#sullyoon

-

It's cliché obviously, the whole going-to-hell-for-a-woman bit, but that's the script; you know this story. You're familiar with all its associated allegories from the moment she first walks in. You catch the spill of whiskey-brown hair, the honeyed undertones. She's dolled-up in stockings and stilettos, in antithetical pairs - sharp, sweet, sin and salvation - ah, well.

The devil, the details, here's what you oughta know:

You teach highschool literature, no surprises there. You're smart, handsome, available - case in point, she slides into the barstool right beside you, a little closer than strictly necessary. But you're actually something of a saint, and that's the absolute tragedy here; you've been grading papers, scribbling angry little notes in red ink; you're sipping something dark, glaring at the pages; you've got no plans of being interested.

And that's the hiccup. 

You'd never recognize her. Or you try and can't place her: she's gorgeous, is your first thought. A face like hers, you realize, a waist like that, you rationalize, and it's all off the rails from there.

You look away; look down. Some fatal flaw makes you curious about pretty things.

She's got two little slingback heels against the barstool's wooden rung, her knees angled inward; a pair of frilly-cotton stockings that do nothing but draw focus upward, from the lines of her calves to where the lace trim hugs her soft, silky thighs, the gauzy little bows; and further still. No pants, obviously. Why would there be. Just that high-waisted, high-hemmed, high-crimes-and-misdemeanors skirt that rides at approximately fuck-me height - and you, with your one-word repertoire, bleeding red ink all over the page. 

Sensational. Exemplary. Outstanding. Eminently fuckable.

It's all speculation until the last two lines.

Sullyoon asks the bartender a question: this looking-through-lashes kinda thing, an angel's mouth, a devil's grin. The how-we-got-here and the where-it-went-wrong in one.

"Oh," she says first, affecting nonchalance when she notices you noticing, and the realization hits you all at once: exactly who she is, what you've just done. "I know you."

It's a real gallows-humor bit, right here, a punchline, a setup:

An old student walks into a bar, and she's flawless. You think back on the papers, the menial mistakes, and blink at her. She tilts her head as though it'll shake up any repressed memories, the nice ones first: she's a good student. She's a little more than that.

"Oh my god. Hi."

"Hi," you say, dumbfounded. That little fantasy-fuck-you, all in reverse. And you laugh, tossing up a hand  into your hair like it'd been nothing, waving a white flag. "Sullyoon," you say, as it dawns.

She smiles. Says, "Yeah," and her heel swings over with intent.

"It's been," you add, stilted, still processing. Because what the fuck, honestly. "Well shoot, it's been forever," which isn't really accurate - but she's got it right anyway, small world.

"Tell me about it," she says, mercifully enough. "You still teaching?"

You can't even address it, that starry-eyed, adoring expression of hers that makes you forget where the fuck you even are. You're mentally placing her in the front row of your classroom blinking at everything you said. The undivided attention can't be healthy, but the placebo will keep you talking. 

"Yeah," you say. "Not cut out for much else."

A laugh makes a surefire path up the line of her throat; pretty and polished. She’s perfect, and that's not even your first, most pressing concern. 

"I'm surprised you even remember me," she says conspiratorially, and you're fixating on where that curtain of hair tangles in her fingers, slides off the sharp point of her wrist.

"Well, good kids stick to memory," you deflect, and then, when it dawns on you how easily that could get misconstrued, "-good grades. Good behavior. That kind of thing."

"You have favorites, you mean," Sullyoon provides, like it's true.

"Yeah," you start to agree, except, "no, definitely not," and look at her mouth long enough for her smile to unfurl properly.

Still, you could justify that: say she was a real pleasure to have in class, a stellar writer, all your parent-teacher-conference boilerplate. Gloss over the bratty streak, perhaps. She had a nickname, ironically enough - which. Huh. It feels sacrosanct to even broach considering you have half a mind to take her right up against the mahogany wood-grain, walnut, teak, asphodel maybe - Princess Sullyoon - and ah, fuck: there goes any good intentions whatsoever. 

"I hope you realize you're buying me a drink," she decides way too casually, slipping her jacket off to reveal her shoulders, a halter neckline, the immaculate dip of her collarbones. 

You barely even notice. You can't. The bartender swivels by; but she's not paying him any mind.

"Sir," she says breezily, wickedly. The inflection alone has your brain working in italics. "You said it yourself: good grades, good behavior." 

"Well that’s a bit out of context," you correct her - unfortunate impulse. Not so long ago, and she's asking about her paper, leaning over the desk and so, so precocious about it. You shove the image down. "It's not like I'm still your teacher."

"Well." And she drags the syllable like a bullet casing. "Semantics, right?"

The short answer is no, not really; the medium-length answer is that she's really fucking attractive; face perfect and eyes expressive and well put-together - her waist is sublime if you're gonna let yourself acknowledge it - but if you really need extended-response: you're already fantasizing about her thighs, how wide they'd spread for you; her ankles and all the different places you could have them lock around; her nails, her wrists, her hair in a neat ponytail and tugged just right, until she's incoherently undone for it - so, sure: semantics

She opens her legs, seems to notice the skirt she's wearing a moment after the fact. You don't stop yourself from flagging the bartender. 

In theory, you’ll dissuade the ideas cross-pollinating between those pretty doe eyes, but in practice, in reality: she's charming her way through the small-talk, stringing the moments and minutes longer, unbothered by the prospect of a quiet. She doesn't talk about school - it's off-the-record. She lets a pause lengthen and then dangles a phrase at the tail end of it: tells you that you're cute, you were always her favorite teacher, she can see why they all loved you and you just don't really catch it until:

"They?"

She rolls the word around: "Everyone. You know." She watches your expression. "My classmates. Girls. Some girls."

Oh.

She has this quirk to her smile; you try to dismiss it. Brush it off, let it slide. 

There's this novel you're writing, and you're not gonna say what about, but there's an opening sequence unfolding like a roadmap. You don't know the ending. You tell her as much: a mystery, you say, and you're making her laugh again. Apparently, you still know how. She knocks her knuckles to your bicep, your forearm - makes expressions like you don't know better, does things with her eyes: your name a syllable away, everything else like a sin; do you live close to here, don't you have a girlfriend, what are your other hobbies, besides grading papers and drinking-

"You never actually answered my question," she points out, because it's a disaster.

She's looking at you like she'd believe anything you'd tell her: you're engaged, getting hitched soon, met someone, anyone - but then she's crossing her legs in those thigh-highs and it's anyone's guess from there.

"I'm not really seeing anybody," you say eventually, and she does it again, tugs the hemline of her skirt up, up. "Nothing serious," which is too candid, possibly. Fucked up, probably. Morally reprehensible, certainly. 

There's some guesswork, a bit of napkin math: you've got a decade on her, and that's not something you care to unpack, but when she picks her drink back up, she plays up the alcohol-blush - tipsy, she assures you, blinking languidly.

Tipsy means, for argument's sake, for academic rigor: pliable. Influenceable. Easy.

"A little more, maybe," Sullyoon murmurs as her fingers tug on the corner of your sleeve, an unspoken: come here, lean closer. 

There's more intent to it, eyes half-lidded. More of everything. She laughs brightly at something inane, falls into your shoulder, and just sorta ends up staying there. There's your issue. You could talk about anything, in any direction - and she'd nod along dutifully, content to sit and sip at her straw. 

"So," you begin, and Sullyoon's been staring at your mouth, deliberate about being caught. She's such a flirt and you're still catching up, catching on.

She mimics your deadpan, "so," looking a little put on, and ends up saying something trite and transparent like maybe we should find someplace else. It's got all the fervor of trying desperately not to imagine you shoving her to her knees, testing the make-up, ruining the foundation: "There's a bathroom, isn't there."

"Yoona," you warn - a second too late; just a tad out of time. "Dial it back."

She's looking through the ends of her eyelashes, teasing the eraser-mark tilt to her mouth. You can only assume her pussy's just as cute as she is: tiny and tight and tempting. All the accompanying moans. "Am I in trouble, sir?"

"You're pushing your luck," you manage, throat desert-dry, and right then is how her hand ends up in your lap.

"I don't mean to be fatalistic, but." She looks altogether far too beatific for the sentiment. "If you don't do something about this soon, something really terrible's going to happen."

"What," you scoff. "Am I going to die?" It slips out before you can take it back: so casual, like you could do it, like you would. "Look-"

"The other way around," Sullyoon interrupts, "I'm barely hanging on by a thread here."

You can’t help it; you’re stunned. "Dramatic," you chide, but it's all theater.

"We're adults," she argues - that’s her thesis statement: obviously, you want to fuck me - and the proof is halfway there in your slacks already. "Besides, do you have any idea how wet my pussy is right now?"

"Christ," you swear, laughing a little, because what else is there for it. "People can hear you."

"I'm just making an observation." She's stood between your legs before it even registers, your palms curve around her thighs reflexively. Like you're allowed the proximity. "Seriously, I don't get how your hands aren't, like, all over me." 

"Common decency," you supply, and then you're rubbing circles into her skin, fiddling with the lace. She preens like the royalty she's convinced she is: petulant when she doesn't get her way. "It'd kill you, huh?" 

"Irrevocably. Instantaneously." Sullyoon sighs. "If you don't fuck me," she whispers, "I really will scream."

There's more gimlet truth here - that part comes a second or two later; you could fuck a smile just like that into the reflection, watch her melt in the glass. You'll just have to take it for what it is: Faust falls for the bargain, Othello for a lie - you, apparently, for a pair of fucking thigh-highs, all pretty in lace. You're worried about the aesthetics of that, frankly, rather than anything else.

"If I take you to the bathroom and make you cum," you start, a little dispassionate, a lot condescending, "will you keep it down?"

"Promise." Sullyoon fits her hand into yours, says, "Whatever you say," and - well. You're just as gone as she's pretending to be.

-

Down the hallway, a half-flight of stairs: there's a single-occupancy toilet in the back of the bar, ostensibly a family washroom; for mothers with children, wheelchairs, sloppy bathroom sex with your former students, that sort of thing. The moment the door locks, you‘re lifting Sullyoon onto the sink, shoving one hand up that awful little skirt, the other onto the mirror, and crushing your mouth to hers.

There's no restraint to it, no trying-not-to. 

Sullyoon kisses exactly how she looks: luxurious, all pout and plush; dirtier the longer it goes on. She grabs your face, gasps into it, smiles when you kiss her harder; mewls like you'll believe she didn't expect this; your hand slides up her thigh-highs; the material gives way to more soft, silken skin. 

"Jesus, you weren't kidding," you exhale, reverent, at how wet she is, how hot, pressing down on the gush of slick that immediately coats the flimsy lace between her legs. "Your pussy's practically drooling, sweetheart."

"It's not the kind of thing I’d lie about," says Sullyoon loftily - but it’s all there, immediately. The flushed cheeks, the eyes slipping half-shut, her pretty pink mouth dropping open as you drag her ruined panties to the side and dip a finger through the soft seam of her cunt.

She gets a fist in her skirt and tugs it high over her hips. Ah, and she's melting, maybe, tilting her chin just that touch upwards, lashes fluttery, eager for it-

"Good girl," you decide, kissing it into her mouth, testing it: the cadence.

Her breath hitches, whole body sighing at the praise. So, maybe you've always known her type.

You don't plan on making her beg, but she's riding your fingers like a doll, and there’s her clit, and she’s soaked: she's whimpering like she's about to anyway. You'd eat her out - are ready to, when she reaches for your belt.

"Sir," Sullyoon sighs softly, a little sweet. Submission, distilled.

Oh, she's an angel in heels; a vision in a short skirt; a total-fucking-problem in stockings - but there's the  entitlement too. The presumptuousness. She knows she's prettier, smarter; an old classroom moniker suddenly too few thoughts away and entirely too close to truth. She's not begging for your cock, but the privilege. She'd bring it up herself, if you let her go on, if she got through the current litany of yes, fuck, sir. In my slutty little pussy. Fuck me, please. Hips arching higher, faster - slowing down only to say, "you gonna fuck my cunt open with your big fat cock or what?"

You'd laugh, except you can't really concentrate either: she's pushing up into your grip, fucking down onto your palm. "Dirty-talk," you muse instead, crooking your fingers just right and watching her face glaze over, lids drooping, that sharp mouth a little slack. "That does it for you, huh."

"Obviously." She swallows thickly. "It's like that for most girls," and you have to believe she's telling the truth.

"Should I be calling you names?" you ask, tone sardonic. "Checking in on how your filthy cunt feels around me. Call you a whore?" You laugh, because it's ridiculous, and your throat dries because her pussy is throbbing; you stroke your thumb over her clit and watch as the noise in her chest falls apart into some long, messy moan. "Fuck," you breathe out.

"Sir," Sullyoon groans - that at least is real; your name falls from her mouth a hundred ways and it all feels true: "I'd die." She sounds genuine, lost in it: getting fucked; kissing you. "Please, please, please."

She won't outright admit it, something along the lines of: I'd be so good for you. You could pin me against your wall, fuck me on the floor. Take me any time you want. Fuck, just call me baby and you can absolutely wreck me - it comes raspy, a little ruined - but there’s her attitude, and all these dynamics. Her stockings aren't doing you any favors-

"Fucking slutty," you breathe into her temple, too fast to catch, too honest to lie: "Aren't you, princess?"

A gasp, her entire body taut in agreement - like you've touched a nerve - like she's got more than just one.

It's fucked up, alright, no question, no disputing that.

But she's this close to cumming, knees trembling. So obedient, like a dream, lips wrapping around a  silent plea. There's context, history; she's asking for permission. You mumble, "You're adorable," trying to backtrack, retreating, but she shakes her head, brow knitting, and just like that you know - you're never calling her anything else again. "Princess," and the sound that gets you makes it a truth you could believe in.

You circle your fingers into her again. Curl them exactly where she needs it. It's redundant.

"This little pussy of yours," you pant against her parted, wet lips. "Sul, you're fucking creaming."

Sullyoon hiccups, then looks you dead in the eye. She's playing dirty. She's this close to making a terrible, unfixable mess, and she doesn't care.

"I guess it gets that way," she rasps, "when it needs stretching out."

You almost choke. Your breathing's thin. There's something in this: the connotations, her outfit. You can't remember the word - you're getting worse every second. Her panties tangled around an ankle, those fucking thigh-highs and this too-short, too-tight skirt; the dirty talk. Her entire body is begging for stimulation and it's, "a good look on you," you tell her, as your pants fall past your knees. Your dick is in your fist, flush with her pussy in seconds.

"Ah," her jaw is slack, stuck, the moan all trapped somewhere inside, "want to- ah," like she's drowning, trying to tell you, "I really need to," before you slap at her cunt, kiss her stupid, and grabby, and whimpery -  sigh into her mouth, all ragged impatience, the inhale-

And for a second you’re actually, positively certain you're never going to recover - her pussy - jesus-fucking-christ, her pussy is unbelievable; you draw out slow, thrust back in, sloppy-wet. Lose the thread there for a moment. 

"Okay, okay. Relax. Good girl - so, so good - I'm gonna fuck this cute pussy now, okay princess? you murmur, until the friction gives way and Sullyoon's pulling you in, velvety-smooth. She's tailor-made, or something just like it. Sullyoon's expression reacts to every inch. "That better?"

She's nodding, arching, fissures and faultlines opening right up. Your girl's gone. 

You'd bet anything you could do a lot worse too - could spit in her mouth, take her from the back, pull her hair - the way she's looking at you suggests she'd just give it to you. That it belongs to you anyway. You've gotten her here so fast and she's totally willing to be ruined if only you'll hit it a little faster, deeper. 

"Oh my god," she whines, and she's not just near-tears, she’s stunned.

She's so small under you, stomach concave under your palm, all softness and sin. "Shit, Sullyoon," and you sound far-off, removed, somewhere separate from the rest of it, "such a slut for it, aren't you, baby girl? Tell me. You want every inch don't you."

Her reaction - it's exactly what you're looking for. Her hand flies from the counter to her clit, her little pussy squeezing down so, so tight - so overwhelmed.

"Fucking, I- fuck, yeah." It's breathy, and barely there as she drops right into the next verse, poetry that speaks in fucked-up, untethered syllables. The sound of her wrist hitting the counter, for instance; her stuttered breathing, the pop of her mouth parting in a moan. The slutty-slick pull-and-release of her cunt swallowing your cock. 

Well, that one speaks loudest; you're fucking her up, and doing it fast. She's dripping down your thigh; you're deep in her guts. It's filthy on principle, and she loves it, and she should.

"You look so pretty," you breathe, a different angle to exploit, "fucking gorgeous, taking my cock," and that works too - Sullyoon exhales like she's been punched in the gut.

It's insane, obviously - her figure; the wide hips, her pretty tits. Sullyoon, stretched out and blathering about how much she loves being filled up, can't live without it. You're sure that part's accurate: every time you rut against that spot inside her, her moans become so unrefined they circle back to luxurious.

"Fuck," she sputters out like it hurts, "right there, just like that - oh my god," a prayer with the least believable sincerity, "don’t stop, please don’t stop-"

It's like her only line of coherency, and it's, well - it's really fucking hot. It's obscene. Or, it's Sullyoon, and she knows all the right buttons to press. There's the slick gathering on her rim, the deceptive durability of her insides, the feel of that: so fucking wet, incomprehensibly tight - and for a fraction of a heartbeat, her spine straightens out, her brow furrowing, like she's trying to make sense of this, of how it could possibly feel this good.

"Sir," Sullyoon manages - it's a goddamn miracle given the circumstances, you tell her. The praise knocks her for a loop. "I can't," she starts, but has to try again. She’s sobbing. "You're fucking my pussy," she corrects herself - she says it like she's confused, like she just figured that out. Then it hits her, or she realizes what she's saying out loud; you watch her blink hard. Her body goes limp. Her mouth hangs open - you're making her cum and she's trying to verbalize why.

It's mostly rhetorical: you'd let her ramble forever. She's vocal and relentless and demanding, unafraid of saying it, fucking my brains out, railing my slutty little pussy - knowing full well she'll get it, if only because you can't stand not to indulge her.

"I'm sorry," and her voice drops real low; all rasp, no range. "It's just that your cock, sir, I need to cum on it."

"Okay," you tell her, easily, like that'll cut it. "So cum."

You've got her skirt hiked high, tits bouncing under your palm, knees up to her shoulders. And you're sure it's all there: a vocabulary limited solely to one syllable. Like the irony isn't killing her. She wants to probably say, yes sir, I'm whatever the hell you want me to be but that's the word-syntax problem: the right sentence never comes to her in moments of crisis - well, the literal kind, for once. It's not like you've haven't seen her doodling in the margins before. 

"Fuck," she manages to gasp, after what could easily be two seconds, five minutes, or forever, "fuck."

A hazy-eyed blink to her stare, she looks lovelier every moment. She mewls when your fingers find her clit and press, hard - you're railing her into oblivion. 

"Look at you, princess," you say, and maybe her classmates had her pinned from the start.

"Uh-huh." Sullyoon unraveling and so, so gorgeous about it. "Uh-huh-"

What a stark contrast of having watched her sit on a bar stool and swing her ankles, laughing like the tease she's not supposed to be, showing you a peek of lace up her skirt, and now the things falling out of her mouth are so fucked up you only process them in fragments - feels good, feels so full, breed my little pussy, sir, want your cum so bad, wanna take it- 

She's writhing in a million tiny, trembling directions, spilling secrets: she'll be good, she promises. "Shh, sweetheart," and her voice spikes in pitch. 

You pull her shirt up past her ribs, over the slope of her chest. Stuff the hem into her mouth. Muffle the begging.

"God, you're cumming - all over me," you grit out, and there's a thoughtless impetus there: like she'll forget if you don't remind her. "The thought of being my cumdump has got you creaming yourself, huh?" Sullyoon lets herself moan and slick up your dick with each stroke, totally malleable to however you want to use her: cocksleeve, pocket-pussy, the whole venn-diagram between good girl and cumslut and ready to thank you for it - "love how I'm ruining this cunt for anyone else, I know. I get it, I do."

In your defense, she's drooling around the fabric. She wants to hear it again, and again.

"I cannot believe how greedy your pussy gets, Sully." Her eyes are tear-watery, and you tip forward and kiss the words into her hairline: "God, you're not letting go."

Your hands slip up, under the skirtline and onto the bare skin of her ass. She's so easy to fuck, to pull her downwards onto your lap and plunge deep into her cunt with a measured, vicious precision. You're pounding her, and she's being the pristine little princess she knows she is, clutching your shoulders - fucking whimpering in your arms, perfect thighs around your waist - like all her wildest dreams are coming true. A filthy fucking fantasy playing behind those pretty orgasm-snap-shut eyes, and she's so wrecked you have to indulge her-

"Need a big load in you, don't you sweetheart. Want me to feed my cum right into that pretty little pussy - I know, honey-"

A fraction's nonsense, probably, exaggerated for whatever gets her wettest.

But then there's the way she's looking at you: chin slanted and arched brows and mascara-stained eyelashes. A sureness, the assertion, that you could tell her almost anything, and she would just nod, keep on nodding. You could glaze her womb, fill her to the brink, and the idea alone has sent her spilling right off the end of the spool. 

You should, you could - the thought's insistent - do anything to this girl, and she'd let you.

But one second you're buried in her pussy, and the next you're pulling out, fucking into your fist: cumming straight up her thigh. There's her cunt, her tits - thick, brackish ropes of cum striped all over her stomach, her skirt. You've always had that instinct, taking something flawless and leaving it better.

She doesn't seem to mind. She only looks up at you, stupidly, gorgeously - as though all her loose-end ideas are finally making some kind of sense.

"Pretty," you slur, fumbling with the drenched fabric in her mouth. "Perfect. Good girl-" and she crumples under the tonal quality, the specific register; she'd get it anywhere. She'd bite into her lip, pull up her skirt - it's definitely dirty talk, by some approximation - it's lewd, and messy, and possessive: you press your lips to hers, whisper, "What am I gonna do with you, huh?"

In the heat of the moment, it felt like a rhetorical question, but here she is: warm body curled against yours. Giving you all the answers.

You draw the tips of your fingers through the cum across Sullyoon's tummy as she wriggles against the sink. It's a gesture that doesn't truly compute. She laughs. She seems drunk. She's not - and neither are you, which might've helped paint an extra coat of pathos into things, smoothed down some of the rougher edges, let you pretend you've only known each other for an hour as opposed to say, forever.

"My brain sorta short-circuits," she says once she's able to summon up the awareness. You're kind of shocked she's even responding, with the way she's all dreamy and fucked-out. "-when I get really good dick," and there's hardly room for argument.

Her head lolls slightly. She sighs, long and limp. There's no way of knowing how long you two stay like that, merely breathing the same air.

"You didn't cum inside me," she says eventually, slow and dazed as she lifts her elbows and braces herself against the counter. "You didn't wanna watch me push it out?"

"I mean-" You're struck by the picture she makes: tousled hair, a half-smirk, legs spread wide open. "I was being polite," you say loftily. It's hardly genuine, but she's too sated to notice the difference. "Besides." You make a vague motion to her general midsection.

You're not above it - that's been pretty clear.

"So you just made a huge fucking mess?" says Sullyoon, after a prolonged beat. "I'm on birth control, obviously."

"So your first thought is dragging me in here, dressed like this, begging to be filled-"

"Gosh." It comes out as something more like a laugh. "That sounds so unlike me. I guess you were giving it to me just right, huh?"

"Must've been," you start. It's so fake-casual you hardly recognize yourself, "so," and there's that nakedly candid, honest-to-god authenticity. There's that blatant lying, too: "I've never had someone get so, just-" Cum-slut seems kind of vulgar. "-worked up before. Is it always like this for you?"

"Ha," she says, arms looped loosely around your neck: "What do you think?

Your cum is sliding between the slight arch of her ribs: slick and white, noiseless.

She's an abject fantasy, totally wrong; and it's divinely captivating, that duality. She's so meticulous about the line; you can tell by the expression on her face - like you haven't touched it already, cupped her jaw and brought a whole host of bad ideas along with you.

"I think you have a breeding kink," you follow up with, unthinking. Her brow perks. "A princess complex." A disaffected huff of laughter. "Literally anything, probably. You're absolutely fucking filthy, sweetheart."

"Well." Sullyoon fixes the tilt of your chin down, just-so. "Thanks for breaking that down for me so eloquently."

"No problem."

"For the record," she starts. "It's not like I literally want to get pregnant with your kids. I just like the way it sounds, like I'm the only person you ever wanna cum in, forever. Just like - hypothetically." Then she sighs, all put-upon. "Your cock's literally perfect, is what I'm trying to say."

It's sort of fascinating. "How flattering," you tell her. "Hypothetically."

"Yeah." Sullyoon considers this, chews on it. "What else am I supposed to think about?" The way she says it belies nothing at all. Her thumb presses into your sternum.  "I’m young, fertile or whatever - a breeding kink is a non-starter if I'm getting fucked like that," she asserts. "Getting knocked up in real life would be super impractical."

"I think you're confusing a bunch of stuff," you exhale - that, at least, sounds like you.

"I'll bet you money I'm not the first."

You bite your tongue.

"Just give me," and she makes a gesture, head tilted: split-second vulnerability.

"Hm?" you say. Sullyoon stares at you blankly.

"Your fingers." There's a short pause, followed by: "Don't 'hm' me." 

At first, you genuinely can't comprehend the thought process there. She's absurd; impatient by design, inelegant as she cants her hips up in a way that makes it quite clear what she wants. The sort of clarity you don't question, the kind of clench and heat that leaves you gut-level dumb - still, there's the angle: the front of her torso a mess, your cock wet all over her thighs, her grip firm around your wrist.

You end up feeding your cum into her cunt in languid, generous fingerfuls, with your forearm working her back down.

"Yeah," Sullyoon says softly, almost drowsily, head tipped back against the mirror. Her lashes are thick and dark as they flutter shut. "That."

The entire concept feels backwards. Sullyoon's chest heaving and falling, long hair spilling to her waist in pretty, dark coils, your fingers pumping steadily in and out between her thighs. She takes to filth the way water takes to paper, teeth sunk into her bottom lip. It's your own brain scrambling, processing, committing it to memory; fuck you, because you're sure you'll need it. That look on her face sends off alarms as her pretty little hand settles over your own, showing you - like this, just like that - how to really ruin her.

"You're like - you're perfect." It's a non-sequitur. You couldn't care less. She should know. "Aren't you?"

"Maybe," Sullyoon allows. 

She thinks she's cute. She's absolutely right. 

"I mean, yeah. Kinda." A smile slips free at that: self-satisfied, but well-deserved. Your hands draw over her ribs, thumbing at the ridges. "That's sweet of you to say, but you still have to clean me up," she demands, sounding so plaintive that you wonder, momentarily, if you've knocked something loose. "I’m a total wreck," she adds, laughing as if she's not a pro at the bathroom-hook-up-thing, the damage-control at least; plucking herself out of the debris, cleaning up nicely. 

"It's my fault," you agree amiably, obligingly. You're wetting a paper towel beneath the tap, drawing it in gentle strokes over her lower abdomen. "But you liked it."

"Well," she hedges, "like," and it's clear she's playing dumb - oh, you're certain it's on purpose. "Who wouldn't like being told how good they look getting railed?" and you can hear the breath she sucks in. "Ugh. You make me such a girl."

"Not to be pedantic." Your mouth quirks; you can't help it. "But."

"You know what I mean," says Sullyoon, observing you - her head tips a little, expression changing shape. "I can't believe you're lecturing me," she quips playfully. "What are you, my teacher?"

And maybe it's fate, or something far less idyllic - but just like that you know this won't end the way it should. You're single, she's pretty. Also, you're both hung up on the same few dirty ideas.

-

Some of the barflies turn, stare, whisper, as you guide her toward the exit. There are things to a scene like this everyone knows the name for. They look at Sullyoon, clock the dreamy, sated smile, a tilt in her gait, and then they see her clutching your arm, gaze darting adoringly to yours - they get the idea. Nobody needs a debrief. You've got a hand trailing down her waist. A little further still.

"I'd ask you to walk me home," she says, somewhat insincerely, "but I think we'd just end up right back here." 

"Yeah," you agree. "That's probably true."

She takes your elbow, turns your wrist, and slips her phone into your slack-jawed fingers. "You should give me your number." You stare blankly; she stares back. "It'd be polite to give me a heads up next time we do this." 

"Do what, exactly?" you hedge, half a tease, half a genuine question.

Sullyoon pulls back and says: "Do me." Like it's obvious - and you realize she's actually just like this naturally, genuinely: batting her big brown eyes, swaying on her feet. "Isn't that the point?" she prompts, suddenly too bashful to ask, do you have any idea what kind of damage we could do in a bed? Do you understand how badly I need that? Do I have to draw you a diagram, pencil it out in graphite - a list? My limits? My favorites? My fantasies? You said it yourself: I'm a bit of a cumslut. That's the point.

Her fingers trace the tail of your coat, tug a little. Sullyoon has a habit of finding some part of you and holding on. "My roommate's taking a trip soon," she's informing you, with all her imperiousness, like it's her birthright. Like it's already decided. Your princess has got a predilection for privilege, and isn't afraid to ask. "I'd have that whole weekend free."

So - definitely a disaster. You type out a quick text, shoot it off into the void. All she needs is the contact, a phone call, enough pretense. There's no need to draw this out. The night's already begun refracting into ride-shares and starlight. She holds your face in two hands when you lean down and press your mouth to hers. The kiss is soft. Her tongue is warm.

Your phone chirps in your pocket, and Sullyoon's dimples appear like punctuation. The rest is just window-dressing anyway.

-

You weren't kidding about that novel: you have no idea how it ends.

There are thoughts collected in docs, miscellaneous plot points and notes cluttering folders. You're in the habit of starting new drafts when you're feeling stuck, and you're feeling stuck pretty often.

You sit down at your desk. There's a message from Sullyoon letting you know she made it home safe, and the back and forth is less stilted, more casual than it has any right to be: I was too tired to notice earlier, but walking straight is a whole fucking thing, I think you've ruined me - she doesn’t even wait for a reply before she opens up her camera roll and fires off a salvo of photos. She's just stepped out of the shower. Her hair's wet in all of them. It becomes a point of interest later: she's in college, studying photography and visual media - but she's also modeling on the side.

Pretty, you text her.

What about it? she wants to know.

Pretty in general. Pretty eyes, pretty shoulders, pretty ass - you don't need to elaborate. Her ego's going to fill in the blanks. Composition's good, you add. Lighting, too. The photos have a clarity of purpose.

I used a tripod, she replies.

Show-off, you think. Your laptop's open to another blank page. There's work to do here, too.

-

(You're not really supposed to be writing about a beautiful girl, but you write where you're inspired: characters, backstory, a little mise-en-scène. You don’t even know if it counts as self-indulgent, since the narrative is only tangentially, briefly, incidentally about any of this; a heroine too young for your hero, too good for him. She's morally superior; he's bad at communicating. It's a story: and a familiar one at that - but people love their tropes, their cynicism repackaged as sentiment.

You want me, the heroine says, the first day it starts. Simple, earnest, uncomplicated, evil.

He falls for her a little bit, you suppose, right there - for the way she smiles like the angel everyone thinks she is.

I think, she coaxes, you're going to die if you don't touch me - and the prose loses some sense of urgency. It's just that kind of scene.)

-

Your life doesn't derail in a single evening. You've got responsibilities, classroom obligations, deadlines to meet - but suddenly it's a week later and the image persists: legs crossed at the bar, lashes low, chin propped up on the heel of her hand. You were irrational to assume it was a one-off, an exception. Your phone's constantly pinging, texts rolling in rapid succession. She'll send you pictures and video clips without warning, no context necessary: she'll send you anything to make her evening, ruin your whole day. You're at lunch with a coworker when Sullyoon calls you before she's probably supposed to. Which is funny, since you've never felt so bad for stepping out to take a call in your life.

"No, no - listen," she says, whining a little, at the perfect height of horny and petulant. "I had this whole speech rehearsed, actually. Like, something serious. Boundaries, expectations, et cetera. An adult conversation. But you’re not allowed to be hotter over the phone. That’s so manipulative."

"What, just sitting here in silence?"

"Please stop talking," she says, clearly full of shit: she wants you to flatter her, keep the lines of communication open. She wants to see you again, too. Demanding it. "Ugh." There's this shift to her voice, this loftier quality, just the suggestion of her hand falling flat between her thighs - and she has an inherently dramatic, melodic cadence to begin with.

"Whatever. Now I can't think about anything else except sitting on your face."

"I thought you had a speech prepared."

"It left my brain immediately." Sullyoon pauses, then sighs, all showy and huffy. "If we don't figure this out soon, I'm going to masturbate furiously and cry and my apartment's walls are really, really thin. Just so you're aware."

"Your poor neighbors."

"I know."

You laugh out loud. "I've got some stuff on hold at the library I need to pick up later. You could come, if you want. Would help me know you're not getting anyone else in trouble." You're sort of joking, and you're sort of not: it's only a few years too late, really. Also she's much better at pretending that you're not crossing wires here, twisting together threads and turning them into knots, ones so complex there's no undoing them. At least you're making light of it. "Maybe grab something to eat."

"Oh." Sullyoon's silent for a beat, like she's processing what you've actually said, and not whatever exaggerated scenario she's painted of this. She clears her throat - it's quiet, dainty, precious. "That could work."

"It's probably best if I meet you at the station," you add, just to maintain some decorum - which is ironic, considering. "Just tell me when you're heading over, I'll wait for you."

"How sweet." She's amused. She's appreciative. She'll twist it up however she wants. "Guess I'll see you in a few."

-

So you throw on your jacket. Sullyoon takes the train. It's only a few stops; and you'll laugh about that later - oh, what a coincidence, what a horrifying proximity. She appears on the platform in all of her dainty splendor and smiles as the wind tousles her hair - she's got a sweater dripping down the slope of her shoulder and a bag hooked over her wrist: an overnight, you piece together, like the pretext isn't already well established. I'm here to get absolutely, viciously railed, that's all.

"So." She falls into step next to you. Her hair's tied up in twin-tails with ribbons like it's exactly what she deserves.

"So," you agree.

"M'going over to your place and getting fucked silly, isn't that fun?"

"Well," you start to correct, as though it matters, "errands first." Sullyoon hums under her breath. She's thinking of nothing else - and well, good. That's the idea. You loop your arm around her waist, tuck her to your side. "Then maybe, I guess, yeah."

"Definitely," she replies, without any hesitation. "It's not up for discussion," and then there's her grin, the dimples, that silvery-sarcastic, coal-smoke laugh.

-

Neither of you've really got a good excuse for where this is going, so you're not talking much about it.

The library's an easy ten minutes from the station, and Sullyoon takes every liberty and advantage by it. She winds her hand around your wrist. Kisses you when no one's looking. Hooks her chin over her shoulder to provide commentary on the research journals and reference literature you've come to collect - ah, interesting. I've always liked poetry, too. That one's a classic. And looks heavy, wow, how are you holding so many? She lets out a little breathless moan as you turn around and cage her in against the bookshelf, drag a hand through all that thick golden hair. She's gone and bound your worst instincts to her best behavior with that face alone, and you didn't take her back where the aisles converge with the periodicals because she's adorable, or well-read, or curious; nobody's browsing these stacks unless they're in deep and looking for something specific. Answers, absolution, an a-ha. 

You clear your throat as she fiddles with your coat buttons, tries to sneak one free.

"Don't," you advise her, just shy of enough conviction.

Her head tilts: confused, then delighted; she's blinking reverentially - and suddenly you understand why the whole genre exists.

"Oh," she says, pretends. A tug to your lapel, and you're already dropping another kiss onto her smile. "You don't wanna?" As if she can't feel you through both layers of clothes. "Fuck my mouth, I mean," she clarifies just in case.

"Honey." She likes being told what to do, but she likes setting the pace even better: she leans into you, up on her tiptoes, lashes dark, mouth wet, pretty like she was born knowing it; it's this part. Right there. "I mean it."

The word's halfway to her lips before her knees hit the carpet.

So you'll just have to leave the monologue for another time. Sullyoon's working at your pants, sliding your zipper down, and there's her fingers curling delicately at the elastic band of your briefs, the intentional misuse of her teeth and that provocative flash of her tongue against your cock, ready to take it into her mouth-

"See," she breathes, pleased as all get-out, "now we both know you're lying."

Her hands are tiny, which just now registers, and the point of comparison makes you want to die a little.

But your cock's halfway down her throat before you've even had an opportunity to choke on air, pull in a gasp - and that's it, really: Sullyoon sinks her mouth around you, lets out the lewdest little noise. She shifts on her knees. Squares her shoulders, tips her head back. Makes herself a nice pretty picture before looking up to bat her eyelashes again.

It should be more upsetting - giving in, putting that beautiful, spoiled mouth to good use - but, "Jesus," you hear yourself rasp, "Sullyoon," alongside the spit-slick sound of your dick in her fist, "you really just, fuck, go right for it, huh," all in one awful breath - and, well. She's drooling around you in seconds.

See, she's a prodigy at this too. 

You could probably write poetry about the faint, almost imperceptible angle to her wrist, or the twirl of tongue around the tip. The shallow up-and-down she has her mouth doing, or that sinful little slurping noise that the library's dead-silent for. "Shh, sweetheart," you snap, sighing into it already, your hand settling over the crown of her head. Oh, you can't even fucking remember how poetry's supposed to work. Soliloquys, and sonnets and scripture: fuck, princess - look at you - this little mouth's all for me, huh? You can't help yourself. You tilt your head back, glance around: Yeats and Milton and Dickinson are an intimidating audience, even with a perfect muse, so you'll really just leave it there, allow your stupidity to hang like that. 

The blowjob she's giving you is enough of a fucking problem, anyway. 

She's got this gorgeous mouth and she needs you to know it: all slurp-slick sounds from the corner of her lips, spit dribbling down her chin. She bobs her head and the rhythm's nothing but practiced, precise. That little twist at the end of each pull-and-stroke, and the soft gag, and then stroking you with the mess all over her hands. Fuck - she's good at this, and you tell her this - it's stupid-simple. An explanation. You know exactly what to do with that, don't you?

Sullyoon takes you right over the back of her tongue and you can't really be held responsible for anything else: your fingertips through her hair, or the sudden clutch to her nape. "That's it," you coax - praise her, push her down further. "Can't even wait until we get home, I get it."

You're skirting a lot of lines, obviously - between teacher and student, between blowjob and facefuck - you're not sure you're meant to be treating this library visit quite like this, either, but it's too late; everything slurs into less put-together language: "There you go princess, you've been dying to get your lips on it, I know" - because it's fucking obvious - "nasty fucking cockslut, Sul, jesus christ, your mouth-"

Her tongue flashes, curls around the underside. She just keeps sucking, lapping at it desperately. 

You'll never get over the way she looks: eyebrows scrunched, shoulders shrugged, jaw hanging open wide enough to cradle your cock. There's her tongue again, then there's her gag-reflex. That conceited flash in her eyes. Ah, she thinks you're gonna blow your load if she just takes you down to the root with no warning at all - until she's out of breath - then there's the dirty-hot way she spits, blows bubbles - all fluttery lashes; she's getting drool everywhere while you fuck her mouth, use it. Treat her like she's something to own, and that just makes her wetter and hungrier and messier. She's slacking her jaw, hollowing her cheeks, shoving two fingers in her cunt- 

Oh, she likes that idea, wants you to take possession of every one of her needy holes, find every perfect fit. She's got that little expert fist, twisting a palm into all the right places and she's barely convincing anyone with those bright white socks tucked into a pair of Mary-Janes - or with the hand she has insistently pressed between her legs, fingering herself harder when your cock fills her cheek, when you call her names, "slut, sweetheart, I cannot believe-" and you're half-laughing, a little awed. "Sul," you try to say, but it comes out a rasp - "I'm gonna fucking cum."

There's a warning buried in there somewhere; she smiles around you anyway. Swallows you further, sucks harder. 

"All in your throat, okay? Be good for me and just let me use you, yeah?" and maybe that's too many steps ahead, but you'll get there. She'll go for it, for you. She wants it; her eyes sparkle. Her fingers rub furiously at her clit.

You curse and tighten your fingers around the ribbons, pump up against her tongue; her sobs - her fist is drags across your length, meeting with her lips until she gags like she wants to prove a point, like this just another day, eyes gone shiny-wet and chin glazed over, playing you along like it's routine, and she's almost done, ready to get onto her next task: 

You know, sighs a specific version of Sullyoon inside your head, running her fingers through her hair. She's arranging her notebooks, pencils; she's on campus and wearing a white polo. The skirt's navy. 

Her expression is serious, contemplative. There's drool on her chin and her head's bobbing fast, faster-

It turns out I'm just a slut for your cock, I guess. She bats her eyes once, twice. Who knew?

You tug her face down and feed her your entire load.

There's no fairytale-romance to it, no period-drama-prose; just her little mews and sputtery-cough like a bookmark left behind - the precise page and paragraph and sentence, a marker on the spine, a thumb through the well-worn binding. 

You'd come back, you'd read it again. You'd find the exact moment where the word deepthroating began to look like art. Her brows scrunched up, little chin titled on an incline - her eyes shut in rapturous concentration. She doesn't even make a show of being graceful or whatever: tears streaming, nose running and utterly breathless, moaning for you and not giving a shit what anyone else might think. 

You loosen your grip, and tsk gently. Your cum's mostly spilled down her chin.

But she swallows some, definitely; has her face tipped down to better take it. There are no clean-up tricks you know of for girls who've caught it messy, for the filthiest kinds of sluts: she just shows you her mouth with glassy-eyed amusement and runs two fingers through the splatter.

If the reference section wasn't quiet as a church already, that image alone would've shut it right down.

"Honey," you say - except you're stuttering, or maybe you've forgotten to breathe. "Come here, let me-" But the next word out is "Christ", because she's using the sleeve of her sweater to dab it clean before you can tell her no. 

Your brain catches up while hers is busy glazing over.

She licks at her bottom lip. "I know," she sighs apologetically. Your little poet, finally at a loss for words. "I'm clumsy, it's so embarrassing. Sorry. I swear it usually - ah - doesn't go down like this." She lifts up a few inches, hands braced over her knees, knuckles sort of tense. Like she thinks you might be upset. "Well, I guess it does."

"What," you say stupidly, staring. "No. I-"

"Seriously." Sullyoon accepts a palm cupped to her jaw. "I really do like swallowing," she clarifies, cheeks flushed, all molten and heavy-lidded, with that cute little lopsided grin. "I'm usually pretty good about it."

"Go figure," you say, smoothing her bangs off her face. "And here I thought you were just hungry for attention."

Sullyoon turns her head so that her mouth meets your wrist, kisses it twice. "Is it working?" Her voice drops an octave, mocking. "You have a really big dick, and I haven't gotten to eat dinner yet." And she blinks back to normal, straightening out as you haul her up by the elbow. "You're right, that was me being selfish."

Her sweater slides down her arm again.

"Are you mad that I messed up your shirt?"

"I think I can live," you echo - maybe a bit harshly, too long, but she laughs, "besides the attention-seeking, any other flaws I ought to know about?" and Sullyoon's head goes kind of lazy over her shoulder.

"I dunno, isn't it like your job to discourage that kind of behavior?" She's talking bullshit; she's saying it like a dare. "I could make an official complaint. A formal declaration, I guess," and she shrugs: show-offy, seductive. "It'd be serious. There'd be consequences. I come from a respectable household."

On one hand: it's good to know you're not corrupting her; she came with the moral compass she's got. Her mind's a brothel and she makes it seem so benign, so irreproachable. It's distracting. It's impossible not to think it - honestly, seriously-

Oh god, you adore her.

On the other: she's willing to cross this particular bridge just because you've given her incentive - you've encouraged it, hell, you're willing to jump in. "Manners," you mutter instead, with zero conviction.

"Oh my god, you still say it." There's some satisfaction to Sullyoon's tone. It proves the theory. "That is...hilarious." She pulls at your hand. "Okay fine," she says, pretending, playing hard: she's a good girl, honest. "Let's get your books first, I guess."

"Did you just swoon?" you try.

"Me? No." She looks so goddamn self-satisfied, letting her smile break out again. "You called me a cockslut, remember?" she replies, breezily - like this annoys her.

"Yeah." You don't know what else to say. She laughs.

"Well, joke's on you. I totally am." And you don't have any real argument for that either.

-

Some footnotes then, on this little excursion:

i. Her favorite book (in Sullyoon's writing, Sullyoon's impeccable print, handwriting girlishly small): Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice (yes, it's a romance novel). You're at the reference desk. You're checking out a stack of novels, biographies, collections of literary essays. You've got that awful red edition of Ovid. They make it into your bag, and so does her paperback copy of Jane Austen.

ii. There's a line written vertically down the inside cover, 'it is a truth universally acknowledged' (and then it stops). Page 203 is dog-eared.

iii. "I reread it once a year, minimum," is all Sullyoon offers up when you press her on it. "Lizzie is cute and funny, and Darcy is rich and in love with her." She blinks those gorgeous eyes up at you again, playfully casual. "But these books aren't even dirty." 

She shrugs her shoulders, as though that explains everything - and in a sense, it does: you should stop trying to connect these loose dots. 

iv. She wants to keep herself enigmatic, at least a little bit. It's fine. It's cute. You still can't resist needling at it a bit. "Isn't Elizabeth Bennet supposed to be, y'know." You gesture vaguely.

Sullyoon's brow quirks. 

"Pretty morally uptight?"

She brushes it aside, acting embarrassed. "Obviously," is all she admits. "Like I said: cute, funny. Thank god Mr. Darcy's there to take her mind off things." Which is obviously suggestive enough on its own. "You can take me home, now," she suggests, like you have a say, like you need permission to fuck her properly. "If that was your question."

It wasn't, but it's good information. 

-

She leans her head against your shoulder all the way there. Peers up at you behind satisfied, watery eyes, watches while you fumble with your keys, the lock, the handle; you've got the prettiest girl in the world waiting to get into your apartment and a through-line that doesn't need naming.

This is the oldest one there is.

-

Sullyoon slips her shoes off, wiggles her toes on your rug before you catch her looking around - nosy little thing - but it's mostly perfunctory: the sofa, the bathroom, a desk in disarray. She looks like she might ask questions, or at least provide some kind of color commentary, but then you're pulling out a cutting board, and her whole attitude pivots.

"They're just vegetables," you tell her, slightly amused.

"I know, but I literally can't cook to save my life." She tilts her chin up, and plants both elbows on the countertop, all girlish delight and candor. "Our oven door has had the charred remains of something trapped in it since forever. My roommate and I sort of have this tacit agreement not to ever open it again." Then she pouts, leans in closer: "Whatever you're cooking looks delicious."

You set another burner to a medium-high. Salt a pot of water. It's too easy to get sidetracked by conversation, about everything and nothing all at once.

Sullyoon tells you about some true crime documentary she watched the night before - or how about Parasite, have you seen Parasite? She's downed a glass of wine before you've gotten the plates out of the cabinet, and just holds it out for more. Of course I've seen Parasite (that's you, talking) - and you bring up this one podcast on consumerism & class consciousness you listened to on your walk earlier (because hey, if she likes that movie, then). She chews quietly around a bite of pasta, looks at you like you're teaching a class. You end up on some parallel tangents about feminism, misogyny in media, female objectification: everything that makes her a liberal arts student. Everything that makes her the girl you'd take home from a bar.

By the time you're washing dishes she looks like she's on the cusp of telling you something important, but just cards a hand through her hair and lets out a sigh.

Her face is so expressive that you catch all of the layers anyway.

"Oh," you realize, and turn off the sink. "I'm supposed to be fucking you right now, aren't I?"

"Stop," says Sullyoon - prettily petulant, offended in a way that means she isn't - and you have to laugh. "You did not forget."

It's easy enough to wrap a hand under her shoulder, get her out of the stool; draw her up onto the counter against you. "I'm glad you've got your priorities straightened out-"

"Oh, they're super clear," she replies, indignant. That apparently got a rise out of her. "Very focused. Currently on getting dick, yes. It's true. But that's on you." Sullyoon laughs, then traces her thumb over your mouth; tucks in closer. "It's not my fault you're hot and sweet and it gets me all wet talking about, what - structural determinism? Intersectionality?" 

"I'm sure the faculty'll be happy to take credit."

"Well, I did sort of space out," Sullyoon chirps, and drags two fingertips under the hem of her sweater, starts to peel it up. "Just ended up going through all the positions in my head. Doggy, Missionary," she ticks them off, one at a time, "that's my favorite, obviously, 'cause it feels so, like - intimate, and you're really deep inside me, and your face is right there-"

"And what's doggy?"

You can see that fantasy playing out behind her eyes: the hair-pulling, the ass-out posture. The slap of skin, your dick rearranging her insides. "A very close second," she allows, still undressing: her breasts sit so delicately in the lace. 

"I have to apologize." You lean down like you're going to kiss her, feel her lashes flutter in anticipation. "I didn't realize it was foreplay."

"I swear." Her palm's splayed over her stomach like it hurts. "You're doing this on purpose."

"I'm trying to help," you assure her - and then hook your palms under her thighs and hike them over your elbows. Sullyoon's first impulse is to hold on tight, bury her fingers in your hair. 

Her voice couldn't drop much further if she tried. "Do you work tomorrow?"

You do. You could skip it: it's your class, your curriculum; you could draft an email that makes it seem as though you contracted a fever named after a color, set it to send early morning. You don't really even have to ask what she seems to have in mind. They'd understand if they knew.

Hell, everyone has a muse.

"You know I do," you reply. It's obvious enough.

"Well, you should get to bed, then." She sounds about as convincing as she intends to be. "If only to avoid being totally exhausted in the morning." Which is, technically, great advice. "Full disclosure, I am gonna wake you up sometime in the middle of the night and see if you wanna do it again." A little kiss at the hollow of your throat, warm and close. "Just - letting you know."

You can feel her pulse starting to spike against your ribs, taste her heartbeat thrumming fast beneath her skin. It's late. You're still pressing her against walls, tugging her underwear off, being reminded of just how thin Sullyoon's wrists are, the way you can fit an entire breast in one hand, how delicate her jaw feels; it's just easier to map it with your mouth instead - and she's right on-board, sighing into your mouth like she's too dainty and precious to consider the mechanics - like there's nothing more she needs to concern herself with, nothing she couldn't trust you to accomplish: the moment you deposit her neatly onto your duvet, she rolls onto her stomach and lets you admire the slope of her spine, the plush roundness of her ass - oh, a close second, for sure. Her knees slide up; she spreads them slightly, and any notion of fragility falls right out of mind.

-

(Later then, a bit, a lot - it doesn't matter. The point is you've been adding to your novel in stolen intervals between going out, hooking up; whenever you're not texting her through the logistics - which are getting more frequent, and increasingly complicated, and escalating fast. She's over at your place more than you care to understand, and every few days it seems you wander into an alleyway, a parking garage, the back of your car, and you'll fuck her into oblivion, get her fingers scrambling over your back while you knock all the filthy thoughts out of her pretty brain.

Some of that has started landing on the page. A lot of it, the majority, until it starts sounding a bit gratuitous

You're just trying to get a handle on the larger narrative at play:

The hero ends up walking her home at some point, eventually, because she wants him to. She's small and she's lovely and she lets him look and talk and touch - she says nothing of consequence until they get to her address, then turns in his arms, faces him, and sighs dramatically.

My roommate's a whore who will try to jump your bones, she warns, half-laughing, completely serious; they settle for making out on the street for what seems like ages, until the exterior lights of her apartment building flicker off - and she asks, or she hopes, or she tries to prolong it, somehow, like it hasn't already been hours. She lifts his hand, places it right above her hipbone: presses, dips her chin.

Well I'm not going to fuck you in public, he protests mildly. There are passing cars, the odd pedestrian. Not for the second time in an hour. But his hand grips her waist anyway.

A bathroom stall is not public, she insists.

And he thinks that she could get him to agree to it all with enough time, and effort, and clever persuasion - he'd probably lose it and eat her out against the bricks until she couldn't breathe. A public bathroom. It's right there in the name, he could argue - but decides to let that one slip by.

He says instead: it's late. His feet are dragging. The kiss is as obvious a sendoff as any, anyway: I should really get going, he tells her as he pulls his mouth off hers.

They pause at each other. She feels his fingers skip over her hips, down her abdomen, and her pupils dilate. He brushes away her hair, and they get darker. Maybe, she decides, this is the story she'll have him tell for years. It's fucked up, and they both know it. They're both a bit gone for each other, and for all the wrong reasons. She should regret it. This should scare her shitless - this is not the kind of role she's been raised to fill - but he's kissed her out-of-breath and made her spine curl, made her beg-to-get-railed; she's too lightheaded to let it worry her. 

His palm ends up over her mouth: fingertips traced against her cheekbone. It's too filthy to be romance, and too good to be anything but.

She cums on his fingers, and it's not pretty: shuddery, spilling everywhere - she's an absolute slut for this, and her head tips backwards, vision spinning with color, the streetlights blurring like fireflies as she inhales against his palm.

I'm keeping these, princess, he offers, pocketing her panties and leaning forward so their noses touch - and the story's plot moves slowly, all the usual excuses: sex scenes have become more convoluted. Sex scenes always take longer to write.)

-

It's not like you're dating, and it's not like you could explain yourself, if you tried.

But there are mornings where you take her up on the offer: buy her coffee, spend hours pretending to read at the local bookstore because she's supposed to be studying, her tiny fingers wrapped around her highlighter, sipping delicately on her coldbrew. 

You let her get distracted, talk shit about her classmates, debate ethics, discuss music and film. She tells you about the new lens she just bought for her DSLR, that she needs a test dummy to photograph with it: and you'd told her you would - but it's mostly an excuse to walk around a park for a bit, pretend to look at plants and photograph the foliage and say all kinds of gross nonsense to each other; have lunch together, find an alley to fuck her in, check out the farmer's market she mentioned last week. You look at peaches, pears; figure out she has a thing for obscure bands that no one listens to, that she's never actually seen a Studio Ghibli film: and so you'll wander back to your place, stick one on for a quick watch before deciding to let her blow you halfway through instead, see how long you can go without realizing the screen's gone dark: oh wow, you were so close to finishing Howl's Moving Castle - oh well. 

It's a recurring theme: Sullyoon will sit on your lap, let you slide into her, lean her chest against yours and let you fuck up into her in long, rolling strokes. 

You do it with Ponyo next, then Spirited Away; she keeps fucking up Mononoke for the both of you.

She somehow ends up even more submissive on top. She can't help herself. She'll make these breathless, huffy little noises, pant harder. She loves praise, loves kissing you - loves being your dumb, docile cocksleeve - she’ll lean up against your neck and whisper in your ear, call herself that; and it's absurd, watching one of your best students melt into such a malleable, horny mess, but that's how it ends up.

Though occasionally she'll sit up straight, fix her hair and look you directly in the face. There are brief bouts of clarity, too.

"This is crazy, right? Me coming over all the time? You fucking me like this?"

"Absolutely," you mumble into her neck. "You’re out of control."

And that's sorta where the narrative sticks the landing, kinda the status quo. It's casual, easy. You might even consider yourself friends.

-

At the same time, this conversation:

"I think it's ridiculous." She bats her eyelashes, then tosses a bag of grapes in the cart you’re pushing around. "You're not even that much older than me," and it's the fourth or fifth time she's made this point in the past few days. She's downplaying her argument. It'll start out light, and eventually she'll just make a joke and it'll become reality: "You're being weird about this. It's like a seven-year gap. That's nothing."

"I was your teacher," you tell her flatly. Like the fact isn't well established, like you don't think about it constantly.

It's just banter, anyway, and it always leads you here. You won't concede. You won't give an inch, except-

Sullyoon throws her hair over her shoulder, all false attitude, then grins. "Yeah, well," she says, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. "It is what it is."

She doesn't even have to talk to keep this on-script - it's all a routine, a show: she'll wave a few hands, shake her head, say all she wants is more sex loud enough for everyone in the checkout to hear, that's it; that you're, like, really good at fucking her and stuff, that she doesn't have anyone to compare to, but she thinks you're probably the best - it'll be all shy eyes, cute smirks, cute outfits, socks up past her knees like it's some sort of fetish at this point: you've got one of hers, she's got one of yours, and that's the running gag.

"You've really got your wires crossed," you note, not buying it; knowing exactly where this road goes. "I'm starting to think I should probably feel sorry for you."

She's chewing on a candy bar she's expecting you to pay for, and only speaks after she's finished her mouthful, making it very clear that you're not allowed to judge her. "You should," she teases. "Because now I guess I'm just super into you and there's really nothing else either of us can do about it."

Eventually you'll checkout, and she'll lean forward onto the counter, thin wrists propping up her chin, and look at you just like that, and you'll know, the sentiment is pretty much mutual. You'll ask the clerk if she has a key to the restroom, and because you're both sorta natural-born liars: "It's my wife," you'll gesture behind you. "First baby and everything - she's not feeling the greatest. We just need a bit of privacy." And sure, yeah, of course, the staff will say; it's common courtesy, right? Congratulations, by the way - it's wonderful news.

Thanks, I appreciate it.

You'll pocket the key, nod for her to follow; and she'll roll her eyes in an overdrawn show of exasperation - God, you're so embarrassing, she'll groan. But she's a fan of your antics; it's the attention, she's gotta admit. It makes her feel good. Special. Yours. She likes the idea of people knowing it, too.

"Can't believe I'm having your kid," Sullyoon comments blithely, right after. "Can't believe you knocked me up."

"Could happen to anyone," you dismiss. "Like you said, I'm good at fucking you, or whatever."

"Yeah but you're old," she tells you, sounding all put on about it. "So I figure it should take longer. Like the biology of it."

"Shut up," you respond instantly, and it's kinda like - yes, alright, the atmosphere is tilted, the air hot, and you're gonna fuck her raw either way, you're gonna pump her full and watch her drip and maybe plug her up when she's done and shove her tiny, stupid panties back up into place afterwards, wipe off her thighs, pull her shirt back down - but it's not like that's uncommon territory, anymore.

"You're so lucky I like you."

"Babe," she breathes, an earnest endeavor, "you'd fuck me even if you didn't like me."

Okay, so maybe she's right; but you wouldn't be here if you weren't absolutely hooked on the rest of this, too.

-

It gets a little messier after that, in that employee bathroom. A lot messier, actually. You fuck her against the sink again - this, at her insistance. Call it canon: the perfect rewind, which is sorta the whole appeal in the first place. 

You've got your princess bent over the counter, body tugged into the arch you want it in, and she's a slut for the nostalgia, obviously, but now you've gone and wound a fist into her hair, buried your cock in her. You've done worse. It's a no brainer, she's been dying for this the second you shoved her into the door-

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck-"

It's not nice, obviously. You're not sweet about it. Maybe you could be, if she asked - but she doesn't, so you're wrecking her, and she's loving it, and maybe this is how everything is just going to stay.

"Language," you breathe out, rougher than you'd wanted - but, she's a whore for that too.

She nods once, twice; that's her cue to dissolve, to fade, to gasp, the syllables stretching out; "I'm sorry, sir. Thank you," instead, and the whimper, "for reminding me. I'll- Oh." Her voice cuts off, jolts when you pound right in, find the perfect, easiest angle, the one that makes her bite her lip. Sullyoon's already rolling with you. "I'll be good. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

You're using her, and she's thanking you; it's like, a whole thing. There's that misplaced sense of propriety - some ridiculous sense of ownership - where it all clicks without hesitation that your hands belong at the cut of her waist. Her skinny jeans furled around her knees, her cute little ass all red-faced, ready for more. Sullyoon's pleading at her own reflection, face inches from the mirror, and she hasn’t quite worked her mouth into that devilish-vulnerable-perfection yet, still a little far from it: "Fuck, keep doing that," she sputters instead, "sir," and when she casts a look at you there's a crease between her brows; there are stars in her eyes; there are tears: your clever girl, she's getting everything she wants.

It's a disaster. She can't look away. You're fucking her up, and she knows it. It's not pretty, and it doesn't need to be.

"This pussy of yours," you breathe out, rough, fast-paced, fucking hard in and out of her. She whimpers at her own reflection. "Just loves creaming up this fucking cock, huh, princess? Can't keep yourself together."

She sobs. The poor thing, the star of this show - you snap your hips right up against the pink, swollen ache of her. You might as well talk directly to her cunt. There's so little blood in her actual brain; and all of it's racing straight back down to her throbbing clit.

"Tighter," you grit out, and she clenches down immediately: see? All those little breathy sighs like an accident, a hiccup.

She loses herself so fast sometimes - when she's overwhelmed, almost falling apart; when you give her everything and a little more and she doesn't know how to take it. She's going to have bruises where you've got your hands wrapped around her waist, but that's okay - neither of you wants her without reminders. 

"What do you think," you ask, and it's not really a question: "Should I make a fucking mess in that tiny cunt, baby?" Her chin dips. Her chest stutters with a sigh. It's rhetorical: the heat, the pace, the slicked, squelching sounds falling wet to the tile below. You've been - you don't know, exasperated, amused. Charmed in the weirdest way possible. "Cause I'd really like to watch you try to keep it all inside."

See, you're really not the type - or historically you've never been - but that's Sullyoon; in her little fuckdrunk, glazed-over eyes - in those pleading, mouth-slack expressions.

You fuck right up into her, pound out her sighs. She's incoherent. It's so beautifully visceral; so porn and it's pristine. 

"Tell me," you continue, a little smoother - like it's sensitive information; and really it is, only you two get the memo - "You really want me to fill this little womb with my cum, don't you? Just a sloppy little cumdump for my cock." You grab her jaw and twist, kiss the word into the shell of her ear: "I wonder if one of these times, I'll actually get you fucking pregnant."

Her voice is shot. "Sir," and a gasp, and another. "You can't."

"No?" You hum - and she's moaning like she's about to die, lashes heavy over glassy, empty eyes, pupils wide and blown.

"I can't." She can barely breathe she's so fucked out. "You can't-" she chokes up, sobs, whines: "you can't."

It's part performance, part prayer: the stammer, the slur; the way it almost breaks on your name, as her body shudders. You drag her head back further and her teeth come through in a wince; it's just another small sacrifice, and she's so eager to offer you everything.

Because she doesn't say it like a no. Doesn't even try to keep it a secret. There are more shades to her roleplay than just a hot-for-teacher fantasy, or a man who should know better; she's not just a dumb, pretty brat with the tightest, greediest cunt. It's not even about authority, about wanting you to claim her - needing it rough - sometimes it's more like devotion. Sometimes it's something darker. Her fingers flex like claws. Her body buckles on itself; the sharp gasp of pain, because you tug a fistful of hair all the way to the root-

"Oh," you say, lining it up; the bulge in her belly, how easily her body just stretches, reshapes - she's so broken in already, there's no question that she's yours. "I think we can try. You'd fucking love that, no? A tight little pussy like yours, Sullyoon - baby, you were made to breed."

It's too much, and you know that. If there's a line somewhere, it gets worse every time you cross it.

You thrust hard, kiss the worry in her temple. Slide your tongue into her gasping mouth and fuck her, and fuck her, and fuck her. 

Until the words "take all my cum" drip right off your mouth. Her tiny ankles cross, flex like they're thinking about spreading apart. "I could knock you up so fucking easy"

It's like she can't even stand up straight - and she can't, really. Every tell of your well-fucked princess - losing all her wits. Her orgasm hits like it's a formality, like she's thanking you for being the one to show her - the door closing behind her, the curtains falling; this is it, the finale. Lights down. Everyone's dead on the stage; Sullyoon's dizzy with it, and you're watching her gorgeous ass take it from behind, a hand still wound tight in her hair - making it a thing she can't escape - I know, princess, I've got you. You're not sure what you'd meant it for when you asked her to decide on a safeword, but you're getting the impression it'll take a lot more than some impregnation kink to trigger a red light. She's almost comedically wet. You don't even have to say anything else; your palm's possessive across her stomach, and her mouth falls open; the breath catches.

"I want," she can barely breathe through it.

You're really doing a number on her cunt: all nerve-stim and bordering on something violent, a beat closer to tearing it out of her.

"I want you to," she tries again, another tearful sigh; you're fucking her to the point of hyperventilating, of forgetting her lines: "-to breed me-" and because she knows just how to take everything from you: "please fill me up, sir. Fuck me, use me, do anything you want just as long as you make my little fuckhole swell with your cum, sir, I, I-"

You kiss the curve of her jaw. You bottom out. You feel her pussy swallow every inch. It's hot, and suffocating - and fucking extreme, is the problem - getting used to something like this; she'll never have another fuck like the one she's getting here, and that'll be what kills you both.

There's the picture she's painting, what she's fantasizing: you slotting your mouth to hers, you cumming inside her. Your fingers tighten to hold her mouth open, make her drool. You feel your cock kissing her womb - and she's choking on that idea too, all sweet sounds and sloppy compliance; you're laughing, cruelly - maybe just to remind you this is all just for fun. "You feel that princess? That's my cum," and she nods, frantically - and look, your little exhibitionist takes your cum wherever she can get it. It's a part of the process. It's a delicate exchange.

If there's shame involved it's all surface level, artfully manufactured to hit some kind of internal target for what makes her wettest.

If anyone dared, she'd say: um, what exactly did you expect?

There's a million reasons she shouldn't. She's still a little confused, sometimes, by what gets her there - which feelings are genuine, which ones just press down hard on her nerves until she's short-circuiting - but her cunt's drippy and achy and she's tried to ask before, in other places; she's tried to find words for it. Why she's like this, why you're like that, what makes it work when it does; you just kiss her neck, laugh, and call her a slut for a job well done. Tell her it doesn't matter. Pretend it doesn't affect you; just promise her you'll figure it out later.

Sullyoon settles the tone, because - well, you can see it in her eyes: the intrigue, the fascination, the devilish curiosity - she knows her part. She likes to feel possessed. Conquered. Ruined. She says, "what," lashes low, a bit stunned, the exhaustion catching up as she meets your gaze, bites her lip. "Was that, like, too much for you?"

You scoff a laugh. Kiss her hard.

"You're fine," is all you manage. There's not a single thing in her that isn't addictive.

"Don't have to tell me," she slurs out. "Do you have any idea how good it feels?" Her fingers float idly over the taut plane of her abdomen. She always knows how to turn the screws. "Getting pumped full like that?"

Her reflection's all drowsy eyes, messed-up mouth; the faintest smile tugging at her lips. Her hand wraps around yours, on her jaw, as her breath stutters its way back to normal, and the lines are sorta unclear after that.

"Well, if it doesn't take, you can do that again."

"Do you mean in a Whole Foods, specifically? Or just breeding you in general."

"Why," she asks, "is that where you draw the line?" 

It's not like you always have the self-control to stop at one, anyway. "Sullyoon," you try, forcing composure.

She shrugs; laughs, lightly. "Don't make it seem like such a chore," she says. "Am I the most disgusting girl you've ever met or something?"

"Absolutely," you hum, fondly, and her mouth slants; it's contagious. "My load's dripping out of your pussy right now," you continue. "You're leaking."

"Ew," Sullyoon mutters, "gross," but it's breathless, and the way she clenches up as she says it - yeah, she's still lost in that perfect fantasy. You'll go with her. "I dunno, maybe wear a condom next time?"

It should be insane, this sort of banality, this blunt comedy, mixed with your cock stuffed all the way up her pussy. The reckless, raunchy indulgence of it; the implication that you'll fill her so often with cum you'll run out of options other than for her to get pregnant. Implying that, oh, maybe next month she won't have a period, that the timing'll line up just right. Wouldn't that be fun? It's not like I'd kill you or anything; we'd make it work. This isn't exactly an explicit conversation - the clinical terminology's for other kinds of settings, and other people - but it's there, lingering somewhere at the edge. Maybe it's nothing but talk; maybe that's all she'll let you get away with.

"It's fucked up," you say, voice completely shredded. It gets worse as your cock slides out of her. "How many times you've done that."

"The crying? That's 'cause you fuck me really well," says Sullyoon, just stating a fact.

"I mean this," you correct, pushing a finger against where you've spilled into her, the tight little stretch of her, keeping it deep and inside.

"I didn't ask you to play into it." She squirms, a little. Then, pensive, uncommitted: "So maybe what you mean to say is, how easy you are for me."

And hey, proof of concept: your cum's dripping right into the seam of her panties, soaking right through the cotton. It's a fresh pair. Now she's gonna go out there in these little jeans of hers and everyone's going to have to wonder about the glazed-over stare, the dreamlike grin. In the unsteady step, the loose bones. Like someone who just took a real, solid pounding.

"Cumdump," you muse, kissing her neck.

"Sir." Sullyoon hums contentedly.  "That's just sex." Her shrug is all airy dismissal. "Everyone's easy for the people they want."

"Oh." You gently slap her hip. "Now we're saying you want me."

"Well." She draws back, blasé in light of the fact she's been crying, but that just adds to the aesthetic, somehow: "If I told you you’ve basically ruined sex for me, you'd probably assume I hit my head in the middle of all that. I wasn't always like this." Then, casually, the blink: "So, yeah. That's the vibe."

Your fingers card through her hair again, you're putting the strands back where they belong. "Baby, I'm worried about your frame of reference," you try, and grin when Sullyoon sighs, mock-exasperated, pushes you back by the shoulder. She's still smiling, though.

"You're such a piece of shit," she reminds you, for maybe the tenth time this week. It's casual - no heat behind it, not really, but she still seems to enjoy saying it aloud. It must be so liberating. So very cathartic.

"What am I supposed to do? Say thank you?"

"You say it back if you're not an asshole," suggests Sullyoon. "Like, I think it'd just be polite. You say, 'yes, baby, you're so fucking right, I can't live without you.'" She looks at you expectantly. "You can try it."

"You're a fucking lunatic." You pull her close anyway, nosing her hairline. "But, sure," and: "baby, you're so fucking right. I can't live without you." It is sort of funny; she's so unimpressed with it.

"Good." Sullyoon tilts her chin and meets you halfway. "We're in agreement."

-

What happens is this:

You pick up after yourselves like it's a movie scene, the aftermath: makeup-wipes, paper towels under the sink. You clean her up, put her back together. Your hands are careful. There's a new bruise blooming on the inside of her thigh. You kiss her there, just because you can. You hand the bathroom key over to someone in customer service, gesture to Sullyoon and lie. She looks like she's in bad shape today, can't stop throwing up; she had to duck in here on our way in and puke up a storm - you give him this sympathetic look; I'm just so happy, I swear. My wife's pregnant. We're gonna be parents. And then a furtive, relieved glance Sullyoon's way: I feel like the luckiest guy alive.

Sullyoon hates admitting how that works: the way you get away with anything. It's just a smile, just a joke. No big deal. You always have.

Though the second she sees a bouquet of yellow daffodils she grabs your forearm, pulls your hand down to her stomach.

"Oh, look," she murmurs, fingertips dancing across your knuckles. "You know, it's gonna be a boy, right?"

There's a good performance to her already, a complete control. You buy her the flowers anyway.

"How can you be sure?"

"I'm wishcasting obviously." Her nose is buried in petals, breathing it in. "I want my kid to be cute," she teases, lightheartedly; it's her usual humor; your lack of self-restraint. "Sue me." Like it's nothing. "It's genetic. Look at your face, dude. C'mon."

And the expression she's giving you is just that, all head-down-and-trying-to-look-inconsequential: in a desk with a pair of uniform flats, a blouse tucked into a skirt; at least, it's that expression in all the same places. The play-pretend is sweet, the imitation. You push her hair off of her shoulders. Slip your fingers through the tresses, come away clean.

It's all these excuses, all the time.

-

(So, alright, fine. Your first draft has a lot of problems, but there are good things, too.

You rewrite the dialog, move her hair color around a bit. The old student's gone through some iterations, a name like Jiyeon, Siyeon, Miyeon; you dunno, you keep changing it, but the rest stays more or less the same. 

It's all her own goddamn fault for being so beautiful. That's the running motif. But at some point, the hero on the page has to do a bit of rationalization:

Because everyone's had one, right? The crush you never get over; the forbidden fruit, apple-of-the-eye - however you phrase it - they all translate loosely into the same, definitive principle, some fatal flaw; this human fallibility. To be a monster, you figure, is to be a hybrid signal, a lighthouse: both shelter and warning at once.

You write that down, squint, and then delete two thousand words all in one go.

He's never quite had a love like what he's read in novels, anyways: if you really think about it, the love story's so intrinsically tangled into the human psyche because we all wish, on some level, for ourselves to be worthy of that kind of mythologizing. Because who doesn't want a story? Who doesn't want to be immortal?

He's selfish, self-indulgent. He has to have made a few bad decisions leading him to this spot.

You imagine some editorialized feedback about a romantic subplot - the tragedy is, is, is - and it'd fit, sort of, the context would justify it, but for some reason the story, in your gut, isn't really like that.

Look at her, you'll say, in one paragraph. She's the antagonist, you'll say in another. It's just muscle memory. It's just the honest truth.)

-

"Oh I get it," Sullyoon says, delighted, when the concept inexplicably gets brought up, because you're spending all this time together. You talk about everything, which means the novel is fair game - because what else are you even doing when you're not teaching your students, or fucking them apparently - and, well, "You're writing porn."

"I'm not writing porn," you insist.

"Huh," says Sullyoon. She doesn't even look up from her book, because this isn't her first rodeo; she's lying in your lap, and that's a recipe for distraction, but this is more important. "You know, they have all kinds of genres for that now. Romance. Erotica." She enunciates the last syllable, looks up and meets your eyes. "Smut." You know this is going nowhere good. "Tell me, what does this 'antihero' look like?"

"She's blonde," is the first thing you offer. "Sort of a manic pixie dream girl. She's tiny."

Sullyoon snorts. You pinch her waist, and the sound becomes a squeak.

There's no real need to justify anything; it is what it is. "Really pretty," you tack on, just as a token of mercy, maybe because you mean it. "She reminds me of you sometimes."

"Unsurprising." Sullyoon bites down her smile. Then - "A cocksleeve for your protagonist to use whenever he wants," she decides, and laughs as she adds, "Splitting images." You grab the side of her leg and tug her closer, flip her around by the ankle; it's the warning, the retort; it'll hurt, and she knows it. "Little miss petite's gotta have daddy issues," she says, flippant. "God knows no woman like that exists in real life without an agenda. An oral fixation too." A pause. "I wonder what else we have in common."

You hum, deliberate. "A bratty disposition."

"Watch it," Sullyoon says, laughing. She'll admit the charge, she's just picking her battles.

"Cum addiction?"

She bats your hands away from her ass, but that smile remains plastered across her face. "It's possible," she says.

"A terrible sense of self-preservation, then."

"I mean these are all good things," Sullyoon praises herself. "Seriously. I'd read that."

-

"Maybe you should," you mumble, once. She asks why - and, oh, she's got the mind for stories, the blood and bone and sinew of a writer: she reads almost obsessively - and, sure, it's something you already knew, that's a given - but that's exactly it: Sullyoon picks apart plots, twists, turns - divests stories of their themes and structure and their meaning behind all that: she knows books better than she knows how to speak. It's easy to forget that. You've seen the naked girl too many times.

There are a million reasons. "It'd be nice," you tell her. You mean it. "Seeing the world through your eyes, I guess. If the two of us could sit down, and have that whole, endless conversation."

It's as simple as that.

-

On the topic of twists and turns - you never actually do meet Sullyoon's roommate, because her roommate's constantly M.I.A. Or she's present and Sullyoon's increasingly adamant about you not being there, and there isn't some hidden middle ground. Their apartment has all these photographs hanging up and you spot this beautiful girl, some slim, delicate face that keeps appearing with her.

You can't remember if Sullyoon explicitly said that her roommate fucked all their mutual friends or if that was implied, or that maybe you were projecting, but you jump to the conclusion she knows all about this arrangement eitherway.

So you ask once, because you're curious.

"Bae?" Sullyoon announces, like this surprises her. "A walking human disaster," she supplies, without even waiting for the follow-up. Sullyoon's swapping out her earrings, tying her hair up, letting it down, reaching for a different pair of pearl studs; and you're watching her fuss. "She has the social skills of a toddler and an appetite for anyone I even so much as look at twice. You're next, or something. Maybe I should start charging admission."

"I've never even met her."

"She's a whore." Sullyoon laughs, which you don't really understand, but whatever. "And I mean, like, professionally. I have to be careful not to smile at any wall sockets, or she’ll fry her tongue off."

You blink a few times. 

There are photos of her friends and her family too, glimpses of faces you somewhat recognize from the pictures she's shown you on her phone, from the blur that have sat in your classroom, passed you by in hallways. You'd forgotten she'd had a boyfriend, or had several; there's another lifetime, a parallel universe. It feels like ages ago. Sullyoon doesn't seem even slightly bothered: the roommate-prostitution thing, or you finding out. "Wait, professionally?"

"Yeah," says Sullyoon, unflappable. "Pornography. Stripping. I dunno if I want to explain it. Come help me pick out a choker."

"Okay." That's a bombshell. You're still hung up on the fact that her roommate's devastatingly attractive. She's got oreo-highlights in a blunt bob in one picture, platinum blonde in another - cut to hang right at her jaw: all messy layers and precision chaos - like she paid good money to look like she doesn’t give a fuck. "She does porn," you reiterate, as if it didn't really register.

"Amateur stuff. Guys, girls. It's a different world," says Sullyoon, mostly talking to her mirror, fluffing her hair at the tips. Up or down, she's asking - if you have a preference, you'd go up. "You don't know everything," she informs you. "And you really don't need to."

So fine. The girl does porn - the same girl who wants to sleep with you because her best friend already is. And maybe because she's something of a connoisseur. That seems odd, and you'd ask, but you have a feeling Sullyoon won't even hear you.

You'll just admire the photos on the vanity instead - the entire apartment's some combination of contemporary luxury meets cozy and cluttered - there's a couple of her at graduation, looking prim and clean and just a touch feckless, a camping trip, hiking. A polaroid of her friends at the beach. She's smiling in all the photos, and the dimples she gets in the mirror when you skate your palms over her hips are in every picture, too.

"How old are you here?"

Sullyoon spins a lock of her hair around her finger, seems to genuinely ponder. "Sixteen, seventeen?" she speculates, a lilt to the end of it. "Or thereabouts."

You raise an eyebrow. Baby Sullyoon's got the look down - a sweetly girlish expression, lips parted, tongue pushing between her teeth, pulling at the corners. The sleeves are rolled of her sweatshirt - probably belongs to whoever's holding her around the waist. Nothing that matters, anyway. 

"Cute," is all you say.

Sullyoon grins with only her left cheek. "Does that come in spurts?" She pauses. "Like - moments of clarity?"

"Don't," you advise her. It's a weird feeling.

"You have this martyr complex, it's unreal." She tosses her hair back, touches her fingers to her collarbones - maybe the guilt's an inevitability. Maybe she's worth it, and you'll never care. "Anyway, that's an old photo." She spins around in your arms, makes direct, distracting eye contact. "I don't really live in the past, if you know what I mean."

It’s just like she said - another world. Parallel universes. They're never, ever meant to intersect. 

"Yeah, princess." You laugh, because you figure the novelty's worn off but she's not giving an inch. "I do."

-

(So, an update on that thing you're writing, the absolute fucking manifesto-

It's really not a serious thing, she tells him, once, because her friend's got a gig coming up, and it's no big deal. And hey, I have a ride with the keyboardist already, but the bar's sort of a hassle to get to, anyway, if I get smashed it's kind of a long shot getting a cab home.

It's a whirlwind, and that's the beauty of it. Your hero's got this down: time, geography, reason, and all the logistics, too.

This is at the strip club?

Hey, no labels. It's an upscale joint. It's a burlesque club, thank you. But whatever the fuck he says, she's staying the night, and he'd be insane to try to disagree.

You want me to meet your friends? he asks, bemused, and there's his fingerprints already at the back of her neck, at her shoulders and the edge of her spine. It's a sweet offer.

Definitely not, she volleys. Well, yes, probably, if we get really trashed. I'm not making promises.

And he likes the way she can take a joke: he kisses her at his door to tell her he's teasing, and they both know they'll end up tangled around each other, no matter what they actually end up saying.

Come on, she murmurs at his ear, assures him, it'll be fun.

His hands are already at her waist. It'll be this conversation every weekend. There'll be a point, she'll let slip, and she'll show him her apartment, the ridiculous portraits and the polaroids. She's in this relationship, and there isn't a doubt. They'll go to the burlesque bar, her friend's gig, and the bartender'll have her whiskey neat. They'll make a ritual of pretending to dislike the idea of calling this a long-term thing: it's only natural, with her, with him.

It'll be fun.)

-

See, this goes on: the dates and the talking and the texting and never meeting her roommate but learning enough about Bae Jinsol to fill a novel, anyway. She's got friends, siblings, boyfriends and girlfriends - her family is some sort of actual, literal royalty. Money's not an issue and has never been. She's in a band, or she knows some people who're in one and it's basically the same thing - you're trying to follow along, but sometimes you tune her out entirely, just catch Sullyoon saying the phrase squirts on command (which, okay) and that the walls aren't that thin, but thin enough. You fluster; she giggles. You know Sullyoon's class schedule, so you meet her on campus, the last couple of days before a big test, before mid-terms. Sullyoon studies in the library, usually. She tries the cafe and you're still fucking her in all these unique and unfortunate places, but for the most part, you just bring her caffeine, dole out encouragement.

"How's it coming along?" 

You'll ask her this, and her mouth will pull in every direction. It's pretty apparent she's struggling. College is a grind and the hours she's spending dick-drunk in your apartment aren't exactly doing her any favors.

You take your place next to her, drop your jacket over the back of the wooden chair: it's cold outside. You and your baby sit indoors, huddle over a shared textbook, flashcards, papers. You talk with her quietly, passing her a chai latte, an americano. 

She tries to convince you to fuck her in the bookstore next door but you put your foot down. She pretends like it was worth a shot.

"Just for the record," says Sullyoon, voice slightly dipped in ridicule - she can't pass up the chance to give you shit. "Not really what I had in mind when you said you'd tutor me."

The way you see it: this is about the millionth time that Sullyoon's insisted she has the worst professor, the toughest class in her coursework, the harshest grading system in the history of academia. She whines. You console her, you point to flashcards, to study guides, to a pile of literature.

"Again, not a tutor," you tell her. "Just a concerned third-party."

"Don't you tutor, though?"

"Yeah, actually," you reply, snarking her without thinking. "Hence me making a point of not calling myself one right now."

Sullyoon slides her arms over her textbooks, yawns loudly. It's this back-and-forth:

"Pomodoro," you suggest, turning another page in her reading. "Thirty minutes. Then a ten minute break, alright?" You look at Sullyoon: she's sleepy-eyed, pink-mouthed, coy-grinned. You sigh, lower your voice: "We get through all this today and I'll help you however you want after. We'll - we could take a trip. Out of town or something. I know a little bed & breakfast that's got these open air baths. Private. Can light as many candles as we want."

"Cockwarming," she interjects, cutting to the chase. "If we're negotiating, I want cockwarming."

"What?"

Sullyoon lifts an eyebrow; she's sitting up properly now. "It's when-"

"Baby, I know what it's when," you inform her. You are, for the record, a professional tutor. You lean in, brush her jawline with your fingers; she tilts her chin for you, part-sweet, part-trusting. You don't know if she knows the difference. You're not saying she's wrong, either. It'd be the kind of vacation where the do-not-disturb sign would remain hung on the doorknob for the duration of the stay. "Let's not forget who taught you that one. Can you get through thirty more minutes?"

"Please," she says, like she's been granted the greatest privilege known to man. "Tutor away."

-

Your novel has no discernable plot, nor does it really have an audience, but - you've reached a goalpost; you've passed some marker. You've spent too much time on it to keep calling it a side-thing; and there's a pretty good scene already written: your hero getting the stuffing fucked out of him, re-examining his relationship with love, trust, intimacy - he's thirty-something years old and not yet aware that he's living in a rom-com, in case anyone has missed the metaphor there. He thinks the young lady on the page might be worth it after all. Might deserve his whole heart, really. So that's it, you guess. Let's pause this tape on that hopeful note. When we return: his balls are being emptied, her cunt is being filled.

Roll credits, et cetera.

"You're thinking about fucking me," says Sullyoon, derailing it completely.

You're at a red light. The next block's coming up. You haven't looked over since the last intersection. "Was I?"

"The same expression as when we're fucking," she explains.

That's enough to catch you off-guard. Your eyebrow twitches.

Sullyoon presses her palms flat together, sweet as can be. "Face, mouth, the works." She offers a shrug that you almost want to categorize as playful: she knows she's right.

But the new dilemma's this: you need to eat, to rest, and Sullyoon needs the bathroom, an excuse to run back home for extra study materials - and while it'd probably be smarter, easier, better just to head to yours, there's a really cute ramen place a few minutes this direction, she explains - and even though you're about an hour off from bending her over your dining room table for the whole apartment complex to overhear, she tells you: please. She needs a pick-me-up before that - so you two venture off for dinner and a breather, and it's one stop, one small little shop with good reviews and good vibes, but of course the wait's insane: Sullyoon slides over to your side of the booth, smiles, holds your hand and makes fun of the customer at the counter who doesn't know the basic etiquette for holding the spoon, slurping the noodles, and you get swept along: your bodies slot together, and it feels like you're going somewhere else; it feels like you're already there.

"Hungry?" you ask, amused. Sullyoon beams: there's your muse, your manipulator.

"Starving," she replies. Her neck's angled and bent, all the  porcelain-precious skin exposed, and her hair's tied back messily from her face with a scrunchie: she's looking, without blinking. You'd let her run roughshod all over you.

-

And you do, or she does - right there in the alley, out against the side of the restaurant, because Sullyoon needs to blow off steam and she'll take whatever she can get.

You're on your knees, tongue-tied, speechless - her underwear's hitched low on her calves and the way she moans into the side of her fist is the most feminine thing you've ever seen; there's her soft tummy, her gorgeous waist - you've got her skirt hiked up and her soft, supple thighs, her perfect little pussy; she squeals and mewls and sucks at keeping quiet and makes such a awful mess on your chin. 

"I’m fucking obsessed with you," she tells you, shamelessly. There's one euphemism left for you to hide behind, and it's this. 

You're kissing her half-delirious all over again, you're wiping her cum off your mouth - you don't even have to ask. "Right back at you," you tell her, and it's like her whole heart's there on her sleeve: hands traveling down your front; fingers looped around your belt. She gets on her knees and returns the favor.

It's reciprocal and it's shared: she'll call it possessiveness - you're halfway there as is.

-

By the end of the semester she doesn't say things like sorry I'm clingy, or thanks for putting up with me; she's in your home, in your lap - and somehow she never looks out of place; you're grading essays while she plays minecraft on your iPad, building a sand castle and ranting about how difficult it is to "gather enough redstone to actually automate a good mob spawner" or whatever; you're having sex all day and, suddenly, that's just normal; she's sucking delicately on a capri-sun straw and that's kinda, oddly hot. Somewhere along the way you figure out how to fuck her without deleting her ability to speak, which seems like an achievement: she can say whatever she feels, whenever she feels it; you've got this "impaired rational thinking" bullshit about women's orgasms like it's science - isn't that funny? - and she giggles and it's cute.

Her hips grind forward, she sinks down. The couch groans under the weight of two adults, all the stuttered friction.

"I never really do sleep with other people, actually," Sullyoon's telling you, offhandedly. 

The implications: why bother, when she has you right where she needs it: knees straddled around your thighs, bouncing in your lap - your cock's making it tough to game; sand castles aren't exactly what her hips have in mind, either. 

"So, the tl;dr is," she starts, picking a conversation back up once her pussy's done trembling all around the base of your cock. "My flatmate thinks we're dating."

"How did that happen?" you deadpan, holding her waist so carefully.

"Beats me." She's running through the steps in her head, you're sure - who said what - who got there first. She lifts her hips and she's already whining about not wanting to get off yet: she just wanted a change of pace.

"She didn't, like, go and corner me in a bathroom to tell me, I should add. I brought up the show and then the setlist, and that led to us discussing your 'impeccable attendance record', or whatever she's calling it, and then she went off - as in, about how she should give up on trying to set me up." Sullyoon huffs, almost exasperated: you've likely always known, that people look at Sullyoon and see her smile first, and so they don't pick up on her penchant for being, put simply, a smart-ass.

"How noble of her," you note.

"I agree." She settles back down on your cock, takes it in again, easy as anything.

"Well," you say - you're both good at ignoring things, and the better part of you doesn't want to ruin it; and maybe, also, the smarter, saner part of you as well - it's Sullyoon. You'll try to have a conversation with her, she'll skirt past every question - and so, ultimately, it's inevitable. She's a stubborn piece of shit, and so are you. "What'd you say about it?"

Sullyoon arches a brow.

"Something about a flat-out no. Not interested," she says, and smiles like you'd be lucky. "Y'know when I told her I was hooking up with my old teacher, she said don't settle for anything less than a total DILF." You frown, mostly at the insinuation, but you're not going to argue either. "Then I started going into detail, so she said, jeez, maybe don't get caught."

"What details, exactly," you wonder aloud, hands full with her.

"Mm. I forget. Wasn't a particularly interesting conversation."

She's grinning, blinking prettily. All of Sullyoon’s jokes about you knocking her up, about the possibility of her having your kids - they really shouldn't land. She seems to find them funnier than anyone else: whenever you’re teasing her, calling her a whore for cumming at the thought of you owning her forever, getting her pregnant, marking her like you mean to claim her - it gets you riled up, too.

"But then again," Sullyoon reflects, rolling her hips so deliberately that you see fucking stars. "I'm not the one who thinks she's like crazy sexy or whatever."

"All I said was she seemed nice," you protest. 

"She's a whore," says Sullyoon right off the cuff, and that's well established, so you'll have to let it go. Jealousy is an understatement: it's so blatant, she's wearing it like an accessory. "I love her to death, obviously, but she's just a slut, period." Sullyoon shoots you another livid look, sees the orgasm taking over your features, huffs and abruptly sinks her hips down. "We're very different people," she clarifies, primly.

"Well, she's convinced you have a huge crush on me."

"Not funny," says Sullyoon, fractiously. "She has absolutely no fucking filter," and then she seems to catch herself and blinks, glowering. She's riled, and it's adorable. "Sorry." It's so contrite you finally start to laugh. "I didn't mean to swear."

"I'll let it slide," you say, get it, you want her in every possible capacity; there's no rules, there's no limit; it's selfish, and she loves it. You're trying not to cum only because of how mad it makes her; the girl's got every excuse to pout.

"You're supposed to reprimand me," she fusses. "Guess my pussy's not good enough for you today, hm?" Her hips twist, twirl - she's got her hands on your chest and is acting like this isn't your favorite place. "Getting bored of me already, sir?"

"I'd prefer if you didn't gaslight me," you say, jaw clenched. 

Sullyoon grins in the half-light. She can read you like an open book and she knows just how to flutter her eyelashes. "You're not subtle, princess," you murmur into her hair, and that makes her smile turn a little silly.

"Oh, I'm very subtle." Sullyoon arches into you, pushes you deep; there's no lying to her. The minute your orgasm hits, there'll be evidence of her every move dripping onto the upholstery. She's the worst type of know-it-all. "I know you're gonna cum," she whispers, sweet and haunting, and she can't do anything but prove her own damn point: "like, I can feel every time you throb."

-

Listen - you get that it makes no sense, that she has no reason to give herself to you like that. You've spent too long writing sex-drunk character confessions, poured a hundred-thousand words of filth into scripted lines of love - there's always this undertone of desperation. And the craziest thing about this is that it's real: it's raw and frantic. All yours. Not written. You don't have an author's control over her thoughts. You can't just play them like a piano or dictate a pretty metaphor in iambic pentameter to make up for what's really happening in the scene. This is entirely reality. She has no fucking motive to pretend to fall for a man she shouldn't even like - and she has no obligation to stay here and kiss you this long, none to keep going and gasping like you've got all the secrets of her sexuality stored up right inside your mouth, none to grin into it when you reach around and spread her thighs open wider - and yet she's doing every last one.

This is what they'd have to cut, in a feature film - not realistic enough, over-the-top - but that's exactly the appeal: this doesn't need to make sense.

"Easy," you murmur into her ear, after you've had her on her back, in your bed. She'd pitched the idea of getting bent into the corner of your desk; you'd hated yourself for not thinking of it first. "Slow. Breathe for me," you say, softly - and then, your palm full on her lower jaw. "Come on, princess. Deep breath in."

You stand her up on her feet; she's dripping like a fucking tap. Her next gasp rattles through her frame.

"One more time," you say. "Big one."

She does: inhale, exhale. She has some nasty habit of forgetting to. 

You've gotta get her in the shower, if she'll allow it. It'd do her well to let you get at her, her slicked-up tits in your hands; you'd breathe into her mouth, she'd lose track of herself, a total blissed-out girl in the cloudburst, melting against the tile. That, or you'd work on scrubbing the red-mark corrections off of her skin. She'd grabbed your grading pen, marked a heart on your bicep. Laughed because it was cute, it's funny. The half dozen butterflies on her ankle. A pattern on the left side of her ribs. The date the two of you first fucked, and the phrase as she'd said it: god, no one's ever made me feel like that before. You would've forgotten all about it if you hadn't been staring at it, still, and if she hadn't repeated it twice while getting fully undressed.

Then she'd starting drawing a ruler on her tummy, and you'd snatched it out of her hands the instant it clicked. 

"I wasn't done," Sullyoon had pouted. No, baby. Not when she'd written 'daddy' on the crossbar above her hipbone, 'harder' on the one above that. Was halfway through getting 'breeded' out right atop her navel.

"Not your art project," you'd said, and it's funny - a switch in your tone, she's imagining she's your student. She's not imagining very hard. "Not yours to use." 

That is to say she needs cleaning up, probably. 

That's what you tell her: "Let's get you washed up, yeah?"

"Fine," says Sullyoon - all choked and defeated, because you've worn her thin, stretched her out. 

You end up getting under the hot water with her. The shower lamp's off, bathroom lights hazy; steam clouding her edges. You know everything she is; you wash her by memory. Cupping water in your hands, slicking it all up her arms, watching her roll her spine and her eyes close, breasts wet and shiny, and - god, okay, she's beautiful. You whisper as much against the damp, dewy curve of her neck, say how she looks like a painting, how she looks perfect. Sullyoon swallows praise in big gulps, so you'll keep the hushed confessions simple, tame. There's more to taking this girl apart than just fucking her so rough and dirty that she comes to a brand-new revelation about how to make herself feel good.

It's a small, minor miracle, the way she breathes when you lather your fingers, stroke in between her legs in the warm, white suds. Her muscles coil like a wire, she sways into your chest.."Sorry hun, 'm just cleaning," you'll say, when she's loose as a noodle and her thighs are all rubbed-up, petal-smooth. 

She's nearly drunk with your touches.

"Is that the only way to do it?" is the petulant response.

It'll make your throat tight, the sound of your blood thumping in your ears. You'll spin her around, lift her elbows back and press her chest into the shower wall until the kiss into her shoulder bruises like ink blots. 

And you'd lean in, like it's the first time you're laying it out for her: "Let me guess," you'll say. "You know another?"

She takes the washcloth, guides you with her hands on your hips. The bar soap, slippery and silky: her wrists flirt with your waist, and you'll spread her open, wash between her cheeks, and the cold, hard tile against her chest'll pull all her muscles tight - except that one, where the sudsy washcloth's moved between her legs: you'll catch her expression slack, in pure heaven, you'll see the trust on her face.

And, listen: sometimes that's the hottest part, maybe. At least, it's what sticks with you.

You shoving a hand under her knee, holding the showerhead there to make her breathing run thin, and you can feel her mouth shape-out moans you can barely hear through the pelting water. She has just enough dexterity where you've got her pinned to find your cock, stroke the hot shaft slow, wet with soap. It's just cleaning, Sullyoon tells you, sweetly, as her soapy tits squeak against the tile, and, oh, she’s always such a problem.

"Jeez, you are so hard," Sullyoon murmurs, like a dazed afterthought, half in the gush of water. 

You're an idiot; a sucker. You'll call her a baby - a princess - and slip your cock into the slick-wet spot between her cunt and her thighs, the tight space there. She likes when you say you want her. You could be balls-deep, and Sullyoon still has some concept of mystery - no, honey, only good girls get to be filled with cum.

"You should creampie me," offers Sullyoon, hugging your dick with her legs, the fat front-to-back of her folds. "Never had it drip out in the shower before."

"Hm," you hum. She squishes so soft, a velvet vice of heat and suds. Her thighs feel so fucking unbelievably smooth you can probably get away with teasing her on this, playing dumb: "What does that mean, anyway?"

And she melts.

You'll pull the showerhead away from her clit, let words start to pool out, sloppy-delirious.

She tells you:

"When the inside of you's all filled up," half her face to the shower tile, so it all spills down the wall, "and your whole pussy looks pink and creamy when he takes his dick outta you," a filthy-dirty sigh, "that's called creampied."

"How romantic." 

Sullyoon smiles like she's pleased to hear that. 

"Doesn't seem very you. Where'd you hear that?"

"Grabbed it off Wiki-how," she answers in her most cloying tone: "How to get your boyfriend to fill you up with cum and fuck it back into you." She holds your biceps for balance, bends herself into the motion: slippery and quick. "Rome wasn't built in a day. This shit takes patience and research."

That one's enough to startle a chuckle, a cough. Thigh-fucking her's got you both panting, her mouth smeared into yours. The rest's all played by ear.

"Seriously, put it in me. My brain's falling out."

Sullyoon just closes her legs on you tighter, keeps on tugging you and pushing back. She does what she likes with you, your mouth. Your ego. It's the no-nonsense demeanor she gets in precarious moments like these: you, gripping her hips now, head tilted in and a strangled-out groan at her hairline-

"How long do I have to rub my cunt all over you to make you see that it wants your dick? Your baby doll needs it." She'll continue - you're fucked; she wants it just as bad, and it’s getting worse. "Just get to fucking my tight, needy, dripping-wet-"

Jesus - okay, and this is the truth - you won't let it get worse. You shut her up. Your hands go from the tile to the back of her neck. Tilted chin, a greedy kiss-eat-kiss. When your mouths un-slip she goes on as if it never happened:

"-baby, what else's there to say," she purrs, face turning, and lolling, "if it'll make you happy," til her mouth is on the corner of your throat. "I'll put my slutty little pink cunt-"

You slam her against the wall. Her ass snaps into place against your hip. 

"Yup," she whispers into the tiles, a beat before you stick it into her. "I'm in trouble. See, I've said the t-word, so it's gonna get messy. Ah," a sigh, you're still sinking all the way in; and her head tilts back, drool in her voice.

You push and push, and Sullyoon crumples. You pull back and she's ragdoll-loose in your hands.

One satisfied little moan, the beginnings of a lot fucking more. She wants the relief of an orgasm, the reward that it provides; she wants to feel full, deep - she likes you to talk during, likes the raw honesty of it - she'll look at you, right now, as if to say: how am I doing? Am I pretty enough yet? There's a pothole where the middle of her brain is supposed to go. Her hair and tits stick to the tiles.

"Fucking insane," she mumbles, "fucking hell."

You bottom out, humbly knock the breath out of her with your hip - so fast it should hurt her - but her waist is slick, you're slipping with the movement of it all, and, fine, it gets messy. Your balls hit her pussy, slap-stuck; she's as wet as the soap in the water, her lip bitten raw, a grin on her face that should tell you to give up on her now. She's a dream; she's the end.

"Sullyoon." Your voice is gravel-thick. "Do I need to fuck it better?" 

"God," she breathes, and then her chin and mouth are in your palm; there's steam, there's teeth.

She's coy one moment; all demands the next: "-wreck me, ruin me, anything, everything, please sir. She gets to that soft, plaintive register, whining when she says, "cum - sir, please, please please. I need - cum inside me-"

You're laughing. Can't help it. "Cute little cunt's greedier than I thought." It just finished swallowing, and it wants more. The fantasy. The threat. The unrealism, that kind of disrespect. She loves when it gets fucked up. She knows you love it too. "Desperate for it, huh?"

And here she'll languish under your next push, and a sob, and, yeah:

"You have no fucking idea," Sullyoon swears.

When she feels this good, she forgets to work out the huskiness in her tone.

To her credit, you've gone and broken the pretty surface-thing of her, and Sullyoon knows exactly how the rest goes. Her brows are knit-tight and her top teeth are pinching the full swell of her lower lip and you've got her entire body stretched wide over your cock. You don't even have to hammer-in the point - thigh-fucking's got its place, but your hand, splayed over Sullyoon's slippery belly: she's puffed out, gut-rounded by you. There's the filth in her thoughts; a wedding, the baby. An empty life is her greatest fear. It's written in every muscle the moment you get inside her.

The guilt, the insatiability: it's all mixed-up, when it comes to her. "In case you forgot who the fuck you belong to, you are just, so-" you're prying into her so deep, splitting her lips so far-apart that all the secrets fly free and the only thing Sullyoon can manage is to let her mouth hang open and whore-huge.

"-fuckable. Jesus christ, Sul, do you even fucking realize-"

Sullyoon whimpers; you're fucking her and going through it fast.

She was only able to rinse the most egregious stuff away before. Some of it's still painted on her, red ink on her ribs: a trail of hearts, a measuring stick of obscenity, the other things she'd scribbled right in the space where her stomach hollows - it's the worst it's been, the neediest. It's the only time she writes like a desperate child: sorry, not sorry, she had traced her apology to you before she was finished being sassy. No one has any idea my teacher's got a cock that makes girls go dumb, she'd said, it's too fucking much to write down.

There's never a dull conversationalist. It isn't always easy for her, either. She presses her hips into yours, and there's you: flooding her cunt with cum.

It always makes her almost-embarrassingly weak. 

But the creampie doesn't stick, for once: she likes when it squishes out her just as much as she loves it pushed back in. When she asks - and the only time she ever asks is when she's pressed between you and a wall, or when her cheek has hit the mattress and her ass is stuck up in the air, cunt swollen-pink and freshly creamed, in total service for the mess: "Can you give me it." It's too breathy, too deliberate. "Your cum."

You cock an eyebrow at her, even though her eyes are still raptly glued-over with sex. "I think I already did that, princess."

She shakes her head, tapping her full lower lip.

It's the kinda stuff you could never spin in your novel, too blunt to have prose, too crude and cruel to be elegant. You graded her papers. You lectured her to sleep. You didn't bring attention to how your last name looked at the top of her page, or the way she leaned back against the desk and loitered at the end of day. You pretended not to notice. Signed off on her recommendations - you put pen to paper, told her she deserved this and that: a future, the whole world.

Shit, in your wildest dreams you can't even conjure up this much self-control, as you hesitate to grab her jaw while your hot load slushes out into your open palm.

It just wouldn't be a decent read.

You take the cum on your fingers and push it in her mouth. "Look who's breaking all kinds of rules today."

She makes this childish little grin, tongue sliding around your knuckles and licking them clean.

"S'not illegal," she tells you - and then, after: "you were right, sir," and it's the smugness of it, the goddamn audacity to call herself out - and she does it every fucking time. "I do know who I belong to." The tension of it, the shamelessness, the satirical insults, the cocky jabs: you're beyond critical analysis. The whole system, the entire process is bust.

-

Character flaws, for example.

You share a few of them. The vanity and the hubris, for starters - those are mutual.

"What makes you think I want to unpack any of this?" she says, bratty, spoiled: once you've got her perched on your bathroom counter, arching her neck against the cold compress you're pressing to her bruises.

You've debriefed; you've touched base; you both end up at the same conclusion: let's dial it back, a bit. It's best for her. 

"You don't even need your dick to make girls go dumb," she teases. Maybe it's just the talking-about-it. The affirmation. “It was always going to be this way.”

The bath towel gets the water out of her hair.

"You love talking," you note, and there isn't much she can say to that. You're not wrong. "I think you'll end up convincing yourself you've won, eventually."

She looks at you through half-lidded eyes, pretends to be annoyed when you swab the raw marks at her shoulder with iodine solution; she's all sarcasm and easy answers. The steamed mirror is just as obscene. Her arms, hooked around her own back, reflect her tits back like they're meant for double-taking. She's posing, biding her time. This is all to say - Sullyoon's good in the after, the laziness of it, the recovery, where she's all big eyes, flirty eyelashes, puffy lips and silky-smooth thighs.

There's an implication of deeper meaning than just having you fuck her senseless; it's not as highbrow as you prying, but - well, that's what makes this whole thing work.

"If you want a place to start digging in," she says, "it's pretty obvious you've got some serious hang-up on the classroom dynamics."

"Baby." You pinch at her thigh. "I'll hurt you."

That one gets a giggle out of her, and you wouldn't expect anything else.

"What's your damage, hm?" She leans forward, winces, tugs on your t-shirt. "Who hurts someone this pretty?"

It's honestly her favorite thing: when you say you're going to break her, and you mean it, when you press down harder with the disinfectant, when she hisses at you and you glare right back.

"Be nice to me, sir," she singsongs, as if you aren't patching her up, taking care of her, doing everything right, giving her exactly what she needs: she likes the banter. "I'm actually kinda delicate."

"Well, you're all clean at least," you tell her, drying her hands off.

"Yeah," she sighs dreamily. "For now maybe."

You put on a calm front. She's fucking infatuated. She's actually kind of terrible, and that's not a character flaw; that's just who she is.

-

The rest, you're not sure what to call. There's ego, superiority complex, perfectionism. It's the old favorites - the temper, the arrogance. Those are obvious, but that's all surface level. If you were trying to be kind, which you generally aren't, you'd call her protective, meticulous, driven. Suddenly she kisses you at 1 AM, right before midnight; a total contradiction of logic.

There's nothing romantic about it. You barely register what's happening.

She tilts her head up and goes, "Hm," looking like someone in the middle of a eureka-moment. She's gorgeous in that instant: hair tumbling halfway over the flush at her cheek, soft pink mouth set into a tight crease.

You feel her finger down your back, tap-tap-tapping, stop and start until you figure out she's spelling her name; you can practically hear the y when she pauses, the o when she traces a big looping circle and pushes some hair behind her ear.

A lock of her hair falls forward, and she blows it back, too fucked-out to reach back and pin it out of her face.

"If I wrote mine backwards," you ask, "would you understand it?"

"Of course," she says - like it's inevitable, no matter what language you fall apart in.

-

(Maybe it's an exploration of why he'd lose his mind so completely for her. Maybe it's more about her, all her reasons. Maybe there's a reaffirming twist in the middle: their backstories, a happy ending. Maybe - you're glamorizing a trauma nobody asked you to explain. Romanticizing a power imbalance nobody agreed you should rewrite.

You start writing from the end, working in the direction you came-

Oh, the heroine realizes, now I get it. You think I'm the one corrupting you.

He should say something. But it's all-too-easy to touch her hair, tell her she's doing just fine. There are some tropes you don't have the stomach to undercut, the capacity to move past. So she's going to win. That's not a plot twist, in the least, nor an uproar of applause. It’s just quiet in its restraint.

An apology, he tells her, the last day they ever meet. He tries, at least: Sorry. I was wrong. And I won't bother you again.

Well, the heroine thinks, you owe me. So I'm asking for the truth.

And you've lived this before, so you know what she'll say next:

Tell me what I'm supposed to say so I can lie to myself again.)

-

Sullyoon drifts to sleep; you pour a whiskey, delete it. Start again.

-

But see, it’s a long weekend. You can’t actually stay in your apartment: it’s a small space, and it's even smaller with Sullyoon in it, all her inventory, her new acquisitions, her belongings, everything cluttering up your floorspace, your laptop and notepads and textbooks, everywhere - it’s cramped, so you take a drive out to the coast, rent a room with a great view, and make reservations for dinner. Sullyoon spends the entire ride on her phone, humming to herself as she works on something - you see a glimpse of it on her lockscreen, her friend Yuna posing in some dress with a high slit. It looks good.

"She’s a model," Sullyoon tells you, like she can read your mind. "Just graduated, though."

You’d assumed they were roughly the same age. "She’s not your year?"

"Nah." Sullyoon double-taps the picture on her screen, taps out a message and hits send. "Older than me."

It’s funny how she always phrases it that way.

"Not as old as you, though."

And that’s cute too, you guess, when she tries to stir the pot; she’s so transparent you can't really be upset with her. She could probably stab you with a fork and you’d end up complimenting her technique.

Sullyoon grins, flips her hair over her shoulder, sets her phone down in her lap. "Tell me about something."

"You’ll have to be more specific," you tell her, mildly amused.

"Anything." She looks out the passenger window at the water, leans into the side of her seat, like she can’t stand to be too far apart from you. "Literature. Art. Music, philosophy, religion, how many girls you've slept with - whatever. What were you reading last night?"

"Oh who knows, I guess I stopped keeping count," you joke, because that's a bit that cuts both ways. Sullyoon scowls. "Fine," you add, indulgently. "I was rereading Metamorphoses."

"I’ve never read Metamorphoses," says Sullyoon, dreamily, and not totally without condescension.

"It's a classic, literally," you reply. "Greek myths, lots of people dying and turning into trees or flowers or birds. All sorts of nonsense."

"So cool," deadpans Sullyoon. "You were alive when this was published, or?"

You flick the knob of the volume up on the radio static, just to spite her. Sullyoon cracks up, fiddles with the radio until she finds something halfway decent. When you look at her, she's bathed in blue light, chin angled to gaze at you, a watercolor stain across your peripheral vision - unreal, untouchable, every aspect an amalgamation, curated from your vilest thoughts. It's ridiculous how close to perfection she comes - that's the kind of thing that'd come out of your mouth, but you bite it back

"Read me an excerpt later."

"What am I," you snort. "A podcast? Just google a pdf, princess."

"I'd rather listen to you."

You sigh, wearily. You don't know how to argue with someone who doesn't use arguments, only states what they want, plainly, like they already know you're going to give it to them.

"I promise I'll pay attention," Sullyoon says, and she's not lying. "I'll let you tie my wrists up if you want. And I'll suck your dick, too."

"Don't act like you wouldn't do that anyway," you say, and glance over at her, just once - she's waiting for a reaction, a green light, and it's there, you can feel it. It's like the two of you are playing chicken, but there's no loser. Sullyoon doesn't answer, just pulls a pack of spearmint gum out of her purse and hands you a stick. The speedometer shoots up three numbers while your brain's somewhere else. "Thanks," you say, and stuff it in your mouth. She smiles, catlike, because you're so very fucking predictable.

The sky's pale gray, the moon a half-circle hanging in the sky. Sullyoon shakes out her hair and leaves it down.

"Don’t you wish you could fuck someone immortal," she remarks, unprompted, when you both slow down and pass under a sign pointing toward an exit. "Someone who isn't just gonna age out of being hot one day, or die?"

"Someone immortal?" you ask, skeptically, playing along. "Wouldn't you eventually age out, too?"

Sullyoon’s staring out the window, her eyes glittering with thoughtfulness. She's quickly on to her next thought: "I always had this issue with the story of Persephone." The car hums, the scenery blurs by. "You know if she just ate four more pomegranate seeds, she could've been in hell the rest of the year?"

"You're saying she made the wrong choice?"

"A hundred percent," Sullyoon agrees. "She picked a half-assed eternal life over staying with the guy she really liked? And for what? 'Cause she wanted to spend time with her mom? Stupid." She clears her throat, because this isn't a bit. "Hades has a palace, is rich as fuck, probably fucks like a pro mind you, he obviously loves her… But no, she wants to come back up here, every spring."

There's a long, thoughtful pause: she's never been one for a short answer.

"Just saying," continues Sullyoon, "he clearly was a better partner for her. There are literally no downsides to staying with Hades, beyond her mom being bummed about it, so."

"Sullyoon." You're shocked, kinda. "Hades kidnapped Persephone and held her against her will. They call it the-"

"Right," dismisses Sullyoon. "Sure, I know. That's not the point." You trade glances. She blinks. "I think she maybe, actually, kind of liked it down there."

"Then why not eat all the seeds?" you argue.

"Because she didn't want to look like she wanted it." Sullyoon shrugs, nonchalant. "Sometimes girls pretend they don't love it. Or if they're not pretending, it's for all the wrong reasons. For money, for the toe-curling orgasms. Like, you'd think it wouldn't make a difference, but - I mean, it kinda does." She pauses. "My read is that she genuinely enjoyed it, anyway."

"She was literally imprisoned."

"I know," says Sullyoon, smiling out into the horizon. "How fucking hot is that?"

"Alright, take it easy Jane Eyre."

Sullyoon scoffs, mock-wounded.

You grab the auxiliary cord in your car console and hand it to her. "Just play music already."

For the rest of the drive, Sullyoon tosses on a playlist curated from the hundreds of songs she has saved on her phone. It's titled: THE ONE TIME BAE TOLD ME TO SLOW DOWN ON THE DRINKS AT CLUB COSMIC AND THEN HURLED LIKE SEVEN TIMES INTO A RUSTED OVER PARKING LOT GARBAGE CAN. 

"What's there to explain?" Her eyebrows are challengingly high when you ask for the story. "Clearly that's what it is."

And then you listen to the same six songs on repeat.

-

Sunday's all penciled out for decadence, debauchery - you'd mentioned last night a local museum and she looked at you like she wanted to die: too much talking. Cockwarming? Not enough, sir.

You owe her three consecutive days of the most sickening pleasure you can think of; which generally means letting her do whatever the fuck she wants, mostly. And, as the sunrise proves, translates directly into breakfast in bed. Her curled up on your chest while you blink awake. She's twisted in the sheets, eyes bright, eager; your morning wood's in her fist, and you're really struggling to come up with a coherent complaint.

"Good morning," she says, brightly, and lets her palm carry on the rest of the conversation. Her mouth. She's an angel through-and-through.

It's all slurp-suck-pump until she slides you into her throat and stares right through you, keeps on gazing sweetly from where her lips are wrapped around your cock. She sinks downs, gags a little - a lot, actually. There's the flicker of her tongue like she has no other options, and you watch her, touch her, wind your fingers into her hair; you let her set the pace, work you over like a toy, suck and lick and worship your cock until she's earned every last drop of what she gets, and the only thing that fucks her up is the hand in her hair, dragging her off, pushing her down-

The tears, the drool; the soft, wet sound of your dick shoving deep and heavy and right where it fits best.

You cum, and then realize she's gotten good at taking it. She looks just perfect when your fingers clench around a handful of her hair and her jaw unseats: she shows you the puddle on her tongue, rolls the tacky mess around her mouth and smiles, tips her head back, swallows. She's beaming like she's turned in an assignment early.

"Teacher's pet," you tease, and it's too early to argue. "C'mere."

"Please don't kiss me, sir." Her hands are on your chest, thumbs gliding across your skin. "I just got cum in my mouth, haha..."

Too late: your lips slot against hers, she's still laughing. She doesn't even fake resistance. Just reminds you that you're hers, hers, hers.

-

In between all of Sunday's itinerary - and this includes Sullyoon calling you a 'terrible role model, frankly' while she sits and lets her pretty little pussy get sucked, stuffed, devoured. Fucked on all fours like that's supposed to dissuade her from saying anything like it ever again; well, it's a busy day, really - she showers and naps at three, calls Bae to check in and spends an hour doing homework at four. She multitasks like crazy.

It's going pretty much exactly how you told her it would: she'd brought her camera because the coast is a pretty thing and it'd make a good addition to her portfolio - the tripod's in the corner of the room, the lens aimed squarely at the bed.

"You're gonna delete that later." Your face is shoved between her thighs. "Just so we're clear."

Sullyoon huffs, weakly. Her cheekbones are stained red, mouth fallen slack, hair a gorgeous, tangled wreck. "Which parts?" she asks, and is completely serious. "You are aware it's not a crime to be this photogenic."

You won't dignify that with a response. You're pressing hard kisses to her hipbone and cupping her sides in your hands, cataloguing every single little gasp and cry and moan - not trying to fuck the sense out of her, but not quite trying not to, either - and in retrospect maybe that's how she'd wanted it to go: you, helpless under her.

-

There's nothing criminal to it, but when you delete the videos of her jerking you off: she understands. When you erase her pictures of you asleep: she nods. When you bite back every instinct telling you to leave fingerprints all over her pretty skin - hands resting gingerly on her wrists, barely tapping on her hips, trailing barely-there touches down her stomach and thighs: she finally tells you.

"It's you," Sullyoon insists, eyes glittering. "That's all it is." This comes like a revelation, something she's figured out herself: "I think for me, it was always just gonna be you."

It's too complicated to be romance, too fast for the cynics out there - too goddamn dangerous to be trusted. You tell yourself it's fine anyway. No harm in entertaining a fantasy, a fairytale, an impossible narrative. If she'd ask you right here and right now - the brightest of stars overhead, moonlight like silver applause, the shore stretching out empty as far as you could see - you wouldn't get on a boat and never look back.

"Yeah," you say, thumb smoothing over her bottom lip. "I think I know what you mean."

It's always easy: the looking back, the pretending, believing you didn't know how hard she'd fallen.

-

And everything that happens next occurs with comedy-of-errors-esque absurdity.

You're drunk; and so is she. You leave your laptop out like you're playing a dare, like it's an implicit invitation to anyone who might decide to glance in - which she does, and goes "oh" in the barest exhale - and then she says the three words that start to tie the whole thing together:

"This is filthy." And that's true - it's borderline pornographic, at some points, a bit rough around the edges and undeniably smutty. The prose's excellent, though. Sullyoon chews her lips, scrolls her thumb across the trackpad. "Like, it's good obviously, but."

"Too dirty?"

You watch her, contemplatively. It doesn't seem to phase her: the position, the pages upon pages of script you're having her read, the whole charade in general. You were joking, more or less, with your I wanna hear the way my writing sounds coming out of that pretty mouth, but it doesn't seem so far-fetched right now: Sullyoon leaning back on the bed, an arm tucked behind her head, one knee up, skimming through a thousand words about you and a girl and the art of tearing her down.

It's incendiary: the title, the shading, the dynamic - a dirty parody, not meant for a wide-audience release. It's the way he talks to her, the way she obeys without being told, and - okay - it's kind of inspired by the things Sullyoon has explicitly said, the ones still ringing in your head, but-

"I mean. Not by most standards, but - by your standards, definitely."

You feel almost embarrassed, actually - maybe a bit of the reverence bleeding in, something personal, some vision you hold close. Something about this muse's bare fucking legs on the sheets. "It's not done. It could be better."

"Well, you don't have to sell it to me. You wrote it."

"Then just say it's crap and get it over with."

"Can't." She's playing with her hair. "I already told you. I'll compliment the hell out of anyone who asks me to. Give me a prompt, I'm a natural."

"I'm saying it's not finished," you insist, a tad desperate, reaching forward to snap your computer shut, but Sullyoon moves fast. She bats your hand away, holds your wrist hostage. Raises a brow at your astonishment.

"I," she says, flatly, and flips your laptop back open. "Was not asking."

There's something deeply insulting, as both a writer and a man, about a girl you have absolutely fucked until she's drooling reading your draft in relative silence, picking apart the flaws in the way you paint a woman's character. And you know she does it. Not because she says it; no, Sullyoon barely does - all that she offers up is a nod here and an agreeing hm, here and there - but in the way she moves the paragraphs and skims through the subtext. This girl's a monster; that's what you've done. You don't think about her needs. She doesn't need much to be fucked anyway.

Sullyoon reads those parts carefully.

"How's it supposed to end?" she finally asks.

You chew the inside of your cheek. "Dunno," you admit, a half-lie. The protagonist's gone; it's always messy, their leave. One moment you have her, then the next it's just gone. "It's different, depending. Depends on the mood, the tone."

"You're sadistic." There's no heat to it. Sullyoon says this all dully, non-judgementally, eyes still scanning your novel. "Why can't they fall in love?"

"A storybook ending?" You snort. "Nah."

"It's how people like to read, though." A shrug. "If someone gave this to me, I would be hoping for love by the end. I'd want a happy ending." Her finger taps the center of the keyboard. She frowns. "You know we're really not that different," Sullyoon adds, thoughtfully. "If you think about it."

You arch a brow. "Yeah?"

"We have similar predispositions," Sullyoon murmurs. Her tone is academic, reminiscent; a reminder of school syllabi and exam prep, a life-plan drawn up after much deliberation. She reads, and thinks, and dreams of something just beyond her reach. "We like a lot of the same things - or at least, we both have that appetite for it. Not in every way, of course," she acknowledges. "We both wanna get ruined, or watch that happen - physically, or like," she gestures at the screen, a dramatic slash across your work. "Whatever this is. But some similarities can go a long way."

You stare at her. This wasn't, somehow, what you had expected. "You do realize what you're suggesting, right. That just I glamorize a problematic, unoriginal, unhealthy-"

"Shh." Sullyoon holds a hand up. “Falling in love is the cruelest, most ruinous, human thing anyone can do," she adds, casual and gravelly and lofty. "Besides pointing out which pictures have crosswalks in them apparently." She slips back in character. "But isn't that all you're doing, to the girl in this script? That's not unoriginal, babe, it's the theme. I might have more self-restraint," she allows, with a toothy smile. "But don't call what you write unoriginal, yeah? That's all."

You make a vague sort of noise, caught in the middle, trapped.

"Two people, who fall in love for all the wrong reasons," you sound almost resentful, "and inevitably hurt each other, but feel powerless against their feelings? It's a fantasy, Sullyoon."

"Okay, so." She slumps further into the pillows. "You're a good writer. Make 'm fall in love for all the right ones."

It makes you laugh, hollowed out. You have. God, how many endings have you drafted for this, left all on its own and begging for resolution?

"The right ones. There aren't right ones."

"Nah, you don't get to decide. It's her choice." Sullyoon brushes your jaw with her fingers, her fingertips dipping into the slope of your chin, softening it. You don't look at her; you can't. You look down at her collarbone instead, and the angry pink mark there, and try not to wonder whether, if she can point out everything you've done, she can feel what else you've given her. "When it's her choice," she murmurs, "there're a million of them."

And a hundred unspoken endings, in all of them the girl survives and thrives, no matter where he leads her, no matter what he wants for her: if Sullyoon would keep talking.

You breathe in; you exhale.

"We should have," you say, carefully, "a word, to shut down this conversation."

Sullyoon laughs. "All right. We will have a word. To shut down this conversation."

You think, vaguely, of something clever, and settle on something easy. "Hey."

Sullyoon flutters her lashes, and then mouths it: hey.

"Great," you tell her, as softly as possible; and she keeps smiling, and presses the screen out of view.

-

(It's predeterministic. It’s irresponsible. Maybe this is fate, or some other bullshit.

He was always going to fall for her. She was always going to let him.)

-

No one says anything when you check out late, or they'd at least have the good sense not to mention it: Sullyoon's elbows on the concierge desk when you settle up your bill. She's using her cutest baby voice with the desk lady to win you extra, unnecessary favors - getting everything sorted just right, no questions. A voucher for valet service, some discounts off your next visit. She's wearing a navy blue jumper, black oxford shoes, and tight white collared shirt to fill in the blanks - well, technically: she's got her old uniform, and she's not going to tell you how just because you asked. There's a cute pair of panties, and some knee socks you fucked her in this morning; that's how it looks.

And, everything still sorta fits. It sorta doesn't. You're both doing the whole getaway deal all wrong.

The receptionist thinks she's your daughter, tells her, in the sweetest way possible, that the ribbon in her hair is absolutely adorable. You don't say that you agree. Sullyoon pulls you up to her and mimes a proud stance, like it makes sense. The employee has a five-year-old grandson at home. A girl on the way. She wishes the both of you a fantastic remainder of the day, sends you off into the sun, the wind: Sullyoon hangs off your arm back the whole way. You know by now how this part goes.

"Does it ever occur to you that, like, we’re, like, catastrophically bad for each other?"

"Constantly."

Sullyoon lulls her head in towards your shoulder. "Wanna make it worse?"

"Obviously," you tell her.

"Well," she says, all drawn-out and lilting, teasing, but in the kind of way she reserves for when the two of you are alone and she doesn’t care to hide exactly how flustered the two of you make each other. It's that specific cadence to her speech, the playful airiness. "It's Sunday," she says. Neither of you need to point out the implication. "So technically this counts as confession."

"What." You open the car door for her, keep the sarcasm in your tone: maybe you should ask. "You need me to get you off in a church or something?"

"Not in the literal sense," she tells you, prim, a total contradiction to the rest of her. "Although, not gonna lie, it'd definitely be hot. That's another one for the bucket list, by the way."

"Who the fuck puts 'get railed in a church' on a bucket list-"

"Guess," drawls Sullyoon, all playful, coy, and she's got her heart in her eyes; she's biting her lip, holding in the laugh, looking up at you, tugging at your sleeve. "You're smart. Figure it out."

-

(Look: she could start confessing, here.

She'll keep it simple, straight. Maybe she'll cut the bullshit, a little; she'll leave the defamation for some other time.

The car's eating the horizon, swallowing asphalt and leading onward, back; your neighborhood is near. We have sex everywhere, she could begin with that - she could lay out every crime scene, count them like a litany on her slender fingers. I can't keep track of how many times I've begged you to breed me. I can't remember what it was like before I met you; can't stop thinking about you, not since I first saw you. And you know that. And you already know all the rest. You know it.

Here are the motifs: tragedy, collision, blood in the water, two-beats-too-late.

I love you, she'd say, and it'd be the truth: just not in the most obvious sense. The lack thereof, that's where everything goes askew, anyway.

In the corner of the passenger seat, her head rests against the window, her pink mouth barely parted as the world flashes by, rushes and bursts, wild streaks of color. Her body rises, falls: in a pocket dimension, out again. We've all the time we want for each other, she thinks. There's time to burn, time to waste. There's time to wait. It's always a dance - we both know who calls the shots, and so we don't fight for them; so she gives her submission gladly, readily - you know it's true. It's fun to dance around, anyway. You don't want anything more than you want me; you know that too.

You know I was thinking, Sullyoon says eventually, in lieu of all the other things, the better words. I'm proud of it, and so are you. I haven’t seen the school since I graduated.

She's got her camera, you've got your story: here's the part where they intersect-

"I mean it’d be so cool to see it again."

"Uh-huh," you say, and it's fond, and it's all her. It's a coda. "Since it's the weekend, nobody'll be there."

And all the parts lock, everything clicks, and you go in exactly the same direction you've always been headed: "Well," she'll say, mouth sharp-edged as sin and utterly, unmistakably her, "isn't that convenient?"

It's a break, a reprieve - she knows it. She loves you, in the way a movie ends.)

-

For the sake of continuity, you realize you're making a detour, yes. Technically, you're bringing it back to the start:

"Wow," Sullyoon says, when you both get there. It's so close to all the ways it could've went, and it's none of those in the same breath - it's different, the two of you. Sullyoon leans against the desk in your empty classroom, in this wistful reverie - all nostalgia, all beautiful reminiscence. "It looks exactly the same."

There's no excuses, no rationalizing it: you're not here picking up papers to grade, she's not serious about photographing the cafeteria, the main entry, or the classrooms. The aesthetic holds little value, and you both know you're full of shit - it's a convenient trip, an indulgence in something lost. That's all.

Sullyoon's picked up on it, noticed how you won't use the exact words, the explanation, and that's got her intrigued more than anything and you knew it would. The thing she loves is all the dirty details, isn't it? Isn't it? This is her favorite bit.

"Do you come here a lot?" she asks, cavalier, lighthearted.

You roll your eyes. "Hilarious," you say.

It's Sunday, and even if the clichés hold up under the tension - a sun-stained classroom, a single ray slipping through the open window, a wide-eyed girl deep in thought as the dust motes spin around her - it's fucking sacrilegious for you to even be here.

Maybe there's no version of this where it doesn't happen, eventually: exorcising every instance where Sullyoon made an ass out of herself, and you had to play the straight man in the aftermath, where you pretended not to notice, where you feigned apathy, vague detachment, just to maintain some semblance of composure. The slow-blinking stares, the nibbled pens, the tilted-head interest. Circular logic and c'est la vie and you know exactly how many seconds this memory of hers will live inside her mouth.

You sigh. "Stop."

"I'm not doing anything," Sullyoon says, running a palm along a desk-top, remembering herself there. She's playing absentminded with her fingers - if you can trust a single signifier, it's this. "Your tone," she continues, in that breezy way she talks. "That kinda brings me back, too."

There's the touch, first, a glance-touch, hand-to-cuff, and then it's the eyes. Scanning the bookcases, the chalkboard, the desks. The flick upwards to her mouth, the sweep back down to her heavy-lidded eyes. Yeah. See, that's one that's been replaying. In moments between words, in class discussions, she's penciling that fluttering gaze out from between her lashes, taking careful notes, top-to-tail. She peels out of the windbreaker and drops it to the back of the chair.

You watch her watching you and, predictably, Sullyoon does the very thing you just saw.

"You can't be serious." Your lips tighten, even if the whole routine is too ridiculous, even if in this bizarre turn of events, after the diaspora, she deserves to be right back here at a desk, waiting for direction. It's kink and fantasy and, shit, yeah, some nostalgic underpinning - a part of it, a section, a fragment. The cutaway, which is completely morally reprehensible; she's your favorite student and she's showing up in her old school jumper, that goddamn little skirt, tugging the ends of a loose plaid tie and, ah, jesus fuck-

"Princess," you get out, all sharp and too loud - you don't give a damn what you sound like - but it's more of a reaction, the base of her name in your throat like that: "Come on."

"Like I said," Sullyoon offers, wholly unapologetic. "You were the one who wanted to unpack all this." She sets the camera on a desk, nudges her shiny black shoe against the leg, tests the balance. "I was fine letting this stuff lie, personally."

"And then what," you snipe. "Just hold it over my head? Bask in knowing?"

Her cheeks, soft like velvet, crinkle into the faintest smile. "Well." She pats her pockets, ties her hair up, thumbs a stray strand off her brow. Her expression dips a moment - all afloat - before she blinks it into compliance, a jaunty lift back at you, mouth sly. "Yeah, something like that. This is pretty fucked up, honestly."

"Please," you scoff. "You should hear what you're into."

She just drags her fingernails across the wood, plucks at the zipper at her shoulder, fixes a strap. The vision she presents - caged in the high-necked navy jumper, skirt riding so high she could get hauled for public nudity if anyone stepped in and saw. She turns on the desk, the flat plane of her front. She's so demure, so poised - that is, until her heels kick together. Until there's a devilish arch to her slender back and her knuckles set to the polished desktop.

You catch her wrist when she reaches out and the implication is all wrong; it's entirely based on instinct, but she jerks her head up anyway and her eyes go wide - the suggestion of it, the line you're dancing at. It's the first time you've moved at all.

"Oh, god, you've got it that bad?" Sullyoon's really just kind of - asking. She's only sort of trying, trying for a little irritation: your interruption, her fixed position, like she hasn't considered exactly why she's there. "Still?"

"You know exactly what this is," you grit, and oh, she's rubbing a hand at her pussy through her skirt, eyes glittering, laughing in the exhale. That's gonna be a wet fucking stain on that tartan, isn't it? Isn't it. "You already know it's a yes."

"Okay," she concedes, and it's only part of her mind, "it's not just you." There's this sharp way she works it, deft and tight - gets her panties shoved to her knees and her hand back under the skirt. "My panties are really, really messed up right now." 

You blink - and then you're thinking about her thigh in the air, leg cocked up in her childhood seat and - yeah. Okay. She's touching herself, in her chair, and it's actually way more of a mental picture than you'd assumed. She shows you her fingers, all slick. Shakes the excess and spreads it, glistening, down her upper thighs. It's making you think. Making you forget how.

"Also I don't think it's presumptive at this point for me to say I am your favorite student," she says, tipping her head, "though, I guess you're not really supposed to be picking favorites, huh," and it's more tease, more mindfulness, more memory-penned dialogue, and you're not playing, really - not on paper, at the very least. She drops the bratty inflection: "Am I?"

You sigh. "Lose the underwear. Sit on the desk, face the front."

Sullyoon pauses a moment. Shivers. You'd call her out on it - a blatant indulgence in how you might, after the bell rang, have kept your eyes trained firmly on the board until everyone had settled and, well - taken attendance. Asked a stupid question, anything, to break the deadlock of her breathing-out-of-pocket, her turned-away mouth, the sort-of-turned-on-face. That's a freebie for the memory bank, though, and there are plenty of those. She bites her lip, skips the grin. She moves to take her socks, but you stop that, too. Keep them, princess. You work off her heels, nudge her back into the right-frame position and take your own jacket off. Undo your pants, shift her so she's at edge of the desk - no more fucking pretense; she's in that same goddamn skirt, still giving you that same awful look.

"Oh," Sullyoon says, and it's all knife-twist and sweet. Her laugh is gorgeous. "You are, like, so hard for it. Are you going to teach me a lesson? Get every dirty thought out on paper?"

"Watch it," you say, terse. 

There's the barest arch of her back. "Because I think-" She parts her legs, just for show. Just a little more. Just a taste of it, and that's almost worth the trip. "-I think-" And there's this swooning, sticky-soft inhale. "-that is exactly what you're going to do, sir."

She doesn't ask because it's written in-between the lines, she doesn't need to ask because it's on her tongue anyway - she won't say please, or thank you, or maybe I'd rather have you. It's better like this, actually. In the grand scheme of things, it's way less mortifying this way.

There's one very palpable, very literal silence before you fuck her and - look - it's that thing about endings, the inevitable draw-close, the clinch of the end-credits: in-and-out, two sides, different points-of-view, it's a smashing-together, a dishevelling. It's your apartment. It's your car, in the early mornings. It's your classroom, again, it's fucking history. You sink your cock into her cunt, her knee bracketing your hip. You fuck into her until her face starts to scrunch adorably - and you realize how this works - has always worked - is really, really good at working-

"Slow down," Sullyoon says, "go easy on me," like it's your cue, the cadence that makes you snap your hips harder, faster. The rush, the words are caught in her throat; it's a collision, the blood is under her fingernails, and you fuck her, slow, the exact opposite, until there's only enough breath to babble the one word she remembers: "sir, sir, sir-"

"Princess, I don't think you realize this pussy belongs to me," and you sink your cock into her cunt. It's the same sound, the same sticky, slippery mess. "How much I own it." 

Sullyoon keens, hands slapping against her stomach - to keep your name in, probably, but it's loud and languid. You grab a fistful of her shirt, start getting vocal. Can't seem to help it.

"Look at how easy this is," and when you bottom out again her eyelids are fluttering, fluttering, you can't look at them. "The way your tight little cunt takes me." It's messy and too wet and - that's the whole point. That's why this happens, now: where it makes sense and the rational is impossible to see. "That's how much it loves my cock." She's so close, teetering on the edge, just needs one touch: and it's nothing but. "You need it. Need to be filled, all the time. Don't you? Of course you do. So cute, like this," and when you swipe your thumb against her clit, she's not quiet or quieter or quietest, just: gone.

Your hand's on the back of her head, she's watching your cock go in-and-out, in-and-out and the angle's not a pretty one - doesn't have to be. She's in heaven, or here's her chance to relive some version of it. She lets you make room inside her little cunt, shuts her eyes and stutters on her own breath as you force her spine hard against the desk over and over again. 

"You fucking deserve it," you get out, which might be the dirtiest she's made you sound so far. "You know that, don't you?"

It's a fever dream. It's bordering on something violent. The tiny bitten-off "please, god, yes" when you ask if she wants to be bred - that small pristine face, the wrecked expression. It's not subtle. She clings to you when she cums, and you feel her shaking against your palm, trembling at your fingertips. And it's that - your princess is fucking crying, tears staining the navy fabric on her shoulders. You've got her sloppy and open around your cock and you could get away with anything - the heart of the matter: she's gorgeous, she's sobbing, she's so fucking delicate-

The line is blurry between this and whatever fucked up sort of intimacy it's meant to be. A collision course, the point between sweet and sweetest - the only part that matters, the right place to end it.

One moment you're buried in her pussy, the next is her knees hitting the linoleum: Your cock's in your fist. You're tipping her head back and absolutely covering her. 

It's almost unfathomable she can look at you like she does - oh, you've been playing professor again, the moral of the story, all the A+ material right at your fingertips - except the main take-away is her, the way she she's doing it, drool sliding down her chin as she holds out her tongue, eyelashes low over her sated, warm brown eyes, all-at-once innocent and wicked, just asking a sweet little question, no consequences.

You've got two hands at her jaw, your grip hard. You should've seen this coming. Your cum slides from her hair, over her cheeks, the bridge of her nose. She shuts her eyes - the whole pretty vision just drenched - it's art. You're fucked in the head. You're having an identity crisis, right here, right now.

"It's in my hair," Sullyoon complains, faintly, looking like the notion's shocking, distantly put off, like you've splashed coffee down the front of her shirt and not webbed cum all over her pretty face. "You came - a lot."

It's hard to hear, there's white noise at your ears - there's you, staring at her, holding her up. If she fell, would you catch her? Are you making an implicit promise just standing here like this?

You shouldn't ask. She'll make fun of you if you do.

"Yeah." Your hands are still cupping her cheeks and there's an ache to keep her right here forever, one more moment. It'll start catching up to you soon. "Do you think we got this out of our system?"

Sullyoon bites her lip, reaches down and picks her panties out of her foot. "Maybe," she says.

There's the challenge back, that light in her eye, that heat. "If you think so," she muses, slowly wiping cum off her chin and drawing her thumb to her tongue. "But then why do you still want to fuck me? Maybe this is just our thing."

"Maybe." Your brain's running too late, there's something missing. You still see it in the curve of her mouth, the tilt of her eyebrows, the wet of her lips. You have the nagging urge to pull her up onto your lap and sink your teeth in her throat, hide her away. Maybe that's not normal. You can't know these things. You're not meant to.

She smiles. You realize it.

"Well," Sullyoon says and shimmies back into her underwear, and all her pieces fall back together again. "Now you're thinking."

-

"I've created a monster," you tell her, when you're in the car afterwards. It's like déja vu, because the windows are down and she's wearing your sweatshirt. You're driving her home, her makeup's halfway ruined, she's giggling when you stop at red lights and brush her mussed hair out of her face.

"Stop being dramatic," she says. "Just because I got cum in my eye."

It's this seeping, ugly feeling. It's not always there - maybe, usually, it's worse. You shouldn't compare, shouldn't see the world through those kinds of lenses.

Sullyoon leans across the console, wedged up under your arm like you won't drive your car through hell to be next to her. She's warm and soft and there. "Seriously. We just had great sex. Was it the role-play thing? It's not a big deal if-"

"Hey," you cut in. "Can you call Bae, ask if she can spend the night at her friend's? Tell her we're not done catching up yet, or something."

Her smile widens, she pulls away from you. "This isn't going to help my case, if we sleep together for four consecutive nights in a row, just so you know."

"What're you, the press?" You make the turn. "I know exactly what I'm saying, if you care to know."

-

You write and you write and you rewrite. Sullyoon helps you with proofreading. You argue about grammar.

She laughs when you tell her the title of your book and reads the description right off your laptop. "Wow," says Sullyoon, hair everywhere, messily bundled. Her tongue sticks out from the side of her teeth. "You like this character."

"Is that it. After a full read."

She meets your eye, briefly; all her nerves gone for that split-second, her certainty as powerful as ever.

"Yeah," Sullyoon says. "And I like the story."

-

These are your scenes together: there's the fantasy ones, the cringey ones. She goes down easy, then you stop writing so she has to tell you: keep going, harder, rougher - take me to hell, so you do. That's how it's always gonna be, as a rule.

But after all the passion, the high-noon stand-offs - in reality, in that actual scenario: it'd probably all look more like this.

(Hey.)

Two hands at the curve of her neck: slow, steady, warm.

You love her, and it's so goddamn loud that it deafens you to everything else.

She looks up at you with her big brown eyes, and it doesn't sound half as scary as the way they do on paper, or in your dreams. The girl smiles at him like they haven't left that moment behind. Like he isn't half the devil he portrays himself as. And all around her, the walls turn to glass; the sunset pours into her eyes, light slanting, kissing her face. They're suspended like that for seconds or eons, but she'd look at him like this in the same way for years, decades. For the rest of their lives, actually - never ending, or only just beginning. It's just all her, really. The light, the sea, the sound of a breeze: every little perfect thing that's happened so far.

(Still wondering how that girl survived?)

A tiny, crescent-shaped bruise.

She lifts her fingertips. Smooths her thumb across your bottom lip. "Are you thinking the same thing as me?"

"Probably not." Your hand cups her cheek; you press a soft, lazy kiss to her palm. "Do I wanna know?"

Sullyoon yawns, and tips her forehead up against yours. Your faces are close like this, breathing in each others' breaths. Your eyes slip shut. This is something you don't know, that neither of you quite know what it means: when there's nothing more to say, or nowhere left for your fingers to be.

"We're in love," says Sullyoon.

Your lips brush against her skin, the creases of her palms. She's telling the truth, isn't she. 

"Guilty," you tell her, finally, and pull her down, close, into the shelter and shape of her embrace. "You're all mine."

You whisper, so her lungs and yours and the silence are all made the same, and her breathing slows. You hold her, until it doesn't take words to speak. You kiss her, once, and then there are a million moments like that. For all the right reasons, and those left wanting - every single possible permutation - this is the easiest truth: one you'd never tell, not out loud. Not where the stars and gods can see. 

This is how we fall in love: not all at once but rather, the trick of the light.

/// /// /// /// ///

She's deadly gorgeous — her eyes, her nose, her lips. You're as tall as she is, but the aura she emanates makes you feel like you're five centimeters shorter. She's a year above you, and that just makes the entire ordeal better for you. It's your thing — being dominated at everything by a woman. Therefore, Seol Yoona, or Sullyoon, is just flawless in your eyes.

You don't even dare to look at her when you walk past each other in the hallway. You just hide behind your friends cowardly, and you hope that she'd notice you amongst the crowd one day. There's a conflict between your actions and your desire, apparently, but you just can't help getting flustered and becoming mute when she's in your proximity.

The chance presents itself eventually. It can't be more of an open chance than this one.

"Have you seen the pair list for the trip yet?" Taesan asks you. His hands are on the steering wheel, driving you to the faculty as usual. You help him with fuel costs from time to time.

"Not yet. I probably got paired with someone I don't know." You shrug, scrolling through your Reddit feed. There are a few memes and a few posts about the games you're still playing in your freshman year. "We'll forget each other in a week, so, like, what's the appeal of knowing it now?"

"You're fucking pessimistic, dude. Maybe you have one of those pretty sophomores as your partner!" Taesan encourages you as the car enters the campus. "What's her name again? Yoon?"

"Sullyoon, and what's the chance? Two? Three percent? What's one hundred divided by thirty-eight—"

"Sometimes you just gotta believe, man," Taesan cuts you off cleanly. He's like a lighthouse for your sailboat in a thunderstorm. "And it's over ten percent. If you get one of the dance club members, they might help you get to Yoon as well!"

"Sullyoon. Yoon is the debate club president," you correct Taesan, though you're opening the group chat now. The trip's main document is the latest message.

"Yeah, Sullyoon," and he pauses to make a turn before continuing. "Anyway, the key point is: you have to trust your luck. I'm sure you'll—"

"Holy fucking fuck."

"Told ya, is it one of the—"

"It's Sullyoon!" you shout into the small confines of Taesan's car, seeing your name to the right of Seol Yoona on the list. You examine again to make sure that you didn't hallucinate, and it's really you and Sullyoon! You're being paired together for the trip this summer break!

You can barely comprehend the notion of you actually conversing with her — the topic, the tone, the personality, her eyes, her nose, her lips. Fuck, even the idea of you being close to her felt so far-fetched just mere minutes ago, and now, you're finally going to get to know her!

"I'm gonna cum."

"At least get out of the car first."

---

"Aren't you gonna go sit with her?" Taesan asks you, and you open your eyes from the attempt to get a pleasant sleep on the way to the destination. "The middle of the bus is also, like, the safest place?"

You blink a few times to get yourself back to your senses before replying, "We die together!"

Taesan gives you a look that makes you rethink your decisions, and the courage starts to flow in, even if it's just a bit. "That's probably the worst excuse you could've given me. I'm kicking you out of this seat."

"No, you can't."

"Your loss, then," Taesan scoffs, and he gives you another decision-altering look.

"What if she says no? That's gonna ruin the whole trip for me!" you whine, and you know that you're just delaying the inevitable of actually talking to her for the first time at this point.

Taesan purses his lips for a while before answering, "You don't know the outcome yet." He shrugs, looking for Sullyoon, who's still sitting by herself in the middle row. "Don't live to regret this."

You look at Sullyoon sitting a few rows in front of you like Taesan does, and to be frank, his words are pretty damn reasonable here. It's a slim chance against no chance at all to sit next to her for the first half of the trip.

"Fine," you concede, and you get up from your seat.

Each step feels too heavy than it should be. Your eyes lock onto the back of Sullyoon's head. Her hair is done in a ponytail today. She looks pretty like this. In fact, she looks pretty in every hairstyle. You trudge towards her row slowly, trying not to let her out of sight. Each second feels awfully long and tormenting, and you just reel through the possibilities of your first conversation with her. You keep reminding yourself that you have to ask for the vacancy of the seat beside her.

Until you're right beside her.

"Uh," you manage with all of your consciousness and energy. Sullyoon turns to you. "Hey, Miss Seol."

"Hey!" she greets you with a polite smile. "What's up?"

"I was gonna ask," and a pause. You can't believe you're having a conversation with her like this. With sheer willpower, you continue, "If I could sit here, since we're partners for the trip."

Sullyoon's eyes widen. "Oh, you're my freshman! Sure!" and she pats the seat beside her invitingly. "I'll tell Bae to sit somewhere else."

"Oh, I can just—"

"Please, and we've never talked prior to this, right? We can get to know each other here!" Sullyoon persuades, and her eyes give the impression that she wants your company. You just cannot decline the heavenly offer granted by the stars.

"Uh, okay." You settle yourself beside Sullyoon cautiously, trying not to humiliate yourself with your awkward movements. "Can Miss Bae sit with my friend?"

"Sure thing! Where's your friend?"

"Uh," and turn back to Taesan, who's watching your shenanigans happily. "He's there." You point at him.

"Alright, I'll message her."'

You keep thinking of ways that you can fumble this, and you just can't seem to stop it. Still, having Sullyoon this close to you after just a few words makes your heart flutter, and you have to hold back your smile for the entire trip.

---

"What's that on your phone?" Sullyoon asks. It's about half an hour into the ride. You appreciate the fact that she takes interests about your phone's background.

"The wallpaper?" and you tilt your phone to her a bit, making sure that she can see your screen.

"Yeah. Is it a movie poster?"

"Aftersun, yeah. I watched it a few years ago, and it just stuck in my head ever since."

It's an honest answer. Aftersun is an influential film to you. You saw it at a theater when it was initially released, and you just can't get it out of your brain somehow. It's a five-star film, really.

"Never heard of it before," Sullyoon says with a chuckle. "I'm not good at movies, to be honest."

Bravely, you reply, "I can help you with that if you want," and you chuckle a bit, diluting the seriousness of your words. You're trying not to look too cocky with your cinema knowledge here.

"I'd say yes if I had time," Sullyoon answers. "Please don't take it to heart. It's just that: I have so many fucking things going on in my life."

"Sorry to hear that," you respond in an attempt to empathize. "I don't take it personally, don't worry."

Sullyoon smiles before showing you her wallpaper. There are some Japanese letters that you can't translate and a few cars that you find cute. The overall image looks rather green-tinted. "I took this myself."

"With, like, a camera?"

"Yeah, it was from my trip to Tokyo," and Sullyoon pulls her phone back, seemingly searching for something. "Let me find the album, uh, here!"

You look at a bright image of the buildings of Tokyo. The composition and the lighting look good to you.

"Wow," you utter. "It's gorgeous."

Sullyoon smiles again. "Thanks. This is one of the better ones. I'm, like, really proud of it."

You can't help but smile along with her. Sullyoon continues to show you the images from her trip, and they truly are eye candy. You shower her with praise for her photography skills. You learn about the camera she uses. She learns about your love for Aftersun a little more. The conversation goes back and forth throughout the ride, and you're so fucking proud of yourself that you asked for this seat in the first place.

You're winning Seol Yoona's heart.

---

The bus stops at the mandatory resting point for lunch. You've been here a few times with your family before. It looks a tad different from what you've remembered, though you appreciate the fact that you get to use the bathroom and have a few pieces of pizza.

"So, how do you guys know each other?" Bae asks, biting off a piece of pepperoni she's holding. Sullyoon is sitting beside her, munching on a piece of double cheese.

"We live in the same dorm. He was searching for someone who lived there in the group chat, and I contacted him," Taesan answers, and you're nodding along with his words to confirm the legitimacy of the story. "And I drive him to campus on the days that we don't skip our classes," he continues with a chuckle, earning a boisterous laugh from Bae.

"You're skipping classes as freshmen?" Sullyoon quizzes.

Not wanting to look like a pair of irresponsible students in Sullyoon's eyes, you hastily refute his claim, "No, no, no, he was just joking."

Sullyoon nods approvingly before biting off her double cheese again. "I wish I had the fire like you guys," she says. "You kinda lose the energy with time, you know."

Not knowing how to answer, you just smile back at her. Then, you go back to the piece of pepperoni in your hand again, hoping that when you and Taesan become sophomores, you can be good examples for the future freshmen.

"Taesan, you have a, uh, sauce?" Bae starts, then she pulls a piece of paper out of a box for him. "Left side."

---

"So, why do you like photography?" you start at some time into the second half of the ride. It has been a while of silence playing on your phones, and you don't want to look too antisocial here.

"It's my mom," and Sullyoon looks up from her phone. The afternoon light from outside the bus is making a good angle with her face. She just looks gorgeous like this — her brown hair, her eyes, her voice. "She's a photographer, and she taught me about cameras and how to take photos."

You nod along with her words. "Cool. My mom is a chef."

"That's cool, too. Does this mean you can cook well?" Sullyoon asks. Her head is tilted a little in curiosity.

"I can make a​ Thai omelette. Is that enough?" you joke back, eliciting a chuckle from Sullyoon.

"Not a very suitable set of skills for today's dinner, I'd say," Sullyoon says, and she leans in closer to you. Your heart races at the unexpected proximity, and you use all your willpower to stay still. Though it turns out that she's just whispering you a spoiler for today's dinner. "I'm not supposed to tell a freshman, but we're having barbecue tonight."

You can smell her perfume — summer.

Your muscles relax once Sullyoon pulls her mouth away from your ear. You take some time to process her words. It's a barbecue. There'll be a grill. There'll be fire.

"Will there be beer as well?" you ask, only to realize how much of an alcoholic you're being in front of your crush. Fuck.

Sullyoon laughs. Her voice dips a tad deeper than usual, but it's devastatingly attractive to your ears. "Isn't that, like, the whole point of this trip? Getting wasted together and floating around in a pool?"

"Fair point," you reply, and the image of a drenched Sullyoon plagues your mind in an instant — clothes clinging to her skin, wet hair, her curves. Maybe you'll be making out with her in the water with your breath smelling like wheat and rye. You'll hold her close to your body as you kiss her with need. You'll—

"I still have to make sure of your safety, though, so don't drink too much. I can't deal with the faculty and your parents," Sullyoon half-jokes and half-pleads, pulling you away out of the fantasy. You understand her burden, of course, and you're going to be taking care of a freshman next year as well. You don't want physics-bending karma to come back and bite you in your ass.

"Sure, Miss Seol."

"Please, just call me Sullyoon," she urges. "Seriously, I feel like a fucking historical artifact being called Miss Seol, and I think I trust you enough now."

You get confused a bit at the idea of Sullyoon trusting you. Alas, it has been only a few hours since your first conversation. Nonetheless, you can jump out of this bus onto the road and ruin a car's windshield with this level of ecstasy. Seol Yoona trusts you, and that's probably another quest completed on the way to being her younger and slightly shorter boyfriend.

"Yeah, uh, okay, Sullyoon," you manage, doing your best to hide the joy inside your heart. It works for a while. At the moment Sullyoon turns away, you ball your hands into fists to celebrate the worthwhile event quietly out of her sight.

---

After a while, your view of the side of the bus becomes stores and houses planted along the road. There are some traffic lights on the way to your accommodation, as opposed to none on the highway earlier. You've just entered the metropolitan area of the town.

It doesn't take long before the bus turns into a small street. In the front, there are a bunch of rest houses sitting beside the alley. You see pools behind the wall of a house. Your bus stops eventually, and being nearest to the exit, you're the first to get off the vehicle.

"Hey," Sullyoon calls, and you turn back to her, not forgetting to leave the walkway space for a few people to walk past you towards the exit. "Can I have your number?"

Your mouth hangs open slightly in shock as Sullyoon locks her doe eyes with yours. Seol Yoona just asked for your number, and you can't fucking believe this. Your hands are still operating, at least, as you just whip out your phone from your pocket and touch the top of it with Sullyoon's.

Your phone vibrates slightly as her contact appears on your screen. The profile picture is her ID picture, you think. It looks so formal, with Sullyoon as her display name.

"Great, I'll message you when we're ready," Sullyoon says with a nod. "Or you can just come by and hang around first. Either way works."

"Sure, I'll put my stuff in my bedroom and go to you guys," you assure her, and she seems to be happy with that.

---

Sullyoon's house looks just like yours. It's not even mirrored. There's a pool table on the left side of the entrance. You can walk into the house a bit to find a pool filled with water on the right. The television is in the same position. There's a fridge beside it. The clock says that it's about four in the evening. Still, Sullyoon is nowhere to be seen, so you just settle yourself on the couch in the middle of the room meekly.

After a while, a door beside the television opens, and someone comes out of it.

She's not Sullyoon, though — a bit shorter, sharper face. It's Oh Haewon, still in her bus clothes of a Hawaiian shirt and jeans.

In Sullyoon's social circle, she spends most of her time with five women: Lily Morrow, Oh Haewon, Bae Jinsol, Kim Jiwoo, and Jang Kyujin. They're in the engineering dance club together, after all. You've seen their performances at a number of events: the orientation day, the international night, and now, the house trip. In your humble opinion, they're deathly beautiful in their own styles, and in reality, so many people have crushes on them. Though none of them have ever made a single move out of fear and anxiety.

In the group, Sullyoon is the most popular, with Haewon coming in a close second ranking. It's more of a preference whether you prefer the cute, innocuous vibe of Sullyoon or the tomboyish, vulgar vibe of Haewon. You find yourself more fitting to Sullyoon's energy, though it's not that you find Haewon any less gorgeous.

"Hey," Haewon greets you with a small nod. "Sullyoon's partner, right?"

You gulp. "Yeah, I, uh, she told me that I can be here, so I'm here."

Haewon nods again receptively before walking towards the couch. She sits down not too far from you, and she grabs the remote to play something.

"Oh, there's Netflix," Haewon mutters, and she clicks on the icon. It brings her to a login screen, however. "Damn."

"I have Netflix," you blurt out in an effort to help Haewon.

"Aren't you staying at that house?" Haewon asks, pointing back to your villa. "What? Are you and Sullyoon secretly fucking or something?" She shoots you a suspicious look, seemingly piqued by the notion of your trysts with her friend.

You can't say a word as your eyes widen and your mouth hangs open. Your body freezes in your seat, unsure of how to respond to the fuckery Haewon just uttered. It's as if your heart just stops for a few seconds just to process Haewon's awfully forward question.

"What?" you manage, utterly and completely shocked. "We're not—"

Suddenly, Haewon bursts out into a boisterous laugh, moving from side to side in her seat. "Fucking hell, I'm sorry," and she reaches out towards you, pacifying the situation. "I know you guys just met. I was just fucking with ya, sorry again."

Your expression dissolves into a shy laugh along with Haewon. "Oh, well," you mutter between chuckles. "That's quite a welcome."

"Yeah, I shouldn't, no, I wouldn't do it if I had known," Haewon says as her laugh softens into a smile. She then hands you the remote in her hand. "Here, log in with your Netflix."

"Thanks," and you take the remote from Haewon. Your heartbeat slows down a bit, and you start working on logging into the pool villa's Netflix with your account that you're sharing with Taesan and a few of your friends.

"Well, with that out of the way," Haewon restarts the conversation. She scoots a little closer towards you, and you tense up again. Your fingers tremble slightly on your phone while trying to access your Netflix account. "Do you like Sullyoon? Like, as your senior match or whatever."

"She's wonderful! I like her vibe," you answer honestly, alternating your eyes between Haewon, your phone, and the television. It's quite a sensory overload here. "She's so kind to me."

"Yeah, she's lovely all around. It's her expertise," Haewon says, sinking herself into the cushion of the couch. "You two will get along, don't worry."

"I hope so."

You finally link your account to the television, and Haewon claps merrily at the success. The screen shows a few algorithmic suggestions, and it's clear that you're a film buff.

"Do you have any hate-watching suggestions while we're drunk?" Haewon asks.

"The Room, I think?"

"I believe you," and Haewon does a finger gun pointing at you. You just smile at her.

---

The sizzling from the grill fills the night air along with the splashes of water in the pool. The outdoor area of Sullyoon's house smells of cooked meat and beer. You're sitting in a chair shyly, scrolling Twitter as alcohol begins to set in. There are a few freshmen, including Taesan, and sophomores, including Bae, playing in the pool together. You and Sullyoon remain on the land still, talking about tedious topics and interests that become interesting just because it's Seol Yoona you're talking to.

"How has your freshman year been?" Sullyoon asks, swirling the contents of her can around a bit, and she takes a sip.

"It's fine, I guess," you respond without looking up from your phone. "Took some time before I settled in, even with Taesan."

Sullyoon chuckles. "I get it — new environment, new friends, yadda yadda." She takes a bite off her barbecue stick — green pepper — and Sullyoon asks you more with her mouth full of food, "Did anyone come with you? Like, from the same high school."

You look up from your phone to meet Sullyoon's eyes before answering, "Nope, I'm alone here. Was really lucky I met him in that dorm group."

Sullyoon nods at the same time a splash of water lands on her feet, and she flinches a little. You look at the pool to find Bae and Taesan smiling apologetically.

"Sorry," Bae says from the water. Sullyoon just accepts her apology with a nod.

"Anyway," Sullyoon restarts, turning back to you. The can of beer is still staying in her hand, and she takes another swig. "Let's talk about something more personal."

You look at her, puzzled by her statement. "Wasn't that already personal?" and you let out a chuckle to lighten the seriousness of the statement. You don't want her to feel intimidated by your words.

Sullyoon laughs, seemingly a little drunk now. "There are more personal things than you settling into college life, you know?"

You're still too shy with two cans of beer in your veins. However, you really want to get to know Sullyoon better than this. You can feel your vision getting a tad blurry, but she remains as gorgeous as ever — her eyes, her hair, her lips. God, you just want her to pin you against the wall and start whispering dehumanizing insults into your ear.

"I don't have a girlfriend or a boyfriend, if that's what you wanna know," you declare, picking up the can to take a sip out of shyness. You wonder how and why the hell you said that. It's not like you look good enough to have a romantic life.

Sullyoon chuckles, fidgeting with her almost-empty can. "Me too." You register the intoxication in her eyes and tone, eventually. Her off-the-perfect-cadence giggles ring in your ear canals against the noise from the pool and the grill. "I've been on a few dates in college, and they're all just fucking boring."

"Boring?" you probe her a bit.

Sullyoon stands up from the opposite seat, and she sashays towards another chair next to you. The act makes your inhibitions drop slightly — proximity and all. She reaches for the can of beer back at her seat, and you see how defined her arm muscles are — curves, veins, and strength. You'd really like her to lock your head with that.

"Yeah, they're" — she takes another sip — "they always try to please me, and I can see through that."

"Like, uh, what usually happens?" you ask more questions without much self-doubt. The tendency to second-guess your words seems to disappear bit by bit.

Sullyoon scoffs, then there's another sip before she answers, "They act weird. I don't know how to describe it." Sullyoon looks up into the sky, reiterating her thoughts, and you follow her vision to see the stars flickering on the pitch-black blanket of the nocturne. "They just don't stay true to themselves! Yeah, that's the word."

You ponder her words. Not staying true to oneself is something that you oppose, obviously, but you also have some concern if you're falling into that category by falling for her as well — agreeing to everything she says and pretending to be someone else.

"Do you think I act weird?" you blurt out in your drunken stupor. You're a tad concerned about dishonesty, and maybe you'd get a free compliment from her for being yourself for the last 12 hours since the first encounter.

"Do you have a crush on me or something?" Sullyoon teases, looking at you with playfulness in her eyes. That smirk is killing you. "Why the fuck would you even ask that?" and she chuckles lightly.

Your eyes widen as you regain your senses for a few seconds. Her words are powerful, and you just can't answer the question she's using to interrogate your heart. All that you can do is take a sip from your can to hide the color on your cheeks.

You don't register Sullyoon's hand on your shoulder for the first second of contact. Again, the alcohol is setting in hastily. Still, your heart beats faster when her body scent reaches your nose — sweat, perfume, and some beer — and you almost choke on your drink. Your hands tremble under the weight of reality and closeness. Her mouth is agape, as if ready to do something unpredictable. You look into her eyes. There is a lot that's going on in her pupils — energy, mischief, and perhaps some desire.

You stammer out, "Come, come again?" She smells so fucking wonderful, and you wouldn't mind one bit if she calls you weird as an answer.

Then, Sullyoon just chuckles in front of your face, and you just look at her, confused.

"Just messing with ya," she utters with a smile before pulling herself away from you. Sullyoon then clinks her can with yours gently. "I'm drunk as hell now, so please excuse me."

Shakily, you bring the can to your mouth again for another sip while chuckling awkwardly.

"And no, I don't think you act weird around me," Sullyoon says.

Your heart flutters at her answer. The urge to jump into the pool out of joy is strong, but you remain mostly still as you ask her, "Really?"

Sullyoon shrugs. "Yeah, at least from what I see, I think you're often honest."

"Often?"

Another splash of pool water finds your feet and Sullyoon's. Both of you jump at the coldness, and Sullyoon goes a little further than you by hissing at the swimmers.

She turns back to meet your eyes. "I think we're gonna get all wet by the time I finish explaining this frequency adjective to you," Sullyoon states, tilting her head slightly towards the sliding doors, and you get the notion in that instant.

"We're just gonna sit on the couch and watch The Room, right?"

"What the fuck is The Room?"

"I did not hit her, it's not true! It's bullshit! I did not hit her!" Tommy then throws his water bottle away. "I did not. Oh hi, Mark."

"Oh, hey Johnny, what's up?"

Sullyoon nods beside you on the living room couch, a different can of beer that's almost full in her hand. "I see the appeal now."

"There are a bunch of weird dialogues like this, by the way. This is just one of them," you add, taking a chug off your can. "It's a fucking goldmine."

Sullyoon smiles back at you. "Splendid."

---

"Do you actually smoke?"

"This is Haewon's."

"Where are yours?"

"I don't smoke."

There are two cans of beer sitting idly on the marble sink. The area of this room is generally too small for two people, but with this amount of distance, you're fitting into it perfectly. There's the smell of scented candles that reminds you of serenity, but again, the ecstasy you've been chasing is already in front of you.

"I'm not trying this," you decline with a profuse shake of your head.

"Weren't you chugging beer like crazy earlier?" Sullyoon scoffs, breath smells of fermented wheat. She picks up a lighter to ignite the cigarette in her hand. A line of smoke rises from the opposite end from where her fingers are holding it.

"It wasn't that crazy, to be fair," you whine back. "This is, like, my, uh."

Sullyoon laughs in your face with visible signs of late-stage intoxication: lack of balance, unfocused eyes, shaky hands. "It's your eighth can tonight, by the way," and she points her thumb to the side, to the cans on the sink.

She keeps track of your beer consumption history, apparently, and you tease back, giggling, "You like me enough to count?"

"What do you think?" she plays coy, bringing the stick closer to the mouth. She doesn't take a drag yet, and you just observe the light at the end of it flickering in a slow rhythm. "Am I being a responsible sophomore, or am I having a crush on a person whom I've just met this morning?"

And you're snapped back into reality for a heartbeat. Within that timeframe, it's clear that you need more time and familiarity with Sullyoon to build her trust. You're a bit gutted that it's not so soon, to be honest, but you just hide any trace of that feeling with a small laugh.

"A person can dream, I guess," you blurt out, so unaware of how cocky you look.

"Yeah, I know I'm hot," Sullyoon scoffs, and her lips finally touch the cigarette. You watch her suck in air through her mouth. It's devastatingly attractive. Then, a puff of smoke hits your face, eliciting a few coughs from you, and you wonder how the hell she doesn't struggle with taking a drag.

"That wasn't" — and there's another cough — "hot."

"You're being obtuse," Sullyoon scoffs again. You're irked by her confidence a bit, but a part of you also finds that, in a sense, hot.

"I don't wanna get cancer," you deflect, trying your best to look strong in front of Sullyoon. Still, with this shorter height and younger age, you probably look deathly cute to her instead of intimidating. To make matters worse, she's ruffling your hair with a smile that's just making your muscles go wobbly against the bathroom door.

"You're a terrible liar," Sullyoon jokes. "I'll show you something."

Sullyoon takes another drag — soft, awfully quiet, glittering at the tip of her stick. She brings her other hand up to your mouth, and you flinch a bit out of the last remnants of your humility. Still, Sullyoon's thumb chases your lips and pries your mouth open gently. You loosen your jaw as her face moves closer towards yours.

A puff of white cloud leaves her mouth with a small push of air from her lungs, and you close your eyes once it reaches you. You block your trachea. The gust just rages in your mouth, and you let it stay there for a bit. You think you've seen this before — Joachim Trier's lens. And if your memory isn't too fuzzy and altered, what Sullyoon is doing to you right now looks stunningly ethereal.

Her breath is hot against your face. Her thumb burns your lips. Her smoke scorches the inside of your cheeks. It's one chillingly gorgeous spectacle if someone happens to stumble into this bathroom — the closeness, the white curls, the cadence of her chuckle afterwards. Seol Yoona is blowing smoke from her mouth into yours.

And you're pretty sure that Renate and Herbert are going to be ecstatic seeing you and Sullyoon reenacting their image.

A few heartbeats later, you blow a gust out of your lungs and open your eyes again. You're greeted with the sight of the dissolving vapor in front of Sullyoon's angelic features. She chuckles heartily, and she doesn't make a scene of brushing the cloud away. Her thumb is still on your lips, prying your mouth open with minimal force. She looks dreadfully pretty under the bathroom light and a layer of white puff.

"It's called shotgunning, I think," Sullyoon finally breaks the silence, and you just hum back at her as an affirmation. "I like it when we just stay like this."

"Like what?" you utter dumbly. Your brain seems to be completely fried from that puff, and you can only repeat her words and express agreement at this point.

"Close, but not too close," Sullyoon huffs before taking another drag, then there's another shotgunning. The cloud spins in your mouth, and you push it out softly. The whiteness dissipates into Sullyoon smiling in front of you and continuing her answer, "It's thrilling."

You're all dazed and enchanted by her spell — smoke and perfume. Your heart is yearning for more of her touch than just the thumb on your lips and the white puffs. You want to chase her lips, but the threat of losing her wholly looms over you. This entire thing is a thriller, honestly.

You gulp. "We're going to do this until—"

"It burns out, yeah," and Sullyoon winks. "Fun, isn't it?"

You rest your back against the door. "Then what?"

Sullyoon scoffs, and she ruffles your hair again tenderly. You just melt without an ounce of resistance — wobbly legs, slack arms. Her other hand is still holding the stick between her fingers. There's a line of smoke floating from the bright end.

"I don't know, really," Sullyoon answers your question, hand leaving your hair and reaching for her beer on the side. Your eyes are locked on the light from her cigarette, only to be told, "Look at me, pretty boy."

The name sends a shiver down your spine, obviously, and you shift your gaze back to her. She looks gorgeous as always: eyes, nose, lips. Now, with the label, you'd really love to just let her do whatever the hell she pleases with you.

"You look like a delicacy," Sullyoon says, and she takes another sip off her can. The alcohol helps your heart from beating too fast from the notion of you being her metaphorical dinner to satiate her apparent lust. "I wanna fucking devour you, to be honest."

Her eyes are still locked on yours. The duration of the prolonged eye contact should make you feel uneasy under sobriety, but you're leaning in closer towards Sullyoon as she puts her can away from her mouth. You're met with the sight of her wet lips glistening in the low light of the bathroom. Suddenly, however, Sullyoon pushes you back with her beer can against the door, eliciting a moan out of your mouth, knocking the air out of your lungs.

"Do as I say, pretty boy," Sullyoon commands, moving so awfully close to you that her lips almost touch yours. She doesn't make a show of smoking into your mouth anymore. The distance is gnawing at your heart, but with that assertion, you don't dare closing that gap.

You smile weakly with the surmounting excitement running in your veins. It's really happening right now — the golden, clear-cut chance with your crush. Your heart is hammering inside your chest. Your fingers quiver incessantly. Your pupils are certainly dilating.

Still, the playful edge in you emerges for a bit. "What if I don't?"

Sullyoon smirks, and a scoff leaves her mouth. "I'm sure you're not that stupid, right?"

"Definitely," and you chuckle in her face. It's disgustingly brave. "Maybe."

Sullyoon tilts her head a bit, then she faux begs, "Take off your shorts, pretty please?"

There's a certain kind of teasing in your movements as you remove the garments from your waist. It's to your best knowledge from being an engineering student. It's to your utmost ability to move when having a beer can on your chest and the bathroom door on your back. You don't really expect her to be more aroused by the swaying of your hips or the sultry-drunk expressions from you.

Sullyoon smiles at your enthusiasm, at least. You're elated with that. Then, she peers down to see your lush hair seeping from under the shorts.

"You don't even trim it," she states, still pinning you against the door with her beer can. The force lessens a bit, though. "Fucking disgusting," and she completes her insult with a devilish smile.

You push your boxers and shorts down further, lifting your legs to help with the removal. At a certain point, your cock springs out with eagerness, spreading precum over her casual clothes. Your body is shivering with anticipation and anxiety, while Sullyoon observes the entirety of you, taking a few drags and blowing the smoke onto your face.

Eventually, your bottom half is free of clothes. The vulnerability is terrifying under Sullyoon's impish expression. Her eyes scan all over your exposed body just to elicit some more goosebumps on your skin. You're smiling weakly out of intoxication, regardless. Your affection for her is running deadly deep.

She takes a drag, removing the can from your chest. You feel you can breathe properly again. There's this slightly numbing pain in your ribs, but you're too drunk and lusted-out to give any fucks about that. She's taller than you are. She's older than you are. She's stronger than you are. This is nauseatingly perfect.

"Go to the toilet," Sullyoon issues another order, and she moves out of the way to let you walk with boxers and pants on your ankles.

You take a few clumsy steps to the toilet, feeling Sullyoon's eyes on you. It's probably the natural response for you to feel the need to pee upon seeing the ceramic bowl. So, you aim your hard cock towards the water body. It's difficult with an erection, but—

"I've always wanted to do this." Sullyoon's chest is pressed against your back. Her left hand slides all over your abdomen, while the right is still holding the borrowed cigarette and the beer can. Of course, you moan with pleasure and her warmth. She stops around your lushness above your cock, eventually, and she gives it a soft press.

"Fuck," you whine whorishly. She gives it another press, and the tingle in your bladder becomes stronger. You can barely stand right now.

"Piss for Mommy, pretty boy, piss all that beer out," Sullyoon coos, and you feel her chin on your right shoulder. She takes another inhale of the nicotine, and you can only watch the smoke flying out of her mouth from beside you. Her left hand moves down a little more to help with the aim under the state of erection. She wraps her hand around your cock, bending it down a bit more.

That's when it starts for you.

There's the sound of your fluid hitting the water body in the toilet — slightly yellowish. Your body loosens up a bit. Sullyoon hums approvingly as a response, then, "It's so hard. I'm sure it's because of me, right?"

"Yes, Mommy," you speak, the moniker slipping out too easily. Your eyes are locked on your firmly held shaft that's still leaking.

Sullyoon takes another drag, blowing the smoke below her. The cloud envelops your cock, and you find the image somewhat cinematic, to be honest. You keep your piss consistent, forcing it out of the bladder in a powerful stream against the ceramic and the toilet water.

"Mommy's pissy boy," Sullyoon whispers, prompting a moan out of your mouth. Your pliability has never reached such high, and it's Seol Yoona — your crush — who helps turn your brain into a mush. "You're such a nasty little slut."

You repeat mindlessly, "I'm Mommy's pissy boy. I'm Mommy's little slut."

Sullyoon puts the cigarette into your mouth, blowing a puff into your right ear. The cloud is warm on your lobe. The drag is warm between your lips. "Take a drag, pretty boy."

You're too stupid and wasted right now to resist. There's a cough when the smoke hits those tiny bags in your lungs, and puffs leave your mouth. The stick doesn't fall, still. That's your first time smoking, and being held by the cock by your crush while pissing does elevate the experience by a margin.

Down below, your stream goes down in its intensity. A straight line becomes a curved one, and a curved one becomes droplets. The noise coming from the ceramic becomes quieter, and Sullyoon helps you shake the last few beads out of your slit. Your body can barely stand up now. You can just collapse within Sullyoon's embrace, really.

She holds you like that for a while, letting you bask in her warmth and your own vulnerability. You let out a few whines from between your lips as the drag remains in your mouth. Every breath is punctuated with a puff leaving with the moans. Then, Sullyoon sways from side to side languidly, and you follow promptly. She's humming some tune that you don't recognize — perfect cadence, almost somber tone.

"Such a good boy for Mommy," Sullyoon praises you, chin still on your right shoulder. Your heart jumps at the compliment, obviously, as you dance along with her.

"Thank you, Mommy," you say feebly, a bit muffled by the cigarette. Sullyoon reclaims it from your mouth with her fingers, eventually. Another puff is blown out of her mouth.

"Almost burned out," Sullyoon says.

Your eyes are still looking into the wall in front of you, mostly thoughtlessly except for the movements and her care. "What's burning out?" you ask, shifting your weight between the legs for the nocturnal waltz.

Another exhale, another white gust, another hum — Sullyoon answers, "The drag — this is my only one."

"Ask for one more from Haewon, Mommy."

But Sullyoon just stays there, hugging you from behind, lingering with you. Her left hand is still on your hard cock. A few more puffs pass by your ear as you two move from side to side. The room smells of scented candles.

"I wanna stay like this," Sullyoon finally says, and she presses the cigarette against the wall in front of you. There's an inky mark on the vast whiteness of the bathroom wall. "You smell like beer, by the way," and she finally takes a deep breath from something that isn't a cigarette: you.

The exposure to Sullyoon's proximity just pierces all of your defenses. Just this morning, if someone told you that you'll be in this situation — your crush holding your dick while you're peeing — you'd tell them to fuck the hell off. Right now, you don't know if it's the alcohol that's doing the talking, but you think it's real — her affection, her body against yours, her words.

Within her embrace, you've never felt weaker than right now.

I. The arrival

It was common knowledge that a 19th-century man in possession of a successful company and a rich heritage was to own a maid. His being didn’t belong in a kitchen; his time wasn’t to be wasted doing laundry. Yet you had little regard for such traditions. Your kin speculated—stinginess, secrets, perhaps a scandal—but the truth was far simpler: you didn’t need a reason. Self-reliance suited you. 

For two years, you’d lived alone in your estate nestled deep in the woods, not only tending to yourself but also hosting guests without assistance. To the surprise of many, the master poured the tea.

It was near dusk, late winter when a carriage crunched its way down the moss-softened path to your door. The horses snorted, breath misting in the cooling air. No grand stone steps. No footman. Only pine wind and silence.

You had just returned from the forest, mushrooms in your hand, sleeves rolled, your white shirt tucked sloppily into worn pants. Had you known visitors were arriving, perhaps you'd have worn one of the jackets your father gifted you long ago.

A knock. You opened the door. There stood a man in a heavy frock coat, posture straight, eyes familiar.

“John,” you exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve never forgotten, my Lord,” the gentleman said. “The help you gave me in the past… I remember you once said you weren’t in the possession of a servant.”

You nodded. “I still am not.”

“Good,” he replied with a faint smile. “Because I have one here with me. And I would like you to accept her as a gift.”

“You want to gift me… a slave?”

“Precisely.” From his pocket, he pulled a golden pin, the symbol of his new title. “I have been appointed royal couturier to the Duke’s daughter. And I owe it all to you—your introductions, your patronage, your faith in a man who once sold thread in the dirtiest corner of the city.”

“You flatter me,” you said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “But it was your talent that took you to the palace.”

He inclined his head in gratitude, then stepped down and opened the carriage. A girl emerged. Barefoot. Wrapped in a threadbare blanket. Her eyes are wide and hollow. Her feet met moss rather than gravel, and her thin shoulders shivered in the cold.

“Please accept this slave, my Lord,” the man said. “I made sure to buy the most beautiful one in the county.”

“She is beautiful,” you acknowledged, “but where are her clothes?”

“She had a shirt and trousers when I bought her. I saw no reason to waste fine fabric on a slave.”

“You’re a dressmaker,” you said, your voice flat. “You should know better.”

He didn’t answer. The girl stared at the ground, her shackled ankles trembling. Her skin was marked with scars—especially her back—but her face had been kept untouched, carefully preserved like fine porcelain.

You sighed and opened the door wider. “Your gift is appreciated,” you said quietly. “I will take care of her.”

“The girl is yours now,” he said, bowing reverently. “Do as you please. My gratitude is eternal.”

The girl turned to you and bowed low. “Good evening, master. Thank you for taking me in. I promise I will be good to you.”

Realising you were still holding the mushrooms, you quickly set them aside and offered your hand. She looked at it, puzzled.

You smiled gently. “It’s a handshake.”

Hesitantly, she reached out and touched your hand, her fingers trembling uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, master. Owners don’t usually greet us with such… respect.”

“That’s the bare minimum,” you said. “Come inside.”

She stepped in lightly, nearly silent. The warmth of the house—faint smoke, pressed leaves—hit her like a foreign scent. You closed the door behind her. There was little needed for a bolt and key. No one lived in these woods anyways.

She clutched a small satchel—too small for any valuable possession. Her clothes were thin and frayed. Her eyes flicked nervously across the room. No canes. No bells. No inked ledgers of punishment.

“You may speak freely here,” you said, like offering her a blanket.

“No need, master. I won’t be in any trouble. You won’t even see me.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

She bowed her head. “I’ll do everything you want, whenever you want.”

You reached for a robe hanging near the door. As your hand passed near her head, she flinched—visibly, sharply. Years of training had taught her to stay still, but reflexes didn’t lie.

“Sorry. Did I touch you?”

“No, master. My fault. I’m sorry.”

You held the robe out. “Take this. You look cold.”

“Thank you very much, master. You’re… very kind.”

You inhaled deeply. “I’m not used to having… uhm… someone to look after me. I have no footman. No housekeeper. No cook. There’s little to do,” you said as you scratched your head. “Sorry about that.”

“I’ll make myself useful,” she said. There’s no reason to keep a maid if she’s not deemed useful. She had to find an occupation, or who knows where she might end up.

“I’m sure you will,” you replied gently. “But not tonight. You’ve traveled far.”

You led her down the hallway—not to the scullery, nor a cot in the corner of the kitchen—but to a guest room. A real bed. A folded quilt. A window without shutters.

She stood at the threshold, silent, unsure.

“This will be your room,” you announced. “It is a guest room but I never have guests over so it is a bit dusty. I apologize for that. However, the bed is quite comfy, I hope that makes up for it.” 

You paused for a moment and gestured for her to come in.

“Are you sure, master? A whole room for me?”

“Where else should you stay?” you asked. That statement alone sounded ridiculous to you. Of course, she needed a room. “Thank you very much. I’m forever grateful,” she said, bowing down in gratitude. 

You tried to imagine her previous owner. The aristocrats you have met at the “parties” always seemed to be polite, but they were never kind. Judging by her responses, she must have had a ruthless man. Maybe he let her sleep in a barn, maybe in the basement, or whatever space she found.

“You can rest,” you replied. “No work tonight.”

She nodded. She seemed surprised but grateful. You gave her a nod as well. “Make yourself comfortable,” you told her. 

Then, as you turned to climb the stairs, her voice halted you.

“Please don’t send me back,” she begged. Her voice was frail and trembled. 

You turned to meet her eyes—worn, weary, yet pleading—and your heart was torn to pieces. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you said. You pondered on what could have comforted her but chose to leave it. Nothing could have given her security, only time.

When she was finally left alone, Sullyoon took the deepest breath of her life. She was almost afraid to let the air fill her lungs with the freedom you were letting her have. She wanted to believe you. She wanted to believe you were the gift that the sky had given her in exchange for her pains. For the first time in weeks, she let her satchel slip from her shoulder. It hit the floor with a soft thud. She sat down on the edge of the bed. 

And for once, she could breathe.

When she heard your footsteps leave the floor, she let herself go down on the bed. It was as if all the clouds in the sky had gathered under her back in a warm embrace. She hasn’t felt such softness since she was held in her mother’s arms. It was like a miracle. It must have been a dream. She had to wake up or she’d cry in the morning, again.

Her mother used to tell her that miracles always happened to good people. But she wasn’t a good person, was she? She always got things wrong, and her masters always beat her up for it. Surely, she was a bad person; otherwise, they’d never beat her, right?

While you left the girl in her room, you made your way back into the garden. You wanted to take a look at the sky before doing anything else. However, you were greeted at the sight of the gentleman again.

“You’re still here, John?” you asked.

“My lord, sorry, I’m packing up in preparation,” he said. “I’ll leave immediately.”

“No, no, that is not what I meant,” you corrected yourself. “Do you want to come in? I have some food and drinks inside. You have traveled a lot after all.”

“I wish I could, my lord but I’m in quite a hurry,” he said. “I stopped by your mansion because it was on the path but I have to go to the next kingdom as soon as possible.”

“In that case,” you said. “Wait a moment, please.”

You ran inside and took out the pie and cookies you had prepared the other day, and a bottle of beer and wrapped them in a cloth. You went back outside and gave it to John. He looked surprised at first but then smiled widely.

“Please accept this, it will accompany you on your journey.”

“Oh, my lord, you’re too kind, like you have always been. Thank you.” John accepted your gift with jittery hands and quickly stuffed it in his leather bag.

“That said,” you started, brushing your hands. “Do you have like a… dress? For a servant?”

“For the slave?” he said.

“Well, yeah, the girl.”

“I do have some simple shirts here… I think she might fit in them,” he said taking something out from his carriage. “There’s always somebody who might want to buy them so I always carry them with me… here it is.” He took out a gown, a corset, and some shoes.

“Well that should be fine, I guess.”

“Oh, I have a cap as well.”

“That’s perfect,” you said and got your purse. “I think this should do.”

“Oh, no, please, my lord,” he exclaimed. “I will not let you pay. This is a gift. You have done enough for me, so many investments, it would be an insult to make you pay. Please take it.”

“Very well. They have a good trip, John.”

“Thank you very much, till the next time.” 

John departed. You only had a few memories about the gentleman and had to shake your memories to jot back up the other ones. Nothing seemed to have changed. He was still the same joyful, quirky man that you had met years ago. Still working hard, relentlessly.

You ran back up. The girl heard your heels clacking on the hardwood. She immediately stood up, put her satchel in a more presentable position, and awaited you in front of her room. A maid wasn’t allowed to laze around. 

Reaching her room, you were puzzled by her strange behavior. She was upright against the wall, staring blankly at the wall.

“Hey, so I got you some new clothes,” you said and gave them to her. 

Her eyes moved down to the white cloth in your hands. She nodded and looked at you, waiting for an order. Then she looked at them again, realizing they actually were for her.

Her eyes widened, shimmering with disbelief as she stared at the neatly folded clothes in your hands. For a moment, she didn’t move; she just stood there, frozen, as if the world had briefly stopped turning. Her lips parted slightly, trembling with words she couldn’t quite form. Then, almost shyly, her hands reached out, hesitant, as though she feared the kindness might vanish if she touched it. A soft gasp escaped her, and her voice, barely more than a whisper, carried both awe and quiet gratitude:

“F-For me? I… I’ve never…”

Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and a gentle, almost disbelieving smile slowly bloomed. “Thank you very much, master.” 

When she finally took them, she held them against her chest—not protectively, but tenderly, like they were something precious.

“Anyways, I have a bath down the hall. You can go there and wash up.” 

Her disbelief continued but you quickly left before she could question the words that had entered her ears.

The girl took everything in her hands and went in the direction you pointed. She was overwhelmed by your kindness, which she had never received, for most of her life.

Steam fogged the mirror and curled up from the copper tub in slow, visible breaths. A folded cloth lay beside it—clean, soft, white—and a bar of soap that smelled faintly of lavender. There was no bark in the water, no sting of lye, no frozen bite. Only quiet warmth.

She didn’t move at first. Her hands trembled in her lap, curled inward like they might claw back the memory of cold stone floors and cracked nails.

In the last house, water was punishment. Poured cold in the early dark, scrubbed in silence until her skin burned and bled, always watched. There had been no privacy. No soap unless she stole it. She learned not to feel.

“Take your time,” you said, your voice so mild it made her flinch. You kept a stove in the bathroom as well, since you didn’t want to go back and forth to the kitchen. Luckily for both of her, it was that time of the day when you washed up, so there was already boiling water on the stove. You mixed it with lukewarm water in the basin so she wouldn’t burn.

You didn’t stay, you left her alone to herself after showing her everything she needed in the bathroom and closed the door behind you.

She rose slowly. Her fingers hovered over the basin. Then she touched it.

Warm.

Real.

A sound left her—half gasp, half laugh, the kind no one taught her to make. She pulled her hands back as if she’d done something wrong. Waited. No door opened. No voice shouted. The warmth clung to her fingers.

She dipped them again, then her wrists, then leaned forward and buried her face in her wet palms. And there, in the small wooden room, alone for the first time in what felt like years, she cried—not from pain, but from the terrifying unfamiliarity of comfort.

When she finally undressed and stepped into the bath, she did it slowly, reverently. As though the water might vanish if she moved too quickly. She washed herself in silence, not knowing where to begin or how she were a person who deserved this.

But when she emerged, her skin flushed pink and her hair smelling of herbs, she stood a little straighter. Just a little.

When she was done, she went out to the hallway with her old clothes in her hands and simply stood there. She didn’t know what to do. No order, no task to complete, no other maid to tend to. Hearing your rustling in the other room, she figured she might have to ask you.

She stood in the doorway like a shadow that hadn’t decided whether to enter.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting amber light across the wooden floor. The stew simmered on the table, thick with root vegetables and herbs—its scent rich and foreign. You had set two bowls and two spoons. Her hands twisted into her skirts.

She stood in front of you, bathed in the soft light from the hallway, the simple white clothes draping gently over her frame. They weren't extravagant, just clean, fresh, and unmistakably hers now. The white gave her a new innocence, instead of the torn grey drapes that she was wearing when you first met her.

Her eyes met yours, uncertain but open, searching for a sign—approval, maybe.

“It looks really good on you,” you said with a warm smile. Her cheeks blushed.

“Thank you really much.”

“It seems to be a bit big though. Well, it wasn’t really tailored for you.”

“No, it’s perfectly fine, master.”

“Come here, I’ll be ready in a second,” you said, turning back to the pot to taste the stew you had just finished cooking. She didn’t move. Perhaps she didn’t realize you were talking about dinner—her dinner. She was used to stale bread, scraps, and whatever was left behind. 

So she stood there silently, unsure, confused. She didn’t ask—afraid that it could have irritated you.

The firelight flickered low in the modest kitchen, casting long shadows that danced across the dark wooden walls. She stood near the worn wooden table, hands folded tightly before her, eyes fixed on the scuffed floorboards. You watched her quietly from the doorway.

Finally, you spoke, low and gentle, careful not to startle. “May I ask your name?”

There was a question in her eyes, unspoken but impossible to miss. “Why?”

You stepped forward, slowly, making no move to close the distance too quickly. “If you prefer, I don’t have to call you anything at all. But I would like to. It makes things easier… for me.” 

The smallest tremor shook her frame. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “Sullyoon.”

You nodded once, “Sullyoon. I’m glad to know it.”

For the first time since she arrived, she lifted her gaze to meet yours. “You can sit,” you said gently, motioning to the chair in front of you.

She didn’t move.

“It's for you,” you added, pointing at the plate on the table. “It’ll go cold.”

She stepped forward like someone crossing into sacred ground. Her fingers grazed the back of the chair before she dared to pull it out. The legs scraped faintly on the floor, and she winced at the sound.

You served her a ladleful first, then yourself.

Steam coiled up from the bowl—thick, fragrant, unfamiliar. She stared into it like it might be a trick or a test. Then she looked at you, and there was something close to pleading in her voice when she whispered: “I don’t… I don’t know what it is.”

“Just stew,” you said, not looking at her too hard. “Carrots, turnip, a bit of venison. Nothing special.”

She wrapped her fingers around the bowl, just to feel the heat. Her eyes went glassy. Her hands didn’t shake—but only because she was holding herself so tightly together, she had no spare strength left to tremble.

You took a bite, casually, so she’d know it was safe. Only then did she lift the spoon. Clumsily. The first mouthful nearly made her choke. Not because it was too hot, or too strange—but because she had never tasted anything like it. You stared at her, looking at her weird gestures.

She chewed slowly and swallowed slower. Her shoulders stiffened like she expected to be struck by the sound. Then, after the second bite, her eyes welled. She set the spoon down. Not roughly. Reverently.

“I don’t deserve this,” she said in a voice that cracked. Her shoulders shrank.

You didn’t reach for her; she might have flinched like before. Didn’t correct her. You only replied, soft and without ceremony: “You deserve it. You deserve to be fed, everyone does.”

Silence stretched for a long moment, broken only by the quiet clink of  your spoon against the bowl. Then, slowly, she picked up her spoon again. Her mouth moved—almost imperceptibly—into a shape that might one day become a smile.

You continued to eat quietly. She didn’t say anything nor lift her eyes.

II. First days

The first time you saw her washing linen at the stone basin, the sun had not yet reached your windows. You had woken out of habit—there was something about the air just before sunrise that always pulled you from sleep. Outside, the forest was slowly earning the name of the morning. Mist curled along the ground, brushing against the cottage walls, and the trees murmured with the soft voices of waking birds.

She was already working. Of course she was.

She looked small and rigid. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, half hidden beneath a plain brown dress that hung too loosely on her frame. She stood at the basin carved into the back wall of the house, scrubbing shirts in icy water with quick, almost angry strokes. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, her forearms red from the cold.

You didn’t intend to sneak up on her—but you moved quietly by habit. Insects don’t care for boots or sudden motion. You stopped under the old oak in the garden, arms full of pressed ferns wrapped in muslin. You were supposed to bring them inside, but something about the steady rhythm of the fabric against the stone held you in place.

She didn’t react to your presence. Either she hadn’t heard you—or, more likely, she had and chose not to respond. Servants were taught not to acknowledge presence unless spoken to.

You cleared your throat.

Her hands froze, suddenly and sharply. The linen twisted in her grip. Her shoulders tensed as if bracing for instruction—or something worse. Then she turned. Her eyes were wide and unsure.

“Good morning, master,” she said softly and dipped her head in a small bow.

“Good morning, Sullyoon,” you said. “Uh… you may use warm water. If it helps.”

Her voice was quiet, rough from disuse. “Thank you.”

That simple word made something tighten in your chest.

A few silent seconds passed. She resumed scrubbing—not with less effort, but with less violence.

You turned toward the moss patch beneath the elm, kneeling to unwrap your bundle. The maidenhair fern curled like a sleeping creature, damp with morning air. You dipped your pen into ink and began to sketch it in your notebook, trying not to glance too often at her hands.

You both continued your work, side by side in silence. You found yourself curious about her. You hoped she didn’t mind you sitting nearby. You hoped she didn’t think you were strange for that. But she showed no reaction—not a single flicker of thought. You weren’t exactly worried… but it wasn’t a good sign either.

It felt like trying to speak to a wall.

You went on with your day in complete silence. Sullyoon minded her own business. Somehow, she always found something to do. 

In the afternoon, you went back to your studio to complete your notes. The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, casting long, dappled shadows across the polished wooden floor. The study was quiet, save for the soft scrape of cloth on wood. 

Being the clumsy person you were, you spilled a whole bottle of ink on the floor. 

You were on your knees, sleeves rolled up, rubbing at a stubborn stain on the floorboards. The room was sparse, but orderly bookshelves lined with well-thumbed volumes, a sturdy desk cluttered with notes and dried flowers, a simple bed neatly made in the corner.

This was the sort of space your uncle would have loved.

You probably got your character from him. Like you, he didn’t care much for aristocratic life. The rigid etiquette, the hollow smiles at those strange gatherings where everyone pretended to adore one another. The constant presence of servants, hovering like shadows, waiting to tie your shoes or pour your drink—as if you were some fragile, incompetent child. He always said it dulled the instincts. That it made people soft.

Your father had called him a wild cat, but he secretly admired him. He’d vanish into the woods for days and return carrying the carcass of some animal he’d tracked, or a satchel of strange roots and herbs no one could name. “You should do things for yourself,” he once told you, handing you a knife that felt far too large for your hands. 

“Because when the people you depend on are gone, what will you do then?”

He taught you how to hunt a rabbit, which, thinking about it, wasn’t the best thing to teach a seven-year-old. But more than that, he taught you responsibility—real responsibility. That if you broke something, you fixed it. No excuses. No waiting around for someone else to clean up after you.

Which was why you were here now, scrubbing the floor like a fool because you’d been careless enough not to tighten the cap of your flask. The ink had spilled and bled across the boards in a dark, blotchy mess. You could still smell it: metallic, bitter. And with every pass of the cloth, you muttered something under your breath that your uncle would’ve approved of but your mother definitely wouldn’t.

Your knees ached. Your fingers were cramping. But you didn’t stop. This was yours to fix.

Sullyoon paused at the doorway, watching quietly. Her eyes followed the steady movement of your hands, the way you bent low to the floor with focused care. No one wearing a shirt like that had ever knelt like this before, and no one had ever rolled up the sleeves of such a fine shirt.

He’s cleaning. Without asking me.He thinks I’m useless. That I can’t even do the smallest thing right.

Her heart pounded. She could not bear to be seen as idle, or worse, a disappointment. Before you noticed, she stepped inside, clutching a worn cloth she’d found folded in a drawer. “Let me,” she said, voice trembling. “I should be doing this.”

You glanced up, “Huh?”

She dropped to her knees beside you, hands shaking as she took the cloth. She scrubbed at the floor, willing herself to do it faster, better—anything to erase the doubt, the shame that sat heavily on her like a stone.

You watched her for a moment longer, then spoke softly: “You… you don’t have to, I was doing it.”

She bit her lip, refusing to meet your eyes. “I must. It is my duty.”

“Thank you Sullyoon, I appreciate it, but I made this stain, I have to clean it myself,” you said but she didn’t budge and kept her hands glued to the floor. You touched her shoulder to get her to stand up but it was useless. She was convinced. Only then did you notice how skinny she was; you could feel her bones.

You got up and sighed. “Thank you again, Sullyoon. I’ll leave you to it.”

Sullyoon was broken. You understood it from the very first moment you saw her, but you didn’t completely grasp its severity until you started living with her. You felt bad for her and you hated being the reason why she was so restless. 

You were cooking again this evening when it happened again. 

You told her that you’d be the one making the dinner while Sullyoon would be putting away the washed cups. She handled the dishes like they were relics. She cleaned them, dried them, and polished them, giving them the attention that you never did.

Then came the sound.  Small—barely more than a clink—but sharp enough to cut through the soft rhythm of your stirring.

You turned just in time to see the cup slip from her hand and fall. It struck the stone floor with a crisp, brittle crack, then burst—blue and white shards scattering across the tiles like startled birds.

Before you could even speak, she dropped to her knees.

“I—I’m sorry, sir—I’ll pay for it, I swear—I’ll fix it, just please—” Her voice was thin and panicked, words tumbling too fast. She was already reaching for the pieces, heedless of the sharp edges, her breath shallow and wild. She cut herself. Blood bloomed along her thumb, but she didn’t react, she was in complete panic.

You set the spoon down and stepped forward. “Sullyoon, no…”

The moment your voice reached her, she flinched—hard. As if struck. As if she expected to be. And when you reached out instinctively, just to help, she recoiled with wide, frightened eyes. She stared at your palm as if a blade was being lowered on her neck.

Your hand froze in the air.

And then, slowly, you did something else. You stepped in and wrapped your arms around her—not tightly, not forcefully. Just enough. You couldn’t do anything else. She had to know. She was safe.

She stiffened at first. You were absolutely still and didn’t let go.

“It’s okay,” you murmured into her hair. “It’s just a cup. It’s all right.”

For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Then—slowly—her fingers, still streaked with blood and trembling, curled slightly into the fabric of your shirt.

You held her in silence. Not to fix everything. Just to let her know nothing else would fall apart today. Not here. Not now. You pulled back only when she did, just enough to meet her eyes.

“There’s a bandage in the drawer,” you said softly, nodding toward the cabinet. “But you can use my handkerchief if you’d rather.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice trembling. She was fidgeting with her fingers, and tears were pooling on her eyelids. “It must have cost a lot.”

“No, it didn’t,” you said. “It’s just a cup, it’s not important. It happens. We make mistakes.”

“I’m terribly sorry, I stained your shirt with my blood.”

“It’s okay, you can clean it later” 

She didn’t answer. But her gaze lingered. Not direct. Just enough. And in it, you saw something fragile and flickering, like the wick of a candle just catching flame. She didn’t trust you yet. But for the first time, she didn’t fear you.

III. Connections

The sun filtered lazily through the tall windows, draping long lines of gold across the floorboards. Dust swirled like pollen in the beams of light, and the soft scritch of a broom was the only sound in the room.

She swept slowly, carefully around the cluttered corners of the study—shelves burdened with books, small rocks labeled in neat handwriting, glass jars filled with dried herbs and oddities. The air smelled faintly of ink, old wood, and lavender crushed long ago between pages.

You were sitting on the floor by the fireplace, head bowed over something in your lap. She might have ignored you—she usually did when you were immersed in your own silence—but the way you held the little bundle in your hands caught her eye. 

She paused, tilting her head. She took a long breath and spoke to you: “…Are those flowers, sir?”

You looked up, blinking as if returning from a long dream. A faint smile curved your mouth. “They were. Now they’re bookmarks.”

“Bookmarks?” she questioned.

You lifted a small cloth-wrapped book from your lap and turned it toward her. “Pressed specimens,” you said. “Wild orchids, mostly. Some foxglove, a few I haven’t named yet. I gather them when they bloom and dry them between pages.” You flipped the book open carefully, revealing delicate silhouettes flattened and faded, their once-vivid petals like ghosts of color.

She stepped forward, broom forgotten. “You keep them in books? On purpose?”

“Absolutely. Some men press their legacy into ledgers; I press mine into my herbariums.” You glanced up at Sullyoon. “So that they can learn about themselves.”

Her laugh was soft, surprised, imperceptible. A hum at most.

“They’re beautiful,” she said, fingers hovering near the open page but not touching. “I didn’t know they’d keep their shape like that.”

“Sit here beside me, Sullyoon,” you said. Immediately she obeyed, folding her skirt neatly between her legs and sitting on the floor. She looked at the book open in your hands.

“Some fall apart,” you admitted. “Some stain the paper too much. But the patient ones stay.” Your tone was casual, but something about the way you said it made her calm down.

She met your eyes and didn’t look away this time.

“I think you’d like the marsh violets,” you added. “They grow in shadows and low water, but bloom all the same.”

She listened and gave you a small nod. “I might.”

A pause settled between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Her apron was damp at the hem, and her hair had fallen slightly out of its pins. She didn’t fix it.

You pointed to one of the flowers in the book. “That one there? I found it half-crushed beneath a deer’s print. Saved what I could. I thought it was ruined, but look how the stem curved when it dried.”

She studied the page, then said softly, “Still lovely.”

“A bit like some people I know,” you said, then cleared your throat as if embarrassed by your own sincerity. “Not naming names, of course.”

She laughed again—this time, a little louder. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like that in front of a man.

“Have you ever pressed one yourself?” you asked.

She shook her head. “I’ve only pulled weeds”

“Then let’s change that,” you said and stood up. “Let’s go to the woods. You’ll choose your own flowers.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. Come.”

Sullyoon hesitated before putting the broom down and shuffled behind you. 

The woods were quiet in the late afternoon, touched by that soft, golden hour when the light slants through the trees and everything seems to pause. The birds had grown quieter, and only the occasional breeze rustled through the canopy overhead, brushing against your cheeks like a whisper.

You walked a little ahead, basket in one hand and the herbarium in the other. Sullyoon followed behind—quiet, as always, but no longer shrinking. Her footsteps were light on the moss, almost inaudible, but they didn’t hesitate the way they used to.

“This way,” you said, nudging a low branch aside for her to pass. “There are plenty of flowers you can pick.”

She blinked up at you, uncertain.

“Just pick a couple,” you added. “If you see anything you like. We’ll bring them back and press them in parchment between books. They’ll last forever that way.”

She hesitated, then nodded softly. You watched her eyes wander to the forest floor—ferns uncurling at the base of trees, clusters of pale bellflowers, wild violets tangled in the roots.

You didn’t speak much. You didn’t need to. You just wandered with her, pointing out little things along the way. A dew-wet spiderweb stretched between two brambles. A patch of moss that smelled like rain. A quiet clearing where blue stars bloomed low to the earth.

She knelt suddenly.

Her fingers hovered over a cluster of soft, peach-pink wood sorrel growing in the shade of a fallen log. She didn’t pick them—just studied them for a long moment, as if unsure she had the right to touch something so delicate.

“You can take a few,” you said gently. “They won’t mind.”

She glanced at you, then carefully snipped one with the shears you handed her. Then another. And another. Her hands were slow and deliberate, treating each stem like a secret. With time, you began to pick flowers with your bare hands, but Sullyoon didn’t act this way. She was deliberate and gentle.

By the time the light began to fade, your basket was half-full with the things she chose. Nothing bright or showy—just soft, quiet flowers. The kind people usually overlook.

You didn’t say anything, but you noticed.

Back in the mansion, you laid them on the table and took them one by one between the books that you reserved for her. “Put it here.”

She hesitated. “Won’t I ruin it?”

“If it happens, let it happen,” you reassured her. “But your hands are way more gentle than mine so don’t worry about it.”

You guided her through the steps—folding the parchment, arranging the bloom, pressing it between two pages. “What if it comes out all crumpled?” she asked.

You smiled. “Then we call it art and pretend it was meant to be.”

She smiled quietly and stared at the flowers. She felt a subtle connection with them. The phrase lingered in her ears as if the words were about her.

You did it again the next day. Sullyoon asked you with such a gentle voice that you dropped everything you were doing and ran outside.

The day was warm enough that the breeze smelled of sap and soil, soft and green like something just woken. She followed you, her boots crunching gently over pine needles. You told her there was a place you wanted to show her—a clearing, tucked behind the ridge, where the trees gave way to open sky and the ground was covered in wildflowers.

She didn’t know what to expect. You continued to describe it with excitement and wonder but she didn’t relieve you. Not until the trees suddenly parted and they stepped into a world that looked as though it had spilled from a painting.

A carpet of color stretched out before them—blues, golds, whites, and purples swaying in the light like a quiet celebration. Butterflies darted low, undisturbed. Somewhere, a lark sang into the sky.

She stopped dead. Her mouth parted slightly, but no words came out. You stepped into the clearing. The flowers brushed against her skirts, and she turned slowly, her fingers grazing the tops as though afraid they might vanish.

“How did you find this?” she asked.

“I got lost once,” you said. “Found something better than the path back.”

She looked at you. You were standing with your arms crossed, head tilted to the sky, the sunlight catching in your hair. It was like the sun was hugging its long-lost son, and you were telling him about all the things it missed about the night sky. Sullyoon was enchanted. 

Then you stepped forward—overconfident on the uneven ground—and your boot caught on a root hidden under the grass.

You pitched forward with a startled grunt, arms flailing. There was no dramatic recovery. Just a loud, undignified thud as you hit the earth.

For half a second, she froze—her old instincts flaring. Then, unexpectedly, a sound escaped her—a single, breathless laugh. Then another. And then she was laughing, truly laughing, the sound bubbling out of her like water from a long-clogged spring.

You rolled over onto your back and looked up at her.

She quickly covered her mouth, mortified. “I’m—I’m so sorry—sir—”

But you were already grinning, one hand behind his head as if reclining on purpose. “Don’t you dare apologize for that,” you said gently.

She blinked.

“That laugh,” you said, “was worth every bruised rib.”

A blush crept up her neck.

You sat up slowly, brushing pollen from his sleeves. “I hadn’t heard it before. Thought maybe you still haven’t learned to laugh”

“I didn’t know I did either,” she said softly, surprised by her own honesty.

The two of you sat there in the grass, surrounded by the hush and hum of flowers. You plucked a stem of clover and rolled it between your fingers. “I know you weren’t allowed to laugh,” you said after a while. “But I hope you’ll do it more. Even if it’s at my expense.”

She looked down at her hands, then back at you. “I might,” she said. And then she smiled.

IV. Nightmares

The house is completely silent, and so is the outside, if not for the calm breeze of the night. All animals are asleep, and you have told your maid to go to sleep first while you finish your work.

Sullyoon lies curled on the narrow bed, her thin frame trembling beneath a threadbare blanket. The chill in the air does nothing to quiet the storm raging inside her mind. The pupils under her eyelids spin and flutter, her limbs are tensed, and sweat pours down her forehead.

She remembers the cold floor of the basement, the smell of the moldy walls, and the sound of dripping water. The cane is raised high, a looming shadow falling over her small body. Orders, insults, screams—they all come back. The pain sears her skin, but worse is the silence. The suffocating, unbearable silence. She has not been allowed to cry, or to speak, or to exist in any way that is truly her own.

Suddenly, a strangled scream tears from her lips—raw, involuntary, and desperate. It shatters the stillness of the night like porcelain on stone.

You immediately stand up from your desk and listen carefully. It is definitely from inside your mansion. Robbers?

You move swiftly through the hallway, guided by the flicker of candlelight and the urgency in your steps. At her door, you knock once and open it.

“Are you awake?” you ask, trying to be as gentle as possible but still worried.

Inside, Sullyoon sits upright, heart pounding, breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Shadows dance at the edges of her vision, and her fingers clutch at the blanket. She turns around, and when she sees you, relief washes over her. She takes deep breaths.

“I… I cannot sleep,” she whispers, barely audible.

The door opens slowly.

You step in, candle in hand, its warm glow softening the harsh edges of the room. “May I come in?”

She nods, unable to find her voice again.

You cross the room carefully and sit at the edge of the bed, leaving space between you. “Did you have a nightmare, Sullyoon? Was it… a past memory?”

“Yeah, it was,” she says apologetically. She has been working on herself these past weeks to not bother you again, yet here you are, awake, having to tend to her again. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It could have happened to anyone. Especially you, after what you had been through.”

“I tried to forget, like you told me, but I don’t know why, tonight…”

“It’s okay, we’ll just have to give you more happy memories to remember instead,” you say. You sit down beside her on the bed. You figure it could make her more comfortable. Sullyoon scoots herself closer to you and sheepishly looks at you.

“Thank you for being here,” she says. “You have always been so kind to me.”

“You’re safe here,” you say. “No one will hurt you.”

Her throat tightens, and for a moment, she can’t speak. “The nightmares…” she whispers finally, “They come when the house is quiet. I always try to keep myself busy because of that.”

You nod. “Would it help to talk about them?”

She doesn’t speak right away. Her eyes are distant, unfocused, as though looking past the walls of the cottage into a place far colder and darker. Her hands, which have been trembling on her lap, grip the edge of her nightgown.

You can see the hesitation in her shoulders and the stiffness in her posture. Her breath hitches. She is trying to push it down but can’t anymore.

Then she lets the words spill, halting and rough. Her voice comes in fragments, not full words at first but broken letters. The way her lips curl slightly in disgust at the memory, the way her eyes blink hard as everything flashes before her pupils—you understand.

“They beat me for looking wrong. Speaking wrong. For breathing wrong. I wasn’t allowed to cry or rest. I had to be what they wanted. A shadow. Not a person. And sometimes… it was worse.”

Your heart aches, but your expression doesn’t shift. Only your hand moves, slowly, until it rests lightly over hers. Sullyoon takes it and holds it tight. It gives her courage.

There has been pain. Not the kind that bruises the skin alone, but the kind that creeps into the deepest parts of a person—their dignity, their voice, their sense of worth. There has been punishment for things so small, so human, that to remember them now makes her seem ashamed of having once hoped to be treated kindly.

And there has been silence. Long silences. She has no one to talk to, not a pen to write it down, not a hand to hold. She is trained to stay silent and obey. She shrinks herself smaller and smaller until even her thoughts feel too loud.

“I have to confess, sir,” she starts again, after a long pause. “When I learned that they were going to send me to a new master, I was fearing for my life. If my previous master was this cruel, who knew what my next master would have been like?”

“John brought you here, didn’t he?” you ask.

“Yes. My old master died, and afterward, I was sold along with the other slaves. You call me your maid—which feels like a very noble title to me—but where I came from, we didn’t have such names. And yes, John bought me and brought me here.”

Sullyoon takes another pause and this time her grip lightens. “You surprised me, master. You gave me nicer food on my first night than I’ve ever received during my whole life. And you gave me a room, a bed to sleep in, clothes… I couldn’t believe what was happening.”

“Those were the bare minimums,” you say.

“That’s what you believe in because your heart was so pure,” she points out, “but for me, they were a miracle.” She leans closer to you. “I know I was tense the first few days, but I thought punishment was just waiting for me.”

Sullyoon now looks you directly in the eyes. “And when I broke that cup, I was terrified. Breaking something is the worst thing a slave can do and instead, you hugged… me. That was the first time in my life someone had ever hugged me and it happened when I broke something. I don’t even remember my parents hugging me…”

You smile and turn to face her directly, holding her shoulders with your hands. You hug her. Because she needs it now more than ever. She melts right into your arms, a quiet sob leaving her lips. You pat her head and try to make her feel as safe as possible. She does.

“It feels unreal every time,” she says.

“I will be here every time you need it,” you tell her. “Don’t even ask.”

In the days after the nightmare, something shifted between them. It wasn’t sudden, it was a feeling. Silence no longer felt strained. She no longer flinched when you entered a room. Her shoulders, once tense, began to soften in your presence. When you spoke, she met your eyes more often. Briefly at first, then loner.

You didn’t force her to do anything. You didn’t pry. Instead, you showed her day by day that you cared about her. You’d leave a thicker blanket by her door on colder days, a sprig of dried lavender tucked into her cupboard, books by her nightstand. 

When she dropped something, you’d help her pick it up without comment. At first, she still felt fear when it happened but slowly, she started to smile.

Sometimes, she would sit near you as you sketched plants or wrote notes. She said little, but her presence was steady, and one day, she fell asleep in the chair beside you. It wouldn’t have meant much if it was anyone else but for you, it was huge. You didn’t wake her, you just adjusted the blanket so her shoulders wouldn’t chill. When she stirred and her eyes met yours, she panicked. 

“Sorry! I’m so sorry! I fell asleep,” she would say and bow over and over.

You just chuckled and told her it wasn’t a big deal. It just showed that she felt comfortable around you and she needed that rest anyways.

It wasn’t long before her steps took her to your room on the quiet nights when the dreams came back. She would stand in the doorway with the pillow in her hands, making her small in the shadow of the door. She didn’t ask but she hoped you’d take her. You would always move aside and make room for her. She never spoke much on those nights but sometimes she would hold your hand until sleep returned to her. Other times, she would rest her head against your shoulder so that your breaths would guide her back to calm.

Then Sullyoon became more needy.

On a late morning, she stood in the doorway of the study, hands clasped in front of her apron. She had just finished tidying the herb jars, lined them up perfectly by species and potency, just as you liked them. She lingered there, hesitant, watchin you work. She was fidgeting around with the hem and only looked down.

When you noticed her, you smiled, “They look perfect, Sullyoon, thank you.”

Her fingers tightened slightly. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

You tilted your head. “Is something wrong?”

She shook her head quickly. “No it’s just…” Then her voice dropped in a barely audible whisper. “May I… have a hug?”

You blinked once, then set the pen down without a word and crossed the room. Your arms opened without hesitation. She stepped into them with caution but she melted into your embrace as soon as she made contact. Her hands clutched the back of your shirted, face hidden in your shoulder. You swore you could hear her purr.

“You never asked before,” you murmured into her hair. “But I’m glad you did.”

From then, it became more usual. She still didn’t want to be too much of a bother so she only asked it when she did big tasks or after a lot of time. When she swept the entire house and cut the weeds of the garden, she would appear at your side a half-hidden smile and her hands between her ribbons. You would chuckle softly and open your arms.

When she learnt the names of every plant in your collection or finally managed to bake the spiced bread without burning it, she’d look up to you, eyes bright, and murmur, “Do I get a hug now?”

You always said yes.

And sometimes, after she completed a task with extra care, you’d rest a hand gently on her head, brushing her hair back and say, “Well done.” She never said much when you did it, but her eyes always fluttered shut for a moment, and her lips curled into the most contented smile. You always gave her headpats when she looked cute, which was most of the time you saw her.

Sullyoon had gone to the city a couple of times to buy you bread and other groceries before. But it was never for herself. So one time, you tagged alone with her. The town was right at the bottom of your hill so it was about a half an hour walk. The people were lovely, friendly and bright. Most of them were your friends and your name was common knowledge at this opint.

When you arrived, she hesitated at the edge of the main square. Every thursday, there was a big market where the streets became alive with voices, bells, and carts full of summer goods. Her eyes swept across the stalls and storefronts, it never looked this lively.

You offered your arm and she took it to anchor herself.

“I brought you here to buy you something,” you said as you passed the tailor’s window. “You’ve been working hard, and you deserve rewards. Whenever you want something, just ask me.”

Her gaze flicked up to you, startled. “But… I don’t need anything.”

“That’s not the same as not wanting anything.”

She looked away again, uncertain. You didn't press her, only guided her toward the dressmaker’s shop. Inside, it was quiet and warm, sunlight pooling on polished floorboards and bolts of fabric spilling like rivers from their shelves.

The seamstress welcomed you both and stepped aside as Sullyoon took cautious steps around the room.

“Hey, how are you doing?” the seamstress said to you. “Need me to reinforce your pants again? I told you that all that squatting would tear them.”

“Shhh shhh—don’t say that with her here,” you quickly shut her.

“Ohhhhh… sorry about that,” she laughed. “Who is she?”

“She’s my maid.” Sullyoon’s fingers hovered over a bolt of lavender linen, then pulled back before they touched it. 

“You can touch them, you know,” you said, smiling. “You’re allowed, right?”

“Yes, of course,” said the seamstress.

She blinked, hesitated, then finally ran her fingertips along the fabric. Something in her shoulders eased.

The seamstress brought down a few samples and quietly asked Sullyoon to pick a color she liked. After a long pause, she pointed to a pale blue cotton with a soft, woven texture. “That one,” she said quietly. “It reminds me of the sky outside your study window.”

You nodded, pleased. “That’s a fine choice.”

As the seamstress took her measurements, Sullyoon stood still and straight, clearly unsure how to react to being fussed over. But when she stepped out from behind the curtain in a simple try-on dress—light and neat, with a ribbon tied carefully at her waist—you saw her glance into the mirror and pause.

“I… I don’t look like me,” she said under her breath.

“You look like someone becoming herself,” you said.

Her cheeks flushed faintly.

“Yes, I think it’s beautiful. It’s perfect, what do you think?”

“I like it too,” Sullyoon said.

The seamstress folded the chosen fabric with care, wrapping it in brown paper and tying it neatly with twine. Sullyoon stood beside you, her hands clasped in front of her, gaze lowered but flickering with something close to awe.

She hadn’t asked for it. Hadn’t even dared to suggest it. But when you saw the way her fingers lingered on that pale blue cloth, the way she tried not to seem too interested, you knew.

You stepped forward, drawing your coin pouch from your coat.

“I’ll take this one,” you said to the seamstress, nodding toward the fabric. “And the fitting for the dress we discussed. Please make it simple, but well-fitted. Something she can move in.”

Sullyoon’s head lifted slightly, eyes wide.

The seamstress gave you a nod, already scribbling notes. “It’ll be ready in three days. Sooner if I can help it.”

As the payment exchanged hands, Sullyoon shifted beside you. “Wait… you’re buying it?”

You turned to her, gentle. “Of course. I said you could choose something.”

“I didn’t think you meant it.”

“I did,” you said softly. “You deserve rewards. Whenever you want something, just ask me.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. Just a breath—a fragile, disbelieving breath—as she stared at the wrapped parcel the seamstress handed to you.

You turned and offered it to her, holding it out with both hands like something delicate. “Here. It’s yours.”

She reached for it slowly, like it might vanish if she moved too fast. Her fingers brushed yours as she took it, and her hands trembled just faintly as she cradled the package to her chest.

“I’ve never… had something new,” she murmured. “Something just for me.”

You smiled. “Now you do.”

As you stepped outside into the street again, the wind lifted a strand of her hair. She looked back over her shoulder once at the shopfront, then ahead, holding the little bundle close like it might anchor her to the moment.

And maybe, in a way, it did.

V. It’s love

The rain had been falling gently for hours, painting silver lines down the windows and filling the house with the steady hush of water and wind. Evening had settled in, soft and dim, with only a few candles lit in the sitting room where you sat reading by the hearth.

Not a lot of work to do today, so Sullyoon had plenty of time for herself to think.

Sullyoon lingered in the hallway.

You noticed her there—partially hidden by the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the wall as if steadying herself. Her hair was braided loosely over one shoulder, damp at the ends from the short dash back from the woodshed earlier, where she’d gone to bring in more kindling. She was still in her blue dress, but something in her eyes made her look entirely different.

“Is something wrong?” you asked gently, setting the book aside.

She hesitated. Then stepped into the room, fingers twisting the edge of her sleeve.

“No,” she said softly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

You waited.

“I…” Her voice caught, and she tried again, quieter. “I wanted to ask if you could come to my room. There’s something I… I want to say.”

Your chest tightened at the trembling sincerity in her voice. She wasn’t afraid—not like before—but she was uncertain. Like someone offering a fragile thing into another’s hands, hoping it wouldn’t be broken.

“,Of course, whenever you need” you slowly stood up, careful not to startle her.

She turned, wordlessly, and led you through the narrow hallway. The candlelight flickered as you passed, shadows slipping across the floor. Her door was already open, and when she stepped inside, she paused near the bed and sat down. You did the same.

Her gaze was lowered. Her hands clasped in front of her skirt, knuckles pale.

“I’ve been thinking about something for a while,” she said. “But I didn’t know how to say it. Or if I should. But now I feel like… if I don’t say it, I’ll regret it.”

You took a small step closer, but said nothing.

“I’ve never had someone listen to me. Never had someone stay. And I don’t know how to be someone worth staying for…” Her voice faltered. “But when you’re kind to me, and when you trust me with little things, like the pressed flowers or your books or just—your company… it means more than I know how to say.”

You were close now. Not touching, just close.

“And I think,” she continued, barely louder than the rain, “that I’m starting to… love you. And it scares me. Because I don’t know what that’s supposed to look like.”

She finally lifted her eyes to yours.

“I just needed you to know.”

You took a slow breath, heart swelling with something warm and full. She stood there, vulnerable and brave all at once, the candlelight brushing soft gold across her cheekbones and the tremble of her lip.

You reached out gently, so she could see your hand coming, and touched her cheek with your knuckles—lightly, reverently. She didn’t flinch. Her eyes shimmered with something close to disbelief.

Then you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, your lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary, as if to seal something unspoken between you.

“I love you too, Sullyoon,” you said quietly.

It was not grand or dramatic. Just true.

Her breath hitched. Her hands, which had been clenched tightly against her skirt, slowly unfurled. Her shoulders loosened. A single tear slipped down her cheek—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming gentleness of the moment.

“You mean it?” she asked, almost like she was afraid to believe it.

“I do,” you said. “Not because you serve me. Not because you’ve been kind or quiet or patient. But because you’re you. And I’ve been falling for you without even realizing how deeply.”

“I’ve also- I’ve been thinking about the books in your library. I’ve read them and I wondered about what they called “love” and what two people do when they love each other.” Sullyoon gulps. Her insides are stirring and her head is starting to go haywire. But she holds your hand and speaks again. 

“Sullyoon…”

“I want to service you, Master. To show you my gratitude.”

“You don’t have to do that, Sullyoon. There are many ways you have to thank me. You should do it only with…”

“I know. But I want this too,” she confesses. “I remember that you said I should be rewarded as well. This is what I want, master, please.” Sullyoon’s breath is getting warmer. She gets closer to you, this time your shoulders touch, and you can feel the heat of her body.

“I want to be closer to you. A hug is no longer enough. If this feeling…”

“Love?”

“Yeah, love. If what I feel is truly love, I want you to take me, master.” Sullyoon swallows her last hesitation. “My body is scarred and damaged. So I understand if you don’t find me desirable. But I still wish to offer myself to you. This is all I have and I want you to have it.”

“Oh, Sullyoon, I do. And I feel honored that you have these feelings.” You say truthfully.

“Really?” She says. “Master… I will show you everything.”

She takes a deep breath and slowly takes off her clothes. First, her long socks, revealing her long, luscious legs, then her nightgown at once, finally revealing her white porcelain skin, shining under the moonlight. Her whole figure, slender and smooth, together with her small breasts, tempt you. Then you saw her scars. Most of them healed, but there were still marks, and some were deeply etched into her skin.

“H-here I am, all of me.”

Your hand gently brushes against them. You observe how her skin reacted and trembled. Sullyoon’s breath is irregular; she tries to hold it and is surprised by the chills that go down her spine.

“Sullyoon you are… beautiful.”

The girl gasped. “...what?! Me? Beautiful…?” She says, trembling. “You really think so? How could you?”

Your hand goes up to her cheek, brushing under her jaw, and you kiss her. Deeply. Because she wouldn’t have believed any other word that came out of your mouth, you just had to show her. Sullyoon accepts it wholeheartedly. She tries her best to kiss you back, moving her lips with yours, but it is her first time.

She doesn’t know what to do and just sits there, feeling your hands around her face and your lips lovingly kissing her like she never knew.

She looks straight into you, with love, desire, “Master… I feel like my heart is gonna jump out of my chest.”

Sullyoon smiles, and your heart flutters.

“Please, master, I want to do it. Sex, I mean. I want you to show me all of these feelings.” She begs you with the smallest of voices. A whisper. Seductive and pleading. “Please. Won’t you allow it?”

You couldn’t resist. How could you? “I will,” you simply say, trying to maintain your composure. She wants you badly but you only want her more. Now more than anything.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Just lie down, here on the bed,” you say, and pat the pillow next to you. Sullyoon follows, making herself comfortable, resting her hands on her belly. She trembles from anticipation.

“Now what—mmh” she’s interrupted by your kiss again. Her hands go on your shoulders as she welcomes you, pulling you in.

A soft gasp escapes Sullyoon's lips as your mouth travels down her neck, her back arching slightly in response. Her breath quickens, her chest rising and falling with increased rhythm.

Your hands come on her chest, caressing and fondling her small breasts. Your fingertips gently pinch one nipple while you massage the flesh of the other. With stimulation coming from two places, Sullyoon has a hard time keeping up with you and starts to whimper helplessly. She breathes deeply between your kisses to accommodate this new feeling.

Your fingers trace lower, skimming across her stomach. Sullyoon's hands tighten into fists, then slowly release. She bites her lower lip, attempting to stifle any further audible reactions.

"Please..." she whispers, though whether it's a plea for more or restraint is unclear. Her body remains mostly still but it’s reacting to every stimulation.

“Arch your back for me,” you whisper into her ear. She complies.

Sullyoon's breathing becomes more labored as you tug her underwear down her legs. She’s desperate. Your hands are so close and she’s so naked in front of you but it’s exactly where she wants to be. She looks at you with eagerness, yearning for your next move.

Once her panties are removed, she’s half-sitting on the cushion before you with legs parted, exposed, and vulnerable. Her expression is still controlled, but the flush on her cheeks deepens, and a bead of sweat trickles down her temple.

She slowly opens her legs wider. “I’m yours now, please do what you want, master.”Her voice wavers slightly, betraying her heightened state of arousal.

Very gently, you start rubbing her swollen clit. Sullyoon's body jerks involuntarily at the first touch, a choked whimper escaping her lips. Her hands fly to her mouth, silencing any further sounds as she struggles to maintain her facade of composure. 

Then you insert your fingers inside her, finding her G-spot and slowly massaging it. You can feel the wetness pooling into your hands, aiding your movement. 

Her hips buck upwards, seeking more of your fingers' movement. The telltale signs of her escalating desire are written across her body - the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the sheen of sweat on her skin, the way her thighs tremble with need. "More… please," Sullyoon manages to say through gritted teeth, her words barely audible over her ragged breathing.

Sullyoon's eyelids flutter closed as she focuses on the sensations coursing through her body. She takes a shaky breath, then opens her eyes to meet yours with a steady gaze.

“Are you okay?” you ask before it gets too much. “Any pain?”

"No pain," she says, her voice a husky whisper. "Please continue…"

Sullyoon inhales sharply as your fingers slide deeper inside her, stretching her to accommodate the added length. Her back arches, nails digging into your hand as she adjusts to the newfound sensation. "Yes," she breathes, "that's it... more."

Sullyoon's hips grind against your palm, clit throbbing in time with the rhythm of your fingers pumping in and out of her. She bites her lip hard enough to draw blood in a desperate attempt to overcome the overwhelming pleasure coursing through her veins.

You take out your hand, now dripping with her juices. She looks at you with confusion and disappointment in her eyes. “Is there a problem?” she asks. No problem. Looking at how much liquid was spilling out of her made you incredibly hungry. You had to get a taste.

As you lower your head down between her legs, Sullyoon gets more worried by the sudden movement. “What are you doing, master?” she pants. “Don’t go there, it’s dirty—ah!”

Sullyoon's eyes fly open as your mouth makes contact with her sensitive flesh, her initial shock giving way to moans of pleasure. Her thighs tremble, muscles clenching around your tongue as you lap at her folds and delve into her core.

"Oh gods, Master!" she cries out, fingers digging into the sheets as you lavishly attend to her most intimate area. "That's... incredible!"

You slurp up her sweetest nectar, nibbling on her lips, sucking on her clit, pushing your tongue into the depth of her hole. Every single movement makes her go crazier. She tastes just as sweet as she looks, and her moans beg you to continue.

Its delightful.

She’s delightful 

Sullyoon's hips undulate against your face, meeting each lick and stroke with increasing urgency. The sensation of your tongue exploring her depths sends jolts of electricity coursing through her veins, reigniting the embers of her arousal.

"Yes, right there," Sullyoon gasps, needy. Her hands finally come onto your head and softly pull you into her. She’s helpless but there’s still that instinct behind her actions that tells her to know her place and not interfere with you. 

But as your mouth seals over her clit, Sullyoon's world descends into chaos. Your two fingers go back into her, stroking her spot, while your other hand pushes down onto her womb to get closer to your fingertips. The pressure on her stomach amplifies her pleasure and her moans turn to screams. She doesn’t know what to say, nor is she able to. You only suck harder and move faster.

“W-wa-wait!” you can barely hear. “Some—something is coming…!” Sullyoon says, almost scared about what her body might do. But you know. You have to make her cum.

A keening wail tears from her throat as the first wave of climax crashes over her, sending shockwaves rippling through every nerve ending.

Her body convulses violently, her back arching as her vision blurs behind a kaleidoscope of colors. Sullyoon's inner walls clench and ripple around your finger, gushing nectar that floods your mouth and dribbles down your chin. It’s thick, white and coats your tongue completely. You carefully lick it all up, scared that it might go to waste.

"P-please, Master!" she sobs, voice breaking as the onslaught of pleasure threatens to consume her entirely. "Don't stop, I can't... I can't..."

As if driven by a primal instinct, Sullyoon starts to grind against your face aggressively, riding out the tsunami of ecstasy. Her moans escalate into cries of pure abandon, echoing off the walls as she surrenders utterly to the sensation.

Finally, with a hoarse scream, Sullyoon's climax crests and breaks, leaving her shuddering and spent in the aftermath. As the tremors subside, she collapses back onto the bed, panting heavily, her chest heaving with each ragged breath.

She collapsed back onto the bed, limbs trembling and lungs heaving as if each breath had to be pulled from deep inside her chest. Sweat clung to her skin in a shining sheen, dripping from her brow, soaking the sheet under her, making her skin saltier. Her cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, strands of damp hair plastered to her forehead.

Sprawled on her side, one arm draped limply over her stomach, she lay still for a moment, gulping at the air like it might steady the pounding in her head. Her heart thudded in her ears, louder than her breaths.

“M-master?” she started. “What was that? What was that feeling? I—something happened, I don’t know…”

You chuckled. “It was an orgasm. You came. That’s the final part of sex, usually. It feels good, right?”

“Y-yeah…”

“Was it the first time?”

A weak nod tells you everything you needed. For a while, she stayed where she was, letting the fire in her lungs dim to a flicker. Her breath slowed—still deep, but no longer desperate. The pounding in her chest began to settle, fading into a steady rhythm.

Slowly, she rose and sat on the bed. “Master, can we do it now? The real thing?” she asked you, even needier than before. If what you just did felt like heaven coming down on her, she couldn’t even imagine what was next.

You started to undress. Sullyoon looked at the bulge in your pants, unattended, that now was starting to hurt from how rock hard it got. You quickly took off your shirt, trousers, and underwear, showing your penis in front of her.

A quiet gasp escaped her lips. She stared at you with excitement. “So… this is your manhood, right?”

You nodded and you kneeled back into the bed. Sullyoon looked into your eyes and asked, “Can I touch it?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” you tell her.

Sullyoon reaches out tentatively, her fingers wrapping around your thick shaft. She strokes you with a gentle, exploratory touch, her touch tentative at first, then growing bolder as she becomes more confident.

"It's so warm and firm," she murmurs, her voice filled with wonder. "I had no idea it would feel this way."

Sullyoon's thumb rubs against the sensitive underside of your cockhead as she pumps her hand along your length. She leans in closer, inhaling deeply as if trying to absorb every scent and texture. She tries to stroke with you more speed, worried she might be doing a bad job but really you’re enchanted by the sight of her doing her best. She’s adorable and it’s turning you on more than you anticipated. 

Her fingertips make you shiver. Despite her hard work, her palms are still smooth and soft.

"I saw the girls doing stuff like this. I want to try it. May I put it in my mouth?" Sullyoon asks, her gaze locked with yours, desire and curiosity burning bright in her eyes. “Yes,” you whisper. It was your turn now to be completely turned on and yearning for her.

With a subtle nod, Sullyoon aligns your head with her lips, then takes you into her mouth, inch by inch. Her cheeks hollow as she sucks gently, her tongue swirling around the sensitive glans. Sullyoon's hands move to caress your thighs, urging you deeper as she begins to bob her head in a slow, rhythmic motion. Her eyelids flutter shut, lost in the sensations of exploring this new intimacy.

After a few moments, Sullyoon pulls back, releasing your cock with a wet pop. She gazes up at you, her lips glossy and swollen, eyes heavy-lidded with desire.

"Is this pleasing to you, Master?" Sullyoon asks, her voice husky from the act.

“Yes, you are doing well, Sullyoon,” you say and pat her head. Sullyoon's lips curve into a sly smile at your praise, her confidence growing with each word. She takes a deep breath, then plunges back onto your cock,determined to take you even deeper.

Sullyoon's throat constricts around the head of your shaft as she gulps you down, her nose brushing against your pubic bone. She relaxes her jaw, allowing you to slide further until the tip kisses the back of her throat.

The vibrations of her moan resonate around your length as she sucks harder, cheeks hollowing and lips stretched tautly. Sullyoon's tongue swirls and teases the sensitive underside, her fingers kneading your thighs for added leverage.

“Mmmh… your lips feel so good,” you let out a heavy groan.

She pulls back slightly, just enough to catch her breath, before diving back down, setting a more rhythmic pace. Sullyoon's fingers dig into your thighs as she suckles greedily, her throat working to take every inch. Sullyoon's head bobs, saliva streaming down her chin as she devours your cock like a starving woman. Her moans grow louder, more urgent, as if she was pleasuring herself.

Her eyes lock with yours, wild and unfocused, as she loses herself in the act. Her mind clouds with lust, every thought centered on bringing you to the brink of ecstasy. With each stroke of her tongue and suck of her lips, Sullyoon strives to prove herself worthy for you.

When you felt like you were getting too close, you pulled out of her mouth. She looked at you, almost disappointed. “That’s enough… i think we are ready” you say, but she can feel the shakiness of your voice.

Sullyoon gazes up at you, her eyes shining with triumph and arousal at your praise. She smiles, the curve of her lips dripping with saliva.

Your hands go around her head and you pull her into a kiss, which she accepts happily. You savor her lips, trying to recover yourself, and adorn her with praises and compliments. Your words alone cause her bodily pleasure and her wetness is pooling into the sheets. 

“I’ll put it inside you now,” you whisper at the end.

Sullyoon's eyes widen slightly at your declaration, a flutter of apprehension momentarily clouding her expression. However, she quickly recovers, nodding resolutely as she realizes your intentions. "I am prepared, Master," Sullyoon says, her voice calm and measured.

She lies down on the bed and shifts position, spreading her legs wider in silent invitation. Sullyoon lifts her hips slightly, helping guide your cock to her slick entrance. Her body tenses ever so slightly as the head of your shaft presses against her, the first barrier to your joining.

"Please…" Sullyoon urges. "Take me now."

Sullyoon's breath catches as the broad head of your cock nudges past her delicate folds, the intrusion is both thrilling and slightly uncomfortable. She bites her lip, tensing as you gradually work your way deeper, the stretch exquisite yet unfamiliar.

You’re knocked back into your senses as well. Her walls are extremely tight, squeezing your cock in its entire length. It’s thanks to her dripping wetness that you can enter her easily. You grit your teeth, you can already feel it coming.

As you continue your measured advance, Sullyoon begins to relax, her body adapting to the new sensation. Her walls clench around your length, welcoming you completely. Sullyoon's eyes lock with yours, you can see the love in her eyes, she’s happy. With a slow nod, she grants permission for you to take control, trusting in your guidance.

"I am ready," Sullyoon confirms, her voice husky with anticipation. "Please… do it."

As your lips meet hers, Sullyoon melts into the kiss, her body responding instinctively to the gentle rocking motion of your hips. She tastes your tongue, finding comfort in your taste while the new feeling between her legs starts to cloud her mind.

Sullyoon's hands come up to frame your face, fingers tangling in your hair as she deepens the kiss. She moans softly into your mouth, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine. Her thighs wrap around your waist, pulling you in tighter, urging you to continue the slow, sensual thrusts.

Breaking the kiss, Sullyoon gazes up at you with hooded eyes, her chest heaving with each breath. "More…" she whispers, her voice husky with need. "Please, Master…"

You were trying to hold back for her, but the tone in her voice was irresistible. You start to let go, speeding up the rhythm of your hips bucking into hers.

With renewed fervor, Sullyoon starts to meet your thrusts, rolling her hips to take you deeper. Her inner walls clench around your shaft, the friction sending sparks of pleasure coursing through her veins. Sullyoon's moans grow louder, more urgent, her mind turning hazy from lust, losing herself into your rhythm.

“Mmmh!” she moans. You continue fucking her. You’re chasing your own release now. Sullyoon doesn’t care what you do. Every movement, even the smallest, brings her the most pleasure she’s ever experienced.

You don’t want to last longer. You’ve endured enough. Her nails dig into your shoulders, urging you on, silently pleading for more of the exquisite friction.

"I love you," Sullyoon gasps, her voice strained with effort. "Don't stop, Master. Please, don't ever stop."

The room fills with the rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh, the lewd squelch of their joined hips. You didn’t think she could get wetter but she did. You were sliding in and out of her without much effort at all. Your hips were now smashing into hers, kissing her womb at every thrust.

"Yes, Master!" Sullyoon cries out, her voice rising in pitch and volume as she surrenders to the brutal pace. "Harder, please! Make me yours!"

With each brutal slam of his hips, Sullyoon's body is driven up the bed, the headboard crashing against the wall. Sullyoon clings to you desperately, nails digging into your back as she tries to anchor herself against the torrent of sensations crashing over her.

Her breasts bounce wildly with each thrust, the hard nipples grazing your chest. Sullyoon's inner walls clench, milking your cock. The pressure builds rapidly, her orgasm coiling tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

"Master, I'm... I'm almost—" Sullyoon gasps, her words cut short by a loud, uncontrollable moan as her climax rips through her. Her body seizes, back arching as she comes hard, inner muscles rippling around your shaft.

Her orgasm hits her hard—Sullyoon's hips thrust wildly, and her words turn into a mix of incoherent moans. In the chaos, your cock slips out of her climaxing pussy, and you feel her squirt splattering against you. Your fingers quickly deep into her and you finger her pussy to help her ride it out. She creates quite a mess—not only is her cum all over your legs and cock, yet you keep on fucking more of it out of her.

Her body goes limp, sated, and spent. She pants heavily, trying to catch her breath amidst the aftershocks of her intense orgasm. Then she looks at you, with your penis still rock hard. “Master—you—you haven’t orgasmed yet,” she says apologetically.

“Well, no—” you start but Sullyoon interrupts you. “Please use me,” she begs you. “You have to cum too.”

With your fresh instructions, you get back to what you were doing with Sullyoon earlier. You hold her by the waist, and before long, you're back to pounding her pussy with thrusts. Sullyoon handles each thrust like a champ—she even pushes herself back onto your cock while moaning like crazy. Her eyes are glazed over, her jaw loose, but she still knows how to ride your cock and match every thrust flawlessly.

You thrust your cock deep into Sullyoon's cunt. Sullyoon screams at the rhythm—she's still sensitive from the orgasm, and your pounding of her tight cunt drives her wild—but somehow she still manages to bounce herself on your cock. 

You pull Sullyoon down roughly onto your cock, burying yourself deep inside her. Your cock erupts with thick, hot semen, shooting deep into her cunt, and you hardly move at all—just staying hilted in Sullyoon as you let your orgasm wash over you. All you do is shudder and thrust your hips as each wave of cum leaves your body and fills her up. The only thing Sullyoon can do is moan as the warmth of your release floods deep inside her, coating her walls white with shot after shot of your seed filling her womb.

She finally relaxes when you’re done and can barely raise her head to look at you. “Master… what is that? What’s that white liquid.”

“Oh, well that’s semen. Uhm, that’s what males let out when they cum,” you say, shyly. It’s embarrassing to have to explain such things, even after what you just did.

“As long as it’s from you, it’s fine,” she says. Sullyoon lifts her fingers from between her legs, her digits glistening with a thick layer of your cum and juices.

You see Sullyoon bring her fingers to her mouth. Her tongue peeks out from between her lips, and she savors your cum off her fingers as if it were a treat. She maintains her gaze on you while she cleans her fingers of your seed. 

“It tastes good,” she says casually and laughs. You chuckle as well to brush off the awkwardness. You both remain silent for a few minutes, processing what just happened.

“Thank you, master,” she whispers at last. “You never treated me like a slave. I just… I’m so happy to have you.”

“And I’m happy to have you,” you say, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “I love you.”

She looks up at you, tears welling, her voice trembling. “Thank you, master.”

You smile gently, shaking your head. “I’m not your master anymore, Sullyoon. Not after this. You’re more than that. More than a maid. More than a title.”

She blinks slowly, her lips parting. “Then… what should I call you?”

“I don’t know,” you say, a little sheepishly.

She hesitates for a moment, eyes flicking down before rising to meet yours again, a soft light blooming in them. “What about… darling? I saw it once, in one of your books. It’s what people say when their hearts belong to each other.”

You smile, your chest tightening in the best way. “That’s perfect.”

A breathless laugh escapes her, half joy, half disbelief. She leans into you, her head finding its place against your chest, where your heartbeat thuds steadily and surely. Your arms come around her, not to hold her tightly, but completely. She isn’t just in your arms—she is where she belongs.

Outside, the forest stirs with the hush of wind through leaves, but inside, all is quiet.

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore,” you murmur. “Not of the past. Not of tomorrow. As long as I’m breathing, I’ll keep you safe. Because I love you more than anything in this world.”

Her body shakes with quiet sobs—not of sorrow, but release. She clings to you, trembling with emotion, with the enormity of being loved without condition.

“Thank you,” she breathes through her tears. “Thank you… darling. I love you, too.”

The candle flickers low beside you, casting soft golden light over the two of you as the night folds gently around the house. She had never felt so safe in silence before.

THE END

Written, 27 May 2025 - 9 July 2025

Closing notes:

I promised to write this fic almost a year ago after my post received 160 notes. It took a really long time since I was busy, but I never forgot. It turns out I'm more of a summer writer who returns once a year. I hope you enjoyed the story if you arrived at this message.

“Dad married mom when he was almost forty, didn’t he? I still have a long way to g-” 

“That was different! Society’s changed!” Nayeon shot you a judgemental look.

“Are you serious right now, noona?”

“Yes, really!” your sister crossed her arms, almost offended that you’d asked. “Our country’s birthrate is in crisis. You have to do your part.”

“My part!?” 

“Yes. As a citizen. As our parents’ son.” she pointed at you. “Tall, educated, healthy, financially stable and ugh… I can’t believe I’m saying this…”

“Saying what?”

“Good looks… ughh…” 

It was always good to hear someone who always bullied you since you were little admit that. The stupid smirk on your face showed it really well, especially with how Nayeon was faking, or not, a puking sound.

“Stop doing that! And what are you even waiting for, idiot!?”

“I founded this company, didn’t I?” your turn to roll your eyes. “I…uh, pay taxes. I already did my part.”

She scoffed and sat straighter. “Taxes and high-end clothes don’t get you a wife, idiot.” 

A comeback was already there in your mind. But the look in her eyes stopped you, not annoyed or amused, just tired. She looked down at her hands for a quiet moment before speaking again, her voice filled with what seemed like artificial sadness to you.

“Mom and dad aren’t getting any younger… They are almost getting to the age where we have more hospital checkups than family gatherings. Don’t you realize that?”

“Don’t do that to me… Come on…”

“You’ve never introduced a single girlfriend to us. Not once.” Here came the sad eyes. “Your cousins are having babies, getting married… Everything, even showing up at Chuseok with rings on their fingers and someone beside them. But you!?… you work day and night. For what?”

“It’s just…” You rubbed a hand over your face and sighed. It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought about this before. “I haven’t dated anyone in a long time, noona.”

“And why is that?” Nayeon asked gently, part anticipating like a sister who was finally hearing something she’d waited a long time to understand.

“I don’t know… I guess I just got comfortable living like this. Letting someone into my life right now doesn’t feel right.”

Your sister stayed silent, and when she spoke, her voice was softer than before.

“...That’s not comfort. You're just used to being alone.”

You looked up slowly, knowing she wasn’t scolding.

“I’m not asking you to fall in love tomorrow. But open the door, at least… Just enough for someone to come in.”

You hummed at her words, not intending on discussing this topic further.

“Anyway...” Nayeon smoothened her scarf, exhaling as if she was letting out all her frustrations and worries. “I didn’t just come here to nag your hopeless ass, you know. I came to bring something for Yoon-Ah.”

“For her? Not your brother?”

“You?” she smirked. “You can take care of yourself. You’re a grown man.”

Like always, Nayeon didn’t even wait for your answer. Instead, she reached for a paper bag beside her legs, lifting it carefully and showed you like it was some prized offerings. 

“Some premium ginseng extract and a few tonic packets from that clinic in Cheongdam. You know, that one all the chaebol wives and mistresses go to? Some black sesame snacks too. Good for stamina and stress.”

“For Yoon-Ah? Really?” you asked again.

“Of course! She mentioned she’s been tired since you made her work too much.” she glared at you, that one look only a sister could give. “I should scold you more for that, you idiot.”

A helpless chuckle escaped your lips.

“She insists on staying late! I drive her home everytime I can.”

…

“So are you two…?” your sister trailed off, narrowing her eyes as she tried to dig for some clues, subtle but sharp.

“Are we… what?” 

Lips pursuing, Nayeon examined you like she could read something off your face like she’d always done back when you were in high school. Well, not anymore. Years had gone by and you’d learnt to adapt. Knowing she couldn’t win this, she simply leaned back on the leather soft with a sigh. 

“I’m just saying… you two seem close. Maybe too comfortable with each other…. And your stupid face lights up whenever you talk about her.”

As much as you hated to admit, you knew Nayeon was right. So you just rubbed the back of your neck and avoided your sister’s gaze. But before she could press further, a soft chime came up from the intercom on your desk.

“Sajang-nim... may I come in?” 

That warm and familiar voice filtered through the speaker, the one that always gave you extra motivation when you sat down on this desk every workday.

You cleared your throat. 

“...Ahem, come in, secretary Seol.” 

The door creaked open, and there she was, your favorite person in this entire building. 

She stepped inside with her usual grace, her simple stripe button up blouse was tucked neatly, like it was tailored specifically to fit her frame. Her hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail, all smooth and polished. You never said it out loud, but your days always felt a little bit better when she wore her hair like that. Around her neck hung a simple lanyard with her ID, one that you'd told her a few times looked to formal, but Yoon-Ah'd just smile and say “It makes me look professional, don’t you think, sajang-nim?”.

“Good morning, sajang-nim…” she turned gracefully and gave a playful yet somehow still very polite little bow at Nayeon. “Unnie.”

You nodded in acknowledgement a little too fast while your sister instantly smiled, sitting more up right on the sofa.

“Oh my!” visibly brightened, Nayeon’s tone turned affectionate. “You’ve gotten even more elegant in person, Yoon-Ah ah! How have you been, honey? Come here!”

Yoon-Ah settled gracefully beside your sister on the sofa, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, her posture was elegant yet unassuming. Your sister reached for her hand instantly.

“Look at you, so beautiful!! Are you sure you’re not secretly royalty!?”

Yoon-Ah laughed softly, cheeks tinting pink. “You flatter me too much, unnie.”

“Nonsense.” your sister pat her hand. “You’re so polite, mmm, well put together… What do you think about my brother? Is he good looking?”

The girl was only caught off guard for a second before regaining her composure instantly and smiled. “Sajang-nim certainly is very… charismatic.”

You would’ve been giggling like a middle schooler had there been no one right here with how Yoon-Ah answered it.

“Charismatic, hmm? Not handsome?” Nayeon leaned closer to her, eyes expecting. Yoon-Ah gave you a subtle glance, unreadable, before replying. 

“That too. He has… his own charms.”

“Did you hear that!? ‘His own charms’. Yoon-Ah just said you’re just barely tolerable, dipshit.”

“Shut up…”

Nayeon just waved you off with a smile and turned back to Yoon-Ah. 

“Honestly, though. You’re so composed and smart, and beautiful on top of that. I don’t know how my brother landed a secretary like you, honey.”

Yoon-Ah chuckled lightly, her gaze lowering as if that could hide the light pink blooming on her cheeks. “He didn’t, unnie. I just applied.”

“Right, right… Whatever fate brought you two together, I’m grateful. You brighten his life up just by being by his side.”

Somewhere between their conversation, you got lost with how ethereal Yoon-Ah looked. Something about the way the sunlight caught the curve of her cheeks, the way her hair framed her face, the softness in her deer eyes. It ached your heart so much… in a good way, of course. You imagined her beside you, but not in the office. Maybe somewhere quieter, warmer, with her head on your shoulder… 

“Yah.” Nayeon’s voice snapped you back to reality immediately. You blinked, eyes adjusting again to the sunlight in the room. Yoon-Ah was still sitting on the sofa with the same pretty smile and graceful posture. The little dream was gone, but it lingered tenderly in your mind.

“What were you saying, noona?”

“Nothing important. I’m leaving now, dummy.” She then stood up with a pleasant sigh, smoothing her jacket as she showered Yoon-Ah with all the warmth in her eyes. “Don’t work too hard, honey. Thank you for keeping my idiot brother in line.”

“Of course, unnie. Thank you for visiting.”

Your sister leaned in, patting her lightly on the arm.

“Don’t act too polite with me. And don’t let him work too hard, okay? Ah, right! Next time, come visit me at our house even without him around.”

You only watched the exchange quietly, heart still beating a little too fast from the daydream you hadn’t meant to fall into. 

“Take care then, noona.”

“I always do. Maybe you should listen to yourself.” Nayeon paused at the door for a moment. “...Especially with Yoon-Ah around.”

The room fell quiet again the moment Nayeon took all the noise with her as she left. Then you looked at Yoon-ah as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, again, still looking like the girl from your imagination.

What the hell am I going to do with these feelings?

“Are you okay, sajang-nim?” 

“Sure, nothing… I just spaced out.”

Yoon-Ah tilted her head slightly, the corner of her mouth lifting. 

“You looked like you were thinking very hard about something.” As innocent as her voice sounded, you could still catch the tease under her tone. You tried to keep your expression neutral.

“Nothing important, secretary Seol.” 

“Mmm.” she hummed, unconvinced. “It didn’t seem like nothing to me, sajang-nim.”

You shifted in your seat. “My sister likes you, that’s all.”

“Ah… She’s very sweet but I’m guessing that’s not the part that made you zone out.”

Playing dumb wouldn’t get you out of this. Time to take back control.

“Alright… let’s just get to business. What did you come in here for?” 

Yoon-Ah nodded with a satisfied smile, effortlessly shifting into her professional mode at your question. 

“It’s Friday so there isn’t much on the schedule. You have two meetings to review the new releases. Then just a short stop this afternoon at the aespa shoot. You’re supposed to hand Karina-ssi a bouquet and take a photo with her.” 

“Really?” your tone raised a little out of surprise. “I thought they were joking, no?”

“The team insisted.” The corner of her lips curved lightly. “Basic PR duties, sajang-nim.”

“I’m not complaining. It’s not every day that I get to take a picture with Karina anyway. And after that, I’m done?”

“Barring any emergencies.” she checked on the tablet again before looking up at you, though the way she said it felt more than just an observation. “You’ve been working too much lately anyway, sajang-nim. You’re… surprisingly efficient.” 

“‘Surprisingly’? You’ve been with me for three years, since the start of this company and ‘surprisingly’?”

Yoon-Ah pressed her lips together lightly, not the least apologetic. “Just keeping you humble, sajang-nim.”

“...You’re getting bolder.” 

“Maybe I am, sajang-nim.” she shot back instantly. “Or maybe you’re getting softer.”

A quiet beat took over for a second, something a little warmer settled into the room.

…

“Why do you still refuse to call me oppa, Seol Yoon-Ah?” there it was again, the question you always brought up every now and then. “I mean… calling me by my name is also fine by me. It’s not like we are strangers, you know. I gave you permission a long time ago.”

She smiled, definitely not letting you have the smallest glimpse of what she was thinking.

“We have to be professional, sajang-nim.” she said, emphasizing the title to put distance between the two of you, though her tone did the complete opposite. Then she added a soft, teasing line. “Besides… you’d get too happy if I called you oppa. And I’m not here to feed your ego, sajang-nim. I’m here to help you be more efficient and manage your schedule.”

She looked back down at her iPad, the twitch on the corner of her lips signaled a quiet victory. 

Not so early.

The thought barely settled before you stood up, rounding your desk slowly. Yoon-Ah didn’t look up right away but you saw her finger pausing over the screen as she felt you closing the distance. You stopped in front of her, letting your presence linger just enough to make her glance up.

“Then what about that night…?” you smirked. “You got so drunk I really struggled to drive you home and helped you upstairs… and you kept mumbling ‘oppa’ against my chest, secretary Seol.”

Her eyes widened, lashes fluttered just once and that was enough to tell you she knew exactly what night you were talking about. The memory hit her hard before she could guard herself.

“If I recall correctly… You kept biting my hands, crying and complaining that I don’t give you enough attention at work, secretary Seol”

For once, your intelligent secretary couldn’t come up with a comeback as a flush crept into her cheeks and her grip on the tablet tightened. 

“That’s a little too much, secretary Seol. We might have to get HR involved.” Then you leaned in closer, slower to lower yourself beside her ear until she could hear your whisper, a near perfect imitation of Yoon-Ah’s voice, with a smirk. 

“Don’t leave me yet, oppa… please…”

Then you lifted your hand and gently clasped her wrist, startling her.

“You held on to it like this and wouldn’t let go.”

Yoon-Ah’s eyes moved to where your hand grabbed her wrist. She definitely remembered. The ever professional secretary was thrown off balance, blinking like she couldn’t decide whether to pull away or freeze. 

“Still no thank you from you yet,  by the way. It’s been almost two months now.”

The engine was clearly working overtime through her eyes, calculating to come back with something sharp and clever while being flustered, exposed at the same time. Damn, what a cute sight.

“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue? Or did oppa make too much of an impression saving you that night?”

Yoon-Ah yanked her wrist back like your touch burned her. But you already did too much damage. She was blushing, her posture stiff and her mouth open but couldn’t find the right words.

“Sajang-nim.” she finally muttered, eyebrows drawn tightly together. She turned her head sideways to hide the rising color in her cheeks. .

“Still waiting on that ‘thank you’~” you leaned back to let the tension breathe, enjoying this way more than you should. “You’re usually quicker than this, Yoon-Ah-ssi.”

“Thank you, sajang-nim.” Yoon-Ah finally muttered like it physically hurt her pride to say it.

“Just that?” you titled your head. “You think that’s enough after everything I went through, secretary Seol?”

Only now did she glance up, sharply. “Do you want an award ceremony, sajang-nim?”

“Interest. That’s all. The economy’s been rough lately.” 

Yoon-Ah narrowed her eyes but couldn’t hold back the smile forming on her lips.

“What kind of interest are we talking about here?”

“Maybe… uhh, I don’t know…” you looked up to the ceiling, pretending to think. “A kiss on the cheek should cover the fee, secretary Seol.”

Her scoff was immediate but the amusement in her eyes betrayed her.

“Is that how you do business now? Bullying your way through outstanding debts.”

“Only with clients who get drunk and call me oppa while they almost vomit on me.”

Yoon-Ah stared at you harder, the red on her cheeks didn’t help much. “You’re lucky I haven’t reported that night to anyone, sajang-nim!”

“Ah… but I only helped you home that night. And confessing that to HR would mean creating a workplace scandal right here.”

No power or threat in her glare as Yoon-Ah leaned closer. If anything, you only found it cute.

“Keep pushing it and I’m writing a full report, sajang-nim.”

Your answer was to lean down closer, forehead almost touching hers.

“Make sure to include the part where you begged me to drink with you too, secretary Seol.”

A slight twitch on the corner of her eyes, maybe a mix of annoyance and amusement. 

“One day… I’m going to put you in your place, sajang-nim.”

“I’m counting on it. But for now… cheek?”

The stare she threw at you was long enough for her to weigh her options. Finally, Yoon-Ah let out a long exhale, the sign of resignation.

“Close your eyes, sajang-nim.”

“Why?”

“You wouldn’t want to peek during an award ceremony, would you?” her voice filled with sudden happiness.

Though a little suspicious, you obliged and shut your eyes with a sigh. “Fine…”

A few seconds went by, still nothing. Just before you were about to say something, you felt a light brush of her lips land just shy of your lips, barely a kiss. You opened one eye to glare at her, your tone completely flat.

“That was nothing. Literally air.”

 Your secretary was already retreating, trying not to laugh and clearly enjoying teasing you.

“It still counts, sajang-nim. The ceremony's over!”

“No, no, no.” you reached out and grabbed her wrist, firm but not enough to hurt her. “Secretary Seol, I demand a kiss.”

“Sajang-nimmm~” Yoon-Ah whined, the sound almost turning your knees into spaghetti. She gave your grip a half hearted tug but didn’t really try to escape. She still didn’t give up on suppressing a smile though she clearly knew she was failing miserably. 

“You’re abusing your power~” she pouted, too cute. 

“Aegyo won’t let you get away with this, secretary Seol.”

You tried so hard not to look away for a second. Seol Yoon-Ah was a dangerous woman. She really had no idea what she was doing to you. Or maybe she did. Who knew? She then scrunched her nose and stuck out her tongue to you - a final act of rebellion before stepping even closer, eyes lifting to meet yours.

“Fine.” she mumbled. “One real kiss.”

“That easy…?”

“I just want you to shut up, sajang-nim.” 

You let go of her wrist only to take both of them seconds later deliberately. Yoon-Ah blinked, your grip was firm as your thumbs brushed the inside of her wrists. 

“In case you try to escape. I’m not taking an ‘air’ kiss this time, secretary Seol.”

Suddenly, a flicker of confidence and mischief lit up her face. The corner of her lips curled up, slow and dangerous.

“Close your eyes then, sajang-nim.”

That smug expression on her face left you with no choice anyway. You sighed and shut your eyes again, expecting. You could feel Yoon-Ah tiptoeing slightly, her gentle inhale, the little rustle of her clothes before her lips finally pressed against your cheek. 

No more teasing. Yoon-Ah kissed your cheek long and firm, her lips molding onto your skin with a boldness that stole your breath away. You felt the way she tilted her head slightly, swaying into the kiss like she meant every second of it. You wanted more, so much more. But-

“Muah!”

She pulled away. Your skin was now warm with her lipstick stamped there like her branding. When you opened your eyes, Yoon-Ah was still too close.

“How about that, oppa~?” she murmured, voice a little breathless.

You tried and held onto her gaze, almost failing to act unaffected. Slowly, you let go of her wrists, your fingers intentionally lingering on before slipping away completely.

“Not bad.” you tried to sound confident.

A shy blush bloomed across her face with a nervous smile to replace her confidence just seconds ago. You then cleared your throat, subtle but necessary, before nodding at the leather sofa and nodding your chin in its.

“Ahem… There are some ginseng extracts, a few tonic packets and uh… some black sesame snacks in that bag over there. My sister brought it over for you.” you said, walking to it. “From that clinic in Cheongdam, you know?”

You picked up the bag and held it out to her. Yoon-Ah followed you, cheeks still pink from earlier and took the bag slowly.

“Ah… that one clinic all the rich people’s wives and mistresses go to?” she said, her voice a little soft and flustered. “Your sister told me a lot about it, sajang-nim. We chat a lot, actually.”

“Since when?”

Yoon-Ah gave you a judging look, almost surprised that you even asked. “Umm… since forever? She texts me all the time and asks about you, your dating life… us…”

“And you tell her I make you work too much? If anything, I make you work less and come home early these days.”

Yoon-Ah pretended to let out a small cough to dodge your question, eyes looking at the clock on the wall as she avoided your gaze. “A- Anyway… it’s almost time for your meeting this morning, sajang-nim.”

“...I’ll let it slide this time, secretary Seol.”

Dragging your feet back to your desk with a sigh, you shifted through the clutter of documents on your desk while ignoring the warmth on your skin but paused when you noticed your secretary lingering around before walking toward you. 

“Wait, sajang-nim...” she spoke softly. “You still have my lipstick mark on… your cheek.”

You stayed still as she pulled a tissue from the little box on the desk and reached up, dabbing at the spot with what seemed like precision. Though you couldn’t help but think there was a bit of affection in there as well, you’d been hoping so for so long anyway.

“Reapply your lipsticks, too, secretary Seol.” you continued to search through the documents, not looking at her. “I’ll… ahem, wait.”

Yoon-Ah lowered her head into a small bow. The results of all that messing around a few minutes ago was still clear on her face.

“Ah, yes… thank you, sajang-nim.”

The morning room passed, dreadfully, with what felt like thousands of updates and reviews. You sat at the head of the sleek conference room, listening to everything with Yoon-Ah next to you, taking notes with her usual precision. 

Three years ago, you left one of the biggest names in Korea’s fashion game as their rising creative director - young, bold, and already successful. People thought you were crazy, even your parents stopped you at first. But you took a gamble anyway, at the age of thirty. Now? You were running your own fashion company, still rising, not quite a household name yet but you’d come far. People loved it, you had your own team and your own building in Hannam-dong, the land of the rich right in Seoul.

Somewhere in the middle of the meeting, your eyes turned to Yoon-Ah by themselves.

-

You still remembered being struck by her beauty the day she first walked in for the interview, back when this company was just your dream and a cheap nameplate taped to a rented shoebox in Itaewon. She had been fresh out of university then, too nervous, clutching her portfolio with both hands like it might save her and land her the job as she walked in.

“Why’d you apply here, honestly? I mean… aren’t you scared this might be a… I don’t know, money laundering scheme. This company has nothing right now, Yoon-Ah-ssi.”

She let out a tiny, nervous laugh.

“I… um… I looked you up before I applied.” she answered too fast, glancing down a little like she regretted blurting it out. “I- I read about your work. The collection you helped develop at your pre- previous company… the 2019 one.”

You didn’t say anything and let her go on for another five  minutes. Yoon-Ah fumbled a little more, both endearing and awkwardly. It’d been in your memory ever since, and you loved it whenever she went to work in the same outfit. Something about it always pulled you back to your first meeting, to the shy but clearly talented Yoon-Ah.

-

From that day on, the two of you built more than just your company together. You taught her a lot, from dealing with fashion related problems, difficult clients to how to be more aggressive in business. Yoon-Ah picked up everything fast. You knew she was smarter but she’d been outdoing your expectations after her first few weeks, always delivering more than what was asked. Still, no matter how much time passed or how confident she appeared with others, Yoon-Ah always carried a trace of that shyness when she was around you. 

However, in recent months, things had shifted. A slow, complicated push and pull neither of you wanted to define out loud. Late night conversations in the office. Lingering glances everywhere you went. Her being mad at you for forgetting her gift after a business trip in Japan, only for her to bring you coffee the next morning, made just the way you liked it with a flirty smile that you couldn’t stop dreaming about. 

Yoon-Ah started standing closer and leaning in more. You both intentionally stuck by each other’s side in the elevator whenever it was empty. And you’d started driving her home every day from work too, a quiet routine that had begun just a few months ago. Still, Seol Yoon-Ah always knew exactly when to draw a line, when to turn her head away to remind you that she was still your secretary. But… the kiss on the cheek she gave you this morning was a great leap forward. And you wanted more. So much more.

“Sajang-nim.” her voice broke your trance of thoughts, soft but pointed. “Umm… you were spacing out, sajang-nim. They’ve just finished the presentation.”

You sat up straighter, coughed lightly and picked up where she left off. Another meeting followed. When it finally ended and most of the team had filtered out quickly for lunch, you returned to your office and collapsed immediately on the leather sofa. Yoon-Ah walked in later carrying a small tray. She calmly set everything down on the coffee table before taking her seat next to you.

“Lunch before meeting the Karina, sajang-nim.” Yoon-Ah unwrapped the utensils and handed over yours without looking.

“Ughh… finally. Karina~” you sang with exaggerated joy and dragged yourself upright. 

“Aghh…” Yoon-Ah suddenly whined as she peeled off the lid of her lunch box, poking at a neatly packed pile of green vegetables. “Again~? They always forget I hate these…”

Seizing the chance, you immediately leaned to her side with your mouth open. “Ahh~”

Yoon-Ah froze with her chopsticks in hand, staring at you before her lips twitched into a smile.

“You’re weird sometimes, sajang-nim. It doesn't feel right on you”

You didn’t move, just tilted your head and widened your eyes in the most obnoxiously innocent expression you could ever make. Her cheeks were already pink as she picked up a piece of broccoli and fed you hesitantly. 

“This better not become an everyday thing.” Yoon-Ah looked away the second you started chewing, muttering.

You swallowed, still smug. “I might have to make this a real clause when we discuss your renewal contract, secretary Seol.”

Yoon-Ah scoffed under her breath but the pink on her cheeks deepened. 

“I’m writing a report to HR next Monday.”

You nudged her knee. She picked up another piece of green and held it out silently. You leaned in with no hesitation and took it with a happy hum.

“...You’re enjoying this too much, sajang-nim.” Yoon-ah said, picking up another piece.

“You’re lucky I’m is a good eater.” you mumbled, earning a gentle hit of her elbow on your shoulder.

This went on quietly, rhythmically. Yoon-Ah feeding you vegetables, you chewing with exaggerated joy, her pretending not to smile as she emptied every last piece of green from her lunch box into your mouth. By the end, the only thing left was that smile she was struggling to hide on her lips.

The city rolled past outside the tinted windows of your car, sunlight bouncing off the glass. You had one hand on the steering wheel, the other rested lazily near the gearshift. Yoon-Ah was puffing her cheeks in and out, scrolling through something on her phone.

“Okay. Balance game.”

“Listening.”

“Have chaebol level wealth and power… or stay exactly as you are right now. Same wealth, same power?”

“Really? Didn’t you ask me something similar before?”

This was something you two usually did whenever the ride got too boring. She still didn’t look up from her phone, voice singing. “Answer~”

“Umm… stay as I am now.” You tapped your fingers on the steering wheel and that made her glance at you.

“You’re passing on generational wealth and the power to boss the president around?”

“I mean, chaebol level wealth and power mean I’d have to work pretty much every day. Get in a scandal every few years, get involved in political stuff… and basically no freedom to do what I want in public. Sometimes spend a few months in jail waiting to get pardoned… So it's not worth it.”

Yoon-Ah tilted her head and hummed. “Mmm, interesting.”

“I mean… I have money now, don’t I? I won’t even get to spend all of it before I die. That kind of wealth doesn’t really mean much to me.”

Yoon-Ah leaned back against the headrest, thinking for a moment before asking again.

“So when do you plan to settle down, sajang-nim?” Her tone was definitely not meaningless.

“Why the sudden topic? Are you planning to recommend someone to me, secretary Seol?”

Yoon-Ah let out a soft scoff. “Do you even have a girlfriend right now?”

And there it was, a quiet check. To see if you had one. To see if that romantic tension between all these times was genuine. You knew… well, you guessed it.

“Obviously not. Why do you think my sister keeps coming over to nag me every week?”

“Your sister just wants you to be happy, I guess.”

You finally took your eyes off the road and glanced over at Yoon-Ah for a brief second, catching how she bit back a smile. 

“Okay, secretary Seol. My turn.”

That got her attention, eyes turning back to you. 

“Men your age… ” you paused, speaking again only when it felt right. “Or… let’s just say, men… in their early thirties?”

You didn’t even try to hide what you meant. 

“Why, sajang-nim? Asking for a friend?” That flicker of amusement beneath her expression showed you she knew exactly what you meant. She let the question hang for a moment too long, lips still curved. “Early thirties, I think. More stable. More… mature. But of course, that’s assuming we don’t work together. I don’t have any interest in dating people from work, really.”

And there it was again. The line Seol Yoon-Ah always drew. Not too close. Not too far. You let out a breath through your nose as the silence stretched, feeling a quiet little ache in your heart. Yoon-Ah knew the effect she had on you, always teasing you just enough and staying just far enough.

“Mmm… Got it.” you finally muttered, not wanting to be heard. Ten minutes later, you pulled up at the studio parking lot. From the passenger seat, Yoon-Ah glanced at her phone then at the building. 

“They’re in the middle of the shoot.” 

You reached behind your seat, grabbed the bouquet meant for Karina - wrapped to perfection, all PR polished - and stepped out, the car door shutting behind you with a soft thud. You circled around to her side and opened the door. 

“What kind of boss drives his secretary around and opens the door for her, sajang-nim?”

Again, that playful tendency of hers. You replied flatly, still a bit hurt from your last interaction in the car.

“The really good kind. The handsome kind. The caring kind.”

Yoon-Ah laughed gently, tilting her head as she stepped out. “Mmm~ Must be exhausting being all three.”

You didn’t smile. “It’s worth it. If someone eventually notices.”

“You should save that line for Karina, sajang-nim.” she said and smoothed down the front of her skirt, voice a little softer than before. “She’s the one getting the flower, after all.”

Wasn’t a jab, not really. Under that teasing edge, there was something else, something unspoken. You looked at her to try and catch it but it was too late, Yoon-Ah was already stepping past you and walking toward the studio entrance like nothing had happened. You adjusted your grip on the bouquet and followed.

The studio door shut behind you with a loud click, muffling the city noise outside. Inside, everything was bright, cinematic. Spotlights humming, stylists moving quickly, racks of clothing everywhere. You and Yoon-Ah walked past the staff, bowing and greeting. They led you near the center and there she was.

aespa’s Karina

She was kneeling in front of the green screen, her unique plaid dress hugged her perfectly at the waist. Her hair was sleek, falling down in front of one shoulder leaving the other bare. A leather jacket was slipping down her arms. Everything she wore just looked so effortlessly beautiful and expensive.

“We just started twenty minutes ago, sajang-nim. Sorry for making you wait like this.” a staff member spoke up.

“Ahh, no... It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. You guys are working hard.”

The camera shuttered again. Karina shifted to lie on her stomach, legs in the air, the dress riding up just slightly as she propped her chin on her hand. The pose looked casual but you knew how precise every tilt of her head was. She looked great in everything.

“Cut!” the photographer said out loud. “That’s beautiful, everyone! Let’s take a break and reset the lighting for the next setup.”

Karina pushed herself up slowly, movements pretty even off camera as she soon moved with her team to her waiting room. You and Yoon-Ah followed a staff member there but stopped almost instantly when you got there. That moment, you suddenly felt Yoon-Ah’s intense turning to you from the side, sharp and intense, but she stayed silent. 

The moment you got to Karina’s waiting room, her eyes almost twitched into an eye smile as she saw you, like she hadn’t expected to see you today but was definitely glad you came. Then it was gone as she quickly blinked and turned to her staff member to say something about her makeup. Next to you, Yoon-Ah shifted her weight and crossed her arms.

“You’re staring...”

“What?”

“I said…” her tone got low. “I said you’re staring, sajang-nim.”

"No, I'm not." you raised an eyebrow, confused.

"Yes, you were."

"Okay...? I'm gonna go say hi to her then."

Karina’s gaze flicked to as you approached, her expression turned softer before flashing you a gentle smile.

“Hi, Karina-ssi.” you bowed politely, extending the bouquet toward her with both hands. 

“Ah- hi, sajang-nim.” she smiled brightly, standing up quickly to bow back. “It’s really great to see you here today.”

“You’ve been working so hard. I honestly still can’t believe our company landed a deal with you.”

“No, no. It’s really my honour. Thank you so much, sajang-nim.” she smiled looking down at the bouquet, cheeks dusted with light pink. “But I think your clothing just makes me look good, sajang-nim. I really love your designs.”

“No, really. You look really beautiful, like AI. It’s… uh, I can't even describe, honestly.”

Karina laughed quietly as she swayed side to side slightly.  “You shouldn’t say things like that so casually, sajang-nim.”

“I’m only just saying the truth, Karina-ssi.”

The two of you fell into an easy conversation like always as the staff stepped out one by one. You were no strangers to each other, having talked a few times before at some events before she modeled for your company. 

“I’m actually a big fan of aespa.” you admitted shyly. “Have been for a while.”

Karina lit up, genuine as she tiptoed slightly at the mention of it. “Really?”

What started as casual pleasantries stretched out into a few minutes of relaxed, uninterrupted talking. She laughed when you made dumb jokes, you smiled when she said the jacket you designed actually made her feel cooler than she actually was. 

In the middle of it, Karina’s eyes flicked around the room subtly and the remaining of her staff spread out naturally. You were slightly confused at first with how silent the room’d turned but still concentrated on Karina as she stepped closer, her voice dropping so low to make sure that only you could hear. She gently tiptoed up, her perfume finally arrived at your nose.

From a small distance, a certain someone was watching. Yoon-Ah stood just far enough not to hear a word but close enough to see everything. The way Karina smiled up at you, the way you looked back - relaxed, flattered and warm. The way she suddenly handed you her phone so suddenly for some reason. Your secretary didn't move and just stood there, rooted to the floor with fists clenched slightly tigher than usual that her knuckles almost went white. And Karina hadn’t even crossed any lines. She wasn’t being arrogant. She was sweet, polite, even shy. 

She wasn't jealous. No, you and Yoon-Ah weren't a thing. But why did it feel like she was being left behind? She wondered if this was her fault for pulling you in just close enough to only push you away whenever she wanted to? Were you trying to get back at her for what’d happened in the car? That's the first pay back she'd seen from you, ever since this whole 'thing' started. And maybe it affected her more than she'd ever admitted.

Whatever it was, she absolutely despised it. You, obviously, had no idea what Yoon-Ah was thinking, or that she was even looking. You were still dazed, trying to process reality. Now, Yoon-Ah’d had enough. She tried to wait for the heat in her chest to settle, her nails dug crescent moons into her palm but her expressions stayed calm. With steady steps, she approached, heels clicking softly against the studio floor. 

“Photos together for our social media, sajang-nim.”

You turned at the sound of her voice, startled. Karina straightened too, her smile still lingering but a teeny bit more cautious now. Yoon-Ah didn’t even glance at Karina. Her eyes were only on you. And her smile? Impeccable. Cold.

There was a distinct shift in the air, one only Yoon-Ah seemed to feel. Karina stood a little too close to you during the photos, her arm brushing yours once or twice. She laughed softly as she posed with the bouquet you’d given her earlier. Every moment made Yoon-Ah’s inside burn even more with something strange she refused to admit.

Karina eventually returned to her photoshoot, her gaze drifting toward you a few more times before the set moved on. You and Yoon-Ah stayed about thirty minutes longer, exchanging a few words with staff, pretending nothing had shifted. When it was time to leave, Yoon-Ah didn’t wait for you like she always did. She instantly turned and marched outside toward the car without a word, heels clicking furiously against the ground. You watched her from behind, already putting the pieces together in your head.

She reached the car first and didn’t wait for you to open the door for her like usual. Nope, she wasn’t that patient now. Instead, she yanked the door open herself and climbed in, slamming it shut with enough force to make someone passing by flinched. You sighed quietly and walked to the car with a smile. Slipping into the driver’s seat, you shut the door with far less drama than she had. The engine hummed to life, but for a moment, you didn’t even touch the steering wheel. 

“You okay?”

Her arms were crossed, eyes fixed stubbornly out the window. Her silence said more than words could. You let the question hang there and stop a small laugh that was threatening to escape your lips.

“You look cute when you’re jealous.”

“I believe our schedule for the day is done, sajang-nim. Please drive me home.”

That made you smile wider, tilting your head just slightly so that you could annoy her a little more. Never too late for a little revenge.

“Please take me home, sajang-nim. Thank you.” she repeated, this time with even her tone lower and sharper.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You kept your eyes on the road at first, but you couldn’t help but smile just a little. Your grip on the steering wheel loosened as the pieces fell in place. You glanced sideways before looking ahead again. Maybe you’d understood part of the answer to the question you’d been asking yourself all these months:

What’s wrong with secretary Seol?

It happened right after the video ended — the screen going black, the library suddenly too quiet, the weight of everything crashing down. You don’t even remember who moved first. One second you were both staring at the fading frame of Sullyoon’s tear-streaked face, the next her mouth was on yours. It was soft, moist, and desperate. She pulled away almost instantly, cheeks flaming, muttering something about needing air before she grabbed her bag and ran.

Now, the taste of her is still lingering on your lips.

Your mind feels like cold spaghetti that's mixed with curry, ice cream, caviar and peas — Yujin’s threat, Sullyoon's broken smile on camera, and now Winter’s “accidental” kiss. The impending tsunami between Gaeul and Karina had barely receded, and the solution is just a shallow breakwater that's built upon lies and concealment.

Right now, you're drowning in more secrets, and right now, you are still unbelievably hard.

You don't know what to do.

Then you see her. Your love.

Gaeul’s lying on the couch of the living room upside down. Her head is hanging off the edge, long black hair flowing towards the floor like a dark waterfall — she dyed her hair back to black this afternoon, saying it's to save her hair roots from further damage — I guess it’s goodbye to her gorgeous pink hair. Her legs are stretched out along the cushions with a knee slightly bent. A tight white top that's low enough to show her subtle cleavage, paired with loose denim jeans and an open denim jacket, her arms were relaxed above her head, one finger lazily playing with a strand of her new jet-black hair.

“Baby,” she looks at you with soft eyes, lips parted in a soft, teasing smile. “You're back~”

Your cock twitches instantly, still hard from the video, now stirring again at the sight of her like this. The position she's in makes her throat long and exposed, and her head is perfectly angled for…

You try to look away. Shake it off. Walk straight to the bedroom. But Gaeul’s voice stops you.

“Baby…” she purrs, upside-down gaze locked on the bulge in your pants. “You’re home late. And you’re already so hard for me.”

“Come here,” she says, wagging her finger towards you.

So much for trying. You find yourself trudging towards her — half-anticipation, half-reluctance. But you're soon right in front of her anyway.

She reaches up slowly, fingers brushing the front of your jeans. Her upside-down smile widens. “You don’t have to hide it. I can see how much you need this.”

You stand there frozen, guilt and lust warring inside you. The video flashes across your mind again — Sullyoon’s forced smile, her broken moans — and the shame makes your stomach twist. But your body doesn't care. Your cock throbs harder against the fabric.

Your girlfriend doesn't wait for permission. Her nimble fingers unbuckle your belt and unzip you, pulling your cock free in one smooth motion. It springs out, heavy and flushed, inches from her face. Pre-cum from hours ago has already stained your underwear, and it's still beading off your slit right now.

“Mmm… look at you. So thick and ready. I love how much you want me right now,” she licks her lips, eyes sparkling with affection and greed. She opens her mouth and takes you in right there and then.

Her lips stretch around your head, and the first things that cross your mind as you shiver? Warm and wet. She sucks you gently, tongue swirling slowly around the tip, tasting every drop of pre-cum that has already leaked out.

“Such a waste~ You could have come home earlier and fed me all these precious drops of nectar, but you chose to be late and waste it all on staining your underwear,” she hums, flicking her tongue on the underside of your tip, before taking you back in.

She sucks your cock into her mouth until her cheeks hollow, taking you deeper inch by inch while her throat relaxes and the head pushes past her gag reflex. You look down and see yourself disappearing inside of her, a bulge forming visibly in her neck.

You groan at the penetration, hands instinctively moving to her head. The sight is mesmerising — her throat swelling and contracting around your cock with every inch you're feeding her, the outline of your shaft clear against her pale skin.

Gaeul moans softly around you when you're fully embedded, the vibration travelling straight from the tip to your balls. “You feel so good in my throat, baby,” she whispers after pulling off for a breath, voice hoarse but full of warmth. “I love how deep you go. Take as much as you need. Use my mouth however you want.”

You can’t hold back anymore.

You grunt and start fucking into her face, pushing and pulling slow at first, savouring the way her throat expands around you. Your hands wrap around her slender neck, feeling the bulge of your cock sliding in and out. You squeeze gently, not enough to hurt, but just enough to feel her pulse racing under your palms as you fill her.

Gaeul’s eyes water, but she looks up at you with pure love and desire.

“Deeper,” she breathes, as you pull off to allow her a second of respite. Spit strings from her lips to your glistening shaft. “I want to feel you all the way down my throat. Fill me up, baby. I love taking you like this.”

You groan and slam back in, fucking her throat now with deep, long strokes. The wet, sloppy sounds fill the room as she continues gagging and slurping, the constant drool splattering everywhere. Gaeul’s hands reach behind and grip your thighs, pulling you deeper with every thrust. She moans around your cock, encouraging you while you pound.

“You’re so hard for me… I love how you’re using my throat tonight. Keep going. Give me everything.”

You yank her white top up towards her neck, exposing her small, perky tits. They bounce free, nipples already hard and flushed.

“Play with them… please… play with my tits while you fuck my throat. I want to feel your hands on me, “ she whispers softly.

Your hands leave her neck and move to cup her tits, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh gently. You roll her nipples between your fingers as you continue to fuck her throat, pumping with an increasing velocity. Gaeul moans louder, the sound turning into sweet, wet gurgles every time you bottom out.

“Gaeullie… your throat—fuck—” you grunt and increase the pace, snapping your hips with long, powerful strokes that make her whole body jolt on the couch. Her small tits bounce in your hands as you massage them. Your cock continues sliding deep into her throat, and the wet, filthy sounds grow louder along with her soft gagging. Drool constantly pours out of her mouth, flowing down her cheekbones past her eyes, smudging her mascara upside down towards her forehead.

“You’re so good to me,” she gasps when you pull out to let her breathe. “I love how deep you go. Fuck my throat harder, baby. I want you to feel good. Use me until you can’t hold back.”

You stuff yourself back in and fuck her even harder, hips snapping, balls slapping against her face with every thrust. Her throat bulges obscenely with each deep plunge. Drool coats your balls and drips onto the floor in puddles.

“Gaeullie… I’m sorry…” you grunt.

“Sorry? Sorry for what?” she muffles around your cock.

You remain silent and let out another grunt, before reaching to pull her bunched white top, sliding it towards her throat. You pull your cock out of her, letting her rasp for another breath of air. However, right as she wheezes in one, you twist the white top around her neck, pulling it tight as you choke her. Yanking the white top up, you slide your cock back into her mouth, thrusting it right into her oral orifice.

“Fuck—your throat, it's so tight…”

As you plunge your cock in, her throat walls feel impossibly tighter from the artificial constriction you're making, and it causes her to choke and gag more.

She tries to say something, but only muffled glucks can be heard as you keep pulling and plunging deep with long rhythmic strokes that shut her up.

You aren't afraid of hurting her at all, because all the while, Gaeul’s hands never leave your thighs, pulling you in, urging you to go deeper. Each wet gag spurs you to thrust faster and deeper, and she never pulls away the entire time, looking at your swinging, heavy balls with a gaze that's full of love and lust.

“More… please… I love feeling you bulge in my throat like this,” she garbles between strokes, spit dripping from her chin as you barely make her words out. “Fuck me deeper, baby. I want every inch. I want to feel you throb inside me.”

You give her exactly what she asks for — faster, harder, deeper. Your hands pull her top hard, tugging her throat onto your cock, meeting every plunge of your hips.

When she's finally tapping on your thighs, you let go of the white top, pulling out to let her rasp in a single merciful breath before your hands wrap back around her neck, squeezing tight and firm as you re-penetrate her throat walls. Each renewed plunge into her neck lets you feel the constant swell of your cock on your thumbs as you use her throat like a warm, wet sleeve.

The sounds are obscene and endless: wet gagging, heavy slurping, the slap of your balls on her face, her soft, loving moans vibrating around you.

You lose track of time. Minutes blur into one long, filthy rhythm. You fuck her throat in every way — slow and deep, fast and shallow, grinding against her tongue, holding yourself buried until she gags and drools even more. Her small tits jiggle with every thrust, nipples pinched and rolled between your fingers. Her face is a mess of drool and tears, black hair sticking to her wet cheeks, but she never stops and looks at you with that soft, adoring gaze.

Finally, the edge becomes impossible to ignore.

You pull out at the very last second, stroking yourself furiously over her upside-down face.

With a guttural groan, you unload all over her, sending thick, heavy ropes of cum that paints her cheeks, her nose bridge, her closed eyes, her lips. Some land on her forehead and drip into her black hair. Gaeul gasps softly, tongue darting out to taste what she can reach while a satisfied, hazy smile spreads on her cum-glazed face.

You stand there breathing hard, cock still twitching in the aftershocks.

Gaeul slowly sits up, wiping some of your cum from her cheek with a finger. She brings it to your lips and kisses you deeply, pushing the taste of your own release into your mouth. You swallow it without thinking, the act only deepening your love for her.

After what seems like an eternity of your lips locked, she pulls back just enough to rest her forehead against yours, eyes soft but knowing.

“I know something’s going on, baby,” she whispers. “You’ve been distant. Tense. I don’t know everything… but I can feel it.”

You open your mouth to deny it, but she places a gentle finger on your lips.

“I don’t care if you find other girls and fuck them,” she says quietly. “I don’t care if you need to let off steam with someone else. But your heart… your heart will always remain with me, right?”

Her voice is soft, vulnerable and full of love, looking at you with a gentle, reassuring smile.

You stay silent for a short while, staring into her eyes, before nodding with your throat tight.

“Always,” you say, and that's not a lie.

Gaeul smiles and kisses you once more, curling into your arms.

“You know, you're really hot when you take initiative,” Gaeul says, planting another kiss on your cheek. “I’d like my boyfriend to be more daring~”

You hold her close, letting her words sink in, hoping that they'll lighten your burden when you wake up tomorrow.

But for tonight, at least, you have her.

---

“Hey, about last night… after the video ended.”

“The kis—”

“It was an accident—yes, definitely an accident.” Winter freezes before saying quickly, almost too quickly.

“But—”

“I said it was an accident,” Winter insists, fingers tightening around her cup as she turns to look outside the café through the glass panel. The café feels quieter than the usual mid-morning lull, and now it's only filled with the awkward silence between you and Winter.

“T-the video… it messed with both of us. Our carnal emotions were due to testosterone, and err… oestrogen and yeap, also due to adrenaline! It didn't mean anything!” Winter continues to shoot her mouth off, deflecting any confirmation of her feelings (if any) for you.

“Minjeong…”

The name slips out before you can stop it. Winter’s eyes flick back to you, cheeks flushing slightly.

“I-I mean Winter. Yea Winter! G-good that the kiss doesn't mean anything, right?” You state and heave a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of your neck sheepishly with a hint of embarrassment.

She looks downwards, casting her indiscernible gaze onto her cup, before her lips part to mumble something you can't quite catch.

“...Dummy.”

Your heart does a strange little flip. You see the corner of her cheeks turn pink, but you decide not to push it right now. Instead, you shift forward in your seat, trying to steer the conversation somewhere safer.

“We need to talk about Sullyoon,” you say. “Now that we know about those—ahem—bastards and their corrupted practices, we can't just sit on this.”

Winter raises her head and gazes at you, her embarrassed expression now switched into one of extreme worry, before giving a slow, hesitant nod.

“I hadn't replied to Jihoon at all since he sent me that thing, and a course of action needs to take place… soon.” You say.

“Y-yea, I’m also having trouble deciding what to do with that sex video. How are we going to even help Sullyoon?” Winter mumbles, grip tightening around her cup so hard that it feels like they'll be crushed into powder anytime soon. “I couldn't sleep last night, you know? The way her tears turned into moans… the way her refusal turned into want… the way her reluctance turned into submission… it kept echoing in my head. Then there's that incident at the photoshoot too, where the crew member was being violated just for a promotion. Is this how the world actually works? Is that how Yujin bagged all her opportunities? Is Gaeul going to be safe?”

Winter continues to ramble on, her voice growing increasingly softer.

“Winter—”

“Call me by my name,” she says, frowning at you, but there's no visible anger in it. “Call me Minjeong. I’d say we are close enough right?”

You stay silent for a short moment, the syllables of her real name feeling strangely intimate on your tongue. Then you sigh with a small, tired smile.

“Minjeong.”

She smiles back at you warmly, satisfied.

“So, Miss Not-Winter-Anymore-But-Minjeong,” you say, trying to lighten the morbidity in the air, “I already messaged her. She's meeting us here soon.”

“You already called her? Without telling me first?” Minjeong’s eyes widen in surprise. “And this—this doesn't feel like something you would do!”

You nod. “I don’t want to hide anymore. I don’t want to keep watching things happen and doing nothing. We have to start somewhere. Talking to Sullyoon first feels right.”

Minjeong studies you for a moment, letting your determined words sink in, then gives a small, reluctant nod.

“Okay. I’ll help. Not just because it’s you… but because after watching that video, I can’t pretend I didn’t see it. I feel compelled to do something too. It’s eating me up inside.”

“Thank you, Minjeong. You're always… helping me.” You smile at her warmly.

“Then treat me something nice one day,” she pouts, trying to lighten the mood. “I want some gelato—wait, not some. I want sixteen scoops of gelato. Not more, not less.”

“Alright,” you chuckle and make a mental note.

“What time did you arrange with Sullyoon?”

“In ten.”

“Then we have some time.”

“Some time for?”

You see her hesitate slightly, lips parting carefully.

“Sullyoon aside, I wanna ask about the… bigger picture.”

“Bigger picture?”

“Yea, you know, Karina… Yujin… Gaeul. How deep does this go for you?”

Your mouth partially opens to say something, but you close it immediately. Should you tell her? Even if you tell her, what do you even say? Do you tell her everything? Anything?

“It’s… complicated.”

Hesitation wells in your mouth, choking the possible words that try to escape from your vocal chords.

But Minjeong doesn’t let it slide. She leans forward slightly, eyes steady and gentle.

“I’m not asking to gossip. I’m asking because I saw that video. I saw what they did to Sullyoon. And I can tell you’re carrying a lot more than just that. If we’re really doing this, then I need to know what I’m walking into. For all our sakes.”

“I—”

“Minjae. Trust me. I'm on your side,” Minjeong gives you a small nod of affirmation.

After a long pause, you decide to open up — at least partially — hoping to lighten the weight in your heart somewhat.

“Yujin has been… pushing. She has something on me, and she's using that something to threaten and get what she wants… And each time she demands something, she's gathering more and more cards to use. Photos, clips. It's slowly spiralling into something bigger and bigger. I… I’m terrified of what it'll do to Gaeul if she finds out.”

Your fist clenches so hard that your knuckles turn white, your entire arm shaking from the force.

“Minjae…”

“And Karina… she's caught in the middle because of me. I mean, she's at fault too, but everything is caused by me. I’m trying to protect everyone, but I keep making it worse.”

Your eyes can't help but water.

“If I do this, Gaeul gets hurt. If I do that, then Karina suffers. For Yujin herself, I don't even know what her motives are, but I'm sure she doesn't want to do harm to any of us… And then there's you. I don't want to drag you into this mess and end up being hurt because of me.”

You're looking down at your cup at this point, the coffee in it getting saltier and saltier from falling drops. Minjeong just sits there and listens to you, expression softening, but she doesn't interrupt.

“Karina is still caught in the middle because of what happened before. She’s trying to atone, but she’s also scared. And Gaeul… she trusts me. She told me last night she doesn’t care if I… if I see other girls, as long as my heart stays with her. But every time I look at her, I feel like I’m already breaking that promise.”

You swallow your tears back in, trying not to cry anymore.

“I keep telling myself I’m protecting her by not saying anything. But the longer I hide it, the worse it gets.”

Winter is silent for a few seconds, processing everything.

“I’m not going to pretend I understand everything,” she says finally, voice gentle like she's brushing your hair. “But I can see how much this is tearing you apart. You’re not alone in this anymore. We’re in it together now. We’ll figure out how to protect Gaeul without letting Yujin keep controlling you.”

She reaches across the table and gives your hand a quick, reassuring squeeze before pulling back.

“Thank you for telling me even that much, even if you're not telling everything. It means a lot.”

You nod, feeling a tiny bit of the weight lift — even if only a little.

A few minutes later, the café door opens with a soft jingle. Sullyoon steps inside, looking drained and nervous. Her eyes scan the room until they land on you and Minjeong. Her shoulders slump for a moment, but she forces a smile and comes over anyway.

You gesture to the seat across from you, and she slides right beside Minjeong. Once settled down, she’s sitting with perfect posture, hands resting flat on her lap like a porcelain doll trying not to crack.

“Anything up?” she asks, voice light but strained. “I'm getting an entirely different vibe from you today.”

You exchange a quick glance with Minjeong before speaking as gently as you can.

“Sullyoon… We know everything,” you say, staring into eyes gently.

Her eyes widen instantly, panic flashing across her face. “W-what do you mean everything?” Her voice wavers, breath already shortening. “T-there isn’t anything to know.”

“Sullyoon…” Minjeong turns towards her, placing a gentle hand on Sullyoon’s shoulder.

“D-don’t touch me!” Sullyoon yelps, sweeping the hand away with a shaky motion. “I-I’m dirty!”

“T-t-tell me, what do you know?!” she continues frantically, her breathing becoming rapid and shallow. “There's nothing, right? You're just joking, right? Y-yeah, that must be it! This must be a prank… please tell me it's a prank?”

A weak, broken laugh escapes her. “Haha… look, I’m laughing… Why are both of you looking at me with such sad eyes?”

Sullyoon starts to choke on her own breath, each gasp shorter and more desperate.

You lean forward, keeping your voice steady. “Sullyoon… we saw the video. The one from the lounge. We're not here to judge you. We just… we want to help.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, Sullyoon’s face crumples.

Tears spill down her cheeks instantly. She hugs her arms tightly around herself, as if trying to hide something invisible, trying to hold back the sob, but it breaks free anyway.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…” she whispers, welled tears pouring out of her eyes.

“Sullyoon! What are you sorry for?” Minjeong pulls her into a hug, wrapping her arms around her back. “You did nothing wrong.”

“I-I didn’t want any of it… They forced me into that room. They said if I didn’t smile and act like I wanted it, they’d take my debut away. I-I worked so hard to endure everything during the photoshoot, trying my best to ignore their provocations, posing to the best I can, but you know what they said?”

You stay silent, letting her speak.

Sullyoon draws in a trembling breath and says, “‘Oh you’ll be able to debut, no doubt. But keep it in mind, photo editing exists. We can simply make your photos look unfit for the magazine when it launches, and poof~ all your future gigs will be gone. Sullyoon will be deemed untalented.’”

“Sullyoon…” Minjeong murmurs.

She buries her face deeper into Minjeong’s chest, shoulders shaking.

“What was I supposed to do? I smiled for the camera while they… while they used me. I came while I was crying. I hate myself. I hate my body for betraying me like that. I kept thinking ‘just endure it’ but I couldn’t even do that right…”

“You hate me right? I’m so disgusting…” she cries louder, trying to pull away from Minjeong. “I’m just a repulsive whore who sells her body for money…”

Minjeong reaches out again and pulls her back into an embrace.

“We’re not mad at you, nor do we find you repulsive,” Minjeong says softly. “We’re mad at them. We saw what they did to you. We’re here now.”

Sullyoon shakes her head, tears dripping into Minjeong’s shirt. “When Director Oh came in, they used me like a slut, they called me a cock sleeve… saying something about taking out their anger on me because of you, Winter. What did you even do?”

“I—” Minjeong starts, voice faltering. “I was just trying to stop him from coercing another staff member. I didn’t think—”

“Didn’t think?” Sullyoon’s voice rises, raw and broken. “With your actions, he directed his anger on me! He made me enjoy being a slut…”

She sobs uncontrollably for a moment, but eventually stops struggling. The three of you sit there in heavy silence, letting the weight of her words settle until her cries soften into quiet, controlled breaths.

“We’re going to fix this,” you say, breaking the silence. “Together. You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

Sullyoon looks up, eyes red and glistening. “You… you really mean that?”

Minjeong nods firmly.

“We do. We’re not just watching anymore. We’re going to do something about it.”

The three of you talk for a long time in that quiet corner. Sullyoon shares what little evidence she has — threatening messages from Jihoon, dates of the “sponsor meetings,” proof of the coercion.

Minjeong offers to start quietly monitoring Director Oh at future shoots. You promise to keep a close eye on Yujin’s texts and behaviour.

By the end, something fragile — something that might one day be called an alliance — forms between the three of you. It’s built on shared trauma and partial truths, but at least it’s there.

“No telling Gaeul yet,” you say. “Not until we have something solid. We can't risk another victim to the pool.”

Sullyoon wipes her eyes, trembling but visibly grateful.

“Thank you… for not hating me.”

“We don’t hate you,” Minjeong replies softly. “We hate them. We hate the system.”

You leave the café together, the fragile new alliance hanging in the air like something that could shatter with one wrong word. Sullyoon gives a small bow and leaves first. You and Minjeong pause on the sidewalk, the weight of everything still pressing down.

The café door closes behind you with a soft click. Sullyoon bids you both goodbye and leaves first.

Minjeong glances at you, worry still etched on her face.

“You okay?” she asks softly.

You shrug in defeat and open your mouth to answer when your phone vibrates in your pocket.

It’s a text from Jihoon.

(Horny Bastard, 11:48) How was the video? I bet you jerked off to it

(Horny Bastard, 11:48) But seriously? Not even a thanks?

(Horny Bastard, 11:49) You bastard, you're ignoring me on purpose, right?

(Horny Bastard, 11:49) Heard you and Winter have been meddling. If you want to see more “exclusive content”, come find me in the drama club rehearsal room. Club president has its perks. Don’t keep me waiting.

You clench your phone hard as your blood boils. The anger from earlier, the humiliation from Yujin, the guilt over Gaeul, the image of Sullyoon broken on that couch — it all surges at once.

“I need to do something,” you mutter with grinding teeth. “I’ll text you later. Stay safe.”

You don’t wait for Minjeong’s reply. You turn and head straight for the drama club building, fists clenched, heart pounding with a dangerous mix of rage and determination.

The rehearsal room door slams open without a knock.

The scene hits you like a slap.

Jihoon is lounging in the centre of the room on a worn leather couch, legs spread wide. A younger freshman girl — probably a first-year, small and clearly nervous — kneels between his thighs, her head bobbing frantically as she gives him a sloppy, desperate blowjob. Wet, obscene sounds escape her mouth without shame as she fills her mouth with the same cock you saw in the video yesterday over and over again. Loud glucks, filthy gagging, thick slurping and the occasional choked whimper reverberates throughout the room as saliva drips messily down her chin and onto the floor.

Jihoon looks up at you, completely unfazed with a lazy smirk plastered on his face. He doesn’t even tell the girl to stop. Instead, he bends down and whispers into the girl’s ears, “Looks like someone is here, sweetheart. You're not gonna stop, right?” He rests one hand casually on the back of her head, guiding her rhythm as she slurps louder.

“Well, well,” he drawls, turning back to face you casually as if you’ve interrupted an important conversation. “If it isn’t the hero of the day. Come to lecture me again?” He stays relaxed as the girl groans and gags around him.

You freeze in the doorway, stomach twisting with visible discomfort. Your hands clench into fists at your sides, knuckles turning white. You want to look away, but you can’t. The filthy, rhythmic sounds of her mouth working his cock mix horribly with his arrogant tone, forming a disgustingly pornographic soundtrack. The girl’s muffled whimpers fill whatever silence there is between gasps and saliva strings from her lips and drips onto his balls.

“So what's it gonna be today? You gonna tell me how you fucked your own fist while watching the present I gave you?” Jihoon taunts.

“Stop this right now,” you say, “You're disgusting. How could you do this to Sullyoon? How could you do this to her too?” You point to the crying and gagging girl on the floor. Your face frowns in a chaotic brew of disgust, anger, humiliation and horror. “Against their wills?”

Jihoon chuckles, hips lazily pushing forward into the girl’s mouth, forcing another loud, watery gluck out of her. “You and Winter are so naive about how the world works,” he says, completely relaxed even as the girl’s head bobs faster, drool running down her chin in thick streams. The wet messy sounds grow in intensity. “You think you can do anything about this? Sullyoon got what she wanted. She got the campaign. She’ll get the opportunities she begged for. She smiled for the camera. Willingly. She smiled as she came, multiple times, and she can’t even pretend that she hated it. And you? I bet you got hard watching every single tear, hearing every single cry.”

Your erection twitches involuntarily in your pants despite the disgust churning in your stomach. The shame of your body’s reaction makes your fists clench even harder, but your cock swells even harder.

“See? Even you can’t look away,” he taunts, pushing faster into the girl’s throat. The wet slurping grows louder, messier and more obscene.

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap with anger and discomfort. “This is fucked up. You’re a disgusting monster.”

Jihoon groans softly, eyes half-lidded with pleasure as he pushes deeper into the girl’s throat. “Monster? I’m just honest. This is just how things work. Girls like her know the game. They cry a little, open their mouths and legs, and then smile for the camera like good little sluts.”

He tightens his grip on her hair and starts fucking into her face harder, the wet slapping and gagging sounds becoming brutal. The girl’s eyes water violently, but she keeps sucking, desperate and obedient.

“You really think you can stop any of this?” Jihoon taunts between thrusts, voice strained but smug. “Sullyoon cried at first, sure. But she spread her legs and smiled in the end. Just like this little whore right here, gagging on my cock but still doing her best. Fuck… good girl. That wet little mouth feels so fucking hot. Keep sucking just like that. Right there, yeah, just like that. You’re doing such a good job for your senior, aren’t you?”

Your own cock continues to throb in your pants. The shame burns warmer, but your groin grows even hotter; you hate your body for reacting while witnessing this.

“But you know what, Minjae?”

“What, you bastard?”

“Sullyoon’s throat is much tighter and wetter and hotter than this slut’s loose throat here.”

Right as he finishes the sentence, he grabs the girl’s head with both hands, clutching her hair tight, and starts brutally fucking her face with no mercy.

Jihoon’s smirk never fades as he continues to fuck her throat harshly. Saliva explodes from her nostrils and the corners of her mouth with every savage thrust.

“Let her go. This conversation is between us.”

“Why? She’s doing fine. Aren’t you, sweetheart?” He gives her a particularly deep thrust, making her retch loudly. “Mmm, fuck yes… such a hot, sloppy mouth. You’re taking me so well. Good girl… keep going, just like that.”

“You forced Sullyoon,” you raise your voice. “You filmed her without permission. You threatened her career. You coerced her to fucking smile while you violated her, just like how you’re coercing her right now.”

“Hey, am I forcing you?”

She frantically shakes her head.

“Am I filming you?”

She denies again.

“Did I threaten you? Did I coerce you? Did I force you to smile for me? Am I violating you?”

The girl shakes her head vehemently with every deep throat plunge, mouth curving into an impossible and desperate smile, but you definitely see a hint of fear in it.

“See? I thought so. I, Park Jihoon, am gravely misunderstood,” he laments. “And as for Sullyoon, she didn’t say no loud enough. That’s how it works here. You’re just a nobody with a pretty girlfriend, who’s also a nobody. Keep poking around, and you’ll only make things worse for everyone, including Gaeul. Ahh… fuck, right there… good girl, swallow deeper, you’re gonna make me cum.”

The girl’s gagging becomes desperate and messy, saliva bubbling everywhere as Jihoon skull-fucks her without mercy. Your erection strains painfully, leaking in your pants, the unwanted arousal mixing with revulsion and rage.

You can’t take it anymore.

“Fuck you,” you spit, turning around.

You march toward the door just as Jihoon lets out a loud, guttural moan. You hear the wet sounds intensify loud and messy, before he pulls out at the last second and cums hard across the girl’s face and down her throat, stroking through every pulse. Thick ropes paint her cheeks, nose, and lips while she coughs and swallows what lands in her mouth.

The desecrating sight and sounds burn into your memory.

You slam the door shut behind you, breathing hard as you storm down the hallway, fists still clenched, erection throbbing in your pants with shame and disgust.

You’re not backing down.

Not anymore.

As your legs carry you out of the building on autopilot, the image of Jihoon’s smug face, the wet choking sounds, the thick ropes of cum painting that freshman’s face keep looping in your head like a nightmare that you can't pause.

Before you overthink it, you pull out your phone and open a shopping app. Your hands are still shaking. You’ve never needed to secretly record anyone before, but right now you need proof. Something solid. Something that you can use later. Everyone else seems to be building their own protection. After scrolling for a minute, you pick the first decent-looking voice recorder that isn’t too expensive — still costs 50 bucks though. It’s bulky, black, and looks like something a student would use for lectures, nothing discreet or professional. You add it to your cart and complete the purchase, telling yourself it’s better than nothing.

As you finish checking out and start walking again, your phone rings.

It’s Karina.

You answer, trying to keep your voice steady. “Hey.”

“Master,” she says immediately, soft and obedient. “I’m sorry for calling so suddenly.”

You wince at the title. “Karina… you don’t have to call me that right now. Just Minjae is fine.”

She pauses, then replies with quiet firmness. “I’m sorry, Master. But I am your pet. That’s what I chose. I want to earn it.”

You sigh, too drained to argue. “Fine. What’s going on?”

“Call me by my pet name, Master.”

“... Kitten.”

“Yes Master.” Her voice softens. “ Yujin called me earlier. She asked some… suspicious things. She wanted to know if I had fucked Master yet. She said Master will break soon, and that this is my chance to finally get my pussy filled by Master’s cock. She sounded so sure… like she knows something.”

Your stomach drops. After the disgusting scene with Jihoon, hearing Yujin’s name again makes your voice come out slightly unsteady. “I… I won’t be swayed. I’m taking a firm stand. She can’t keep controlling everything.”

Karina is quiet for a moment, then says softly, “I trust you, Master. I really do.”

“Thank you, Kitten.”

“Kari—no, Kitten… while we’re talking, can I ask you something about the modelling world? I reckon you know something about it since you were friends with Yujin way before I did. Are there any other organisations or agencies besides NOVATION? Maybe smaller ones that are rising? Ones that might work with new faces without so many… complications?”

There’s a short pause on her end.

“Why are you asking, Master?”

You hesitate, then decide to keep it vague. “Nothing serious. Just wanted to understand more about what Gaeul is getting into.”

Karina pauses for another moment, longer this time round.

“If you're unsure or are not comfortable shari—”

“There’s quite a number of organisations and companies,” she cuts you off, answering carefully. “But there are some that stand out.”

“Who?”

“There’s Velora and Elysium Collective. They’re small, but they sometimes offer better terms if you prove yourself.”

You nod even though she can't see it, mixing in some ‘mhmms’ as Karina continues. “Then there's also… Lumina Atelier. They’ve only emerged two years ago, but they're more aggressive. They’ve been stealing talent from smaller and bigger players alike, snagging up any potential rising stars they can find. As for how they manage to get them, no one knows how.”

“And… what about Jihoon? Do you know anything about him?”

Karina’s tone shifts slightly, a hint of distaste creeping in. “I know him. I mean, of course I know him, he hangs out around us quite often. I’ve never spoken about this to anyone, but he tried to scout me before. Offered me a ‘special opportunity’ if I let him fuck me good and play with my tits. I rejected him immediately. He’s disgusting. Always trying to get in my panties. That’s pretty much all I know. A vile bastard who thinks his family’s money and connections give him a free pass.”

You swallow hard. The image of Jihoon skull-fucking that freshman flashes in your mind again, and in a split second you can't help but imagine Karina in her place — Jihoon’s cock plunging in and out of Karina’s mouth as saliva dribbles everywhere. Your heart skips.

“Be careful of him,”

“I will. Your kitten’s kitty is only for you, Master.”

“... Thanks. That's… very reassuring to know,” you reply, almost managing a weak laugh. “And thanks for the information.”

Karina doesn’t ask why you’re suddenly interested in all this. She simply hums in understanding and readies to hang up the call. “Take care, Master.”

“Karina…”

“Remember? It's Kitten~” she teases, adding a playful mewl at the end.

“Can we just reserve the name-calling thing for when we’re alone together with Gaeul? I can't have any of our twisted relationships be known in public.”

“Fine,” she huffs. “Then I’ll take it that I can tease and service Master whenever we're alone?”

“...” You shake your head in defeat and sigh. “Yes”.

“Nyan~” Karina meows before hanging up.

You stare at your phone, heart still racing. “Stupid cheese cat…” you mutter, mouth quirking up in slight amusement. You shake your head and open up the notepad application, typing in the names that Kitt—no, Karina, the names that Karina mentioned earlier: Velora. Elysium Collective. Lumina Atelier.

Before you can put your phone away, it buzzes again. A notification pops up.

It's Yujin.

(Ahn Yujin, 14:23) Rooftop of the old lecture building. Now. We need to talk.

You stare at the message. Every instinct screaming to ignore it. But you know better. Ignoring Yujin only makes things worse.

You take a deep breath and head towards the old lecture building, the cheap voice recorder still days away from arriving, sitting in your app like a small, inadequate shield.

---

Approximately half an hour later, you push open the heavy metal door to the rooftop. The hinges groan in protest, lamenting your choice in coming. As the door swings open, a cool gust of wind immediately hits your face, carrying the faint lethargic haze of the campus below.

Yujin is already there.

She leans casually against the railing in a cropped jean-textured modified top that clings to her chest and a pair of tight black leather shorts that hug her hips and thighs. Tall black combat boots with thick straps and buckles reach up to her knees, giving her already commanding presence an extra edge of danger. 

And the sky? The late afternoon light has deepened into a rich golden-orange, the kind of hue that only appears during the Golden Hour. It's warm, and almost too beautiful against the perpetual haze of dust and pollution that lingers over the campus. It paints her skin in soft amber tones, making her look both ethereal and dangerously sharp at the same time.

She doesn’t turn around right away. She just stands there, hair swaying lightly in the breeze, as if she has all the time in the world.

You let the door slam shut behind you with a heavy clang, the sound echoing across the empty rooftop like a warning — the second warning since the creaking door moments earlier.

Yujin finally glances over her shoulder, a slow, knowing smile arched all over her face.

“You came,” she says softly, voice carrying easily on the wind. “Good boy.”

She pushes off the railing and turns to face you fully. You feel your body shiver as she approaches — unsure whether the chill is from the wind, or from the threat radiating off her.

“Minjae-ya,” she says sweetly, hips swaying as she struts towards you. “You look tense. Rough day?”

You back a few steps away, arms crossed tightly over your chest, trying to keep distance.

“What do you want, Yujin?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she steps closer, close enough that you can smell her perfume — warm vanilla and sweet ylang-ylang, along with something sharper underneath. Her fingers trail lightly down your chest.

“I heard you were playing hero,” she murmurs, voice low and teasing. “Confronting Director Oh? How brave. How… adorable~”

You stiffen. “How do you—”

“Shhh.” She places a finger on your lips. “I have my ways. I also know… you confronted Jihoon earlier~ Such a cute little boy. Does seeing Sullyoon succumb to getting her pussy loosened hurt you so much?”

“Am I wrong for feeling that way?” you growl back, anger boiling in your chest. “You want something, you work for it. Survival of the fittest, or perhaps in this case, survival of the sluttiest. That's the law of the jungle. It's a dog-eat-dog world after all.” Yujin bends forward and smirks into your face. “But that’s not why I called you here.”

Her hand slides lower, fingers brushing over the front of your pants. You flinch, but she doesn’t pull away.

“I want you,” she whispers, eyes locked on yours. “I want to eat you up, right here, right now. The way I wanted you in the dressing room. The way I’ve been thinking about since you got together with Gaeul.”

You take a step back.

“No. Not tonight. I’m done with this.”

“Oh?” Yujin tilts her head, smiling like she finds your resistance cute. “So I can have you tomorrow night instead?”

“I didn’t mean that–” your breath hitches at the misspoken words.

“Are you sure?” She steps forward again, pressing her body against yours. Her hand cups you through your jeans, squeezing gently. “Because I heard something very interesting yesterday.”

You freeze for a moment before parting your lips. “What have you not… heard?” you taunt hesitantly.

Yujin’s smile turns predatory, her voice dropping into a soft, seductive purr as her fingers start rubbing you through the fabric. “Gaeul came to me yesterday. She looked so worried about you. She asked me — actually asked me — if she should let you sleep with other girls. She said she doesn’t care… as long as your heart stays with her.”

Your stomach drops. The words hit exactly like Gaeul said the night before — almost word for word.

“You know what I told her?” Yujin watches your reaction closely, her rubbing speeding up, feeling you twitch from the friction despite yourself.

“W-what?” You grunt, legs shaking slightly at the dull pressure she’s giving you — or your cock, as a matter of fact.

“She seemed relieved when I told her yes,” Yujin purrs silkily, rubbing your groin even harder. “I told her it might help you relax. That you’ve been so tense lately. She even smiled a little. Told me she trusts you completely… that she knows you’ll always come back to her.”

You shake your head, disbelief and panic rising.

“You’re lying. There’s no way she—”

“Am I?” Yujin leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Or are you just scared that she really meant it? That your sweet, understanding girlfriend is willing to share you… as long as you crawl back to her in the end.”

“Are you scared that Gaeul doesn't love you as much as you thought? That she would leave you at a moment’s notice if she found someone better?” Her hand slips inside your jeans, fingers wrapping around your already half-hard cock. You’re already leaking.

“See?” she whispers, stroking you slowly. “Your body knows the truth. You’re getting so hard for me right now… even while you’re telling me no.” Yujin continues to slide her hand in and out of the gap in your jeans, feeling you throb and grow against her skilful hands.

You grab her wrist, trying to stop her, but your grip is weak.

“Yujin… stop. This isn’t—”

“Isn’t what?” She pumps you slowly, thumb circling the head as she slides her hand upwards, spreading the leaking pre-cum around your tip. “Isn’t that what Gaeul wants? Or isn’t what you want? Because your cock is throbbing in my hand… just thinking about your sweet girlfriend saying those words while I touch you like this.”

You grit your teeth, breathing growing ragged at the pleasure her fingers are giving you. Disbelief wars with the heat building in your gut.

“She wouldn’t… she couldn’t mean that…”

Yujin laughs softly, pressing her body closer, her breasts brushing your chest.

“But she did. And I encouraged her. Told her it was healthy. Told her you deserved to let off some steam.” Her strokes become firmer and faster. “So why fight it, Minjae? Let me help you the way she wants. Let me take care of this aching cock while your sweet girlfriend waits for you at home, thinking her heart is still safe with you.”

You close your eyes, jaw clenched. Every stroke sends unwanted pleasure through you. The way her hand wraps around your cock, the way her hand grips your swollen length, the way each pump sends you tumbling towards the path of no return. You suck in a deep breath, the guilt churning in you that's slowly replaced by the lust of reproductive release. You thought you were strong. You thought you were firm.

But Gaeul’s words keep echoing in your head.

I don’t care if you find other girls and fuck them…

I don’t care if you let off steam with someone else…

But your heart… your heart will always remain with me, right?’

“Yujin… I can’t… not again…” you beg under your breath.

She leans in and kisses the side of your neck, whispering hotly against your skin.

“You can. And you will. Because if you don’t… I might just have to tell Gaeul everything. The dressing room. I’ll show her the photo of your cock on my thighs. I’ll show her your cum on my thighs. And I’ll show her the video of how you fucked my throat while she was waiting for you. All of it.”

Her hand never stops moving — slow, teasing and relentless.

“V-video? Didn't you say it was a lie?”

“And you believed me?” Yujin chuckles, speeding up her strokes. “You're so naive. Do you want to test it? The door is right there. You can leave and go home to Gaeul right now. Then you’ll get your answer as you open the door to her dorm.”

“Y-Yujin, please.”

“Come on, baby. Be a good boy for me tonight. Let me make you feel good… while you think about how understanding your girlfriend is.”

You stand there, breathing hard, body tense with reluctance and disbelief, but your cock throbs traitorously in her grip.

Yujin smiles victoriously.

“That’s it… good boy.”

She drops to her knees right there on the rooftop, pulling your jeans down to your knees. Your cock springs out hard and throbbing, ready for her picking.

“Imagine it, Minjae. Gaeul saying those words… telling me it’s okay for you to fuck other girls. Telling me she doesn’t mind… as long as your heart belongs to her. Doesn’t that turn you on?”

Without hesitation, she takes you into her mouth, gobbling your cock up greedily. Her throat relaxes instantly, swallowing you down until her nose presses against your pelvis.

You groan, hands instinctively moving to her head, but you don’t push her away. The wet heat of her throat, the way she hums around you, the obscene bulge in her neck — it all hits you like a drug you hate yourself for craving.

You can't deny it. It feels even better than the last time. There's a lustful hunger in her mouth, and she continues to gobble and greed for your cock as she takes you in and out, twirling and swirling around every inch as she bobs with passion and aggression.

Yujin pulls off with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting her lips to your cock, and looks up at you with dark, triumphant eyes.

“See? Even now, you can’t stop me.”

She dives back down, sucking you harder and faster, her hand stroking what her mouth can’t reach. The wet, obscene sounds echo across the rooftop in the golden light.

You stand there, breathing hard, reluctance and disbelief still clear on your face… but your body has already started to surrender.

Yujin moans around your cock, the low vibration sending sparks up your spine. She pulls off again, stroking you with long, slick pulls while she looks up at you.

“Tell me,” she purrs, voice dripping with mock concern. “Does it turn you on? Knowing Gaeul said those words? That she’s okay with you fucking other girls… as long as you come back to her? Does it make you feel less guilty when you’re inside me?”

You grit your teeth, trying to deny it, but your cock twitches hard in her hand, leaking pre-cum over her fingers.

Yujin laughs softly.

“That’s what I thought. You’re such a weak boy, Minjae. So easy to break. So easy to own.”

You groan in response as she takes you back in like how she took the cheese sausage, like how she stuffed your cock into her tight mouth during the photoshoot, and god, her mouth is so warm and tight. You revel in how slick her mouth feels, how her tongue swirls around your cock like it's gathering all the gooey cream from a melting popsicle, one that's melting from the scorching heat of her mouth.

Your hands find her head once again, this time guiding her up and down your shaft. She looks up at your small proactiveness, smirking as her plump glossy lips traverse up and down your cock.

“Mhmm… Minjae-ya, how could you only keep this cock for Gaeul,” she pulls off to mumble before diving back down. Her eyes are entirely filled with hearts of lust, devouring your cock like it's a piece of meat that will disappear at any moment. “You even fed Jimin this cock before you gave it to me? How could you?” Each bob of her head sends your mind tumbling towards ‘you-don’t-even-know-what-to-do-anymore’.

She's dangerous.

But fuck — her throat feels so good.

Dangerously addictive.

God her mouth’s so fucking wet.

You should stop.

Why aren't you pushing her head off?

You are.

It's just that every time you slide her up, your grip tightens and you instinctively shove her back down, chasing the tight heat of her throat. 

Deeper. Harder. Faster.

The way her tongue rubs on the underside of your cock when she tilts her head up on every bob upwards.

The way her cheeks hollow with impeccable suction on every upstroke.

The way her throat releases, clenches and ripples all around your throbbing, leaking shaft.

The way her eyes flutter and widen playfully with every gag on your cock.

The way she guzzles her mouth on your cock, swinging her head left and right in ahegao.

You fear that if you don't stop this any soon, you never will.

As if reading your mind, she pulls off with a wet, messy pop, not bothering to suck in or gather the lewd sticky saliva that's stringing everywhere.

“Minjae-ya… I really love your cock so fucking much,” Yujin purrs at you with a cock-drunk expression, continuously stroking you with slick, firm pulls. “You've already fucked both my mouth and thighs, what's one more hole? Won't you fuck me?”

“I-I can't—”

“You can.” She stands up, pushing you back against the railing. Her hands make quick work of your jeans, shoving them down to your knees along with your underwear. “Gaeul gave you permission, didn’t she? As long as your heart stays with her?”

She steps closer, pressing her body against yours, her hand still stroking your aching cock.

“Sit,” she orders, mouth still glossy with saliva and your pre-cum.

You hesitate, breathing ragged. Yujin doesn’t wait. She pushes you down firmly until you sink onto the low concrete ledge, the cold stone biting through your clothes.

You hesitate one final time, but Yujin gives you no room to think. She stands in front of you, hips cocked.

“Take them off,” she orders. “My shorts. Slowly.”

Your hands shake — half-fearful, half-excited — as you reach up and hook your fingers into the waistband of her tight black leather shorts. You peel them down her thighs reluctantly, the glossy material sliding off her skin softly. She steps out gracefully, leaving her tall combat boots still firmly on.

“Fold them nicely and put them aside,” she says, smirking. “They’re sponsored. Don’t ruin them.”

You follow her instructions obediently, folding the leather shorts with trembling hands and setting them neatly on the ledge. The moment you finish, Yujin steps closer, her bare pussy glistening inches from your face. The scent of her arousal is thick, heady and intoxicating.

“Smell me,” she commands softly. “Tell me how wet I am for you.”

You lean in, breathing her in. The musky, sweet scent fills your lungs, making your cock twitch painfully hard. Your lips part — wanting to tell her how hot, how tantalising, and how fucking desirable she is — but you can't bring yourself to say it.

“I thought so,” Yujin glares down at you, clearly dissatisfied with your lingering reluctance. “No matter, let's see when you'll submit.”

Before you can pull away, she grabs the back of your head and presses your mouth firmly against her dripping folds.

“Lick.”

You slide your tongue out and drag it slowly over her slick folds. She tastes sweet and slightly tangy, her wetness coating your tongue instantly. You lick broader strokes, flattening your tongue to cover her from entrance to clit, savouring the way her thighs tremble against your cheeks.

Yujin lets out a low, breathy moan, her fingers tightening in your hair.

“That’s it… slower. Use your whole tongue. Taste how much I’ve been aching for this cock.”

You obey, licking longer, lazier strokes, circling her swollen clit before dipping lower to tease her entrance. Her hips roll gently against your face, smearing her slick across your lips and chin. You suck lightly on her clit, then push your tongue inside her, fucking her with slow, deep thrusts of your tongue.

“Fuck… yes,” she gasps, grinding harder. “Deeper. Eat my pussy like you mean it. Show me how hungry you are.”

You push your tongue as deep as you can, curling it inside her while your nose presses against her clit. Her juices drip down your chin, wet and messy. You lap at her greedily, alternating between long licks and focused sucking on her clit, the slurping wet sounds of your mouth working between her legs mixing with her growing moans.

Yujin’s thighs start to shake. She rides your face slowly, using your tongue like a personal toy, her combat boots planted firmly on either side of you for balance.

“You’re so good at this…” she moans huskily. “Bet you eat Gaeul’s pussy like this too, don’t you? Does she taste as sweet as me? Does she get this wet for you?”

You groan into her, the mention of Gaeul sending a sharp spike of guilt through you, but you don’t stop. Her pussy is addictively delicious — raw, arousing, and dripping with a forbidden flavour that keeps your tongue moving, lapping and gulping like a man dying of thirst in a desert.

Her pussy is your oasis.

Your tongue keeps working, licking and sucking until her breathing turns ragged and her hips move faster, grinding desperately against your mouth.

“Fuck—you're eating me so well,” Yujin mewls into the setting sun, the golden rays casting their holy radiance upon the indecent, sloppy kiss between your thirsty mouth and her puffy, gushing folds. “I dreamt of this every single day… every single minute… every single second.”

“Wanted to drag you under the cafeteria’s table and make you eat me out while Gaeul talks to me over lunch.” She presses you into her snatch harder, rubbing your head up and down like you're her personal fingers. “Wanted you to lap on my tight pussy while I sat through that stupid ass literature professor’s lecture.”

She snaps her hips up and down in conjunction with her manhandling, smearing her delicious drug-like forbidden juices all over your face, from your chin all the way to your forehead, then back down, stuffing your nose into her folds with every drag.

“Oh gosh, I'm gonna fucking cum. I'm gonna fucking cum all over this stupid face,” she squeals, pressing your nose deep into her, shaking your head in violent spasmodic tremors. She freezes for a fraction of a second before her walls clamp and release, drowning you with her musk and sudden wave of fresh, warm liquid.

She lets out a breathy and airy moan and continues to release wave after wave of warm, sweet juices, drenching all over your face, flooding your nostrils.

Her juices are voluminous and sharp-tasting, piercing your nostrils as it traverses down your nasal passage; most of it slides down your throat, some leaking out onto your tongue. You choke slightly at the flood into your nose, but your tongue keeps working, catching every stray drop that spills from her snatch.

Your face is utterly wrecked, glimmering in the fading sunset.

Yujin rides out her high with shaky rolls of her hips, then suddenly pulls your head back. A thick string of her arousal connects your lips to her pussy. Her eyes are dark with lust and impatience.

“Enough,” she gasps, chest heaving. “I can’t wait anymore.”

She lifts one trembling leg and presses her combat boot firmly on your chest, pushing your upper torso back against the cold concrete ledge. She looks down at you with a playful, predatory smirk, then squats over your lap. Her boots are planted solidly on either side of your thighs, making her look even more domineering.

She reaches down with one hand and lines your throbbing cock up with her entrance.

“Minjae-ya,” she purrs, voice dripping with wicked sweetness.

“Look at me.”

You raise your head, meeting her eyes. Her pupils are wide, dark and velvety, pulling you into an endless abyss of lustful desire.

“I’m going to fuck you right now,” she grins, “and this is your only chance to stop me.”

Her words hit your ears, but your mind barely registers the second half. All you can think is: Yujin is fucking hot.

Your breath hitches. Your cock twitches hard against her slick folds.

Yujin takes it as her cue and slowly sinks down.

A sharp gasp escapes her lips as the head parts her lips with a slow, tortuous drag. She takes only the tip inside, holding it there, savouring the stretch, feeling you leak from just that much contact.

She stays perfectly still for long, agonising seconds, eyes locked on yours.

“Minjae.”

Your breathing grows ragged and impatient, hips twitching involuntarily.

“Last chance,” she whispers.

Your arms feel like lead. You know you should push her off. You know you should stand up and walk away.

But you don't.

“I knew it. You want me too, right?” Yujin whispers into your ears, smiling as she sinks lower, inch by inch, your cock disappearing into her until you're buried to the hilt inside her tight, dripping heat. A low, breathy moan leaves her lips as she bottoms out, her walls clenching around you.

“Fuck… you’re long and thick,” she moans, eyes fluttering. “Nothing like I imagined. So much better.” Her leather boots creak slightly as she adjusts her stance, the buckles glinting in the golden light. She stays still for a few heartbeats, letting you feel every pulse and flutter of her pussy.

“Now sit still,” she orders, voice breathy but firm. “You’re only a toy for me to use today.”

Then she starts to move. She starts grinding on you deliberately at a slow place, rolling her hips forward and backwards, massaging every inch of your shaft. Her walls clench rhythmically around you as she rides, her combat boots staying planted on the concrete for leverage.

“Gosh you're rubbing all the best spots in me,” Yujin plants her hands on your shoulders, snapping her hips forward to feel your tip prod against her upper walls, then easing backwards to drag your tip back down against her lower walls. “Fuck—I can feel every vein of you inside me, Minjae-ya. Your cock, it's so thick… so hard… so hot inside of me.”

You groan in response, feeling the soft ridges of her velvety walls graze the nerves on your erection, sending sparks that tingles your spine.

“Mmm… feel how good my pussy is?” she taunts, grinding deeper, rocking with deep arcs that rubs her swollen clit on your groin. “So much wetter and tighter than those other sluts. Tighter than Sullyoon. Tighter than Karina. And definitely tighter than Gaeul.”

You growl involuntarily, hands gripping the ledge. “Don’t… mention her.”

Yujin chuckles darkly, her pace picking up as she starts bouncing on your cock, taking you balls-deep with every aggressive drop. The wet plapping of her ass meeting your lap echoes across the rooftop as she continuously sheaths and unsheathes her pussy on your cock, each one sending a fresh splurt of juices around your groin.

“Why not? Does it hurt hearing how much better I feel?” She slams down faster, her clothed chest jiggling with every brutal bounce. “My cunt is swallowing you so greedily… and you’re throbbing so hard inside me. Admit it. My body is better. You should be worshipping me instead of her.”

You stay silent, jaw clenched, but your cock betrays you, twitching violently with every bounce. Dopamine gushes out of your mind, flooding your bloodstream, making your cock throb harder into her measured bounces, each one sending you tumbling into the abyss of forbidden pleasure. The guilt in you burns hotter with every wet slap of skin, but the pleasure you're feeling overwhelms and covers the guilt.

Your toes curl and your calves tighten, each swallow of your meat into her bottom lips only serves to make you submit harder.

“Y-Yujin…” you groan.

“Yes, my lovely Minjae~?” she probes sweetly, swaying her hips on your fully embedded cock left and right, not before tracing the circumference of an imaginary circle with your cock multiple times. “That’s it… feel how deep you are,” she gasps, riding you harder. “This is what you needed, isn’t it? A pussy that doesn’t hold back. A pussy that takes what it wants.” Her pussy juices foams with every motion, creaming as she stirs her insides with you like she's whisking a meringue for dessert.

“Mmmph—” you bite down on your lower lip and muffle your moan.

“Hahaha~” Yujin chuckles, then suddenly stops moving, hovering with just the tip inside her. “I’ll stop right now unless you look at me and moan like you mean it,” she warns, voice sweet but dangerous.

You hesitate, conflict raging in your eyes. She feels so otherworldly that it makes you grunt uncontrollably, but you can't let her know her effect on you.

But she sees everything.

Yujin reaches down, grabs the hem of her cropped denim vest, and peels it off in one smooth motion, exposing her bare chest. Her small, perky tits bounce free, nipples already hard and wanting.

“These are yours if you obey,” she says, leaning forward so her tits brush your face. “Suck.”

You break instantly. Your mouth latches onto one nipple, sucking greedily. Yujin moans loudly, the sound vibrating through her chest as she starts grinding her hips again, massaging your shaft with every slow, deliberate snap.

You taste the salt and arousal of her sweat off her tits, staring up into her eyes as she tilts her head backwards in pleasure. You paint your tongue across her chest with flat broad strokes, gathering each drop of salty bead onto your tongue, savouring the ephemeral salinity before suckling on her left tit.

“Good boy…” she gasps, riding you faster, wrapping her arms around your neck, pressing you firmly on her breasts. “Moan for me. Let me hear how much you’re enjoying this.”

You moan into her chest despite yourself, the vibration making her clench tighter around you. Your teeth bite on the flesh around her nipples, drawing sharp gasps from Yujin as she smirks triumphantly. She begins bouncing again, driving herself onto you with hard, deep, and relentless plunges that take you balls-deep over and over.

She grabs your hands and moves them to her ass, squeezing your fingers into the soft flesh.

“Submit to your desires,” she demands, voice husky. “Fuck me back. Admit it — my cunt is so much better than Gaeul’s.”

You stay silent, but your hips twitch upward involuntarily, meeting her bounces. Your fingers spread her ass cheeks wide, and your arms lift her higher and drop her harder onto your cock, slamming deeper and faster.

Yujin laughs breathlessly and rides you even harder, her combat boots planted firmly on the rooftop as she fucks you senseless. Her perky tits bounce wildly in your face with every aggressive drop, nipples brushing your lips as she leans forward, pressing them against your mouth.

“Suck them while I fuck you,” she orders breathlessly. “Suck my tits like a good boy while I ruin you for Gaeul.”

You obey, latching onto one nipple and sucking hard as she continues slamming down onto your cock. The dual sensation — her tight pussy swallowing you whole and her tit in your mouth — pushes you closer to the edge.

Yujin’s moans grow louder, more desperate. Her bounces become erratic as she chases her release, her walls fluttering wildly around you.

“Fuck… I’m so close,” she gasps, riding you with savage intensity. “You’re going to make me cum all over this cock that’s supposed to belong to Gaeul…”

Yujin’s head tilts back, lips parted in a silent cry of pleasure, her long hair cascading down her back like a dark waterfall. Her eyes are half-lidded, lashes fluttering as pure bliss washes over her face — that same confident, almost arrogant expression from the photoshoot, but now completely lost in ecstasy. One arm reaches up to grip the overhead beam for balance, the other digging nails into your shoulder as she bounces harder.

She looks utterly dominant and beautifully wrecked at the same time. Her cheeks are flushed, mouth open in breathy moans, body arching as she takes you deeper with every slam.

The wet slapping and plapping grows louder and faster as she slams down repeatedly, her pussy gripping and rippling around your cock like she’s trying to milk you dry.

She’s so close.

“Minjae, Minjae, fuck you're so good, your cock is the best! I'm so close, so so so close~” she squeals into your ear.

Her walls flutter wildly around you as she chases her release, moaning loudly into the golden hour light, her hips snapping down with savage intensity. She pulls you tighter into her embrace, grabbing onto your hair and with one final drop, she freezes for a split second before she breaks.

She mewls and yelps in pleasure as she cums, entire body trembling and spasming with her lips parted. She moans airily in euphoric relief as you assist her, raising and dropping her convulsing pussy around your cock, fucking her through her orgasm.

Waves after waves of wet, hot slick coats your inner thighs, refreshing the previously drying moisture with a fresh coat of golden sheen, all the way until her orgasm dies out and her entire body collapses onto you.

She stays on you for a long moment, bare tits pressed on your chest, pussy fluttering weakly around your cock. She breathes against you weakly, drawing small hearts around your nipples with a lazy finger, but each shape drawn sends chills down your spine.

Another new thing.

Yujin’s scary. Terrifyingly scary.

Before you can do anything, Yujin suddenly lifts herself with a wicked, but unsatisfied smile. She climbs off you slowly, pulling until your cock slides out of her with a wet pop. Balls still heavy, your cock stands tall and angry, glistening with her juices, begging for release.

You need to cum so badly.

Without a word, she turns around and looks back at you, arching her back deeply. The golden hour light catches the curve of her spine and the shine on her flushed, sweaty skin.

“On your knees,” she orders, kneeling down and pushing her ass toward you. “I want to use you.”

You hesitate, shame burning hot in your chest, but the threat of those photos lingers like a blade at your throat. But you can't deny that you want to feel more of her pussy too, so you drop to your knees behind her on the hard rooftop.

Yujin reaches back with one hand, grabs your cock, and lines it up with her dripping entrance. She pushes back hard, impaling herself on you in one smooth, greedy thrust.

“Ahh—fuck, yes…” she moans loudly, immediately starting to pound herself backward onto your cock. “Don't you dare move. You're. Just. A. Cock. For. Me. To. Fuck.”

With each word, she slaps her ass down, punctuating every slam. The position is completely passive for you — she’s the one in total control, slamming her ass against your hips with wet, relentless slaps.

If there's one more thing you notice about Yujin, it's that she sweats a lot. Her skin is utterly glossed with a thin sheen of sweat, making every ripple of her tight ass look even more obscene and erotic as it collides with you. Your cock swells and throbs even harder at the sight.

Yujin continues to use your cock like a lifeless toy, her pussy clenching greedily around you as she fucks herself harder.

“Feel that?” she gasps, looking back at you over her shoulder with a wicked grin. “This is what you get for trying to resist. You're just a warm, throbbing toy for me to ride while your girlfriend waits for you at home, thinking you’re still hers.”

She reaches between her legs and rubs her clit furiously while pounding back onto you, her moans growing louder and filthier with every deep stroke.

But then her voice drops into something even darker, something more venomous.

“You know what would make this even better?” she purrs, slamming back harder, her pussy swallowing you to the hilt. “If Jimin was here right now… on her knees in front of me, watching me use you like the pathetic toy you are.”

You stiffen, a fresh, icy wave of guilt crashing over you.

Yujin laughs breathlessly, never slowing her merciless pounding. “Imagine it, Minjae. Your sweet, obedient little pet… the one who calls you ‘Master’ and spreads her legs like a good girl whenever you snap your fingers. I’d make her watch while I fuck myself on your cock. I’d force her to sit there with her legs open, touching herself like the desperate slut she is, while she sees how easily I take what she will probably never get.”

“Think about it, she’ll jam her fingers in and out of her pathetic pussy wishing it was your cock instead, but she’ll get nothing,” Yujin pushes back even harder, her ass slapping loudly against your pelvis with every crash. “All she's worth is her big tits, those big milkers that’ll sway and shake uselessly, begging to be touched.”

“I’d make her crawl closer… make her lick my clit while your cock slides in and out of me. Make her taste how wet I get for you. Make her thank me for showing her how a real woman rides her precious Master’s cock. I’d tell her to look up at you with those big, obedient eyes while I drain every drop of pleasure from the dick she wishes she can get addicted to.”

Yujin’s smug chuckles mix with the loud, wet smacking of skin, eyes half-lidded in pleasure. The wet sounds grow louder, wetter, more obscene as she fucks herself senseless on you.

“Would you like that?” she taunts, looking back at you with dark, lust-filled eyes. “Watching your little Jimin cry while I use the cock she’s so desperate for? Or maybe I’d make you fuck her pretty face while I ride your mouth… force her to gag and choke on you while I suffocate you with my thick thighs?”

“I bet she’d look so pretty with tears running down her cheeks, crying ‘Master please fuck me with your cock’, Yujin continues taunting.

“But wait, her throat is all stuffed full~” she giggles. “All you’ll hear are her gags and chokes~”

You groan through gritted teeth, the mental image hitting you like a punch to the gut — Karina’s soft “Master” whispers, her eager obedience, now twisted into Yujin’s cruel fantasy; your cock throbs violently inside Yujin, betraying you completely.

Yujin feels the twitch and moans louder, pounding back faster, her pussy gripping you like a vise.

“See? Your cock loves the idea. It’s twitching so much inside me just thinking about breaking your little pet together. You’re such a filthy, weak boy, Minjae… pretending to protect while you let me use you like this. I bet you’d cum so hard watching her cry for you.”

She reaches back to spread one ass cheek wider so you can watch your cock disappear inside her again and again, the sight unimaginably sexy under the golden light. Her thrusts are so measured that when she pulls out, it’s just enough for you to see your tip emerge from her puffy pussy, not before she plunges back down, taking you all the way back in. Your cock does not pop out at all, enabling you to feel the full range of motion of her jackhammering cunt.

“Good toy… just stay there and take it. Let me use this cock while I dream about turning your precious Jimin into my little plaything too. I’d make her watch every single thrust… make her thank me for teaching her how to please her Master properly.”

Her pace becomes merciless. She fucks herself on you with savage force, ass slapping loudly against your pelvis, her combat boots scraping the concrete as she braces for more leverage. Her walls ripple and squeeze around you with every deep thrust, milking you relentlessly as her juices drip down your balls and thighs.

You grip her hips tightly, but you still don’t thrust — you just endure as she uses you, the shame mixing with the intense pleasure until your mind starts to blur. Her pussy feels so wonderfully hot and slick, every pull exposing your cock to the cold air, causing you to crave for her molten heat over and over again with every plunge. Perhaps this ecstastical sensation makes her a drug.

Makes sex a drug.

Makes her a drug.

Your drug.

Yujin’s breathing grows ragged. Her walls start fluttering wildly around you again as she chases another orgasm.

“Fuck… I’m gonna cum again,” she moans, slamming back harder. “All over this cock while I think about Jimin watching us… crying for you…”

She pushes back one final time, burying you to the hilt as her pussy clamps down hard. She cums with a loud, broken moan, her entire body trembling, walls rippling and squeezing around you in powerful waves. Fresh, hot nectar floods around your cock as she grinds through her orgasm, using you to ride out every last spasm.

Her pussy feels so good that every tremble of her walls send you closer and closer. Then, right as you feel yourself dangerously close to the edge, she suddenly lifts herself off you with a wet pop.

Your cock slips out, throbbing angrily in the cool air, leaking thick strings of precum and denied release. You groan in frustration as the building orgasm crashes back down, leaving you painfully edged and desperate.

Yujin stands up on shaky legs, turns to face you, and leans back against the railing. She looks at you with a smug, teasing smile and curls her finger.

“Come here,” she says sweetly. “Stand up and fuck me properly.”

You rise on trembling legs, cock aching. The moment you step forward and line yourself up with her dripping entrance, Yujin suddenly raises one leg high, hooking her combat boot over your shoulder, opening herself completely while still facing you.

The new angle lets you see her face clearly — flushed cheeks, dark eyes full of amusement and hunger. One more thing to add to the list about Yujin:

Yujin is a playful piece of shit.

You grunt in disappointment when she moves her legs down and keeps her boot pressed firmly against your chest, not allowing you to push past the tip.

Yujin laughs softly, eyes sparkling.

“Look at you,” she taunts. “Now you’re the one approaching my pussy? Not pushing me away anymore? How cute. Admit it, Minjae. You want to fuck me. You want to bury that cock inside me so badly.”

You stay silent, jaw clenched, trying to pull away from her mocking. But Yujin suddenly raises her leg higher into a split, wraps both arms around your ass, and slams you forward.

You sink into her in one rough thrust, her raised leg still hooked over your shoulder, allowing you to plunge much deeper.

She holds your hips tightly and starts using you like a living dildo, controlling your pace completely. She pulls you in and out slowly at first, letting you feel every inch sliding through her tight, velvety walls, then suddenly speeds up, slamming you deep and fast for several hard strokes before slowing down again, leaving you right on the edge.

She repeats this mercilessly with fast and deep pounding that makes her tits bounce and her pussy cream around you, then abrupt slowdowns where she grinds in slow circles, denying you the final push. Each time you get close, she pulls you almost all the way out, letting your cock twitch and leak helplessly against her entrance while she laughs softly.

“Do you want to push back inside my pussy?” she whispers, grinding the head of your cock against her slick folds.

You nod desperately, hips twitching forward.

Yujin smiles sweetly.

“Then beg for it. Beg to fuck me.”

You stay reluctant, breathing hard. Yujin chuckles and uses you again, slamming you in and out, fast and deep, her pussy gripping and rippling around you. When you’re right on the edge once more, muscles tensing and balls tightening, she pulls you out completely and edges you again, your cock twitching uselessly in the air as precum drips onto her belly.

She asks you to beg a second time. You refuse again, but your rejection is softer this time, leaking with frustration.

Yujin repeats the cycle one more time, fucking you senseless with her hands on your hips, pounding you deep and fast until your legs shake and you’re right at the brink, then yanking you out at the last second, leaving you throbbing and denied.

This time, when she asks, you break.

“Please…” you beg softly, desperate. “Let me fuck you.”

Yujin smiles, satisfied with this for now.

“Good boy.”

She grabs her lifted leg and pulls it closer to herself, completely opening her pussy. The new angle allows you to plunge much deeper.

Now with her permission, you fuck her like an animal, driving deep, raw and savage thrusts that hammer into her pussy while facing each other. Your hips snap forward with thundering force, driving your cock balls-deep into her with every powerful stroke. The wet smack of your pelvis slamming against her echoes loudly across the rooftop as you pound her relentlessly, the railing creaking dangerously under her grip.

Yujin keeps giggling and laughing throughout, mewling in pleasure.

“Mmm—you feel so good,” she gasps, eyes half-lidded. “So deep… pounding me so hard. Can you feel how my pussy is swallowing every inch?”

She grabs your hand and presses it against her lower belly.

“Feel that? Feel the bump every time you thrust? That’s your cock rearranging my insides.”

She moans louder, tilting her head back.

“Kiss me,” she demands breathlessly.

“N-no,” you refuse, turning your face away.

Yujin just laughs again, clearly enjoying your last shred of resistance.

You keep hammering her pussy, thrusting raw and deep, lost in a frenzy of lust and frustration. Each plunge makes her body jolt, and her raised leg bounces on your shoulder as you drive into her repeatedly. Her pussy grips and ripples around you, juices splashing with every impact.

“Harder. Deeper. Make me feel it. Make me feel how conflicted you are.”

You thrust faster, more fiercely, the coercion and taunting fueling the intensity.

“Y-yujin…”

“Hmm?”

“You feel so good…”

“I know,” she smirks, smile widening at your confession. “Your cock feels so good too, so fuck me harder. Fuck me like you hate me. Like you hate yourself for enjoying it. Pound my pussy like a desperate animal.”

Your mind goes blank, thrusting deep and hard until you feel her trembling.

“Minjae, Minjae, Minjae. Please don't stop. Faster, harder, deeper. I'm gonna fucking cum.”

You keep on slamming, pushing your cock into her slick and hot depths. She pulls your hands and places it on her clit. You don't need any instruction. Your fingers work in rapid circles, making her twitch harder, moan louder, until she's on the verge of her release.

“Fuck fuck fuck—Minjae, your cock—it’s the best—” she grabs your head and makes you stare into her eyes. “I love your cock so much, please I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna fucking cum—”

With her last drawn out moan, she shakes and shatters. Sending another wave of warm juices around your cock. You keep fucking her throughout her orgasm, chasing your own high.

The pressure builds unbearably.

Despite her crumbling in intense pleasure, Yujin senses that you’re close and purrs into your ear.

“Cum inside me. Breed my pussy. Fill me up.”

“No.” You refuse firmly. “I’m not cumming inside you.”

Yujin chuckles, voice dripping with amusement.

“What’s with the sudden spine? Come on… cum in me.”

You reply her with deeper and harder slams.

“Coward,” she keeps taunting you, but you hold on. “Come on, Minjae. Be a good boy. Fill me. Gaeul said she doesn’t mind you fucking other girls. What’s one load?”

Right as you’re about to explode, you pull out with a broken groan and force Yujin down onto her knees on the hard rooftop.

She looks up at you with a surprised, delighted grin, tongue sticking out with anticipation.

You stroke yourself frantically and roar, painting her face in thick, messy ropes. Cum splatters across her cheeks, nose, lips, and chin, dripping down onto her bare tits in heavy streaks.

Yujin keeps her tongue out the whole time, catching what she can, looking up at you with satisfied, lust-drunk eyes as your load decorates her face and chest.

You stand there, chest heaving, cock still twitching in your hand, the weight of everything crashing down on you.

Yujin looks up at you, cum dripping down her breasts, a satisfied but cruel smile on her face.

“Good boy,” she purrs. “That was fun.”

Before you can even catch your breath, she reaches for her phone with one hand, still kneeling in front of you. She snaps a quick photo of her cum-glazed face, then angles the camera to include your spent, glistening cock in the frame.

Your stomach drops.

“D-delete them, please…”

Yujin taps on her screen a few times, then turns the phone toward you with a sweet smile.

“See? Deleted.”

“Really?” you stare at the screen, relief flickering for half a second, until she laughs softly.

“Of course~ Although, I've already sent them to my private server first. Insurance, you know?”

Your fist clenches hard, nails digging into your palm. You've been played again.

Once satisfied with her new trophies, Yujin licks her lips slowly, wiping a thick streak of cum from her cheek and sucking it off her finger with sensuality.

“You resisted a creampie into my tight pussy… but you still came for me. How does that feel?”

“You—you’re just a pussy for me to fuck, you—you slut,” you retort, yanking your pants up with shaking hands, shame and disbelief crashing over you.

“For now, my lovely Minjae, for now…” Yujin leans in, kissing your cheek softly. “You should think with your cock more often, you know? Sooner or later, you’ll realise that I’m the one who will give you everything you need. Not Jimin, and definitely not Gaeul. Remember… if you ever try to fight me again, I’ll make sure Gaeul knows exactly how much you enjoyed it. And next time… I won’t let you pull out so easily.”

She starts casually putting on her clothes. Right before she exits the rooftop, she turns to give you one mocking wink. “Minjae, your cock is the best~” she purrs, leaving you alone on the rooftop with nothing but the wind and the crushing weight that you’ve just fucked your girlfriend’s “best friend”.

You stare into the sinking sun that's already half-eaten by the horizon, thinking about everything that's to come.

How do you even get out of all of your predicaments without hurting anyone?

Only two paths seem possible now: the ordered voice recorder waiting for you, and the three organisations Karina mentioned — Velora, Elysium Collective and Lumina Atelier.