural problems that would become the backbone of your critique, and you decided to look up the author. The photo on the jacket. The bio. Kim Chaewon. And you stared at the name for a long moment, because it looked familiar, and then the memory surfaced: the bar, the black dress, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way she said sure, let me grab another one first and vanished.

That girl wrote this.

She doesn't remember you. You're certain of it. In all the years since the public feuds, the review cycles, the festival encounters, the viral TikTok debacle, she has never once referenced that night. Never said we've met before or I remember you from New York. You were a stranger she talked to at a party and immediately forgot. A non-event. It took your first published review of her debut, almost a year later, for Kim Chaewon to become aware that you existed at all.

Your second encounter - which was, from her perspective, the first - happened at a reading in Brooklyn. You spotted her across the room and waved. Casual. Collegial. She looked at you, recognized the byline photo she'd presumably been seething over for weeks, and gave you the middle finger.

And no - you didn't start disliking her books because she rejected you at a cocktail party. That's the version she'd write if she ever fictionalized this, the version where the male critic's professional animosity is really just wounded ego, just a man who couldn't handle being turned down. It's reductive and self-flattering and exactly the kind of easy psychology she'd deploy in one of her novels. The truth is less dramatic: you already didn't care for the story before you knew who the author was. The prose had problems that existed independently of the woman who wrote it.

(But did finding out make you like her less? Did the memory of being dismissed at that bar curdle something that might otherwise have remained purely professional?

You've never let yourself answer that. Over the years, you've gotten really fucking good at not answering it.)

What you will say - what you've said in print, repeatedly, and stand behind - is that her writing suffers from a fundamental misunderstanding of psychological depth. Where Hemingway had his iceberg theory - the conviction that the dignity of a story depends on what's been cut, on the vast architecture of meaning that lives beneath the surface - Chaewon operates on the opposite principle. She over-explains. Every character's interior life is excavated and displayed with the thoroughness of an autopsy report. She narrates motivation, deconstructs emotional responses, maps the psychological terrain of every decision until there's nothing left for the reader to infer. It's not depth. It's annotation.

And worst of all: she writes about the mundane. Breakups, reconnections, the circular emotional arithmetic of modern relationships. No dragons. No galactic empires. No murder mysteries or geopolitical thrillers where the plot does the heavy lifting for you. Just people in apartments, making the same mistakes on repeat, trying to figure out why they keep wanting things that hurt them. And that should be commendable, because writing about the ordinary is exponentially harder than writing about the extraordinary. When you set a novel on a spaceship or a battlefield, the setting generates its own tension. The world does work for you. But when your entire narrative takes place in coffee shops and bedrooms and the passenger seat of someone's car at two in the morning, the prose has to carry everything. Every sentence has to earn its oxygen. There's nowhere to hide.

Chaewon knows this. On some level, she understands exactly how difficult the terrain is that she's chosen to work in. The problem is her solution to that difficulty, which is to explain. Relentlessly. Exhaustively. Every flicker of interior life gets excavated and mounted on the page with museum-grade lighting. Her characters don't just feel things - they feel things, then think about why they feel them, then contextualize those feelings within the broader pattern of their emotional history, then arrive at a thesis statement about what the feeling means, all while the reader sits there thinking yes, I got it four paragraphs ago, thank you. The excessive detail doesn't deepen the analysis. It drowns it. The weight of all that psychological annotation collapses onto itself until you can't feel anything underneath it anymore, because she never trusted the reader - or herself - enough to leave something unsaid and let the silence do the work.

The ambition is there. The restraint isn't. And restraint, when you're working with the mundane, isn't optional. It's the whole game. The banality of the subject matter demands that the prose do less, not more - that it trusts a well-placed detail to carry the emotional freight that three paragraphs of interior monologue can't. Hemingway understood this. Carver understood this. Chaewon understands it in theory and ignores it in practice, because leaving space means risking the reader not getting it, and Kim Chaewon cannot bear the thought of not being understood.

And that's the real tell, isn't it? That need to be understood. Because once you see it, you can't unsee it - the fingerprints are everywhere. Chaewon's characters don't exist independently of her. They're not autonomous people navigating their own messy, particular lives. They're vehicles. Projection screens. Every protagonist she's ever written is a thinly veiled apparatus for Chaewon to demonstrate how perceptive she is, how deeply she gets the human condition, how exquisitely she can map the interior landscape of a woman in crisis.

The characters don't drive the story. Chaewon drives the story, and the characters sit in the passenger seat while she narrates the route. You can feel her behind every monologue, every overwrought epiphany, every moment where a character arrives at some devastating self-knowledge that's a little too clean, a little too eloquent, a little too convenient to be coming from a fictional person rather than from the author showing off through them.

Her stories aren't about her characters. They're about Kim Chaewon, and how badly Kim Chaewon wants you to know that Kim Chaewon understands. The novels are mirrors she built for herself and then hung in public, and every reader who praises the depth of her characterization is really just praising Chaewon's reflection and calling it art.

And you know why.

You looked into her background after the identification. Before the debut, she'd been writing fanfiction. Prolifically. Tens of thousands of words posted on platforms you'd never visited, accumulating followers and kudos and comment threads full of heart emojis - and it confirmed something you already suspected: fanfiction writers learn to give readers what they want, and Chaewon never unlearned it. She carried that training into her professional career and it made her millions, and it also made her incapable of producing anything that genuinely costs the reader something. She reinforces your long-held theory that anyone whose foundational craft was built on fanfiction is, at the structural level, writing to satisfy rather than to challenge. No amount of applied artistic intention or pseudo-intellectual framing will ever fully purge those instincts. Chaewon is the proof.

(You're aware this is an uncharitable reading. You're aware that plenty of serious writers emerged from fan communities. You don't care. The theory holds for her, that's what matters.)

•••

It's twelve-seventeen in the morning and you're sitting on the edge of the hotel bed in a t-shirt and trousers, barefoot, reading a paragraph by Bolaño on your phone that you've already read three times without absorbing a single word.

She messaged thirty minutes ago through Instagram. Which means she opened the app. Typed your name into the search bar. Scrolled through whatever results came up. Found your profile. Tapped the message icon. Composed four words and hit send. The mental image of Kim Chaewon actively hunting you down on social media does something quietly devastating to your ego.

What room are you in?

You stared at it for ten seconds. Typed back your room number. Sent it.

omw

That was twenty-eight minutes ago. You put the phone down. Picked it up. Put it down again. Brushed your teeth. Sat on the bed. Opened Bolaño. Read the same paragraph about the Mexican poets three times while retaining absolutely nothing.

(In a normal situation you'd already be asleep. You keep early hours. You like mornings. You like the quiet discipline of a ten-thirty bedtime and a six o'clock alarm and the smug superiority of being awake before the rest of the world. This is not a normal situation. Whatever is happening now does not belong to the orderly life you’re used to.)

The knock comes soft. Two quick raps. Businesslike.

You cross the room. Open the door.

There she is: the white linen dress from the party is gone. She's wearing a loose cream-colored top, thin cotton, sitting off one shoulder in a way that could be intentional or could just be the cut. A dark skirt that falls just above her knees. No heels. Flat sandals. Her hair is different too; the precise, expensive bob from the terrace has relaxed, the humidity and coastal air coaxing a slight wave into it that she hasn't corrected. The bangs are pushed sideways, slightly tousled. No earrings. Minimal makeup. She looks like she got ready in a hurry and then spent fifteen minutes undoing evidence of the hurry.

Chaewon doesn't wait for an invitation. She shoulders past you through the doorway, her arm grazing your chest, and walks straight into the center of the room with the energy of someone inspecting a rental property. Her eyes sweep the space - terracotta tile, white bedding, shuttered windows cracked open to let the night air in. The half-empty bottle of mineral water on the nightstand. Your phone screen still glowing with a page from The Savage Detectives.

She turns. Leans against the desk. Crosses her arms.

"So. What do you want?"

You close the door. The latch catches with a clean click. "You came to my room, Chaewon."

"Because you told me to."

"I mentioned it. You made the decision."

Her chin drops and her eyes roll skyward. "Wow. Semantics. Groundbreaking." She drums her fingers against her own bicep. "I'm here. Get to the point."

You stay where you are. Leaning against the closed door, arms loose at your sides. She's standing with her weight shifted to one hip, jaw set, chin angled up in that particular tilt she defaults to when she wants to look unbothered. The posture reads as boredom. The details don't. Her foot is tapping an uneven rhythm against the terracotta. Her fingers keep pressing into her arm, kneading the muscle there. She doesn't realize she's doing either.

"You changed," you say.

"Obviously. I wasn't going to parade through a hotel hallway at midnight in a cocktail dress." She pauses. Looks away for half a second. "And I had to change everything I was wearing. After earlier."

"You changed your hair, too."

Her hand lifts - instinctive, self-conscious - and her fingers touch the wave sitting at her jaw. She catches herself doing it and shoves the hand back into the crook of her arms, fast, annoyed. "It's the humidity. It does this. I can't control it."

"It suits you."

She shrugs. One shoulder. Barely a movement. "Okay. Cool."

"You look pretty."

"I heard you the first time." Clipped. She starts picking at a thread on the sleeve of her cream top, suddenly fascinated by it. "You don't need to keep stacking compliments. I own a mirror. I'm aware."

"Fine."

"And I didn't come here for—" She waves her hand, a gesture that encompasses you, the room, the compliment, the full scope of whatever this situation is becoming. "I came because you said it wasn't over. So." Her palms spread open. "Finish it. Say whatever speech you've been rehearsing so I can go back to my room and pretend tonight didn't happen."

You push off the door and walk past her to the nightstand. Pick up the water bottle. Pour a glass. Take a sip. Set it down. Everything unhurried. You can practically hear her teeth grinding. "You messaged me," you point out. "You opened Instagram. You typed my name into the search bar. You found my profile and you wrote me a message. That was all you."

She shoves off the desk. "You absolute prick, I know you did that on purpose. You said come to my room and didn't give me a room number. What was I supposed to do, knock on every door in the building? If you brought me here just to run another psychological evaluation—"

"I didn't bring you anywhere. You practically ran."

"I did not run."

"Twenty-eight minutes. That includes changing your outfit, changing your underwear, doing something with your hair, finding my profile on Instagram, navigating a hotel you've never been in before, and walking here." You take another sip of water. "That's efficient, Chaewon. That's someone who wanted to be here."

"I just want this to be over already."

"Then come here."

She doesn't move.

She stands three feet away, bathed in the amber glow of the bedside lamp, her jaw tight, the pulse visible in the hollow of her throat. The wave in her hair catches the light. Her chest is rising and falling a fraction too fast for someone performing indifference.

You sit on the edge of the bed. Lean back on your hands.

"Come here."

Something behind her eyes gives way, just a small structural collapse somewhere deep in whatever internal argument she's been losing since she knocked on that door. She closes the distance in two sharp strides. Her knees bump yours. This close, you can smell her. Not the gardenia from the party, something different, lighter, softer. A private scent. The salt air is still caught in her hair.

She looks down at you. You look up at her.

"You're insufferable." She says it quietly. Gently almost.

Your hand finds the back of her leg. Bare skin, smooth, warm from the walk. She tenses — one quick contraction that runs up her thigh — but she doesn't move away. Your fingers drift higher, tracing along her calf, slipping beneath the hem of her skirt. Slow. Giving her every chance to step back.

She doesn't step back. Her hand lands on your shoulder instead, fingers curling into the cotton of your t-shirt, gripping loosely.

"Kiss me," you say.

Her expression doesn't change. She holds your gaze with that stubbornness that defines everything she does — writing, arguing, standing in hotel rooms at midnight refusing to admit why she's there. Her fingers tighten in your shirt. Her thumb moves against your shoulder, almost absently.

"No."

"No?"

"You do it." She says it plain. No coyness. "I kissed you first on the terrace. I'm the one who started this. So it's your turn." Her chin lifts, just enough. "Unless you can't."

"You bit a hole in my lip."

"And you loved it." Her free hand comes up between you. Her thumb finds the small cut on your lower lip — tender, still slightly swollen — and she traces it. Gently. So gently it catches you off guard, the careful attention she gives the mark she left, studying it like she's reading her own handwriting on someone else's page.

She holds her thumb there. Against your mouth. Her eyes on yours.

"So kiss me back."

You don't stand up. You hold her waist and pull her down toward you instead. A compromise. So neither of you has to fully give in.

She lets out a sharp breath as her knees land on the mattress on either side of your thighs, straddling you, and your mouth finds hers before she's fully settled. Your hand slides up to the back of her neck, fingers threading into the damp, wavy hair at her nape, and you kiss her properly; slow, deep, taking every second she'll give you. She responds immediately. Her lips part. Her tongue meets yours. Her hands slide up your chest to your jaw, tilting your head where she wants it, and the kiss deepens as her weight settles fully onto your lap. Warmth and pressure through the fabric of her skirt, through your trousers.

She shifts her hips - a small roll that presses her down against you - and your hands drop from her waist to her thighs. Bare skin under the hem of her skirt. Smooth. Warm. Your palms run down the outside of her legs, feeling the taut muscle there, then slide back up. Under the skirt this time, fabric bunching against your wrists as your hands travel higher.

You find her ass and squeeze. Both hands. Full grip. She's not wearing the same underwear from earlier. Something thinner. A different texture (lace, probably), you can feel every curve of her through it, that round, perfect shape filling your palms completely, and you pull her tighter against you. She gasps into the kiss and catches your lower lip between her teeth. Gentle this time. Just pressure. Testing the cut she made earlier.

She pulls back an inch. Her lips are wet, slightly swollen. She says: "You're obsessed with my body."

"And you're obsessed with me."

"Those aren't the same thing."

"It's worse, actually. I'm obsessed with something I can actually touch. You're obsessed with a man who gave your book two stars."

"Don't flatter—"

"You're in my lap at midnight, Chaewon. I didn't come find you."

She grabs a fistful of your t-shirt and twists it: "Don't act innocent. Don't you dare. You've spent years building this. Every review. Every time you showed up to an event I was at and stood in the corner watching me with that fucking look on your face." She leans in, her forehead nearly touching yours. "You put yourself inside my head, review by review, takedown by takedown, until I couldn't go a single day without thinking about you. You engineered this. And now that you've got exactly what you wanted—" She grinds down against you, one slow, filthy roll of her hips that makes your grip on her ass tighten hard enough to leave marks through the lace. "—you get to live with it."

Her hands drop to the hem of your t-shirt. She grabs it and pulls upward, and you lift your arms to let her strip it off. She tosses it somewhere behind her and then presses both palms flat against your bare chest, fingers spread, and pushes.

You go down. Back flat on the mattress. She's straddling you, looking down with the lamplight behind her, and her expression is focused now, intent, the anger still present but running alongside something hungrier. Her nails drag lightly down your chest, not scratching, just feeling, tracing the lines of your ribs, the plane of your stomach. Cataloging.

"Lie still," she says.

She slides off your lap and repositions herself between your legs, her knees on the mattress, her hands going to your belt. (This isn’t like the terrace, where she struggled. Now her hands are steady. Buckle first, then leather, then button, then zipper. Each movement controlled, practiced in thought before action.)

"This time I want to do it properly," she mutters, tugging your trousers down your hips. You lift slightly to help. She pulls them to your thighs, then your underwear, and your cock springs free hard, fully hard, straining upward, because how could it not be with Kim Chaewon kneeling between your legs in a hotel room on the Amalfi Coast at midnight.

She wraps her hand around you. Firm grip. Her fingers are small but strong - a writer's hands, you think absurdly - and she strokes once, base to tip, watching your reaction with those analytical eyes. Her thumb swipes across the head, spreading the bead of moisture there, and she strokes again. Slow. Steady. Not teasing, just assessing.

"You're pretty," you say.

Her hand pauses mid-stroke. She looks up at you. "I know."

"I mean it."

"I said I know. You don't need to say it." She resumes stroking, her grip tightening slightly on the upstroke. "Don't be romantic. It doesn't suit you."

"I'm not being romantic." You prop yourself up on your elbows to look at her properly, kneeling there, her wavy hair falling across her forehead, one strap of her cream top sliding off her shoulder, her small hand wrapped around your cock. "It's a fact. The same way I find you beautiful, I find you fuckable. Those two things coexist in my head without any romance between them."

Her eyebrows rise.

"And I knew—" You watch her hand move. "—sooner or later, you'd end up with my cock in your mouth."

She stops stroking.

"Because this—" You nod toward her hand, her position, the whole arrangement. "—is the closest you'll ever get to pleasing me. You can't do it with your prose. You certainly can't do it with your plotting. But this, you might actually be qualified for."

Silence. Her jaw tightens. Her grip on your shaft tightens too, not painfully, but enough that you feel it, a warning transmitted through her fingers.

"Those are brave words," she says, very quietly, "to say to a woman who currently has your dick between her teeth." She leans forward and her lips graze the head of your cock, parted just enough that you feel the edge of her incisors. "One wrong sentence and I could end your whole evening. Your whole career, frankly. Hard to write scathing reviews when you're in a hospital explaining to a nurse how you lost—"

"Okay, you make a fair point. Please don't bite my dick off."

She laughs, caught off guard. Then she composes herself. Bites her lower lip. Her gaze drops to your cock in her hand and she studies it the way she probably studies a first draft: measuring, appraising, already planning what she's going to do with it.

"I think I'd rather keep enjoying myself." She strokes you. Base to tip. Slow. Her thumb sweeps across the head and her grip tightens on the way back down. "I'm not going to compliment your personality. Or your professional integrity. Or your hideous fucking opinions about contemporary fiction." Another stroke. Firmer. Her wrist rotates at the top and your hips twitch. "But this I can work with."

She lowers her mouth onto you.

Her lips part around the head, stretching, and the warmth hits you first - wet, encompassing, her tongue pressing flat against the underside as she takes you in. Not rushing. Just the first couple of inches, her mouth adjusting, learning the shape of you. She pulls back until only the tip remains between her lips and swirls her tongue around it in a slow circle. Then sinks back down, taking more this time, and you feel the ridge of your cock drag across the roof of her mouth.

Her cheeks hollow as she sucks. One hand wraps around the base of your shaft, her small fingers not quite meeting, and she strokes in tandem with her mouth, down when her lips descend, up when they rise. The coordination is precise. She finds a rhythm and settles into it, her head moving in smooth, unhurried bobs, her eyes falling shut.

You exhale. Slow. Controlled. Your hand comes to rest on the top of her head, fingers sinking into the soft waves of her hair. Not pushing. Not guiding. Just there.

She hums around your cock, and it's a low, satisfied sound, kinda casual, and the vibration runs through you from root to spine. Her free hand slides up your thigh and her nails drag lightly across your skin as she takes you deeper, her lips stretching further down your shaft, and you feel the back of her mouth, the beginning of her throat. She holds there for a beat, breathing through her nose, then pulls back with a slick, sucking drag that makes your fingers curl in her hair.

"You're quiet," she murmurs against the head. Her lips brush you as she speaks, shiny and swollen. She kisses the tip. Soft. Then her tongue slides out and laps at the slit, tasting, and her eyes open to watch your reaction. "Usually you have so much to say."

"I'm letting you work."

"How generous." She takes you back in. Deeper, her jaw opening wider, and you feel yourself slide past the back of her tongue. She gags (barely, a small contraction she controls immediately) and pulls back to a comfortable depth, sucking hard. Her hand twists at the base. Her tongue does something against the underside, this rolling, pressing motion, and your thigh muscles go taut.

She pulls off. A thin strand of saliva stretches between her lower lip and the head of your cock, catching the lamplight before it breaks. She licks her lips and strokes you with her wet hand, spreading the slickness.

"You know what's funny?" She presses her lips to the side of your shaft. Not sucking. Just resting there, talking against your skin: "You spend all this time critiquing other people's technique." A kiss, halfway down. "Their pacing." Another kiss, near the base. "Their execution." Her tongue drags all the way up, flat and slow, from root to tip. "But you won't say a word about mine."

"Your execution is fine."

"Fine." She squeezes your cock. "I sell thirty million copies and you call it comfort food. I suck your dick and it's fine." Her mouth wraps around the head and she sucks, hard, cheeks caving in, then releases with a wet sound. "You're going to have to do better than that."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to be honest. You're always telling me to be honest." She takes you into her mouth again, and this time she goes further than before - past the halfway point, past the place where her gag reflex kicked in, pushing herself, and you feel the tight ring of her throat resist and then yield, and a groan escapes you before you can catch it. She pulls back, eyes watering, a triumphant glint cutting through the gloss. "There. Was that fine?"

"That was—"

She doesn't let you finish. She's back on you, both hands now, one wrapped around the base and the other cupping beneath, and her mouth is working you with a new intensity. Faster, wetter, sloppy in a way that's less about technique and more about hunger. She's moaning around your cock, these small, muffled sounds that she's either performing or can't help, and either way they're sending jolts through your nervous system. Spit is pooling at the base of your shaft, running down her fingers, dripping onto the sheets.

She pulls off, gasping. Wipes her chin with the back of her hand. Looks up at you from between your legs with mascara starting to feather at the corners of her eyes and her lips puffy and glistening and her chest heaving under the cream top.

"You can fuck my mouth." She says it simply. Directly. No preamble.

"Chaewon—"

"I mean it. Stop being polite. I'm not fragile." Her tongue traces the vein running along the underside of your shaft. "I can feel you holding back. Your hand's been sitting on my head for five minutes doing absolutely nothing." She wraps her lips around the tip, sucks once, releases. "So grab my hair and fuck my throat. I want you to. I want to choke on it."

"I was admiring the view before things get rough."

"Things got rough on that terrace six hours ago. We're way past admiring." She takes you deep again, all the way, her nose pressing against your stomach, her throat convulsing around the head, and holds herself there until her eyes stream, then pulls off with a ragged gasp and a string of spit.

You thread your fingers through her hair. Gather the short damp strands at the back of her skull, finding enough to grip. Her eyes widen slightly (anticipation, not fear) and her hands come up to brace against your thighs.

You push her head down.

Her throat opens and she swallows around you. You pull her back up by the hair and push her down again. Setting the pace yourself now. Each stroke burying you in the tight heat of her throat, each withdrawal drawing a gasp from her that she barely gets out before you're pushing in again. Her nails sink into the muscle of your thighs. Her eyes are watering freely, the mascara smudging into dark crescents beneath her lashes. Spit is running freely down her chin, dripping onto the sheets, and every time you thrust into her mouth she makes this muffled, desperate sound, half gag, half moan, that she'd be mortified by if she could hear it from the outside.

You fuck her mouth with deep strokes with a rhythm she can anticipate but not control, pulling her hair to tilt her head at the angle you want. She gags on a particularly deep thrust and you hold her there, feeling her throat constrict and flutter around the head of your cock, her fingers scrabbling at your thighs, tears spilling down her cheeks. You hold for one second. Two. Then pull her back.

She gasps, a broken sound. Drool slips past her lower lip and gathers on the sheet between your thighs. Her chest rises and falls in sharp pulls of air as she looks up at you, eyes glazed and unfocused, lips swollen and wet, hair knotted tight in your fist. Spit streaks her chin, her neck, even her hand. She’s completely undone, staring at you like she’s daring you to even think about stopping.

"More," she rasps. Her fingers dig into your thighs so hard they'll bruise. "Harder.”

You drag her back down onto your cock and give her exactly what she asked for. Harder now. Each thrust draws a low creak from the bedframe, her choking sounds steady and hungry, fingernails scoring your thighs as the room becomes saturated with slick, unrestrained rhythm.

(Somewhere above you, through the ceiling, someone is playing classical piano. Debussy, maybe. The juxtaposition is nearly absurd.)

(God, the sight of her. Kim Chaewon: bestselling fucking author, Instagram darling, the woman whose sales you supposedly tanked by seven percent - on her knees with your cock in her mouth. Mascara streaking down her cheeks, spit dripping from her chin, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes every time she gags. And there's something almost worshipful about the way she's working you.

She'd absolutely kill you if you said that out loud.)

You maintain the same pace, steady and deep. Fingers tangled in her hair, palm firm against her jaw to keep her in place. Each stroke presses farther, and you feel her throat tighten before she forces it to relax, swallowing, tongue sliding along you. Saliva spills freely, messy and unfiltered, coating you in wet heat.

Good. Let it run. You want every inch soaked. There’s more coming.

"Get it wetter," you tell her.

She moans something unintelligible around your cock and redoubles her effort, her mouth producing obscene, sloppy sounds as she works you with her throat and her tongue, twisting, stroking, spitting on the shaft and spreading it, and the sheer enthusiasm of it makes your stomach clench. She's performing - of course she is, she performs everything - but the performance is so committed it becomes indistinguishable from sincerity.

You hold her down one final time. Deep. Her throat spasms. Her nails break skin on your thigh.

Then you let go.

She pulls off gasping, coughing, one hand flying to her chest as her lungs expand. Strings of saliva hang between her swollen lips and the head of your cock, catching the lamplight. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and sits back on her heels, panting. Her eyes are streaming. The mascara has migrated to her cheekbones in dark smears. Her hair is a disaster, the careful waves twisted and matted from your grip.

You sit up and reach for her. Your hands find the hem of her cream top and you pull it upward, over her stomach, over her ribs, over her head. She lifts her arms to let you, and the top comes free and drops to the floor, and she's bare from the waist up.

No bra. Just her.

Small and firm breasts, proportional to her frame, the kind that don't need support, that sit high on her chest with a natural perkiness that her designer outfits always hinted at without confirming. Her nipples are dark, already stiff, and her skin is flushed from her collarbones to her sternum.

You lean forward and press your lips to the center of her chest. Right between her breasts. You breathe her in - salt air, residual perfume, the faint musk of sweat and arousal, something warm underneath it all that's just her, just skin. You stay there for a moment. Inhaling. Your hands resting on her waist.

Then your mouth moves to her left breast. You drag your lips across the curve of it, feeling the soft weight against your mouth, and her hands fly to your head the moment your mouth closes around her nipple. Both of them, fingers plunging into your hair, gripping hard, pulling you in - not guiding, not suggesting, but trapping your face against her chest with a possessiveness that contradicts every word she's said tonight, pushing the soft swell of her breast further into your mouth, and the exhale that escapes her is shaky, thin and completely involuntary.

"Harder," she breathes. Her nails drag across your scalp. "Suck harder. You weren't shy when you had your fingers inside me, don't get shy now—"

Your cheeks hollow around her nipple, tongue pressing the stiff peak against the roof of your mouth, and the sound she makes is small and desperate and cuts off mid-breath. Her legs shift against the sheets. Her hips roll once, searching for contact that isn't there.

"You're really obsessed with my body." She says it through her teeth, her fingers tightening in your hair until it stings. "Aren't you? You pretend it's about my writing - all that intellectual bullshit, all that criticism - but this is what you actually think about. My tits in your mouth. Fucking pervert."

You graze your teeth across the nipple. Light. Just enough.

She gasps - sharp, startled - and her spine curves, pressing her chest against your mouth. "Oh— god. Do that again."

You do it again. Slower. Letting her feel the edge of your teeth drag across the sensitive peak before you close your lips around it and suck, hard, and her grip in your hair turns vicious.

"You've been staring at my chest for years." She's panting now, her ribcage expanding rapidly beneath your mouth. "Every event. I always caught you looking and you always— ah— you always pretended you weren't. At least now you're being honest about it, you depraved piece of—"

You switch to the other breast. Your mouth drags across her sternum - the flat, warm plane between, her heartbeat hammering beneath the bone - and then your lips find the right nipple, already stiff, already flushed dark and swollen from arousal, and you close your mouth around it and bite.

Not gently.

"Fuck—" Her legs jerk. Her heel digs into the mattress. "Careful with your— no!" She stops herself. Her fingers rake through your hair and press your face harder against her breast. "No, don't be careful. Bite me. I like it. I can take it."

You bite again. Harder. Enough to leave the faint impression of your teeth in the soft skin around her areola. She whimpers; this breathy, broken sound that doesn't belong to the woman who called you a piece of shit on a terrace six hours ago.

"You like that?" you murmur against her breast.

"Shut up— Just— use your mouth. Less talking, more—" She pushes your head down, back onto her breast, and you take the nipple between your lips and pull, sucking with a slow, steady pressure that makes her toes curl against the sheets. Her head tips back. Her eyes flutter closed. Her thighs press together, squeezing, and you can see the tension building in her stomach, the muscles in her abdomen flickering.

"You could make me cum from this," she whispers. There's something almost accusatory about it, as though this is another grievance to add to the list. "From just this. From sucking on my tits. That's how wound up you've got me. Are you happy? Is this what you wanted?"

You drag your tongue in a slow circle around her nipple. She shudders head to toe.

"Look at you," she murmurs. Her fingers comb through your hair, almost tender for a moment, before her nails scrape down to the base of your skull. "The big important critic. Mr. Intellectual Integrity. And here you are with your face buried in my chest, sucking on my tits in a hotel room in Italy, making little sounds you don't even realize you're making." Her thumb traces the shell of your ear. Her hips roll again, restless, needy. "If your readers could see you right now. If the editorial board could see you. On your knees for the woman you said writes comfort food." She lets out this breathless, mean little laugh. "What would they think?"

You pull back. Look up at her. Her nipples are swollen and slick, glistening in the lamplight, flushed a deep, bruised pink from your mouth. You kiss her. Hard, brief, your hand gripping her jaw, tasting the small shocked sound she makes against your teeth.

Then you're moving, making room for her. "Lie down.”

She kneels on the mattress, watching you. Processing the shift in spatial dynamics. Then she stretches out on her back. You start at her feet. Her sandals. You undo the left one, slide it off, set it on the floor. Then the right. Her toes are painted a muted pink. Your hands travel up her calves to the waistband of her skirt. You unzip it at the side, and she lifts her hips as you pull it down her legs and off. Underneath: black lace panties, just as you suspected. Different from the cotton pair on the terrace, and the implication of that choice - standing in front of her suitcase, selecting these, for this - for you, is very flattering, thank you.

You hook your fingers into the lace and pull them down. Over her hips, down her thighs, past her knees. She kicks them free and they land somewhere near the sandals.

She's naked now. Completely. Just a body. Slim, toned, those improbable curves that start at her narrow waist and swell into hips that seem designed to fill your hands.

"On all fours."

She holds your gaze for a beat. Then she rolls over and rises onto her hands and knees.

You move behind her, ositioning yourself on your knees, your still-hard cock heavy between your legs, slick with her spit. You take a moment. Just looking.

She glances back over her shoulder. Impatient. "Why are you just sitting there? Are you going to fuck me or write another review?"

"I'm going to fuck you." Your hands settle on her hips. Slide backward. Cup her ass. "But I was thinking of something different this time."

You grip both cheeks and spread them. Wide. Exposing everything: the wet, swollen folds of her pussy, and above them, the tight pink ring of her asshole. Completely visible. Completely vulnerable. She feels the air against her and goes very still.

Your thumb finds her asshole. You don't press, just drag the pad of it across the tight ring, slow, spreading the slick wetness that's already dripping from her pussy. She shivers. A full-body thing, starting at the base of her spine and rolling upward through her shoulders, and her thighs clench together, the goosebumps rise across her lower back in a wave you can actually see in the lamplight.

She's so sensitive there. Every nerve ending lit up and screaming.

"No." She says it immediately. Reflexively. Her head whips around. "Absolutely not. You're out of your fucking mind if you think I'm letting you—"

"You want it too." You circle her hole again. Feather-light. Her hips buck forward, then push back - contradicting her mouth before she can catch herself. "I can feel it, Chaewon. The way you're reacting to this. You're shaking."

"I'm shaking because I'm angry—"

"You're shaking because you're curious." Your other hand grips her hip, holding her steady while your thumb keeps its slow, maddening orbit. "And because you know how good this is going to feel. All that anger. All that frustration you've been carrying around for months..." You lean forward, your chest close to her back, your mouth near her ear. "I'm going to fuck every bit of it out of you."

She makes a sound. Something caught between a moan and a protest that dies in her throat. "Not a chance." She tries to pull forward, crawling up the bed, but your grip on her hip holds firm and she barely moves an inch. "I would never give you my ass. Of all the men on this planet - you? The man who ruined my book launch? Not in this lifetime."

You slap her. Open palm, sharp, right across her left cheek. The crack bounces off the hotel walls and her whole body jolts forward. She yelps - surprised, indignant, aroused in a way she can't disguise because her back arches and her ass pushes up and her fingers claw at the sheets.

You squeeze where you just hit. Kneading the warm flesh, watching the pink bloom spread under your palm. "This ass is perfect." You spread her cheeks apart again, wide, thumbs pulling her open. "You already know that. I already know that. Everyone who's ever watched you leave a room in one of those tight little dresses knows that." You run your thumb across her hole one more time and her entire body breaks out in goosebumps again, her skin prickling under your hands. "And you know exactly what I want to do with it."

"You're a pervert," she whispers. But her hips have stopped trying to escape. They're rocking, subtly, pushing back toward your hand.

"Maybe." Your thumb circles. Slow. Patient. Tracing the tight ring, never pressing in, just suggesting. The wetness from her pussy is everywhere - coating your thumb, dripping down the crease between her legs, making everything slick. Her thighs twitch. "But this is what I want. This or nothing. I'll get dressed, you can go back to your room, and we'll pretend tonight was a bad decision at a festival."

"Or?"

"Or you stay."

"Even if I—" She swallows. Her bravado is crumbling at the edges. "I don't have any lube. You can't just— it doesn't work without—"

"You spent the last ten minutes getting my cock as wet as it's ever been." You reach down and wrap your hand around yourself - still drenched, coated thick with her spit, glistening in the lamplight. "Trust me. That's not the problem."

She drops her head between her arms. Her words come out muffled against the pillow: "It's going to hurt. A lot. It's going to hurt a lot and I—"

"Yes." You don't lie to her. She'd know if you did. "At first."

She turns her face to the side. One eye visible, blown and wide, searching your face for something she can hold onto. Her lower lip is caught between her teeth. "And after that?"

Your hand leaves your cock and finds the small of her back. You slide it upward. Slowly. Over each knob of her spine, between her shoulder blades, up to the nape of her neck where the short hair curls damp against her skin. Then back down. The same path. Slow. Your palm warm and steady against her, tracing the architecture of her body, and you feel the tension start to loosen - not all of it, not even most of it, but enough. A fraction of the rigidity melting out of her muscles. "After that, it's going to feel incredible. And I'll go slow." Your hand settles on the curve of her lower back. Resting there. Warm. "I would never hurt you, babe."

"Promise me." Almost inaudible. She's not looking at you anymore - she's looking at the headboard, at the wall, at anything that isn't your face. "Promise you'll go slow. Promise me."

"I promise."

She buries her face in the pillow. You watch her back rise and fall. Once. Twice. Three times. Deep, shaky breaths, the kind you take when you're gathering every scrap of nerve you have left. She faces you again, cheeks blazing. Tears gather in her eyes, but her gaze is unyielding.

"Okay." She exhales hard through her nose. "Fuck it. Okay. Go slow. And if it hurts too much I'm kicking you in the balls.”

You position yourself behind her. One hand on her hip, steadying. The other guiding your cock upward - past her dripping pussy, past the slick crease between her legs, until the head rests against that tight, clenched ring. She tenses immediately. Her entire body locks up, every muscle going rigid, and you feel the resistance before you even begin to push.

"Breathe," you tell her. Your thumb strokes her hip. "Relax. Push back against me."

"Easy for you to—" She cuts herself off. Inhales. You feel the effort it takes her to unclench, the conscious relaxation of muscles that every instinct is telling her to keep tight.

You press forward. Just the tip. The head of your cock pushing against her hole, stretching it, and the resistance is extraordinary. Hot and so fucking tight, her body fighting the intrusion even as she tries to let you in. She makes a sound into the pillow, high and muffled.

"Fuck—" Her hand shoots back and grabs your wrist. Not pulling you away. Just holding on. "That's— oh god, that's—"

"I know." You hold still. Giving her time. The first half-inch is inside her and the pressure around you is almost unbearable, this crushing, clenching heat. "Just the tip. That's all. Tell me when."

She's panting. Quick, shallow breaths. Her thighs are shaking visibly. The hand on your wrist squeezes, releases, squeezes again.

"More," she manages. "Slowly. Slowly."

You push in another inch. Her back arches sharply and a moan tears out of her, deeper and rawer. Her asshole stretches around you, gripping, and you can feel every fraction of progress, every millimeter of her yielding.

"Talk to me," you murmur. "Tell me what it feels like."

"It feels—" She gasps as you shift slightly, adjusting the angle. "—it feels like you're splitting me in half. Fuck. Fuck. I can feel every— I can feel all of you, every—" Her sentence fractures. She buries her face in the pillow.

You stop. "Too much?"

"No." Muffled. Immediate. "No. Don't stop. Just— give me a second."

You wait. Your hand moves in slow circles on her lower back. You feel the tremors running through her, the way her body oscillates between tension and surrender. Her asshole clenches rhythmically around you - involuntary spasms, her muscles trying to accommodate something they weren't built for.

"Okay," she breathes. Her grip on your wrist loosens. "Okay. More."

Another inch. She cries out. Her fist pounds the mattress once, hard, and her toes curl against the sheets, and the sound she makes is so raw and exposed that it barely sounds like her, this polished, curated, camera-ready woman reduced to animal noise by the pressure of your cock slowly opening her ass.

"You're doing so well," you say.

She laughs. Choked, incredulous, wet. "Don't patronize me while you're— ah— while you're literally inside my—"

"I'm not patronizing you."

"You just said you're doing so well while your dick is in my ass. That's—" She gasps as you slide another fraction deeper. "—that's the most patronizing thing anyone has ever— oh god—"

"Should I stop?"

"If you stop I'll kill you." Her nails rake the sheets. "I mean it. I will literally— nnh— murder you and bury you under this hotel. Keep going."

You push the rest of the way in. Slow. Inexorable. And when your hips finally press flush against her ass, when you're buried to the hilt in the impossible tightness of her, she goes completely silent. Her arms give out. Her chest drops to the mattress. Her mouth is open against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, and her whole body is trembling in one continuous shudder.

You stay there. Fully seated. Not moving. Letting her feel the entirety of it - the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming, inescapable presence of you inside her in a place no one has been before.

"Chaewon?"

"Don't—" She holds up one finger. "—don't talk. Just. Give me a minute."

You give her a minute. Your hands rest on her hips. The trembling slowly subsides.

When she speaks again, her words come thick and dazed: "I can feel your heartbeat. Inside me. I can actually feel—"

She doesn’t finish the sentence. The words dissolve as she turns her head against the pillow, cheek flattened into the cotton, hair clinging to her damp forehead. When her eyes find yours, they’re glassy and dark, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any brown left. She swallows, breath hitching, and the plea slips out fractured: “Fuck me,” she whispers, broken. “Fuck me hard. Make me scream. I don’t care anymore, I don’t care about any of it. Just move."

You pull back. Slowly. An inch, then two, and she whimpers at the drag, her hole gripping you, clenching involuntarily around the shaft as it withdraws. You push back in. Same pace. Measured. Controlled. Feeling her stretch around you, feeling the impossible tightness yield, accommodate, accept.

Then you do it again. Faster. And again.

Her moan starts low in her chest and climbs. By the third stroke it's something feral, bouncing off the hotel walls, and her fist pounds the mattress as you establish a rhythm - steady, deep, each thrust pushing her forward on the sheets. Her ass clenches around you with every stroke, this vice-grip heat that makes your jaw clench.

"Oh my god—" She buries her face in the pillow. Her shoulder blades flex beneath her skin. "Oh my god oh my god oh my—" The words blur together, becoming less language and more sound, this continuous stream of half-formed syllables muffled by cotton.

"You like this," you observe, a little petulantly, your hands grip her hips and pull her back onto you with each thrust, forcing her to take the full length. "You like me."

Her head snaps up from the pillow. "No—"

"Then why are you here, Chaewon?"

“Fuck you—" She chokes on a moan as you thrust deep, grinding your hips against her ass. "—I hate you. I've said it— I've said it so many times— how many times do I have to—"

"You've said it plenty." You pull almost all the way out and drive back in, and the cry she makes rattles the windows. "And yet."

"And yet nothing—"

"And yet you're in my hotel room." Another thrust. Hard. Her arms buckle. "At midnight." Harder. "With my cock in your ass." Harder still, and she screams into the pillow, this ragged, torn sound. "So I'll ask again. Why are you here?"

She groans. Grumbles. Her fists twist the sheets into knots and her body rocks forward with each impact, the mattress creaking beneath her knees. "I don't know." The words tear free. "Damn it, I don't know. I don't— I can't explain it, I can't rationalize it, I just... It's good. Too fucking good. Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop, fuck me hard, motherfucker—"

The restraint dissolves. You give her what she's asking for. You fuck her ass with a force that shoves her forward on the bed, her knees sliding on the sheets, her hands bracing against the headboard to keep herself from being pushed into it.

You raise your hand and bring it down on her right cheek. The crack echoes through the room. Her flesh ripples from the impact - that perfect, round ass jiggling from the force of it - and Chaewon cries out, sharp and surprised and electric.

"Fuck— yes—"

Another slap. Left cheek. Harder. The pink bloom spreads across her skin, visible even in the dim lamplight. Her toes curl. Her back arches deeper. "You want me to mark you?"

She moans against the headboard, her forehead pressed to the wood. "Yes, yes! Hit me harder. Be a man for once in your miserable fucking life—"

You hit her harder. Open palm, full force, right across the center of her ass while you're buried inside her, and the dual sensation - the sting outside, the fullness inside - rips a sound out of her that's barely human. The handprint blooms red and vivid on her skin.

"Harder—" She's not even forming complete thoughts anymore. "—harder, motherfucker, is that all you— fuck— you spent six years ripping me apart in print and you can't even—"

Another slap. Her flesh bounces. She screams and pushes her hips back into you, grinding, taking you as deep as her body will allow.

"Every fucking review—" She's ranting now, the words pouring out between moans, between the sharp cracks of your palm on her ass. "—every snarky little sentence— you smug— condescending— you don't know shit about my writing— you don't— fuck, right there— you don't know what it costs me—"

"Tell me what it costs you." You don't slow down. Each thrust punctuated by the slap of skin, by the wet sounds of her body taking you, by the creak of the mattress. "Tell me, Chaewon. Since you're finally being honest."

"Everything—" The word breaks on the way out. "—it costs me everything, you asshole, every book costs me everything and you sit there and you tear it apart in— oh god— in five thousand words and you make it sound so— so fucking easy to—"

She can't finish. Your hand comes down on her ass again and her sentence dissolves into a moan so loud she claps her own hand over her mouth. You reach forward and pull her hand away.

"I said I wanted to hear you scream."

"The people in the next room—"

"Fuck them."

She laughs - this wild, unhinged, desperate laugh that breaks into a groan as you snap your hips forward. "You're insane. You're absolutely— you're a fucking— god— why does this feel so—"

"Say it."

"No—"

"Say it feels good, Chaewon."

"It feels—" She grits her teeth. Fighting it. Even with her ass in the air and her face pressed to a pillow and handprints blooming red on both cheeks, she's fighting you for every inch of ground. "—it feels like I'm being fucked by the most arrogant man I've ever—"

You spank her again, mid-thrust, and she breaks: "Good— it feels good, you piece of shit, it feels so fucking good and I hate that, I hate you for that, I hate that you're the one who— who makes me feel—"

Her voice is climbing. Getting thinner. More fractured. Her thighs are shaking violently now, the tremors visible in her calves, in her feet, in the way her toes keep curling and uncurling against the sheets. You recognize the signs - the same ones from the terrace, from the wall, the tension building in her core, her body winding tighter with every stroke.

"Make me cum." She says it clearly. Cutting through the moans, the panting, the chaos. A command issued from somewhere beyond pride. "Make me cum with your cock in my ass, you fucking— I need to— I'm—"

You grab her by the hips and thrust hard, burying yourself inside her with no restraint. The pace loses any pretense of control. It's raw, it's frenetic, it's two people who have spent years building walls against each other and are now demolishing them with the crudest tools available. The sound of flesh on flesh fills the room. The headboard knocks against the wall. Her ass is red and hot under your palms, the skin radiating heat where you've marked her.

“Come on,” you tell her, though you’re falling apart now, breath ragged, chest slick with sweat. “You want to scream? Then scream, Chaewon.”

Her right hand shoots backward and grabs your forearm. Her nails sink in deep enough to draw blood. Her mouth opens - and then she's gone.

It hits her all at once. No warning. Just impact. Her body snaps tight, every muscle seizing. She clamps down around you so fiercely it makes your head spin. And the noise she lets out, fuck, it starts low in her belly and climbs its way up, breaking out of her in this deep, animal groan that just keeps going. Her back bows, chest lifting, head thrown back as she convulses. Her eyes roll until there’s nothing but white, and when the sound finally dies her mouth stays open, breath gone, body still jerking in sharp, rhythmic spasms around you.

She comes from her ass. Untouched. Nothing against her clit, nothing inside her pussy, just the fullness of you in her ass and whatever psychological alchemy converts years of hostility and a kiss against a stone wall into the most intense orgasm she's ever had. You feel it in the way she clenches - rapid, desperate contractions, her body milking you - and in the way her thighs give out, her knees sliding on the sheets.

"I can't—" She's sobbing. These dry, breathless heaves. "—I can't believe I— you— fuck—"

Her arms collapse. Her chest hits the mattress. She goes down face-first into the pillow, her ass still raised, still impaled on your cock, trembling through the aftershocks. She shudders one final time. Then she goes still.

Breathing. Just breathing. Shallow and rapid, gradually slowing. Her back rising and falling. The red handprints on her ass vivid against her skin. Her hair plastered to the side of her face, one eye visible, half-closed, glazed over.

You pull out slowly. She winces, a small sound escaping through her teeth, and her hole clenches at the emptiness, and she buries her face deeper into the pillow. The room is quiet except for breathing. Hers. Yours. The distant sound of the sea through the shuttered windows. Somewhere down the hall, a door closes.

Kim Chaewon lies face-down on your bed, naked, trembling, marked, and silent for the first time since you met her.

Her hand reaches back blindly. Finds your knee. Rests there.

You lean down and press your lips to her shoulder. Then the ridge of her spine. Then the space between her shoulder blades, where a thin sheen of sweat makes her skin taste like salt. She doesn't move. Just lies there, face-down, breathing. "How are you doing?" you murmur against her back.

Silence. Then, muffled by the pillow: "You fucked my ass."

"I did."

"Don't be grumpy about it."

"I'll be as grumpy as I want. I just came from getting fucked in the ass by a man who called my book comfort food. I'm entitled to whatever emotional response I—"

You turn her over. Gently. One hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder, rolling her onto her back. She goes willingly, though her expression says otherwise, and her hair fans across the pillow in damp waves, her body is flushed from her cheeks to her navel, and the handprints on her ass must be pressing against the sheets because she winces slightly when her weight settles.

You kiss her. There’s nothing showy about it. Your hand slides to the back of her head, holding her there, your mouth moving with an unhurried softness that isn’t calculated, isn’t tactical. It’s just there. Her lips are warm and slightly swollen. She opens without hesitation, her tongue brushing against yours, and for a second the tension dissolves. No edge. No bite. Just mouths. Just heat

You shift your weight, guiding her as you move - rolling onto your back, pulling her with you until she's on top, straddling you, her thighs bracketing your hips. Her palms rest flat on your chest. The kiss doesn't break. It adjusts, finds its new geometry.

She grumbles against your mouth. Pulls back half an inch and says: "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Being sweet." She says the word the way most people say disgusting. "I can't handle you being sweet. It doesn't fit. It makes me feel—" She inhales, then exhales. "I prefer it when you fuck me angry. When you're mean. This… this soft shit makes me want to throw up."

"I was buying time." Your hands settle on her waist. Thumbs tracing the jut of her hip bones. "Letting you rest."

"Rest? I don't need—"

"Before I continue."

You reach between you. Her mouth clicks shut. Her eyes flicker wider, and her body tightens over yours, a subtle wave of tension rolling up from her thighs to her chest. Your cock is still rigid, aching, wet, and you press the tip against her asshole. She's looser now, still open from before, but the contact makes her gasp.

You thrust upward. She grunts. Her nails dig into your chest and her back curves, her head dropping forward, hair falling around her face. You're inside her again - that same devastating tightness, but easier now, her body remembering, accommodating. Her arms loop around your neck and she presses herself against you, chest to chest, skin to skin, and you grip her slim waist and hold her there.

For a moment neither of you moves. Just breathing. Her heartbeat against your ribs. Yours against hers.

She speaks into the crook of your neck, her lips brushing your skin: "Have you thought about this before?"

"About what?"

"This. Me... Having me. Did you ever imagine it? When you saw me at events, or in interviews, or—" She swallows. "—when you were writing about me. Did you think about what it would be like?"

You stare at the ceiling. Her weight on your hips. Her breath on your throat. It takes a few seconds, but you finally reply: "Sometimes.” And then, because the honesty is already out and there's no retrieving it: "When I'd see you at events. Or in an interview. I'd wonder what it would be like if things were different."

"Different how?"

You don't answer. You roll your hips upward instead. A slow and deep stroke that pushes the full length of your cock into her ass, and she inhales sharply, her eyes fluttering, her fingers tightening behind your neck. You pull back and push in again, setting a rhythm that is unhurried. Her body rocks gently on top of you with each thrust.

She starts to moan. Soft, almost reluctant sounds that she breathes against your jaw. Her hips begin to move, matching your rhythm, grinding down onto you as you push up.

"I don't understand this," she whispers. Her forehead presses against yours. Her eyes are open, inches away. "I hate you. I know I hate you. I feel it. It's real. But at the same time I want to—" She kisses you. Brief. Subtle. "—I want to kiss you. I want to stay here, exactly like this, with you inside me, and I want to kiss you and I want to feel you and… and I also want to tear the skin off your face with my fingernails. Both things. At the same time. What the fuck is wrong with me?"

"Nothing." You brush the hair from her eyes. Your hips don't stop moving. "Hate and love sit closer together than people think. Same intensity. Same obsession. Same inability to stop thinking about the other person." You thrust deeper and she bites her lip, suppressing a moan. "The line between them is so thin it barely exists. You've been on one side of it for six years. Maybe tonight you're standing on the line itself. Looking both ways."

"That's so fucked up."

"It is."

"Then why does it feel so good?"

"Maybe that's why."

She presses her mouth to yours and moans into the kiss as you grip her ass with both hands and spread her cheeks wide, driving up into her. The angle shifts. The depth shifts. And the noise she makes turns thick and needy and almost painfully beautiful.

You start fucking her harder.

She breaks the kiss and her head falls back, her throat exposed, and her hips slam down to meet each thrust. "You're right," she manages. "You're right and I hate you for being right. The only thing that matters is that this is fucking good. It's—" She rolls her hips in a grinding circle that makes you both groan. "—it's addictive. You're addictive. Your cock in my ass is addictive. Your stupid fucking criticism is addictive." She laughs - breathless, slightly unhinged. "It's humiliating. It's degrading. And I can't get enough of it. What does that make me?"

"Human, I guess.”

"Fuck off." She’s grinning when she says it. This wild, feral grin with her hair in her face and her cheeks flushed and her body bouncing on your cock. "Don't stop. Don't fucking stop, you greedy little fuck.”

She rolls her hips in a slow, grinding circle and looks down at you. Sweat on her upper lip. Hair stuck to her temples. Her palms flat on your chest, nails leaving half-moons in your skin. And she asks, plain as anything, no filter left: "You want to cum in my ass, don't you?"

You don't answer fast enough.

"Don't bullshit me." She clenches around you - tight, purposeful, punishing - and your hands fly to her hips. "I've known since the terrace. No. Before the terrace. Since you started writing about me. Every nasty, obsessive, over-analytical word you ever put in print - it was always about this. Getting me underneath you. Getting me on top of you. Getting inside me." She drops her hips down hard and your cock sinks deeper into her ass and she hisses through her teeth and keeps talking: "You wanted to split me open and fill me up and watch it leak out. That's the real review, isn't it? That's the one you've been drafting in your sick little head for six fucking years."

"Chaewon, you don't—"

"Shut up. I'm talking." She grabs your jaw. Squeezes. Forces your eyes to hers. "You already came inside my pussy tonight. On a public terrace. Against a wall. You made me feel like some cheap whore. You pumped me full and I walked back to that party with your cum dripping into my underwear and smiled at people while it ran down my thigh." Her grip tightens on your jaw. "So now you're going to do the same thing to my ass. You're going to flood this tight little hole until I'm leaking. Until I can feel it when I sit on the plane tomorrow."

You hold her hips firm, fingers pressing deep as you drive upward. She inhales sharply, her restraint cracking for just a moment before it seals shut again. "I want to hear you say it." She bends closer, lips grazing yours, heat spilling from her mouth as she whispers: "Tell me you want to cum in my ass. Out loud. Use your words, Mr. Critic. You're so good with words."

"Fuck—" You can barely get the words out. "I want to pump your ass so full it comes pouring back out. Want to see it dripping down your legs, see you soaked with it." Your grip tightens on her. "Is that enough? You satisfied?”

"There he is. There's the real you. The filthy fucking pervert hiding behind all those big vocabulary words." She sits up straight and starts moving, not gentle, not tentative, but mean. Slamming herself down onto your cock, her small body generating a force that shouldn't be possible from a frame that size, the headboard hitting the wall in sharp, rhythmic cracks. Her abs flex with each drop. Her thighs work. Her ass takes you to the hilt on every downstroke and she doesn't flinch.

She looks right at you when she says it: "Breed my ass. Every drop. Every fucking drop you've got. I want it deep. I want to be so full of your cum I can taste it."

"Fuck—"

"You bred my cunt, now wreck my ass. I want both holes stuffed. I want to go back to my room dripping from everywhere." She's panting, sweat running from her temples to her jaw, dripping onto your chest. "Ruin me. You've been ruining me professionally for years - might as well do it physically too, you miserable piece of shit."

She slams down again. And again. The rhythm is savage, relentless, her body moving with this violent intensity that feels like it should belong in a fight, not this. But god, it works. "I'm going to think about this every night—" She grabs her own hair with one hand and pulls, arching her back, changing the angle, taking you impossibly deeper. "—every single night in my apartment when I can't sleep, when I should be writing, I'm going to think about your fat cock stretching my asshole and your cum filling me up and I'm going to hate myself so much and I'm going to touch myself until I'm shaking and it's your fault. All of it. Every orgasm I have for the rest of my life with my fingers in my ass thinking about tonight is on you."

Your hands clamp onto her waist. You plant your feet flat on the mattress, bend your knees, and drive upward - meeting her downstroke, doubling the force - and the sound she makes isn't a moan. It's a scream. Raw. Shattered. Ripped from somewhere beneath language.

"Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—" Her rhythm breaks. She can't maintain it against your upward thrusts so she stops trying and just takes it, her body bouncing on your cock, her hands braced on your chest for balance, her mouth hanging open. "—give it to me, cum in my ass, please, I need it so bad, I need you to fill me up, I need— I fucking need—"

Her sentences collapse. She's babbling now, fragments, pleas, profanity strung together by desperation. Her thighs are trembling so badly she can barely hold herself up. Tears streak from the corners of her squeezed-shut eyes, cutting through the flush on her cheeks.

"—please please please cum in my ass, I want it, I want every fucking drop, make me yours, fill me, breed me, I can't— I need to feel it— I need to feel you cum inside—" She opens her eyes. Looks down at you. Tears and sweat and something beyond either. Her small hands find your face and hold it, and she says - quiet now, wrecked, a whisper against the chaos of her own body: "Give it to me. I want it so fucking much."

You cum. It tears through you - this massive, rolling wave that starts at the base of your spine and detonates outward, and your hips stutter upward, burying yourself as deep as her body will allow, and you feel yourself pulse inside her. Once. Twice. Again. Each spasm pumping thick, hot cum deep into her ass, and the sensation is surreal, this impossible tightness gripping you, milking you, and the warmth spreading inside her.

The feeling crashes over her all at once. She freezes on top of you, completely still, and her eyes go wide. Her lips part. "Oh my—" The words die. She's feeling it, every pump, every throb, the warmth spreading inside her, and her expression just... breaks open. Shock bleeds into euphoria bleeds into something that looks almost like relief. "Oh my god—" she breathes. "—I can feel it. I can feel all of it. You're so— there's so much— oh god, oh fuck, don't move, stay, stay—"

You stay. Buried to the hilt, still pulsing, still emptying yourself into her, and she sits perfectly still on top of you with her eyes closed and her lips parted and this expression of devastated bliss, feeling every twitch, every throb, every hot spill of cum filling her ass. "I love it," she whispers. Not to you. Not to anyone. Just a statement released into the dark room. "Fuck. I love it."

The last aftershock fades. Your muscles go slack. Your hands fall from her hips to the mattress.

Chaewon collapses. She folds forward, her full weight dropping onto your chest, her face pressing into the crook of your neck. Her arms tuck between your bodies, her fists loosely curled against your ribs. She's small. She weighs nothing. Her heartbeat hammers against your sternum.

"Don't pull out," she murmurs into your neck. "Not yet. I want to stay like this for a minute. I want to feel you." You wrap your arms around her. One across her lower back. The other between her shoulder blades, your hand cradling the base of her skull. "Tighter," she breathes into the curve of your neck. Quiet. Nothing like her.

You tighten your arms. Pull her closer. Her body presses flush against yours, every contour matched, and she burrows into you, her nose against your throat, her damp hair tickling your jaw. Her breathing is starting to slow. Evening out. Her fingers uncurl against your ribs and flatten, palms warm on your skin.

Neither of you moves. The room settles, radiator ticking, waves crashing softly somewhere beneath the window, a pair of footsteps trailing down the corridor. Her breathing has slowed to something deep and steady against the side of your neck. You can feel the warmth of each exhale on your skin, followed by the cooler absence when she inhales. Five minutes pass. Maybe more. You're not tracking it.

Then she speaks: "You're right."

Your hand pauses on her back. "About what?"

She doesn't answer immediately. She shifts, lifting her head from the crook of your neck, and looks at you. (There's a tear sitting on the rim of her lower lash line. Not falling. Just sitting there.) "I know," she says. "I know I'm a fraud." Your mind is still swimming. Dopamine-flooded, hazy, that post-orgasm fog where thoughts form slowly and arrive already half-dissolved. You blink at her. "Everyone praises me. My publisher. My agent. My readers. Everyone at that party tonight. They tell me I'm brilliant. They tell me I'm the voice of a generation." She laughs, small, bitter, directed inward. "And you know who doesn't even read my books? The critics who actually matter. The ones at The New Yorker, the ones at the London Review. They don't bother. I'm not worth their time."

The tear moves. Slides down her cheek slowly, tracing the line of her jaw.

"You're the only respected critic who actually reads my work. Cover to cover. Every single book." Her lips press together. "And then you destroy it. But at least you read it. At least you cared enough to—" She stops. Swallows. Her fingers curl tighter against your ribs. "Teach me how to be better."

You stare at her. This woman - naked in your bed, marked and flushed and undone, mascara smudged under her eyes, a tear tracking down her face - asking you. Asking the man she's spent six years despising, the man she called a frustrated artist and a failed writer, to teach her.

Your thumb comes up and catches the tear at her jawline. Wipes it away. "Don't cry."

"I'm not crying. I'm leaking. And it's your fault."

You almost smile. Then you sit up slowly, easing her off your chest, your hands finding her waist. You lift her and set her down beside you on the bed. She sinks into the white sheets without resistance, her hair fanning across the pillow in dark waves. The lamplight paints her in gold. Every part of her is bare and small against the wide expanse of hotel linen, collarbones catching shadow, the soft rise of her stomach moving with each breath. Chaewon's looking up at you with those dark, wet, searching eyes.

She looks so beautiful. And so completely lost.

(This is a moment your systematic mind never prepared for. You had a framework for tonight - she'd come, you'd fuck, she'd leave. Transactional hostility with a physical outlet. Clean. Contained. You did not account for Kim Chaewon lying naked in your bed asking you to make her a better writer. You don't know how to solve this. You're not sure it's yours to solve.)

"I can't help you," you say.

Her expression fractures. "Why not?"

"Because I can't change the way you write. That's not—" You pause. Choose your words the way you choose them in print. "That's not what I want. And I promise you, it's not what you want either. You don't need someone else's voice telling you how to use yours."

She sits up. "But I want to be better. I win awards. I sell millions. My books get translated into thirty-six languages. And sometimes—" Her hands twist in the sheet. "—sometimes I lie awake at three in the morning wondering if I actually deserve any of it. If the awards are for the writing or for the sales. If the translations happened because the prose is good or because the IP is marketable."

"Chaewon—"

"Do I deserve it?" She asks directly. Looking at you. Demanding an answer she knows you won't soften.

"You need to find your own way to that answer." You hold her gaze. "Not mine. Not your publisher's. Not BookTok's. Yours."

A small change passes over her face. Whatever flickers behind her eyes draws inward, restrained, almost private, yet you catch it. The moment she realizes you're not going to hand her what she came for. That you can't, and that the distinction between can't and won't doesn't actually matter when you're the one left empty-handed.

She holds your gaze for another second. Then she's moving; swinging her legs off the bed, bare feet on the cool terracotta, bending to pick up the cream top from where it landed near the nightstand. The dark skirt next, crumpled by the foot of the bed. The black lace underwear tangled in the sheets, which she extracts without looking at you. She presses it all against her chest - this bundle of fabric held tight against her bare skin, arms crossed over it - and walks to the bathroom. Her spine is very straight. The red marks on her ass are visible for one more second before the door clicks shut behind her

You sit on the edge of the bed. Stare at the far wall. Run both hands through your hair.

(You could have given her something. A reading list. A structural critique. A paragraph of actionable feedback. You've written thousands of words about what's wrong with her prose - surely you could have offered one concrete sentence about how to fix it. But that's not what she needed to hear, and giving her a prescription would have been its own kind of condescension. She doesn't need a teacher. She needs to stop being afraid of writing something that won't sell.)

The shower stops. You pull on your underwear and trousers. Sit on the edge of the bed, barefoot, waiting for the act to conclude.

The bathroom door clicks open.

She steps out dressed, hair damp, face clean. All that smudged mascara washed away. She doesn't look at you. Just moves toward the door with her sandals dangling from one hand. Her fingers find the handle.

"Chaewon." She stops. Doesn't turn around. "There's a chapter in your first book that I really liked."

Now she turns. Slowly. Her expression is guarded, braced for another blow. "Which one?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

"What?"

"You can figure it out yourself. Read it again. You'll know which one it is. It reads differently from everything around it." You meet her eyes across the room. "I really enjoyed it. And I think you know why." She stares at you. Processing. "You're smart enough. You've already proven yourself to the world. So stop trying to prove yourself to the world. Write what you think is best. Not what sells. Not what your publisher wants. Not what your analytics suggest will perform." You lean back on your hands. "That's how you started in the beginning, isn't it? Everyone around you had a hand in shaping who you are"

"Maybe," she says. "I didn't really know what I was doing back then." She looks down at her feet on the terracotta tile. "I think I still don't."

"Maybe it's time to find out."

She lifts her gaze. Holds yours. Something passes between you. (Not tenderness exactly, and not the hostility that's defined every other interaction you've had.) Something adjacent to respect. Something that might, with enough time and enough distance, grow into understanding.

“Maybe,” she says once more.

She opens the door. Steps through it. Pulls it shut behind her without looking back.

•••

It’s an absurdly beautiful morning, pure Amalfi Coast perfection. The sky is a seamless blue, the sun skipping light across the sea, the cliffs glowing honey-gold above the harbor. You move along the beach in linen and white, sleeves rolled, unhurried. Your flight from Naples isn’t until later, which means there’s time.

You spot her from about fifty feet out. She's standing near the waterline in a floral dress - loose, light, some kind of wildflower print in pale blues and greens that the breeze keeps pressing against her legs and then releasing. Flat sandals. Her hair is doing its own thing today, the short bob wavy from a night of coastal humidity, unstyled, bangs pushed carelessly to one side. No makeup, or none that you can detect from this distance. She's squinting at the water with one hand raised to block the sun, and she hasn't seen you yet.

You cross the sand toward her. Your shoes are wrong for this - leather soles on loose ground - but you don't slow down. She turns when you're about ten feet away.

"You came."

"You asked." She folds her arms across her chest. A barrier, or the performance of one. "So what's this thing you wanted to show me? I don't have much time."

You start walking along the waterline, and she falls in beside you without being asked. The sand here is firm, packed damp and dark by the retreating tide, and her sandals press clean outlines into it with each step. The breeze tugs at the hem of her dress. Pulls at her hair. You reach down and take her hand.

Chaewon looks at your fingers laced through hers. Studies them. Her thumb moves - a small, almost unconscious stroke across your knuckle - and she doesn't pull away. You walk together for a full minute without speaking. Just the water folding over itself at the edge of the sand, and the distant clank of rigging from the harbor, and her hand warm and small inside yours.

You stop. Let go. Point toward the harbor.

She follows your gaze, scanning the moored boats, the white masts, the slow rocking of hulls against fenders. Turns back to you with one eyebrow raised.

"You dragged me all the way out here to look at boats."

"Catamarans."

"Those are boats."

"They're catamarans."

"They float. They have sails. Boats." She gives you a sideways look, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Have you seriously never been to a beach before?"

"Yesterday," you say. "Before you came to yell at me on the terrace. I was watching those catamarans. I'd been looking at them most of the evening." She waits. The breeze shifts, carrying brine and a faint trace of engine oil from somewhere in the harbor. "Actually - that's not entirely true. Before the catamarans, I was watching you. From across the terrace. You were with Irene and Sana, and the sunset was behind you, and I thought... I thought you were the most beautiful thing on that terrace. Including the Amalfi Coast. And then I turned around and stared at the boats instead."

She doesn't respond. Her eyes stay on the harbor. On the two white shapes rocking gently in the morning swell.

"A catamaran is a twin-hulled vessel." You say it the way you'd say anything to someone standing next to you on a beach - easy, unhurried, pointing out something you find interesting. "Two separate bodies running parallel, held together by a rigid frame. They never merge into one hull. The gap between them - that distance - is what makes the whole thing work. Push the hulls together, force them into a single body, and it stops being a catamaran. It gets slower. Less stable. Less itself." You look at her. She's still watching the harbor. "I've spent six years reviewing your books. You've spent six years hating me for it. And all of that: the reviews, the public fights, the Reddit threads, the TikTok wars, every single ugly thing between us, that's the crossbeam. That's the rigid frame connecting the two hulls. Same water under both of us. Same wind filling both sails. The space between us isn't emptiness, Chaewon. We hold each other steady in this strange way that’s only ours.''

The breeze moves through a long silence. Chaewon stares at the catamarans, her lips pressed together, the floral print rippling against her shins. The morning sun catches something at the corners of her eyes. Moisture. Not tears (she wouldn't allow tears after last night) but the precursor.

She turns to face you. Holds your gaze. "That's really beautiful." No sarcasm. No edge. Just the words, offered plainly, and for once she doesn't immediately armor them with a qualifier. Then, after a beat: "You should write something. A real story. Not reviews. Not criticism. Fiction."

"The world doesn't need more writers."

"That's a cop-out."

"It's not. Everything that needed to be said has already been written. Centuries ago, most of it. The same countries are still fighting the same wars over the same borders. The same political cycles repeat on thirty-year loops. The old solutions are still valid and still ignored." You watch the catamarans sway. "Every novel published this year is a copy of a copy of a copy. Every manifesto. Every campaign speech. Every piece of art hanging in every gallery in every city on earth. We're not generating new ideas anymore."

"And yet you spend your entire career reading new books."

"Reading them and confirming exactly what I just said."

She tilts her head. "That is genuinely the most depressing thing anyone has ever said to me on a beach. And I once got dumped in Jeju-do." A pause. "Drop the nihilist act. It doesn't work on me."

"I'm not being nihilistic. I'm being—"

"You're being a coward." No malice. No heat. Just a clean, quiet observation, delivered the way you'd note that the tide is going out. A fact about the landscape. "You've convinced yourself nothing new can be said because that exempts you from ever having to try. You get to sit in the critic's chair permanently, holding everyone else to a standard you've never once applied to yourself, and you never have to risk producing something that someone could tear apart the way you tear apart everyone else." She uncrosses her arms. Lets them hang at her sides. Open. "You're afraid of being judged. That's the whole thing. That's all this has ever been."

It lands. You feel it land - a clean hit, center mass. You consider reaching for something evasive, something clever and deflective and safe, the rhetorical equivalent of turning away to watch the boats. But she's standing there in a floral dress on a beach in southern Italy, and eight hours ago she was in your bed with her walls down and her defenses stripped and her body open, asking you to show her something real. The very least you owe her is a fraction of the honesty you've been demanding from her writing for six years.

"It's not exactly fear. I'd just rather not find out. I've spent too long being the stone. Turning into glass at this point feels—"

"Same thing. That's fear in a nicer suit." She studies you. "The great critic. Terrified of his own medicine."

You exhale. Nod. Barely, but enough. She sees the concession, the tiny crack in the parapet, and she has the grace not to push her fingers into it. She just lets it sit there between you, acknowledged, unexamined, a small honest thing resting on the sand.

She turns back toward the water. Bites her lower lip. The catamarans rock gently, their white hulls bright against the deep blue of the harbor.

"Can I use that?" she asks. "The catamaran thing. In my next book."

"Be my guest. I won't charge royalties."

"Wow. First nice thing you've ever done for me."

"Second."

She turns away fast, but not fast enough, you catch the twitch at the corner of her mouth, the smile she's physically fighting down, her teeth pressing into her bottom lip to contain it. She reaches up and tucks her hair behind her ear. The same one from the first night you ever saw her. She doesn't know you remember it. She doesn't know there's anything to remember.

"I have an idea," she says after a moment. Still facing the water. Her sandals are at the edge of the tide line, the next wave lapping close enough to darken the sand near her toes. "A dynamic between two characters. Something I've been working through since last night." She pauses. Picks her next words with the same care she'd use on a difficult sentence in a third draft. "But I think I'll need to meet with you. From time to time. For... research purposes."

"Research purposes, huh?”

"Inspiration." She turns her head just enough to catch your reaction from the corner of her eye. "I need to understand the dynamic from the inside. For authenticity."

"Ah. Authenticity. Your favorite thing."

"Do you have a problem with that arrangement?"

"None whatsoever."

"Good." A short nod. Brisk. Professional, as if you've just agreed on deliverables and timelines rather than a series of encounters that will inevitably end with her clothes on your floor and her fingernail marks on your back. "So we'll be in touch."

"We'll be in touch."

The waves roll in. Retreat. Roll in again. A gull cuts across the harbor, banking low over the catamarans, and the morning sun lays a bright strip across the water that reaches all the way to the beach.

"One last kiss," you say.

Her eyebrows go up. "You're very demanding for someone who just told me nothing new exists under the sun."

"I'm requesting. Not demanding."

"Whatever." She's turning toward you, her weight shifts forward onto her toes, and her chin lifts. "Be quick about it. I have an interview in an hour and I need to fix my face."

"Your face is fine."

"My face is a disaster. Quick."

You step into her. Your hands find her waist through the thin cotton of the dress - warm from the sun, warm from her body underneath - and you settle them on the curve above her hips. She doesn't step back. Doesn't fold her arms. Just stands there looking up at you, dark eyes steady, the wind moving through the wildflower print and through her hair and through the small space between your mouth and hers.

You lean down and kiss her. She hesitates. Her lips stay closed for a breath; one final negotiation with herself about what this is and what it means and whether she can afford to let it mean anything at all. Her body is still. Her hands remain at her sides.

Then her mouth softens. Parts. Her hand rises to the side of your neck, fingers sliding up into your hair, and the kiss deepens past whatever boundary she'd set for it. Slow. Unhurried. Soft in a way that would have been impossible twelve hours ago, when everything between you was teeth and heat and skin scraping against stone. Her fingertips trace the line of your jaw. Your thumb maps the ridge of her hip. The sea exhales behind her, and for a suspended moment the world contracts to a very small radius. No reviews. No bestseller lists. No discourse. No audience. Just her mouth and your mouth and the sound of the water doing what water does, over and over, indifferent to everything.

She pulls back first. Her hand stays on your neck for an extra second. Then drops. "I need to go." She steps back. Steady. Composed. "I'm going to be late."

"I know."

"This doesn't mean I like you."

"Understood."

"And I still think your reviews are reductive, mean-spirited, and occasionally grammatically suspect."

"I'd be disappointed if you felt otherwise."

She almost smiles. Catches it at the last second, presses her lips into a line, and turns on her heel. She starts up the beach toward the coastal road, quick strides, the floral dress swaying against her legs, her sandals leaving sharp impressions in the wet sand. With every step she's putting herself back together. Becoming Kim Chaewon again - the bestseller, the brand, the woman who doesn't need anyone's approval and certainly not yours.

Twenty feet away, she stops. Turns around.

You raise your hand. A wave. last time you tried this gesture, she responded with her middle finger and an expression that could peel paint off a wall.

Chaewon looks at you across the sand. The morning light is full on her face now, catching the slight wave in her hair, the wildflower blues and greens of her dress, the flush that still hasn't faded from her cheeks.

She waves back with a barely-there smile she'd deny under oath and in front of a jury. Then she turns and walks away. The floral dress rounds the curve of the coastal road and disappears behind a low stone wall covered in bougainvillea.

You stay on the beach. Hands in your pockets. Sun on your face. The morning settling into itself around you - the heat building, the tourists beginning to appear on the far end of the sand, the faint sound of a cafe opening its shutters somewhere up the hill.

(Sometimes you let yourself think about it. What would have happened if she'd stayed. If she'd actually gone to the bar and come back with that second drink and sat down next to you and decided - for whatever private, unknowable reason - that you were someone worth talking to for another hour. If you'd gotten her name that night, heard it from her own mouth instead of reading it months later off the spine of a book in your apartment at two in the morning with a red pen in your hand and a sinking feeling in your stomach.

You wonder if knowing her first as a person instead of a product would have changed the way you read her. You wonder if you would have been kinder. Or if she would have made that impossible too. You wonder, occasionally, in the specific quiet of a late night when your critical faculties are offline and something less disciplined takes over, whether the two of you were always going to end up here - hostile, entangled, orbiting each other at a distance calibrated to cause maximum damage - or if there was a version of this where she came back with the wine and sat down and everything that followed was entirely different.

She didn't come back, though. And you'll never know.)

In the harbor, the two catamarans rock gently in their moorings. Twin white hulls catching the light. Running parallel. Connected. The rigid frame between them holding everything in place.

Same water. Same wind.

(Maybe it's better this way.)

Sakura

You drop your phone when Sakura walks into the room. It's not just because of how pretty she is, because you're starting to get used that a little after now being her boyfriend for almost a year, but it's what she's wearing. You know she loves gaming and anime and such even more than you do. You love watching her play and you love watching movies and animes with her that occasionally earn you a "Nerds" comment from Yunjin.

But you were not prepared for what you're looking at right now. Sakura is wearing a costume. A sexy one at that. Princess Leia's iconic golden outfit from Return of the Jedi. The bikini, the hair, the chain and all.

For a second you expect her to laugh, revealing this to be a prank. To make fun of you after Kkura caught you staring at Princess Leia during the movie last week. But to your confusion, she looks serious. Something between grateful and...turned on?

“You saved me from Jabba.”

She says in a soft, dramatic voice, tugging at the chain around her neck.

“My hero deserves a reward.”

She drops to her knees first and starts worshipping your cock with her mouth while staying fully in role. You're unable to get a word out, just sitting there, her chain in your hand, watching and feeling how she's sucking you off. Then she bends over the bed, looking back at you with those big eyes.

“Take your princess.”

You thrust into her from behind, the metallic chain clinking with every bounce of her body as she moans. Sakura seems to love the fantasy just as much as you, pushing back eagerly and crying out when you spank her lightly.

Eventually, she begs you to finish inside her “as thanks.” You pump your girlfriend full of your cum, unable to hold it back a second longer. The combination of the costume, roleplay, and intense sex leaves both of you laughing afterwards as she cuddles you, still wearing the outfit.

Yunjin

Yunjin is slobbering alll over your cock. Spit strings and bubbles, smeared lipstick, watery eyes, gagging and choking...the whole package. Often, Yunjin's blowjobs aren't that intense, but for whatever reason she's really going for it today. Your hand is holding a fistful of her blonde hair, not to pull her onto your cock, but actually to push her back a little. At this speed and her skill you won't be able to hold out much longer.

Suddenly, Yunjin fumbles for her phone in her pocket. You sigh in disappointment, expecting her to get a call or an urgent message. But to your surprise, Yunjin clicks the record button and hands you her phone. On instinct, you turn it around and start filming her. But after a few seconds of her ruining herself on your cock, you hold her back.

"Wait, we can't do this. What if someone sees the video or something?"

Yunjin smiles up at you, her mouth full with dick, before pulling back.

"Don't worry, baby. I'm not wearing anything revealing or showing much skin. No one is gonna see something."

You gasp in disbelief.

"You think other men looking at you is my biggest issue with this video?"

It's hard for you to concentrate and talk with Yunjin's hand continuously stroking your length and her peppering it with kisses between talking.

"Then what is it?"

Yunjin looks up at you with big, innocent eyes as if she seriously doesn't understand what your problem is. And under normal circumstances you would've given up to argue, but your cock down her throat and her face covered in spit and tears kinda ruins her innocent image.

"What is it?"

You repeat her question in disbelief.

"It's a video of you sucking my cock. What if someone finds this? What if someone uploads this somewhere? Or tries to blackmail you?"

Yunjin rolls her eyes as she resumes her blowjob.

"Yunjin..."

You pull her off your cock again.

"Don't worry, baby. Do you really think anyone is gonna believe this is real? Plus, I'm gonna be the one to upload this."

"What?"

Yunjin laughs.

"What do you think of this? 'Le Sserafim's Yujin choking on big dick like a slut' Do you think that works or is it too on the nose?"

Kazuha

Kazuha sits alone in her room after practice. After showering,she wanted to try the new toys she ordered and so she unboxes a new set of tentacle dildos. Her eyes sparkle with fascination as she pulls them out one by one. She starts slow, teasing herself with a smaller one, which she bought a few months ago, wanting to experiment. She moans, a mix of pleasure and embarrassment, as the suckers and flexible texture stimulate her in a different way. She's used toys before, but these tentacles make her feel different compared to normal dildos. They don't just feel great, they also make her feel somewhat dirty. Like she's doing something she isn't supposed to.

She gradually works up to one of the new larger, more realistic tentacles, riding it slowly at first, then faster as pleasure builds.

“This feels amazing..."

She whispers to herself, feeling the curve of the tentacle stretching her pussy and the suckers dragging along her walls.

"I'm getting used and bred by an alien."

The taboo thought makes shame warm her body, her cheeks heating up with excitement.

"Use me..."

Kazuha's moans grow louder and she uses another tentacle to move it over her tits, pretending another being is actually fucking and playing with her body. Her nipples harden against the plastic as it drags over them and she bites her lip to silence her gasps.

Zuha loses herself completely, cuming multiple times from the writhing, filling sensation of being fucked and used by a creature out of this world. When her adventure slowly comes to a natural end, she sinks back onto her sheets, flushed and breathless.

During a dinner at the dorm with the other members around the table, Eunchae gets bold. You and the others always treat her like a child and she was gonna show you who she really is. The fact that you're not her's, but Yunjin's boyfriend doesn't matter. While everyone chats and eats, she quietly slips under the table, kneeling between your legs. She frees your cock and before you can react, she starts sucking you slowly, trying to stay quiet.

Eunchae

The risk makes it incredibly intense for the both of you. She bobs her head carefully, tongue swirling while the members talk just above. Compared to Yunjin, she's an amateur. Eunchae struggles to keep quiet as she tries and fails to take your entire cock into her mouth. Every now and then she makes a tiny noise that you have to cover with a fake cough. You grip the table edge, trying to act normal as her warm, eager mouth works you. The other members remain oblivious as Eunchae sucks you deeper, determined to make you cum right there, wanting to prove that she can do what the others can do as well. When you finally explode in her mouth, she swallows everything quietly, then emerges from under the table with an innocent smile, wiping her lips.

“I dropped my spoon."

She says cutely, rejoining the conversation like nothing happened.

You’ve been shelving books for about seven thousand years.

Or at least that’s how it feels, wedged between the holiday table and the front window while people keep coming in with snow on their shoulders like they’re bringing the storm in as a guest. The bell above the door jingles every time, high and bright and weirdly smug about it.

The bookshop is warm, heavy with smells that are all slightly too much at once: cinnamon oil from the diffuser near the door, paper that’s been turned and thumbed and loved, the wet-wool edge of everyone’s coats slowly trying to defrost. There are paper snowflakes taped to the glass. A tiny artificial tree leans a bit to the left in the display, ornaments shaped like miniature book covers weighing down one side.

You’re halfway through putting a stack of romances back in alphabetical order when the bell rings again and a gust of cold sneaks in under the door, curling around your ankles.

“Shoes,” Chaewon says from the front without looking up.

You glance at her over the edge of the display. “What?”

She’s behind the register in her navy apron, the knot at her back perfectly centered like she tied it in front of a mirror. Her hair is clipped back, black and shiny, not a strand out of place. There’s a clipboard beside the register with the sign-in sheet on it. A pen is attached with a piece of string, because of course it is.

Chaewon flicks her eyes to the entry mat, then back to your face. “You’re tracking slush. Wipe.”

You look down. There’s a faint gray trail from the door to where you’re standing. Your boots are damp around the edges. You drag them across the mat a couple of times, more out of stubbornness than effort. The fox printed on the mat looks disappointed in you.

“There,” you say.

Chaewon’s expression doesn’t change. “You forgot to clock in.”

You force your shoulders to stay loose as you head up to the counter. The clipboard is waiting. You grab the pen and the string tugs, like it’s on a leash.

“Does Ms. Lim think I’m going to steal a pen?” you ask.

Chaewon’s gaze dips briefly to the front pocket of your hoodie, then back up. “You would,” she says.

You don’t even have anything in that pocket except an old dining hall receipt and some mystery lint. Still, your face warms.

“I wouldn’t,” you say. “Some of us have morals.”

“You were twenty minutes late,” she answers, not bothering to look impressed. “Sign.”

You sign. Your hand is cold, and your name ends up crooked, like it’s trying to slide off the page. Chaewon watches the paper, not you. Her nails are short and neat. You hate that you notice.

She slides a folded apron toward you without looking. “Here.”

“Wow,” you say. “There’s the reason I don’t clock in.”

“Customers don’t need to see your hoodie,” she replies. “It has holes in it.”

You look down. It does have holes. Two near the cuff from a nervous habit, one at the hem that’s older than college.

“It’s called vintage,” you say.

“It’s called tragic,” she says.

You pull the apron over your head anyway and tie it behind your back. You don’t aim. The knot lands too far to the side.

Chaewon’s eyes flick down and stay there for a moment too long. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Fix that,” she says.

“It’s tied,” you say. “It’s doing its job.”

“It’s crooked,” she says. “And you’re in front of customers.”

“I didn’t realize my back was part of the customer service,” you mutter.

“It is when I have to look at it,” she says.

You feel your spine stiffen. “Newsflash, Chaewon: you don’t have to look at me at all.”

Her eyes rise to meet yours. They’re sharp, dark, annoyingly steady. “Trust me,” she says. “I know.”

Before you can say something mean enough to feel satisfied now and regret later, Ms. Lim pops up from the far end of the counter, Santa hat sliding sideways like it’s trying to escape.

“There you are,” she says, cheerful. “Good, both of you. It’s starting to come down out there. We’re going to get slammed for another hour and then I’m kicking everyone out.”

She pats Chaewon’s arm as if she expects her to hold the line against an invading army. “Chaewon, gift wrap the books. You—” She points at you. “Holiday table, then float. Smile like finals aren’t happening.”

“I don’t smile on principle,” you say.

“You smile at me,” Ms. Lim says with the sharp part of her tongue.

“That’s because you pay me,” you say under the breath.

She laughs and waves you toward the middle of the store. “Shoo. Make the shelves look pretty. If anything falls on a customer, I’m blaming you and I’ll cry.”

“That’s new…” Chaewon mutters.

“What was that?” Ms. Lim asks merrily.

Chaewon’s eyes flicker. “Nothing,” she says.

You head back to the big holiday table. From the front, the building looks like a normal small bookstore—cozy, slightly chaotic, full of too many things in not enough space. When you walk it with your brain turned on, you can see the structure underneath.

Children’s corner in back with a circular rug that never lies flat, always has one piece sticking up waiting to trip someone. The reading nook opposite it, with the sagging gray couch and the lamp that only works if you tap it twice.

Classics line the left wall with the locked glass cabinet embedded in the middle. The rare books are inside, spines aged and serious. The brass key that opens it hangs on a chain around Ms. Lim’s neck. Chaewon looks at that cabinet like it owes her money.

You look at it like a bunch of books you’ll never be able to afford.

The holiday table is a disaster in three dimensions. Someone has stacked thrillers on top of romances. A cookbook about pies sits on a pile of poetry. A display mug is one elbow away from suicide.

You start sorting just to make the chaos stop. Paperbacks in one stack, hardbacks in another. Romances to the right, everything else center and left. You pull a snowy-cover romcom out from under something with a skeleton on it and feel vaguely offended on the romcom’s behalf.

“Excuse me,” a woman says to your shoulder. “Hi. Sorry. Do you have something… romantic?” She winces on the last word like it tastes weird.

You straighten. “Romantic we can do,” you say. “Any no-go zones? Like, no heartbreak, no cheating, no—”

“Oh, no, she loves heartbreak,” the woman says quickly. “It’s for my niece, she’s in high school. But my sister will kill me if there’s anything… explicit.” She mimes a vague gesture that could mean sex or could mean drugs; you decide to assume sex. “So, like… kissing, feelings, snow. But not too much… you know.”

You do know.

You look at the table. “Okay,” you say. You pick up a soft YA-ish paperback with a cartoon couple in puffy coats. “This one’s more cute-angsty than spicy. Lots of longing, barely any trauma.”

The woman’s face brightens. “Longing is good.”

You grab another—“CUM2A” by Okay—read the back quickly. Too steamy. You put it down.

“Definitely this one,” you say, handing her the first book. “Safe for nieces, but she won’t be bored.”

She clutches the book in both hands like you’ve given her something fragile. “Thank you. You just saved Christmas.”

“Wow,” you say. “All in a day’s work.”

She laughs and heads toward the register.

You glance up and catch Chaewon watching.

She’s not looking at you head-on. She’s pretending to organize the impulse-buy bookmarks near the register, but her eyes track the woman, then the book in her hands, then you.

When she feels you looking back, her gaze slides away like it never stopped.

You go back to stacking.

The hour until closing moves in knots. You wrap a stack of books in gold paper that tears every time you try to fold a corner. You show three people where the essay collections are. You straighten the children’s rug and watch it go crooked again in under five minutes because a toddler decides to run in a circle on it.

At one point you pass by the register to grab more tape and Chaewon says, without looking up, “You put the wrong edition of Little Women on the display.”

You stop. “What?”

She slides a bag across the counter to a customer, murmurs “Happy holidays,” and only when they leave does she flick her eyes to yours.

“There are three editions in stock,” she says. “Ms. Lim wants the clothbound one with the red cover on the table. You put the cheap movie tie-in one. With the faces.” Her nose wrinkles like the idea offends her.

“People like covers with faces,” you say.

“People don’t know what they want,” she shoots back.

“I thought the point was to sell books,” you say. “Movie tie-in is familiar. Familiar equals safe. Safe equals—”

“Cowardly,” she interrupts.

You blink. “That’s not where I was going.”

“It’s the only place you’re going,” she says.

You stare at her. “You think I’m a coward.”

“You won’t put your own work up for open mic,” she says. “You keep reading half-finished first drafts in workshop and then saying ‘it’s nothing’ if anyone likes it. So, yes.”

You feel something hot crawl up the back of your neck. “At least I don’t slaughter people’s stories in the Q&A portion,” you say.

Chaewon’s jaw tightens. “I give useful notes. I’m not a sycophant.”

“You could try not making people feel like idiots,” you say.

“You could try not writing like you have a brick up your ass,” she answers.

A customer steps up to the register with a stack of true crime and coughs politely.

Chaewon turns away from you so cleanly it’s like someone flipped a switch. “Hi,” she says, voice smooth. “Did you find everything okay?”

Conversation over.

Your chest still feels like she knocked something out of place, though.

You escape back into the middle of the store, where it’s just you and paper.

Outside, the wind has been doing its own thing. You’ve noticed it in the corner of your eye, the way the snowflakes stopped looking delicate and started flying sideways. Now, when you glance at the front window, you see white smeared against the glass, streetlights smudged into halos.

Someone near the holiday cards lets out a nervous gasp when a gust thumps against the door.

Ms. Lim looks up from the bookmarks display, pulls her phone from her apron, and sucks in a breath.

“Okay, update,” she says loudly, tapping the screen. “Blizzard warning just got bumped. They’re closing the main road in twenty minutes.”

The air in the store shifts. People stand up straighter. A guy in a puffer coat looks at his watch as if trying to slow down time.

“We’re closing,” Ms. Lim says, already moving toward the door. “Everybody check out now.”

You and Chaewon move automatically. She speeds up her scanning; you take armfuls of books and carry them for the people who can’t hold everything. The bell rings too much. Coats brush against you. Papercuts sting at the base of your fingers.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket with the campus alert:

SEVERE WEATHER WARNING. AVOID TRAVEL. SEEK SHELTER.

You glance at it. You glance at the window. Snow claws at the glass now, white and dense, no longer pretty.

The last customer finally staggers out with two bags and a stray ribbon stuck to their sleeve.

The bell jingles, and then there’s silence.

Ms. Lim turns the lock, flips the sign to CLOSED, and exhales like she’s been holding her breath for an hour.

“Okay,” she says. “We survived the rush.”

“I mean, the roof is about to blow away,” you say.

Ms. Lim points a gloved finger at you. “Do not jinx my roof.”

Chaewon is already scanning the store, gaze moving over displays, windows, the rare books cabinet, like she’s taking note of liabilities.

“The front romance table’s a mess,” she says.

“It’s fine,” you say. “No one’s coming in now.”

“It’s crooked,” she says.

“It’s romance,” you say. “And what’s more romantic than a crooked table?”

Chaewon aims a look at you that could cut paper.

Ms. Lim shrugs. “I’m pulling the shutter down,” she says. “You two start closing the store. Candles are near the register. If the power goes out, don’t panic, we’re not haunted. The pipes just make… noises.”

“It’s okay, Ms. Lim. I’m not scared of the dark,” you say.

“I know,” Ms. Lim says. “You’re scared of commitment and job interviews. But I didn’t ask.”

She opens the door and the wind punches in, cold and wet and loud. Her Santa hat almost flies off; she catches it with one hand and laughs.

“Back in five if the alley door isn’t frozen shut,” she calls, and then she’s outside, pulling the heavy metal shutter down over the front windows.

Chaewon stands by the glass, watching. You end up next to her without deciding to, shoulder almost brushing hers, eyes tracking the same movement.

The shutter rattles as Ms. Lim hauls it down. Snow swirls in around her feet. Her coat whips.

The lights flicker once.

You glance up at the ceiling.

They flicker again.

“Don’t,” you say under your breath, as if the building can hear you.

The lights go out.

Everything snaps to black so fast your stomach drops. The humming of the heaters stops. The buzzing from the old fluorescent tube in the back disappears. Even the little mechanical whir of the receipt printer dies.

For half a heartbeat, it’s just the storm and breathing.

The emergency lights blink on. They’re low and yellow, barely illuminating the aisles. The store looks different in them, older somehow, shadows stretched long between shelves.

Outside, something slams into the shutter with a metallic boom.

You and Chaewon both flinch.

“Ms. Lim?” Chaewon calls, too loud in the sudden quiet.

The boom comes again. The shutter rattles. Then Ms. Lim’s voice filters in from behind the metal, muffled and thin.

“I’m okay!” she shouts. “The lock’s jammed from the outside! I’m going around to try the alley door—don’t open anything unless you’re sure it’s me! And don’t—”

A gust of wind shrieks around the corner, steals the end of her sentence.

“—freeze!” barely makes it through.

The sound of her boots fades.

Chaewon’s phone vibrates. She takes it out of her pocket, reads something, frowns, and clenches her jaw. As your eyes meet hers, she returns to that impassive, serious expression she always wears.

She puts the phone back in her pocket, but whatever she saw, it had already done its damage—her shoulders now square and the skin around her mouth tight.

“Candles,” she says, already walking for the counter.

You follow. Your legs feel a little floaty, like they forgot how to walk.

Behind the register, Chaewon yanks open the bottom drawer. There’s a jumble of things inside: rolls of receipt paper, three stubby white candles, a pack of matches, a black flashlight wrapped in silver duct tape.

She grabs the matches.

Her hand shakes.

Not a lot. Just a tremor that shivers down to the knuckles.

She sucks in a breath and tightens her grip. An attempt to bully her body into cooperating.

Before you think about it too hard, you reach out and cover her fingers with yours.

“I got it,” you say.

Her head snaps up.

Her eyes flash, startled and defensive. Your hand is warm over hers. You can feel the fine bones there, the way her tendons pull taut.

“I don’t need—” she starts.

You gently slide the box of matches out of her grip. “You have all your fingers,” you say. “Let’s keep it that way.”

You strike a match. The flare of orange is small but shocking. You light the first candle, then a second. The wax catches, flames steadying into two thin petals of light.

You set them on the counter. The glow spreads, softening the hard edges of everything.

Chaewon stares at the candles for a second in disbelief. Then she snatches the matchbox back and lights the third candle herself.

The flame… wobbles.

Something slams into the shutter again. The sound ripples through the metal, through the glass, through your chest.

You and Chaewon both look toward the front.

“She’ll be fine,” you say.

You’re not sure if you’re trying to convince her or yourself.

“Don’t say that,” Chaewon answers. “You can’t know for sure.”

You study her profile in the candlelight. She looks composed from far away. Up close, you can see the giveaway details—how her throat moves when she swallows, how her shoulders are a little too square.

The storm howls. The pipes in the back gurgle once, loudly.

Chaewon closes the drawer with more force than necessary. “Back door,” she says. “If she can’t get in from outside, we should at least know if it opens from in here.”

She scoops up one candle, grabs the duct-tape flashlight, and heads for the back hallway.

“Have you never watched a horror movie? Why would you try to open the back door?” you ask.

She doesn’t look back. “Someone has to.”

You follow, because apparently that someone is not going to be her by herself.

The hallway to the stockroom is narrower in the emergency light, walls yellowed, floor scuffed. The candle flame throws shadows up and down like moving fingers. The metal door to the alley sits at the end, painted the same beige as the walls, long handle vertical, bolt at the top.

Chaewon sets the candle on a nearby crate, puts both hands on the bar, and pulls.

Nothing.

She puts her weight into it. The handle doesn’t move, the bolt doesn’t budge. The door rattles, frame vibrating.

“Come on,” she says through her teeth. “Move.”

She braces one foot against the bottom edge and hauls backward. The muscles in her arms tense under her sweater. Her hair shifts against the clip.

The handle gives a millimeter with a metallic creak and then catches.

“That’s not good,” you say.

“I know,” she says. Her voice has a frayed edge now.

“Chaewon—”

“I said I know,” she snaps.

She tries again. The door stays stubborn.

You reach past her and jiggle the handle, just to feel it yourself. You feel ice in the mechanism, solid and unbothered by her pulls.

“Pretty sure it’s frozen,” you say.

“I can see that,” she says.

“You’re going to dislocate your shoulder,” you say.

“I’m fine.”

She sucks in a breath and goes for it again. The bar barely twitches. The sound it makes is worse than the earlier rattle, like a warning.

“Okay,” you say, and catch her wrist.

Your hand closes around her. Her pulse is fast under your fingers. Her skin is cold enough that you feel the contrast.

She goes still.

“Let go,” she says quietly.

“If I let go, you’re just going to pull at the door again,” you say. “And then we’ll have a stuck door and a dislocated shoulder.”

“That’s my decision to make,” she says.

“Ms. Lim will murder me if I let you hurt yourself in her store,” you say. “On the list of ways to lose a job, that’s probably top three.”

Chaewon stares at you, eyes dark and furious and bright all at once.

“Let go,” she says again.

You do.

Not because she tells you to, but because you feel the way your grip tightens without meaning to, and suddenly you’re very aware of where your hand is and how small her wrist feels in it.

She pulls away like your touch burned. Her shoulders go back up, armor snapping into place.

“Fine,” she says. “Then we wait.”

You both stand there listening to the storm slam itself against the alley side of the building. Somewhere above you a piece of metal groans. The heaters are still dead. You can feel the air cooling with every minute.

“Great,” you say. “Perfect night.”

“We have an emergency kit,” she says briskly, turning toward the stockroom. “Ms. Lim is paranoid.”

You follow her through the door.

Chaewon walks straight to a cabinet and opens the bottom doors like she’s done this before. Inside: a red first-aid kit, a camping stove, a small kettle, two instant ramen cups, a big bag of pretzels, three chocolate bars, and a box of tea bags.

You blink. “We keep a whole apocalypse kit back here?”

“Emergency box,” she says. “And clearly a useful one.” She pulls the stove out, then hands you one of the ramen cups without looking. “Did you eat already?”

“Totally,” you say automatically.

Your stomach chooses that second to make a noise that sounds like a dying animal.

Chaewon’s head turns slowly.

“Oh my god,” she says. “A granola bar is not dinner.”

You make a face. “You don’t know my life.”

Her eyebrows go up. “You literally told everyone last week that your oven is ‘for storage.’”

“That was a joke,” you say.

“It sure doesn’t look like it,” she says.

“It was… half a joke,” you admit.

Chaewon just stares at you for a second, candlelight catching in her eyes. Something in her expression shifts, like something clicks into place that she doesn’t like.

She fills the kettle from a big water jug, sets it on the camping stove, and lights the burner with the matches. The little blue flame catches with a soft whoosh.

You watch her hands. They’re steadier with a task. Her shoulders drop a fraction.

“You’re really prepared for armageddon,” you say.

“We have the kit thanks to Ms. Lim. But yes, I’m always prepared,” she answers.

You sit down on an unopened box and peel back the lid on the ramen cup. Your fingers feel clumsy.

“You’re always like this,” you say.

She doesn’t look up. “Like what?”

“Like… I don’t know,” you say. “Always with a plan. Always on high alert.” You wave vaguely at the organized chaos.

“That’s called being responsible,” she says.

“That’s called being uptight,” you say.

The corner of her mouth twitches, just a little.

Steam starts to gather at the spout of the kettle. The stockroom grows warmer by a few degrees. The shelves throw softer shadows now, the candlelight and blue flame working together.

Chaewon pours the water into your ramen, then into her own cup. She chooses tea instead of a second ramen.

You eat sitting on the box, blowing on noodles that are too hot, salty broth soaking the cardboard smell. It tastes better you thought it would.

Chaewon leans against a stack of shipping boxes, ankles crossed, hands around her mug. Her cheeks are pinker now, probably from the heat.

You take a breath, steadying yourself before you speak.

“Why do you hate me?” you ask.

Chaewon chokes on her tea.

“I don’t,” she says quickly.

You raise your eyebrows.

She glares at you. “I don’t hate you,” she says. “I hate the way you… are.”

“Gee thanks,” you say. “That’s a lot better.”

“You’re just so…” She waves her hand in a circle, searching for the right word. “Careless.”

“I’ll have you know, I shelve the books diligently,” you say.

“Only when someone’s watching,” she shoots back.

“You’re watching all the time,” you say.

Chaewon’s lips press into a line. She looks down into her mug. “Not… all the time.”

“Enough to hear about my oven,” you say.

“You weren’t exactly quiet,” she mutters.

You slurp ramen to buy yourself a second.

When you talk again, your voice comes out quieter. “You killed me in the workshop last month.”

She blinks. “What?”

You poke at the noodles. “The story I turned in. About the kid working at the movie theater. You tore it apart.”

“It needed work,” she says, but her tone is less sharp, like she’s not as sure as she wants to sound.

“You said the third person felt like a dodge,” you remind her. “That it sounded like I couldn’t say ‘I’ and mean it.”

“That was… accurate,” she says. Then she inhales, like she’s about to launch into the full critique. “You write like you’re apologizing for taking up space. It’s frustrating.”

“It’s my story,” you say.

“And that makes it even more depressing,” she says.

You look up at her. “You could have just said ‘I didn’t like it,’ you know.”

“I did like it,” she says quietly.

You stare.

She swallows. “That’s the problem,” she says. “I liked it, and you were still… holding back. And it made me irritated. With you. Not the story.”

You sit there with the cheap ramen smell and the cheap emergency candle and the expensive feeling of having your insides laid out in the stockroom.

“So you shredded me,” you say.

“That’s how I show respect,” she says.

“That’s insane,” you say.

Her mouth twitches. “Do you want me to lie?”

“Then why do you always look like you’d rather eat a hardback than talk to me?” you ask.

Chaewon watches the candle flame for a full three seconds before answering.

“You’re not easy to talk to. You’re… popular,” she says.

You actually laugh at that, a rough sound that surprises both of you. “No, I’m not.”

“You are,” she insists. “In class. People talk to you.”

“They talk to me because they want my help with their work,” you say.

“They laugh at your jokes,” she says.

“I wonder why,” you say, snorting.

Her fingers tighten around the mug. “Because they’re funny,” she says. “Because you’re funny. They like you, even when you don’t try.”

You stare at her.

“You think I don’t try,” you say.

“I think,” she says carefully, “you’re at least pretending not to.”

You set the ramen cup down on the floor before your hands can crush it.

“You have no idea how much I’m trying,” you say.

She looks up. Candlelight catches the worry in her eyes before she can smooth it out.

“Then say it,” she says. “Instead of joking.”

You inhale too fast. The air down here feels heavier.

“My dad called yesterday,” you say. “During your shift. I was in the back.”

Her posture changes, just a little. “Okay,” she says. It’s almost gentle.

“He wanted to know if I could send home money this month,” you say. “From my ‘little campus job.’” You add air quotes with one hand. “Financial aid covers tuition, not… family problems. So I said I’d try. Which means I need all my shifts and maybe more, and I need Ms. Lim not to think I’m useless, and I need you not to think I’m useless either, because you’re…” You trail off, realizing how much you’ve said.

“I don’t think you’re useless,” she says.

You give a short, disbelieving laugh. “You call me lazy twice a week.”

“Lazy doesn’t mean useless,” she says, frowning. “Lazy means… misdirected potential.”

You blink. “That is the worst compliment I’ve ever received.”

“It’s still a compliment,” she counters.

Silence hangs between you for a moment. The kettle has stopped hissing. The storm hums outside like white noise with teeth.

You watch her fingers around the mug. They’re slender, knuckles showing faintly. There’s a nick on her thumb, a thin line of healed skin.

“Then…” you started. “Do you hate yourself?”

Chaewon stiffens. “What?”

You hear the word come out of your mouth again in your head and wince. “I mean,” you say, scrambling, “you talk about people holding back and being pathetic and all that. I was just wondering if you’re…” You circle your hand in the air. “Equally mean to yourself.”

“That’s not what you asked,” she says.

“I panicked,” you say. “Consider it a rough draft.”

She exhales through her nose, a tiny, annoyed sound. “I don’t hate myself,” she says finally.

You arch an eyebrow.

“I don’t.” Her fingers tighten around the mug. “I hate that I have to… stay ahead of everything all the time. I hate that if I stop, everything feels like it’ll collapse.”

“You mean the bookstore?” you ask.

“The bookstore, my GPA, my mother’s blood pressure… take your pick,” she says.

You watch the way her mouth twists on “mother.” It’s quick, but it’s there.

“Was that who that notification was?” you ask.

Chaewon blinks. “What notification?”

“Earlier,” you say. “You checked your phone. You went all—” You imitate her tight shoulders. “—like you’d been plunged into a cold shower.”

She hesitates, then pulls her phone out of her apron pocket. The screen lights her face from below, makes the dark circles under her eyes look darker.

She holds it where you can’t see the screen. Her thumb moves. Her jaw clenches once.

“‘Don’t be stupid about the storm. This job is not worth getting hurt. You have more important things to think about than this part-time nonsense.’” She says it flat, but you can hear the invisible italics.

You feel your own jaw tighten in sympathy. “Wow,” you say. “Merry Christmas to you.”

“She worries,” Chaewon says quickly, like she has to defend it. “She just… thinks this is temporary.”

“This,” you repeat. “You mean the job?”

“She doesn’t just mean the job,” she says dryly. “She means everything. Workshops, open mics, having fun.” Her eyes flick to your apron, then her own. “This is… beneath what she thinks I can do.”

“What do you think?” you ask.

She stares at the steam curling out of her mug. “Some days I agree with her,” she says. “But some days this is the only place that makes sense.”

The kettle ticks as it cools. The storm drums on the far wall, insistent.

You look down at your empty cup. “We’re a mess,” you say.

“We’re college students trapped in a blizzard,” she says. “Mess is implied.”

You watch her for a moment. The tiny emergency candle has burned down a little, wax spilling over the side. The air smells like cheap vanilla and ramen.

Your phone buzzes on the crate next to you, vibrating against the wood.

You both jolt.

You snatch it up. There’s a new text in the group chat Ms. Lim insists on having. The message explains how the roads are closed and how she will come back tomorrow.

You show the screen to Chaewon.

She reads, exhales slowly, and leans her head back against the boxes. For a second, a real, honest second, she lets everything drop. Her shoulders, her jaw, her face.

“We’re stuck here all night,” she says.

“Sleepover,” you say weakly.

She gives you a look. “We are not eight.”

“Speak for yourself,” you say. “I fully plan on building a pillow fort.”

“The pillows are decorative,” she says.

“So we’ll die pretty,” you say.

She almost smiles, then catches herself. “We should get the heater,” she says instead. “And the blankets.”

You stand, joints popping after sitting on the box for too long. “Yes, captain.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it.

You help her carry the space heater from Ms. Lim’s office—a squat, beige thing that looks like it’s seen at least three decades of undergrad winters. Chaewon plugs it into the outlet behind the counter and flips the switch. It hums hopefully, then warms with a faint metallic smell. Somehow there was still some electricity.

You dig out the blankets from under the counter. One is a navy fleece branded with the bookstore logo. The other is a red-and-green plaid that looks like it’s been through a few family living rooms.

You shake them out. Dust floats in the candlelight.

“You take the fleece,” you say. “I’ll take the… holiday picnic.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she says. “We’ll share both.”

“You hate sharing,” you remind her.

“I do,” she says. “But this is an emergency.”

You snort and let her take over blanket logistics. She does it like she does everything else—efficient, precise. The navy fleece goes over the couch in the reading nook. The plaid gets folded on the arm of the armchair nearby. She takes one of the candles and the flashlight over, setting the candle on the low table, the flashlight beside it.

The store looks smaller in the half-light. The kids’ corner rug, the crooked tree, the tables—everything’s part of the same dim room now, not separate sections.

Your breath fogs faintly in front of your lips if you exhale hard enough.

You wrap your scarf tighter around your neck. It’s a dark knit you snagged on clearance last year. You forget you’re still wearing it until the wool scratches your chin.

Chaewon glances over, eyes catching on the scarf. You can see her calculating.

Without warning, she steps up close—closer than she’s been all evening outside the narrow back hallway. Close enough that you can see the tiny mole near her left ear.

“What are you—” you start, but she’s already reaching.

She loops her fingers under the scarf and tugs.

“Hey—”

“Relax,” she says. “You’re terrible at knots.”

You stand there stupidly while she unwraps it, the sudden rush of cold at your throat making you swallow. She smells like cheap tea, candle smoke, and whatever perfume she always wears that you’ve never been able to name.

She shakes the scarf out once and then, instead of putting it on you, throws it back around both your necks, looping it so one end falls on your chest, the other on hers.

You blink down at the wool where it stretches between you.

“This seems counterproductive,” you say. “Now we’re both half cold.”

“We’re sharing body heat,” she says, like it’s obvious. “Basic physics.”

Her face is inches from yours now, the scarf setting a fixed distance that suddenly feels very small. You can’t back up without dragging her with you. You’re not sure you’d want to.

You’re both quiet for a beat.

“You’re weird,” you say.

“You’re wearing a hoodie with holes in it,” she counters.

You want to say something sharp back, but your brain has decided to focus all its energy into not looking at her mouth.

She clears her throat. “We should stay in here,” she says, nodding at the reading nook. “Closer to the heater.”

“And the books,” you say.

“And the books,” she concedes.

You sink onto the couch. The cushion dips under your weight, springs protesting softly. Chaewon hesitates for half a second, then sits too, the scarf pulling her down next to you.

You could have sat with space between you. The couch is big enough for that. She doesn’t. She sits close enough that your thighs brush, just barely, denim on denim.

The fleece blanket is right there, so you grab one end and toss it over both your laps. It settles warm and heavy. Your legs stop shivering.

You can feel her through three layers of fabric and it still feels like too much.

For a while, you just sit there.

The heater hums. The storm beats its fists against the walls. The emergency lights cast their sickly yellow, but the little candle on the table adds soft orange where it can. The store smells like wax and dust and paper and the kind of quiet you only get when the whole world is stuck.

“You know,” you say eventually, staring at the opposite shelf, “this is the part in a romcom where they’d find the old record player and dance in the dark.”

“We don’t own a record player,” Chaewon says.

“Metaphorically,” you say.

“We don’t own a metaphorical record player either,” she says. “We own a Bluetooth speaker that dies every two hours.”

“Wow,” you say. “Ruining all my quips.”

“You’re welcome,” she says.

You shift under the blanket, trying to discreetly move your leg so your knee doesn’t bump hers every time you breathe. You fail.

Her phone buzzes again. She glances down.

Your eyes catch the screen before she can tilt it away.

MOM: Send me your CV again. I want to show it to a friend. You can’t waste your time there forever. The storm is not an excuse. Think about me.

Chaewon flips the phone face-down so fast she almost hits her own mug.

You pretend you didn’t see, but your hands clench under the blanket.

“I hate her,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Chaewon looks over sharply.

“She doesn’t even ask if you’re okay,” you say. “What kind of mother is that?”

“She’s like that with everything,” Chaewon says stiffly. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” you say.

Her mouth sets. “If I wanted therapy, I’d pay someone.”

“Yeah, except we’re two overcaffeinated lit majors in a blackout,” you say. “This is the free trial.”

She snorts despite herself. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I’m funny,” you say. “Less sure about functional.”

She hums at that, low in her throat.

The scarf scratches your jaw every time you talk. Every time she shifts, it tugs at you.

“Why do you keep doing that?” you ask.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’m committing a crime every time I breathe,” you say.

Her lips straighten. “I told you,” she says. “You’re… frustrating.”

“Because I won’t read at open mic,” you say.

“Because you won’t do anything at open mic,” she says. “You hide behind… half-finished drafts and self-effacing jokes.”

“You hide behind being mean,” you counter.

“I’m not mean,” she says, offended.

“You told Jenny her protagonist had ‘the emotional range of a potato,’” you add.

“She thanked me for that comment,” Chaewon says. “She even added a scene because of it.”

You throw your head back against the couch, staring up at the dim ceiling. “You know there are ways to help others that don’t involve psychological warfare, right?”

“Not in my family,” she mutters.

You let the words hang for a beat.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Then consider this… outside your family.”

She glances over.

“I don’t think you’re… temporary,” you say, stumbling a little over the word. “Not here. Not at the bookstore. Not… for me.” You swallow. “I work harder when you’re around. Like, at everything. Because you’ll notice if I half-ass it. And I don’t want you to think I’m—”

“A coward?” she supplies.

“Yeah,” you say. “That.”

She stares at you for a moment, really looks, like she’s trying to see through whatever you’re hiding behind.

Her eyes soften at the edges. “I don’t actually think you’re a coward. And I… I don’t want to be mean. I just didn’t know how to… stop,” she says. “So I just kept doing it. It’s easier than…” Her gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second, then darts away. “Other things.”

Your skin goes hot under your hoodie. “Like… what?” you ask, your voice a little rough.

She takes a slow breath. Sets her mug down carefully on the table. Her hand stays there, fingers splayed near the candle, like she needs something to anchor her.

“Like admitting I like you,” she says.

The words felt like stepping into the ocean. Cold at first, then all warmth.

You blink. Your heart does a weird, useless leap. Your brain offers nothing.

“That’s not… funny,” you say, because nothing else came to mind.

“I’m not joking,” she says, and she’s looking you straight in the eyes now. No flinch. No smirk. Just the raw, awful honesty she usually reserves for other people’s work.

You swallow. “You have a terrible way of showing it.”

“I know,” she says. “Believe me, I know.”

You stare at her for a moment, feeling like the floor’s moved an inch to the left and you’re trying to adjust.

“Today. You yelled at me about the book covers,” you say.

She huffs a small almost-laugh. “That was foreplay,” she says.

Your brain short-circuits. “Okay, wow,” you say. “We’re just—leaping there.”

Her cheeks flare red. “I didn’t mean— I just—” She groans, burying her face briefly in her hands. “I knew this would sound better in my head.”

“It actually sounded perfect,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

She peeks at you through her fingers. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m really not,” you say.

You shift, and the scarf pulls at both your necks, drawing you closer. You can feel the heat of her breath now.

“Say you don’t like me back,” she says quietly. “And we can forget this. Blame it on the cold.”

You let out a shaky breath that fogs in the thin cold between you.

“I would,” you say. “But I’m not that good a liar.”

Something like relief and terror flashes across her face at once.

“You’re not going to make me say it again,” she mutters.

“I think you’ve said plenty,” you say. “It’s my turn.”

Her eyes snap back to yours.

“I like you,” you say. The words feel weird and big in your mouth, like you’re twelve again and confessing in some hallway. “Obviously. I wouldn’t spend this much time arguing about shelving with you if I didn’t.”

Her lips tremble at the corner, like she’s fighting a smile and a panic attack at the same time.

“Just… so we’re clear,” she says, because of course she wants clarity even now. “You don’t mean ‘like’ as in ‘we’re friends.’”

“Do friends argue about book covers?” you ask.

“I think so,” she says, puzzled.

You huff out a breath that’s closer to a laugh. “Then no,” you say. “Not like that.”

Silence stretches out between you, but it’s different now. Thicker. Charged.

You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears. The storm outside, the heater, the little candle—all of it fades to a dull hum.

“Okay,” she says faintly.

“Okay,” you echo.

The scarf between you feels suddenly less like an accident and more like a decision.

“Chaewon,” you say, and her name feels different now too.

“Yeah,” she says. Her voice is a little breathless.

“Can I…?” You lift your hand halfway, toward her cheek, then stop yourself. Old habits, always leaving the out.

She watches your hand, then your face.

“Don’t be a coward,” she says.

You let yourself touch her, then. Your fingers skim along her jaw, cool skin under your thumb. She sucks in a breath, eyes fluttering for a second.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” you say, because you need to.

She huffs out a shaky laugh. “You’re seriously giving yourself an out?” she asks.

“Wouldn’t you?” you ask.

She leans in that last inch, closing the space, the wool of the scarf scratching your chin as it tightens.

“Not when I’m sure,” she says.

Her mouth finds yours.

It’s soft at first, almost clumsy. Her lips are colder than you expected, warmed quickly by the press of yours. For a second, you forget how to breathe entirely.

Then your body catches up.

You kiss her back.

Her hand comes up to your chest, fingers curling in the fabric of your hoodie like she needs something to hold onto. You can feel her heart racing under the layers between you. Yours is doing something equally stupid, hammering against your ribs like it wants to make sure she hears it.

When she pulls back after a few seconds, her eyes are wide, pupils blown, breath coming a little too fast.

“Okay,” she says again, dazed now.

“That was—” you start.

“Don’t make a joke,” she warns, still breathless.

“—very efficient use of shared body heat,” you finish, because you can’t help yourself.

She smacks your chest lightly with the back of her hand. “Dumbass.”

“You like me,” you remind her.

“Unfortunately,” she mutters.

Her hand is still on your chest. You can feel the press of her palm through fabric.

You look at her, really look. At the slightly crooked clip in her hair. At the flush on her cheeks that has nothing to do with the heater. At the way her eyes keep darting back to your mouth, like she’s memorizing it.

“Is this okay?” you ask, nodding to where your fingers are still against her jaw.

She nods once, small and sharp.

You let your thumb move, stroking down along the line of her cheek to the corner of her mouth. Her lips part on a small inhale.

“Good,” you murmur, and lean in again.

This time, the kiss clicks.

It’s deeper, surer, all the sharp edges between you melting into something hot and final. She tilts her head, mouth opening under yours, and you follow her lead like it’s the easiest thing you’ve done. Your hand slides from her jaw to the back of her neck, fingers dipping into the hair at her nape. She shivers.

Her fingers bunch harder in your hoodie, pulling you closer. The scarf tightens, dragging you together until your noses bump. You both laugh into each other’s mouths, brief and breathless, and then she’s kissing you again, like she’s making up for all the time she spent pretending she couldn’t stand you.

The blanket slips, sliding off one of your knees. The cold air nips at your shin. You don’t care.

Her hand leaves your chest, hesitates in the space between you for a second, then lands at your hip, fingers curling into the denim. Your pulse jumps so hard you can feel it in your ears.

You break the kiss long enough to press your forehead to hers. Your breaths mix in the narrow gap.

“We should—” you start.

“Not stop,” she says quickly, and then flushes. “Unless you want to. Do you—?” The confidence she had a second ago frays at the edges.

This time it’s her giving herself the out. You could tease her. You don’t.

“No,” you say, chest tight. “I don’t want to stop.”

Something in her shoulders unclenches so visibly you almost see it.

“Okay,” she whispers.

Chaewon smiles, eyes scanning yours, just to see if anything changes. It does. Her fingers move—slow, deliberate—into your pants, over your pelvis, toward your cock. She stops at the base of your shaft, giving it a couple tight squeezes like the way you harden at her touch turns her on.

Your pulse snaps awake like it had somewhere to be.

She tilts her head, smiles, and gives you the hungriest look a woman can give. She licks her lips. Hungry. Anticipatory.

It’s obvious she is having fun playing this game, a game that feels like hell for you. Your cock grows harder and harder, straining against the tight fabric of your pants, begging to be let out. Your hips jerk forward as your mouth strains.

She notices you wincing and leans in, lowering her face until it hovers an inch above your jeans. Her breath fogs into the denim.

“I’ll take them off.”

Not a question.

With slow, deliberate tugs, she slides your pants down until you’re exposed. Her head is dangerously close to your cock. As you spring free from under the pants, your cock slaps Chaewon over the nose.

“Ow…” she grunts, but wraps her small hands around your hard cock, smiling.

Fuck. Cold.

“Chae—”

“Shh,” she whispers, fingers tightening on your cock. “I’ll warm you up.”

And then she kisses you. Not gently. Not hesitantly. Like she is hungry and you are the only thing on the menu.

Her mouth claims yours, fierce and all-consuming, her fingers tangling into your head before you can think straight. You kiss her back, your hands grip her hips, drawing her into your lap, trying not to sink into the water too fast. But you are already drowning.

She pulls back just enough to break the kiss, lips brushing yours as she gasps. “God… that should’ve happened ages ago, don’t you think?”

But you can barely think, let alone speak.

“Your mouth tastes pretty good,” she whispers, rolling her hips over yours. An electric jolt surges through both your heads. “I don’t think I’ll be able to go a day without it now.”

“You won’t have to.”

She bites her lip, only just. Almost like she doesn’t want you to see it. “Well, well. Aren’t I a lucky girl?”

Then her mouth finds your neck—soft at first, then teeth. A promise. She giggles and hums into your skin as her hand trails back to your cock, stroking from base to tip with deliberate care. She knows exactly how much pressure to apply to make your toes curl.

You pull her tighter, lips at her jaw, tasting that smile she wears ever since the confession. Her nails dig deep into your shoulder. Her hips roll again, a sound you don’t recognize escaping your mouth.

Her teeth bare deeper into your neck, sucking and licking along the hollow just below your ear.

“Hey,” she whispers into your ear, hand pumping your cock like she has all the time in the world, “Want me to suck your dick?”

As soon as the word leave her mouth, a flush creeps up her neck and settles into her cheeks.

But she doesn’t backpedal. She just holds your gaze, lips parted slightly, hand still wrapped around your cock like it’s hers to offer something to.

Your body answers before your mouth does. Cock twitching in her grip, hips tilting upward like they’re desperate for her to mean it. Her fingers squeeze reflexively, and she feels it. Sees it. That twitch. That involuntary need.

That’s all the confirmation she needs.

She lets out a soft breath—half nerves, half relief—and then starts to move. Not fast. Not showy. Just a quiet, careful shift down between your legs. She kneels like she’s sliding into something sacred, her hands never leaving your skin.

Her eyes stay on you, watching every micro-expression flicker across your face as she leans in closer, lowering her head until you feel her breath again; warm, shallow, hovering just above the head of your cock.

You’re shaking.

Not visibly, probably, but underneath. In your breath. In the way your stomach tightens, in the way your hand curls into the cushion beside you like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

She watches that too.

Then—still watching—she presses her lips to you. Just the tip.

Soft. Warm. Closed-mouth. A kiss.

You groan, quiet, like the sound snuck out before you could decide if it was safe to let it out.

Her lashes flutter.

Another kiss, lower this time. Then she parts her lips, and her tongue flicks out—one slow, purposeful lick along the underside of your shaft. Her fingers tighten at the base, holding you still like she’s tasting you on her terms.

You choke on a breath. Your hips jump just a little, and she hums in response, the sound vibrating into your skin like a promise.

She’s enjoying this.

Not just the effect she has on you, but this. The feel of you. The taste. The power of it.

Her lips part wider, and then her mouth starts to take you in—inch by inch, slow and wet and unbearably controlled. Her tongue cradles you underneath while her lips slide down, fitting tight and perfect around your cock like she wants to feel every reaction drag out of you one movement at a time.

You drop your head back against the couch, jaw clenching, trying not to move too much, trying not to fuck up the rhythm she’s building—because it’s insane, how good she is at this. Not porn-star flashy. Not trying to impress. Just methodical. Measured. Maddening.

Her hand strokes the rest of your shaft in sync with her mouth, slow and twisting, and the whole thing is so hot and so focused that it makes your vision go blurry at the edges.

When she pulls back, it’s not to stop.

It’s just to breathe. To look up at you, spit-slick and flushed.

Her voice is husky. “You okay?”

You let out a breath that might be a laugh or a cry. “No,” you say. “Keep going.”

She leans in again, and this time she takes more. Her jaw loosens. Her throat opens. Your cock slides deeper into her mouth and your whole body tenses like she’s touching a live wire. Her nails dig lightly into your thigh as she finds a rhythm—slow, tight, relentless—and holy fuck, she doesn’t even blink when your hand tangles in her hair, not pulling, just holding on.

She likes it.

You can tell by the little moan she lets slip when you groan her name.

“Chaewon…”

Her pace stays controlled, but you can feel it building now. The tension. The heat. The sheer weight of the moment pressing down on both of you like you’re past the point of pretending this is anything casual. This is happening, and she’s savoring it.

She pulls off with a slick gasp, stroking you lazily while she catches her breath. Her lips are swollen, flushed, parted like she wants to say something but isn’t sure if she should.

You look down at her—ruined—and she smiles like she’s not even close to finished.

“I want you inside me,” she says quietly, thumb dragging up the length of your cock in one slow glide.

Then she leans in again, tongue flicking over the head like punctuation.

“But not until I’ve had my fill.”

She takes you back into her mouth.

Not rushing. Not trying to finish you off. Just settling into it. Lips warm and firm, tongue slow and intentional, like she’s learning the exact shape of you and committing it to memory. Her hand keeps a steady rhythm at your base, grip confident, thumb brushing the sensitive skin there every time she comes back up.

You’re already on edge. Every nerve feels tuned too high.

She hums softly again, pleased with the way your thighs tense, the way your breath breaks. The sound vibrates through you and you swear you feel it in your chest. Your fingers tighten in her hair—not pulling, never pulling—but she still tilts her head slightly, accommodating you, letting you sink a little deeper into the heat of her mouth.

“Fuck,” you whisper, helpless. “Chae…”

She pulls back just enough to breathe, lips dragging slowly along your length as she does. A thin string of saliva stretches, then breaks. Her eyes meet yours immediately.

“You’re shaking,” she murmurs, almost fond. “You want me to slow down… or make it worse?”

Your answer is a wrecked sound that barely qualifies as a word.

She smiles and does both.

Her pace slows, but the pressure increases. Mouth tighter, tongue more deliberate, her hand twisting just enough to make you gasp. She takes her time, edging you without mercy, letting you hover there until there is no more air in your lungs.

You feel it building. Too fast.

“Chaewon,” you warn, breath hitching. “I’m—”

She pulls off immediately, palm firm at your base, stopping you right there. You whine—actually whine—and she looks a little stunned by it, like she didn’t expect that sound to come out of you.

Her cheeks color again, deeper this time.

“Not yet,” she says softly. “I told you. I want you inside me.”

She rises smoothly to her feet, hands still on you, still stroking just enough to keep you aching. She kisses you again—slow, open-mouthed, tasting herself on your lips like she’s claiming something. You groan into her mouth, hands sliding up her back, pulling her closer, desperate for friction.

She shifts, straddling you again, and you feel it immediately; the heat between her thighs, the way she rolls her hips once, experimentally, grinding down against you. You both inhale sharply.

“Oh,” she breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “This could be… dangerous.”

You laugh weakly. “You’re the one doing it.”

“I know. And I’m not going to stop,” she says, and kisses you again, harder this time.

Her hands move with purpose now, tugging at your hoodie, then her own sweater. Fabric piles up around your wrists, your shoulders, the couch. Skin meets skin. She’s warm everywhere. Perfect. She gasps when your hands slide under her shirt, when your thumbs brush under her bra, when you finally cup her breasts like you’ve been imagining all night.

“Is this okay?” you ask again, because you always will.

“Yes,” she breathes immediately. “God, yes.”

She kisses you like she’s done waiting. Like all that tension—the arguing, the watching, the almosts—has finally snapped. Her hips rock again, more insistent, and you can feel how wet she is through the layers between you.

You groan into her neck. “If you keep doing that, I’m not going to last.”

“Fuck—” she says, breathless. “Then we’ll fix that.”

She reaches between you, fumbling just a little this time—nerves finally catching up. She lines you up, pauses for half a second with her eyes squeezed shut like she’s bracing herself.

You grip her hips. “Chaewon—”

She exhales and sinks down onto you.

Slow. Careful. Full.

Both of you freeze the second you’re fully together, the sensation stealing the air from your lungs. She gasps, hands clutching your shoulders, nails biting in as she adjusts, as the stretch gives way to something hot and overwhelming.

“Oh,” she breathes again, wrecked now. “Oh my god.”

You swallow hard, trying not to move until she nods, until she’s ready. Her forehead rests against yours, breaths shallow, eyes fluttering closed.

Then she rolls her hips.

You groan—low, helpless—as she starts to move, slow and deep, like she’s savoring every inch of you. Her rhythm is unhurried, controlled, and it’s somehow even more devastating than before. You hold her like you’re afraid she’ll disappear, thumbs digging into her waist as she rides you, breath hitching with every movement.

Chaewon starts slow, but it doesn’t last.

Not because she loses control. She never does. But because once she adjusts to the feel of you, once the sharp edge of stretch softens into something deeper, something hotter, she moves with intention.

Not rhythm for rhythm’s sake. Not showy. Strategic.

She rides you like she’s trying to memorize how you fit together, like she’s spent months imagining this and now she’s reaping her reward—grinding her hips down in slow, devastating rolls that make your vision white out at the edges. Her palms press into your shoulders for leverage, her thighs tense around yours. Her breath stutters every time your cock hits deep, and still—still—she doesn’t break rhythm.

You’re the one unraveling.

“Jesus,” you gasp, hands digging into her waist. “You’re…”

“Say it,” she pants, lips hovering a breath above yours. Her voice is wrecked, low, demanding.

You try to form a thought. Can’t.

“Fucking perfect,” you groan.

Her laugh is broken and delighted, swallowed by a kiss; sloppy now, open-mouthed and teeth-clicking. Your tongues tangle. She swallows the sound you make when she sinks down hard enough to make your cock throb against her walls.

The wet slick of her, the tight grip, the warmth—you’re dying. You’ve never wanted anything this badly. Never felt someone want you back with this much heat.

She buries her face in your neck, teeth grazing the skin beneath your ear again. “You feel so fucking good,” she whispers. “So big. So perfect. Like you were made to be inside me.”

You groan. Loud, desperate, hips jerking up into her before you can stop yourself.

Chaewon moans.

You feel it in your chest. In your cock. In your spine.

She clenches around you, just once, involuntary. Her rhythm breaks for a second.

You realize—she’s close too.

You grip her tighter, planting your feet, thrusting up to meet her with sharp, hungry precision now. She gasps, rocks back, eyes wide and stunned. The change hits her hard.

“Yes—” she chokes out. “Right there, fuck, there—”

You give her everything. Harder. Deeper. Your cock driving up into her just the way she wants it, your fingers gripping her hips to control the rhythm as her legs begin to tremble around you.

“Chae,” you gasp, breath ragged. “You’re gonna—”

“I know,” she moans, hands sliding to your chest, bracing herself. Her pace turns erratic. She’s chasing it now, so close she can taste it. “Don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

“I’m not,” you grit out, thrusting up again, hitting the spot that makes her collapse forward into your shoulder with a strangled, broken cry.

That’s the moment she falls apart.

Her body tenses—tight, tighter—then shudders in your arms as her orgasm rips through her. She’s gasping, hips jerking, moaning something you don’t understand against your skin like a confession she can’t hold back anymore.

She clenches around you, pulsing wet heat dragging you to the edge right with her.

You hold her through it, hips still rolling, cock still buried deep until you can’t take it anymore.

“Chaewon—” you warn.

She pulls back, meets your eyes, and nods. Wild-eyed, sweaty, flushed, and beautiful.

“Come,” she says. “I want to feel you.”

That’s it.

You snap.

Your whole body locks up—hands gripping her waist, cock pulsing deep inside her as you bury yourself one last time and come hard. The heat of it floods both of you. You groan through gritted teeth, breath gone, every nerve lit up, every thought reduced to her and the way she feels and the way she takes it, riding you through it until you’re gasping and empty and wrecked.

You don’t even realize how hard you’re holding her until she falls on your chest.

Breathing hard. Shaking a little. Still twitching every time your hips shift.

You both stay there, tangled in each other, wrapped in shared heat and sweat and whatever the hell just passed between you.

You kiss her shoulder. She hums. Her fingers curl around your arms like she’s afraid you’ll float away if she lets go.

“You okay?” you whisper, throat rough.

She lifts her head slowly. Hair a mess. Eyes glassy. She nods.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “Just… can’t feel my legs.”

You snort. “I’ll take that as a good sign.”

Her lips twitch. She smacks your chest lightly, but doesn’t move away. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Didn’t sound like luck a minute ago,” you murmur.

She groans into your neck, then laughs.

You let the silence settle. Outside, the storm howls, distant again. Somewhere behind the counter, the emergency candle’s burned low.

You’re warm now.

Warm, full, utterly spent, and holding Chaewon in your lap like you never want to be anywhere else.

“I still hate how you shelve books,” she says sleepily.

“Yeah?” you murmur. “I hate how you compliment others like you’re insulting them.”

She lifts her head, smirks.

You kiss her again. Just once. Gentle.

She leans into it.

It’s not a big deal, though, she did more than enough to help you forget. It was a bit of a feverdream, and after everything was said and done, you lay in the bed with Kazuha snuggled up in your arms while you searched for engagement rings. You obviously can’t actually propose, but she loved the idea of it almost as much as you loved what she did for you that night. You wouldn’t exactly call yourself a sadist, but if it meant getting to experience that night again…

“Has anyone ever told you how cute you two are?” Sakura comments casually without even lifting her eyes off her Switch.

Yunjin peeks over the top of her book and smiles. “She’s not wrong.”

Kazuha, eyes still closed, lets out the smallest of giggles.

The four of you have been waiting for about an hour now, resting up before the show. It’s all a bit new to you as an outsider to the industry, but it turns out being an idol involves a lot of waiting. It’s busy and hard work as well, of course, but there’s just so much waiting. At least it gives you more time with the girl you love.

Sakura puts down her switch and stretches her arms high, yawning briefly before laughing when she sees you and Kazuha again. “She looks so comfy,” Sakura leans back in her chair. “I’m a bit jealous.”

“I am comfy,” Kazuha replies with a smile on her lips, face all peaceful.

“Good,” you lean down and kiss her forehead. “We still have like two hours.”

“Two hours?” Yunjin drops her book and lays her head flat on the table in front of her. “We’ve been here all day.”

Kazuha lifts herself up and readjusts so that she’s now sitting on your lap sideways with her arms wrapped around your head and her face nestled into your neck.

“Sweetheart,” you laugh, tossing your phone to the side. “I know you’re tired, but I don’t wanna ruin your makeup.”

“It’s fine,” she mumbles into your body, muffling her voice.

“I can’t with you two,” Sakura shakes her head with an uncontrollable smile stuck on her face. “I wonder what’s taking those two so long, weren’t they bringing us drinks?”

“Oh yeah,” Yunjin stands up. “I’ll go check on them.”

As Yunjin leaves the room, Kazuha starts kissing your neck. It starts with just a couple of small pecks, but soon she’s really getting into it, assuredly leaving marks all over your skin. She’s even moaning softly now, running her hands through your hair, and grinding her hips against your lap.

“You know what, maybe I’ll go check, too,” Sakura giggles, blushing slightly before scurrying out of the room, leaving just you and Kazuha alone.

“Tell me something,” Kazuha murmurs while still sucking on your neck.

“What’s that?” you slide your hand lower on her body and rest your palm against her ass.

Kazuha leans back from you and looks at you with that mischievous little expression, the one you know all too well these days.

“Now?” you laugh and slap her ass lightly.

“Let me at least just suck you off?” her voice is so sultry and deep as she slides off your body and down to her knees.

“Bit risky, no?” you lift your hips up to help her ease down your pants. “Your group could walk back in literally any second.”

“That’s the fun part,” Kazuha smiles up at you while taking a hold of your shaft. “And look how hard you are already, don’t tell me you’d rather go jerk off in the bathroom.”

“You’ve spent the last hour teasing me, of course it’s all I can think about.”

She’s already pumping your cock slowly. “Then relax and let it happen,” she sticks her tongue out and slides it against your length. “I’ll make it quick.”

“I’m sure you…” your breath hitches and you gasp as Kazuha slips your cock into her mouth.

There’s no good reason for you to be this caught off. You saw it coming, she literally told you what she was about to do, it wasn’t a secret yet you’re still sitting here mouth agape and brain turned to mush. It’s so much better than you were prepared for – her soft lips and warm mouth, a snug blanket around your cock.

It’s that effortless beauty, that jaw-dropping, head-turning, double-taking absolute perfection on her knees in front of you. She even knows how to keep her hair out of her face with the subtle neck movements, to make sure you can see her in her element: dancer talents, probably. It’s absolutely magical. Cheeks hollowed, eyes sharp and focused, Kazuha is a seasoned expert of her craft, the one who can put all others to shame.

She knows it, too. That’s part of what makes her so good at what she does. Even if you hold back, even if you try hiding it, she knows it’s working. She knows you far too well at this point, and she wasn’t kidding when she said it’ll be quick.

Lips tight, hand twisting in tandem with the rhythmic bobs of her head, it feels even better than it looks. She has your cock twitching, begging for release, desperate for closure. Maybe it’s the incessant teasing, the way she’s never willing to let go of you figuratively and literally. Her touch is your drug – addicting beyond belief.

“Zuha,” you gasp, shutting your eyes tight.

She lifts her mouth with a gentle pop. “Don’t hold back, let it out,” she tightens her grip and strokes faster. “Look at me.”

You immediately oblige – obviously. It only takes about two seconds for you to realize you’ve already lost it. Everything about the way she’s looking up at you is literally perfect. She is absolutely the prettiest girl you have ever seen in your life, and the way she’s looking at you…

“Cum for me,” she whispers, her mouth close enough to your cock for her breath to gently graze your tip. “That’s right baby, cum in my pretty mouth.”

A strained ‘fuck’ escapes your lips, and it’s all the warning Kazuha needs. She opens her mouth wide in front of your cock, stroking as fast as possible with her tongue sticking out.

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly it happens – but it’s Kazuha afterall.

The first shot flies straight into her open lips, landing on the roof of her mouth. She immediately closes the gap, engulfing your tip and slowing down her strokes.

Your hips end up lifting off the couch, trying to get deeper into her mouth, and Kazuha, the angel she is, accepts it beautifully. She opens wide, lowers herself about halfway down your cock, and happily takes all of your cum straight down her throat.

After about a minute of unloading inside her, you collapse back down into the cushions, and Kazuha slowly eases her mouth off your cock.

“Fucking hell,” you sigh, reaching for your pants. “You were right, got it done before anyone came back.”

Kazuha quickly slaps your hand. “Not so fast,” she rises from her knees and unties the strings of her sweats. “You’re not done yet.”

“Babe, they’re gonna be back any second,” you chuckle.

“I don’t remember asking,” she replies casually while dropping her sweats down to her ankles and stepping out of them. With one foot, she kicks them up into her hand and tosses them on the couch next to you. “Sit,” she points at the floor.

“What am I, your dog?” you laugh while sliding off the couch onto the floor, leaning your back against the cushions.

Kazuha steps up right in front of you, crotch in your face, and holds your head with both hands. “If I said bark, would you?” she asks calmly while running her fingers through your hair, making a mess of it.

“Is that what you want?”

Her lips curl into a little smile. “No,” she answers, equally as nonchalantly, “I want you to open your mouth and stick your tongue out.”

This time, you obey immediately without any question.

“Good boy,” Kazuha bends her legs just enough for her light pink panties to press against your mouth. “And you’re going to keep it open until I tell you to stop. Even if someone walks in. Understand?”

“Mhmmm,” you mumble into her panties.

Kazuha quickly tugs your hair back, tilting your head up as she stands up straight again. With one hand tightly gripping your hair, she reaches down with the other and pulls her panties aside.

The first thought that crosses your mind is how the view is fucking magnificent. You’re not sure if her glossy pussy is dripping onto your tongue, or if you’re drooling. What’s certain, though, is how hard you’re straining your neck trying to move closer. You don’t just want her in your mouth, you need her.

Thankfully, for once Kazuha doesn’t torture you for long. She slowly lowers herself right onto your mouth, and you tense your tongue hard, letting it enter her pussy just a bit.

“Ah yes,” she moans softly, grabbing your head with both hands again and pulling your face into her pussy.

Your eyes are shut tight now and all of your focus is shifted to her taste and the softness of her skin against your mouth. She’s moving her hips up and down your face slowly, just a touch, making the occasional little circle while you desperately try to shove your tongue deeper inside her.

Soon you’ve clamped your mouth down tight against her pussy, ignoring the occasional sharp tug of your hair every time you manage to hit the right spot. She’s letting more and more of her weight fall onto your face as her legs lose strength, but that doesn’t matter. Your head is being completely squished between the cushions and Kazuha’s pussy, but that also doesn’t matter.

No, all that matters is how fucking addicting she tastes.

Time is quickly fading away, you’ve completely lost track of it now. All you know is you need to keep sucking and licking Kazuha’s pussy, your life depends on it. Really, it’s all that matters, it’s your only purpose in life.

Her pussy’s leaking now, right into your mouth. You swallow it all up with ease, it doesn’t even slow you down. Just like her soft moans are bringing you energy, every drop that spills into your mouth is like pure fuel for your body.

Your chest starts heaving up and down and you feel your heart rate skyrocket, suddenly realizing you’ve been forgetting to breathe. You’re almost choking on her now, the intense wetness coating your face, but choking has never felt so good.

Just when you start feeling a bit light headed, Kazuha screams out and lifts herself up. Your eyes shoot open and you can see her body trembling above you, her pussy dripping right onto your face. You quickly reach up with both arms, wrapping one around the back of her thigh while bringing your other hand to her pussy. Using just your thumb, you draw quick circles against her clit until her knees give out and she drops down in front of you again.

“Wait!” she cries out, pussy just far enough away that your mouth can’t reach.

You’re not waiting.

She’s squirming, clenching her legs together, but you’re relentless. Her pussy squirts out, right onto your face, and all you do is open your mouth in an attempt to lap it all up. You sit up straight and catch her with your face as her legs give out; You’re laying flat on your back now, and Kazuha’s pussy is pressed firmly against your mouth.

“I fucking hate you so much,” she whines, swaying her hips, smearing her pussy across your face.

You moan some incoherent mess back at her, still far more interested in sucking her pussy clean than the useless attempt at conversing. Another small squirt shoots directly into your mouth and down your throat, and all your immediate reaction is to open your mouth wider. You give her a final couple of licks, feeling her legs shudder against your head, before finally letting her go.

“Oh my fucking God,” Kazuha gasps, standing up straight above you.

“You asked for it,” you casually wipe your chin with the back of your hand. “Now get those pants back on before we get caught.”

She takes a few deep breaths, desperately trying to compose herself while you do the same. After about half a minute or so, she stands up straight with that perfect ballerina posture.

“No,” Kazuha eventually replies softly. She uses her feet to spread your legs wide before she sticks her foot out towards your crotch. She slides your hard cock between her toes and gives you a couple of slow pumps, smirking at you the entire time. “You’ve been such a good boy, you’re going to be rewarded for that.”

“Zuha…” you groan, squirming under her touch.

“Do you know how much I just came?” she moves her foot away and steps over you again. “And you took it all.”

“That’s right princess, I’d do anything for you.”

“I know,” she holds your face in her hands again. “That’s why I love you.”

Suddenly, across the room, the door clicks open and a couple of voices come through.

“I don’t know why, it’s so–” Sakura’s voice stops abruptly. “Oh.”

“What happened?” Chaewon steps in behind Sakura. “Oh! Sorry!”

Chaewon quickly grabs Sakura who’s still frozen in place, staring at Kazuha’s bare ass in shock, and pulls her back out of the room, slamming the door shut. You can hear what you assume is Yunjin’s voice asking ‘what happened’ through the door.

Kazuha, completely unphazed by the whole situation, is still holding your face and smiling at you.

“My members just saw my ass again.”

“It’s a nice ass, they’re lucky.”

“You think so?” she lets go of your face and turns around, slowly bending at the hips, looking back at you over her shoulder.

“Kazuha… fuck it…” you quickly sit up straight and reach forward. “Come here.”

You grab her cheeks and spread them before shoving your face into her, pressing your tongue flat against her asshole. She lets out the most adorable giggle on this entire planet as you plant wet, sloppy kisses all over her.

“Alright, enough,” Kazuha pulls away, still giggling. She drops down to her hands and knees in front of you, and again she looks back over her shoulder with that same look you know all too well. “I’d say we have about five minutes before they come back.”

“That’s more than enough.”

***

“You’re going to get us caught.”

“So what?” you chuckle, offering just enough resistance to make Sakura work for it as she pushes you; Eventually, you give in and let her win. “Wow, could you have picked a smaller room?”

“I didn’t have much time, and neither do we,” Sakura quickly enters behind you and lets out a deep breath. She looks up at you with those gorgeous, expressive eyes and leans her back against the closed door. “Think we can make it work?”

You take a look around. It’s barely larger than a closet, and it has a specific dingy scent to it. The flickering, exposed lightbulb combined with the random assortment of mismatched boxes lining the shelves really set the mood. Maybe not the mood, but certainly a mood. You turn back towards Sakura.

“Think it’s soundproof?”

She stifles her giggle with one hand and shoves your shoulder with the other. “Shut up,” she twists her voice into the most adorable whine imaginable, rolling her eyes. “Seriously though, we don’t have much time.”

“Then hurry up and take these out,” you reach forward and cup her breasts in your palms. “And next time, maybe text a bit earlier.”

“Oh whatever,” Sakura yanks the neck of her shirt down and reaches in. “I was busy.”

Just like that, Sakura has her tits out.

“Alright fine, I forgive you,” you reach both hands forward and gently flick your thumbs against her nipples while pressing your fingers into her chest. “I thought they made you wear those little stickers?”

“They’re in my bag, I haven’t put them on yet,” Sakura answers while reaching down under her skirt. “I know how much you hate them.”

“I don’t hate them, I just prefer seeing all of you.”

“Well, unfortunately,” Sakura bends down and picks her shorts off from the floor before folding them neatly and placing them on one of the shelves, “I won’t have time to take everything off and get it back on before the show. It’s also just too much work.”

“It really isn’t, but that’s fine,” you close the gap between the two of you and reach around her body. You flip the back of her skirt up and squish both hands into her cheeks. “I have all the bits I want right here.”

“Please be careful this time,” Sakura giggles, smirking at you. “I’m wearing this outfit on stage, I don’t want another incident like last time. You have no idea how awkward that conversation with the staff was.”

“We’re pretending like that was my fault, are we?” you lift one of your hands and slap her soft ass lightly. “How was I supposed to know my lovely girlfriend has become a spitter?”

“I am not,” Sakura whines, bringing back that same tone from earlier. “I just wasn’t expecting so much. You’d think with how often I blow you these days you’d be running a bit low.”

“Oh my bad, you made me cum too much,” you laugh before tilting your head and giving Sakura a quick kiss. “Don’t worry, my love, I won’t ruin such a pretty outfit. You look absolutely stunning, by the way.”

Sakura smiles again and now she’s the one to give you a quick kiss. “You say it’s a pretty outfit, but I feel like you haven’t actually looked at it a single time.”

“You’re right,” you let go of her ass and take hold of her tits again, “these are just too distracting.”

“I think it’s time you stop getting distracted.”

“Once again, you’re right.”

You give her tits one final parting squeeze before letting go and grabbing her snatched waist. You spin her around and press on her back until she’s bent over and leaning onto one of the shelves for support. Then, you flip her skirt up again and give her ass another small slap. Her body jolts and she lifts one left up, placing it on one of the boxes.

“Fucking hell,” you mutter as you drop down to your knees behind her, spreading her cheeks with both hands. “I’ve been fucking drooling ever since you sent that picture.”

Sakura reaches one hand between her legs and starts rubbing her clit with two fingers, looking back at you over her shoulder. She doesn’t need to say anything, her eyes are telling a whole story on their own: Usually so big and expressive, now they’re half shut and equally as telling.

You lean in and kiss the inside of her thigh before carefully sliding your tongue up her leg. As rushed as everything feels right now, you still manage to invest a bit of extra time and properly the taste of Sakura’s soft skin. She really has been your vice these last few nights, and you’ve spent more time between her legs than not.

From the front, side, or the back like today, your mouth has been obsessively glued to Sakura’s sweet pussy. It’s beyond addicting. Everything about her is. Her insatiable urge to find you before every show, to sneak in a moment whenever it’s possible and even when it’s not. She doesn’t care. She seemingly has no priorities higher than you, and you have no qualms – she treats you well.

It’s perfect, but amidst it all, there’s just one moment that stands above the rest.

That first, reserved little moan. The one she lets free whenever your mouth finally makes its way to her pussy. Hearing that voice is all you need in life. It never gets old. And of course, it only gets louder when you get closer. By the time your mouth is pressed firmly to her pussy, she’s practically screaming.

She makes it too easy.

A slow lick can make her leg shudder, and a single kiss nearly sends her crashing to the ground. The mess she’s making all over your chin feels almost excessive. Almost.

“Oh how I fucking wish I had more time,” you sigh, standing up behind Sakura and dropping your pants. You turn her head sideways and kiss her while sliding your cock between her legs, coating it with the mess she has spilling down her thighs.

“Me too,” she moans into your mouth, repetitively kissing you, gasping for air between each one. “Come on, put it in. Fuck me good.”

You reach down and fumble around until you’re lined up. Slowly, you inch the tip into her, pausing to let her breathe. “Hold on, sweetheart,” you whisper into her ear, “can’t have you falling over.”

She drops her foot from the box and moves her legs tight together, adding a little bend to her knees and leaning over at the waist until she’s parallel with the floor. Her hands grab onto the shelf until her knuckles turn completely white.

You dig your fingers into her hips, steadying her body before pushing your hips all the way forward in a single motion. She cries out, that moan you’re so addicted to hearing, it spills out so freely with absolutely no inhibition.

She’s so fucking wet. So fucking warm. You can feel her pussy throbbing against your cock, and as you start easing your cock back, quickly realizing you’re the one who might fall over.

Unsteady legs aren’t going to stop you. In fact, absolutely nothing can stop you right now. Seeing Sakura’s pussy swallow your entire cock again and again, it’s all you want in this world. Someone could open the door right now and you wouldn’t even react. No, right now all you care about is Sakura.

Your hips speed up. You’ve eased into it enough, now it’s time to give her what she asked for – to ‘fuck her good’. It couldn’t feel better. Really, this is as good as it gets. That tight squeeze, her flawless pussy, you’re in heaven.

And those moans. If her pussy feels good, her moans feel fucking divine. Her voice can be so sugar-sweet, yet still so intensely filthy. They’re incessant too, drowning out the sound of your thighs hitting her soft ass, louder than the flimsy shelves rattling with each thrust.

“I fucking love you so much,” you fall forward and wrap your arms around her body, still thrusting into her, cock still throbbing inside her. Your hands fumble around her chest until her tits are hanging into your palms.

It’s not enough. You want more. You need more.

“Babe,” you groan, standing up straight and pulling your cock out of her.

“Why’d you stop?” she gasps over her shoulder, looking back at you and still rubbing her clit.

You grab her and turn her around again so that now she’s facing you, quickly wiping the sweat off her forehead before reaching down and looping your arms under her thighs. She immediately understands and hops up into your arms.

“I’m really fucking close,” she moans.

“Then put it back in,” you lean forward and kiss her. She reaches down and grips the base of your cock, guiding it to her pussy. “You feel so fucking good.”

“I love you,” she moans as you enter her again. “Fuck me, please fuck me, fuck.”

You slam your hips into her just as hard and fast as before, and then a bit more. She cries out, screams from the bottom of her lungs, letting out a string of absolute nonsense. If fucking her silly was ever to be taken literally, this would be the time.

Literally anyone walking past the little storage room would know exactly what was going on. They could open the door and see the one and only Sakura having the soul fucked out of her, but neither of you are worried about that. Even if someone did walk in, you probably wouldn’t stop. Nothing can stop you right now, nothing at all.

Especially now, when you feel that first tight clamp of Sakura’s pussy. As if the whimpers spilling out of her lips weren’t enough, you can feel every pulse of her pussy against your cock. Your focus cracks, and you smile wide at Sakura, but it’s painfully obvious she is completely lost in her own world at the moment. You lean forward, adjusting your grip on her thighs as you feel her arms around your body going lax, and now you’re the only thing stopping Sakura from crumbling to the floor.

Now, as Sakura has made very clear these last few nights, you’re on a timer. Her words, not yours, as soon as she starts cumming, you have to give her everything. As hard and as fast as you physically can, and then some more, that’s what she wants.

And you know damn well you’re not denying her request.

It takes about ten – realistically probably five – seconds of giving it your all. With how tight her pussy is clamping down on your cock, it’s impossible to hold on much longer. Your entire body is slick with sweat. Frankly, you can’t believe you’re still holding her up.

Your vision is starting to blur, probably from the sweat dripping off your brow. There’s an intense wave of pressure building at the base of your cock. You’re numb to it all, just thrusting on autopilot, hardly hearing her moans anymore over the sharp ringing in your ears. Your body is shutting down.

Just a bit longer.

Then it hits. It’s as if someone dumped an entire bucket of paint onto a blank canvas, and that paint became a rainbow. Suddenly, everything clears up, and your eyes are met with Sakura’s perfect body. That look she’s giving you as each rope shoots deep inside her, a never-ending stream of your cum right into her. Her messy hair, flushed skin, it’s driving you insane.

It’s too much. You collapse down to the floor with Sakura landing on top of you. Your cock slips out of her – no surprise with how fucking soaked she is – but you’re still shooting. You’re both moving your hips together, and with how she’s grinding against your cock you’re worried you might never stop cumming.

Of course, that’s not how this works.

A final, feeble spurt spills out, and you’re left with your cock twitching as Sakura continues grinding gently against it.

“Jesus Christ," you gasp as Sakura collapses onto your body, holding you tightly in her arms. “Don’t you have… have a show?”

“I do.”

You give her a big squeeze, taking a moment to catch your breath. “You’re, uh, we made a bit of a mess.”

“I’m a mess mess mess,” she giggles quietly into your chest.

“You are such a fucking dork,” you groan, letting go of her.

She sits up with a big smile on her face before looking down and inspecting herself. “Well, I guess I’m having another awkward conversation with staff tonight,” she sighs, trying to straighten out her outfit.

“Sorry,” you chuckle. “Maybe you’re right, I’m probably going to get us caught.”

“No big deal, some of them figured it out already,” she hops up to her feet, completely full of energy. She leans down and kisses you on the cheek before quickly grabbing her shorts from earlier and opening the door. She pauses in the doorway, shining like an angel with that aftersex glow as she looks back at you.

“Yes?” you ask, still absolutely mesmerized and enthralled by how stunning she looks in the moment. “What is it, my love?”

“I wish I could clean that up,” she pouts, eyes glued on your cock. “Round two after the show? Same place?”

***

Words really can’t do the feeling justice.

Every beat, every pulse, you can feel every drop of blood coursing through your body. It shouldn’t be such a big deal, but your hand’s trembling. It’s just a concert, but your leg’s shaking. She’s your friend, you’re here to support, so what if you’re also a fan? Tonight, you get to be just another fan screaming at the top of your lungs, that’s all.

Although, calling yourself ‘just another fan’ is a bit disingenuous. After all, how many fans get to sit with the idol before they perform? One. The answer is one. It’s literally just you and Yunjin sitting in the waiting room, and she’s clearly ten times as nervous as you.

“You good?” you nudge Yunjin’s shoulder as she stares blankly at her hands.

“Hmm?” she looks up slowly. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“I know it’s been a couple of years since we last hung out, but I don’t remember you being this quiet,” you reach over and place your hand on her thigh. “Honestly, it used to be impossible to make you stop talking.”

She replies with a tiny, pitiful little laugh and a reserved smile.

“Nervous?” you smile back at her in an attempt to be comforting.

“A bit,” she admits, placing her hand on top of yours. “Performing in the country I grew up in and all, you know how it is.”

“No, actually, I don’t think there are very many people in this world who know what that feels like,” you laugh. “For what it’s worth, you looked confident as hell during the other shows.”

“Thanks, I try,” her smile brightens, the Yunjin you remember peeking through the nerves. “You wanna go for a little walk? I’m kinda sick of this room.”

“I don’t know why we came so early,” you stand up. “None of your members are even here yet.”

Yunjin stands up as well and reaches for your hand, pulling you along towards the door. “Because, I don’t have much time to spend with you before we move on with the tour and this is the only way staff agreed to it.”

“That’s insane. Do they think we’re dating or something? Why are they so controlling?”

“Of course not, don’t be stupid. It’s just a safety thing,” she shakes her head and lets go of your hand before running down the hall.

“Hey, slow down!” you chase after her. “Where are you taking me?”

She starts climbing a set of stairs and glances back at you over her shoulder. With a cheeky smile, she simply points towards the roof before continuing up the steps.

Of course she wants to go up.

It turns into a bit of a hike, up the never-ending staircase winding in circles. You feel like you’re losing your mind, and every floor looks exactly like the rest of them. The climb goes on for what feels like an hour, and you end up climbing about a hundred stories before you catch up to her.

“Are we… done?” you pant, leaning over the handrail for support.

“Come on,” Yunjin grabs your hand. “Just a bit more.”

She drags you up two more flights of stairs before reaching the final door and opening it. The sun immediately blasts both of you, forcing you to cover your eyes as you adjust to the light. Yunjin lets go of your hand again and walks up to the edge of the building where she leans on the concrete parapet.

You walk up behind her slowly until you’re standing right next to her.

“It’s gorgeous,” she sighs.

You step closer to her and wrap an arm around her waist. She doesn’t react much more than a subtle lean into your chest.

“It really is.”

She turns away from the view and faces you with a small smile and a twinkle in her eyes.

“I’ve really missed you.”

You smile back as the reminiscent memories flood back in. How much you’ve missed this girl really can’t be understated; She was your everything. Your throat starts to close up, you’re choking on your own emotions, and that tiniest little movement of Yunjin leaning in is all it takes for you to launch yourself forward into her arms.

Her lips crash hard against yours, reigniting that long lost love you shared. Countless days and nights coalesced into one, singular moment. Before you know it, she’s laying flat on her back with you on top of her, pulling you as deep into the kiss as physically possible. Her hands are clawing at your back, nails digging through your shirt, desperate for more. As soon as your lips separate, you’re both left breathing heavy.

You’re holding yourself above her, staring and being reminded of how unbelievably lucky you are.

“Why don’t you ever visit?” you mutter quietly under your breath.

“I wish I could,” she replies with a tiny pout. “I’m sorry, I don’t really get vacations or anything.”

“I know,” you sigh. “I didn’t mean it like that, I understand why things are the way they are.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t wish it was different,” Yunjin interjects firmly. “I wish I could be with you. Always, just like we promised we would be.”

“You know I’d wait, as long as we need.”

“I don’t want to wait,” she moves in closer. “I want you.”

You tilt your head and kiss her softly for a few seconds before pulling away and leaning your forehead against hers.

“I’m yours, always.”

“Are we really doing this here?” she whispers, eyes wide and mouth left hanging slightly agape.

“We only have today.”

She bites her lip, and those ‘fuck me’ eyes she’s flashing at you are louder than all of the New York traffic below. Whatever happens next is a complete blur of moving parts and adjustments; Before you can make sense of it all, you find yourself between Yunjin’s spread legs with your pants at your ankles – a familiar position to say the least.

You take a second, staring into her eyes and really taking in the moment. All the anticipation you’ve been holding onto ever since that day Yunjin messaged you. That day she told you she’d be back in town, you’ve been waiting for this exact moment, to be reunited with her.

Everything comes crashing in as you slowly, for the first time in years, ease yourself into her. That initial sensation, the tightness and warmth, sends you down a spiral. Somehow more magical than you mentally prepared for, she feels like perfection, better than you remember.

It starts slow – gentle, calculated pumps, bodies easing into it, rediscovering each other. You’re trying to find your rhythm, trying to remember how Yunjin likes it.

She’s vocal enough. Moaning your name quietly, mumbling profanities with her eyes shut tight. The occasional ‘yes’ and ‘please’ with each pump, she lets out whatever comes to mind without embellishing how she feels. Her comfort grows rapidly, she even has her legs wrapped around your hips now.

You settle into a steady pace: Not too fast, but certainly not too slow. Then, once comfortable, you reach forward with both hands and interlock your fingers with Yunjin’s. Her eyes shoot open as you reach upwards, pinning her hands above her head.

She’s smiling wide, arms straight up. You lean in and kiss her, pausing your hip movements for just a second. The moment couldn’t be more perfect: It’s exactly how you imagined it.

Your lips part, but you stay close. She’s breathing into your face with each gentle pump, squeezing your fingers tightly, desperate for your touch. You can feel the comfort emanating from her body, that familiarity and longingness, a feeling you haven’t felt since the day she left to chase her dreams.

The traffic below fades away, leaving just you and Yunjin alone in the moment. Her gentle breaths, your soft panting, combining beautifully into a delicate little symphony of love and trust. It leaves a tightness in your chest, and it feels like your heart is swollen.

It’s difficult to focus on how your body’s moving. You’re relying desperately on muscle memory, praying it’s good for her. You can hear her moaning still, it’s somewhat reassuring, but you need it to be good for her. She deserves it.

You give her a few more kisses on the lips, this time keeping your hips moving steadily. You have to be doing something right. The way her fingers are threatening to snap yours in half, they silently scream ‘yes’ into your ears.

Your own breathing quickly turns labored. It’s taking all your focus now to keep going, to hold on, to give her just a little bit more. The grip you have on her hands is faltering, but she notices and picks up the slack. She’s there for you, exactly when you need it, exactly the way she used to be.

“Yunjin–”

“Inside,” she cuts you off, basically screaming into the wind, reading your mind perfectly.

That’s all you needed. You let go of her hands and brace yourself, focused entirely now on how your hips are moving. Even when you feel Yunjin’s arms wrap around your neck, you stay determined.

Pressure quickly builds, you ride the edge as long as possible, and then it peaks. Your emotions amplify, intensity shoots straight through your spine, right into your brain. If you were on autopilot before, now it’s pure emotion carrying you through it.

Yunjin’s warmth also surges. Her body embraces you, rides you out until you’ve emptied yourself inside her. It takes all of your energy, you truly give her your everything – exactly like she deserves. Your spent body collapses onto her, and her arms tighten around you.

“That was amazing,” she whispers into your ear, rubbing your back softly. “You were amazing.”

“I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’m here for you, don’t worry. Just enjoy it while it’s here.”

It’s hard to accept the fact that after today, Yunjin’s going to fly out to her next stop, back to her full-time life. That today was just a glimpse into your past, a fleeting reminder of how things used to be. It’s overwhelming, to say the least, but at least you can keep the hope that one day you’ll be able to reunite with her properly; Even if right now isn’t your time to be together.

“I really–”

“Don’t,” Yunjin hushes you. “Just… just don’t.”

So, you listen. You hold her for as long as she’ll let you, as long as she can stay, alone on this roof in your own special little world. Even if it’s temporary, moments like these are the ones you’ll cherish forever.

***

“Chaewon, your boyfriend’s here!”

“Not my boyfriend,” Chaewon rolls her eyes as she pushes Yunjin aside and smiles at you with her arms held wide. “Glad you made it.”

“Sorry, traffic was brutal,” you step into the hotel room and accept Chaewon’s hug, squeezing her soft body tightly against yours. “How much time do you guys have?”

“Plenty of time, don’t worry,” she checks her phone. “They’re not strict on curfews anyway.”

“And Yunjin,” you hold out the bag in your hands for her. “As per your request.”

“Thank you!” Yunjin gushes, accepting the bag and hugging you as well. She gives you a quick kiss on the cheek before letting go. “We already got ice.”

“Maybe it’s best y’all take it slow, I’ve seen how this one acts when she’s drunk,” you nudge Chaewon in the side as the three of you walk deeper into the room. “I can’t imagine her being on stage tomorrow with a hangover.”

“It’s not just me,” Chaewon whines. “And I’m definitely not the worst.”

Sakura laughs and stands up from the bed to greet you with a hug as well. “Oh,” she lets out a little gasp as you wrap your arms around her hips. “You smell so nice.”

“Oh thank you,” you let go of Sakura and pull Chaewon back towards you by her waist. “This one got me it, a little gift.”

“That’s nice of her,” a voice comes from behind you.

You turn around to see Kazuha stepping out of the bathroom wearing the tiniest, tightest shorts you’ve ever seen in your life and just a sports bra on top.

Chaewon hits you hard on the shoulder. “Stop staring! What’s wrong with you?”

“What?” you back away from her and fall onto one of the two queen sized beds in the room. “I wasn’t!”

Sakura and Yunjin both laugh, and Kazuha walks up to the bed next to you.

“It’s alright, I don’t mind,” Kazuha says sweetly, taking a seat next to you, a bit closer than you’d expect.

“See?” you turn to Chaewon who’s still glaring at you.

Before she can say anything, someone knocks on the door.

“It’s probably Eunchae,” Kazuha hops to her feet and walks over.

Naturally, you look over again. Big mistake, of course.

“I. Said. Stop. Staring!” Chaewon hits you over the head with one of the pillows between each word while both Yunjin and Sakura laugh.

At first, you’re covering up to protect yourself from the barrage of attacks, but then as soon as you see an opportunity, you lunge for Chaewon’s waist and pin her against the bed, using the sheets to trap her against you.

“Let go of me,” she whines playfully, squirming against you, wrestling with your hold.

You roll around and now you’re on your back with Chaewon pressed against your body on top of you. You’re holding the sheets tightly around her like a makeshift cocoon.

“Never,” you hold on until she finally gives up and slumps against your body, drained of energy.

“You kinda deserve it,” Sakura comments as she walks over to the bottle of tequila and pops it open.

“Don’t side with him,” Chaewon groans. While she may be acting annoyed, what the others can’t see is how under the sheets she’s very deliberately moving her hips against your crotch.

“Why are we taking sides?” a new voice enters the room.

“Eunchae!” you smile as the girl enters with Kazuha behind her.

“Oh, you made it!” she jumps onto the bed with you and Chaewon and gives you a quick hug from the side. “I’m glad, but hopefully Chaewon can actually get some sleep tonight. We have a show tomorrow.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Chaewon laughs nervously.

Eunchae hops back off the bed and turns to Kazuha. The two girls giggle together, ignoring Chaewon’s question.

“What’s going on?” Yunjin asks from the other bed. Her question is answered when the two girls join her on the bed and whisper into her ear, and her face lights up. “Oh my God, Chaewon!”

“What?” Chaewon snaps.

You can hear in Chaewon’s voice, she’s beginning to get frustrated.

“Nothing,” Kazuha stifles her giggles enough to answer while the other two cuddle up together on the bed. “It’s just that, our room is right next to yours… and the hotel walls aren’t that thick.”

Chaewon suddenly stops grinding her hips against you, and you feel her hands grip your forearm, quietly holding your arm tighter against her waist under the sheets.

“W-What are you guys talking about?” she stammers. “I went to bed early, I didn’t hear anything.”

“Maybe you couldn’t hear it over your screams,” Eunchae giggles.

“Eunchae!” Yunjin bursts out laughing again as the hotel room erupts into chaos.

“Alright, alright, enough teasing Chaewon,” Sakura walks over with four paper cups squished in her hands. “Even though she makes it so easy.” She hands a cup to you, Chaewon, Yunjin, and Kazuha before walking back to the table and picking up the last two cups. “Water so you can pretend,” she hands one of them to Eunchae.

“This doesn’t smell like water,” Eunchae accepts the cup and takes a sniff.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sakura replies casually.

“Girls,” Yunjin holds her glass up. “And boy,” she nods at you as everyone in the room joins her toast. “To another successful show, or something like that.”

A few giggles come out and everyone downs their shot. You turn towards Chaewon who’s making a face and take the cup from her hands.

“It’s just tequila, come on,” you tease, walking back to the table where Sakura is already pouring her next drink.

“Chaewon baby,” Yunjin laughs, joining you at the table with the rest of the cups.

“It’s so gross,” Chaewon climbs under the sheets. “Zuha’s also struggling.”

“No, no,” Kazuha coughs from the other bed. “I’m good.”

“Well, I need at least one of you to take another one with me,” Sakura says while pouring herself another shot.

“Mixed for me, I can’t do another shot,” Kazuha croaks. Eunchae nods in agreement, also making a face.

“How about you make it a double and I’ll make Chaewon take it?” you place the cups down.

“Oh I like that idea,” Yunjin cheers while Sakura nods, pouring the other shots.

“Aboslutely not!” Chaewon shouts from the bed.

“You have to prove you’re not a baby,” you say while climbing back into the bed and handing Chaewon her double. “Where’s that fearless attitude you guys keep talking about?”

“We also have one called crazy, as in this idea is crazy,” Chaewon pouts, staring into her cup. “What happened to taking it slow?”

You snuggle up behind her and pull the sheets back up before hugging her waist tightly under them. “You also say something about making it look easy, so just do that,” you chuckle.

“Alright,” Sakura steps forward after handing everyone their drinks. “Enough lame jokes, come on Chaewonie,” she holds her cup up.

Chaewon reluctantly lifts hers as well, tapping it against Sakura’s before taking a deep breath and downing the shot. She immediately makes a face while shaking her head.

“It burns,” Chaewon whines.

“You did great!” you lean forward and kiss her cheek.

“Another?” Sakura takes the cup from Chaewon’s hands before laughing at her reaction. “Nevermind, I guess I’ll join the mixed drink bed.”

Kazuha, Eunchae, and Yunjin excitedly cheer, holding up their drinks.

“Bring her another, she’ll nurse it,” you smile and Sakura nods.

While Sakura busies herself with the drinks, you pull Chaewon tighter to your body. Under the sheets, you quietly slip your hand down the front of her waistband. She twitches, pushing her ass back into your crotch, but she makes no effort to stop your wandering fingers.

“Should we watch a movie or something?” Yunjin suggests from the other bed.

Everyone mumbles in agreement and the girls start scrolling through before giving up and switching to random YouTube videos. There’s laughing and joking, drinks are flowing, and the entire time you’re still quietly easing two fingers into Chaewon’s pussy.

She’s trying her absolute best to control the squirming, to hide what’s happening under the sheets. You think some of the girls might have caught on to what’s happening, but they’re doing a great job pretending they have no idea.

You’re more than two knuckles deep now, fingers curled up. You can feel her pussy leaking into your palm, but you don’t care. It’s far too satisfying, feeling her body subtlety press into you, her soft ass cheeks squished against your hips.

The couple of times you push just a bit too deep, or angle in just the right way, you can feel Chaewon’s whole body twitch. She’ll never stop you entirely, but it’s obvious she’s struggling to stay composed. She also nearly spills her drink all over the bed.

The longer it goes on, the more she’s starting to slip. The room is also getting louder as the other girls keep working through the tequila: half the bottle is already gone. No one is paying any attention to you two anymore, not even when Chaewon starts breathing deeply, quietly moaning with each thrust of your hand.

She’s had enough.

“Babe,” Chaewon whispers through gritted teeth. “I think I lost something in the bathroom, help me look for it?”

Your lips curl up immediately.

“Of course I’ll help you look,” you accept her hand and scurry along as she drags you away from the group.

“Where are you two going?!” Sakura shouts from behind.

“Busy,” Chaewon replies dismissively as she rushes you towards the bathroom.

“Oh my God!” Yunjin squeals. “Busy with your not-boyfriend in the bathroom?”

“Whatever,” Chaewon pushes you into the bathroom. “Turn the volume up, I’ll be right back,” she calls out before closing and locking the door behind her, muffling the four excited screams coming from the room from the girls who clearly can’t believe Chaewon just said that.

“When did you become so audacious?” you chuckle as Chaewon turns to face you.

“Why are you still dressed?”

“Wow,” you take a deep breath through the smirk on your lips. “With your members in the room?”

Chaewon takes a couple of long strides across the bathroom and pushes you backwards until your back slams into the counter. She reaches into your waistband and yanks your pants and underwear down to your ankles in a single, swift motion.

“How dare you finger me in front of everyone,” she hisses as she takes your shaft in her palm.

“That’s right, I did,” you push her short hair out of her face and wrap your hand around the back of her neck. “Because, you’re mine.”

“Fuck that,” Chaewon drops down to her knees, maintaining unbreaking eye contact, glaring at you while stroking your cock. “You’re mine.”

“Whatever you say,” you moan as she squeezes your cock harder, upping the intensity of her strokes.

“Say it,” Chaewon stares into your eyes. “Beg for me.”

“Chaewon…”

“Say it.”

You’re not winning this one – she’s going to get what she wants. She always does. You never have it in you to deny her for long, that’s the problem. Your weakness. You’re just putty in her hands, but not this time.

“I’m not begging.”

She smirks before leaning forward and kissing the side of your shaft. “No?” she waits, pausing the strokes.

You don’t answer immediately. Rather, you lightly cup her cheek with your hand. You decide she doesn't get to take charge this time. Suddenly, you crouch to pick her up, turn around, and place her on the counter. You lean in and give her a kiss before she has time to say anything.

There’s a very obvious frustration at first – the girl’s too used to getting what she wants. It takes a couple of seconds before her internal conflict melts and she finally succumbs, returning your kiss. She matches the passion, and then some.

Always a competition with this one.

Your tongues end up in a bit of a fight. Twisting and turning, the lingering taste of tequila still very present on her lips. Whenever you lean away, she pulls you back in. Your lips stay glued together until she’s ready to stop, because of course it’s her choice. Eventually, your lips do end up separating.

“I hope you don’t think I’m going to start begging,” she scoffs suddenly, pushing you back.

“Why are you playing hard to get when we both know you’re absolutely drenched,” you reach forward and ease her shorts off.

She lets you, and then she bats your arm away and crosses her legs. “That’s because you’ve been finger fucking me.”

“Alright fine,” you carefully pull her legs apart and rest your head in her lap. “Please let me fuck you until you scream and all your members hear us.”

“Get up, that doesn’t count,” she rolls her eyes before very suddenly changing her tone. “Do you think they actually heard us last night or were they just messing with me?”

As much as you love teasing her, you can see in her eyes that she’s actually worried – probably thanks to the alcohol. It’s extremely tough holding back, all you want to do is tease her for that adorable reaction she always gives, like an angry puppy; However, she looks far too precious right now, you succumb, like always.

“No, my love, I don’t think they heard anything,” you smile, rubbing her thighs gently.

“Are you sure? They were so–”

You hold a finger to her lips, silencing her calmly. “Even if they heard, who gives a shit?” you carefully pull her from the hips so that she’s seated right on the edge of the counter.

“Wait,” she pushes you back and hops off. “If we’re doing this, I want to ride your cock.”

So blunt, so filthy, but why does it sound so fucking cute coming from her mouth?

The fact that it’s a request and not the usual demand, there’s literally no chance you’d say no. Honestly, you probably wouldn’t be able to say no to anything she requests right now. Those precious eyes, twinkling full of her tipsiness, the vulnerability that makes her so unrealistically adorable.

You slowly lower yourself down on the bathroom floor, and Chaewon straddles you. She sits her wet pussy right on top of your cock before reaching up and pulling off her shirt; She struggles a bit, eventually tossing it aside. It takes a lot of restraint to stop yourself from laughing at her blatant inebriation.

“Y-You were right,” she slurs her words, reaching behind her back to unclasp her bra. “I’m really fucking wet… and I really want you… to fuck me… please…”

“Come here sweetie,” you smile, reaching up and pulling her onto your body. “Are you… crying?”

“I think I’m drunk,” she giggles with a quick sniffle. “But I really love you.”

“And I love you, more than anything,” you rub her back. “You sure you wanna do this right now?”

“Shut up and fuck me,” she hiccups into your neck.

Seriously, why is she so cute?

You reach down between your legs and fumble around. She wasn’t kidding, she’s absolutely dripping wet still. It takes a couple of tries before you slip it in, easing her all the way down your cock, tight and warm but sliding without much difficulty.

“Ah fuck!” she cries out.

“Your members are–”

She quickly pushes down on your chest with both hands and lifts herself up, staring deeply into your eyes. She doesn’t even need to say a word, her face says it all – she does not give a single fuck if anyone else hears.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect, just like everything else about her.

You reach up with your hands and cup her tits as they hang down in front of you. They jiggle in your palms as she starts slowly bouncing up and down your cock. Even when she’s drunk, Chaewon really knows how to move her tight little body.

“Fuck that’s good,” you moan quietly.

She’s biting her lower lip, eyes shut, riding you a bit harder now. As great as it feels, you can’t even begin to imagine the state of bliss she’s in right now, you can see it on her face. She’s moaning softly, almost rhythmically with her hips, and they’re getting louder.

The louder her moans get, the tighter her pussy seems to become. Every thrust upwards into her is starting to take real effort, but it feels so fucking good. You can’t get enough, your bodies are slapping steadily together now, and it probably couldn’t be more obvious to anyone listening in.

Although, that’s not even close to being a concern right now. No, all you’re concerned with is how God damn amazing Chaewon looks above you. Your hands slide down to her hips, framing that perfect body as her tits hang low in front of you. Then, as if she can read your mind, she lowers her chest just enough for you to take one of her nipples into your mouth.

You cry out loudly, sucking hard on the little nub, feeling it tense up between your lips. Your hands slide down a bit more, finding refuge on her soft ass, holding her steady as you get ready to take over. You release her nipple and nestle your face between her tits; Of course, Chaewon notices and immediately presses her tits together, engulfing your face tightly between their softness.

And that’s when you start pumping your hips.

Not slowly, not carefully, but rather the exact opposite. You start giving it your all, as hard and fast as physically possible. Chaewon’s tits stay glued to your face, squishing and pressing all over, and your fingers start digging deeper into her ass cheeks.

While your moans are muffled by her chest, Chaewon’s screams are echoing freely against the tiles. She really doesn’t care at all if anyone hears. What she does care about is how her pussy has started spraying against your cock, somehow she’s even wetter than before as if it’s even possible.

Her pussy starts convulsing, and you keep thrusting just as fast. She’s screaming, but you know better than to slow down. Even though her pussy is squeezing, threatening to push you out, you power through, giving it everything.

You can feel it building up, it won’t take long now. You keep the pace up, quickly running out of energy – but still going.

Just a bit more…

Just a bit…

Just…

Your cock erupts like a gunshot, shooting your cum deep inside Chaewon’s pussy. Only now do you slow it down, body tensing up as your cock writhes inside her.

And of course, as if she hasn’t already been fucking perfect, Chaewon notices and immediately starts working up and down your cock. Her pussy wraps around your shaft so perfect and snug, leaving you twitching and overwhelmed by sensation.

She keeps going, even when you stop filling her up, even when you run out. She gives a final few strokes with her pussy, her tits still flat against your face.

“Chaewon,” you mumble into her chest. “I fucking love you so much.”

“No, I love you so much.”

“I think…” you pause to carefully pick her up and turn her onto her side so that you can see her face. “I think your friends might know about us now.”

“They already knew, don’t be stupid,” she reaches over and holds your cheek in her hand.

Then, as both of you are still breathing heavily, laying side by side on the bathroom tiles, Chaewon leans forward to give you one last kiss. You forget about everything else, and you live fully in the moment, kissing Chaewon for what feels like the rest of the night.

---

A/N:

Pure BFH. Really been in the mood to write something for the group (minus Eunchae because she's of course still a baby) to celebrate their comeback. At first I was just struggling to figure out which member to write so I decided... why not just write them all? You'll probably notice all four stories are very similar in style/theme with only some slight differences.

Hopefully it's a fun little bonus fic for you guys while I work on my other ones! I have a bunch of updates coming soon (Dating Seraphs, CUM2A, TPM, Photographer, Roommates, and maybe more!), this was just a quick side piece to hopefully hold my lovely readers over for a bit since it's been so long.

"You pick a door," she says, holding up one finger like she's making a serious mathematical point and not actively committing a war crime against logic. "And then Monty—whoever the fuck he is—opens another door. And now there’s two left. So, you know. Fifty-fifty. You either win the prize or you don’t win shit."

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

And she still doesn’t care. If anything, she revels in your frustration, grinning and taking a lazy sip from her beer.

“I thought you liked your girls a little stupid,” she muses. You like Chaewon. Always have; since before her rejection and until now.

She might be onto something.

“That’s what I saw earlier at the club, anyway,” she mumbles, and it’s pointed, a sharp dagger concealed by a hushed voice.

You pay it no mind. It’s just Chaewon being Chaewon. Doing everything in her power to annoy the fuck out of you. You shake your head. “I like my girls with a basic understanding of probability.”

She hums, her gaze dragging over you, and it lingers. Long. Too long. So long it’s causing the alcohol induced haze to retreat from your brain. Then she just smiles again, takes another sip, and the buzz is back.

Chaewon stretches, arms flexed into a peak above her head, sliding against the backrest of the couch, her head landing against the armrest of the couch opposite of where you're sitting. Her legs stretch out off of the floor, her dress riding up, clinging to and stretching on her hips.

It’s a performance, designed to squeeze out resistance from any sap that would dare defy her. It’s impossible to tell if this is just Chaewon’s purest form, her instincts kicking in to naturally make any man submit, or if it’s a carefully crafted weapon, deliberately utilised and aimed with immaculate precision. Either way, it’s fucking lethal.

Lace-trimmed thigh-high covered feet land in your lap, crossed. You glance down at them. Stifle a thought of fucking the exposed part of skin right below her dress and above her socks. Breathe out through your nose, annoyed.

She sees. She was waiting for you to see, to be more exact.

“What?” she asks, but she knows the answer. Feigning innocence, but the chances of it convincing you are slim. “Is the view not to your liking?”

You flick your eyes up to meet hers. Flat. Unamused. Stern. “Jesus, Chaewon.”

She cocks a half smile, hands up in the air like she’s being put under arrest but confident she can flirt her way out of it. “Relax. It’s just a joke.‘

Right. Just a joke. One she’s been playing at for far too long now. One you’re absolutely not in the mood for tonight. One that is quintessentially Chaewon. Mean. Sloppy. Reckless.

That’s what alcohol does to her. She gets all handsy and touchy and feely, disregarding any feelings or reservations you’d have about being touched meaninglessly by the girl that didn’t want you.

And the joke is not exclusive to you either. You’ve seen her like this before, with other guys. Hands on their shoulders and theirs on her hips, leaning in too close, laughing too loud. It’s just her usual mess. It doesn’t mean anything.

She’s warm, just warm enough that you can feel her through your clothes. But warm enough to make you fear the sparks could ignite something that shouldn’t be. Before you can have any more prohibited thoughts, you shift, trying to nudge her legs off of you.

She doesn’t budge. Deliberately. Straight up refuses to even acknowledge the attempt.

You sigh. “Get your legs off of me.”

Chaewon blinks at you, lashes fluttering faster than your heart can beat, her lips pouting— a poor substitute for saying she can’t believe you’d say that to someone this cute. She chuckles, transforms it into a smirk, and tilts her head.

“Make me.”

She presses the arch of her foot against your crotch. It’s right on target. Light. Testing. Provocating.

It’s impossible not to react. You could sit here, not do anything, let her rub your hardening cock through your pants a bit, enjoy the feeling of her getting you worked up. But that’s not what this is about. You know this pattern. As soon as you acknowledge it, it stops, and even if it didn’t, it would all be meaningless.

So you react. You grab her ankle, and shove her legs off of you.

She lets out a soft “oh,” before laughing, low and amused. She works herself back up right, shifting her legs underneath her, but she doesn’t look the slightest bit deterred.

“Wow,” she mocks. “Sensitive.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for your drink. It’s water. Unlike Chaewon, you know when to quit, much to her annoyance. “Stop being weird and focus.”

“I am focused!” she retorts, all tension and energy. “Are you focused?” she says finally, slow, saccharine, like honey that's taking its sweet time to drip from a spoon into your mouth. “Not too distracted by how fuckable I look in this dress?”

You don’t acknowledge it. Again, no point. You set your glass down with a deliberate clink— any noise to replace what she just asked—then reach for three random objects on the coffee table; her phone, a book, and a coaster.

“We’re settling this tonight.”

She puts her beer back on the table, folds her hands in her lap, and sits with her whole body pointed at you. She shakes her body loose with slight movements. Then, slowly, she smiles.

“Please,” she says, voice sultry and teasing. “Teach me a lesson, professor.”

You’ve probably explained the theory to Chaewon more times than there are episodes of the show that inspired the discussion. It’s time for a practical run-through. You grab the three nearest things you can find and leave standing upright to function as make-shift doors—your phone, your glass of water, and a book Chaewon has been quipping from for the past month, How to Date Men When You Hate Men—and you form a neat row of three. “Let’s drill it into your skull. Three doors. One has a prize. Pick one.”

And for all the effort you put in, she barely looks. Eyes on you, finger pointing in a different direction. “The book.”

“Right, and that was a random choice out of three, meaning—”

“That I was either right or I was wrong. Fifty-fifty.” She shrugs, and shuts the door on this method of having her understand.

She’s perfectly frustrating. “it’s not fifty-fifty—”

She shifts the opposite way from her previous slide, her head landing in your lap. Her cheek rests against your thigh, and her provocation pokes at your heart. She gazes up at you, lashes fluttering a hypnotic rhythm. “This is more comfortable. Keep going.”

How could you?

“Chaewon.”

She hums, but she doesn’t acknowledge your protest. “What? Does having a cute girl’s face this close to your dick make you nervous?”

Ignore it. If you acknowledge it, it only gets worse. You push it down, she’ll eventually grow bored, and as long as the boulder doesn’t slip from your hands, you’ll be done with this forever. “Okay, so now, Monty—”

“You’re looking a little serious,” she muses, herself looking anything but. “Would you look like that while getting head? All furrowed brows, all focused?” Her lips curve deviously like the curveballs she’s throwing you. “Or would you be more relaxed? I can go deep, you know. No need to worry about me.”

Every cell in your body is telling you to push back, take her up on what she’s offering, and let her ruin this night. But you know. You’d get your hopes up, but she’d just call it a silly joke. Keep ignoring it. She’ll get bored.

You take a slow breath. Slow down your rhythm. “Are you done? Monty opens a door that isn’t the prize. That leaves two doors with potential. Your first pick was only right one-third of the time, so if you switch—”

“Aaaah.” Her mouth opens, tongue peeking out like a landing strip, eyes fluttering shut like she’s waiting for you to shove your cock inside.

That’s it.

You shove her off, not rough, but firm, standing up from the couch you might have sunk in immediately. “Can you cut it the fuck out?”

She’s back upright, giggling, back landing against the couch, legs curled beneath her. “What’s wrong? Blood rushing away from your head?”

“Do you ever stop?”

Her arms stretch over her head again, and you’re starting to see a pattern with the way her dress is stretching against her hips. “Not when I’m having fun.”

It’s maddening. Talking with Chaewon is selecting a door, continuing to talk with her is being shown the wrong door and choosing to take it willingly. “You really don’t care how frustrating you make the Monty Hall problem, do you?”

She smirks. She must think she has it all figured out. “I already told you. Either something happens, or it doesn’t. Fifty-fifty, dude.”

“That’s really not how probability works.”

“That’s how life works.”

You shake your head, and accompany it with an equally disappointed sigh. “You just don’t want to admit when you’ve made the wrong choice.”

She stills, and it’s eerie. It shouldn’t have happened. Then, like a mask slipping back, she recovers with a sly grin. “Or maybe I just like my way better.”

Before you can argue, she makes her move, getting up, pressing against your arm, chest squishy, warm and deliberate against you. “But you can explain it to me as many times as you want.”

She’s impossible. “Chaewon—”

And she leaves no room for response. “Go on,” she purrs, pushing her tits smush against your bicep, molding around the way your muscles tense. “Teach me.”

Your patience and her dress have one thing in common. They’re both razor-thin. “I mean it.”

She hums, and she smiles, and she’s convinced you’re going to give in any second now. “Not a fan anymore of me touching you?” Her voice drops, all warmth and provocation. “Would you rather reverse the roles, have you touch me? Be careful. I’m sensitive.”

Your fingers wrap around her wrist, pulling it high with a firm and stern motion. “Cut it out.”

She clicks her tongue, and scowls in return. The joke is over, and you ruined her fun. “You liked it plenty when that slut at the club was all over you.”

“That’s different,” you say, your jaw tightening up. She knows it is, and it’s not fair. Does she think she can get away with it just because you’ve got a thing for her? Or, used to have, you try to convince yourself.

She’s so clearly unimpressed it’s almost hurtful. It wasn’t a lie though. It was different, that girl at the club never tore your heart out. But none of that matters when Chaewon wants to have her fun. She scoffs. “Must’ve been nice. You didn’t even flinch when she touched you. Just leaned into her, didn’t push her away like you do with me.”

You don’t answer. You let go of her wrist, sit back down, unsure what to make if anything yourself. You could have gone home with ‘that slut’. Had a great evening. Instead, you’re here, keeping your promise to Chaewon that you’d make sure she got home safe, wasting another night on a girl that should have long been in your past already.

That same girl plants both her knees next to yours on the couch, dress creeping above her hips, exposing the slightest hint of black and lace panties straddling your lap, settling against you.

You hate how right she feels here.

She rocks her hips down, just slightly, just testing the waters. And like an experienced professional, the joke’s back on. “You sure you don’t want to have a little fun?”

Your hands clamp around her waist—not pulling her closer. Pushing her off.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t resist. Just concedes as the distance grows.

“Come on,” she murmurs, trying to make sense of it all. “You used to love looking at me.”

Your arm extends fully, pushing her as far as your body allows. “That was a long time ago.”

She lets out a small scoff, more hurt than the lost one, finally relenting and shifting off your lap. The joke is no longer fun for anyone in this room.

You just have to bite the bullet. Separate her from yourself, let the alcohol fade from her system and figure out what to do after that. “Go to bed,” you exhale sharply, a forced sense of finality in your voice. “I’ll sleep here, and be gone before you wake up.”

Chaewon stares at you like you just suggested the unthinkable. Her eye twitches, a habit you’ve long learned to associate with her being so upset that something is going to break. Then, she exhales sharper than you did, standing up. “Fine. Whatever.”

She turns, stomping toward her bedroom, her pumps exploding with sound every step of the way. “It’s still fucking fifty-fifty, by the way!” she yells, right before she slams the door.

It’s suddenly silent. Silent enough to hear your heartbeat going crazy.

She’ll calm down soon enough. Hopefully.

The heat of her body still burns against you, scorching where she was pressed against you. But if you ran after her now, you’d get burned alive. You rub your hands down your face, sinking into the couch, staring into the ceiling as you mentally prepare for what’s bound to be a sleepless night. There’s no escaping those as long as Chaewon is a part of your life. ----------------------------------------

Sleep doesn’t come.

You want to blame it on the horrible way this couch is digging into your back. Or the sounds of the city being ever present. Or the dim glow of some street lights seeping into the living room through Chaewon’s curtains that never managed to fully close. But comfort isn’t the issue.

It’s your damn mind, that can’t shut the fuck up.

Too many thoughts, all tangled together like a string of memories that wrapped around itself far too many times. Her hands, her voice, her weight in your lap. Her unusually prickly temper, and her enhanced sloppiness.

It all feels too fucking familiar, and the moment you admit that, there’s no holding it back.

It started as a night much like this one. You and Chaewon, at her place, sitting too close for friends but too far apart for lovers. Laughing at everything and nothing. Drinking just enough to make the lines blur. You had thought—maybe. Hopefully.

And for a moment, you know, you had been right. It seemed like the kind of night you’d eventually be able to tell your kids about. An edited version, to cut out the once-in-a-lifetime pounding you intended to give her, but still, magical in its own way.

The way she let you kiss her. The way she kissed you back. The way her eyelashes fluttered to pull you into the kiss. How her left thigh rode up yours. The way her fingers locked behind the nape of your neck. The way you told her you liked her.

Then the way she pulled back. The hesitation in her eyes. The way her voice broke when she said “I don’t think we should do this.”

The way a crack formed on your heart, barely being pushed together by the rest of your more logical organs as you forced yourself to nod and agree, to act like it was fine. Like you were fine. Like you hadn’t just managed to secure the right door, only to be forced to step into the wrong one.

And the way your heart formed a second crack when you saw her again. She was still the same. Still Chaewon. Like nothing had happened.

But something did happen to you.

Your phone buzzes.

It’s not easy to ignore. Chaewon is an addiction to you, the next hit of this sweet obsession entering your veins as your screen lights up.

Chaewon: You awake??

You know you should just be failing at sleeping again. This can only lead to misery.

You: Yeah.

It’s quiet for a bit, but a new message makes its way to you all the same.

Chaewon: Cant sleep

If only she knew how she cursed you with the same fate. If not for her you’d be sound asleep in your own bed right now, or even better, in the bed of that chick you met at the club. What did she say her name was again? Kazuha? Instead, you’re here, repeating old patterns with exhausted probability.

You: That sucks.

Your answers are curt. Too perfect with punctuation for your usual back and forth. She doesn’t respond right away. She might be stubborn and annoying about things she’s convinced she’s right about, but she’s never been oblivious.

Then:

Chaewon: Are we okay?

You’re upset, but not heartless. It tugs.

You: We’re fine, Chaewon

Chaewon: Thats not a yes…

You might just scream out of frustration, your phone dropping on your chest, but obviously you can’t. She’d hear. She’s impossible. So fucking stupidly impossible. And yet, you find yourself typing anyway.

You: Do you want me to lie?

The pause is longer this time. Should you feel bad or just so tired that it doesn’t matter anymore?

Chaewon: No

Chaewon: Idk

Chaewon: I just get nervous when ur like this

You: Like what??

Chaewon: Distant

Chaewon: Careful

Chaewon: Upset with me

Your fingers hover over the keyboard without action. She’s not wrong. You are being careful. It’s her fault. She’d break your heart a second time in less time it took for it to beat. That’s dangerous.

You: Idk what you want me to say Chaewon

Chaewon: Idk either…

Chaewon: But I miss how we used to talk

The memories flood in of the two of you just shooting the shit, countless evenings. Still…

You: We’re talking now.

Chaewon: U know thats not what i meant

And she’s right. You do know, but this is just easier. For you, for her. For the both of you.

Chaewon: Cant you just come over here and talk w me?

Chaewon: I miss you…

And before you can even overthink it—

You move. ----------------------------------------

There is a thought that creeps into your mind as the door creaks open and you step into her room. Something about a lion’s den, and then another one following it up about it actually being the lionesses that do the hunting. There’s no point to it. They all fade in an instant. She’s no huntress right now. She’s vulnerable, like prey, enticing you to be the hunter, looking so ready to be pounced on; curled up beneath her blankets, only the soft shape of her against the sheets to lure you in.

“Hey.” It’s a solid way to start a conversation, but you can’t help but expect more from her after calling you in.

You nod, eyes fleeing from hers, shifting awkwardly by the door. “Hey.”

It takes a while before you move. The same goes for her. She’s squinting, her eyes getting used to the darkness. She’s always been stubborn about letting you help her get a blue light filter on her phone.

She finally stops, and for a moment, your eyes meet hers. She carries a soft smile, the kind that made you fall for her in the first place. But there’s a difference in it; barely perceptible; most definitely flown under the radar by people not so obsessed with her face. There’s precaution sewn into it. The sides of her smile are constantly shifting and trembling, like she doesn’t know whether to keep it there or to switch to a more neutral expression. Then, she shifts, her left arm pulling out from under the cover and tapping the sheets next to her, an unspoken invitation.

You sit down with a sigh, back turned towards her. You’re not far, but you’re not close either. A safe distance, you think to yourself. The mood isn’t tense, but also not comfortable. Just… unsure.

You can hear her laps part, exhale, almost say something, and then close again a couple of times. It’s not until you finally turn to face her that she speaks.

“Do you remember that summer at the beach?”

Your eyebrows raise on instinct, disbelief unmistakably painted across your face, impossible not to notice, not even in this darkness. “How could I forget?”

The muscles on her face relax as her eyes drift away from your eyes, seemingly getting lost into her pillow, which she clutches tight. “You remember how you were so worried about me you gave me a piggyback ride back to the house?”

“No,” you scoff, “I remember you guilt tripping me into carrying your soaking wet ass across the sand.” Your face turns away from her again, hands clutching the side of the bed as your eyes veer off into the distance past the window; letting the glass serve as a canvas to project your memories onto.

You hear the sheets rustle behind you as she works herself upright, before reminding you exactly why you helped her back then in the first place. “You weren’t complaining back then! You were way too busy copping a feel of my ass.”

“Okay, now that’s not fair,” you snap back much too fast, much too flustered. “I wasn’t copping a feel, I was keeping you from falling. And besides, you weren’t helping either! Just hanging there all limp, mumbling you’d never be able to walk again.”

“I mean, it just hurt so bad. That jellyfish really fucked me up,” she chuckles back, and you can feel the pressure of her back leaning against yours.

There’s a soft silence, the one drenched in feelings you’d much rather stay in, instead of moving on to an uncomfortable reality. So you keep painting, hoping the window holds your memory-scape just a little longer.

“Do you remember what we kept talking about? To keep your mind off of the pain?”

You can tell she knows in the way she responds with an “Oh my god.”

Both of you say it at the same time.

“The fucking Monty Hall problem!”

There’s a beat of silence. First it’s a chuckle. It turns into laughter, and it quickly grows uncontrolled, unstoppable. The kind that makes the memories seem brighter, makes your body feel lighter, the kind that makes you throw your head back as she does hers. You both open your eyes staring at the roof, now sharing the same canvas to display footage of past days.

“God,” you breathe, your head locked in place but your eyes drifting over towards her face. “I miss those days.”

She giggles, nose scrunching. “I don’t miss what that jellyfish did to me.”

The laughter fades, and you think that maybe, just maybe you could forget about earlier and go to bed without feeling like shit. You shift, and she does too, turning towards her as she moves back to her original spot, leaning against the headrest, crawling underneath the blankets with her legs.

Your breath catches as you look at her. Your stomach turns. “Chaewon.”

She blinks, glancing up at you. “Hmm?”

“Did you—” You inhale sharply, but you can’t afford to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Did you seriously invite me in here just to talk un-dressed like that?”

Her brows furrow. Then she follows your gaze, shifting slightly, and—

Fuck.

Black lace, delicate, thin. Your favorite.

She freezes. "Oh."

Oh? Fucking oh?

“Why the fuck are you like this?” you explode.

Her eyes widen. "No! I—" She scrambles, tugging the blanket back up over herself. “I wasn’t—”

“You said you wanted to talk, Chaewon.”

“I do!” Her voice pitches up. She’s pulling the sheets up hurriedly, using them as a shield from you, all you can see is her cheeks changing color ever so slightly. This time because of the embarrassment instead of the alcohol. “I promise… I do…”

It’s hard to believe that. It’s all so familiar, and all so fucking frustrating. “You know, this is just like you to do,” you ramble, and it’s hard to stop once you get going. “Always so fucking obsessed with getting a reaction out of me, never stopping to think for a second about how I feel!”

Her face softens, and the way she looks at you makes you sick. Like she thinks you’re right. “That’s not—”

“Isn’t it?”

“I swear!” She shouts, looking panicked and it’s enough to finally get you to shut up. “I was still out of it all, too mad and too drunk when I got back here. I just wanted to sleep. I didn’t—” and a big, shallow breath interrupts her, the kind that just appears and leaves you with less air than before. “I wasn’t thinking, okay?”

You want to believe her. But tonight has been too much. Too many provocations, too many lines blurring that she would turn back from, and in turn, you would let form scars.

Then you sigh, sitting back down. “Okay.”

“Are you…” her voice trembles as she tries to figure out the specifics of your answer. “You’re shaking. Are you mad?”

Your mind is still trying to slow down, and answering gets forgotten. She takes that as an answer, obviously. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not so mad that I’d be shaking, you idiot.” Your voice is quiet. “It’s just way too fucking cold in here. And I was thinking.”

There’s no hesitation, because that’s just how Chaewon is as she shifts, making room. “Get under the covers.”

“Chaewon, please—” you start, but she’s not having it.

“I won’t try anything, okay? I promise,” she interrupts you, sounding calmer already. There’s a touch of pleading in it, but not the whiny kind she uses to get you worked up. It’s more desperate, more real. “Just give me a chance to prove I’m being serious.”

You don’t move at first. Stubbornness is inherent to both of you, after all. She tugs on the sheets impatiently. You sigh, but it’s obviously performative, a last jab at her to let her know you’re only doing this just because you’re cold. And she wasn’t lying. She properly keeps her distance, just sharing the warmth of the bed. It’s immediate and comforting, but you don’t allow yourself to sink into it.

“See?” she murmurs. “Not a trap.”

Not yet. You don’t dare say it, but you don’t have to. She sees the thoughts in your eyes. So she shuffles, turning away from you.

The silence stretches so long you start focusing on the noises it can’t beat into submission. Your breathing. Her breathing. The creaking and crumpling sound of the bed and the sheets as you move.

“I wanted to talk, and we talked so… that’s—that’s good. I guess,” she whispers. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind talking some more.” She lets a little space in between for you to insert yourself into. You never do. “But if you’d rather pretend like I’m not here, I get that too. I’ll shut up.”

It’s endearing, and your response is a little mean, letting her wait in silence for just a little longer before replying.

“I’m not pretending. I need somebody to blame the lack of space I have in this bed.”

She smiles, soft. You can’t see it, obviously, but you feel it. Somehow. She shifts under the blanket, closer but not touching. She’s apprehensive. And she meant what she said.

“Is this the first time we’ve slept in the same bed?” she asks, but she masks her tone enough that she could play it off as talking to herself if you decided to not respond.

“Nope,” you correct her. “There was that one time in sophomore year. You showed up at my door at, like, three in the morning. Absolutely shitfaced, mind you.”

She lets out a small, embarrassed groan, and you know you’re on the right track.

“I remember that,” she mumbles. “Barely.”

“You couldn’t figure out how to get to your dorm. Said not even Monty Hall could help you find the right door.”

“How do you remember all that?” Chaewon questions, like you had no right to have that memory.

“Are you kidding me? How could I forget? I told you to take my bed, and that I was gonna crash on the couch,” you continue explaining, your lips curling upwards.

“But I didn’t let you?”

“Nope. You didn’t trust my roommate worth shit. Which, fair.”

She doesn’t say anything. You keep going though, less for her alone or you alone, both for you both.

“You grabbed my wrist when I tried to walk away. Looked me dead in the eye and said, and I quote, ‘Don’t leave me alone with that guy here, he smells like crusty socks and assault.’”

Chaewon lets out a strangled sound that’s half mortified laugh, half groan. “Oh my God.”

“So I gave in. Got in bed next to you. Fully clothed. On top of the covers. Like a gentleman.”

“You didn’t sleep for a second that night, did you?”

“Of course not. You starfished. One arm across my chest, one leg thrown over me like a fucking seatbelt. You had me trapped, dead to rights. Didn’t help you made me paranoid that my roommate was actually going to do something.”

She laughs—really laughs. Warm, unguarded. Then she rolls onto her side, facing you again. Her eyes search yours. "It was easier, wasn’t it? Back then. In college. At the beach. You carrying me like an idiot, me acting like I couldn’t walk, and you trying to turn probability into a personality trait."

You laugh, but it’s not really a laugh. More like one of those nose breaths that accompanies an abbreviated text. “Because it was.”

Her smile fades. “You never needed me to ask. You always just… stayed.”

You shift slightly, your fingers brushing the edge of the blanket. Her eyes drop there, then rise again.

“I think I’m a leaver,” she says. No warning. No lead-in. Like she had to say it fast before she lost the nerve.

“What?” It leaves your mouth before you can even blink.

But Chaewon swallows, her eyes retreating downwards. “I think that’s just who I am. Some people stay, and some people leave. You’re the kind of person that stays, and I’m a person that leaves. Because if I go first, I don’t have to wait until you become a leaver just like me.”

She looks at you like she’s afraid you’ll flinch. Like she’s already bracing for the recoil.

“I know it’s selfish,” she adds quickly. “But that night… when you kissed me, and then said you really liked me—I panicked. I did what I always do. You were giving me a choice, and that scared the hell out of me. So I picked the choice I always make.”

She breathes in. Exhales slow. Really takes her time, her eyes drifting slightly upwards now.

“And for a while, I told myself it was just another fifty-fifty. You know? Just a game of chance I lost. You either leave or get left. You either lose something or end up lost. And I thought—" she breaks off, swallowing again, part of her voice getting swallowed with it, "—that it would go away like the rest. That I’d forget. That it’d stop mattering."

You stay quiet.

“But it didn’t. It stuck. You stuck.”

She shifts again, knee brushing against yours beneath the blanket. Her voice cracks a little.

“And I started noticing things,” she says. "Little things. Like the first time you didn’t wait for me to text goodnight. Or when you were with someone else and you had that smile that I thought was reserved for me. Or when you stopped arguing with me about dumb shit just to keep talking."

Her voice wavers.

“And then I realized I didn’t just pick wrong. I watched the right door shut. And then I heard it lock. And that’s why I know your stupid fucking Monty Hall problem is wrong. I should’ve had another shot. Another choice. But life didn’t open a wrong door—it just took the right one away. And that’s why I know it’s just fifty-fifty. And I lost my coin toss at happiness.”

There’s a second of silence where your brain short circuits.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you mutter.

She blinks, but it helps her to finally look at you. “Ouch?”

You sit up, tossing the blanket off like it offended you. “No, I’m serious. You think my door shut? You fucking locked it.”

She opens her mouth, but you cut her off, your pace quickening. “The fact that I stayed around all this time is proof enough that my door is still unlocked. It wasn’t up to me to reopen that door.”

“I—”

“But you had to try.”

Chaewon’s eyes flicker—not away, but deeper. Her breath hitches, and you swear it’s the first real sound she’s made in a while that didn’t have a smirk behind it. She shifts forward just slightly, only enough that her leg brushes against yours again, like she’s testing if the signal’s still green.

“You’re saying… it’s still open?”

You drag a hand through your hair, eyes rolling ceilingward before locking onto her again. “It was never fucking closed.”

Her lips part. They’re trembling now. She’s not teasing this time. “Then why—why didn’t you ever—”

“Because I’m not gonna beg,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “I’m not gonna crawl through the fucking keyhole when you slammed the door in my face.”

She flinches. Just barely. But enough.

“I didn’t need you to beg, just…” she says, softer, like she’s going over the math again in her head. “I don’t know… I—” Her voice dips, trails, then steadies. “I’m here now. I’m trying.”

You look at her. Clear as day in the middle of the night. She's curled up next to you, defensive and ashamed and stubborn all at once. Her eyes are too glossy, her hands fidgeting with the edge of the comforter like they’re looking for somewhere to hide.

And then she breathes, and her voice breaks.

“I just wanted you to want me still.”

And that? That fucking cracks something open.

You reach for her—no grand gestures, no cinematic swoop—just firm, necessary motion. You cradle her jaw, fingers sweeping her hair back, and when you speak, it’s low and final and absolutely everything you’ve been holding back.

“I never fucking stopped.”

There’s no pause this time.

No “but what if—”

No “are you sure—”

No more fucking Monty Hall.

Just her lips crashing into yours, messily, hungrily, like the apology she couldn’t say and the forgiveness you weren’t ready to offer have decided to cancel each other out with tongue.

It’s not careful. It’s not gentle.

It’s honest.

She’s on your lap again, only this time it’s not a joke. Her knees bracket your thighs and she grinds down with purpose, gasping when she feels you through your boxers. Her hands slide beneath your shirt, nails catching skin, and you curse under your breath as heat swells in your gut, undeniable and urgent.

You break the kiss, forehead against hers. “Still cold?”

Her laugh is shallow, much too distracted with making sure she can properly share in your body heat. “Yeah. Make me warm.”

“And here I was thinking you were hot enough as is.”

She smirks, and it’s real this time. Like the one you saw when you barely knew her, but knew enough already. Not a mask. Not a trap. Just her.

And she whispers, “Don’t stop this time.”

Like you could. Besides, you’re not even sure it’s only meant for you. With the way she’s tugging and removing your clothes, kissing your shoulders and pulling you tighter, it’s like she’s making up for lost time. For every second spent being careful. Your hands trace her body, taking your time to really make sure every curve and beauty mark is stuck in your mind forever.

“God,” you mumble under your breath, pressing your lips to her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, working your way down until you’re kissing the edge of a black lace bra that was almost the reason you stormed off earlier. “I can’t believe how beautiful you really are.”

Her breath hitches. “I know.”

And you’ve missed that, too. Her confidence. The way she can say things like that without irony, because she knows exactly what she’s worth—she just never thought she’d be worth it to you once more.

You kiss her through the black lace, and she shivers when you nip at the edge of her bra, as close to her nipple as you can get. She doesn’t waste any time herself flicking open the button of your jeans. You’ve always thought she needed a helping hand, both of yours pushing your pants further down. They’re not even off properly when she pauses, eyes blown wide, honing in on the tent in your boxers leaving little to imagination.

“Wow,” she says, and it’s almost weird to hear her say it without sarcasm.

“Wow?” your voice is rough, coming out in a single breath.

She nods, and her lips part as she yanks your boxers down, eyes almost dazed as she takes you in. “Wow.”

It’s a reverent look. It’s a look that suits her as long as it’s directed towards you, you think. Her fingers reach out like she’s about to wrap them around you, but she stops right before she makes contact, and the look in her eyes changes. Smug now. Knowing.

“I need a moment,” she says, and you know she’s up to no good. “You can’t just swing that in a girl's face and expect me to make it easy for you.”

A throb shoots through your cock, hips twitching without your consent. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

But she just smirks.

“Chaewon.”

“Shhh,” she says as she shuts down any and all protest, and her voice is the perfect combination of exasperating and enticing. “I’ve got my own Monty Hall problem lined up for you.”

You groan, but it’s more of a plea for mercy than a protest. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious,” she purrs, fingers grazing the base of your cock before pulling back again, making you hiss.

“Three doors,” she says, and the way she looks at you is obscene. “My front door, my back door, and my... ehm... mouth door?”

You’re gone. You’re fucking gone. “You are so lucky you're fucking hot.”

She keeps going, relentless. Her grin is pure mischief. “Which one have I imagined you fucking me with the most?” She rolls her hips, testing you. “Pick right, and you get to fuck it.”

“And if I guess wrong?” Your voice is rough, needy, everything you never let her hear before tonight.

Her eyes burn. “Then you eat me out first.”

It’s a rigged game and you both know it, but you play along anyway, letting her set the rules and stack the deck and deal each card. You lean forward, drag your lips up the line of her jaw. “That’s an impossible choice. You want all of them.”

She moans, a hiccup of laughter and want, and the weight of her shifts in your lap, urgent. “You wish. You only get one.”

But her hips are grinding now, a rolling, deliberate pressure that tells you exactly what her body needs. The answer is and always has been: every option, at once, and all of them leading back to you.

You palm her ass, fingers splaying underneath the lace edge, and the way she shivers tells you she wasn’t expecting you to touch her with that kind of certainty. For all her bravado and gamesmanship, this is how you win: you move first, and you don’t hesitate.

“Let’s see,” you murmur, mouth against the shell of her ear, making her gasp. “Back door—” a squeeze, a knead that pulls a little yelp from her, “—doesn’t seem like your style. At least not as a first move.”

“Don’t count me out,” she breathes, and you hear the competitive edge in her voice, the same edge that made her stay up all night just to prove you wrong about some irrelevant, beautiful, dumb thing.

You laugh, slow and low, and she shakes against you. “Mouth door,” you say, and you can’t help but grin at the way she’s already licking her lips, hungry, needing to prove something. “Obvious contender. But I think you want it right here.” Your hand finds the heat between her legs, cups her through those ridiculous panties, and her eyes go wide, her breath gone.

You wait a beat. She’s never been great at waiting, but she’s trembling now, lips parted, waiting for your verdict.

“And if I told you it’s definitely not the back door? Does your answer change?” she pants.

You consider your odds. “I think—” you start, but she interrupts.

“Actually,” she says, and the way her voice drips with satisfaction is almost enough to make you lose. “I don’t give a fuck. I want your cock. Right here.”

She grinds against you, and you can’t help but think you’re never spending another day without that feeling.

“Fuck,” you groan, because she won this round, and she knows it. “You don’t play fair.”

She bites her lip, smiling, then reaches between you, fingers wrapping around you with a perfect, firm pressure. “And that’s why you love me.”

She’s right. She’s wrong about so many fucking things, but she’s right about this.

You thrust up into her hand, and she moans, her body arching, her hair falling down her back. You reach for her hips, hooking your thumbs under the lace, and she lifts herself up, letting you pull it down, off, away. She doesn’t care where it lands; she’s already lowering herself back onto you, and you’re closing the distance, guiding your cock to her needy cunt.

“Fuck you,” you breathe, so close to her you can taste it, the subtext of admission against her skin. “I’m not saying it first. I’ll force you to.”

She rocks her hips, taking you deeper, her breath catching with a shudder. “Yeah? You think you can make me?”

You grit your teeth, the friction of her tight around you making it almost impossible to think. “I know I can.”

“Big words,” she gasps, riding you faster, harder. “Think you can back them up?”

You reach between you, your thumb finding her clit, and she cries out, her whole body shaking, her walls clenching around you. “You first,” you growl, and you can tell she’s sensitive. “Say it.”

Her eyes roll back, her lower lip caught between her teeth. You know it, you have her dead to rights, this is your win, and then—”Nuh-uh.”

You thrust up into her, relentless, and the pressure builds, mounting, and she’s so fucking tight around you, and you want her to say it, need her to say it.

She grinds down harder, her nails dragging your shoulder blades, and it’s too much. Too good. Too fucking hot. “You’re gonna say it,” you gasp, your thumb circling her clit faster. “I know you.”

“And I know you,” she pants, her head falling back as she rides you with abandon, her whole body trembling, her breath hitching with every thrust. “I know—oh fuck—you.”

You watch her face as she rocks against you, her lips parting, her eyes wide and desperate and defiant. She’s so close. So close you can feel it, the way she’s fighting it, wanting to hold out, wanting to win.

“Say it,” you growl, thrusting up into her again, harder, not easing up on her clit.

She gasps, and this has to be it. She’s trembling, tightening, drowning in ecstasy and she’s— “I’m—Fuck, I’m cumming, you fucker,” she manages to choke out, and she cums hard. Her head drops forward, no further admission, still no winner as her whole body shudders, her walls clenching around you like she’s weaponizing her orgasm against you, trying to pull the words from you.

You swear, a rough sound that’s almost a surrender, and she laughs, breathless, smug, still shaking in your lap. “You first.”

Your grip tightens on her hips, and you’re so fucking close, but you hold on, hold out, your breath ragged. “I’m not going to give up,” you groan, thrusting up into her in a wild frenzy, loud clapping of flesh colliding now strangling the room. She lets out a strangled sound, and her eyes go wide letting you know she didn’t expect this.

Didn’t expect you to only go harder, to keep fucking her through her orgasm, keep pushing her over the edge again and again and again until she might pass out. You thrust harder, deeper, and her voice breaks, her body wild against yours.

You hold on, and she holds on longer. She’s so tight, so wet, and the heat is building, and you feel her clench around you, feel her mold to your shape. Her mouth opens, and you can’t tell if she’s about to say it or if she’s too far gone, and then—

She pulls off of you. You watch, stunned, as she drops to her knees and wraps her mouth around your cock, and the sight alone is enough to make you lose it. You groan, a deep, ragged sound, and she moans around you, the vibration pushing you over the edge. Your hands tangle in her hair as you come, hot and hard, spilling ropes of cum into her mouth.

“Fuck, Chaewon,” you choke out, the last of your breath leaving your body as every drop of cum you had does the same, her lips still tight around you.

Then she pulls back, and her eyes are on you, wide and bright and triumphant. She cups a hand beneath her chin, opens her mouth, and—

“I love you,” she says, letting your cum spill out over her lips, and there’s a laugh behind it, a tremor of amusement, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Like she knows she just won all over again. She wipes her mouth, cum streaking her chin, her neck, her chest, and she looks so absurdly beautiful you can’t even be mad.

“Chaewon,” you breathe. It’s exasperation and wonder, the way you’ve said her name so many times before. “You’re fucking impossible.”

“Really?” She bats her lashes with a coy look, licking her lips like she’s savoring every last drop of the chaos she’s caused. “Aren’t you supposed to say it back?”

You grab her by the waist, pulling her back up to straddle you past your softened cock, and she giggles, squirming in your lap. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

“And you can’t get enough of it,” she teases, her smile widening,

You stare at her, chest heaving, the words settling into the spaces that were empty for so long. Then you let out a breathless, helpless laugh, pulling her face up to yours, kissing her despite all the filth she let drip out to cover her sweetness.

“Fuck you,” you say between kisses, but there’s no heat behind it, just the weight of relief and joy and everything else you’ve been holding back. “How do you win even when you lose?”

She smiles against your mouth, and you feel it in every part of you. “I guess I’m just smarter than you.”

You do. You say it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like you’ve spent the last year waiting for your chance.

“I love you, you idiot.”

She makes a soft sound, and for a second you think she might cry, but it’s just a laugh, bright and giddy and so fucking happy. “I’m glad you do.”

“You’re a fucking nightmare,” you say as you shake your head, trying to hide the cartoonishly large smile she forced upon your face.

“And you’re stuck with me,” she says, kissing you again, her body melting into yours, all softness and satisfaction. Her voice dips, teasing, warm. “Or did you forget?”

“Never,” you murmur, and you mean it. Hell, you’d bet on it.

Her body shifts in response, her being melting into you, her skin sticky but hot against yours. “So,” she says, and it’s light and breezy like that summer day still stuck in your memory, like you’re somehow back in a familiar rhythm, but new nonetheless. “You really think you can handle me?”

You laugh, wrapping your arms around her. “I’ve been handling you for years without the benefit of getting to fuck you.”

She pinches your side, but it’s playful, and you can tell she’s trying not to smile. “Asshole.”

“Yeah,” you say, kissing her forehead. “But I’m your asshole, now.”

She nods, and that alone was worth all the suffering. Because it’s honest.

“Shit,” Chaewon breathes, your skin stuck together with dried cum, pulling loose from you. “We’re a fucking mess.”

“Yeah, well, it’s your fault for trying to be funny,” you say like you’re not covered in it too.

She shakes her head, and it’s like she’s saying it’s your fault for not being the first to say you love her. “We can’t go to bed like this,” she proclaims, trying her best not to get too much filth on her sheets. “C’mon. Shower.”

“Together?” you ask, and she just rolls her eyes like that was the stupidest fucking question you’ve ever asked.

You follow her to the bathroom, the air chilly and the tile cool underfoot. She turns on the water of her shower, letting it heat up as she looks back over at you, one eyebrow lifting like she’s pondering if she should just keep it to showering or not.

“Get in,” she says, pushing you towards the shower. “I’m not letting you sleep until you’re clean.”

She’s already stepping toward the shower when she realizes you’re still standing there. Her eyes narrow, but her lips curve. “What? You’re dawdling now?”

You shrug, and she laughs. It’s not the sound she makes when she’s trying to get under your skin, but the one you’d almost forgotten she could make. Uncomplicated. Real.

She starts taking off the only thing she still has on—her thigh high socks that were the main culprit in why you failed to pick up a girl earlier tonight. You were way too busy admiring how good Chaewon looked, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Don’t tell me you’re expecting me to do it for—”

You catch her hand, stop her from peeling them off. She freezes, looks at you like a deer caught in headlights.

“Let’s pretend I lost your three doors challenge,” you murmur, and you hear her breath catch. “It’d be a shame not to eat you out with how good you look in those.”

“So you were staring! I fucking knew it,” she shouts gleefully.

You don’t give it a response. You just hoist her up, and she wraps her legs around you like it’s instinct, gasping, more eager than surprised, as you let her ass meet the bathroom counter. You spread her thighs open to admire, sink to your knees in between them, and look up, getting lost in the way she looks down.

“Oh my god,” she sighs out. “Are you really—”

You don’t let her finish. You drag your tongue up her slit, and her head falls back, the sound of the shower almost drowning out her moan. Almost, but not quite.

“Fuck,” she gasps, the first of many. “Right there. Oh, right—”

You swirl your tongue around her clit, and her hips buck, her whole body trembling. She’s close already, too close, and you know you could end this in seconds, but you don’t. Not yet.

Your hand slides up her thigh, and she shudders as you press a finger against her asshole, teasing, gentle. Her breath catches, and you feel her body tense, then relax, opening for you.

“Shit,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You don’t even slow down. You work her with your tongue and your fingers and your everything, and she’s shaking.

“Holy fuck,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “You’re—shit—you’re better at this than explaining math problems.”

You groan, a low, rough sound, and the vibration makes her shudder. “Careful, I might bite.”

She laughs, knowing you’re all bark, and her fingers tangle in your hair, not quite pulling you closer, but not allowing escape either. “Don’t stop,” she begs, and she wears it so well that ideas flood your mind. “I’m so fucking close.”

feel her body tense, tight and perfect around you. “Right there. Oh—” You curl your finger, the final bit of tension she needed to release, clenching hard, her hands in your hair, her body on fire. “Oh God, oh—”

She cums hard, her body arching, her legs closing around your head as she cries out, the sound raw and desperate and so fucking good. Your finger slips out but keep your mouth on her, not letting up until she’s shuddering, breathless, her hands tensed up tugging at you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she gasps, and you feel the last tremors of her orgasm as they ripple through her. “How did you—I can’t—” She’s lost for words, and it’s ammunition for next time you fight over something stupid.

You don’t move until she tugs at you weakly, pulling you up, and the look in her eyes is almost enough to make you drop to your knees again.

You grab her hand, pulling her toward the shower, but she doesn’t budge. Instead, she drops to her knees, fingers splayed on your thighs. “I’ll admit, you’re pretty fucking good,” she says, her eyes gleaming with challenge. Everything’s a competition with this girl. “But I’m better.”

You don’t have time to respond. Her mouth is on you, hot and wet and perfect, and you groan, your head falling back. She works you with a skill you didn’t think she had, her tongue swirling, her lips tight, and all you can do is hold on.

She pulls back, and the sudden loss makes you gasp. “Feel free to cum wherever you want,” she muses, and your mind floods with options. All too enticing.

Her pace is relentless, precise, and you feel her smile around you, a smug curve against your skin. She’s rapidly proving her point.

“Chaewon,” you groan, and you’re not sure if you’re leading into begging or commanding. “Fuck, that feels—”

She hums, a low, teasing sound, and the vibration makes you curse. Her fingers slide down, cupping your balls, and you feel yourself throb against her tongue.

You’re close, too close, and she knows it. You can tell by the way she pulls back again, her lips glistening, her eyes wild. “I’m not done with you,” she says, and you swear you might die.

“Fuck my face,” she says, and you tremble, your whole body going tight.

“Chaewon,” you gasp, but she’s already got you begging for more, her hands on your thighs, guiding you inside.

You thrust, and she takes it, takes you, her mouth so fucking good you can’t believe this is real. She moans and gags around you, and it’s a sound you’ll hear in your dreams for the rest of your life.

She looks up, her mouth full, and the sight is obscene, incredible. She’s not stopping, not giving you a second to catch your breath, just letting you use her, and it’s all too fucking much.

You’re so close, the heat building, your control slipping. You fuck her face, your hands tight in her hair, and she’s caught between you and the counter, letting you use her, letting you lose yourself.

“Oh God, Chaewon,” you groan, your thrusts erratic, desperate. “I’m gonna—”

She pulls back, and you gasp, her lips getting pressed against the tip of your dick. She strokes you, her lips swollen and wet, and—

“Do it,” she commands, tilting her head back, presenting her face and her tits and her abs and every target you could choose, her eyes pleading to cover not one but all. “Come all over me.”

That’s it. That’s fucking it. You cum hard, your whole body tensing, and she moans as your release hits her face, her lips, her cheek, her chest.

“Fuck,” you groan, and she smiles, licking her lips, and you’re so spent you almost collapse right there.

Then she’s pulling you down, kissing you, and you taste yourself on her tongue.

“At least I was worth the wait, right?” she murmurs, and you pull back just far enough to see the way she’s grinning, the way she’s looking at you like she thinks she won. If only she saw herself right now, you’re clearly the winner.

“Think I’m ready for that shower now,” you say, and you can’t help but smile back, because you’re a mess, and she’s a mess, and you came into this room specifically to be less of a mess; and you love it. You love her.

The water is still running, heating up the room, and you both stand up. She pulls you with her, and the water makes quick work of the art you just made. What a waste, but a waste you love to spend with her.

She notices your face change as the cum disappears from her visage, and chuckles lightly. “You’ll get plenty of other chances.”

You wash her and she washes you back, and it’s slow and easy and comfortable. Like you never thought it could be again. But better. No rush, no desperation. She works the shampoo into your hair, but you can’t stand to not annoy her for another second, pulling her under the spray and rinsing her off.

“Hey,” she protests, but she’s smiling, her eyes bright.

“Hey yourself,” you say, dragging your thumb across her cheek, her lips, her collarbone. “Think I like you like this.”

“Wet?” she asks, and she’s teasing, but there’s a softness behind it.

“That too. But no. Mine,” you say, and her expression shifts, her eyes going soft, her hands coming to rest on your chest.

“You know,” she says, her voice quiet, thoughtful, “That makes you equally mine.”

You tilt her chin up, kissing her, and she melts into it, into you. “I guess that means we both won today.”

She laughs, and it’s the best sound, the best feeling, the best everything. “Guess I can get used to it if it’s with you.”

Eventually you turn off the tap, and she shivers as you wrap her in a towel, pulling her close. “Bed?” you ask, and she nods, simple and easy.

She helps you dry off, and you help her, and you just can’t let each other be right now. She tugs at you, at your hand, constantly leading you, hair still wild and just damp enough to be okay going to bed with. She slips beneath the covers fully naked, but it’s too cold to worry about any of that, so you follow.

You pull her against you, or she pushes herself into you. It’s hard to tell who’s more desperate. Point is, her back is against your chest, and it fits perfectly. Like she was made for it.

“So,” she says, her voice a sleepy mumble, “are you gonna lose your shit if I say it’s fifty-fifty again?”

You groan, exasperated and affectionate, and she giggles, burying her face in your neck.

“Chaewon,” you say, and she turns just enough to look at you.

“Hmm?”

You wrap your arms around her, holding her, holding everything. “You’re fucking annoying. Never change.”

She smiles, soft and genuine, and you know this is the real win. Not the game, not the challenge, not the give and take of a thousand heated mathematical arguments—but this. Her. You. Together.

“Promise,” she whispers, and you feel her breath slow, feel her body relax, feel the unlikeliest odds settle in your favor.

You hold her tighter, and the silence this time is comfortable, a weightless, blissful quiet that lulls you both toward sleep. You barely hear her next words, but they seep into you, the last sweet, stubborn thing you need to know.

The lights dim, and the crowd’s excited murmur swells into a roar. You stand just offstage, mic in hand, heart pounding. The giant LED screen behind you flickers with the award show’s logo before fading into a dramatic black.

“Ready?” a familiar voice asks softly beside you.

You turn to see Chaewon in her glittering silver outfit, hair swept back, eyes sparkling under the stage lights. She tilts her head slightly, the corner of her mouth lifting in a smirk. “Don’t freeze up out there,” she teases, nudging your arm.

“Me? Freeze? You’re the one who said you might trip in those heels,” you shoot back, earning a soft laugh from her.

The MC’s voice echoes through the arena: “Please welcome… for the first time ever, a special collaboration performance—Chaewon and Y/N!”

The stage bursts to life with gold and crimson lighting. You both step forward together, the roar of the audience hitting like a wave. Chaewon moves with practiced grace, her voice blending perfectly with yours as you sing the opening lines. The two of you exchange glances between verses—quick, electric, and full of unspoken rhythm.

Midway through the choreography, you take her hand for the partner spin. For a split second, you forget the thousands of eyes on you; it’s just her, smiling at you under the glow of the spotlight.

When the final note rings out, the crowd explodes. Confetti rains down as you and Chaewon bow, and she leans in just enough to whisper over the noise, “Told you we’d kill it.” The stage doors swung shut behind you, muffling the thunder of the crowd. The adrenaline still pulsed in your veins, but now it was mixed with the warmth of victory.

Chaewon let out a small breath, fanning herself with one hand. “Wow… that was insane,” she said, a hint of disbelief in her voice.

She glanced at you, her lips curling into that familiar, knowing smile. “Yeah, but I didn’t expect you to match my energy like that. Guess I underestimated you.”

“Guess you did,” you teased, leaning slightly closer as you both kept walking down the narrow hallway lined with stage crew and congratulatory nods.

Someone from the staff handed Chaewon a water bottle, and she cracked it open, taking a long sip before passing it to you without a word. The simple gesture caught you off guard, but you accepted it, your fingers brushing hers for the briefest second.

“Don’t let this go to your head,” she murmured, a playful edge in her tone. “One good collaboration doesn’t mean I’m making you my permanent partner.”

"Hey," she says softly, a coy smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "You pulled of that last choreo perfectly"

"Thanks," you reply, leaning in closer. "I couldn't stop thinking about you out there."

Chaewon's smile widens, and she steps forward, pressing her body against yours. "Is that so? Maybe we should do something about that, then."

Her words send a shiver down your spine, and before you can respond, she's pulling you into a passionate kiss. Her lips are soft and warm, and you can feel the heat radiating off her body.

Chaewon breaks the kiss, her breathing heavy as she looks up at you with desire in her eyes. "I want you," she whispers, her hands roaming over your chest and abs. "I want to taste you."

She drops to her knees, her fingers making quick work of your belt and zipper. Your cock springs free, hard and throbbing with need. Chaewon wraps her hand around your shaft, stroking slowly as she leans in, her breath hot against your skin.

"Fuck," you groan, my head falling back against the wall. Chaewon chuckles softly, her tongue darting out to lick at the tip of your cock. She circles it teasingly, her hand continuing to stroke up and down your length.

Slowly, she takes more of you into her mouth, her lips wrapping around your shaft as she begins to bob her head. She takes you deeper with each stroke, her tongue swirling around your cock as she sucks hard.

You tangle your fingers in her hair, guiding her movements as she works your cock with skill. She takes you deeper and deeper, until you can feel the head of your cock hitting the back of her throat.

Chaewon looks up at you, her eyes watering slightly as she takes you fully into her mouth. She holds you there for a moment, her throat constricting around your shaft as she swallows around you.

You let out a low moan, the sensation almost too intense to bear. Chaewon pulls back slightly, her hand stroking your slick shaft as she catches her breath.

"That's it," she purrs, her voice low and seductive. "I want you to fuck my face. Use me like the dirty slut I am."

Her words send a surge of lust through you, and you grip her hair tighter, thrusting forward into her waiting mouth. Chaewon takes you deep again, her nose pressed against your pelvis as she gags around your cock.

You set a hard and fast pace, fucking her face with abandon. She takes it like a champ, moaning around your shaft as she strokes your balls with her free hand.

The sensation is overwhelming, and you can feel your orgasm building quickly. You thrust deeper and harder, chasing your release as Chaewon takes everything you give her.

With a final thrust, you bury yourself deep in her throat, your cock pulsing as you explode. Chaewon swallows every drop, her throat working overtime as she drinks down your load.

You slump back against the wall, gasping for air as Chaewon pulls off your spent cock with a pop. She looks up at you with a satisfied smile, her lips glistening with saliva and cum.

"That was incredible," you manage to say, your voice hoarse from pleasure.

Chaewon stands up, pressing her body against yours once more. "It's not over yet," she whispers in your ear, her hand sliding down to cup your balls. "I want more."

You feel your cock twitch back to life at her words, and you know that this is just the beginning of a night of pleasure and depravity.

Chaewon's words send a jolt of excitement through you, and you feel your cock hardening once more. She smiles up at you, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she takes your hand and leads you deeper into the backstage area.

You follow her through a maze of corridors, the sound of music and cheering fading into the distance. Finally, she stops in front of a door and opens it, pulling you inside.

The room is dark, with only a single light illuminating the space. It's a dressing room, with mirrors and makeup stations lining one wall. But what catches your eye is the large, plush couch that dominates the center of the room.

Chaewon pushes you down onto the couch, straddling your lap as she leans in for another kiss. Her tongue explores your mouth, tangling with yours as she grinds her hips against your growing erection.

You reach up to cup her breasts, kneading the soft flesh through her tight top. Chaewon moans into your mouth, arching her back to press herself more firmly into your touch.

She breaks the kiss, sitting back and pulling her top off in one smooth motion. Her breasts spill free, the dusky nipples already hard with arousal. You lean forward, taking one in your mouth and swirling your tongue around the sensitive peak.

Chaewon gasps, her hands tangling in your hair as you lavish attention on her breasts. You switch to the other nipple, biting gently as you continue to suck and lick.

Your hands roam her body, exploring every curve and hollow. You slip your fingers beneath the waistband of her skirt, teasing at the damp fabric of her panties.

Chaewon grinds down against your hand, seeking more friction. You oblige, rubbing your fingers along her slit through the thin barrier of cloth. She's already wet, her arousal seeping through the fabric.

Suddenly, Chaewon pulls away, standing up and shimmying out of her skirt. She's left in nothing but a tiny pair of lace panties, her pussy clearly visible through the damp material.

She hooks her thumbs in the waistband and slowly pulls them down, revealing her smooth, shaved mound. You can see the glistening of her juices on her folds, and your mouth waters at the sight.

Chaewon turns around, bending over to present her ass to you. She looks back at you over her shoulder, a coy smile playing on her lips. "I want you to taste me," she says, her voice low and sultry.

You don't need to be told twice. You lean forward, burying your face between her cheeks. Your tongue delves between her folds, lapping at her juices like a man starved.

Chaewon moans, her hips bucking back against your face. You grip her ass, spreading her cheeks wider as you feast on her pussy. Your tongue swirls around her clit, flicking the sensitive bud as you thrust two fingers deep inside her.

She's tight, her walls clenching around your digits as you pump them in and out. You curl your fingers, stroking along her inner walls as you suck hard on her clit.

Chaewon's moans grow louder, her thighs trembling as you bring her closer to the edge. You can feel her walls starting to flutter around your fingers, and you double your efforts, fucking her harder with your tongue and hand.

With a cry, Chaewon comes undone, her pussy spasming around your fingers as she gushes into your mouth. You lap up every drop, savoring the sweet taste of her arousal.

As she comes down from her high, Chaewon turns around, pushing you back onto the couch. She climbs on top of you, straddling your hips as she grinds her slick pussy against your hard cock.

"I need you inside me," she whispers, positioning herself over your shaft. "I need to feel you stretching me open."

You groan as she sinks down onto you, your cock disappearing inside her tight heat. She's so wet, taking you to the hilt with ease. Chaewon starts to move, rising up until just the tip remains inside her before slamming back down.

You grip her hips, helping to set a hard and fast pace as she rides you. The couch creaks beneath you, the sound mingling with the slap of skin on skin and Chaewon's cries of pleasure.

She leans forward, changing the angle and allowing you to go even deeper. You can feel every inch of her, her walls fluttering around your shaft as she takes you to the hilt.

Chaewon's nails dig into your chest as she picks up the pace, chasing her second orgasm. You thrust up to meet her, driving yourself deeper as you feel your own release building.

With a final cry, Chaewon comes again, her pussy clamping down around you like a vice. The sensation is too much, and with a roar, you explode inside her, painting her walls with your seed.

Chaewon collapses on top of you, both of you panting and sweaty from the exertion. You hold her close, stroking her back as you both come down from your highs.

But even as you bask in the afterglow, you can feel your cock starting to stir again inside her. Chaewon must feel it too, because she lifts her head to look at you, a wicked grin on her face.

"And you're a naughty girl," you reply, smacking her ass playfully. "But I'm not done with you yet."

Chaewon laughs, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Good. Because I have so many more ideas for us to try.

Chaewon grins wickedly at your suggestion, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Oh, I like the way you think," she purrs, climbing off your lap and getting onto her hands and knees on the floor in front of you.

You stand up, your cock already hard and ready for more. Chaewon looks up at you, her lips parted invitingly. "Fuck my throat," she says, her voice low and sultry. "Use me like your personal fuck toy."

Your grip on your shaft tightens at her words, a surge of lust coursing through you. You kneel down behind her, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling her head back.

Chaewon moans, arching her back to present her ass to you. You rub the head of your cock against her lips, smearing them with your pre-cum. "Open wide," you growl, pushing forward and breaching the entrance to her throat.

Chaewon gags slightly as you slide inside, her throat constricting around your shaft. But she takes it like a champ, her eyes watering but her expression determined.

You start to thrust, shallow at first but quickly gaining speed. Chaewon relaxes her throat, allowing you to go deeper with each stroke. You can feel the back of her throat against the tip of your cock, the sensation sending shivers down your spine.

You set a hard and fast pace, fucking her face with abandon. Chaewon takes it all, her moans muffled by your cock but still audible. The sound only spurs you on, and you grip her hair tighter, pounding into her throat.

Your balls slap against her chin with each thrust, the lewd sound filling the room. You can feel your orgasm building quickly, the intense suction of her throat too much to resist.

With a final thrust, you bury yourself deep, your cock pulsing as you explode down her throat. Chaewon swallows around you, her throat working overtime to milk every last drop from your shaft.

You pull out, gasping for air as Chaewon coughs and sputters, cum dribbling down her chin. She looks up at you with a satisfied smile, licking her lips clean of your seed.

"Fuck, that was intense," you manage to say, your voice hoarse from exertion.

Chaewon chuckles, a mischievous glint in her eye. "You're not done yet, are you? I want to taste more of your cum."

Before you can respond, she's crawling towards you, her tongue snaking out to lap at the tip of your cock. You groan, your spent shaft twitching back to life at her touch.

Chaewon takes you into her mouth, sucking gently as she works you back to full hardness. It doesn't take long, her skilled mouth and tongue coaxing you to readiness once more.

When she pulls off your cock, it's standing at attention, ready for more. Chaewon stands up, turning around and presenting her ass to you once more.

"Fuck me from behind," she says, looking back at you over her shoulder. "I want to feel you stretching my pussy again."

You don't need to be told twice. You grab her hips, lining yourself up with her entrance and slamming inside with one hard thrust. Chaewon cries out, her walls stretching to accommodate your thick shaft.

You set a brutal pace, pounding into her pussy with all the force you can muster. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the room, mingling with Chaewon's moans of pleasure.

You reach around to rub her clit, your fingers circling the sensitive nub in time with your thrusts. Chaewon's moans grow louder, her walls starting to flutter around your cock.

"Come for me," you growl, your thrusts becoming erratic as you feel your own release approaching. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

With a scream, Chaewon does just that, her pussy clamping down around you like a vice as she comes hard. The sensation is too much, and with a roar, you explode inside her, flooding her walls with your seed.

You collapse onto the couch, pulling Chaewon down with you. You both lay there panting, sweat glistening on your skin as you come down from your highs.

But even as you bask in the afterglow, you can feel your cock starting to stir again. Chaewon must feel it too, because she lifts her head to look at you, a wicked grin on her face.

"You're insatiable," she teases, grinding down on your hardening shaft. "But I'm not done with you yet."

That was when Minju messaged her.

Minju: i booked a hotel. just us three. you, me and my boyfriend.

Chaewon’s heart skipped.

Minju: you can say no, and ill cancel 

Minju: but if you say yes, i promise we’ll take care of everything.

Chaewon stared at the message like it was a lifeline. Then she texted back.

Chaewon: send location

Minju knew what she was doing. She’d seen that haunted look on Chaewon’s face before. The mechanical idol smile. The kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep or skincare could fix.

She remembered it because she used to wear it. Before she met you.

You weren’t just a good fuck—you were a sanctuary. The first man to touch her without treating her like glass. Who could worship her body and still leave bruises. Who’d made her feel again.

Minju had been selfish at first. She didn’t want to share.

But this was Chaewon. Her closest friend. Her sister. And right now, she needed what Minju had found. Not just the sex—but the softness. The safety. The surrender.

So Minju opened her heart and her bed.

“Come over,” she’d whispered over the phone. “Let me show you what he can do.”

-

The elevator chimed softly as it reached the top floor, and Chaewon’s heart fluttered in her chest like it was about to crack her ribs.

She stood for a second before stepping out—her fingers curled tight around the strap of her purse, the click of her heels muffled by the plush hallway carpet. Every step toward the presidential suite door felt heavier than the last. Not because she was scared. But because she knew something inside was about to change.

She could feel it.

When she knocked, the door opened almost immediately—like Minju had been standing just behind it, waiting.

“Hey,” Minju breathed, eyes scanning her up and down. “You look perfect.”

Minju wore only a white robe, loosely cinched at the waist, exposing one smooth thigh and a tempting triangle of bare skin down her chest. Her hair was damp. Her face glowed. She looked like sex and comfort and everything Chaewon didn’t realize she was craving.

“You didn’t say it was this nice,” Chaewon said quietly, stepping inside.

The suite felt like a dream.

Dim lights pooled golden across sleek hardwood floors. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood, candle wax, and warm linen. There was jazz playing—something slow, rich, and teasing. Wine glasses glinted from a table in the corner. And in the center of the room, on the wide king bed turned down like a lover’s invitation, sat him.

Shirtless. Calm. Watching her.

Your eyes met hers—unblinking, patient—and Chaewon stopped walking.

You were so much more real than she expected. So much more.

She felt her thighs tense, her fingers twitch.

“He’s real?” she whispered, voice smaller than intended.

“Mhm,” Minju murmured, stepping behind her and wrapping arms around her waist. Her lips brushed Chaewon’s ear.  “And tonight, he’s yours.”

Chaewon shivered. “But he’s yours,” she whispered.

“Tonight,” Minju repeated, kissing the edge of her jaw, “we share.”

Then Minju tugged her closer, until they both stood at the foot of the bed, looking at you. You set your wine glass down without a word and rose to meet them.

“You okay?” Minju asked softly.

Chaewon swallowed. Then nodded. “I think I’ve wanted this… longer than I knew.”

Minju smiled, her voice velvet. “Then let us give it to you. Everything. All of him.”

You stepped forward, the soft thud of your bare feet on the floor grounding the electricity between the three of you. You didn’t reach for her—not yet. You just stood there, taking her in.

Chaewon’s eyes flickered, nervous and excited. Her lips parted as if to speak, but the words caught in her throat. You could tell she wanted permission to do something she’d never done before: be wanted this openly. Be unwrapped not like an idol or a fantasy—but as a woman. A friend. A craving.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to see you like this?” you murmured, voice low and reverent.

Her breath hitched.

“Back when you were still in IZ*ONE,” you continued, stepping even closer, “I used to watch the 2Kim clips over and over. You and Minju—you had this gravity around you. All that sweetness. All that energy.”

Minju grinned from behind her. “He was obsessed.”

You smiled. “Still am.”

You looked into Chaewon’s eyes now, no distance between your bodies. She was so close, you could smell her shampoo and stage perfume—familiar and overwhelming.

“You were the cute one,” you whispered. “But now? Now you walk like you could ruin someone. And god… I want you to.”

Chaewon’s cheeks flared crimson, but her hands finally moved—trembling slightly as they reached for the hem of her crop top. She looked to Minju for a second, who gave a soft, approving nod.

Slowly, Chaewon pulled her top up—inch by inch, revealing the tight lines of her stomach, the dip of her waist, the pale, smooth curve of her ribs. The bra underneath was delicate, white, laced with a hint of blue that made her skin glow.

Your eyes didn’t leave her for a second.

“You’re beautiful,” you said. “But you already knew that.”

“Not like this,” she whispered. “Not when someone’s staring like they want to eat me.”

Minju stepped in behind her again, pressing her lips to Chaewon’s shoulder.

“He always looks like that when he wants to breed someone.”

Chaewon let out a shaky laugh. “So that’s what this is.”

“No,” you murmured. “That’s just the beginning.”

She nodded once—then reached down, unzipping her skirt slowly. She pushed it over her hips, letting it fall into a soft puddle around her feet. She stood there now, in just her bra and soaked panties, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on yours.

Minju kissed the back of her neck again. “Are you ready, babe?”

Chaewon’s voice came out in a breathy moan. “Please… touch me. Use me. I don’t care how—just… I need it. I need you both so bad I feel like I’m gonna melt.”

You didn’t need to be told twice—but Minju still did. She circled Chaewon like she was showcasing a work of art, her hands skimming down her sides, then up to cup her chest from behind. Her voice was honeyed and filthy.

“You see this body?” she purred, pressing her chest flush against Chaewon’s back. “These tits used to be hidden under oversized hoodies, but now? Look how perky they are. Perfect to suck, perfect to bounce on your cock while she rides you.”

Chaewon shivered—but her eyes never left yours. She was getting high on the way you stared at her—hungry, reverent, already twitching hard in your sweats.

Minju’s hands slipped lower, fingers tracing the soft swell of Chaewon’s ass.

“And this ass?” she whispered, gripping it tight. “Round. Firm. Made to take a spanking. And that tight little hole in the back…” she spread her gently, exposing the soft pucker between those cheeks, “…you’ve never felt anything like it.”

Chaewon moaned softly—but then stepped forward, leaving Minju’s hands behind. Her hips swayed, confident now, a wicked smirk pulling at her lips.

“So?” she asked you, voice low and teasing. “Do I live up to the 2Kim fantasy?”

You didn’t even speak. Your jaw flexed, your cock twitching under the strain of your pants. She stepped closer—until her chest brushed yours, bare skin to skin. Her fingers curled around the waistband of your sweats, tugging it down just enough to free your length.

Her eyes dropped. Her breath hitched. “Fuck,” she whispered. “I think I just made a mistake.”

“Why?” you rasped.

She looked up at you, pupils blown, lips parted. “Because now I need to feel you ruin every part of me.”

You chuckled.

“Need me to ruin you, huh?” you said, your voice thick with hunger. “Then don’t act surprised when I do.”

Before she could answer, your hands wrapped around her waist, and she let out a breathy gasp as you lifted her effortlessly—her petite frame weightless in your arms. Her legs instinctively wrapped around your torso, her breath catching at how easily you handled her, how safe and claimed she felt in your grasp.

“Fuck,” she whispered, flushed and squirming in your arms. “

You grinned and walked her to the bed, laying her down on her stomach like a prize you couldn’t wait to unwrap. She turned her head to the side, cheek against the pillow, already panting in anticipation.

Before you did anything else, you turned to Minju. She was standing at the foot of the bed, one hand lazily teasing her own nipple through the robe, the other already sliding between her thighs. She looked at you with a smirk—expectant, loving, filthy.

You leaned in and kissed her. Deep. Possessive. Her lips parted for you like always, and when you pulled away, she whispered against your lips. “She’s all yours. Make her scream.”

You turned back to the bed.

Chaewon’s ass was raised slightly, involuntarily—like her body knew what was coming. Her thighs were pressed together, her glistening pussy barely visible, but the slick sheen between them made your cock twitch with need.

You crawled up behind her, spreading her gently—cheeks parting to reveal everything.

“Fuck…” you muttered under your breath.

Minju hadn’t exaggerated. Her pussy was tight and flushed, glistening and begging. But just above it, her asshole clenched and pulsed, shy but perfect—pink, untouched, and twitching in anticipation.

You leaned in.

Chaewon jolted at the first lick—your tongue swiping slowly from her pussy up to her rim in one long, deliberate stroke.

“Oh—fuck—!” she cried, her back arching hard.

You did it again.

And again.

Your tongue alternated between her folds and her hole, teasing her pussy with slow, wet licks, then swirling over her asshole until she was grinding helplessly into the sheets, moaning into the pillow.

“I-I can’t believe—” she gasped, voice shaking, “—you’re licking my ass…”

“Told you,” Minju moaned from the side, fingers pumping between her legs as she watched. “No one eats like he does.”

You gripped Chaewon’s ass tighter, spreading her further, tongue circling her tight little hole like you were savoring every flutter, every clench. The sounds she made—breathless, high-pitched, desperate—were better than anything you’d imagined.

“You taste even sweeter than I thought,” you muttered against her skin. “Your pussy, your ass… every fucking part of you.”

“Please…” she whimpered, pushing back toward your face. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—fuck, I need more—!”

As Chaewon whimpered into the pillow, her legs trembling from the relentless worship of your mouth, Minju stepped closer—robe loose, body flushed, fingers glistening with her own arousal.

You looked up from between Chaewon’s cheeks, lips wet, breathing heavy, and met Minju’s eyes.

If Chaewon was a prize, Minju was the fucking throne.

“Your turn,” you said, licking your lips as you rose to meet her eyes.

She smirked, hands already moving to cup her heavy tits. “About time. Your mouth’s been teasing me since Chaewon walked in.”

You didn’t speak—you dropped to your knees again, this time with intention, devotion. And from this angle? Fuck. You could die right here.

Her pussy was soaked, the lips plump and flushed, but what stole your breath—again—were those thighs. Thick and smooth, endlessly soft, already trembling just from how you looked at her. You wanted to live between them. Drown there. Suffocate with her scent smearing your face.

“These fucking thighs…” you groaned, dragging your hands up from her knees, squeezing the flesh like dough. “Minju, baby… you’re such a fucking meal.”

She moaned low, voice dripping with power.

“Then eat, baby. Or do I need to ride your face and make it messy myself?”

You growled and dove in, pressing your face directly into her thighs—not even her pussy yet—just rubbing your cheek against them like you were drunk on their warmth. Then your tongue came out, licking long, wet stripes across the skin until it shone.

“Fuck, you’re so nasty when it’s me,” she gasped. “That tongue worships my thighs like it’s praying to them.”

“Because I am,” you growled. “This soft slutty body? These tits, this ass, these fucking thighs—you’re perfection, Minju.”

You spread her legs further, fingers digging into the meat of her thighs, and finally let your tongue drag up through her soaked folds. She jerked at the first contact.

“Oh my God, yes—fuck—right there,” she cried. “Lick me like that. Like you’re starving. Like you fucking missed this pussy.”

You buried yourself in her—lips, tongue, spit. Sucking her folds, teasing her clit, spreading her open with your tongue like she was your first and last meal. She tasted addictively sweet, and you made sure she knew it.

“You’re dripping like a whore, babe,” you groaned against her hole. “It’s fucking everywhere.”

“Then lap it up, baby. Clean your mess.”

She grabbed your head with both hands and pulled you in, grinding her pussy into your face with no shame—riding your tongue with slow, filthy rolls of her hips, while her thighs tightened around you like a vice.

“Fucking look at him,” she moaned to Chaewon, who was still sprawled out on the bed, watching with wide, dazed eyes. “Look at your new favorite tongue getting smothered by my pussy. This is what you’re in for.”

Your moan vibrated against Minju’s clit and she shuddered, legs trembling as she humped your face, losing control. 

“I’m gonna cum—fuck—I’m gonna cum on your tongue and you’re not stopping till you taste all of it. You got that?”

You nodded—or tried to, head locked in by her thighs—and sucked her clit hard enough to pull a scream from her lips.

“FUCK, YES—TAKE IT!”

Her thighs clamped. Her hips jerked. Her entire body shook as she came all over your mouth, dripping down your chin, coating your tongue, and soaking the sheets beneath her.

And still, you licked. Minju whimpered, still twitching, both hands tangled in your hair now.

“God, baby… I swear. You were made to be between my fucking legs.”

Minju was still breathless, legs spread wide, pussy glistening from your tongue. Her thighs twitched around your head, and her hand caressed your cheek, proud and dazed.

You pulled away slowly, chin soaked, lips swollen from the mess she made on your face.

And that’s when you heard it.

Enough.

You turned your head—and there was Chaewon. Still on the bed, but no longer soft, no longer shy. Her legs were spread shamelessly, one knee bent up, her soaked panties pulled to the side to expose her dripping, flushed slit. Her fingers were between her legs, gliding slowly over her folds while she stared at you, hungry.

“I’ve waited long enough,” she said, voice low and laced with fire. “Now get the fuck over here and breed this fucking pussy.”

You froze. Your cock twitched violently.

“You’ve had your tongue up Minju’s slutty hole for what? Twenty minutes?” she snapped, rubbing her clit with fast, deliberate circles. “Meanwhile I’ve been leaking onto these sheets like a needy little cumdump. And you think I’m just gonna sit here and wait like a good girl?”

She laughed—dark and breathless.

“No, baby. I’m done being patient. I want that cock. I want it slammed into me until I forget my name. I want to feel you splitting me open, making a mess inside me, and not stopping till I’m drooling, shaking, and dripping with your fucking cum.”

Minju let out a throaty moan beside you. “God, she sounds like me now.”

Chaewon arched her back, using her free hand to slap her inner thigh hard enough to echo through the room.

“You hear that? That’s how ready I am. My pussy’s screaming for you. My hole’s twitching. I want to be used, fucked dumb, made into your next creampie. You want this tight little idol pussy? Then fucking take it.”

Your cock pulsed so hard it ached.

“Or are you just gonna keep staring, baby?” she hissed, lips curling into a wicked grin. “You gonna make me beg harder? Fine—wreck me. Fuck me so hard your cum leaks out of me for days. I want to walk funny. I want to cry from how deep you are. I want your cock ruining me in front of your girlfriend.”

“And when you’re done?” she whispered, spreading herself wide open with both hands. “You’re not pulling out. You’re gonna stay inside and breed me again. Over. And over. Until there’s nothing left but your cum in my womb.”

You were already moving—hands on her thighs, body between her legs, cock throbbing and ready to fucking destroy her.

“Fuck,” you growled, lining yourself up. “You just earned it, baby.”

You didn’t say a word. You just grabbed her wrist, yanked her hand away from her soaked cunt, and flipped her over in one rough, fluid motion. She yelped—just once—before moaning into the mattress as you shoved her face-first into the pillows and yanked her hips up into the air.

“Fuck, yes,” she gasped, ass in the air, knees spread wide. “That’s it—take me.”

Your eyes devoured the sight. Her ass was round and high, jiggling slightly with each breath. Her pussy was drenched, folds flushed, glistening like she was already being fucked. And that tight little hole above? Still twitching from earlier, begging for another tongue or cock.

But right now? That pussy was yours.

“Look at you,” you growled, dragging your cock up through her slick folds, smearing her juices over your length. “Bent over like a fucking slut. You needed this, didn’t you? Needed to get fucked, not pampered.”

“Yes—yes,” Chaewon sobbed, grinding back against you. “Treat me like a bitch. Ruin me. Fucking break me.”

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed a fistful of her dark hair, yanked her head back—and slammed into her in one deep, brutal stroke.

Her scream echoed through the room. “FUCK—YES!”

Her back arched violently, her ass bouncing against your hips as you began to pound her, fast and merciless. Your thighs slapped into her soft flesh, your cock bottoming out in her over and over again, stuffing her full.

“That’s it, that’s it, that’s it—fuck me just like that—” she babbled, face pressed into the sheets, drooling. “You’re so deep, you’re fucking ruining me—”

Minju stood to the side, one hand on her breast, the other lazily rubbing her clit as she watched the show. Her eyes burned with pride.

“She’s not gonna last,” she purred. “You’re already rearranging her insides.”

You grunted and pulled back, slamming in again so hard Chaewon screamed.

“Good,” you growled, leaning over her back. “Because I’m not stopping until you’re bred, stuffed, and dripping like a used fucking toy.”

You reached around and grabbed her throat, pulling her upper body up against your chest as you kept pounding her from behind—brutal, unforgiving, relentless.

“You feel that, Chaewon? That’s my cock all the way in your guts.”

“I feel it—I feel everything—!” she choked out, eyes rolling back. “Fucking breed me, please—flood my womb—use me, fill me, I’m your cocksleeve tonight—fuck!”

Your hips slammed into her harder. Faster.

“That’s right,” you snarled in her ear. “My pretty little idol, bent over like a bitch in heat.”

“Yes—yes yes yes yes—use me!” she howled.

Her body convulsed. Her pussy clamped around you, squeezing your cock as she came hard—squirting, screaming, thighs shaking. You didn’t let up. You couldn’t stop. Not until your balls were heavy and your cock was twitching—

“Gonna fucking cum—gonna fill this slutty womb—”

“DO IT!” she screamed, slamming her ass back into you. “FUCKING CUM IN ME, BREED ME, STUFF ME FULL OF YOUR FUCKING SEED!”

You groaned loud, jerking deep inside her one final time—and exploded. Thick, hot ropes of cum shot deep into her pussy, flooding her in long, heavy spurts. You stayed buried, balls tight to her soaked slit, both of you trembling, breathless.

And still, she moaned.

“More…” she whispered. “Don’t pull out. I want every fucking drop…”

Chaewon collapsed forward, face pressed into the soaked sheets, legs trembling violently as your cum slowly dripped from her used, gaping pussy. Her breathing was broken—half gasps, half satisfied whimpers. You stayed buried in her for a moment, savoring the pulsing warmth, the flutter of her inner walls still hugging your cock.

But then, you looked up—toward the woman who made this happen.

Minju stood near the edge of the bed, one leg propped up, two fingers lazily circling her clit as she watched you cum inside her best friend like it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

You slid out of Chaewon with a wet sound, your cock gleaming with a thick coat of slick and cum, still hard, still throbbing. You smirked, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and turned to her.

“Sorry, babe,” you said, voice low and hoarse, “but I gotta thank the woman who put me in this situation in the first place.”

Minju’s lips curved up, but her eyes sparkled with dark hunger. You walked toward her, cock bouncing with each step, still wet with Chaewon’s cum and arousal.

“So tell me, Minju,” you whispered, brushing her hair back from her cheek, “what position would you love to be fucked in tonight? You’ve earned it. And I wanna hear it from your pretty mouth.”

You leaned closer, breath hot against her neck.

“Want to lie back and wrap those perfect fucking thighs around my waist?” you whispered. “Feel your tits bouncing while I fuck into you slow and deep, kissing you between thrusts until you're crying my name like a needy little wife?”

Your hand slid down her side.

“Or maybe you want doggystyle like your bestie,” you grinned. “Bent over, ass jiggling, while I pull your hair and slap your ass and fill you so deep you forget who came first tonight?”

You kissed her shoulder, then her neck, voice a growl now.

“No? Then how about I pick you up—legs around my waist, your back against the wall—fucking you hard and messy while your heels dig into my ass, and the whole fucking suite hears how wet you are?”

She moaned softly, hips twitching.

“Or maybe—” you kissed the shell of her ear, “—you wanna ride me. Put on a show. Grind on my cock, tits bouncing, hands on my chest, looking down at me like I’m your prize. Like this is your throne.”

You pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, thumb brushing across her spit-slick lower lip.

“So what’s it gonna be, Minmin? You want to be loved? Fucked? Worshipped? Bred?”

“Because this cock is ready for your turn, and I’m not pulling out until your pussy is just as messy as hers.”

Minju licked her lips slowly as you laid out every position like a banquet. Your words hung in the air, thick with promise. She didn’t answer right away—she just stepped closer, pressing her soft, warm body against your chest, her hand wrapping gently around your still-leaking cock, stroking it once—just to feel the weight of it.

Her eyes fluttered shut at the sensation, and then she looked up at you with that same sweet, seductive grin.

“They’re all tempting, baby,” she whispered, giving your cock a little squeeze. “But I want to be fucked like a whore tonight.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

She leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Put me in a full nelson,” she said, voice thick with filth. “Hook your arms under these thick fucking thighs, lift me up like I’m nothing, and fuck my ass while I dangle in the air like your personal fucktoy.”

You groaned, cock twitching violently in her hand.

“I want my tits bouncing, my feet off the floor, and my tight little asshole stretched around this cock while Chaewon watches her sweet unnie get fucking demolished.”

She kissed your jaw, breath shaky now.

“I want to scream while you ruin my ass. I want to feel your balls slapping against me. I want to drip sweat, spit, and drool while I get rearranged. You think Chaewon looks good bred on her stomach? Wait till she sees me dangling mid-air with your cock buried so deep in my ass I’m gurgling every thrust.”

Chaewon whimpered behind you.

“Fuck,” you growled. “You're serious.”

Minju pulled back slightly, eyes locked on yours.

“I brought you my best friend. I made her beg for your cum. Now fucking thank me—by bending me in half, using my ass like it’s yours, and not stopping until I can’t even walk straight.”

You didn’t hesitate.

With a deep grunt, you grabbed Minju by the thighs, hoisting her up effortlessly. Her legs spread wide, thighs folding high against her chest, and your arms hooked under them—locking her in place, bent in half, completely suspended. Her arms flailed once, then wrapped around your neck, holding tight, clinging. Her heavy tits bounced freely in front of you, swaying with every breath.

“Oh fuck yes,” Minju gasped, back arching, “*This is what I wanted—*this is what I fucking needed!”

You stepped back into position, guided your cockhead down between her cheeks, and pressed it hard against her slicked-up, twitching rim—already slick from her own spit and your pre-cum.

“Ready, baby?” you growled, voice shaking with restraint.

“Stuff my fucking ass,” she snarled. “Stretch me open and fuck it like you own it—I’m your fucking whore tonight!”

You pushed forward—slow at first—but the moment your cockhead breached that tight little ring, Minju screamed, head thrown back, jaw slack.

“FUCK—YES—DEEPER—RUIN ME!”

Her ass swallowed you inch by inch, so tight, so hot, her legs shaking around your arms as you buried yourself to the hilt.

“Fucking hell, Minmin” you growled into her neck. “Your ass… it’s choking me.”

“Then fucking choke, baby,” she whimpered. “Drown in this ass. Breed my fucking guts if you have to—just don’t stop.”

You obeyed. Your hips snapped into hers, bouncing her weightless body in the air with every savage thrust. Her tits bounced wildly. Her eyes rolled back. Her mouth fell open, drooling down your shoulder as you pounded her ass with no mercy.

“FUCK—OH MY GOD—FUCK—IT’S SO—FUCKING—DEEP!”

Each thrust drove a shocked, desperate cry from her throat. Her ass clenched violently around you, milking your cock like her body couldn’t decide if it wanted more or less.

“You feel that, Chaewon?” she cried out, eyes fluttering as she looked past you. “This is what happens when you spoil him real good—he tears my ass apart!”

You turned your head—Chaewon was kneeling on the bed, eyes wide, two fingers inside her soaked cunt, her other hand squeezing her breast as she whimpered.

“Fuck,” she moaned. “She’s taking it so fucking well—her hole’s just… wrapped around him…”

You grinned, face dripping with sweat.

“Look at that ass, Minmin” you panted. “Gaped, stuffed, dripping—you're not walking tomorrow.”

“Don’t want to walk,” Minju gasped. “Just want to be your used little anal bitch—fill me—wreck me—let me wear your cum like perfume—!”

You adjusted your grip, slamming up into her harder, faster, your balls slapping wetly against her ass as the sound of skin on skin echoed off the hotel walls. Minju was screaming now, broken and shameless, her whole body jerking with every thrust.

“FUCK—I’M CUMMING—I’M FUCKING CUMMING FROM MY ASS—!”

Her body convulsed, legs shaking violently in your grip as she came—hard—clenching your cock so tight your knees nearly buckled. Her hole spasmed around you like it was trying to trap your cum inside her.

“gonnacumgonnacum GONNACUM—GONNA BLOW MY LOAD IN YOUR FUCKING ASS—”

“DO IT!” Minju screamed, tears in her eyes. “BREED MY FUCKING ASS! FILL ME—FILL ME—FILL ME—”

You slammed in one last time—and erupted.

Thick, heavy spurts of cum blasted into her tight, fucked-out asshole. Your cock twitched hard with every pulse, your entire body shuddering as you pumped her full. Minju’s mouth hung open in a silent scream, her entire body trembling in your arms as you filled her.

She went limp—completely, totally fucked. Her legs dangled. Her hole twitched, gaping slightly around your still-throbbing cock, now overflowing with cum.

You slowly lowered her down, placing her gently on the bed next to Chaewon, who was soaking the sheets with her own arousal. Both girls lay there—one bred, one leaking—and both with fucked-out, ruined smiles on their faces.

You stood above them, cock still half-hard, glistening with a mix of ass, spit, and cum.

“So,” you panted, grinning, “who wants round two?”

Chaewon was the first to move.

Still panting, legs weak from fingering herself to both your orgasms, she crawled toward you on trembling limbs, eyes blazing.

“That position,” she whispered. “I want it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Full nelson?”

She nodded, eyes defiant, needy. "Exactly how you gave it to her. I want to feel my ass split open around that cock. I want to scream. I want to fucking sob from how deep you go."

You looked down at her — delicate frame, perky tits still heaving, skin glistening — and already imagined it. Those trembling thighs folded over her chest, your arms locking her down, lifting her off the bed like a ragdoll while her tight asshole readies itself.

“You sure?” you asked, voice low, cock twitching.

She nodded fast. “I’m sure. Minju got it. Now fucking ruin me.”

You moved fast, adrenaline and cum still burning in your blood. You grabbed Chaewon by the hips and flipped her over, pressing a quick kiss to the curve of her spine before hauling her into your arms.

She squeaked, legs instinctively closing, but you forced them open — hooking her soft thighs over your arms, folding her in half, holding her like a doll. Her arms wrapped around your shoulders, but she didn’t fight — she moaned. Hard.

“F-fuck… I’m so light in your arms…”

“That’s why I can break you like this.”

Her ass hovered in the air, cheeks spread wide, her pink, twitching little asshole exposed, glistening with lube you’d smeared on just seconds before. It clenched, fluttering—resisting—and your cock ached to be inside.

And Minju? Still on her knees. Still filthy. She moved in below you, licking her lips, her face directly under your cock as you lined up.

“Let me help,” she whispered, grabbing your shaft with both hands and spitting on the tip. “This pretty little hole’s gonna need it.”

You pressed forward. Her asshole didn’t welcome you. Not like Minju’s. It was tight. Strangling.

The moment your cockhead breached her rim, Chaewon screamed—high-pitched, raw.

“FUCK—TOO BIG—IT’S TOO MUCH—!”

You didn’t stop. You fed it to her, inch by inch, her asshole fighting you the entire way—clenching around your cock like it was trying to force you out.

“Holy shit,” you groaned, struggling to keep your pace. “She’s choking me…”

“Yeah she is,” Minju moaned from below, licking up the underside of your shaft as it slid deeper. “Her little ass doesn’t want to take it… but look at her try.”

“GIVE IT TO ME!” Chaewon screamed, tears running down her cheeks. “ALL OF IT! I don’t care if it rips—just keep fucking pushing!”

With a final grunt, you bottomed out—your cock now fully inside her spasming asshole. Her body shook in your arms, legs kicking helplessly in the air.

“She’s so fucking tight,” you growled, nearly biting your lip. “Like she’s trying to crush my cock just for entering her…”

“Then pound her till it gives in, baby,” Minju moaned, licking your cock every time you slid out just enough to expose the thick, twitching base. “Stretch her out for me.”

You started thrusting. Brutal. Deep. Full weight behind every snap of your hips as Chaewon wailed into your neck, her voice cracked and begging.

“*FUCK—OH MY GOD—IT HURTS—BUT DON’T STOP—FUCKING USE MY ASS!”

Her tight little hole resisted every movement—clenching, spasming, squeezing your cock so violently you could barely move at first.

But you forced her open. And the moment her body started losing the fight, her moans changed—ragged pain turning into slutty, filthy cries.

“IT FEELS—TOO GOOD! I CAN FEEL EVERY FUCKING VEIN—!”

Below, Minju was lapping at the base of your shaft, tongue teasing Chaewon’s stretched rim with every withdrawal, licking your cock clean of every drop of anal slick and sweat.

“Her hole’s sucking you in,” she whispered, voice soaked with lust. “Tighter than mine. But she’s getting addicted to it…”

You slammed into her harder.

“GOOD. She’ll remember this every time she sits down.”

Chaewon was sobbing now—drool on her chin, tits bouncing in the air, completely fucked out and held in place.

“BREED ME—IN MY ASS—PLEASE—I WANT TO FEEL YOU FUCKING LEAKING OUT OF ME!”

You grunted, cock throbbing.

“You’re gonna get it, baby,” you growled. “You’re not just gonna feel me in there. You’re gonna wear me.”

You picked up the pace—feral, animalistic. Your balls slapped against her abused pussy, your cock jackhammering her asshole, and Minju moaned louder each time she saw your shaft reappear glistening and stretched wide.

“FUCK—FUCK—FUCK—I’M CUMMING—I’M CUMMING FROM MY ASS!”

Her body seized—you felt her asshole clamp down, tighten even harder, as her orgasm ripped through her. And that was all it took.

You roared.

“TAKE IT—TAKE MY FUCKING LOAD—FILL THAT TIGHT LITTLE HOLE—FUCKING BREED HER!”

Your cock exploded. Cum flooded her, pouring into her tight, trembling ass in thick, heavy spurts, your arms shaking from holding her up.

Chaewon screamed, the heat inside her too much—her asshole stretching around your throbbing cock, now bursting with your second load.

You stayed inside. Long enough to watch it leak from her clenching hole as you pulled out, her body collapsing into Minju’s arms below.

They were both ruined. Asses leaking, bodies twitching, faces glowing with filth and satisfaction. You stood above them—cock slick and heavy—watching your two idols destroyed.

You laid them both down gently on the bed—bodies sweaty, hair tangled, skin flushed. Your cum dripped from both their stretched assholes, leaving creamy trails on the sheets, the air thick with the heady scent of sex and sweat.

Chaewon was on her side, legs still trembling, cheeks pink, eyes dazed. Minju curled beside her, arms wrapped loosely around her waist, kissing her shoulder softly.

“God,” Minju breathed. “You took it like a champ.”

Chaewon giggled weakly, then winced as she shifted. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sit normally again.”

“Same,” Minju smirked. “Wanna… compare damage?”

They both turned, rolling onto their stomachs, spreading their legs just enough for you to see everything. Two glistening, gaping holes—both red, twitching, leaking. Chaewon’s was slightly tighter still, clenching like it was struggling to stay open. Minju’s was more relaxed, her cum-soaked rim slowly dripping steady white down the curve of her ass.

“Look at us,” Minju whispered. “Two cock-drunk sluts, leaking like broken faucets.”

Chaewon looked over her shoulder, smiling through her exhaustion. “But damn… it felt so fucking good.”

You crouched between them, groaning softly at the view. “You two are unreal.”

Minju giggled. “Don’t tempt us again. Or we’ll be limping through check-out.”

Then Chaewon turned over, still glowing, hair sticking to her cheek, body painted in sex. She reached for your hand, tugged you close, and looked at you with something deeper in her eyes. Not just lust. Not even love. Something more vulnerable. Grateful. Raw.

 “Thank you,” she whispered. “Not just for the fucking—though God, that was incredible…”

She swallowed hard, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“Thank you for letting me fall apart. For fucking the idol out of me. For reminding me I’m not just someone to look at... but someone to use. To feel. To ruin.”

You leaned in, kissed her slow. “You’re welcome. Anytime. Always.”

Minju snuggled up beside her, nuzzling your chest with a sleepy smile. “Next time… both holes at once.”

Chaewon blinked, then laughed breathlessly.

“Fuck… Let’s order room service first.”

The three of you sank into the bed, cum drying on your skin, bodies tangled and aching. The night was over—but none of you would ever forget what happened in that suite.

And deep down, you knew. They weren’t done with you.

“Because I’m at work. What about you? Am I gonna have to write you up for coming to work hungover?”

You stretched your back. “I’m only hungover because of you, Ms. Manager”, you said, twisting your obliques. 

She reached to your head, ruffling your hair. “You look like a mess, what the hell happened after I passed out last night?”

Your eyes dropped to the floor, avoiding hers. “I just get like, crazy bed head”, you said, leaning your head lower so she could access your hair better. 

“That’s a bit better, here look at me for a sec” She took her fingers and pinched both of your cheeks, hard enough your mouth opened slightly from being tugged. She stayed like that for a moment, before you could clearly see her forcing back a smile.

“Why are you pinching my cheeks?” You asked, swiping her arms away. The laugh she was suppressing broke through.

“Hehe~, helps with blood flow. Probably.”

“You’re so annoying”, you rolled your eyes with a chuckle.

“I’m annoying? What about you, pulling that stuff when Eunchae was in the bathroom?”

“Me?? You were the one who-”

She wanna keep going looked you to silence.

“Hmph, good. Now look alive stupid, we open in 5. I have a feeling it’s going to be busy today.”

“You say that every day”

“Wishful thinking”, she smiled, giving you a few playful smacks on your bicep. “Go go, turn on the coffee machine”, she said before scuttling over to the kitchen, probably to prep for the cakes to be baked.

“Wait”, you called. She turned her head, soft eyes locking with yours, strands from the loose bun she tied framing her face. She was so damn pretty, such a perfect face to wake up to, and then go to work with. And you were gonna do something to piss that face off, well, because it was Chaewon.

“Thanks for letting me crash last night”

“That’s why you stopped me? I mean, it was no problem, we were all drunk so-”

“No, no, let me thank you properly. I got you something”

She lit up with a smile. “You got me something?”, she gushed, hopping over to you in quick strides. “Ohh I always knew it, you tease me and tease me but deep down you really appreciate your manager, don’t you?”

A mischievous smile crept on your face as you reached into the drawer under the cash register. You’d slipped it in there on your way in.

“Hey, don’t you?” she asked cautiously this time. 

“Of course, that’s why I got you this”. You pulled out a brown old cowboy hat that you’d found in her room the night before. You had tucked it into your bag when Chaewon had first passed out, intending to tease her about it today.

“Yah! Where did you get that!”, she screamed, reaching for the hat.

You couldn’t bite back your laughter anymore, lifting the cowboy hat so it was just out of reach. Teasing her was the best hangover cure you could ask for. The boundless amount of energy that welled inside you just from seeing her flustered was definitely a red flag. 

“Yeehaw, miss manager!”, you laughed. “What, are you a cowboy on your days off?” 

“It’s a cute hat!”, she squealed, jumping up as she tried to take it from you.

“Yeah, in the wild west”, you quipped. “Is that why you’re always so mad at work? Application from the saloon got denied, so now you wallow at this regular, modern cafe?”.

Chaewon’s cheeks flushed in anger. “Shut up! It’s cute and it was on sale and I barely wear it so- just give it back!”

You put the hat on her head softly as her anger welled. The hat fit perfect on her head, and damn did she look fine. Your laughing died down as her fluttering eyes looked up at you. You both stayed there for a while, eyes locked. “You’re right, though. It does look cute on you”.

Her complaining paused at your words, and her eyes flicked down to your lips quickly, before landing back on your eyes. “You’re so fucking annoying”, she huffed, her flushed cheeks and deep gaze betraying her anger. “Now open the fucking coffee machine”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was, of course, another slow day. You wiped the counter for the umpteenth time. The few coffee grounds that were scattered on the counter had been waterboarded into submission by your wet rag and had apparently gone into hiding. The counter shined clear. 

You finally caved, pulling your phone out of your pocket. If there was nothing to do, a quick check wouldn’t hurt, right? You hadn’t checked it since… Karina had texted you the previous night. And if your mind hadn’t played tricks on you, didn’t you hear the phone ding as you fell asleep on Chaewon’s floor?

Your phone had exactly two notifications, both from the same person. The same one from the broken hearted emoji contact, Karina, that read:

</3: Where are you??

Which was, you glanced at the time, 5 hours ago. You cursed your lack of sleep, before reading the next message, which read:

</3: I know you’re ignoring me. Can we just talk?

You threw your phone on the counter, grabbing the washcloth again and wiping. 

Maybe if you wiped hard enough your phone would disappear like those coffee grinds, along with the memories of your ex-girlfriend.

You wiped a couple of times, before picking your phone back up and staring at the message. Anger flared up. She just wanted to talk? After a month? No, she’s not allowed to just waltz back in your life with an apology, if that was even what she wanted to do.

But the thing about apologies was, sometimes, even if they didn’t mean anything, you craved them like a drug. The anger peaked into something else. Something different.

Was it want? The want to talk to her, to see her again, to feel her hand in yours? 

Maybe it was pride. The thought of hearing her apologize, did it make you feel validated? Or maybe it was just the need for closure. Yeah, that’s why you cared so much. It wasn’t for Karina, it was for yourself. You needed some end to the trauma.

You stared at your keyboard. It was easy to make the conviction to do something. But how would you approach it? As the bigger person to remind her what she lost? Bitterly so she knew how angry you were? Deadpan, so she thought she didn’t affect you?

You stared at your phone, blinking clutzily. 

Hey Karina,

You typed. It looked like a different language. So formal, so… unfamiliar. Was this the way to talk to someone you’d once shared every moment with? To someone you once poured your heart out to one moment then joked with in the next heartbeat? You erased the message.

But you couldn’t be too formal, right? Not after you walked in on her with another guy. Not when you saw her make the same face she made for you as she straddled his hips. The thought of it caused you to throw your phone down again.

Chaewon walked out of the small kitchen. Her tight black shirt perfectly clung to her so you could see the outline of her stomach, the curve of her breasts. Her gray sweats, tied loosely, were covered in flour and handprints from baking all morning.

Her tired face poked through, the remnants of last night's alcohol lining her face. But she was still so damn pretty, like no matter what she went through, she would own it, make it hers. And to be her was to be pretty. The hangover was just an accent, like something she wore to highlight her prettiness. She still had her cowboy hat on. You quietly thanked yourself for bringing it.

She gave you a tired sigh, the ones you saved for when you found relief. “I’m so tired”, she said, slumping her shoulders. She dragged her feet, till she stood in front of you. “You okay?”, she asked, noticing your soured expression.

You smiled. Just hearing her voice was enough to cheer you up. “I’m okay Chae”, you exhaled. “You?”

She closed her eyes, sighing. “Yeah, I think this hangover is catching up to me”

You wanted to tease her, of course, but more than that you wanted to touch her cheek, to reach up and fix the strand of hair that was loose. 

“Why don’t you go home”, you said instead. “You have a lot to clean up from last night, and plus, I haven’t heard from Eunchae, she’s probably still passed out. You go on and I’ll stay here”

She opened her eyes, catching yours. “Yeah, maybe that’s a good idea”, she finally said. “You sure you’ll be okay?”

“Chae, we’ve gotten 2 customers the whole day. Plus, budget cuts, remember?” Ever since the budget cuts, the cafe had been closing at 4pm so as to cut labour costs. It wasn’t like there were any customers wishing you were open anyway.

“I know I know. You’re right. But remember to wipe down the syrup bottles okay? The sugar can attract fruit flies. Oh, and sweep under the kitchen counter, I baked a lot today, so there’ll be flour underneath. And we might get a delivery so make sure you keep the invoice-”

“Chae, I got it!”, you laughed. “Don’t worry, you can lean on me sometimes”.

She gave you a wide smile. “I know. You really love your manager don’t you. Okay go on and take the cakes out of the oven. I’m gonna finish the finance report for this week and then I’ll head out. I’ll watch the front while you’re in there.”

You resisted the urge to pat her on the head, instead heading over to the kitchen. The sweet smell of frosting and vanilla hit you almost as hard as Chaewon’s smile did. The small kitchen was just like her apartment. A little messy, but ordered. A large tray of eggs was occupied by both fresh and cracked eggs, viscous egg goop leaking on the carton. Flour seeped into every corner of the counter. You took a moment to wipe it down.

You heard the bell ring signaling a rare occurrence; a customer had come in. 

You opened the oven, the smells wafting you. You took out the brownies on the bottom tray, the colour so rich and brown you could almost taste them, and placed them on the counter. You took out the personal cheesecakes, still jiggling, doing their quiet dance to signal they had reached their perfect doneness. The cupcakes, those were your favourite, had fluffed up so much they were practically bursting out of their tray. You looked at all of the pastries laid out in front of you.

You heard Chaewon’s sweet voice, presumably taking an order.

You grabbed a knife, slicing the vivid red strawberries Chaewon had already stemmed. You sorted the blueberries, throwing out the mushy ones, and popping the slightly overripe ones in your mouth. 

By now, the front had gone silent. “Chaewon, where’s the frosting? I prepped the fruit for the cupcakes.”, you called.

She popped her head in the kitchen almost immediately.

“Check the lowboy. Also, I’m not going home early.”

“What?”, you said, but her head was already gone. 

You checked the lowboy, pulling the frosting out and lazily tossing it on the counter. 

“What do you mean? I said I could handle-”, you started as you left the kitchen, paring knife still in hand.

You could tell by the way her silky hair flowed beautifully down her back that the customer that came in was Karina. You could see from this angle her sharp jawline, her skin so smooth it didn’t look real. She was sitting at the window side table, facing away from you. A guy, features sharp like hers sat across from her.

The cheesecake they were sharing infuriated you. The way two little spoons hung off the plate. The way the straw to his americano was stained red with lipstick, or the way she was clearly laughing at something he had said. 

Your limbs went slack, emotions from the past month welling up to the surface. You dropped the knife in your hand.

The sound of metal on the ceramic tiles clanked, drawing Karina’s attention, her sharp eyes finding you. For the first time in over a month, you and Karina had locked eyes. You had spent that time wondering if you would ever say anything to her again, if you would see her again, and now she was there, staring at you. 

Her lips curled into a knowing smile, before she turned back to the unknowing guy across from her. She knew. She did this on purpose. That look she gave you, she must’ve been planning this. Was it payback for not answering her text? Did she pick up the first handsome guy she found on the street to bring him here? Or was this an actual relationship?

But how did she even know where you were? That was right, the same reason she asked where you were last night. You had forgotten after all these weeks to turn your location off. She must’ve come here to flaunt.

Your fists balled as Karina slowly reached over the table, picking up Mr. Handsome’s americano, bringing it to her lips and taking a long sip. She was definitely doing this on purpose. 

To hell with being the bigger person. No, you were mad. And she was going to know you were mad. You took a step forward, but in the corner of your eye, maybe the only thing perfect enough to distract you caught your attention.

“Tch.”

Your mind grappled guiltily between two tides. Finally seeing Karina again, or an angry Chaewon. Your face landed on Chaewon’s. She looked at you in disgust. An angry Chaewon was a cute Chaewon, but it wasn’t like this was a rare occurrence. How often did you get an opportunity to chirp out your ex in front of her new playtoy. You turned again to Karina holding her spoon in her mouth loosely. You balled your fists again. She did that when she was flirting.

Another click of Chaewon’s tongue tugged you back. Her body was facing you, but her head was turned to the side.

“What Chaewon?”, you asked, probably harsher than you should’ve.

She turned slightly towards you, crinkling her nose. “Hmph. Always knew you were weak. See a pretty girl and you can’t help but oogle like a chimp”

You stole a quick glance at Karina before fully diverting your attention to Chaewon.

“What?”, you stared. She looked away again. “Chae, it’s not like that.” You were working your best to keep quiet, but the heat of the moment was getting to you. 

“What, she’s so fucking pretty your hands don’t work anymore?”, she said, also trying to keep her voice down.

“Chae, it’s not fucking like that. She’s-”

“Mhm, go ahead, she’s what,” Chaewon hissed, hand in front of her face, scratching her nails together like it was the only thing interesting.

“Wait, are you jealous?”, you asked, the situation kicking in. “Is that why you said you weren’t going home? Because Karina came?”

She scowled at you. “Oh, so I decide to stay to help you out and I’m jealous?” She mocked. Suddenly, realization hit her and you almost thought her expression softened a little. “Wait, Karina? Do you know her”

You softened too. “If you just listened instead of pouting I would’ve gotten to that”.

From the outside, you were sure this would look weird. You were hunched, trying to make yourself look small so as to not be noticed, and Chaewon was visibly annoyed. The two of you weren’t exactly whispering, your hushed voices would definitely seem suspicious. You grew conscious of this, and straightened up a bit.

“Oh”, she said, relaxing a bit, but crossing her arms at the same time. “And how do you know this woman”

“Well, it’s kind of complicated”, you hesitated

“Hmm. Well you shouldn’t even be out here. Those cakes need to be frosted”, she said plainly.

A familiar rich voice interrupted the conversation. One with all the charm and charisma you couldn’t handle right now. You definitely underestimated how much you thought about that voice since you’d last heard it. Your head flicked to Karina faster than Chaewon could put on her usual smiley customer service face.

“It’s been a while”, she said as if she had not texted you in the small hours of that morning. She wore a short smile, the rest of her unreadable. 

Chaewon stood there, locked between her duty as a manager, to treat this customer as her utmost priority, and whatever else she was thinking.

You stood there for what felt like too long. You could feel the sweat balming on your palms, feel every breath as if you had to force them out. Honestly, you wanted to say something, to compliment her hair or lambaste her audacity for coming here, or maybe something in between.

The sound coming out of your mouth surprised you too, because you could’ve sworn it was closed.

And then Chaewon’s voice came. Strange, it felt like it was from above.

“Oh, sorry about him!”, she said. Her voice was similarly majestic, yet oddly bright and cheerful against Karina’s deep rich voice. “He’s still in training”, she lied, reaching inside the display fridge and grabbing a slice of matcha cheesecake. She placed it on a plate, reaching over and handing it to Karina. “Sorry about his… weird customer service. Why don’t you take this, you can share it with your boyfriend”, she said, over enunciating the last word.

Karina’s eyes flicked to Chaewon, glancing her over carefully. Both wore smiles that meant something more, as if there was a long standing history between them. But there wasn’t, just you.

Karina grabbed the plate, fingers cautious. Chaewon’s hand lingered, as if the plate was a conversation and she wanted the last word. Karina too, would not stoop so low as to tug it from her hand, but her pride also wouldn’t let her refuse the cake. Chaewon had interrupted, and had therefore owed her something. But in mentioning the man she was with, laid out Karina’s pettiness at coming here with him. The tension was impossible. Mr. Handsome scrolled cluelessly on his phone.

“Thanks”, Karina hissed, as she essentially pried the plate from Chaewon’s grip. “For the cake.”

The situation played out in front of you slowly, but your mind moved impossibly fast in thought. You noted every twitch of Karina’s smile, noticed Chaewon’s temple pulse as she grinded her teeth. 

You stood there dwarfed between your ex and Chaewon. Was this okay? Were you going to let Chaewon battle it out with your ex? Defend your honour? She didn’t even know the situation, but she was defending you like you were hers. Maybe Karina didn’t deserve your reaction, didn’t deserve a response, but Chaewon didn’t deserve to be the one to give her that in your place. She might’ve been your manager, but you were still a man, and you weren’t going to leave her to handle this.

“Why did you come here, Karina?”. She looked at you, shocked, as if you were a potted plant that had opened its mouth and spoke.

Chaewon tilted her head, but took a step back. Karina eyed you, eyes breaking. The pained expression she wore almost looked real. She searched your face. You gave her nothing. “I just… I just wanted to see you”, she finally said

Your eyes flicked to Mr. Handsome, who now entertained himself by trying to adjust the single strand of hair that hadn’t gotten the memo to sit smuggly over his eyebrow. “What, to flaunt. Or did you forget you already did that when you used my apartment as your own hunting ground for all the guys you fucked behind my back”.

She took a step back. “It’s- it’s not like that! Look, can we not do this here?”

“So then where do you want to do it? Or are you not the one that came here in the first place?”

Her face was scrunched up. She was pleading now, voice slow and careful. “Please, you never let me explain. You just disappeared. And I get it, I do, but can I just… can you just listen to what happened from my perspective?”. Her eyes were wet. You felt empty, pity almost.

You turned to Chaewon, who had backed up, an ashamed expression on her face. You turned back to Karina. She took another step back, looking between you and Chaewon. “Oh”, she said simply. 

You didn’t acknowledge that. “Fine. Whatever you have to say, I’ll listen. Not because I still care, because believe me I don’t.” You spoke in a low voice. “Just, not here, and not today.”

Karina took a last step back, but regained her composure nonetheless. She gave you a short nod, before turning towards the door. She paused for a second, hurried to the table Mr. Handsome was now idly humming at, placed the cake she was holding down, then hurried off out into the cold street. Mr. Handsome looked around in confusion. He eventually ate the cake.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rest of the day passed slowly. Your only other customer was Liz, the same rich girl with the cute dimples that had walked in on you massaging Chaewon. Ever since that day, she’d been a regular. Chaewon had let the day pass in silence, not questioning you about Karina, nor pushing you to talk to her casually. You appreciated the space she was giving you.

The silence wasn’t exactly comfortable. At times you wanted to say something, to thank Chaewon for standing up for you, to apologize for causing a scene at work, but you were preoccupied questioning if you did the right thing. Should you have told Karina to fuck off? To never come here again and scold her for even thinking her explanation could justify what she did?

You tucked the mop away in the supply closet, ready to collect your jacket to head out. The door clinked softly as it closed behind you.

“Hey.” Chaewon stood behind you, arms crossed.

You turned around slowly. “Hey Chae, I just finished up. Thanks for stayi-”

“Shut up”, she said softly, taking a commanding step forward. You backed up, heel tapping the wall behind you.

There was a fire in her eyes. Maybe you had misread the situation, maybe she wasn’t giving you space. No, Chaewon had been ignoring you. She stopped too close, arms still crossed and looking up at you. “Chaewon?”

She stood there.

“Chaewon?” She crossed her arms even tighter. “Are you trying to be intimidating?”

“No.”

“Then what-”

“Are you okay?”, she said, same quiet, inflection. It was a confusing mix of annoyance and genuine concern.

“What?”

“I said are you okay?” You could tell she was conflicted in that the question didn’t sound like a question.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Her. Karina, or whatever her name is. Are you good or not?”

You thought about it, about how you put Chaewon’s annoyance first when you saw Karina a couple of hours earlier. You thought of what Eunchae said last night and how when Karina told you she just wanted to talk, you felt empty. How you told her you’d talk to her not because you wanted a conversation, but wanted her out, out of your place, the place Eunchae and Chaewon had made so special.

“Yeah”, you said, more to yourself. “Yeah, I am”

Something on her face changed. “Good. Now get on the floor”

“What?”, you said again.

She grabbed your shirt, pulling you close to her. “Didn’t I tell you last night? Next time we fuck I’m having my way with you!” she yelled, before taking your lips in hers.

You were caught off guard as her lips tore your mouth open. The taste was a familiar bliss, but as your brain caught up and you started to respond, she pulled away. “Lie down”, she ordered.

You normally would’ve fought, or pushed back, made some snarky remark, but your last 24 hours had been much too eventful. Your head spun as you crouched to sit. Could you have gotten it wrong again? She wasn’t ignoring you? But why hadn’t she talked to you? Was she pouting?

Two soft hands pushed you to the ground with surprising strength. Chaewon climbed on top of you, cowboy hat still resting on her head. Funny, the rim kind of looked like a halo. You assumed what would proceed would not be very angelic.

She straddled her hips on your growing hardness, handfuls of your shirt in her hands as if they were reins. “You want to always be snarky in my fucking cafe all the time!”, she huffed, breath growing ragged. She arched low, taking your lips in hers. 

She wasn’t fucking lying. That kiss said a lot of things, but made one thing very clear. Just as your tongue poked out to kiss her back, she pulled away. Undoubtedly, she was in control.

“You wanna just waltz in to work and flirt with me at my job? And you think I’m just gonna let that fucking slide?” she asked, still grinding on you. “Well, it’s not gonna happen”.

She palmed your chest, pushing off it as she stood. You laid there, dazed and confused, sure, but you weren’t stupid enough to protest. You weren’t complaining after all. She stripped her sweatpants off, revealing simple white panties. Stepping over your head, she placed her feet beside each of your ears, toes closer to your shoulders. “Now lick me”, she said, squatting down.

Your head was soon enveloped in perfect snugness. You could smell that same caramelly scent you knew to be Chaewon’s perfume, along with her musk. Darkness overtook you when she sat, as if the world had suddenly ended and there was just Chaewon. 

Your hands reached past her thighs, gripping her ass, feeling the perfect roundness as you groped before sliding your hands lower. You hooked your fingers around the thin strand of cloth restricting you from obeying Chaewon, sliding it to the side. A second wave of warmness enveloped you, coupled with a new but just as lewd moistness. She was so wet the cage of legs she had you trapped in had grown humid with her wetness.

You could’ve done what you always did with Chaewon, tease and resist for the sake of getting a reaction out of her, but between her hot pussy in your face and the fact you were pretty sure she was jealous of Karina, you jumped in. 

Your tongue worked furiously, and on first contact with her slickness, her legs tightened around you. You felt her collapse onto you, breasts on your chest.

She tasted amazing. You could hear her moans through her legs, her pussy shuddering at every lick. You continued to knead her ass as you tongued her. Chaewon’s hands explored your body, rubbing at your chest, sliding to your stomach and legs, gripped your shirt

Soon, Chaewon was at her limit, your mouth a drain for her love juices. Her body shook on yours as she climaxed.

She lay there for a while, heat still clamped to your face as you continued to grope her ass. The growing throbs in your manhood grew almost painful. You bucked up, trying unsuccessfully to push Chaewon lower down your body, before you placed your elbows on the floor for leverage. You sat up, Chaewon sliding down your face until she sat at your chest with a yelp.

“I’m so fucking hard Chae”, you moaned. You placed your hands on her hips, as if to lift her off you. At your contact, she sat up, pinpointing her weight on her ass, pushing you back down. In one spry motion, she lifted her legs, pivoting on her ass and swinging her legs around so she was facing you. Her legs once again closed up around your torso, taking you in a mount position. 

She leaned close. Your head automatically lifted, mouth reaching for her lips, but she pulled away. 

“Didn’t I tell you?”, she said, leaning in. “That the next time we fucked, you’d regret teasing me?” Chaewon wasn’t fucking lying. She was going to make you pay for the stunt you pulled the last time you were in this supply closet with her. The snarky little back and forth you shared didn’t seem to be limited to just conversation. Chaewon had brought it to the physical. 

She reached up, fixing the cowboy hat that had grown crooked. “Now I’m gonna ride you”, she smiled, a devious twinkle sparkling in her eyes. 

The remark you had been forming in your head the moment she touched her cowboy hat had subsided as she leaned in, giving you that kiss you wanted. Well, technically it was a kiss, but it may as well have been two vacuum cleaners fighting for control. Your mouth was still covered in her love juices, the taste only made sweeter by Chaewon’s tongue constantly pushing and swirling around your mouth. 

“F-fucking ride me Chaewon”, you managed to get out through gaps in the kiss. Chaewon took your hands in her own, pinning them to the floor at each side of your head.

“Then take your pants off”, she said, before locking lips again. You pushed against her restraining hands, but with her ass on your chest, you couldn’t get the leverage to push against her entire weight. 

You started squirming, kicking out with your legs, trying something, anything to get those damn pants off. Annoyance welled up inside you, and you remembered the situation. Chaewon? Taking control? And you were just idly letting her? Maybe this Karina thing was affecting you more than you thought. No, this wasn’t you at all. 

“Fuck… you”, you hissed, still fighting to free yourself.

Chaewon pulled away, smiling. You instinctively reached up to reconnect your lips. She gave you a couple pecks before sitting up straight. “You say that, but your kissing me like I might leave”

“Fuck…”

“Mhmm?” she sang.

“Fuck… fuck… me please.”, you said. Chaewon stayed there, a playfully disappointed facade appearing. “Fuck me please, Ms. Manager”, you knew to add.

She smiled again. “Didn’t I tell you to take your pants off?”, she asked.

You fought against her hold, tried to buck her off of you with your hips, but Chaewon rode the movements with practiced balance, smiling all the while. Her hair fell perfectly towards you as she leaned over you. “Go on, take them off”, she egged.

You gritted your teeth. “I… I can’t”, you admitted, giving up on bucking her off of you. 

She put on a staged pouting face. “Aww. You’re such a useless cow aren’t you. Would you like me to help?”

It was a wonder your teeth hadn’t shattered into a literal 4 trillion pieces the way you gritted them. But your cock was practically tearing a hole in your sweats, so you’d have to put aside being called a useless cow. “Please”, you begged.

“Please?”

“Please, Ms. Manager”

She turned, reaching for your pants. “Lift your hips”, she said hurriedly. You did as she told, and she slid your pants off. Your cock sprang free with aggression. Chaewon grabbed it, her relatively cold hand sending shivers up through your hot cock. 

“Fuck, Chaewon”, you moaned, squirming underneath her. She worked her hand up and down your shaft with painful patience. Soon, your cock was lathered in your own leaking precum. You could feel the warmth of Chaewon’s pussy soaking through your shirt. 

She turned towards you, leaving your throbbing cock alone once again. “Chaew- Miss Manager please. Please fuck me”, you begged. Even she couldn’t hold back. The look in her eye had subsided from that mischievous teasing to pure lust. 

She palmed your chest, lifting her hips high, panties still pushed to the side revealing her perfect slit. Your hands were now free, but Chaewon lowered herself onto you before you could grab her hips. You almost blew your load right there and then. 

The warmth that hit your cock wrapped it in perfect snugness. Your hands flung to Chaewon’s hips, moans mixing with hers to create the perfect melody. Chaewon grabbed your hands from her hips, pinning them once again. 

She worked her hips upwards, the sensation on your cock overwhelming. “W-wait”, you moaned.

“This is what you begged for, baby”, Chaewon teased. “You better hold on”

Chaewon worked her hips with expert precision, starting slow at first. She slid up and down your cock in perfect rhythms, speeding up as you fought the pressure building up inside of you. Her hips bounced with hypnotic force, the assault growing in speed. Soon, the room was filled with the sounds of the soft squelches of her pussy sucking in your cock and the slaps of her ass on your pelvis, only to be drowned out by your moans. 

“I’m gonna make you forget about her, just focus on me”, she promised, but the words fell on deaf ears, your mind already lost in perfect bliss.

Her hips bounced up and down, mesmerizing every ounce of your body. The way her ass moved on you was mind altering. 

“I’m gonna fucking cum”, you whimpered. She too grew increasingly more sex drunk, her face contorting into focused pleasure. Her walls tightened on yours as she rode you.

The pressure was blinding, and the release was euphoric. You erupted inside of her. The pressure that welled inside you released in Chaewon’s tightening walls. Chaewon’s orgasm came in tandem with yours. She threw her head back in ecstasy, cowboy hat sliding off her head. Your hands reached up to her in the haze, pulling her close to you. Your lips locked as she collapsed on top of you, saliva mixing in muddled passion. 

The waves of pleasure continued, each spurt drawing more and more of your focus. Chaewon laid there, head resting on your chest. Your face was a mess of saliva and sweat. Her walls gradually loosened, spilling the contents of your orgasm as your softening member slid out. 

“That was…”, you started after a while.

“Yeah”, she agreed. She didn’t move to get up, instead shifting slightly. You steadied her in your arms, wrapping them around her. 

You both lay there letting your breathing steady and minds clear.

“I can’t believe you came inside of me”, she said in annoyance. 

“Well, you didn’t give me many options did you?” You said, shocked at her sudden accusation.

“I can’t believe we did this again”, she said, ignoring your previous statement.

“Yeah”, you admitted. “I guess this supply closet is kind of cursed. And might I remind you it was you who forced me down to the floor”

She reached up to your face, hand softly cupping your cheek. “Yeah? And who was it who begged me to ride them?”

Right back to the back and forth, you thought. Your hand found her hair, administering soft strokes.

“Chaewon?”, you said after a while

She didn’t respond at first. All you could hear for a while were the sounds of your breaths, yours still quick, hers deep and slow. “Yeah”, she said after a while.

“Thanks. For cheering me up”

“Don’t be an idiot”, she said, but you could hear the smile in her voice.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bitter January cold nipped at your exposed skin. Maybe it’s finally time to get some gloves, you thought as you carried a box of pastries through a busy street. Snow whipped around you, scattering like each had a mind of its own. You trudged quickly through the slush on the ground. 

Finally, it was payday. The first income you had in months, no matter how insubstantial. Of course, all of it would go to catching up on bills, and most importantly saving for the rent your landlord had threatened better be on time, which was why you had the mix of decadent eclairs and decorated croissants in your hand. The eclairs were of course for Eunchae, because she loved chocolate, and the croissants for Chaewon, because she loved the flakiness of them. 

You could see the cafe just ahead. You opened the door to the empty shop, immediately hit with warmth and the sound of laughter. Eunchae turned at the bell, shouting your name. 

“What are you doing here? Isn’t it your day off?”, she yelled excitedly.

You smiled, handing her the box. “Just thought I’d get you guys something”. 

Chaewon peeked over the counter. “You got us pastries?”, she said.

“Yeah. Why don’t you sound impressed?”

“We work in a cafe. We make all of these ourselves”, she laughed.

“Oh stop, Chase, he just loves us so much he couldn’t help but get us something. Ooo, an eclair!”, she yelped, opening the box.

Chaewon’s smile slipped through. “I guess it’s kinda cute”, she said. “Anyway, it’s good you’re here. She should be here soon, you can help.”

You looked around the empty cafe. “Someone’s coming?”, you asked.

“Yeah, didn’t you check the work group chat? We finally hired that marketing specialist”, Chaewon said.

“He’s been known not to check his messages” Eunchae joked.

“Seriously? It’s my day off”, you said.

“Go on, put your jacket away”, Chaewon said casually, mouth already stuffed with a croissant. “And thanks for the croissant”

You didn’t argue. In fact, you were happy to help, spending the day with these two. You’d just never admit it to them. You took a step forward before the familiar sound of the door’s bell rang.

You turned around to find a girl. The first thing you noticed was her fiery red hair, sandwiched between two fluffy white earmuffs.

She took them off, letting the silky red hair flow. “Hi!”, she said confidently. “I’m the new marketing specialist”

Chaewon and Eunchae turned towards the door, eyes lighting up. Chaewon scurried around the counter smiling. “Hi! Yunjin, right?”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N:

Literally no idea how this chapter came to be. I had so many plans for this chapter and hit almost 0 of the marks I wanted to hit, but oh well I guess. 

Honestly I have no idea if I’m happy with this chapter, but I feel like cowboy Chaewon is something I can’t keep from the world, so please let me know how you all like it!

Also, this is the longest installment in the series. Do y'all dig a longer chapter?

It may be a while until my next CC (cafe cuties) update as I do want to focus on other fics. Specifically the Ice Queen series, which I have quietly been planning in my head. It is still a long way away, but I will keep you all posted.

And finally, that Eunchae chapter really popped off. I’ve been loving all the support you’ve been giving me! A lot of people liked how I wrote Eunchae, but now that we’ve seen a bit more of Chaewon, who’s your favourite? Chaewon and OC’s back and forth (which has now transcended conversation and infiltrated their fun times) or the softness of OC x Eunchae’s dynamic?

As always, thank you all for reading!