The Panda Enclosure

She blinks up at you, bleary yet beautiful, and her mouth curves into that little puppy-smile she forces for the crowds, and you force out of her.

“Yujin,” you say to her, quietly.

She mumbles something that isn’t quite words.

“Yujin,” you say again.

One eye cracks open proper. Then the other. “Hi,” she whispers, voice shot to hell from sleep.

“If you’re about to ask me to get on top, the answer is no. I’m still recovering.”

You laugh. “That’s not—”

“Because technically,” she continues, already warming up, “what you did last night counts as a war crime in at least twelve countries. I looked it up.”

You smile, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, let your thumb trace the arc of her cheekbone. “Happy anniversary.”

“Mmm.” She shifts, rolls her hips just enough to make her point, and her smile widens when you inhale sharply. “Happy anniversary to you, too.”

You smile again.

“On second thought—”, she goes to palm your hardness, devious smile to boot, “—maybe I would like to stick to tradition. You get me?”

You do. It’s a good tradition—reliable, mutually beneficial, leaves you both breathless and sweaty and weirdly wanting to hydrate. But this morning, watching her yawn and squint against the light and press her cold feet against your calves, you find yourself hesitating.

“Actually,” you say, and she raises an eyebrow. “Can we—can I just look at you for a second?”

Suspicion flickers across her face. “That’s weird.”

“It’s romantic.”

“It’s suspicious,” she decides, stretching. The sheet slips, and you get an eyeful of everything in your periphery. “What did you do? Did you forget to get me something? 

“No.”

“Did you forget to book dinner?”

“No.”

“Did you—” She props herself up on one elbow, and the sheet falls further. You’re a gentleman but you’re not a saint. You’re gonna ogle. “Did you cheat on me with Wonyoung?”

“That was one time,” you deadpan, “and you let me.”

“Okay, then—”

“I love you.”

The words land differently on her than they usually do. Usually they’re punctuation—dropped between gasps as you fuck her, murmured against her cunt while you worship her. This time, though, they’re the whole sentence, standing on its own, and it makes her go oh-so very still.

Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”

You laugh, and she relaxes incrementally. “I just thought maybe we could try something different.” You trace the line of her shoulder, the dip of her waist, the jut of her hip. “I wanted to tell you things. The stuff I don’t say when we’re—”

“Fucking?”

“Being busy,” you amend, and she snorts. “I love the way you laugh at your own shitty jokes. I love that you still get embarrassed when I catch you singing in the kitchen. I love that you leave your books facedown on the nightstand even though it drives me crazy up the wall.”

Yujin stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. Then, slowly, something softens behind her eyes.

“Your turn,” you encourage.

“You’re really good with your mouth.”

You roll your eyes. “Is that your final answer?”

She goes quiet for a long moment. Then, her fingers find yours under the sheet, lace together, squeeze.

“When you pick me up at the airport.”

“The airport?”

“Mhm.” She shifts closer. “Because no matter what time I fly in—whether it’s the afternoon when you’re supposed to be at work or when you’re tired at the dead of night—after a long schedule, an even longer flight, what feels like even longer dealing with paparazzi, cameras blinding me, and all I want to do is go home…” She tilts her chin up, meets your eyes. “The first thing I see when I get out of there is you, waiting for me. And I feel like I’m there already.”

Your throat feels tight. Your chest feels tighter. 

She laughs and kisses the corner of your mouth. Then the other corner. Then your nose, jaw, forehead.

“I love that you remember my coffee order,” she kisses back down into your lips. “I love that you let me steal your clothes. I love your little butt that’s just perfect for some therapeutic squeezing.

“I love that you drool in your sleep,” you declare back. “I love that you leave your hair ties everywhere. I love that you trust me enough to fall apart.”

Your hand slides lower, cups the curve of her hip, thumb tracing circles into the bone. She’s so warm. Her thigh hooks over your waist and suddenly her cunt is pressed against you, slick and ready and—God this is perfect.

“I love you,” you say again.

“I love you too,” she says, pressing another kiss to you. “Now, are we done being sentimental? Or are we going to fuck?” 

“That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I’m a romantic person.”

“You’ve called our anniversary a reminder that you tolerate me.”

“I stand by that.”

You roll on top of her in faux anger, settle between her thighs, watch her eyes go dark and focused. Her nails dig into your shoulders. Her hips lift, searching.

“Happy anniversary,” you tell her.

She pulls you by the back of the neck, bites your bottom lip, smiles against your mouth.

You and Winter had the pleasure of breaking in Her Majesty Wonyoung just last week—a wondrous memory you’ll probably treasure for some dramatic temporal hyperbole. It truly was a momentous event, though: this meticulously orchestrated seduction that felt like the pair of you were defiling some ancient place of worship. And though she was every bit the freak you suspected she was beneath the couture and the poise, even in her most wanton moments, Jang Wonyoung maintained at the very least some semblance of her regal air.

Which is what makes it so very gratifying that An Yujin has decidedly not:

“Yes! Please! Right fucking—Oh my God—Right fucking there, Minjeong.”

It’s just another lovely weekend for you and your girlfriend, your mutual sexcapade having bore some particularly luscious fruits this time around: An Yujin, the people’s princess, as you like to call her, coming completely and utterly undone in front of you. Winter has a pair of her fingers pistoning in and out of Yujin’s tight cunt—sweet, slick sounds erupting from the incessant union. 

Coming into this, you’d expected a certain performative resistance—something akin to the brat act at the very least. An Yujin of all idols: this powerhouse of charisma and charm—you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who wouldn’t think she’d be a hard nut to crack. She owns every room, every camera flash, every breathless cheer from the head-over-heels fans. At least, that’s the public script—the one you studied. But here, it seems, in the private, sweat-slicked “comfort” of you and Winter, that script is ash. She’s pliant, desperate, a masterpiece of submission. And it’s Winter—your Winter, who blushes when you compliment her, who squeals your name in bed—who is orchestrating her ruin. She’s the one with the fire in her eyes, the bite to match the bark, fingers working till all Yujin sees are stars and all she can remember is this pleasure.

Seems she’s halfway there already.

“Don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop,” Yujin gasps, timbre a far-cry from the usual husk. “Feels—oh my God—feels too good, Minjeong, your fingers—fuck—” Her own fingers scramble at the sheets, twisting the fabric into similar ruin. 

Winter never ceases her thrusting, but dips her head, pressing soft open-mouthed kisses to the quivering skin of Yujin’s inner thigh. She leaves a trail of them: constellations of devotion and possession along that smooth, toned expanse. Marks, that say mine, I did this, I conquered her. 

It’s a damning sight, really, that you never let this dominant side of Winter out into your one-on-one sessions, because you’d be lying if you said the way she takes charge doesn’t turn the ever-loving fuck out of you. You’re simply enamoured with the way she treats her: not a single inch of that perfect pussy going untouched as her mouth moves to engulf that pretty clit. The reversal is dizzying. The shy girl is the general; the superstar is the yielding territory. It throws you so far off-balance you have to grip Yujin’s hip just to remember your own role in this.

You yourself aren’t exactly twiddling your thumbs, dick forever imprinting itself into the shape of Yujin’s asshole. You’re practically mesmerised—this time by the way she looks with your dick disappearing into her, the way she pursues that senseless endeavour to keep her moans in check, the way she—God—she really is just stupid pretty. And now, she’s got her head thrown against the bed, back and neck arching as your joint assault with Winter keeps her quite literally on her toes.

And if her body wasn’t making it clear just how good she was feeling, then her voice most certainly is:

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck,” she repeats over and over and over again, eyes glued shut as she revels in the symphony of pleasure the pair of you have composed just for her. 

“You make my ass feel so fucking full—,” she directs at you first, prompting you to fuck her just that little bit harder, “—Your fingers are so perfect for my pussy,” she continues for Winter who curls just that little bit tighter, “—You’re gonna make me cum,” she finishes for the both of you, and the statement becomes prophecy:

 “You’re gonna make me cum so fucking hard.”

It takes you a bit by surprise, honestly, just how absolutely fucking filthy Yujin is. It’s not like she’s been spurred on by dirty talk from you or Winter, either—no demands for her to beg or “tell us how good you feel”. You wonder whether the fucking is just that good—a transcendent experience that shatters her normal vocabulary, or, like Wonyoung before her, An Yujin is just another sex-crazed freak hiding in plain site, waiting for the right combination of your dick and Winter’s mouth to bring out her true nature. You decide, with a surge of possessive pride, that it’s probably a wicked, perfect combination of both.

And seeing her so utterly lost in the feeling, so beautifully debauched, sparks a reciprocal need in you to affirm her. You lean forward, your voice competing with the sound of your own body meeting hers. "That's it, Yujin. Such a good girl for us. Taking us so well." 

Minjeong pulls back for a breath, her chin glistening, and adds her own praise—tone softer, but no less intense. "You're so beautiful like this, Yujin. Perfect. Absolutely perfect." The praise seems to get to her, moans pitching ever higher.

You lock eyes with Winter over Yujin’s trembling body, a silent, wicked agreement passing between you. You both know the game.

"Better than Wonyoung," you say.

“Better than Anyone,” Winter adds.

It’s a lie, of course. A delicious, cruel, and utterly necessary lie. Wonyoung was a fucking revelation, a depraved masterpiece in the sheets. But you pour every ounce of conviction you have into the words.

“You’re the best girl we’ve ever had together,” you continue as Winter returns to her feast, worshiping Yujin’s body with a devotion that sells the fantasy. “Our perfect, perfect girl.”

It's a worship of her body, yes, but also of that sweet surrender, the curl of the toes, the ravaged screams of complete bliss. You’re deifying her debasement, and she’s accepting the crown you offer with a shuddering, whole-bodied keen.

And so maybe there is some truth to the lie, because somehow you feel her clench even tighter, moan even louder, show an impossible level of arousal in the way her whole body shakes as she narrates her own undoing:

“You two are so good—so fucking good—so fucking amazing with your mouth and your fingers and your dick and you’re—oh god—please make me cum,  please make your good little girl cum please make me—”

She’s cut off by her own screams, you and Winter sending her above and beyond cloud nine as you continue to fuck her from here to the ends of the Earth.

That doesn't stop you from hitting a button on your phone, though.

“One minute, thirty-three seconds,” you announce all casual, your hips never ceasing their rocking.

Yujin’s too fucked out to hear you, of course, but Winter’s straight up ignoring you.

“Earth to Minjeong?” you call out, still pumping in and out of the convulsing Yujin.

“That’s fantastic, honey,” she idly replies, engrossed in the remnants of Yujin’s orgasm. 

You roll your eyes—she always did have a thing for her.

“Relatively slow, anyway,” you muse to no one in particular as you pull out and join Minjeong on cleaning this filthy princess up.

*

Winter—typically a screaming, squirming bedmate—looks far more composed today: stripped down to her birthday suit, save for the silicon cock adorning her alluring hips. She watches, just for now, a curator observing her own exhibition of sin.

Today’s exhibit: Minju—A friend of a friend kind of deal. She’d confessed to boredom, to a series of lackluster encounters with pretty boys who treated sex with her like a gentle, predictable waltz. She wanted to be ruined, she’d said, needed a good fuck to appease her.

And that was an invitation you and Winter were all too happy to accept.

It seems she got more than she bargained for.

You’re positioned neatly under her, hands resting in limbo between those plump cheeks and creamy thighs. You settle for both as you leave absolutely no chance for the neighbours to second guess what exactly it is you’re doing to her.

“It’s so fucking good ,” she’s crying—the last coherent string of words she’s managed to speak among the endless whines, moans and screams. 

The full force of your hips skyrocket into that lovely little cunt of hers, her eyes clamp shut, arms suspended by her own body seizing up at the sensation. You lick your lips at the sight of this gorgeous little thing: Her perfectly styled hair is a wreck, mascara smudged in streaks down her cheeks, and she’s never looked more beautiful. This, you think, is the real Kim Minju, stripped of all pretense, and reduced to a weeping, cock drunk vision.

And there’s more where that came from.

From just behind Minju, Winter does not sit idly, stroking her strap-on with a healthy coating of lube. Taking a moment to pour another dose onto Minju’s tighter hole, she sends you a nod—the signal that she’s all ready—and you slow your thrusts to a halt to let Minju catch her breath. The sudden stillnes, though, is its own kind of torture for her; she whines once more, her hips making abortive little circles, desperately trying to chase the feeling you’ve just denied her.

“Oh, Jesus,” she shakily breathes, completely collapsing on top of you. 

You press a kiss to her forehead where it’s come to rest on your chest—the least you can do when you’ve fucked her into oblivion. 

"Look at her," Winter muses, a soft counterpoint to Minju's high-pitched whimpers. "So greedy. One cock isn't nearly enough for a greedy little starlet like you, now is it?”

And all Minju can muster is a demure nod.

“Seems you’ve got her number,” you reply with a smirk. Your gaze locks with your girlfriends’ over Minju’s trembling back, and in that shared look passes a universe of understanding—the pure, unadulterated joy of a shared craft, of reducing something so precious, so beautiful to its most primal, honest components. 

“Our little starlet was built for a full house,” you declare, “let’s not keep her waiting.”

Winter responds with a euphoric smirk ,pressing the tip of her plastic cock onto Minju’s asshole. In an instant Minju’s upright again, head cocked to catch a glimpse of Winter entering her tight hole. 

"Uh-uh, baby," you coo,"Eyes on me,” and you tell yourself it’s to prepare her, but really you just want one thing. You turn her head back, capturing her lips, and, put simply, you devour Minju—her gorgeous lips, that beautiful face—swallowing the sharp, startled gasp that escapes them as Winter begins to push. 

Your hand finds a button on your phone and it’s like the calm before the storm.

Then, Winter bottoms out.

And Minju’s screaming. 

Well, is trying to, at least.

What comes out instead are these muted breaths, warm on your face, made sweeter by the simply delectable face she’s making. That perfect mouth agape, eyelids fluttering in tandem with her overwhelmingly full body. The view is shifted as Winter grabs her hair in a make-shift ponytail, pulling her up right, suckling her neck and whispering what might be the filthiest things you’ve ever seen leave those pretty lips.

“God,” she breathes in between hungry kisses,” Is our slutty little actress enjoying herself?”

She nips at Minju’s earlobe. "Look at you, taking us both like you were built for it. Just a perfect, pretty little set of holes. Bet you've never been this full, have you?” A hand lands on her ass, feeling it in its entirety. “You think your fancy actor boyfriends could ever fuck you like this? Make you feel so complete?"

Minju doesn’t respond—save for the relentless clenching of her pussy around you—how could she?

She’s got one cock in her cunt, one in her ass, and the most gorgeous woman in the world nibbling her neck and making her feel like the dirtiest. Winter let’s her down and once again she’s collapsed on you, and she’s this broken record of vocalised pleasure: singing a sweet mantra gasped into the crook of your neck. The lyrics, though, are a funny one, the consequence of a vocabulary reduced to a single, overwhelmed syllable: 

ah, 

ah, 

ah.

 You're doubtful she’s ever gotten a better fucking than this, hell, you know she hasn’t, and that’s exactly why you spur her on to the definitive proof of it.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” you growl, tightening your grip on her hips, stilling her desperate little circles. “Don’t you dare hold back. You’ve been so good for us, so perfect. I want you to let go. I want to feel you shatter, break. I want you to cum for me, Minju, for us.”

And Minju’s right there, right there, she’s writhing, she’s screaming, she’s calling out you name and Winter’s till that sweet, cathartic release, and—

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” She cries out in complete bliss, shuddering and breathing in ragged sobs, clenching and convulsing and losing her grip on reality as she knows it.

“Time!” Winter shouts out from behind her, voice a sharp contrast from before, and instantly your hand is on your phone.

“Thirty point five seconds,” you read out from the stopwatch app. 

“Thirty point five!" she cheers, slapping the shaking Minju's ass. "Oh, you absolute champion. You’re officially the fastest we’ve made someone cum! Our new little record-holder.” 

Her voice drops back down:

“Our perfect, “

“little,”

“fucktoy."

Minju scoffs. “Yaaaaay,” she manages, utterly drained, spent, and half-way to passing out. 

“What do you say, Minju? Another attempt later?” You ask sweetly, tracing the line of her spine, grinning at the fine tremors that still wrack her frame. "See if we can get that time down to an even thirty? Really make a spectacle out of it.”

Shock appears on her face as she furiously shakes her head, a spark of genuine, overwhelmed terror in her glazed eyes. The message is clear: her body simply cannot comprehend the possibility of more.

And yet, with suddenly renewed energy, Minju speaks her first coherent sentence in a long time:

I've had some thoughts about it...

*

Real Bad Business- Episode Minju

If you’re being honest, it’s a good look on her.

Winter—typically a screaming, squirming bedmate—looks far more composed today: stripped down to her birthday suit, save for the silicon cock adorning her alluring hips.

In her place is Minju. A friend of a friend kind of deal, apparently not satisfied with the suite of actors she’d been fooling around with and looking for a good fuck to appease her.

It seems she got more than she bargained for.

You’re positioned neatly under her, hands resting in limbo between those plump cheeks and creamy thighs. You settle for both as you leave no chance for the neighbours to second guess what exactly it is you’re doing to her.

“It’s so fucking good ,” she’s crying—the last coherent string of words she’s managed to speak among the endless whines, moans and screams. 

The full force of your hips skyrocket into that lovely little cunt of hers, her eyes clamp shut, arms suspended by her own body seizing up at the sensation. You lick your lips at the sight of this gorgeous little thing: cock-drunk and weeping and completely losing her mind.

And there’s more where that came from.

From just behind Minju, Winter does not sit idly, stroking her strap-on with a healthy coating of lube. Taking a moment to pour another dose onto Minju’s tighter hole, she sends you a nod—the signal that she’s all ready—and you slow your thrusts to a halt to let Minju catch her breath.

“Oh, Jesus,” she shakily breathes, completely collapsing on top of you. 

You press a kiss to her forehead where it’s come to rest on your chest—the least you can do when you’ve fucked her into oblivion. 

But just as quickly as you stop, Winter starts.

She presses the tip of her plastic cock onto Minju’s asshole, and in an instant Minju’s upright again, head cocked to catch a glimpse of Winter entering her tight hole. You turn her head back, capturing her lips and preparing her for the inevitable as you press a button on your phone.

It doesn't matter anyway.

Winter bottoms out, and Minju’s screaming. 

Well, is trying to, at least.

What comes out instead are these muted breaths, warm on your face, made sweeter by the simply delectable face she’s making. The view is shifted as Winter grabs her hair in a make-shift ponytail, pulling her up right, suckling her neck and whispering what might be the filthiest things you’ve ever seen leave those pretty lips.

“God,” she breathes in between hungry kisses,” Is our slutty little actress enjoying herself?”

Minju doesn’t respond. How could she?

She’s got one cock in her cunt, one in her ass, and the most gorgeous woman in the world nibbling her neck and making her feel like the horniest.  You're doubtful she’s ever gotten a better fucking than this, and so, you can’t exactly blame her when your dick is forcibly ejected by the tidal wave that is Kim Minju’s orgasm. 

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” She cries out in complete bliss, collapsing onto you once more.

“Time!” Winter shouts from behind her, and instantly your hand is on your phone.

“Seventeen point five seconds,” you read out from the stopwatch app. 

Winter looks absolutely delighted.

“Congrats, Minju,” she says like this it’s a Tuesday fucking morning in the office. “You’re officially the fastest we’ve made someone cum!”

Minju scoffs. “Yaaaaay,” she manages, utterly drained, spent, and half-way to passing out. 

“What do you say, Minju? Another attempt later?” You ask her sweetly.

Shock appears on her face as her energy is revitalised and she's furiously shaking her head:

“You two are absolutely fucking insane.”

*

Real Bad Business- Episode Yujin

Of course, An Yujin couldn’t have referred her beloved ex-bandmate without a little quality control herself. 

Hence: 

“Yes! Please! Right fucking—Oh my God—Right fucking there, Minjeong.”

It’s just another lovely weekend for you and your girlfriend, your mutual sexcapade having bore some particularly luscious fruits this time around. Winter has a pair of her fingers pistoning in and out of Yujin’s tight cunt—sweet, slick sounds erupting from the incessant union. Not a single inch of that perfect pussy goes untouched with Winter’s mouth engulfing that pretty clit; adding fuel to the fire that is her building orgasm. 

You yourself aren’t exactly twiddling your thumbs, dick forever imprinting its shape into the depths Yujin’s asshole, sending her waves of pleasure you’re sure she had no idea were even possible. She’s got her head thrown against the bed, back and neck arching as your joint assault with Winter keeps her literally on her toes.

And if her body wasn’t making it clear just how good she was feeling, then her voice most certainly is:

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck,” she repeats over and over and over again, eyes glued shut as she simply revels in this symphony of pleasure the pair of you have composed just for her.

“You make my ass feel so fucking full—,” she directs at you first, prompting you to fuck her just that little bit harder, “—Your fingers are so perfect for my pussy,” she continues for Winter who curls just that little bit tighter. “You’re gonna make me cum,” she finishes for the both of you. “You’re gonna make me cum so fucking—so fucking hard.”

And somehow you feel her clench even tighter, moan even louder,  show an impossible level of arousal in the way her whole body shakes as she narrates her own undoing:

“You two are good—so fucking good—so fucking amazing with your mouth and your fingers and your dick and you’re—oh god—please make me cum,  please make your good little girl cum please make me—”

She’s cut off by her own screams, you and Winter sending her above and beyond cloud nine as you continue to fuck her from here to the ends of the Earth.

That doesn't stop you from hitting a button on your phone, though.

“One minute, fifty-three seconds,” you announce all casual, your hips never ceasing their rocking.

Yujin’s too fucked out to hear you, of course, but Winter’s straight up ignoring you.

“Earth to Minjeong?” you call out, still pumping in and out of the convulsing Yujin.

“That’s fantastic, honey,” she idly replies, engrossed in the remnants of Yujin’s orgasm. 

You roll your eyes—she always did have a thing for her.

“Relatively slow, anyway,” you muse to no one in particular as you pull out and join Minjeong on this, frankly delicious, cleanup.

*

Never in your infinite cynicism and introversion did you think you’d end up at a party of all places. 

Well, you’re not actually at the party yet—you’re hesitating at the front door. Listening to the muffled thump of pop music you’ve never heard, the screaming of way to many fucking people in a single enclosed space—the not-so-subtle way your heartbeat is drowning all of it out.

Normally, you’d just leave. Turn heel, grab takeout, and spend the night exactly as God intended: sprawled out on your couch with Youtube or a movie and minimal human interaction.

But this isn’t “normally.” This is Minjeong’s party, or rather, her friends’ party, (she didn’t seem all that keen on hosting when you were cuddling in the snow.) Alas, she asked you to go, and bailing is effectively equivalent to committing a war crime on your developing relationship.

So yeah, no choice but to walk straight into hell.

Your hand finds the doorknob. 

Come the fuck on, you tell yourself. It’s just a party: Just a few hours of pretending to be a functioning social creature before you can slip out and—

The door swings open.

Ningning’s standing there. A half-empty glass of red wine sloshes in her hand, eyes and smile housing something deeply, profoundly dangerous. She doesn’t say “hi” or “welcome” like a good host would—doesn't even gesture for you to enter. Instead, with a perfectly executed smirk, she turns her head slightly and, without breaking eye contact, announces to the entire party:

“MINJEONG, YOUR BOYFRIEND IS HERE!”

You black out for a second.

Not literally, but rather in the sense that your mind completely dissociates from the material world. Your physical body must still be standing there, existing on tangible matter, because you hear the way the entire party stops. Music is still playing, but conversations stutter, drinks pause halfway to lips, heads turn, one by one, like a scene out of a horror movie, except you’re the unfortunate soul standing in the doorway—the monster everyone is staring at.

You look behind you when you finally regain autonomy. No windows to jump out of.

Fantastic.

You’re left with no choice but to step inside, (running for the elevator would be infinitely more embarrassing), hesitantly, like you’re navigating a minefield, but step in nonetheless. 

Dozens of eyes follow your every move, silently assessing, silently judging. Your mind is working overtime, trying to figure out how to recover from this, but the only thing it manages to come up with is: Welp. Time to fake my own death and move two continents away.

But then you see her.

And all concerns blissfully fade away.

Minjeong is standing in the kitchen, her hand frozen mid-sip for a drink. Her expression is, to say the least, shocked, but quickly shifts to signal what you can only assume is an impending murder attempt on Ning Ning.

 But that’s not what stops you in your tracks.

It’s her dress.

The dress is azure blue, made from this gorgeous flowing fabric with the texture of a plush blanket. It’s nice, sure, but something about how she looks in it could make you go rabid. The way it makes her adorable blonde bob cut stand out, the way she looks so blissfully innocent, the way it leaves her shoulders and collarbone exposed. 

You've seen Minjeong in so many different ways: messy-haired and comfortable over video, adorably bundled in coats and scarves. Lying beside you, radiant in the moonlight—but this? It's a word you’d never thought of to describe her.

Kim Minjeong is hot.

And paradoxically adorable too…?

Your brain, unable to compute her beauty, promptly shuts-down.

Minjeong recovers from the initial shock, snapping her head toward Ningning with a glare so sharp it could shatter her glass. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she hisses, almost shattering her own drink as she sets it down.

Ningning, who just lives for chaos apparently, simply grins. “What? I’m greeting your—”

“Finish that sentence and die.”

You would laugh if you were capable of basic motor functions right now. Unfortunately, you are not, because Minjeong is walking towards you, and you’re barely a quarter into your system reboot.

You expect a casual greeting—one that directly contradicts Ningning’s prior announcement. But instead, she hugs you—in front of everyone. It’s not some casual, one-armed, friendly pat-on-the-back kind of hug either. No, this is one of those hugs. Arms wrapped around your middle, her cheek pressing against your chest, the warmth of her entire body invading yours.

Your brain, already critically damaged from The Dress, promptly BSODs.

And somewhere in the distance, you hear the collective oohs and aahs of an audience who does not need to be here for this. Minjeong, however, is completely unfazed. She pulls back just enough to look up at you, gaze tender, voice mild.

“You made it,” she says simply.  

Before you can even think of a response (you’re not even capable of speaking, anyway), Karina’s voice interrupts. “Okay, but if you’re gonna greet him like that, Ningning wasn’t technically wrong.”

A ripple of laughter spreads through the room.

You snap out of your daze just in time to see Minjeong shoot Karina a deadly glare. “You guys are the worst,” she scowls, taking a step back from you, arms falling to her sides—but not before her fingers briefly graze your wrist. “Come with me,” she murmurs to you, tilting her head toward the hallway. 

You hesitate, glancing around the party which is thankfully beginning to restart. Karina is busy playing host, Giselle is mid-conversation watching with a knowing smirk, and Ningning—wherever she is—is undoubtedly basking in the chaos she created.

As good a time as any to get the fuck out.

Minjeong doesn’t say anything else—just takes your hand  and pulls you through the crowd. A few people glance your way, but no one stops you, and soon, you’re slipping past the kitchen, down a dimly lit hallway, until finally you’re able to take refuge in a room.

You don’t realize where she’s led you until the door clicks shut behind you—and then it’s just the two of you, standing in the soft glow of a warm lamp, surrounded by pastel colours, books stacked sideways, and an egregiously large family of stuffed animals on the bed.

Holy fuck.

Minjeong’s room.

“Sorry about that,” she says with a sigh, leaning her forehead against the door. “Ningning is Ningning, but when she gets alcohol into her?” Minejong turns towards you. “ She’s like… Ningningning.”

“Holy shit,” you laugh. “That was awful.”

Minjeong laughs back. “I’ll be here all night,” she says, finger guns being shot your way.

…And immediately regrets said finger guns.

“Oh my god,” she groans, slapping both hands over her face. “What am I doingggggg.”

“Don’t worry,” you grin. “I only judged you a little.”

She peeks at you through her fingers, face bright red. “At least it wasn’t as embarrassing as whatever that was.”

“As embarrassing as what, exactly?” you prod with faux innocence.

Her hands drop. Her eyes narrow. “Ooh, you are playing a dangerous game, mister.”

“Am I now? I survived Ningning, I’m pretty sure I can take you too.”

“Is that so?”

“That is so. And besides… I didn’t mind it.”

Oh God, what are you saying?

“Didn’t mind what, exactly?” Minjeong asks with complete sincerity.

“The whole um… The part where… Y’know, Ningning called me your boyfriend.”

You don’t dare watch her reaction.

Decades tick by, maybe centuries, before Minjeong finally responds.

“…You didn’t mind?” she asks simply.

You tug at your sleeve, staring way too hard at her bookshelf—at the crooked stack of paperbacks threatening to collapse like your current mental state. “No. I mean I—Uh—”

Oh, great. Perfect. Stammering. Really selling yourself here.

 “I kinda…liked it, actually.”

Instantly, she panics about it, and you're terrified you've scared her. She ducks her head, hides half her face behind her sleeve hoping to hide her excessive blush.

“Oh.”

That’s it. One syllable, one vowel, and suddenly you’re the idiot scrambling to fill the silence.

“I mean—not like, you know, I’ve been thinking about this or anything, or sitting around hoping someone would just blurt it out—like, obviously not. That’d be insane. I just—like—it wasn’t bad. At all. It was… kind of nice, actually. Like, if people think that, then… it’s not the worst thing in the world. Kind of… the opposite, really.”

“Hey,” she cuts in with a laugh. 

You glance up. Minjeong’s looking at you now, really looking.

“Relax,” she says, a small smile forming on her lips. “I… liked it too.”

For once, you don’t have a quip ready. No joke, no sarcastic shield, nothing. Just static buzzing behind your eyes because Kim Minjeong just said she liked you being called her boyfriend.

“…Oh,” Is all you’ve got to say too. Fantastic work. Nobel prize for eloquence coming both of your ways.

“So…” She begins, gaze now locked somewhere between the wall and floor, “ if Ning Ning calls you my boyfriend again…”

“And she definitely will,” you say automatically.

“Then… she wouldn’t technically be wrong this time…?”

Minjeong looks up at you again, searching your eyes for affirmation.

“No,” you laugh looking back. “I guess she wouldn’t be.”

And neither of you think you’ll smile quite so hard at each other again.

*

You’re both hesitant to step back out to the party, but Minjeong, after all, is still technically a host. 

She offered you refuge in her room—which you reluctantly declined. You've come all this way, why not try and party, even just a little?

You exit the room hand-in-hand, arriving in the open living area of the (rather large) apartment. Minjeong doesn’t let go of your hand right away, lingering beside you and tightening her grip on your fingers.

You glance down at her. “You okay?”

She huffs dramatically. “No. Because the second we step out there, I suddenly have responsibilities again.”

You chuckle. “Ah, yes. The burden of being beloved.”

She tilts her head up at you with a pout. “It’s exhausting and…” she trails off, looking you up and down, “I’d rather stay with you.”

God is she adorable.

Before you can manage a reply, a voice calls from across the room. “Minjeong! Come say hi!”

Karina, ever the perfect host, waves Minjeong over toward a group of newcomers. You barely register who they are before Minjeong sighs, her hand slipping from yours.

“See?” she mutters. “Responsibilities.”

You smirk. “I’ll be waiting.”

She looks like she’s about to say something else, but then her gaze flickers past you, toward the other side of the room. Her expression goes sly, and when you follow her eyes, you spot your friends (your roommates) gesturing for you.

Fuck.

They aren’t exactly subtle about it. One of them waggles his eyebrows. The other makes an exaggerated heart shape with his hands. The last one just pats the empty spot on the couch beside him.

Minjeong covers her mouth to suppress a laugh. “Oh, they’re gonna eat you alive.”

You sigh, already preparing for the interrogation ahead. “Yeah, thanks for your concern.”

She grins, stepping back toward Karina’s group. “Good luck,” she sing-songs with a smile before twirling away, leaving you to your fate.

You take a deep breath, steel yourself, and trudge over to the couch, where your friends are waiting like vultures.

You sit down.

They don’t say anything at first.

They just stare.

Three pairs of eyes locked onto you, faces practically vibrating with barely contained glee.

You sigh. “Just get it over with.”

One of them leans forward, elbows on his knees, like he’s conducting an interview. “So.” A beat. “How’s your night going?”

You narrow your eyes. “Fine.”

The other one nods, pretending to be deep in thought. “Mm. And Winter?”

You exhale sharply. “Also fine.”

“Interesting, interesting,” the first one murmurs.

The third one grins. “Because from where we’re sitting, it looks a lot more than ‘fine’.”

You groan, tipping your head back against the couch. “You guys suck.”

“And yet,” the first one says, crossing his arms, “you love us. Enough to live with us. Enough to tell us—” he leans in slightly, “—what. Happened.”

You glance at them, weighing your options. On one hand, you could attempt to deflect, dodge, maybe even pretend you didn’t hear them over the music. On the other hand… you’re outnumbered. You don’t stand a chance.

After a long pause, you exhale. “We, uh…” You rub the back of your neck. “We talked.”

“Talked,” one of them repeats, nodding sagely.

“Talked,” another echoes. “That’s good. Communication is key.”

“Yes. Talking,” the last one agrees. “Truly, a beautiful thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, shut the fuck up.”

They cackle.

Then one of them leans in. “But seriously. Are you guys… a thing now?” He gestures towards the hallway you disappeared to.

You hesitate for a second, then nod.

Chaos erupts.

One of them shoves your shoulder, the other whoops so loudly that people glance over, and the last one just starts shaking you by the arm like he’s practicing one of those "enhanced interrogation techniques.”

“Oh my God.”

“It finally happened.”

“I feel like a proud dad.”

“Dude, we were rooting for you. We were all rooting for you.”

You groan. “I hate you all.”

One of them, still shaking your arm like a madman, suddenly stops and squints at you. “Okay, but real talk—when are you losing your virginity to her?”

If you had a drink this would have been a spit take. “The fuck—?!”

The others burst into laughter, clapping each other on the back like this is the funniest thing they’ve ever witnessed.

“I mean, come on,” the first one continues, undeterred by your horror. “You two were in that room for a while. We were starting to think you—”

“Jesus Christ,” you interrupt. “We talked—not that it’s any of your business.”

“Sure,” one of them says, winking. “Talked.”

You’re halfway to throwing hands when, mercifully, you spot Minjeong across the room. She’s standing near the door now, hands tucked into the sleeves of her coat, rocking back on her heels as she lifts a hand and gestures toward the exit.

You don’t need to be asked twice.

“Later, assholes,” you announce, standing up.

“Going somewhere?”

“Tell Winter we said hi!”

“Make sure to use protection!”

You flip them off over your shoulder as you walk away, and they howl with laughter behind you. 

Oh, you’re totally moving out once the party’s over.

*

Minjeong is already waiting for you just outside, exhaling onto her hands for warmth as she watches cars barrel down the city street. “Finally,” she remarks, like the weight of the world has been lifted from her shoulders.

“That bad, huh?”

She sighs, throwing her head back dramatically. “I’m happy so many people showed up for m—us. Truly, I am. But if I have to greet one more person, I'm going to lose my mind.” She’s rubbing her temples now, making eerie whines that you thought only anime characters and animals make.

Cute, is all that comes to mind.

“How did your conversation go, then?” she asks, like a win for you is a win for her.

“Interrogation more like.”

“That bad, huh?” she repeats, earning a little giggle from the both of you.

“Mhm. At first, it was all vague, ominous questions, and then—boom. Out of nowhere, it got weird."

"Weird how?"

You hesitate. You two are close and technically a thing now, but not let’s talk about fucking each other close.

"Just…weird,” is what you land on.

Her eyes narrow (adorably, of course). 

"Weird as in, they want to know a little too much, weird? Or weird as in, you've never talked to them about such a charming, beautiful and talented woman such as myself, weird?"

“Definitely that first one,” you laugh. “No, but seriously, they were way too happy. Like, gleeful. And invasive. Felt like I was about to be tortured.”

Minjeong snorts. "That’s your fault for being so fun to tease," she sings, practically skipping along beside you.

“Same could be said for you, Miss elusive eyebrows.”

You barely register her pout before her fist collides with your shoulder, you’re both smiling, and she’s wrapping herself around your arm once more.

It’s crazy to think how far you two have come. From being barely able to speak to each other in that restaurant, to “good morning” texts, to full-blown dates, to sneaking away from a party she’s hosting just to spend a little more time with each other. It’s an idea that ran across your mind when you parted ways that Christmas, but you’ve never really gotten the chance to entertain it.

You think that you’re in lov—

“Wait, where the fuck are we?”

Minjeong snaps you out of your daze with language you rarely hear her use.

You look around you. 

Yeah… Where the fuck are you?

The scenery isn’t much different—you’re in the city, after all—but as for exactly where you are?

Good question.

“I have no clue,” is all you manage as you look up and down the road you’re on. “How long have we been walking?

“Uh… At least fifteen minutes,” Minjeong says as she looks up from her phone.

“Damn,” you laugh. “You weren’t paying attention either?”

“I was… enjoying the moment,” Minjeong says sheepishly.

Your face flushes. Minjeong’s does the same.

“A-and I was thinking!” She stammers.

 “Thinking?” You ask with theatrical surprise.

She glares. “Yes, thinking. I do that sometimes.”

“Didn’t think you were capable.”

“Wow,” she snorts. “And to think I was gonna let you pick where we go from here.”

“Well then, Little Miss Thinker, if not me, then you. What grand activity have you thought up for us tonight?”

 Little Miss Thinker’s gnawing on her bottom lip. “I… uh—You pick!” she says in a panic.

"I don't mind,” you shrug. “I’m fine with anything. You pick."

Her nose wrinkles. "Well, I don’t mind either."

"You brought me out here," you point out, nudging her shoulder with yours. "That means you get the privilege of picking. Congrats,” you smile.

She glares at you, but there’s no heat behind it—just the usual flustered pout. "I don’t know this area!"

“And neither do I.”

Minjeong breaks off from you to fold her arms together. “It seems we’re at an impasse, then.”

You mirror her stance. “So it would seem.”

“Do you think this counts as our first real fight as a couple?”

You smirk. “I wouldn’t be that dramatic.”

Minjeong gasps. “Are you calling me dramatic?”

“With that attitude, maybe a little,” you laugh.

Minjeong’s eyes narrow, her cheeks puff out, and her lips purse as she does that “thinking” thing she claims she can do. You see the exact moment the lightbulb goes off in her head as she announces to you: "Okay then. New plan.”

“I’m listening.”

 “On the count of three, we both say something to do. If it’s the same, we do that. If it’s different…well, then we keep arguing till we’re ninety. Got it?"

“Got it.”

Minjeong takes a deep breath, holds up three fingers, and—

"3…"

—immediately cheats by starting before you’re ready.

"2…

Her eyes dart to yours, wide and imploring, like she’s willing you to read her mind.  

It also makes her look clinically insane.

"1…"

"Karaoke!" you blurt in unison. 

Minjeong’s entire face lights up. She claps her mittened hands together, bouncing like a kid on Christmas. "FATE," she declares, as if the universe itself has spoken.

"Fate wants us to traumatize a soundproof room?"

"Fate wants me to kick your ass at karaoke," she corrects, already dragging you down the sidewalk by your scarf . "And don’t pretend you’re not excited. I’ve seen your playlists. It’s embarrassing."

"Wait, what did you see?” You ask Minjeong.

She does not turn back.

“WHAT DID YOU SEE, MINJEONG!?”

*

The Karaoke room is a neon-lit den of questionable stains and even more questionable interior design choices—the consequence of going to a place fifteen minutes out of the city centre. But you tolerate it, because Minjeong might just be the happiest you’ve ever seen her, still glued around your arm as you both shed your coats and take a seat, (she jumps), on the pleather couch.

“Okay,” she begins, kicking her feet as she snatches up the songbook. “Prepare yourself, you’re about to witness vocal perfection.” 

"So we're leaving?” You take a look over your shoulder. “Because I don't see any professionals here."

Minjeong doesn't look up from the songbook, but you can sure as shit feel it when she gives a light kick on the shin. You stifle a grin, leaning back against the couch, pleased with yourself and the way she always rises to your bait.

Without thinking, she leans back, pressing into your side, her head coming to rest under your chin as your arm naturally comes around her shoulders. 

You freeze for half a second—not because it’s unfamiliar, but because it’s really… not anymore. It’s like second nature. Like your body just expects her to be curled up next to you.

Minjeong tilts the songbook up towards you, puffing out her cheeks as she scans each page. 

“Okay,” she begins. “ Should I go with the safe bet—a Taeyeon ballad to destroy your soul—orrrrr, something fun? Maybe Red Velvet? Ooh, maybe I go full femme fatale and pull out Sunmi. Thoughts?”

You don’t answer.

Because, much like your time basking in the snow, you’re looking at her.

You’re looking at the way her nose scrunches when she reads, the way her lips shuffle round her face in thought, the way her hair brushes against your jaw whenever she leans a little too far into your side. 

She nudges your knee with hers. “Helloooo? Earth to you. Which song makes you cry more? I’m trying to be considerate.”

“Sorry,” you defend quickly. “Thought I heard trumpets playing.”

She narrows her eyes at your sarcasm.“I mean, you’re technically right,” She says as she leans forward to queue up a song. “My performance is going to be biblical. Just divine instead of apocalyptic.” 

Minjeong sends a you a smug smile, and you finish your eye roll in time to see the title flash up on the grubby TV:

IU - Through the Night.

A ballad.

 She’s not looking at you as she walks to the front of the room, only tucking her hair behind her ear with a smile.

“Didn’t peg you for the sentimental type,” you say from the couch.

She shoots you a look over her shoulder, but she’s biting back her smile. “Don’t blink. You’ll miss me being iconic.”

Minjeong’s eyes shut as she takes a deep breath. And when she opens them again—well, you may as well be hearing an angel sing.

“Tonight, I’ll send you the firefly from that day

To your window…”

Where the hell did this Minjeong come from?

“That means that I love you…”

You feel that line in your spine.

And yet, you don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just watch. Enraptured by the way her blue dress flows around her knees, by the way the neon lights catch in her eyes, by how natural she looks with a mic in her hand, pouring herself into each lyric like this song was written for her to sing and for you to hear.

“I remember our first kiss

Every time I close my eyes

And it takes me away to the farthest place…”

Gone is the snarky, animated, occasionally grumpy girl who hits your arm when you tease her and makes up for it by clinging to you like you might float away. Standing in her place is someone ethereal, confident and utterly captivating.

Painfully so.

Your chest feels tight now, and you know exactly what it is you’re feeling. God, you know.

This is it.

“Like the words written in the sand

Where the waves are I’m afraid you’ll disappear

So I always miss you…”

She opens her eyes. Looks right at you.

And it’s instinct—A moment of vulnerability passed through music and unprocessed feelings.

So you speak it aloud.

“I can’t take out

All these words in my heart

But this means that—.”

“I love you.”

She doesn’t hear you.

Her voice and the song carry her words over yours, her gaze breaking away as she sings the final line with a gentle smile and her whole soul behind it. She’s too caught up in the song—in the moment.

And still, you smile.

Because even if she didn’t hear it, even if the words dissolve into the melody like fog into air, you said it—felt it.

She finishes with a small breath, the song fading out as she lowers the mic. 

Before she can say anything, you’re on your feet, meeting her halfway with a tight, warm hug. She lets out a surprised little gasp, her arms wrapping around you in return.

“Whoa,” she laughs against your chest. “Didn’t know I was that good.”

You pull back just enough to look at her, and she’s flushed from head to toe.

She’s radiant.

“Told you I was iconic,” she says with a smug grin, nuzzling into your chest.

“Yeah,” you say simply, holding her tighter. “Yeah, you were.”

*

Before you know it, your hour is up and you’re both out walking on the snow covered city streets once more.

And of course, what’s a night out with Minjeong without a little banter along the way.

“You were so off-key, by the way,” an annoyingly smug voice says to you.

“M-me?” you stammer, whipping your head over to the gremlin glued to your arm. “What about you?  You were… You were…”

“Perfect?” She finishes, like she already knows the answer.

You try to fight back. “No, you were… You were… Yeah.”

Minjeong beams. “Thought so.”

“Where the hell did you learn to sing like that?”

“Oh, y’know,” she says with an airy shrug. “Just something I’ve picked up.”

You scoff. “Surprisingly modest coming from you.”

Her grin turns sly. “You flatter me.”

“Kinda my job as your boyfriend, no?” You laugh, nudging her with your shoulder. “ No, but seriously, that was genuinely some of the best singing I've ever heard.”

“Some of the best, or just the best?”

“The best,” you say with the utmost sincerity.

That stops her for just a beat—her steps falter, face warming despite the winter air. “Thanks,” she mumbles, flustered. Although she recovers in no time. “You were alright,” she teases.

You stop walking and spin to face her, gasping. “Hey! I’m trying to compliment you here!”

Minjeong just grins. “So was I! Trying really hard.”

You shoot her a look. “I was good enough to get us to 95 for our duet.”

“And my back hurts from carrying us through it,” she groans, rubbing one shoulder in exaggerated pain.

“Aww, you poor thing,” you mock. “Need me to give you a piggy-back?”

Minjeong freezes once more,  eyes going wide.

“...Can you really?” she asks sheepishly.

You crouch down without missing a beat, patting your back with a grin. “It would be my pleasure.”

Minjeong hesitates for just a moment, biting back a smile so big it almost hurts her cheeks. Then, without warning—

“YIPEE!” she shouts, throwing herself onto your back with reckless abandon.

You stagger for a second, then steady, her laughter ringing in your ear.

“Now don’t you dare drop me.”

“Now that’s a thought,” you tease, adjusting her legs around your waist.

“Promise me!” she demands, tightening her hold.

“I promise, Milady.”

“That’s not enough. Pinky promise.”

You roll your eyes but stick out your pinky over your shoulder. “Pinky promise.”

She links it, satisfied. “Then, away, my noble steed!”

And the two of you charge off into the winter night.

*

The rest of the walk back to the apartment is a silent one for the most part. Not because the two of you are mad, or bored, or anything of the sort. 

You simply enjoy each other's silence.

Oh, and because Minjeong’s asleep. 

Her core is pressed into your back, arms locked loosely around your shoulders with her chin resting lightly atop them as you walk. Well, as you walk. She’s currently occupying your back like a sleepy, smug little sleepy furnace. 

She must think the same of you, because you could hear when her breath evened out, her teasing ceased, and her head came to rest on your shoulder. So, in actuality it’s not really a walk, more a meander—a slow-motion sidetrack through frozen streets, a brisk breeze, and the company of the one who means most to you.

There is, however, the matter of the party. You’d love nothing more than to stroll right on home, bury yourself in your blankets, (perhaps curled up next to Minjeong), and call it a night. 

Alas, you’ll have no such luck:

“MINJEONG-AH! WHERE ON EARTH ARE YOU?”

“Jeez, unnie, you’re so loud,” Minjeong drowsily winces, putting an arms-length between her and Karina obliterating her phone speakers. “We’re entering the lobby now.”

“Don’t dilly-dally. You’re supposed to be hosting.”

You look back at her as she narrows her eyes. “See the shit I have to deal with,” is written all across her face as she sarcastically replies: “Yes, mother,” and hangs up.

You both share a laugh as you make your way into the elevator.

*

You steal a glance at Minjeong in the elevator mirror—what little of her you can see, anyway, given that she ‘s still clinging to your back like a smug, oversized, stupidly-good-at-karaoke scarf.

She’s quiet still, but not in a sleepy way.

No—she’s doing her little thinking thing again.

You can tell by the way her brows (you can only see a brow) are furrowed, and her lips are pursed. Not in pout, not in irritation, something you can’t tell.

Whatever it is, she’s sure thinking hard.

Time to play the guessing game.

You lay out the facts:

She just spent the evening with an amazing, handsome, and objectively irresistible man—your words, not hers (yet). So that’s Fact #1.

Fact #2: Karina has just screeched at her about resuming her co-hosting duties, which—knowing Minjeong and her frankly crippling social anxiety—is an absolute fucking nightmare.

And Fact #3—

Ding.

The elevator chimes as its doors slide open.

You adjust your grip automatically, hands settling under her thighs to make sure she doesn't slide. Minjeong doesn't say anything, just tightens her hold slightly, almost like she’s bracing for something. 

As you step out into the hallway, you feel her breath against your neck. 

Heightened.

Then, without a word, she leans in—

—and presses her lips to your cheek.

You completely freeze.

And without missing a beat, she responds to your prior declaration with the softest, sweetest little lilt to ever grace your ears:

“I love you too.”

And you’re stunned stupid in the best way possible.

In an instant she wriggles free, face almost turning blood red as she bolts off down the hallway, giggling at supersonic speed like the world’s most innocent ballistic missile.

She fumbles with the doorknob to her apartment, all while you stand dumbstruck in the elevator. You shake your head, trying not to grin too hard as you follow after her.

She heard you.

Unbelievable, this girl.

Absolutely unbelievable.

*

Your return to the party is about as embarrassing as your entry. 

They must have seen Minjeong skip in, happy as can be, and realised something out there must have made her so gleeful.

Because like before, all eyes are on you.

You barely step through the door before someone—not even one of your friends, just some guy—lets out a drunken cheer:

 “Holy SHIT. THEY TOTALLY FUCKED.”

And all hell breaks loose.

Enough cheering to warrant seven dozen noise complaints erupts as what feels like the whole party charges towards you. Your trio of friends lead the pack, arms smothering you as  you’re enveloped in the chaos.

You don’t even get a chance to deny anything.

“MY MAN!” one of them yells, slapping your back with so much force you almost fall forward.

“I KNEW YOU HAD IT IN YOU,” the second howls, gripping your shoulders like a proud older brother.

The third just clasps both your cheeks in his freezing hands and stares into your soul. “Be honest,” he says. “How long did you last?”

“Jesus Christ—” you sputter, trying to pry him off.

But it’s too late. The party has decided. You are the Chosen One. The Man Who Conquered Winter.

You raise your hands in surrender, voice drowned out by the roar of chaos. “We did not—!”

“CONGRATULATIONS ON THE SEX!” someone shouts again, cutting you off, and everyone somehow claps and cheers even louder.

Oh my fucking God.

Your face is on fire. Every synapse in your brain is about to spontaneously combust.

You use what little function you have left in your body to search for Minjeong.

 She’s barely visible through the crowd, but even through her wide eyes and hand-clamped mouth, her hair and dress are unmistakable.

Oh, and she is absolutely fucking losing it.

You lock eyes.

She does not stop.

Instead, she doubles over, the shade of her face mirroring yours. Except instead of embarrassment, she’s wheezing into her sleeve like this is the best thing that’s ever happened to her.

You’re fortunate that people are too caught up in the thrill of it all to notice when you escape from the crowd—but not before dodging a few unsolicited high-fives and residual laughs—and you can confront Minjeong who’s completely collapsed on the tiled floor.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” 

“Immensely,” she gasps, fanning herself. “They were cheering.”

“They think we—”

“I KNOW.”

“You could’ve said something!”

She shrugs, barely containing her grin. “And ruin the best part of my night?”

“Fuck you,” you glare.

Minjeong giggles. “Apparently you already have.”

You scoff. “Please smother me with a couch cushion.”

“Tempting.”

You groan and offer her your hand. “Come on, you absolute menace.”

Minjeong takes it, still giggling as you haul her upright. She’s barely steady before she immediately wraps her arms around you again—slow, sensual, borderline sexual.

And from behind you, you feel the eyes make their way back to you.

“They’re staring at us again, aren’t they.”

“Mhm,” Minjeong nuzzles into your chest.

“Are you gonna do anything about it?”

“Yup,” she smiles, pulling back.

Minjeong looks up to you—a Ning Ning level of mischievous gleaming in her eyes—and gives you another peck on the cheek.

“THEY’RE GOING FOR ROUND TWO!” You hear from behind.

You can’t help but laugh.

Well played, Kim Minjeong.

*

Despite the chaos, the relentless teasing, the introverted alarm going off in your head screaming too many people, WAY too many people—you stay.

Because Minjeong makes it worth it.

Her head on your shoulder as you share an armrest. The both of you watching the party like anthropologists observing the bizarre but fascinating species they call extroverts.

Laughing at your shared plate of snacks, which you both keep restocking with the excuse that “quality control is an important part of catering.”

Playing Jenga with a group of strangers and watching Minjeong turn into a terrifyingly competitive gremlin, whispering psychological warfare tactics to you in the hope you might approve her wrath.

The two of you holed up in her bedroom for exactly seven and a half minutes, pretending to “grab something,” but mostly laying in her bed cuddling, letting the muffled bass of the party fade behind the closed door as you both take a moment to relax and recharge.

At one point, she’s dancing.

Not wildly in the center of the room—but with her friends, swaying with a drink in one hand, mouthing lyrics and throwing you glances across the room.

You don’t dance. But you watch. And she smiles every time she catches you doing it.

Later, when the energy’s died down a bit and dessert is all but ready, Minjeong returns to your side with a gentle nudge.

“Still alive?” she teases.

You scoff. “Barely.”

“Even with our little outing?”

“Gonna need a dozen more of those,” you chuckle.

Minjeong hums, pretending to consider it. “I could pencil you in three weeks from now,” she muses as she brings the calendar app up. “Got a full schedule till then.”

“Right,” you smile. “Because we all know how much you like to go out.”

“You’re just mad I beat you in Jenga,” she shoots back.

And right as you chamber your come back, the party is halted by the screeching of a spoon on glass.  

“SHHH! Shut up! SHUT UP. This is important.”

It’s a voice all too familiar—inebriated—but familiar.

Ningning takes centre stage. She’s standing on a stool, spinning in slow, unsteady circles like the party is her royal court and she’s decidedly the queen of it.

“I just wanna say,” she slurs, pointing her wine glass dramatically into the crowd. “You guys are great. Seriously. Like, a-huh-mazing. Thank you so much for coming out!”

“Speech, huh?” You laugh, and Minjeong can’t even muster up a response. Just a nervous laugh as Ning Ning continues.

“This party… this night… is for someone very special. And—can I just say—You guys don’t even KNOW how long this took to plan. Like—Jesus. We almost blew the whole thing, like, five times. But we didn’t! Somehow. We made it!”

More cheers.

And for the first time in a long time tonight, Minjeong isn’t smiling. 

You’re about to ask what’s wrong when you catch movement in the corner of your eye. 

Karina’s stood at the base of the stool now, one hand on Ningning’s dress, the other trying to gently lower her drink. Her smile is all teeth, and you swear you see her make nervous eye contact with Minjeong from across the room.

Giselle too appears from the crowd, successfully stealing Ningning’s drink from her hand. 

“Ning,” you see Giselle mouth, “we talked about this.”

“I know,” Ningning sing-songs, volume making it incredibly unclear who her speech is directed at. “But it’s fiiiiiine. She’ll forgive me when she sees how much everyone loves her.”

Karina shoots her a look of overwhelming disapproval, and Giselle looks like she’s ready to yank her off the chair completely.

“I mean, come on,” Ningning cries. “Look at her! She’s adorable, she’s smart, she’s the reason we’re all here…

.

.

.

Happy Birthday Minjeong!”

Applause.

It rushes through the onlooking crowd: cheers are screamed, glasses are raised, a small cake appears from the fucking ether.

But you’re not part of the wave. You’re watching from the shore.

And you're hit by a tsunami.

It’s Minjeong’s birthday. 

And you, her newly-wedded boyfriend, had absolutely no clue.

Karina and Giselle are exchanging glances now, Ningning is halfway to crowd surfing, and slowly Minjeong turns to you with a timid smile.

“...Surprise?”

*

Minjeong finds you outside.

You barely notice though. Or rather, you choose not to pay her any mind.

Instead, you fixate on the countless slip-ups from her and her friends. Every corrected “us” instead of “me”, every half-choked “bir—” swapped out for something else. How, every time the day came up, she’d go defensive or disappear into silence like the topic was sensitive.

How you’d been so damn blind. 

And for what, you ask yourself. Why hide it from you? Why make it a secret worth protecting?

You don’t get to think up an answer.

A warm presence invades your back, and a pair of arms wrap around your core. You feel Minjeong’s cheek come to rest on your shoulder blade, the steady rhythm of her breathing syncing with yours.  

It’s neither an apology nor an explanation. 

And yet it puts you at ease.

“I’m sorry.” she says at last. “I should have told you.”

You’re barely able to muster up your response.

“Then why didn’t you?”

Minjeong’s hold tightens. “Because today was our first real date. It should be about us—not me.”

But that’s not what you’re really upset about.

“I didn’t even get you a gift,” you tell her, almost embarrassing in its simplicity.

Her hands unravel from your stomach, gliding to your waist instead. She gives the just gentlest nudge, coaxing you to turn and face her.

And for a split second it’s like déjà vu.

Her expression holds the same gravity as that fateful night you met. The same certainty in her gaze, back when she’d made sure you’d call her. Back when she’d decided—somehow—that you were worth going against everything she thought she knew about people.

“Look at me,” she says softly, gently holding your face in her hand.

You do.

“Today was the most precious thing you could have given me,” she says. “You. Here. With me.”

You part your lips to argue—to point out how pitiful that sounds. How you could’ve shown up with flowers, or a card, or just something nice wrapped in a ribbon. How she deserves more than your awkward presence and empty hands. 

But something interrupts.

A gentle pressure against your mouth. Warm. Soft. Immaculately indescribable.

Your first kiss.

It’s clumsy, on both of your ends. Neither of you really know what you’re doing. Your chest is tight, your hands twitch like they should be moving and every coherent thought has been reduced to white noise.

And yet, it feels perfect.

Perfect in how you feel your heart might burst. Perfect in how her lips fit onto yours. Perfect in how your noses clumsily clash and your smiles mirror.

For a moment you wonder if you should do more, if you should hold her, pull her closer, say something. But the thought dissolves the instant her fingers curl lightly into the fabric of your coat, grounding you. It tells you everything: you don’t have to do anything else. Just be here. Just be with her.

And you’re more than content with that.

But Minjeong seemingly isn’t, she pulls away—only slightly—leaving you slightly shocked as you meet her eyes from mere millimetres away. 

But she makes up for it:

“Don’t ever doubt how much you mean to me again,” she whispers.

Right before leaning in to kiss you all over again.

*

So this is something.

Never in your infinite cynicism and introversion did you think you’d end up at a party of all places. 

Well, you’re not actually at the party—you’re laying on the balcony. Snuggled up next to Minjeong like puzzle pieces on some tanning chair. Her head rests against your chest, your arm drapes around her shoulders, and she traces small little shapes against the back of your hand as the city sprawls endlessly below you.

Minutes—or hours, maybe—have slipped away without you noticing. The noise of the party behind the glass door might as well be a different universe. Out here, it’s just the two of you.

Your confusion—your dejection—from earlier all feel so small now compared to the love that sits in your heart.

You tilt your head, watching her. She looks almost unreal in the quiet—calm, serene, her expression softened by sleepiness and intimacy. She shifts slightly under your gaze, eyes half-lidded as she looks towards the horizon.

“…The sun’s rising,” she murmurs.

And sure enough, the night has already begun to give way. The skyline blushes pink and gold, each streak of light cutting deeper into the dark until the world feels reborn.

“Guess we’ve been out here a while.”

Her lips curve in a drowsy smile, almost laughing from pure joy as she nestles closer. “Worth it.”

And hey, you can’t argue with that. Not one bit. Lying here with her, watching the sky transform, huddled together like it was just meant to be, it feels like more than just another morning.

 It feels like the beginning of something really special.

You kiss the crown of her head.  “We really should get back soon, though.”

“Mm.” Her eyes slip shut again, her body relaxing fully into yours. “In a minute.”

You chuckle softly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze as the first full rays crest the horizon.

“Yeah,” you smile, keeping your eyes fixed on the light spilling into the sky.

*

So. Miyeon has this habit.

And no, it’s not the gambling. That one’s more of an addiction—chronic, incurable, and one you’re practically enabling at this point. This is more like a side effect. A telltale symptom of the greater illness: the way she insists on solving every problem she has with her mouth.

Not metaphorically.

Not diplomatically.

Literally.

And you don’t mean that in the sense of persuasive debate, or even manipulation—though she’s proven time and time again she’s more than proficient in both. You mean she actually gets down on her knees, flashes those doe eyes, and opens wide like you’re playing here comes the fucking aeroplane.

Take today.

Much like how she got you to fly across the globe in pursuit of the Melbourne Cup—a four-minute loop of men in silks and tiny hats riding million-dollar livestock and whipping them into cardiac arrest—she’s now “talked” you into letting her bet on it.

You resisted, of course. But when she wants something, Cho Miyeon is an unstoppable force, and you are far from immovable object.

She’d cornered you in one of the racetrack bathrooms, leaned back against the sink, spread her legs, flaunted her hair and pouted like the tragic lead of a noir.

“Just one little bet,” she pleaded and you said “absolutely not,” and she said “pretty please,” and you said “no way in Hell,” and she said “I’ll suck your dick,” and you said “Miyeon, we’ve talked about th—oh fuck, okay, alright, Jesus Christ.”

So now you’re zipping your jeans with a sigh, running a hand through your hair and staring daggers into the man in the mirror. In addition to asking him to change his ways, you’re also asking how the fuck he lets this keep happening.

It's like you’re not even a participant in your own downfall anymore. You’re a spectator—front and centre to watch yourself make the same mistakes with the same woman in differing degrees of filthy bathrooms across time zones.

You wash your hands. Not because they need it—Miyeon did all the work this time—but because it buys you a second. A pause. A breath. A reprieve before stepping out into the light where, you know disaster, (Miyeon), awaits.

That and to ask yourself:

How the fuck did I end up here?

*

“The race that stops the nation,” Miyeon had declared with starry eyes about a week ago. She was lying upside-down on your couch, kicking her feet to the ceiling, tossing grapes into her mouth, and making a mess of the misses on your carpet. “You can’t tell me that doesn’t sound appealing.”

You sighed—as you always do when Miyeon suggests travelling half-way across the world to bring you half-way to financial ruin.

“Alright, let me get this straight,” you began, already pinching at the bridge of your nose. It’s a gesture usually reserved for tax season and Miyeon-induced headaches. So, it tracks. “Two-dozen jockey’s ride in a shambolic circle for a few kilometres—no obstacles, no jumps, no real turns—and you want to fly a dozen hours to watch it in person?”

She had obviously realised how shitty of an idea this was on paper (or at the very least it looked that way in your eyes) and decided she needed to sweeten the deal. “We can do other stuff while we’re there,” she pouted.

“Like what? Lose even more money playing ‘pokies’ instead?”

Miyeon hesitated for a moment. You could practically see the responsible answer try to claw its way to the surface. But as always, self control eluded her.

“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea to me…” 

“Oh Miyeon,” you groaned. “For the love of Go—,” 

“Okay fiiiiiine. We could… explore the city!” she offered. “Try a museum or two. Go to a vineyard. Maybe pet a kangaroo!”

“Those all sound awfully like things you’ll forget about the moment you see a betting table.”

She rolled onto her side, head in your lap. “Come on. I’ve never been to Australia. And the Melbourne Cup is iconic!”

“So is the Titanic,” you retorted. “Doesn’t mean I want front row seats to the sinking.”

Miyeon simply grinned. “Except instead of drowning in water, it’ll be in our newfound wealth!”

A hand went over your face, you needed to massage your eyeballs. “Let me make something very clear, Miyeon. Even if we do go, there will not be—under any circumstance—any bets placed. No chips traded. No casinos entered. No horses backed. If you so much as glance at a gacha machine, I will not hesitate to cancel every card we have.”

“Okay, okay. Jeez, I can live with that.”

“That includes the secret debit card you keep behind your license.”

“NO! PLEASE! ANYTHING BUT THAT,” she was practically screaming, shaking your shoulders like maracas. 

It was your turn to grin. “Then promise me something,”

She was nodding like a puppy.

 “No betting.”

Miyeon straightened like a soldier and folded an arm over her chest. “Hand on my heart,” she declared. 

You nodded, almost satisfied. Obtusely unaware of the mistake you were making.

“Well,” you said, completely smug, “at least that makes your promise valid.”

She blinked. “My what?”

“We haven’t decided on going yet. The trip’s still up in the air.”

Miyeon blinked. You could see the wheels turning. 

“Oh,” she said, full of sudden inspiration.

You barely had time to blink before she was crawling into your lap, lips arriving at yours. “Then maybe I should convince you,” she whispered, one hand dragging down your chest, the other already plotting its path toward your jeans.

And you, in your infinite wisdom, said nothing.

Suffice it to say: you went to bed that night very, very convinced.

*

She talks like she’s an expert.

Like she’s spent years refining her own scientific method. Like she’s read the stats, studied the field, hand-picked the jockeys and trained the horses herself. Like she’s here with a plan—all permutations of intentional, calculated and precise.

She has none of that.

What she does have are the very same things she always brings to the betting table: blind optimism, questionable fashion choices, and a gambling history that reads like a case study in the sunk-cost fallacy.

She’s lost money on mice, cats, dogs, vulturine guinea fowls, fantasy stocks, actual stocks, motorsports, chess, video games, tabletop games, competitive rock-paper-scissors, a crab race in busan, one underground mahjong league in Okinawa, another in Kabukicho, another in Dohtonbori, and about a dozen shogi matches with the homeless in Yokohama.

She put six-thousand dollars on the World Cup final based solely on how hot she thought the coaches were.

There was a brief but financially devastating stint with marble racing.

She’s placed money on rock skipping. Celebrity baby name predictions. Whether or not the next Pope will be left-handed.

(As well as another few dozen cases you didn't end up committing to memory. Tack on another few dozen for the times she's undoubtedly gambled behind your back.)

And yet, no matter how many times she’s been burned by Lady Luck—how many “can’t-lose” bets are lost anyway, or how many hot tips go cold the second they’re placed—Cho Miyeon simply does not quit.

She adjusts her sunglasses—not for the sun, which has yet to make a single appearance today, but for dramatic effect. Then she plants her hand on your shoulder, squares herself toward the track like she’s on a TED stage, and resumes the yap.

“And that’s the neat part,” she’s saying now, continuing on from a spout of nonsense you were lucky enough to have tuned out of, “the odds are just a reflection of the pool, right? It’s not real probability. It’s not math-math, it’s like… vibes-math. It’s what everyone else thinks is going to happen—which is already flawed because people are fucking idiots. So really, by betting on the thing no one bets on, you’re actually smarter than everyone else. It’s kind of meta if you think about it.”

You don’t think about it.

“Like, take today for example. Look at these poor, unfortunate, not-winning-shit, souls.” She scans the crowd for a moment, searching for a target. “Oh, like that guy over there? Fedora and the double Windsor? Amateur. You can tell purely by the way he’s dressed he’s betting based on bloodline and track record. Rookie mistake. That’s how you lose money. The real winners—me for example—we bet with instinct. Intuition. Gut feelings. And sometimes alcohol.”

You raise an eyebrow.

Miyeon nods solemnly, as if that makes it gospel.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” she continues, even though you’re very much not thinking anything. “You’re thinking, ‘But Miyeon, didn’t you once lose 700 dollars betting that the royal baby would be named Gundalf?’ And to that I say: yes. But also, the UK had a chance to make history. They chose George. Fucking George. Cowards.”

She doesn’t even pause.

“Or maybe you’re thinking about the crab race in Busan. Which, to be clear, I still maintain was rigged. Oh, and that sperm race in LA? You can’t convince me those weren’t tampered with. You think one swimmer wins by ten lengths without pharmaceutical assistance? Please.”

You try to interrupt.

You choose not to bother.

“Anyway, the point is—betting is about more than just numbers. It’s about story. Narrative. You have to feel the arc: that upward trajectory that comes from being overlooked. You want the underdog, but not too under. You want mystery, but not scandal. You want a horse with baggage, with a little trauma sprinkled in for spice. Something to prove is what I'm saying.”

She gestures toward the big screen showing a replay from the previous race. A horse in bright orange silks is dragging itself over the finish line, dead last.

“Not him though. Orange is the worst color. Proven fact: Bad luck. Studies show it interferes with the horse’s chi or aura or whatever. I don’t remember where I read that—a subreddit, maybe—but still. Reliable source.”

Then she spins around, squints down the stretch, and points at a brown mare doing a very unbothered trot.

“But Whispering Sheila?” she says, near reverent. “That’s a horse that gets it. That’s a horse who’s seen some shit. I mean, just look at her. Not flashy. Not showy. Just focused. Professional. She’s got the legs to take her to the end and back!”

“She was disqualified last race for biting the handler.”

“Exactly! She’s got edge!”

Miyeon folds her arms, completely satisfied, the sunglasses now fully askew on her nose. You stare at her, and consider, deeply, the cosmic imbalance of power between your ability to say no and her ability to not give a fuck.

She smiles. 

“So. Shall we?”

“If I say no, are you going to drag me to the bathroom again?”

“Perhaps,” she beams.

You sigh the deepest sigh.

“Guess I have no choice then.”

Because truly, you don’t.

*

You’re not expecting a lot. That much is a given. 

You’re standing there, arms crossed, mentally preparing yourself to watch twenty-four tiny men in coloured silk slap the shit out of their horses for a couple minutes and call it sport. 

You’re also prepared to lose. 

In fact, you’ve been conditioned to lose. 

You are the emotionally battered war vet of betting by proxy. Weathered by half a decade of Miyeon induced headaches, panic attacks, and bankruptcy scares. So it goes without saying that you’ve long since made peace with the inevitability of financial ruin.

Which is why what happens next makes absolutely no sense.

The gates open with a clang. And then Whispering Sheila—Miyeon’s pride and joy, her bet of the century, her four-figure “hunch”—takes off like a fucking torpedo.

You blink.

Then blink again.

Your mind isn’t playing any tricks. Sheila's in front. Not just in front—she’s leading the charge like a horse-shaped war general. Her strides are long. Her form is beautiful. The wind parts for her like Moses at the Red Sea. And for the first time in her presumably disappointing life, Whispering Sheila isn’t just exceeding expectations.

She’s shattering them.

And beside you, Miyeon is absolutely losing her shit.

“She’s FLYING!” she screams, hopping up and down on the concrete. “Look at her—LOOK AT HER! Did I not say she had the legs?! I TOLD YOU SHE HAD THE LEGS!”

You don’t dare answer. Don’t dare jinx it while the impossible unfolds.

Sheila holds the lead through the turn. The crowd roars. Miyeon screams louder. 

You feel it then.

Not belief, no. Not that strong.

But… suspicion. Suspicion that Miyeon might’ve—against every possible odd, against the universal laws of cause and effect, against the deeply rigged simulation that is your life—actually gotten one right.

God, are you naive.

Because just as the final stretch begins—just as Sheila is poised to make history—

She stops.

Not because she trips. Not because another horse cuts her off. She just… stops. Veers off course. Loses interest. Maybe remembers an existential crisis she was having earlier.

One moment she’s a champion.

The next?

She’s taking a scenic detour near the fence, tail swishing like she’s out for a casual trot—all while the rest of the field barrels past like a freight train.

Miyeon goes silent.

The crowd does not.

Laughter breaks out. Even the drunk guy next to you mutters a heartfelt “Jesus Christ” into his stubby.

You watch, horrified, as the horse Miyeon picked using nothing but “vibes” and a conspiracy theory about saddle colour, trots across the finish line somewhere around a full minute behind the rest of the pack.

Dead. Fucking. Last.

You don’t say anything right away.

You don’t have to.

The anger radiating off your body could power a suburban home.

Broken, shattered, hollowed, you shakily ask:

“…Did we just lose four thousand dollars?”

There’s a pause.

A suspiciously long pause.

Then, from beside you:

“Okay. So.”

You turn.

Don’t fucking say it, Miyeon.

“...I may have added an extra zero.”

*

So. Miyeon has another habit.

 And no, it’s not the rambling, that one’s ingrained in her personality—endless, vexing, endlessly vexing, and one you always just have to kinda sit through. This one is embedded in her DNA:

After every catastrophic loss, every burnt dollar and ruined future, Miyeon’s only instinct is to fuck about it.

Biological, you’ll call it.

It’s like the humiliation hits her bloodstream, and she can’t metabolize it unless she’s writhing on your lap, hissing that she’s “so fucking stupid,” crowing that you “should punish her for it,” and then, in the same breath, telling you to “shut up and fucking choke me.” Perhaps it’s some kind of sick evolutionary adaptation. Perhaps it’s just the way her neurons have always crashed and burned together. Perhaps it’s simply a coping mechanism.

And if so, right now—back at the hotel, with her panties jammed in her mouth, your cock in her cunt, and one hand clamped around her throat—she’s coping.

Hard.

You can feel her smile against your wrist—cheek pressed there, eyes half-lidded, lashes glued with mascara and tears. Her skin is deeply flushed from effort and oxygen deficiency and maybe just a little bit of deranged satisfaction.

Her hips grind back harder.

Because Cho Miyeon doesn’t regret. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t learn.

She fucks.

Like she thinks if she moans loud enough, grinds desperate enough, takes you deep enough, the universe might reverse time. Whispering Sheila will cross the line first. The crowd will roar. She’ll be a genius again. A prophet.

A fucking billionaire.

But right now, she’s just a mess. A mess you’re making messier.

You tighten your grip around her neck. Her eyes roll. And with your other hand gripping her hips, you drag her back into you like this is a problem that can be solved through sheer physics.

She lets out a muffled scream—half pleasure, half penance. The soaked lace in her mouth dampens it, but not enough to keep the neighbours guessing. Her body’s trembling now, pitchforked between orgasm and complete oblivion.

She chooses the former.

It starts with the twitch—spine arching, legs kicking out like they’re trying to run from the heat curling up her nerves. Then, the sound, clawing its way past the gag, echoing around the room and putting a ruthless smile across your face. Her whole body convulses, clamps down, seizes up like your cock is the only thing tethering her to reality. She writhes on it like it owes her money. Like if she cums hard enough, she might get that extra zero back.

You hold her through it. Don’t ease up. Don’t slow down. You fuck her through the climax until she’s gasping through the lace, until tears are dripping onto the sheets, until every broken sob sounds like the word “sorry” in some dialect only she understands.

“Shouldn’t’ve added the zero,” she’s groaning, garbled and guilty and absolutely destroyed. “Shouldn’t’ve—shouldn’t’ve—fuck, I’m so—”

You slam into her again.

Harder.

She chokes on her words.

Good.

Let her regret it. Let her wear it. Let it bleed out of her one desperate cry at a time.

You lean down, lips ghosting her ear.

“Say it,” you growl.

She whines.

“Say what?”

You pull her head up by her hair, your other hand still a noose around her throat.

“That you’re my stupid fucking girl.”

And Miyeon, of course, barely hesitates. Because shame isn’t something she avoids.

You loosen the panties just enough for her to gasp:

“I’m your stupid fucking girl.”

Then—without even being told—she adds:

“Now ruin me for it.”

So you do.

*

After, it’s quiet.

She’s still breathless. Still warm. Still glowing with that dumb post-catastrophe grin like losing forty-thousand on a mare with anger issues was just a minor hiccup in an otherwise flawless plan.

And to her, maybe it was.

You brush a thumb over her temple. She nuzzles into it, half-asleep, humming like she didn’t just obliterate the budget. Like you’re not going to have to explain this on the phone with your bank at 8 a.m. Monday morning. Like she didn’t promise—hand on heart—not to gamble. Again.

And still, some pathetic part of you is already bracing for the next one.

The next bright idea. The next sugar-slick pitch from her upside-down on your couch. The next whispered “babe, hear me out,” followed by airfare, adrenaline, and another financial obituary with her name scrawled across it in hot pink pen.

You’d like to say you’ll draw the line.

You won’t.

Because tomorrow, there’ll be a new scheme.

New odds.

New disaster.

And for some inexplicable reason, you’ll be right there beside her. Wallet lighter. Heart heavier. Lips already forming the words:

“Okay, but this is the last time.”

Even though you know it’s not.

She’s loud, she’s lazy, and she’s casually filthy, sure. But she doesn’t pretend this is about attachment or romance or whatever else people try to slap onto a good fuck. She moans like a banshee, curses like she’s getting paid by the word, and she’ll laugh in your face if you try to call this passion. 

It's not passion. It's Tuesday. 

You like her for that. That, and the fact that she squirts like a pornstar and doesn’t mind doing it on company time.

Desk, floor, couch, conference table—pick your battlefield. She’ll bring the war. (And open the floodgates.)

Today’s bout happens to be in your vocal booth. 

Or, happened, rather.

“Don’t fall asleep in here,” you remind her, yanking your pants up. “You drool on anything expensive and the label’s gonna think I adopted a stray.”

“Hah,” she laughs dryly. “You owe me lunch, for that one. Or, I dunno, a lozenge. I can’t feel my throat.”

You snort, still half-naked, still sweating—absolutely not in a position to debate sexual reparations.

Meanwhile, Hyeri’s lying across the vocal booth bench like it’s a fucking chaise lounge, panties twirling in her fingers, skirt still hiked up, and blouse open like the concept of modesty just doesn’t apply after three orgasms.

Which, it doesn’t, so you’ll give her that one.

There’s sweat on her chest and something else between her thighs—it yours, obviously—and she’s tracing lazy circles around her navel with one red-tipped nail.

“I really think I hit that harmony this time,” she muses. “Like... actually nailed it.” She is, of course, referring to the song you’re supposed to be recording and not the chorus of moans she let out as she came all over you.

You shoot her a sceptical look, shoving a cable out of your way with your foot, hunting for wherever your belt got thrown off to. “You moaned through half of it.”

“Artistic expression,” she shrugs, reaching for a tissue. “Adds texture.”

“It adds me spending an hour editing out your sex noises,” you grimace, pulling your belt out from where she's hidden it under her. “That or we schedule another day to record.”

“Oh no,” she mocks, wiping your cum from between her thighs. “Not post-production work—y’know, the thing you’re paid to do. But,” she’s thinking now, tapping her chin with a finger, “you would like another day with me all to yourself, now wouldn’t you?”

You flick her the bird as you slip back into your button-up. She smiles like she’s won something. She has, technically. Three times, in fact. The first when you ate her out on the bench. The second when she rode you on said bench. And the third against the booth wall, displacing soundproofing with a leg around your waist, your cock in her cunt, and a finger in her ass for good measure.

But unlike your little sexcapade with Hyeri, this was supposed to be quick.

Track the bridge, tweak her verse, maybe do a dry run of the group chorus. Nothing that warranted sweat-slick skin and a room that smells more potent than a fish market. But with Hyeri, quick is theoretical. She’s chaos and lust wrapped in short skirts and high heels—all while masquerading as the Nation's Little Goody-two-shoes.

And then, like the universe itself is showing its disapproval for your pseudo-professionalism, your phone buzzes.

12:15 PM – Karina | Vocal Tracking

“Shit.”

You have exactly thirteen minutes to unfuck the studio.

Hyeri doesn’t look up, popping a mint and digging in her bag for lipstick. “What now?”

“Karina’s coming.”

She looks up. There’s a beat. Then she laughs—not shy, not sorry.

Delighted.

“Did you schedule us back-to-back, again?” she asks, sitting up, buttoning her blouse like it’s a suggestion and not an obligation. “Jesus, you’re bold.”

“I forgot,” you admit, which is true. Sort of.

You remembered the moment Hyeri finished singing the bridge. But when the Nation’s Little Sister is in your vocal booth moaning into the mic and flashing her tits, your list of priorities gets jumbled just a teensy bit.

She cackles, sliding off the bench and onto the floor like this is all the setup to a really good punchline. “Wow. Can’t wait for her to sing backup on the chorus while standing in a puddle of my cu—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

Hyeri holds her hands up. “What? It’s a collab.”

Right. The collab. Two idols, one producer, and a track about heartbreak or temptation or something equally ironic. Not to toot your own horn or anything but the beat’s  good. An obvious hit.

What makes no sense is the lineup.

 Hyeri—basically retired idol turned variety darling turned actress. 90% charm. 100% chaos.

 Karina—hot as all fuck, a pillar of fourth-gen K-pop, and somehow still the weirdest girl in the room. ‘A loser in a goddess’s body’ as the internet puts it.

There’s absolutely no correlation between the two other than industry and that they’re both drop-dead gorgeous. It’s like some wacky higherup wanted the most oddball idol pairings possible. And for some reason, you’re the glue holding it all together.

The calendar notification flashes up at you again, sending you hurtling into action. “Fuck, I really thought it was just you today,” you scramble, grabbing the tissue box and frantically wiping off the bench drenched in her sweat and fluids. “Are you gonna help?”

Hyeri just shrugs. “I had bridge duty,” she begins, ignoring your pleas entirely. “And Karina’s laying down the second verse, right?”

“Yeah,” you reply, dejected and slightly annoyed. She’s not doing shit. “Just…” you begin, like this makes up for anything,”— don’t leave your bra again.”

She pauses, looking down at her chest like she only just remembered she owns one. “Shit—did I?”

You both spot it at the same time in the far corner of the room. Lace, red, costs three figures. Definitely hers. You snatch it like it’s a grenade and shove it into her tote without ceremony.

Hyeri simply grins. “Oops.”

“Can’t believe you left it in the booth last week,” you hiss. “Karina walked in and asked if you were doing your laundry in here.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That you got hot.”

“That’s not even a good lie,” she replies, quite obviously amused by the whole fiasco. “You should’ve said I was doing vocals in lingerie—very French. Very sexy.” 

“Very suspension-of-contract,” you mutter.

“Barely noticed it was gone, to be honest. Was it the black one?”

“...Yes.”

“Mm,” she nods. “Thought so. I’ve been wondering.”

“For a week?”

“I’m not particularly sentimental about bras,” she says, like it’s a flex.

You shake your head. “Do you want it back?”

“Nope. Keep it,” Hyeri zips her tote with a smile, “as a memento.”

You shrug. Can’t argue with that.

With one last wipe you finish scrubbing down the vocal booth like it’s a crime scene clean-up, which, given your contractual obligations such as: Don’t Fuck The Talent, might actually be. 

Three sprays of some bergamot mist tries to mask the smell of sex, sweat, and the lastest in your long line of poor decisions. It doesn’t. At best, now it smells like bergamot and sex. 

But it’ll have to do. 

Hyeri simply watches from her place on the floor. She’s mostly dressed now—blouse crumpled but closed, lipstick redrawn, auburn hair finger-combed into something that says either sexually satisfied or hungover. Almost normal is how you’d describe her—the faint marks just visible above her collar put an emphasis on the almost.

With a couple more sprays of  the citrus you and Hyeri are out of the booth, but you’re desk is a mess too: A tangle of wires, half drunk coffee and—

The recording light is still on.

The waveform’s still rolling.

The track: armed. The booth: live.

You lunge for the keyboard.

Stop recording.

Three peaks. Clear as day.

You don’t need audio engineering school to know what they are. You’re staring at the literal shape of her orgasms.

“Wow,” she says, squinting beside you. “It’s like… orgasmic morse code.”

You glance at her. “The fuck does that even mean?”

“Dunno,” she shrugs. “Sounded smarter in my head.”

You look back at the waveform, playing one of the peaks. 

No vocals. No takes. Just moans. Whines. Wet, slick sounds. You. Her. You in her. And then:

“Oh my fucking Gggggggod,” she moans through the monitors.

Hyeri watches your face. Smiles.

“I should delete it,” you say looking back.

“But you won’t.”

“But I should.”

“But you won’t.”

She’s right. You won’t.

Instead:

Export > Documents > Private > ALT_Hyeri_Vocals.wav

“Ooooh,” she sings, nudging you with her shoulder, a little too pleased. “Wait, alt vocals? Not even a cute name? Not even ‘HyeriMOANS_FinalVII_REALFINAL_usethisone.wav’?”

“It’s for the back-up vocals,” you lie as naturally as you breathe.

“It’s for your spank bank,” she retorts.

You don’t answer. Partly because she’s right and mostly because you’re red from realizing how much you moaned, too. Not your finest hour, you’ll admit.

“Shouldn't you be going?” You finally ask her.

“Fine, fine.”

With one last devious smile, Hyeri pulls on her tote, checks her reflection in the black of the studio glass, and re-combs her hair. “Well,” she says, turning to leave, “have fun explaining our completely professional relationship to Karina.”

“What? Why would I ever—”

“Oh come on,” she cuts in, laughing. “These fourth-gen girls? You think they’ve never walked into a studio that smells like cum and perfume? Please. I’d seriously be surprised if she hasn’t picked up on it by now.”

“Hyeri.”

“I’m serious. She’d have to be Mother Teresa to not know what’s going on in here.” 

You’re mortified. Full-body cringe—It’s delicious to her. “So, unless she’s got a cross under her clothes, you’re not fooling anyone.”

You go pale. She beams.

“You couldn’t have told me this earlier?”

She pretends to think for a second before landing on a simple:

“Nope.”

At the door, she turns, planting a kiss on your cheek—sweet, sinful, smug. “Good luck,” she sings. “See you next week.”

And just like that she's gone.

You’re completely frozen. Save for the moment you spray the bergamot again. 

Five times this time.

Spoiler alert: 

It doesn’t help.

*

Karina arrives at 12:16.

Which is a little late. But when your producer’s secretly been balls-deep in your sexy co-worker, and your body has curves that put cue balls to shame, a little late is just fine.

She pokes her head in, hair in a low ponytail, gray hoodie and sweatpants on, face bare save for chapstick and what you hope is not suspicions of contract violations.

“Hey,” she chirps, offering a small smile. One of those slow, polite things that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Traffic was a nightmare. Did I miss anything?”

Only a live porno starring your dick and Hyeri’s everything.

“Nope,” you lie, voice almost cracking. “Perfect timing.”

She steps inside like she owns the place, which is fair, considering her vocals are probably worth half your paycheck this quarter. Then, she gives you a quick once-over—nothing obvious, but her eyes pause on your sloppy collar, then your flushed ears. You sit up straighter. Try not to look like you’ve just been reverse-exorcised by a woman with zero gag reflex.

Then Karina sniffs.

“New room spray?” she asks, nose wrinkling.

“Uh, yeah. Some limited edition one, I think. Intern picked it up for shits and giggles.”

“Huh.”

You try to make yourself look busy, turning away and absentmindedly double-clicking shit on your desktop, minimising and maximising random windows just to make your screen flash.  You wish you could minimize yourself while you’re at it.

“You, uh… just finished with Hyeri?” she asks, looking over.

There it is.

You nod. Neutral. Casual. “Yeah. She was recording the bridge.”

“Mm.”

Just a sound, not even a word. And yet you can practically hear the subtext screaming: Bridge, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?

You shouldn’t be scared of her. Of all people, Karina is the probably least intimidating idol you’ve ever worked with—soft-spoken, professionally polite and always just a little behind the tempo of group conversations. 

So then why the fuck does she manage to hit the nail on the head with every word out of that gorgeous mouth?

 “I could tell,” she shrugs. “Smells like her.”

You cough so hard you hit a new vocal register.

But Karina doesn’t say anything. Just makes her way to the booth.

You’re about to ask if she wants water—anything to offset the tension and your crippling anxiety—when she peels off her hoodie.

And fuck you.

It’s not even that it’s scandalous. It’s a black sports bra. Basic. Functional. Nothing that should bring a grown man to his metaphorical and literal knees. It’s gym attire. But it’s her gym attire, and that makes a world of difference. 

The bra doesn’t so much as hide her tits but politely suggest they quiet the fuck down, doing a noble yet futile job of containing what you really wish wasn’t. Because God damn if her breasts aren’t full, shapely—obscene in their perfection, indecent in their splendour. And if that weren't enough for you, right below her stomach tapers in, all sharp lines and lean muscle, just begging for you to run your hands and tongue along.

Karina tosses her hoodie onto the vocal booth bench—the same one you railed Hyeri on half an hour ago. She stretches, arms up, spine arched, that long line of torso on blatant, mouth-watering display. You pretend you’re checking the input levels, but your gaze keeps slingshotting back to her like it’s tied on elastic.

She catches you.

Which, yeah, you’re about as subtle as a cymbal crash.

“It’s really…  stuffy in here,” she remarks as she meets your staring gaze, fanning her face with one hand. “Something must have happened in here.”

Well, if she didn’t know earlier, then she definitely knows now. And she’s fucking with you to boot.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Your throat works around a lie. Futile, probably. Any moment now she could report your horny ass to a higher-up and have you on the street within minutes. But she hasn’t. So either she’s getting off fucking with you, or she wants something in return for keeping hush. Either one isn’t particularly ideal. 

“A‑ah, yeah,” you stammer. Smooth start. “HVAC’s acting up. I’ll put in a ticket.” You flick a random knob that does absolutely nothing, praying she’ll drop it. “Let’s get your tracking done before the air gets worse, yeah?”

Karina nods. Noncommittal. Disbelieving.

Man, you’re so fucked.

*

Karina nails the verse on the first pass—pitch perfect, emotion dialled, consonants crisp enough to slice butter. And for a little while, you forget about her standing in a room soaked in Hyeri’s cum.

Second pass? Even better. Third? Pure polish. By the time you hit stop for real, you're covered in goosebumps and it has nothing to do with the prospect of losing everything.

Karina’s simply that good.

You press the talk‑back. “That’s the one. Seriously, Karina—gold. Take five?”

She lifts one ear‑cup and flashes a grin. “Sure.”

You breathe a sigh of relief when the conversation ends there. Maybe… just maybe… you’ve dodged a bullet.

You lean back, arms stretching over your head, casual as you can fake it. The worst is over. You’re in the clear. She probably bought the ventilation excuse. Probably thinks nothing of the citrus-and-sex sauna she walked into.

Professional crisis: averted.

Thank fuck.

Karina hums a little under her breath, fiddling with her phone. She looks harmless. Normal.

Just a girl in a sports bra and sweats, checking her messages, laughing at a reel.

Perhaps Hyeri’s wrong. Perhaps Karina’s a little too sweet, a little too spaced-out, a little too fourth-gen golden girl to know what a post-sex room smells like.

But then you let your gaze skate over her bare stomach again. Then those magnificent tits.

And you wonder how that would be possible.

You shake your head. Refocus.

“Seriously, you crushed it,” you say, half to fill the air, half to genuinely compliment. “Some of your best work, period.”

Karina beams, cheeks flushing pink. And for another second, it’s easy to forget the whole ticking-time-bomb nature of this room. To forget Hyeri’s cum still somewhere deep in the booth fibers. To forget everything except how fucking pretty she looks smiling at you.

You even start mentally scheduling next week’s sessions—like you’re gonna get away clean.

You’re an idiot.

Because then she ruins your fucking life.

“So,” Karina starts, tilting her head just slightly, “how long have you been fucking Hyeri?”

You choke on absolutely nothing. Do a spit-take with no drink.

She says it like it’s a joke. Like she’s asking if you’re out of oat milk.

Except she’s not joking.

Not even a little.

 “I—I—what?”

“I mean, I’m assuming it’s Hyeri,” she muses, tapping a finger to her chin. "She did look pretty worn when I passed her in the lobby.”

You wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole. You wish you could eject yourself into the sun.

You wish she hadn’t said it with that much fucking glee.

“Don’t worry,” she says in a half-shrug. “I’m not gonna tell anyone if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Thank fuck.

“There is just one thing though…”

Oh fuck.

"I don’t really like being left out."

What the fuck?

"I want in."

What the fuck.

You stand up, pace around the room. Try to gather your thoughts, try to process what exactly she’s proposing here.

Karina wants to fuck you.

 You won’t pretend you haven’t thought about it. That you’re some righteous saint without the need for fantasy. 

But this is Karina you’re talking about.

It’s one thing for you to be caught with Hyeri, but Karina? Pillar of a whole generation? If the two of you were caught it’d be—

“—A PR nightmare?” she supplies. “A scandal? Headline of the century?”

You nod so fast you almost give yourself whiplash.

She just shrugs again, careless, reckless, hot as sin. "Don't care."

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again. "You—you have no idea what you're asking—"

"I do," she interrupts, stepping closer, breath frosting the booth window. Her voice is silk now. A trap you’re already caught in. "I know exactly what I’m asking."

She walks back to the bench, hands bracing behind her, legs spreading just enough to hint at what’s awaiting you.

“I want you like she has you.”

You’re not strong enough. 

You’re not stupid enough to pretend you are.

But even if you managed to steel your resolve, Karina bites her bottom lip. Runs a hand along her crotch.

"I’ve wanted you since the demo."

And you’re moving before you even register it.

*

You’ve soaked in some legendary sights on the label’s dime.

Dawn over the Han River from sixty stories up, neon Tokyo streets glitter‑wet after midnight rain, front-row seats to an Eiffel Tower light show in a suite. Gorgeous, all of them. Low-end bucket‑list kinda stuff.

But this view might just take the cake.

Sweat slicks Karina’s collarbones, soaks the carelessly lifted sports bra, gathers at the dip between her breasts, slides down to where your hands own her hips. Every grind turns your spine to liquid. Every thrust drives you deeper. And every bounce sends those perfect tits—shape and size defying God and physics—swinging in hypnotic rhythm.

“You fill me so good,” she pants, words cutting the hush of the booth, dirty and devotional at once. “Knew you'd feel this good—just knew it." She braces one palm against the glass, the other yanking her own hair into a makeshift ponytail, dragging it off her glowing face. The move juts her chest higher—an unspoken invitation, one you answer with your mouth. You latch on to the reddened mark just above her nipple, tongue finding its way around the sensitive circumference.

She whines.

You suck harder.

She tightens.

And you’re gone.

You should be thinking your job, about morality, about the very real possibility that a lone intern could wander past and see silhouettes doing something distinctly un‑PG behind the frosted glass. Instead, you’re cataloguing micro‑details: the faint scent of her shampoo under the musk of sweat, the tremor in her thigh when she sinks too deep, the almost reverent way her eyes lock on-to you when you hit that spot.

“Been wanting this for so long,” she reiterates, rolling her hips in a tighter circle. “Wanted your cock buried so deep I can’t hit a high note without it in me.”

The image alone nearly finishes you. You grit your teeth, hold your release back with sheer will and bruising fingers at her waist.

“Fuck, Karina—”

Karina leans in, panting against your mouth, grinding harder and harder, chasing her high and yours without a single shred of shame.

“Wanted you so bad,” she whines, breath hot against your ear, “thought about this every time you said my name—every fucking time—”

Your head falls back against the booth wall with a thunk.

You’re losing it.

She feels it—smiles a broken, wicked smile. “Already that close? Poor producer.” She makes a teasing cluck of the tongue, a soft caress to your cheek, then she slams down hard enough to shatter the bench. “Then give it to me,” she growls. “ Give me everything.”

You can’t not obey. 

Pressure builds and so does your pace. Driving into her with a fury you didn’t know you had in you. Karina’s moaning openly now, every last shred of composure thrown to the wind.

Pressure builds then detonates. 

Heat floods every nerve.

You break.

 She follows.

And it’s bliss.

Her cry is earth-shattering, torn from somewhere deep as she clamps down hard around you, milking you for everything you’ve got. Her thighs lock, her body seizes. She’s trembling, gasping, riding wave after wave like she doesn’t know how to stop.

Her nails rake your back, half for balance, half to brand you, and you let her. Let her take. Let her have you. Her breath stutters against your mouth as you kiss through the fallout—sloppy, greedy. A thank-you and a promise and a question all at once.

Aftershocks hit her in uneven jolts, and you revel in the way she twitches around you with each one. You’re still inside her. Still hard. Still pulsing. Still drowning in her.

KArina collapses forward, full-body flush against yours, forehead pressed to your collarbone. Her heartbeat drums against your ribs. You’re shaking. So is she.

For a long, breathless moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your combined panting, then, your lips colliding. 

You’re engrossed. And so is she. So much so that you both miss the sound of the booth door opening.

“And here I thought I came too early,” a voice says from the doorway.

You don’t look right away. You don’t have the mental bandwidth for anything beyond Karina’s skin and the twitch in your cock. 

And besides, you already know exactly what you’ll see.

Your head finally turns toward the door.

Hyeri’s grinning. “You two certainly wasted no time.”

“Hyeri,” you begin, less surprised, more irritated, “ what the fuck are you—”

“Save it,” she interrupts. “You’ll ruin the mood.”

“What fucking moo—”

In an instant Hyeri’s blouse is open again, revealing an absence of fabric over her tits.

You feel Karina tighten.

“Room for one more?” she asks with a sly grin.

You look at Karina.

Karina looks at you.

And Karina—God bless her, damn her, ruin you for life—grins. 

"Yeah," she says, voice high and sweet and so very, very gone. "Okay."

"You good with it, Producer-nim?" she teases.

You are not good.

You are very, very bad.

But Karina’s hips are still pressed against you, and Hyeri’s smile is so knowing, and your cock—traitorous, eager—twitches inside the girl already dripping down your thighs.

You’re fucked.

Yet you nod.

Reluctantly. Helplessly.

(Gratefully.)

Hyeri claps, wickedly pleased. “God, I love consent.”

Then she drops to her knees.

*

You’ve soaked in some legendary sights on the label’s dime.

Dawn over the Han River from sixty stories up, neon Tokyo streets glitter‑wet after midnight rain, Karina, sweat-slick, tits swinging and your name on her breath as she rides you into the Earth’s core.

But this view might just take the cake.

Which is ironic, because there’s no view at all.

Because Karina’s sitting on your face.

Full weight, full warmth, full heaven and hell combined.

Her meaty thighs clamp around your head, her cunt pressed flush against your mouth, slick and perfect and utterly suffocating. Her ass—round, shameless and the urban dictionary definition of fuck you—is covering everything else.

You couldn’t open your eyes even if you wanted to.

And you don’t want to.

Because the raw sensation—the taste of her dripping down your tongue, the way she grinds against your mouth with broken little whimpers—is worth more than any skyline on Earth.

You’re drowning in her.

And if that wasn’t enough?

Hyeri’s riding you at the same time.

Usually, you’d feel her braced against your chest, feel the needy, desperate grip of her hands as she takes everything you have and begs for more with every bounce.

But you suspect her hands are elsewhere: fondling Karina’s bare tits, holding her throat as they duel with their tongues. Either or works. 

Because God if that mental image isn’t Louvre material.

A lick to the clit softens Karina’s grip around your ears and you settle for sound instead.

Wet, filthy kisses sound somewhere above you. Giddy little gasps. The faint slap of a palm against skin. Karina moans into Hyeri’s mouth—or maybe it’s Hyeri moaning into hers—you can’t tell, you don’t care. 

“Fuck, you’re cute,” Hyeri purrs against her, the smacking of lips resuming instantly.

 You feel the words vibrate through Karina’s body, then feel her clench around your tongue.

“Sensitive too,” Hyeri adds. “You like it when I touch you here?” Karina gasps, the result of having her pussy licked and her tits caressed.

Karina tries to answer, but it comes out as a high-pitched whimper instead.

Hyeri laughs softly—not cruel, but giddy, drunk on the power she holds. 

 You hear the slick sound of their mouths meeting again. The sticky, obscene sound of a kiss that isn’t meant for cameras or fans or anything else where clean and polished is the expectation.

Just raw, messy and private.

Karina breaks away from it first, panting hard, lifting her hips just enough that a thin string of slick snaps between your mouth and her pussy.

You catch a glimpse of her when you blink up—face flushed, eyes glassy, lips and nipples swollen from Hyeri’s assault. 

You’d worship her if you could breathe.

But Hyeri’s hand is curling into Karina’s hair, tugging her up—gentle but insistent—and she moans like she’s been waiting for it.

"On your hands and knees, baby," Hyeri coos through another kiss, brushing the hair out of Karina’s sweaty face. "Be a good girl for us."

Karina whimpers, flushed and dazed, but obeys without hesitation, scrambling off your mouth and onto the bench, ass high, head low, presenting herself so shamelessly it’s enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

The second she’s steady, Hyeri slinks in front of her—legs spread, pussy slick and glistening, thighs trembling from earlier—and cups Karina’s flushed cheeks in her hands.

"You know what to do.”

Karina doesn’t hesitate.

She dives in, mouth open, tongue flat against Hyeri’s cunt, licking her like she’s starving for it. Like she needs it more than air.

Hyeri gasps, hips twitching, hand fisting tight in Karina’s hair.  She catches your eye over Karina’s bowed back, grinning like a cat who got the cream.

“Well?” Hyeri says to you, mid-moan. “You just gonna sit there and look pretty?”

You don’t need more encouragement.

You’re behind Karina in an instant, hands gripping her hips—tight, possessive—and line yourself up.

One push. Slow? Yes. Deep? All the fucking way.

Karina cries out into Hyeri’s pussy, body arching towards the flat of the bench. Hyeri laughs, breathlessly. Her hand strokes Karina’s cheek almost tenderly, but her words are anything but.

“Fuck, you’re loud,” she teases. "Who knew you were such a slutty girl?"

You thrust into Karina again, harder this time, savoring the ripple of her ass you do, the obscene wet sounds filling the booth as she tries—and fails—to keep up with both of you.

"He was like this with me, too," Hyeri purrs, hips rolling against Karina’s mouth in lazy, devastating circles. "First time he fucked me? Thought I was gonna cum at the first thrust.”

You’re turned on by the memory, driving yourself intoKarina harder.

Karina whines around Hyeri’s clit, her thighs shaking, her slick dripping down your cock every time you bottom out inside her.

Hyeri threads her fingers tighter in Karina’s hair, guiding her movements now, rocking her face exactly where she wants it.

“She’s a natural, isn’t she?” Hyeri croons, locking eyes with you again. “Makes the prettiest fucking sounds.”

You can’t do anything but nod, the tightness and sight stealing your breath.

Karina's arms tremble where she braces against Hyeri’s thighs. Her moans are constant now—muffled against Hyeri’s.

And you’re so close you can taste it.

Hyeri gasps, grinding down against Karina’s mouth with reckless, frantic need.

"You close?" she teases, voice shaky but still smug. "Gonna fill her up while she makes me cum?"

“Fuck yeah,” you manage to get out. 

Your hand finds its way to Karina’s clit: extra stimulation to make her tighten, to get her closer to her own release, to motivate her to suck Hyeri even harder.  

Your strategy works like a charm, and you’re graced with the sight of Hyeri’s head’s rolling back, a sharp cry escaping her as she cums all over Karina’s face.  “Fuuuuuuck me,” she exclaims, thighs clenching around Karina’s head, hands yanking her closer like she never wants her to stop.

Karina whimpers too, grinding her ass back against you in frantic, desperate little jerks, her own orgasm building with nowhere to go.

And then you snap.

You grab Karina’s hips, pull her flush against you, and empty yourself inside her with a strangled groan, spilling deep into her own trembling body.

Karina falls apart between you both—moaning and sobbing and soaking the bench with her release.

The three of you collapse together, sticky and shuddering and utterly spent.

And despite being suffocated and impaled at the same time, Karina perks up again. She’s still panting, still catching up on oxygen, but that doesn't stop her from asking:

“Now who’s ready for round two?”

*

The booth door swings open.

Hyeri’s hair is a disaster, Karina’s everything is either red, swollen, glistening or all three, and you’re pretty sure you’ve left fingerprints in places you’re contractually forbidden to even think about.

 (And probably teeth marks, if Hyeri’s wincing is anything to go by.)

And yet, somehow, you’re all laughing.

Half-dressed, fully wrecked, riding the tail-end high of the worst—and best—decision you’ve made in years, but still: laughing. 

Karina tugs the hem of her hoodie down like it might erase the obvious evidence of a threesome. Meanwhile, Hyeri buttons maybe one button of her blouse and calls it a day and you’re wiping sweat off your forehead with the sleeve of your shirt when you notice it.

The recording light is still on.

The waveform’s still rolling.

The track: armed. The booth: live.

You lunge for the keyboard. 

Again.

Stop recording.

There are fourteen peaks this time.

You know exactly what they are before Karina even asks, hobbling over as she pulls her sports bra back over her tits.

“What are those?” she asks, peering at the screen with curious eyes.

Hyeri’s already smiling, smugness just emanating from her. “Our orgasms,” she says proudly, like they’re her children.

“Wait, it was recording? The whole time?”

“Courtesy of me,” Hyeri says, with an even bigger smile now. “Turned it on while you two were getting busy. “

“Surprised you’re smart enough to know how,” you tease. And she hits you right back, literally.

“Ow!”

“Gonna fap to this one too, are ya?” she cackles.

“He’s gonna what?” Karina squeaks, slightly turned on.

You barely make it three seconds into the collective laughter before Hyeri steamrolls right through it.

“That’s it!” she exclaims, snapping her fingers. “This could totally work!”

"Work?" you echo. "What do you—?"

“We use this,” she begins with manic glee, dragging the track into the main sequence, “in the final mix.”

Karina’s eyes light up. "Wait, that’s genius!”

You’re frozen. Horrified. Horny.

“We could layer it in,” Karina continues. “Just subtle. Like an Easter egg.”

“A very hot Easter egg,” Hyeri adds, giving you a wicked eyebrow waggle.

You can barely think up a response. Between the countless hours today you’ve spent having sex, agonising about losing your job, and simply dealing with the pair of women before you, the amount of fucks you can currently give is strewn remarkably thin. 

Not thin enough, though.

“This,” you say, pointing to the screen,“is a horrible idea.”

It’s Hyeri’s turn for her eye’s to light up. 

“Hear that Karina?” She steps closer to you, hand going to your exposed cock. “Sounds like he needs some convincing.” 

“Mm,” Karina hums in agreement, fingers making their way up your chest. “Definitely does.” 

You groan, running a hand down your face.

You’ve already lost.

 “...We’ll put it in the song.”

“Yay!” they both squeal at once, pressing quick, sticky kisses to either side of your cheeks.

You sigh, sitting back at the console, exhaustion setting into your bones.

But you’re already thinking about it.

You’re thinking about how those breathy, desperate little sounds could melt into the track.

How no one would ever know except the three of you.

How every time the song plays, it’ll remind you of the heavenly feeling of Karina’s pussy on your tongue and Hyeri’s cunt on your cock.

You sigh.

You’re weak.

But with the two of them broaching yet another round, who could possibly blame you?

Your hand finds the mouse.

Export > Documents > Private > Vocals — The Final Mix.wav