for all the right reasons ((g)i-dle miyeon)

(smut, former teacher/student, public sex, facefucking, breeding kink, brief mention of blood, age gap [both consenting adults though obviously], fluff? lmfao there are feelings involved, 12k words)

Oh, it’s probably morally reprehensible, or whatever. She’s too young. She’s your student —or she was, once, and that should be enough for you to never, ever lay a hand on her, for you to file away those Bambi eyes and all that blonde hair and every soft, delicate curve of her body in a folder labeled one-way ticket to hell —that’s what it should be, but-

“You want me,” Miyeon says, the first day you two ever start. She’s smiling like the princess everyone thinks she is. “I think you’re gonna, like, die if you don’t touch me.”

She’s evil for saying it, but you’re evil, too, because she just happens to be right.

It’s a fluke, or something of the sort. Fate hates you, or some other bullshit. You’re in a bar on a weekday, and you’re not looking for company —just a little reprieve. You’re a high school language teacher and you write, sometimes. You’re here for some inspiration.

It doesn’t take long at all for you to find it: twenty minutes, thirty. You’re sitting at the bar, nursing a drink, and like something choreographed from a movie scene, she walks right in.

You don’t realize who she is at first, obviously. You hear the footfalls of heels, see the swing of long hair —you’re not about to dwell on it, but she sits down right next to you, and —yep, you’re dwelling. You hear the sweet voice as she talks to the bartender, see the dainty, graceful way she moves. She’ll be your muse for the night, you decide. You tilt your head, and you drink her in instead of your whiskey.

See, she’s perfect, from the jump; that’s where it all goes wrong. She’s the kind of girl people write songs about —sonnets, scriptures —and it’s all downhill from there.

Your gaze starts at her shoes first, and that’s the first mistake —they’re ridiculous, black and patterned with butterflies, a thick, platform heel; oh, it’s a fairy, a manic pixie dream girl come to life, you can work with that —and you find the second mistake as your eyes trail up: white thigh-high stockings, lace at the top, delicate and pretty against slender, creamy thighs —a fairy and a wet dream walking, that’s a killer combination. The third’s as you reach the blue dress, patterned with white flowers: the tiny waist to go with it, the halter neckline and the sharp collarbone, and all this silky, wavy ash-blonde hair, and then-

That fourth mistake, the nail in the coffin. You look at her face and your voice gets promptly stuck in your throat.

Cho Miyeon’s been watching you watch her, and she must see the exact moment you recognize who she is, what you’ve done, because when you meet her eyes, horrified, she’s smiling.

“Oh, hey,” she says, all too casual.

“Hi,” you say, and she crosses one leg over the other in those fucking thigh-highs. You don’t look. You can’t. “Miyeon. Hi.”

Miyeon tilts her head, and that curtain of blonde hair tumbles with her —she’s blonde now, and it’s such a good look on her, and you shouldn’t be noticing how good she looks —and says, “You remember me.”

She doesn’t seem like she’s really surprised. “Of course,” you say, and immediately realize how it sounds. “I mean —it wasn’t that long ago, was it? And you were always an excellent student. A —a real joy to have in class. You know.”

You’re just saying it because you don’t know what else to say —but it’s not like it’s untrue. Every memory you have of Cho Miyeon in your class is her sitting off to the right, by the window, dark-haired and with this air of benevolent elegance, something of teenage royalty. All her classmates called her a princess —you remember that. An inside joke; here’s Princess Miyeon, acing the test again, asking all the right questions, helping everyone with their assignments. It was fitting enough for you to let it slide.

Now here she is, in front of you, suiting the title more than ever. She’s so beautiful —and that’s where you stop yourself, because —really, it hasn’t been that long since she was that brunette girl in your classroom. Less than five years, certainly. Or more? Fuck, time, teaching; it all gets away from you, and she’s wearing those stockings-

Miyeon’s smile slants, turns to something more mischievous.

“I know,” she says, and it sort of feels like she’s making fun of you. Well, she’d have the right. You sound like an idiot. Just because you were her language teacher doesn’t mean you’re anywhere near eloquent. “Thanks. For the record, you were always my favorite teacher, sir.”

There’s a spin she puts on the last word —or maybe you’re imagining it. She blinks at you, sweet-faced, all doe-eyed innocence. You’re imagining it. You have to be.

“Oh,” you say, and your voice comes out odd, thick. “Well, you don’t have to call me sir anymore. It’s not like I’m still your teacher.”

“Right,” says Miyeon, eyes twinkling. “But you still are a teacher, aren’t you?”

You stare, puzzled, still thrown by her very presence. “What?”

She asks again, patiently, and you give her the answer —yes —and then out of nowhere she’s managed to coax you deeper into conversation —do you like it, what’s the best part, what’s the worst, what else are you up to —and it’s a foregone conclusion. Someone gets her a drink and she gets chattier when she’s tipsy, still sweet and friendly and gorgeous, cheeks flushing in the dim light. She talks about herself, a little —she’s in college, she’s thinking of taking a trip, she’s single. You don’t remember how you landed on that last one but once it’s out there it’s basically all over, from there.

It definitely crosses a line, between former teacher and student. It’s somewhere in there. She nudges your arm when you make her laugh, then grips it loosely when you add something that makes her laugh harder. Her hair falls in her face and you don’t push it back for her but she looks at you like she knows you want to. You forget things like she’s so much younger than you and you aren’t allowed to stare at her thighs in her stockings and wonder if her underwear matches.

She’s a perfect conversationalist like she might’ve been trained in the art form; that’s how she gets you, reels you in. She’s clever without being cutting, witty without being condescending. Princess, indeed —it’s the kindness, it’s the bright eyes and the lace. No —not the lace. You should really stop thinking about the lace-

“Hey,” Miyeon murmurs. Neither of you are fully drunk, but you’re playing into it, pretending like that’s the reason you’re crossing boundaries. Miyeon’s playing with the cuff of your sleeve. One of her ridiculous boots is balanced on the rung of your stool, brushing your ankle. “We should go to the bathroom, or something.”

She flicks her eyes up at you through her lashes, and there’s a curl to her mouth.

“Miyeon,” you say, acting like the room didn’t just get ten degrees hotter, your pants ten times more uncomfortable.

“You were wrong, before.” She leans in close, and you inhale her perfume —something sugary, intoxicating. Her lips are wet from where she’s been biting them. These are things you aren’t supposed to notice, but rules and regulations are long gone by now. “It’s been forever since you were my teacher.”

“Watch it,” you warn her, kind of sharply.

It’s a mistake, being firm with her —her eyebrows lift with clear interest. “Yes, sir,” she says, somehow self-satisfied, and leans back; it’s not far enough, and you can still smell her, can still see the pleased glint hidden in her irises.

“Miyeon.” Your throat dries up.

“Oh, come on,” she says mildly, and brushes her hands over the lace decorating her thighs. “We’re both adults now. You’re not even that much older than me. Ten years at most. Less than that, probably.” You’re staring at her stockings again and she notices. “Plus,” she continues, humor lilting her tone, “You want me.”

You can’t take her eyes off her thighs, can’t stop thinking about shoving up her dress and bending her right over the bar, can’t stop fantasizing about the faces she’d make as you fuck her, the noises, the slick sounds of her pussy. You can’t admit it, because it’d be fucked up. You can’t deny it, because you want her too bad to lie. You don’t know how you got here so fast, and-

Miyeon’s grinning like she can read your mind, and she’s close again, fingers skimming down your shirt.

“I think you’re gonna, like, die if you don’t touch me,” she says, conversationally.

She’s got it right on the money. You can’t say anything, and all of a sudden both of your hands have found the curve of her waist, and she’s out of her seat, standing between your legs. She’s an angel you’d give your whole life to worship, her blonde hair, her eyes, her body —she’s a dream, and she’s leaning in further, breath hot as she whispers in your ear.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Miyeon says, lowly, and the airiness in her voice goes straight to your dick. “The feeling’s very mutual.” You can almost hear the smirk in her words, something fanged and predatory. You might have to rethink her divinity. “You wouldn’t fucking believe how wet I am right now.”

Oh, that’s it. There are no angels in the room, here —the devil’s clever like that, hiding itself in pretty blonde princesses. You’d die to worship her, die to sin for her: it’s all the same.

“I’m right with you,” Miyeon says, steeped in suggestion, in implication —on her inflection alone you can hear how she’d sound moaning around your cock. “I wanted you to fuck me the second I saw you. If you don’t get that dick inside of me right now I think I’m gonna drop dead.”

It’s a threat, it’s a promise, it’s theatrics —and how could anyone refuse her, when she puts it like that?

“Well,” you say, and you stand, struck and burning. You’re giving in. You’re a man, you’re weak; you’re no match for the devil in a dress like that. “I’d hate for you to die so young.”

You’re playing into it, and it’s still fucked up. You’re ten years older than her, or something like that. She’s calling you sir and you’re seconds away from calling her a nickname you shouldn’t. You wanna pull her onto your lap, onto your cock, tangle your hands in her hair, get her screaming and squirting, make her yours and yours alone-

“Well,” says Miyeon, mimicking you. “Then we agree.”

She’s all of your filthiest fantasies wrapped up in one. You’re hopeless. That’s sort of how the story starts.

Miyeon drags you to the bathroom, and puts her money where her mouth is. Well, so to speak.

Actually, you’re the one using your mouth —you lock yourselves in a stall and a beat later you’re sunk to your knees, pressing Miyeon against the door. Those fucking thigh-highs, driving you insane —you grip her thighs hard, force them apart, sink your teeth into the skin right above the lace. You’ll leave bruises and you already know it. You’ll leave more.

“Fuck,” Miyeon whines, and it’s like all her bravado has waned, all at once. You shove her dress up around her waist, and you had it dead-on: her panties are white and lacy like her thigh-highs, and you can’t believe she wears shit like this casually, can’t fathom how she walks out of the house without men throwing themselves at her feet. “Fuck, fuck-“

“Dirty mouth, huh?” you mutter, and sneak a glance up at her face. Oh, that’s a vision —the way all her delicate, angelic features contort as you drag a finger across the crotch of her panties, find her so wet she’s soaking through the fabric. She’s sensitive. It’s irresistible. “Shit,” you say, and you almost laugh, but you’re too worked up to get it out. “You weren’t lying —you’re soaked, baby.”

“Obviously,” bites out Miyeon, but the frustration both drains and builds to a point as you hook your fingers in the side of her panties and pull them down around her knees. “Oh —please, please, touch me-“

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. “Look at that,” you say, and slip your thumb across her clit —she’s so turned on that just the graze sends her shaky, knees wobbling. One of your hands slides to her hip, steadying her. “You’ve got such a pretty pussy, Miyeon, you know that?”

It’s the praise, it’s like it kills her: Miyeon makes a high, keening noise that can’t classify as a response, and her cheeks are so red. You’ve barely touched her and she’s debauched, falling apart —“You’re so needy,” you add, enjoying the way she blushes hot. “You want me to take care of you, huh? That’s all you wanted?”

“Yes, please,” she pants, and when you slip a finger inside of her she moans so loud you’d be surprised if you two got out of this unnoticed. “Please, I just want more, I need more-“

“Be patient, princess,” you murmur, and she stills completely.

Fuck. Fuck. Well, it’s one hell of a slip-up.

Immediately you stop your finger inside of her, but then you feel her cunt clench, and she’s so, so wet —and just like that, you know.

“Miyeon,” you say, and your voice comes out gravelly.

“No,” she says, breathy, petulant. You can’t come back from this —that’s where you’re at. Your students used to call her this in your classroom. It’s sort of fucked up. It’s so fucking hot. She bucks her hips, and you’re finger-fucking her again, and she whimpers, ducking her head.

“Princess,” you start, and the cry she makes is like music, like gospel.

“Yes,” she chokes out, and you can’t believe this was the same girl leveling you with a stalemate back at the bar, challenging you toe-to-toe, weapons locked and loaded —can’t believe she’s now leaking all over your fingers, whining and desperate, begging please, please, please. Maybe you should’ve known. The brattiest girls love to get the most submissive. “Please —I need more, I need your cock —please, sir, I’ll be really good, my pussy will be so good for you, I swear-“

It’s the sir that gets you, but also everything before and after. You haven’t asked her to and she’s already begging; it’s adorable, it’s got you so hard your self-control’s rapidly slipping out of your hands.

“Alright, alright.” You’re unable to deny her anything when she talks like that, looks at you with those eyes. You rise, slowly —and then before you turn her around, grant her every wish, you take her gorgeous face in both hands and ask, “You’ll be good? You promise?”

You’re teasing her, but she’s so far gone she doesn’t even seem to notice. Miyeon nods rapidly, opens her mouth to say something —it’s not an invitation you’re about to pass up; you have to kiss her —so you do.

There’s something sweet about it, something filthy —you’ve never had a kiss so consuming and hot and wet, not during any fuck, any hook-up —and Miyeon makes small, whining sounds as you lick into her mouth, and you’ve got her cheeks in your hands, gripping firm as you kiss her. She’s tiny against you, her body all slender and slight and soft, and maybe that’s what makes it so hot; you have her like putty in your hands, like you could mold her, break her. Like you could do anything at all to her —to her mouth, her hair, her throat, her tits, her hips, thighs, cunt, ass —and she’d just let you. You kiss her and it’s like she lets you own her.

“Good girl,” you say into her mouth, and you know you do by the way she melts. “So good. I’m gonna fuck your little pussy now, okay? I’m gonna give you what you want, baby. You’ve been so patient, princess.” It’s a lie —you’ve never seen anyone so desperate —but when you flip her around and get to work on your zipper, you doubt she’ll bother with technicalities.

You slide your dick inside of her, and she collapses.

Her pussy is like heaven, and it’s the only word for it —it’s tight, but she’s so wet that you slide in like her cunt was made for you, made to form-fit your cock —maybe it was some twisted hand of fate after all, that led you here. Maybe you were always going to end up fucking her in a filthy club bathroom, calling her princess, wrapping your hand around her neck —maybe even since the first time she walked into your classroom, this was the inevitability, the only way it could ever go.

It’s a thought that’s pretty and fucked up in the same instant. Well, that’s Miyeon —well, you think, at least it fits.

She looks like an angel and she submits like one, too: knees buckling, leaning into you like she wants you to eat her alive, sink straight into her skin. You’ve got one hand on her hip and the other carding through her silky blonde hair; where she ends, where you begin —ah, it’s all the same. It’s corruption, it’s damnation —this girl never could’ve been the devil, not with this perfect pussy, not with her moans ringing out like music —and you get the feeling you’re ruining her, wrecking her. She turns her head halfway and there are tears in her gorgeous eyes, decorating her lashes. She’s never been quite so stunning.

“Fuck-“ All Miyeon’s words are slurring, loosening around the edges —you tug on her hair and if you weren’t holding her up, around your cock, around your fist, you know she’d fall right to the ground. “Thank you, sir —fuck —your cock feels so good, thank you, thank you —my pussy really needed it-“ She’s babbling, drooling, her tears smudging her eyeliner, her mascara. Her eyes squeeze shut and she clutches at the door, hands pressed flat, and lets you sheath your dick inside of her, again and again, rougher than you should be, so raw it should be criminal —her pussy is holy, or you’ve got Satan wrapped around your cock. Duality of woman; Miyeon’s got many talents and getting fucked into oblivion must top the list.

She cums; she’s too incoherent to warn you, but you feel it. You yank her hair and keep going. She’s fully crying now, pleas slipping from her mouth like wine, like water, like the way her cunt’s leaking all over you like a faucet, and you bury yourself inside of her, turn up the tap —she cums again, again-

“You like me ruining your pussy, huh?” you growl right at her ear, biting at her neck. It’s animalistic, it’s leaving your mark —well, one of them, at least. There’s her thighs, there’s how it’s not likely she’ll even be able to walk after this —okay, you’re leaving several. “Slutty little princess. You’d take whatever I’d give you —you’d let me drag you out there and fuck you in front of everybody, wouldn’t you?”

Miyeon loves the idea so much it’s like she’d give up religion entirely; you can tell by the way her back arches, by the way her whines get even less comprehensible, her perfect face crumpling in pleasure. It’s a plan for another day.

“You want everyone to know,” you hiss, “that you’re just a perfect little cocksleeve for me. I know, baby. I know.”

Oh, a face like that —you should be worshipping her, should be soft and gentle, wary of bruises and breaking —and you’re sure every other guy treats her like a goddess, something to revere and please.

For what it’s worth, you do, too —it’s just that you’re pleasing her by fucking her so hard she’s a sloppy, sobbing mess, pleading yes, sir —more, harder, fuck, fuck —you’re paying her reverence by leaning in close and saying in her ear-

“I’m gonna cum inside you, princess.” It’s not a question, not a request. Miyeon’s already nodding her head wildly, tears streaming down her cheeks —she’ll give you an answer anyway. Facets of royalty; she knows her manners, her lessons. “I’m gonna fill up that tight cunt, make that pussy cream —tell me how much you want it, baby.”

Your voice comes out through gritted teeth; the demands release harsher than the way you’re fucking her, and you think you might be tearing her pussy up, might be destroying it. She’s crying and blubbering and moaning, tripping over that tongue in her mouth trying to respond —your thumb’s fast on her clit and it’s double the stimulation, and it’s pushing her over the edge again —she puts so much effort into being good, and-

“I need it.” Miyeon reaches a hand behind herself, scrabbling blindly for your back, your ass, like she actually thinks you’ll pull out if she doesn’t beg hard enough. You’ve never seen someone so openly needy with such little coaxing —oh, your little princess. No one’s ever been able to satisfy her. “Sir, please —I need your cum inside me, I need to feel it, I need to be filled up, need you to breed me —I was really good, I deserve it-“

Her words break off, shatter on the floor; you think she cums again but you can’t be sure. It’s the words breed me that do it —that’s another thing to revisit, to play into and taunt her with, but she’s right, too: she’s been so, so good. You’ve never had a better pussy, never had something more perfect enveloping your cock —she’s sopping wet, so much you can hear it every time you thrust into her, can hear how her cunt gushes as you rail her. She’s engulfed every one of your senses —the sound of her, the smell of her, the feel of her, all silky skin and hair and a vice grip on your dick —it’s an overload, it’s overwhelming-

You bury yourself inside of her, right to the hilt, and you cum.

It’s a flash flood, wave after wave —you cum, and then a split second later it’s as if Miyeon turns to liquid herself, all her muscles giving out —and you grab her firmly around the waist, let her sink to the floor. It’s probably disgusting, it’s no place for an angel like her —but there’s nothing else to do. She spills herself into your lap, breathing hard into your shoulder, trembling like an earthquake’s just swept through her, wrecked all her bones and nerve endings like it’d decimate a city.

“Princess,” you whisper, and move her off of your cock, gently. You feel just as exhausted as she looks —you can’t remember the last time you came that hard.

She doesn’t say anything, and just clutches at you tighter, pressing herself to your chest. One of your hands skates to her back, rubbing smooth circles.

“Miyeon,” you murmur, and she hides her face in your neck. “You okay?”

“Shh,” she says, lips against your skin. “Yes. Perfect. Full. I —give me —a minute.”

You get the message: she’s too well-fucked to move, to speak, to stand. “Alright, baby. Take your time.”

She hums right under your ear, tired and pleased and spent, and you cradle her slight frame in your arms, mindful of oversensitivity. You don’t know how many times she came —you’ve never seen a girl do that before, snap and start cumming over and over, clenching tight like she couldn’t stop. You’ll ask, you will. But, first-

You don’t know exactly how long it is, with Miyeon attached to you like this, the smell of sex and the sugary-sweetness of her blonde hair drenching the air: could’ve been weeks, you think, half-delirious. Eons. The world could’ve ended and you wouldn’t have changed a thing: the girl in your lap’s gotta be an angel, like you said. She has connections with a higher power. She’d handle it.

(That, or she’s got the devil on the other line, willing to bow down and serve her. Well, you’d understand. You doubt any deity could ever resist her.)

Eventually, Miyeon extricates herself from your body, slumping back against the door of the bathroom stall. She pulls her knees up, parts them —her eyes are shut, but you can see her defiled pussy, lips swollen, thick white cum drooling from her slit to the floor.

“Fuck,” you exhale without thinking, and see a small smile flicker at Miyeon’s mouth.

“Hey,” she says, and parts her legs wider. More of your semen leaks out of her. “Can you-“ Her words are still shaky, unsteady, shot through with fuck-drunk slurring. “Give me it. Your cum.”

You cock an eyebrow at her, even though her eyes are still firmly shut, sleepy. “I think I already did that, princess.”

She pouts at you, peeks open one brown Bambi eye. “No,” she says, inching towards a whine, and taps her full bottom lip. “I wanna taste it.”

Oh, she’s gonna be the death of you —but you kind of figured that out, already.

“Cumslut,” you say, and she smiles prettily, and you’d never be able to deny her a damn thing.

You take two fingers and ease them just inside her pink, puffy cunt, scooping out your own cum. Miyeon hisses air out through her teeth, on edge and tender, at every part of her, but scoots closer anyway; parts her lips, sticks her tongue out like some rabid animal, desperately, greedily in heat.

“Christ,” you mutter, and you take her chin in one hand, and feed her your cum with the other.

The moment your fingers slip past her mouth it’s like she’s been starving all day: her slick little tongue laves over your skin, curling hot and wet as she licks and sucks your cum off your fingers —and there’s no way she’s not tasting herself, it’s straight out of her pussy —and she’s blushing again, aware of her own wantonness but powerless to stop herself. Still, Miyeon makes no apologies, no take-backs for her desperation. She eats your cum off of you, swallows it down so easily.

Her white panties are tangled around her ankles, and you pull her feet into your lap, beginning to work the lacy underwear from around her ridiculous shoes. “Good?” you ask, amused, horny —but you’re past that. You’ll let her wind down.

“I am kind of a cumslut,” Miyeon says dreamily, head lolling. She rubs her thighs together, dress still shucked up around her hips. “I love your cum inside of me, sir. Feels —feels really good. All warm and-“ She’s speaking in half-sentences, still thoroughly fucked out. “Nice. And perfect.” She passes the heel of her hand over her clit and winces, raw, sore, satisfied. “Like… fuck.”

“Fuck indeed,” you say, pleased at your handiwork. You finally wrestle the panties from the platform heels of her boots, stuff them in your back pocket. At first you think she doesn’t notice, but she peers up at you with those dark, irresistible eyes, and you realize she’s allowing it.

Ah, well. You’re all playing games, in the end. “Hey,” you say, switching tone to soft, wiping at her face with your knuckle. Her makeup’s a lost cause, her eyeliner smeared and lipstick a wreck from where you kissed the life out of her, from where she slobbered around your fingers, tasting your cum —her hair’s long gone, too, a disaster thanks to your tugging and pulling. She looks exactly like everything you’ve been doing to her. “You’re okay, right?”

Miyeon blinks, reaching up almost absentmindedly to place her hand on your arm, thumbing your wrist. So —maybe it’s not quite the game you thought it was. “What do you mean?” she asks, clarity returning with each flick of her fluttering lashes.

“You…” You swipe underneath her eyes. “You were crying. Like, really, really crying.”

Miyeon tilts her head, like she’s confused —but then a smile plays at the corners of her mouth, finding ground and spreading.

“Oh,” she says, startled, entertained. “You’re worried about me.”

She’s teasing you. She’s so adorable that you kind of allow it. “Old habits,” you say. “I mean —you were my student. It was in the job description.”

It’s a filthy point, and her nose scrunches, delighted. Miyeon scoots closer to you until her knees bump yours, and you’re still stroking your fingers across her high cheekbones.

“Hey,” she says, more serious. “I’m fine, I’m amazing. It’s sweet of you to worry. It’s just, like-“ You slip a hand into her hair and it’s gentle this time, caring; her chin tips, eyes closing slowly, like she’s a puppy and you’re hitting the exact right spot. “It was so intense —in the best way, obviously —and it was like… you were fucking my pussy, but I was feeling it everywhere.” Her palm drifts to her heart, rounds to a fist. She’s still smiling, nearing rueful, like she’s well aware of her own dramatics. “It was like —I think I’m in love with your cock, or something.”

“You’re cute,” you say, helpless.

“I know,” she says, and she’s looking at you again with those wide, doe-like eyes. “I think my pussy was made for you.”

It’s a dirty sentiment —and it’s one you agree with wholeheartedly, thinking of the impossibly tight, wet heat of her cunt, drinking you in, the perfect fit, the way she stretched and swore and took it —but there’s something in the sweetness in her eyes that makes you think of nuance, of hidden implications. You’ll get there, one day. You’ve barely begun.

“So,” you say, snapping the tension that’s gotten too affectionate for the moment. “You want me to breed you, huh.”

Miyeon gapes at you, then flushes pink, shifts forward so she’s almost in your lap again. “Shut up,” she says, tracing your jaw with a manicured nail. “I don’t —I don’t even know where that came from. I’m on birth control. And I’d fucking kill you if you actually got me pregnant. I just —I think the idea is hot, that’s all.”

“Alright.” You lift her hips, smoothing down her dress and placing her in your lap all in one motion. You’ve zipped up your pants, tucked away your cock —it’s like pillowtalk but you know you’ll have to wrap it up. “Just trying to see where I’m at, with you.” You settle a hand around her tiny waist, skimming her ribs. “You like being called princess, you like calling me sir, like pretending to be bred but would hate the real thing-“

“Right,” says Miyeon, suddenly sort of sleepy again, nudging her face into the crook of your neck.

“You’re a cumslut.” The words are nasty but the way you’re saying them, smoothing a hand over her hair —it’s all fondness, all feeling. Oh, you really dug yourself a hole here with this one. There’s no coming back from it. “And your pussy is incredible. And you sob like you’re dying when you get fucked good enough.”

“Yep.”

“Am I missing anything?”

Miyeon doesn’t emerge from your neck, just holds out her hand, curls it in a grabbing motion. “Phone,” she says, muffled by your collarbone.

You fish it out of your pocket, charmed. Miyeon adjusts herself in your lap, and you let your hand drop to her hip, balancing her; it’s worse, it’s all falling into place like puzzle pieces. You kiss her hair and she begins to enter her number into your phone. There’s something strangely domestic about it, and it’s such an awful idea, to think it —more damning than the sex, than the cum still dripping out of Miyeon’s pussy. It’s sweet. It’s comfortable. That’s the first —the second —the tenth problem, at least.

“There,” says Miyeon, and hands your phone back to you. “I gave you my number and texted myself.” Her eyes glitter as she tucks her knees up to your chest. “Now I’ve got your number. That means you can’t accidentally grow a guilty conscience and forget about me.”

“Thanks.” You can’t stop looking at her —she’s so gorgeous, so wrecked, your pristine little princess fucked and filled and wrapped up in your arms. “And there’s no way in hell I’d ever forget about you.”

You’re just bouncing back her own words at her, theoretically, but Miyeon beams like she knows you mean more than that. Hey, you did say she was always your best student: she knows how to read between the lines.

You’ve got a wet spot on your pants and Miyeon’s wobbling on unsteady legs, so badly that you basically have to hold her up around the waist —but your pants are black anyway, and you’ve cleaned most of the ruined makeup off of her face. There are efforts made to be presentable. Miyeon tilts her cheek into your shoulder and won’t make eye contact with anyone. The bar’s busy. You pretend not to notice, tug her closer. You grin at the bartender, who raises his eyebrows like he’s impressed —well, he should be.

It’s cold outside —you think Miyeon will freeze in her tiny dress, so you keep your arms around her, and kiss the top of her head. Miyeon smiles at you, all teeth, all tenderness. Her eyes are warm, radiant, softening every edge of the night; she stands on her tiptoes, slots her mouth to yours.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” you murmur, fingertips dancing down the curve of her back.

“Probably,” agrees Miyeon, and lets her nose brush yours. “Take me home.”

You do. She doesn’t let you into her apartment —my roommate’s a whore who will try to jump your bones, she tells you matter-of-factly, and doesn’t elaborate, so you let that one go —but you walk her to the door —you’re a gentleman —and then you pin her up against it and slip your hand up her dress, get your fingers on her clit, inside her, cover her mouth as she cums —okay, so maybe you’re not.

“I’m keeping your panties, princess,” you say, after. It’s a fair trade.

Miyeon’s cheeks are flushed pink, and you’ve never found the phrase post-orgasm glow quite so apt. “Okay,” she says, voice softer than her skin as you rub between her shoulder blades, tangling her blonde hair.

You laugh out loud. “There’s no way you’re being shy right now,” you say. “I just fucked you in public-“ You gesture out at the open night, at the occasionally passing cars—“for the second time in an hour.” Your cum from earlier is now dripping down her thighs, too, but that one’s almost too obvious to call attention to.

“A bathroom stall is not public.”

“It was a public bathroom, Miyeon. It’s in the name.”

“You’re lecturing me on semantics?” Miyeon asks, eyes narrowing, a playful slant to her lips. “What are you, my teacher?”

Oh, she loves this —and at this point, you’re too far gone to pretend you don’t kind of love it too. “Shut up,” you say, forgoing maturity, and kiss her one more time, because you have to.

It’s all such a disaster, and you already know this: because it’s too casual, too comfortable, too easy —to kiss her like you’ve got a claim to her, to cum inside her pussy like you own it. You think of framing her fluttering eyelashes and sated, tiny smile as you pull back, think of her in your bed, on your kitchen counter with her legs spread, in the passenger seat of your car with her hand wrapped around your cock. She’s got all the dirtiest parts of your imagination on lock with that face alone. It couldn’t be worse.

“I’ll see you later,” you say, suddenly breathless.

“See you,” Miyeon says, grinning at you —and you know right then that you’ll never be able to leave this alone.

You’re right. It’s a whirlwind. That same weekend, you call her, give her your address, ask her to come over —you accidentally end up on the phone for two hours before she even leaves her apartment, and nothing in the conversation ends up being about sex. You tell her about a new story you’re starting. She tells you about a class she’s taking that she hates, about a gig her friend Yuqi’s band is doing. It’s so easy to get caught up in conversation with her, to tell her about every thought that pops into your head, to listen as she tells you hers —there’s that word again. Easy. It’s bad.

Eventually, Miyeon says, “Oh, I was supposed to come over to fuck you, wasn’t I?”

It’s cute, it’s adorable, even when it shouldn’t be. “You forgot?” you ask, teasing. “I thought all this talk was just foreplay.”

“Yeah, I’m, like, dripping. Talking about how Yuqi’s gonna have to find a replacement for her notoriously flaky keyboardist really got me going.”

You never expect Miyeon to get sarcastic, to get snarky and dry, but it’s always so charming when she does. Even more charming when every time, without fail, she always follows it up with-

“Sorry.” Miyeon breathes out on a giggle, bordering bashful. She can rarely be sassy without apologizing for it immediately after. Oh, it’s her pedigree, it’s the nature of a monarch, all her humility, her politeness —she can never keep a bit running for long.

“You should be,” you say. “Get over here, princess.”

A smile seeps into her voice. “Yes, sir.”

“Oh, my god.” There’s a loud, feminine voice on Miyeon’s end, somewhere in the background, crowing with open delight. “Cho Miyeon, are you having phone sex right now?”

“Nicha,” Miyeon says sharply, clearly scandalized.

“Oh my god.” The word’s a switch flipped: now the voice sounds equally scandalized. “You’re bringing out my government name? Is it that serious?”

Apparently, it is. “Ignore her,” Miyeon says, to you this time. “See you in fifteen minutes.”

You can’t back down from the opportunity to provoke her, especially when you’ve never quite seen her on edge, not the way she sounds right now. Whoever this Nicha person is —she knows exactly how to push Miyeon’s buttons. Well, you’ll take a page out of her book.

“Hey,” you say, grinning, “speaking of phone sex —you know, I wouldn’t be opposed-“

“Ugh!” You can practically hear Miyeon’s flustered expression through the phone, can see the pretty, flattering way she’d blush and pout and slump her shoulders. “You’re —you’re fucking impossible. Bye. Bye!”

“See you in fifteen minutes,” you echo, and laugh out loud when she huffs one more time, and hangs up the phone.

Look, your apartment’s nothing special —you’re on a teacher’s salary, for fuck’s sake. It’s serviceable, bland. You’ve got some plants, you’ve got well-kept bookshelves, you keep it clean and uncluttered. You’ve got some recess lighting and a vintage sofa. Needless to say, your apartment’s never seen a lot of luxury. The walls, the furniture, the floors —they’re patently unused to pretty things. You don’t have the means, or the motive. It’s just you. There’s no one to impress.

Okay —until now, at least, because you’ve got-

“Oh, look at my girl.”

You’ve got your fists wrapped in blonde hair, got wet, vulgar gurgling sounds bouncing floor-to-ceiling, got the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen on her knees in front of you with your cock shoved down her throat. It’s all so new. If these walls could talk —but they can’t, so she’s all yours. You’ll live with it.

“You’re so good for me, princess. You love choking on that fucking cock, huh?”

You can’t believe Miyeon’s face: her fine eyebrows upturned, the tears streaking down her face, running dark with eyeliner, mascara —the way she’s slobbering around your cock, drooling. The way she tilts her chin back, breathes through her nose, relaxes her throat; the way she lets you grab her head and fuck her face like you’ve got the right to.

(Well, you do. She’s yours. She sure as hell feels it with your cock knocking right into her gag reflex.)

“You’re mine,” you say, and it’s so soon, so possessive. Miyeon, on her knees in front of you, a vision when she’s being fucked out and used. “This throat belongs to me, baby. I’m gonna fuck it whenever I want, okay?” You pause, give a particularly violent thrust, bite back a moan. “Don’t pretend like you don’t fucking love it.”

Miyeon’s not pretending at all, actually; she’s too far gone for that. Her top is already tugged up, her tits heaving with each wet, strangled breath, with each time you grab her skull and bury yourself into her throat —and then there’s the fact that her knees are parted, her underwear long gone, her own fingers deep inside her pussy.

No point in any pretense. It’s all out there on the table —oh, that’s an idea, bending her over every flat surface of your house; every piece of furniture can see this new, pretty thing you own —and she’s got nothing to hide. She’s so turned on just from letting you use her like your own personal fuckdoll. There’s no coming back from this, either.

It’s those Bambi eyes, wide and watery. She’s staring rapturously at you like she’d do anything for you —and only Cho Miyeon can turn a blowjob —well, a full facefuck, really —into something holy. She’s the one on her knees, sure, but there’s no other way to put it: she lets you ram your dick down her throat and you swear you’re seeing Jesus.

She’s got this expert mouth, the way she knows all the right things to do to take a cock like yours —she gags like it’s something purposeful, performative; even the way her spit dribbles down her chin seems choreographed.

“I’m gonna cum now,” you exhale, and it’s not a request, “down your fucking throat, and you’re gonna swallow it all because you’re just a hole for me to use, yeah?” You see Miyeon’s fingers moving faster in and out of her pussy, her rhythm turning sloppy, irregular —the way she gets off on being treated like your property is unbelievable, it’s godly. “Nasty fucking cumslut.” It’s a way to up the ante: she loves the praise, but she loves the degradation, too —she really will take whatever you give her and love it. “Gonna fill your throat with my cum, gonna make you fucking take it-“

You cum down her throat, buried completely, and feel her swallow over the head of your cock, gulping down all your cum. It’s a concerted effort, it’s somehow with all the focus in the world despite how she’s got her cunt stuffed with her own fingers, practically humping her own hand, leaking all over your floors —and when you slowly unsheathe yourself from Miyeon’s hot, wet mouth, her eyes fall shut, her jaw still half-open.

“Look at you,” you murmur, spent and a bit mesmerized —it wasn’t a small load, and you’re not an easy cock to take. You lower yourself to the ground next to her, stroking your thumb across the soft curve of her jaw. “Oh, princess.”

Miyeon opens her mouth, sticks out her pink tongue, shows it clean and cum-free.

You grin, a little wildly. “Good girl.”

“Thank you, sir.” You take her delicate wrist in your hand, bring her cum-slick fingers to your lips —you’ll have to get your mouth on that pussy eventually, but this’ll do for now. Miyeon doesn’t even make any effort to stand, just throws herself half in your lap, her bare thighs grazing your cock. She looks up at you with those glassy, hypnotizing eyes as you suck her own cum off of her fingers, trembling, oversensitive; you’re sure she made herself cum probably more than once. “You liked fucking my mouth?”

It’s the way she asks it, all this faux-innocence: she obviously knows you loved it and she’s just fishing for compliments. Well, you’ll indulge her.

“Of course,” you tell her, bemused by her transparency, and skim your thumb over one of her nipples, making her shiver. “You’re —you’re really good at that, you know.”

Miyeon tilts her head, tongues the corner of her red, well-fucked mouth. “At sucking cock?” Her expression shifts, takes a turn —there’s a wit hiding in the whole virtuous act she likes playing so well. “I’m just a natural, I guess. I’ve never sucked a cock before in my life.” She nods, all false humility. “That was my first time, actually.”

She’s fucking with you, but you’d probably never be able to catch it if you hadn’t picked up on at least a few of her tells by now. “Shut the fuck up,” you say, and all of a sudden you’re laughing, defenseless after your mildly world-shattering orgasm. “You’re so stupid.”

“No, you want the truth? I was a virgin before that night in the bar. You totally deflowered me.”

“Miyeon.”

“I’m being serious.” Miyeon’s smiling sweetly now, always ready to run a joke into the ground. She’s mostly naked on your lap, and she’s leaving a wet spot on your jeans from god knows how many times she came just from fingering herself, just from getting her throat fucked. It’s insane how she can still bring out this virginal angel just to mess with you. “I’m a good girl, like you said. You corrupted me. All of this sluttiness is entirely recent and completely your fault.”

“Shut up,” you complain, but you’re still laughing, and now Miyeon’s breaking character just to laugh at you, too.

“Sorry,” she says, and she’s burying her face into your neck, slightly delirious, her shoulders shaking with her giggles. “Sorry. You’re right. You caught me. I’ve been a whore this whole time.”

“I know, baby,” you tell her tolerantly, and kiss her temple, move some of the damp, unruly strands of hair off her cheeks. After a face-fuck that rough, it’s almost unfathomable that the energy between you two ends up getting too sentimental for the moment, but maybe it’s just the way things were always meant to go.

Like you said, there’s this new story you’re starting. It’s nothing long-term, nothing especially complicated. It’s about a girl, so it’s the oldest story ever told. It’s about longing, so you’re leaning into the melodrama. It’s all about the feeling, and where you’re at in your life, right now, you’ve never quite lived through the kind of love that’s in all the novels, so you’re mostly making it up, playing it by ear, pulling fiction from fantasy.

(That’s what you’ll tell yourself. It’s really too soon for it to be anything else.)

Things escalate, fast. Miyeon’s over at your place all the time. Sometimes you pick her up from some of her later classes, take her out, take her back to your apartment. They’re not dates, exactly. You both just have a love for cinema, for new bestsellers that you discuss like you’re middle-aged wine moms at a book club, getting too into it. Also, once you two get wrapped up in conversation, it’s almost impossible to just drop it there. You and Miyeon start talking and you never really stop.

It’s like you blink and suddenly you’re two months in —and it’s not like you’re in a relationship, but it’s pretty clear that you’re exclusively fooling around, and you also spend so much of your time together that you know what’d it look like to an outsider. You talk to Miyeon about pretty much everything, but you avoid any mention of making it official. You’re two months in, and she finally invites you over to her apartment.

“I know,” she says, the first time you come over. “It’s egregious. I get it.”

You haven’t even said anything, but she’s not wrong. Her apartment’s gorgeous once you see it on the inside, and way bigger than you thought it was —ridiculous, considering it’s just her and her roommate. Nothing like what you’d expect the average college student to be able to afford, but-

“My family,” Miyeon offers, by way of explanation. “They like to spoil me.” You’d kind of already known that, though. The high school you teach at is this swanky private one, and it wasn’t unusual to have the children of business tycoons, lawyers, doctors, the like —and she’d graduated from there, so it’s not quite out of left field. “And my roommate’s descended from Thai royalty, or something. She’s not exactly hurting for money, either.”

“Naturally,” you say.

So her apartment becomes fair game, too. She gives you her spare key like it’s nothing —easy access, she tells you, covers up the intimacy with innuendo. She forbids you from coming around when her roommate is home, but that ends up being a lost cause. You’re bound to have run-ins with her friends, you realize that —Miyeon’s always been exceedingly well-liked, notoriously popular —but it doesn’t fully hit you how seriously close you’ve gotten until it actually happens.

You’ve somehow managed to fuck her almost everywhere in her apartment without running into her roommate until it’s a Sunday, almost three months from that first day —and everything about you and Miyeon together is sacrilege, you know that; maybe it’s a sign —and you’re coming to take her out to this sale at your favorite bookstore, and probably fuck her in the bathroom of the coffee shop next door. It’s a toss-up, it’s all going according to plan-

That is, until you step into the kitchen, and there’s a girl standing at the counter who is decidedly not Miyeon.

“Uh,” you say. “Hello?”

The girl glances up at her phone, immediately gets this curl to her red-lipped mouth, and —oh.

This is the roommate. It’s clear, in an instant: you’ve heard how Miyeon talks about her roommate, you’ve heard her voice on the phone —you’re not a fan of using any derogatory language towards women you don’t know, so you’ll put it like this: she’s got a reputation already. She smiles at you coyly, puts her phone face-down on the counter; she’s living up to it.

“Hi,” she says, voice smooth, velvety. She’s got these unreasonably gorgeous eyes, accented with thick eyeliner, mascara: they’re a striking, arresting pale green, at odds with the fairness of her skin, the jet-black of her hair. “You’re Miyeon’s boyfriend, right?”

“Um,” you say, intelligently; so, that’s a label you two still haven’t discussed. You should get on that, maybe.

The girl’s smile widens, like she’s taking your hesitation as a go-ahead, a green light. Oh, this one’s trouble. You know it without even knowing her.

“Well,” she says, propping her elbows up on the kitchen counter. She’s wearing a tight, low-cut shirt —it’s insanely flattering, and, hey, you’re only human. You notice but you’ll pretend that you don’t. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Minnie.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say, a little amused by the performance of it all.

Minnie tilts her head, looking you up and down. Her eyes fall half-lidded, in this sleepy, sexy way that seems unintentional, but you’re already getting the sense that nothing Minnie does is unintentional.

“Hey,” she purrs, and it already sounds like a proposition. “You’re kind of hot, you know.”

“Oh, am I?” you ask, humoring her. She’s just so obvious. It’s sort of fascinating.

“I’d say so.” Minnie rounds the counter, and she’s wearing this short skirt, legs bare and slender, all toned. Her hair brushes just past the high line of her collarbone. There’s something about her that oozes sex appeal —it’s impossible to ignore.

“Just a heads-up,” she says, “if you ever get bored of Miyeon and her whole princess thing, my room’s right down the hall from hers.” Minnie smiles, devilish. There’s an irony about it that makes you wonder if it’s a genuine offer or some sort of private joke she’s making, something you’re not cool enough to be in on. “So —you know where I am.”

It’s more than slightly hilarious that you met thirty seconds ago, and she’s already offering up sex like it’s nothing —if she were less gorgeous, you’d laugh out loud, but Minnie wears her allure like jewelry, something to show off and brag about. This is definitely a girl who’s used to getting what she wants.

It doesn’t escape you that Minnie’s the polar opposite of Miyeon, who wields her beauty with all this innocence, all the false wide-eyed naïvete in the word —she’s a good girl, that’s her starring role. This girl —Minnie —nothing about her’s innocent, not in the least. Her tongue darts across her bottom lip; she looks like she’d eat you alive, if given the chance. She’s hot. She’s also not even remotely your type, because that’s obviously-

“Oh my god,” says Miyeon, rushing down the stairs, feet hitting the hardwood as she practically jumps off the last step. “Oh my god. Nicha, I swear to god, if you’re trying to fuck him right now-”

Minnie actually looks mildly pained. “Please chill with the government name.”

“You’re such a whore,” grumbles Miyeon, bounding towards you to clutch at your hand. It’s a side you’ve never seen of her: jealousy. It’s adorable, but everything she does is adorable. Miyeon glares pointedly at Minnie, tells you, “The eyes are fake. Don’t fall for it.”

“What?” you ask. Minnie blinks at you, grins.

“They’re colored contacts,” says Miyeon, scowling. “Fake. So fake. She’s not even that hot without them.”

“I’m very hot without them,” argues Minnie, but she leans back, brushing her hair over her shoulders —it’s a clear surrender, a white flag waving. She’s backing off.

“Sorry,” she says, and barely sounds like she means it, but her smile’s charming enough for her to pull it off. “Didn’t mean to be a homewrecker or whatever.”

You’re not really sure what it is, but it takes a second, and it’s like you’re looking at someone totally different. Minnie’s whole sensual persona slips away, vanishes entirely —now she’s just got her head tipped like a puppy, watching the two of you with curious eyes. Even her voice rises in pitch —so there’s the behind-the-scenes, the performance dropped. She’d probably make a killing as an actress. It’s actually almost impressive, how she can turn the seduction off and on like a switch.

“Liar,” says Miyeon, detaching herself from you, but the venom’s drained out of her voice. She goes to Minnie, winds her arms around her waist, kisses Minnie’s cheek affectionately. “She’s a natural slut,” she says to you, but now she’s smiling too. “She can’t help it.”

“It’s in my genes,” agrees Minnie, pressing her lips to the top of Miyeon’s head.

“Right,” you say. You’re getting the feeling the bickering is just a facet of Miyeon and Minnie’s friendship, because they very clearly adore each other. Oh, well. It’s cute. You won’t question it.

“And she likes to take things that belong to me,” adds Miyeon, a certain wickedness to it, a threat.

You raise your eyebrows at her; possessiveness looks great on her, but then again, so does everything. Minnie shrugs, doesn’t even bother to deny it. Clearly, it’s an old fight, a score they’ve far past settled.

“Good to know,” you say, and hardly lift a hand in Miyeon’s direction —she comes to you as easy as if you’d given her a verbal command. It’s not exactly subtle, how she slips under your arm like it’s an order she’s following.

“Oh,” says Minnie, and it sounds like oh, I get it —it’s like that. Like she’s got you two pegged instantly. Maybe she does. “You guys are dating.”

“We’re not,” says Miyeon, boredly. The disinterest’s entirely an act, but an excellent one.

“Baby, it wasn’t a question,” says Minnie, wry like she can read Miyeon’s mind. There’s something so intense about her eyes, no matter how false they might be —the way they flick from you to Miyeon, drawing lines, dynamics. You don’t know how much Miyeon has told her, but she observes the two of you like she knows everything and then some. She purses her lips, then packs it up. You’re not sure what she’s seeing when she looks at you and Miyeon but you think you’ve got an idea.

“Have a good night,” Minnie tells you, and the smile that follows is secretive, enigmatic. “And it was so great to finally meet you.”

“She seems nice,” you say.

“She’s a whore,” says Miyeon, rapid-fire, and then laughs a sudden, musical laugh. “She’s also, like, my favorite person in the world. I didn’t think you’d meet her like that —I swear I thought she wasn’t home.”

“So crazy that she thought we were dating,” you say, dryly.

“Yeah,” Miyeon replies, in your car, pretty in a pink dress as you’re taking her out. The sarcasm’s too thick to call out. You both know what game you’re playing, by now. “Who could’ve ever come to a stupid conclusion like that?”

You two are able to talk about anything, you settle on a handful of books to buy, you don’t even have to go next door because you get Miyeon’s panties off in the dark alleyway, sink to your knees and eat her out. She squeals and mewls and sucks at keeping quiet. Her pussy’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted, but you’ve learned by now that Miyeon’s the kind of girl who’s impossible to compete with.

“I’m fucking obsessed with you,” she tells you, shamelessly, as you wipe her cum off of your chin.

“Right back at you,” you say, and kiss her until she’s gasping for air. There’s nowhere else you’d rather be but with her, and you don’t have to ask —she kneels to return the favor, and you know she feels the same.

Minnie actually ends up having a running commentary on your relationship —you’ve realized by now that she’s Miyeon’s best friend, which means she doesn’t believe in boundaries, or mincing words. Case in point —well, there’s several, but you’ll settle for this one:

“Jesus fucking Christ,” says Minnie, one evening, when she catches you and Miyeon on the couch in their apartment. “You two are disgusting.”

It’s a big reaction, considering you and Miyeon aren’t anywhere near having sex —you’re hotly debating the quality of an Netflix miniseries you just finished binge-watching together, discussing themes and plot points and character arcs. Miyeon’s defending it to the death, calling it camp, pulling up comparisons to cinematic masterpieces on her phone. You hate it; you’re arguing that it’s trite garbage, clinical and passionless and dumb.

“What?” says Miyeon, confused. “We’re just talking.”

“Yeah,” you say. “We’re fully clothed and everything.”

“It’s disgusting that Miyeon somehow found someone just as pretentious as she is to argue about her dumbass TV shows with,” clarifies Minnie, her arms crossed. “It’s gross. You two are gross. Like —we get it, you’re made for each other because you both take media analysis way too seriously.”

Miyeon stares at her, mouth agape. Minnie turns on her heel and walks right out, apparently too nauseated by you both to tolerate your presence any longer.

“Um,” you say, a little lost for words.

Miyeon’s discarded her phone on her coffee table, and now she’s watching you, eyes suddenly soft. You raise your eyebrows at her, can’t fight the smile at how she scoots closer to you, tucks her thighs up to her knee. “Yes?” you ask, expectantly.

“Nothing,” Miyeon says, tapping her dainty fingers along your wrist, thumb skipping across your pulse point. “But you’ve thought about it before, haven’t you?”

You don’t pretend that you don’t know what she’s talking about —you respect her too much for that. You nod, watch her throat bobs when she swallows, looks up at you carefully, like she’s trying to memorize the look on your face.

“Alright,” says Miyeon, finally. “It’s just —we kind of work, in a weird way.”

It’s cute, her restraint. You slip a hand in her hair, bring her close so you can kiss her forehead. “We kind of do,” you tell her, and you have faith that you’ll get there. It’s only a matter of time.

You’re still not really dating, but —so, it’s complicated.

It’s a Tuesday when you’re both out getting coffee together, and it’s under the pretense of sex, because it always is. Miyeon likes getting fucked where she knows she can get caught, and it’s her thing, it’s a pattern: public bathrooms, parks, alleyways, dressing rooms. There’s something so filthy about it, the juxtaposition —your perfect, pristine girl, begging for your cock in the nastiest places, biting down on your fingers to keep from screaming, walking out with cum dripping from her cunt like it’s nothing. It’s worse because nothing about her’s inconspicuous, after this —she walks out of every round looking exactly like she just had the best sex of her life, and nothing less. Everyone who sees you two together knows what you’re up to. It’s just that much hotter.

So —that’s the thing. It’s easy for you guys to spend all your free time together —between the college classes she’s taking, between the high school ones you’re teaching. You call her on lunch breaks, after you’re done for the day, say all sorts of suggestive things; she responds in kind, all dirty texts and pictures. Her pussy takes up half your photo gallery. See, it’s not romantic, at its core; it can’t be. It’s too dirty. There’s nothing sweet about it.

Except-

You’re supposed to be having a hook-up, right now. You’re supposed to be fucking her in the bathroom of this coffee shop. That was the proposition when she texted you i need your dick now with absolutely zero shame, along with pictures of her outfit, her tiny white top pulled down to expose her creamy tits, her hard nipples. That was the entire idea.

“I love that book,” Miyeon’s telling you now, splitting a slice of coffee cake with you across the table. Best laid plans, or whatever. Somehow you two always get distracted by conversation first. “Well, that’s the thing about you and me. Nobody my own age appreciates classic literature.”

“That’s such a lie,” you say, endeared. “You’re flattering me.”

“None of my friends know them front to back like you do,” she points out, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her stunning eyes are bright, her words fast and passionate —she always gets like this when she’s excited, animated, dialed up to eleven. You shouldn’t find it as adorable as you do. “Because you’ve taught them. You’ve studied them —you get all the nuance. Also, you’re old.”

She’s making fun of you. “Cool it.”

“But it’s true,” Miyeon laments, pushing buttons on purpose. “Of course you know the classics —you’re, like, ancient enough to remember when they all first came out.”

“I’m seven years older than you.” It’s been established, by now. Miyeon still gets off on the gap between you two, even though it’s nowhere near as wide as she likes to pretend it is. “Calm down.”

You’re smiling, though. Miyeon grins, takes a bite of her cake. “You get me, is my point,” she says, dropping the dramatics. “That’s all I’m saying.”

You’re supposed to be fucking her half to death in a public bathroom by now, and you probably will, after all of this. It’s just —you’re blurring lines. You’re not dating, not really. It’s just that you can talk to her for hours on end without getting bored, and sometimes all you have to do is look at her to know exactly what she’s thinking, exactly what dumb joke she’s about to make, exactly what face she’ll pull at something you say. It’s just supposed to be sex, but she’s all you ever think about. It’s nothing serious, but you get the sense she feels the same way.

“I do,” you say, softer than intended.

There’s this way Miyeon smiles at you, sometimes. It’s the same look she gets on her face when you’re watching one of her favorite movies together, something woefully pretentious and deeply romantic, something that’s bound to get her teary-eyed and laughing at the same time, curled up in your lap. Like she’s looking at something she’d never want to look away from.

“Well,” she says decisively, and under the table, her hand finds your thigh. You’ll put a pin in all those feelings. They’ll come back around eventually. “I’m glad we agree. Wanna fuck me senseless in the bathroom now?”

Even now, you’ll never be able to refuse her, but you’ll play nonchalant. “Tempting.”

“I know,” Miyeon says, doe-eyed, and her mouth tips to a smirk. She’s so sentimental until she isn’t. “You can’t resist me.”

“Nope,” you comply, giving in like it’s nothing, and then you’re tugging her right out of her seat. Well, it’s par for the course. When it’s you and her together, neither of you can keep up an act for long.

You’re not dating, and it’s not sweet, it’s not romance. It actually gets kind of extreme, there in that one-person bathroom, where you’ve got her back against the counter and one of her thighs tucked to her chest, and you’re pounding her pussy so hard it’s bordering violent. She’s sniffling, tears dribbling down her cheeks, and that’s all her signs at once: she’s only this much of a mess when she’s loving it.

“Look at you, princess,” you murmur, and she gasps into the fingers you’ve got stuffed in her mouth, drooling all over you. “You’re just addicted to this cock in that tiny little pussy, aren’t you? You’d let me keep you like this for fucking days, just being my pretty fucking cockwarmer. You’d die for it.”

Miyeon grips your wrist, spits your fingers out from between her lips. Her eyes are mesmerizing, glassy and lined with newly mussed makeup from how she’s crying —she’s become such a disaster, so fast. This is always the best part: how you wreck her, how she lets you.

“Yes,” she pants. “It’s yours, it’s all yours —feels so good, sir, my pussy belongs to you-”

“I know, baby.” You grip your hand in her silky blonde hair, and the whimper she lets out is from the pain, from the pleasure —for her, it’s the thinnest line, it’s already overlapping. “Let me keep you on my cock for a weekend, cumming in all your holes…” You lean in close, nip at her ear, yank her head back. “Imagine it,” you hum. “Imagine just being my cumdump for days, just taking load after load in that little cunt. Keeping you on my lap, all that cum inside you, plugged up by my dick…”

Miyeon knows it’s coming. You can tell how her eyes fall shut, how her tiny body trembles, how she clenches around your cock —she’s trying so hard to keep quiet and only half-succeeding. Well, you’ll push her over the edge.

“How long do you think it’d take to get you knocked up?”

“Stop,” she whimpers, but she darts a glance up at you in the mirror, eyes glimmering. You’ve got your boundaries, your safewords —you know it’s not an actual rejection.

“Stop?” you ask, and there’s danger in the way you laugh, a warning. Miyeon catches it, whines and writhes and only gets wetter. “Please. Don’t act like you don’t love the idea of me breeding that slutty fucking pussy. Cumming all the way inside your womb, filling you up with my load —you’re young, Miyeon, you know what you are.” It’s two hits in one, and she bites so hard into her bottom lip you’re shocked she’s not drawing blood. “A tight little body like this is fucking made to be bred. You’d be so fucking lucky if I got you pregnant, wouldn’t you? If I used you as a fuckhole to breed and nothing else —if I fucking owned you, made you belong to me, used you like my fucking property-”

Miyeon’s breathing stutters so badly you think she might be on the verge of hyperventilating —but you’ve also never seen her so ruined, so consumed by your cock in her, by the fantasy you’re painting. “Oh my fucking god,” she chokes out, and she keeps it as quiet as she can —you’re still in public, and the pressure’s only getting to her more, getting her hot and riled and helpless —but she’s too far gone for composure. “Oh my god. Oh, fuck-”

“Say it,” you snarl, right at her ear. “Say it, princess. I know you want to. Tell me what you want me to fucking do to you.”

There’s no stopping, no stalling —you’ve pushed her right to the edge, and she’s past pretending like she doesn’t want exactly what you’re giving her.

“I want you to breed me.” Miyeon’s sobbing, lost in the euphoria, in the very thought of it —the way she lets you break her so completely, in public where anyone would catch her: it’s criminal, it’s tugging an angel out of the sky just to fuck her down to hell. “I —just need you to fuck me, breed me, use me —do whatever you want to me, I just need you, sir, I need it —you’re right, I’m just a fuckhole, you own me, I belong to you-”

“That’s my girl.” Your hand drops to her clit just as her elbows hit the hard surface of the counter.

When she cums, now you know she draws blood —she’s got her knuckles at all her pretty white teeth, and the way her body contorts as her orgasm overwhelms her is something animalistic, feral. You’re cumming with her, but you can’t take your eyes off of Miyeon’s reflection in the mirror, off of the straps of her top hanging off her slender shoulders, the mess you’ve made of her hair, the destroyed makeup dripping from her eyes —there’s something so aesthetically flawless about the crease between her eyebrows, the heavy rise and fall of her chest, the way she spits scarlet blood into the sink in one quick, debilitated move. It’s like she’s a masterpiece, fucked out, fucked up. She’s a portrait made to be ogled, observed and fawned over. Every detail’s goddamn perfect.

You catch her around the waist, slide your cock out of her as she whimpers. Her pale knuckles are beading with blood, and she’s still got some between her teeth. Miyeon turns her head again, spits, but it comes out weaker, drool slipping from the corner of her mouth.

“Miyeon,” you mumble, and go for her purse on the counter instead of the paper towel dispenser —when you’ve got a girl who likes being fucked in public as much as Miyeon does, you’re a pro at damage control by now.

The sound Miyeon lets out isn’t even close to anything coherent, any full words or sentiments. You take the package of makeup wipes, pat Miyeon’s hip, turn her around. “You’re okay,” you tell her, gently getting to work at the eyeliner, the bloody spit at her lips. “Oh, sweetheart. It’s okay. I got you.”

Miyeon still can’t speak, but she leans her lithe body into you, lets you take her jaw in your hand. There’s something so careful about the way you clean her up, take care of her after —that’s the thing about fucking a masterpiece; there’s an upkeep to it, a science in the art.

You toss the used makeup wipes in the trash when you’re done, then spin her around, smooth your hands through her hair. “Alright,” you say, and you go for her panties, tugging them back up around her hips. Your cum will be leaking out of her the whole way home, but it’s par for the course. “How are we holding up?”

There’s always this disparity between the two of you —she can barely walk after cumming, you’re mostly functional. It’s how you work, you think. She’s your girl, your baby; it’s the point. She knows you’ve got her, no matter what you do to her.

Miyeon meets your eyes in the mirror, breathing evening out, completely spent. She curves into you, into your hand on her tiny waist, and presses her lips to your cheek.

“You already know this,” she says, voice hoarse. You flip the tap on to wash her blood out of the sink, go for a tissue in her purse. “But no one compares to you, ever.”

It shouldn’t get to you like it does, but it does.

You press the tissue to Miyeon’s bloody knuckles, kiss the high point of her wrist. “Well,” you tell her, unable to drag your gaze away from those gorgeous eyes, looking at you with all the open devotion in the world. “It’s a good thing the feeling’s mutual.”

You run into one of the employees outside the bathroom, but there’s not a line, thank god. Well, it could be worse.

The employee’s staring at the two of you like she’s suspicious but too grossly underpaid to call you on anything. “Um,” she says.

“Sorry,” you say, and pull Miyeon tight to your side, slipping the palm of your hand over her stomach. “My wife —she’s pregnant with her first. Morning sickness.” You kiss the top of Miyeon’s hair. “Takes a lot out of her.”

Miyeon’s gawking at you with wide, shocked eyes. You ignore it, smile beatifically.

It’s not a bad act, on your part. The employee says, “Oh, yeah, okay. You were just in there a while, so I was —well, congrats, on the baby.”

“Thanks,” you say politely, and slip past the employee, Miyeon tucked under your arm. “That’s kind of you, really.”

The performance comes unraveled the moment you leave the coffee shop, and Miyeon’s half-irate, slapping at your chest, wavering on unsteady legs as you step out on the sidewalk together. You grin down at her, play dumb. “What’s wrong?”

“You are so fucked in the head,” accuses Miyeon, but then she’s laughing so raucously that she almost tumbles to the concrete in her platform sandals. You steady her waist, rein her back in. “You’re so —your wife? Pregnant? You’re such a —I hate you, I seriously-”

“You seemed to like the idea when I was fucking you.”

Miyeon’s been railed a little stupid, still, so she’s sort of slow on the uptake, can’t find a good comeback. She flounders, then says, “Um, no,” and it’s the weakest lie you’ve ever heard.

“No?” You crack up, lead her towards your car. “Need me to refresh your memory?”

“Maybe,” says Miyeon slyly, not even hesitating, and you roll your eyes and open the car door for her. You’ll circle back to that plan another day.

“So,” says Miyeon, later, in the passenger seat of your car. The window’s rolled down and the wind is throwing her blonde hair into disarray, sending her cheeks pink and lips bitten from the cold. She’s a vision, but she always is. “Cockwarming weekend? Or are you just all talk?”

You risk a glance over at her, pretend like you wouldn’t stop traffic just to stare. “Don’t be a brat.”

“You love it when I’m a brat,” says Miyeon, correctly, shuffling in her seat. There are bruises on her thigh from how hard you gripped her when you fucked her, hickeys decorating the delicate rise of her collarbone. She’s filled with your cum, but that’s nothing new. “So? What do you think about next week?”

“Miyeon,” you say, unable to tell if she’s actually serious.

“I trust you’ll handle the logistics,” she says, her voice lilting, melodic, and her hand grazes your cheek, tangles into your hair. She says it like I trust you, like do whatever you want to me —I’ll let you.

It’s a dirty proposal, but she manages to sneak sweetness in there anyway. There’s sincerity, between the lines of all the filth. It’s a running theme.

“I’ll ruin you,” you warn, and it should send alarms blaring.

Miyeon smiles like they’re the best sound she’s ever heard. “Oh, no,” she says, thumbing the side of your mouth, and she’s laughing. “I think that ship has already sailed.”

You make a lot of progress, on that story of yours. There’s no real reason: it’s just that you’ve found a muse who’s always content to be right by your side, clothed or unclothed, cumming or laughing or talking, wrapped up in your sheets past all the orgasms and far into the night.

(Miyeon stays, against all odds, even when you both know she doesn’t have to. Maybe, for you, there’s just a lot of inspiration to be found in that.)

planning for a part 2… eventually… but we’ll see lmao

for all the right reasons, part 2 ((g)i-dle miyeon)

(smut, former teacher/student, cockwarming, breeding kink, facial, teacher/student roleplay [kind of], age gap, fluff, part 1 here, 11k words)

See, there’s something about her: you get a girl like that, and she inspires all this reckless abandon, all the raunchy, risky sex, the danger and the biting and the begging—you’re not that kind of guy, historically. You’ve just never been the type.

“Oh,” Miyeon says, delighted, when you tell her this. “Oh, now I get it—I’m the one corrupting you.”

Yeah, she might be—but there’s also something about her that you’d do anything for, and that has nothing to do with the sex. It’s everything before, everything after: the talking, the laughing, the sincerity, the honesty. You’ve told her things you’ve never told anyone. You look at her and you think she knows it.

“Maybe you are,” you say to her, fondly, and you can’t bring yourself to mind one bit. There’s a story here—one day you’ll finish it.

Miyeon’s got her wide, irresistible eyes, and a smile sharp enough to kill. “Well,” she purrs, and her tone’s a blade, cutting right to the bone. You’d stand there, you’d let her: it’s her, and it’d be a perfect way to die. “I guess I’ll take it.”

“Uh,” says Minnie, a week later, when she sees Miyeon attached to you, as you’re both informing her that Miyeon’s going to be completely unreachable that weekend and not to call the cops. “Great. Thanks. Thanks for letting me know you’re going to be having mind-blowing sex all weekend and I’m not invited.”

“Call Yuqi,” says Miyeon cheerfully.

“Fuck off,” says Minnie. “I hate you both. Go fuck and be in love or whatever. I don’t even care.”

“It’s okay, Minnie,” you tell her. You and Miyeon sort of enjoy giving her a hard time—it’s routine, at this point. “You’ll find someone you connect with one day, probably.”

“If they can look past your personality,” adds Miyeon, smiling prettily; she and Minnie adore each other—every moment Miyeon’s not with you, she’s with her—but you’d absolutely never know it by the way they talk to each other. “The ego… the fake eyes… the overwhelming sluttiness…”

“My sluttiness is a very positive quality of mine,” says Minnie—she’ll give just as good as she gets. “Also, I hope you two get hit by a bus. You can keep being soulmates in hell.”

“Satan would probably love us,” agrees Miyeon, blinking in her deceptively innocent, comically Bambi-eyed way, and you laugh so hard that Minnie gives up and leaves the room.

“Soulmates,” Miyeon ponders, in the car.

“It’s Minnie,” you point out. “She’s full of shit.”

Miyeon raises her eyebrows at you when you stop at a red light, a mischievous smile tilting the corners of her mouth. “Oh,” she says. “You think so?” Before you can say anything, she’s already going in for the kill. “No, no, I guess you’re right. It’d be pretty fucked up for my soulmate to be my teacher who’s, like, twice my age. That’d be gross, on the universe’s behalf.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you say, and she bursts out laughing. “Seven years, Miyeon. And I haven’t been your teacher in so long.”

“Huh,” she says, and her dark eyes are glittering. “Well, when you put it like that…”

“Yeah?”

Miyeon’s got her knees tucked up to her chest, and a grin like she knows everything you aren’t telling her. “Maybe she’s not that far off.”

You’ve got your laptop turned on, and you’re busying yourself by writing your story—the words come so easy like this, you realize, straight from some deep-set daydream and right onto the page—there’s that same girl in your sentences, a pretty blonde with a grip around some unquantifiable power, there’s a plot but it’s meandering, there’s a romance but it’s all in the background-

“Sir,” mumbles Miyeon from your lap.

It’s a little distracting, with how her pussy clamps down around your cock, but—facets of having a particularly compelling muse. You’ll work through it.

You brush her hair to the side, press your lips to the side of her neck, and jerk your hips slightly just to hear her squeal. She’s light enough that the motion bounces her, disrupts her from her comfortable spot wrapped tight around your dick.

“Princess,” you say, retaliating, and squeeze her hip.

It’s only mid-day, and Miyeon still shudders each time you move her even slightly. She’s sniffling a little into your collarbone, and she’d worn makeup to your house just to smudge it, just so she’d let you clean it up, just to do it all over again—you’re wearing a black t-shirt, sweats. She’s naked, her pale, silk-soft skin all over you, one of her small hands scrabbling weakly at the nape of your neck every time you jostle her. Your dick’s inside her and you haven’t cum yet, but she has. She’s soaking your sweatpants. It’s all a very big ordeal.

“Sir,” says Miyeon, again, and pulls back to look at you. She’s giving you those eyes, watery, irresistible—her bottom lip is trembling a little. You’ve had her like this for hours and you haven’t given her what she really wants. It’s dramatics, or maybe it’s not; her eyebrows are drawn together, as if in actual, physical pain.

“Yes?” you ask, fight back a grunt as her cunt clenches around you. You slide your fingers into her hair, gentle—with your other hand, you delete a period, add a comma, copy and paste a sentence onto the end of a different paragraph. Multitasking: you learned it on the job. Oh, it’s high time you put it in practice. “Is there something you wanna ask me, Miyeon?”

Her bottom lip wobbles more. Tears rush into her gorgeous eyes—it’s all the overstimulation, it’s how you’ve been making her cum over and over like it’s nothing. She’s so easy to please, but you’ll give her whole-hearted efforts, anyway. She’s your girl. It’s what she deserves.

You thumb Miyeon’s pretty cheeks, swipe away splotches of mascara. “Use your words,” you tell her, stern enough that the way she rocks her hips doesn’t come as a surprise. She likes it when you get bossy with her, colder, firmer. You’ve got your own power over her—you exert it, and she soaks your cock.

“You said,” begins Miyeon, in this thin, tiny voice, and there’s already a plea in it. “In the bathroom. That you’d…”

“Uh-huh.” You rub the curve of her back, encouragingly. It’s a bit unbelievable how shy she’ll still get even while she’s wonderfully, shamelessly naked on top of you, your dick fully buried inside of her. Well, it’s her own part to play. No one’ll ever catch you complaining about that.

“You said you’d cum inside of me.” Your eyes lock on Miyeon’s, and she’s blinking at you, hands suddenly fisted in the front of your shirt. “But you haven’t. You said you’d breed me, sir, and you haven’t.”

A smile tugs at your mouth. “Someone’s needy.”

Miyeon nods her head, a little wildly. “You don’t understand,” she pushes on: “I need it. I really need you to cum inside of me.” There’s that look on her face, again: the one she gets when she’s so far gone, stunning and slightly tortured, after you’ve made her cum over and over again, merciless—when her porcelain-doll exterior’s cracking, fractured at the edges. It’s art incarnate, it’s an angel corrupted, it’s something you’d love to photograph, frame, but—you’re a writer. Your words are the best you’ve got, here. “I’ve been really good for you, sir, I know I have—I’ve been on your cock for hours, I’m your good little cockwarmer, I came so many times just because you wanted me to-”

It’s like you can pinpoint the exact moment she decides to switch her approach; her dark eyes get bigger, sadder—she inhales like she’s choking on her own tears. “Is my pussy not good enough?” Her walls suddenly tighten around you—you groan, clutching onto her waist. See, it’s taken a lot of self-control to have Miyeon on your cock like this without truly railing her, slamming her up and down on your cock until she’s crying; she’s pushing on your patience like the way her fingers dig into your bicep, a threat in the contact, a teasing. “All I do is try to be good for you, sir—I’m so sorry if it’s…”

Miyeon trails off when she spots your expression, mouth half-open, lips wet. She tilts her head, waiting: either she’s caught or she’s won.

“Guilt-tripping,” you say, dryly, and it’s not a question. “That’s a new one.”

One of Miyeon’s fair, fine eyebrows twitches upwards—so, she’s certainly not as far gone as she’s pretending to be. She’s still lucid enough to fuck with you, and you kind of love her like this, conniving even while she’s begging, even with your cock in her. “Is it working?”

(It’s Cho Miyeon, and everything about her’s working—it’s her, and it’s you, and it’s hopeless—but you keep that to yourself.)

“It’s cute,” you tell her, “that you’ll say anything just to get me to cum inside you. Desperate and slutty,” you amend, just to see her squirm, chastised, “but cute.”

It’s something about how you haven’t actually properly fucked her yet—you haven’t wrecked her like you told her earlier, haven’t pounded her pussy until she’s openly screaming and sobbing. Miyeon’s still got that bite to her, even with the sweat-slick curve of her neck, how her clit must be sore and swollen from how you’ve been toying with her, making her cum. You haven’t ruined her like you said you would.

Well, turns out she’s getting the best of both worlds: she’s caught and she’s won.

Your hand snakes over Miyeon’s taut stomach and up towards her tits, your fingers pinching at her right nipple—it gets a whimper from her, a ducked head, her hair falling into her face. “Is that really what you want, princess?” you murmur. “To be fucked and bred? To be used as my little cumdump and nothing else?”

“Yours,” gasps Miyeon, jerks from an exceptionally rough tug on her nipple. “Just yours. Do whatever you want with me—you own me, you know that, use my pussy for whatever you want—cum in me until I get fucking pregnant—I need it.” She’s begging again, giving up all her games; for her, she’ll always take it to her basics, her fallbacks. There’s a whine in her voice, tears building in her Bambi eyes—what she wants is exactly the same thing as what you want, so there’s no point in dragging her through this.

Maybe it’s cruelty, maybe it’s curiosity: testing how far she’ll go for you. You already know but it’s another thing entirely, hearing Miyeon say it out loud.

“You need me,” you conclude, all the consonants with their sharp edges, scraping your blunt nails down her waist. The faint red lines you leave: they’re a point made and proven.

“You.” She says it like it’s something religious, holy—a chant, a prayer. “You, it’s only you. I belong to you, sir. I don’t care how many times you make me say it—it’s always going to be you.”

There’s this way Miyeon looks at you when she says it, when her features skip past their usual faux-innocent routine, and instead she’s watching you with this striking, clear intensity, so fierce it steals your breath for a beat, for two.

“Miyeon,” you mutter, gripping her tight to you. It’s possessive, it’s instinct. Your story’s forgotten on your laptop, or it’s writing itself, composing sentences in the delicate line of her jaw, her intoxicating mouth, her blown pupils—there’s prose in the hardening points of her nipples, lyricism in the defined cut of muscle at her midriff—and she’s looking at you like she means everything she says as more than sex, more than your cock buried inside her cunt, how her hips are bucking again. There’s layers to it, but they’re all unraveled now; she’s bare, she’s not hiding a damn thing.

Miyeon leans in close and presses her lips to yours, feather-light, too sweet for the moment. There’s a memory here, informing all the buildup—oh, there are multiple.

(You think of this one, a week and a half ago, after fucking her in a public bathroom and then walking her out of the store, trying to keep her from stumbling in her platform shoes. She’d attracted stares—she always does, but especially like that: gorgeous, exhausted, fucked out like she might be on the verge of total collapse.

You’d kissed the top of her head, let her work through the aftershocks. It’d have been an old routine—but then she started talking.

I like other people knowing I’m yours, Miyeon said, dreamily, woozily—it was like you’d branded her, the hickeys rapidly darkening across her neck, the tops of her tits; the fingerprint-bruises on her silky thighs, the cum dripping down her leg. Everybody knows how good you fuck me. Everybody knows you own me. Everybody knows that I’m a whore for your cock and you made me that way.)

“Yours,” she begs, now, and all the words are blurring together, every version of her alluring, hungry mouth forming the same sentiments: I need you, I’m yours, you own me. You’re mine, somewhere hidden in there. You belong to me, too. “Please. Please. I need your cum.”

You slot your hands under her thighs, press your thumbs into the pale, satiny skin. She’s unblemished, currently, unbruised and unbitten—you’ll fix all that. You’ve got a long weekend ahead of you. You’ve got all the time in the world to mark her body up like it’s your God-given right.

“Alright, princess.” Well, if you’re being real, there are no gods in this room—Miyeon’s your one religion and you’ll act like it. There’s really nothing else you’d want to believe in. “Since you’re being such a good girl for me.”

In one quick move, you’re lifting her—her legs wrap tight around your waist, a broken, moaning gasp falling from that pretty mouth as your cock jolts deeper inside of her. “Thank you,” she pants, and you’ve barely done anything yet, but you will—you turn and push her onto the sheets, press her tiny frame underneath yours—it’s this power, it’s like a drug; she’ll let you manipulate every limb, push her into any position. She’s so small, so helpless, drooling and pleading: “Thank you, sir,” Miyeon’s choking out, again, and there are fresh tears in those stunning eyes. “Thank you—fuck, your cock—thank you, thank you.”

It’s her own way of showing all that divine gratitude, her devotion, her faith—you’ve been buried in her cunt for hours, but now you’re really using it, you’re taking what you want, exactly what she’s giving—now she’s sobbing like she won’t survive it, like she’s in the midst of rapture itself.

“Please,” Miyeon cries out, and it’s like she’s praying, again; you’re pushing her knees to her chest, you’re quickening your pace, roughing up that perfect pussy. “Please. Your cum—I need your cum, breed me, sir, fill me up—I’m your cumdump, I’m your good little fucktoy-”

It’s a seal snapped, a barrier broken: it’s the first load of many. Miyeon’s back arches, and she’s right there with you—she’s blubbering gratefully, she’s trembling on your bed, she’s praise and worship at work. There’s not a deity alive or dead that compares, but you know this, and she does too, or she must-

“Good girl,” you murmur after, head spinning, tracing her slack mouth with your fingertip. “My good girl.”

Her eyes are shut, and her lips pull upwards, expression faintly loopy. “Always,” she tells you, soft and secret like she’s at confession. “I’m always going to be yours.”

Confession, sure—but she’s not repenting for a damn thing. It’s one hell of a skill to make a sin feel this close to heaven, but, inexplicably, Cho Miyeon’s managing it anyway.

Miyeon’s right about your handle on the logistics: there are breaks, to eat and stay hydrated, to use the bathroom—you’re nothing if not practical, and despite everything you do to her during sex (that’s the rough shit, the bruising, the biting; the weekend’s already taking its visible toll by early evening, and Miyeon’s preening every time she spots the damage in the mirror) you’d actually sooner die than really, truly hurt her, so you stick to plans, rules, safewords. See, you care, so you’re careful. You call her princess for a reason.

(Well, sort of—you’re not sure how many esteemed royals are out here begging for cum like they can’t function without it, are on Miyeon’s level of utter insatiability, so brazen, so desperate—you aren’t trying to put a number on it. You’re also not sure how many people would define being careful as using a girl as pretty and delicate as Miyeon as a living fuckdoll, shoving your cock from her pussy to her mouth, making her gag, making her bawl and beg-)

“I love it,” Miyeon sobs, and she’ll redefine it all, she’ll rewrite whatever rules she needs to. “I love it, I need it—use me, sir, that’s why I’m here, that’s what I’m made for—for you, it’s all for you.”

You break her, you rip her apart, you leave her a sloppy, slutty, cum-filled mess—that’s how you love her, really. There’s not much more to it than that.

It’s a Sunday, and so it’s delightfully on-brand for you and Miyeon—the sun’s streaming through the window, and it’s a perfect morning, and it’s the Lord’s day, you know that—but you jolt awake with a gasp to find Miyeon’s wet little mouth wrapped around your cock, reformulating religion.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you groan, and she looks up at you through her lashes, cheeks hollowing, concave.

You can never have your dick down her throat without fully fucking it, and Miyeon knows it—your hands tangle into all that hair, and she’s still a fucking mess; you’ll clean her up later, you’ll save it for the after-credits scene—and suddenly she’s relinquishing control entirely, letting her hands fall to your thighs, letting you slam your cockhead straight into her gag reflex—and she’s still looking at you with those eyes, wide and glassy and entirely submissive, subservient. You’ve got all the power, all the control, tight in your fists like your grip on her blonde waves, tight like the way her hot mouth’s choking your cock-

(She’s yours, and you’re cumming—she’s yours, and you have no problem proving it.)

There’s this way the pale column of Miyeon’s throat works as she gulps down your load, tears sparkling in her irises and spilling—it’s the kind of face you see in fantasies, the kind of debauchery men like you only dream of witnessing—your orgasm rips through you, spots your vision, gets you saying, “Baby, baby-”

It’s violent, how you force her head down your cock, how she tugs herself back; Miyeon’s gasping, drooling, but her mouth’s tripping up at the edges, delirious, amused. You’ve just fucked the life out of her throat, but you always do; she’s addicted to it, like she always is. It’s your routines, your habits. You treat her like she’s your property and then she presses herself to your chest, into your arms, and you hold her like you’ve never had anything more precious in your life: see, there are those layers, those juxtapositions. You’ll never be able to let this go.

“Quite the wake-up call,” you tell her, breathless, lips to her hair.

Miyeon giggles, self-satisfied, and one of her dainty hands drops to your chest, slides lower. “I knew you’d love it.”

“You were sucking my cock,” you point out, always ready to debate technicalities. “There’s not a man on this planet who wouldn’t die for that, Miyeon.”

“You think so?” Miyeon’s smile flickers on like a light, and all of yesterday’s makeup is still smeared on her delicate features—you’re desecrating a Louvre-worthy work of art, you’re seconds from being locked up and fined. “Then it’s a good thing yours is the only cock I want.”

“Romantic,” you deadpan, charmed despite the vulgarity.

Miyeon allows her smile to sharpen, to twist to a smirk—it’s an edge that lasts for two seconds, because then she’s sliding your cock inside her cunt in this smooth, slick motion. It’s clearly meant to catch you off-guard, but it’s too perfect a fit. She doesn’t roll her hips, doesn’t fuck herself on your dick, doesn’t ask you for anything more than to fill her; she hums, happily, and just tucks her face into the crook of your neck.

“Oh,” Miyeon sighs, and she’s half out of her head, or she must be, voice raw and sweet and revelatory. It’s clear she has no plans to leave your arms any time soon. “It’s you and me, baby.”

“Whatever you want, princess,” you murmur, sated, and kiss the crown of her head.

It’s the Lord’s day, and Miyeon’s heaven-sent, she’s everything. You’ll take fines, sacrifices, the wrath of some far-off celestial being—it doesn’t matter. She’s in your bed, she’s found herself a place to call her own between veins, heart valves, slipping right into your bloodstream. You’ll take all the time in the world.

(It’s clear she has no plans to leave, ever.)

Here’s where it has to end, because it always does—here’s the fade-to-black, here’s the credits rolling—and Miyeon’s curled in a ball on top of your sheets, face tipped into your pillowcase, staining it with spit and makeup, and you’ve just spilled your last load inside of her. Miyeon shuffles when you skim your hand down her middle, bumping your fingertips across ribs, bitten bruises.

“I’ll run a bath,” you say, skirting a vicious hickey at her hip.

Miyeon makes an indecipherable noise in response.

See, you just spent the last forty-eight hours—give a few, take a few—fucking her brains out, using her flawless body like a toy, like she’s got your name stamped into her skin—but that’s all over, that’s all done. You fill up your tub for her, get all the necessities: you’re not sure when it happened, but your bathroom is stocked with her shampoo, her conditioner, her body wash—it’d probably been a split-second decision, a move for logic, reason; oh, she’s over at your place all the time, she showers here constantly, she needs the essentials—you’ll make your excuses. You know exactly why she’s carved out her own space in your home, by now.

When you come back, Miyeon’s tilted further on her side, eyes stubbornly shut, limp and half-asleep. You’d swear she’s an angel, all that golden hair, the silky skin—you grin at the way her bottom lip juts out unevenly, a pout without the conviction.

“Can you move?” you ask, endeared, hand sliding into her hair. “Or do you need to be carried?”

“You’re the one who calls me princess,” mumbles Miyeon, words slurring at the edges. “Carry me or you’re going to the guillotine, bitch.”

You crack up in laughter—oh, this girl. “Watch that mouth.”

“You love my mouth.”

She’s entirely correct, but when it comes to you two, that’s old news. You sweep her body up in your arms, cradle her lolling neck, press your lips to her forehead—there’s a shift to the moment, feelings sudden and saturating the room—and Miyeon’s eyes stay shut. There’s something about the way she surrenders to you, so completely: you’ve sort of put her body through the ringer over the past two days, but you’d never truly harm her, and she lets you hold her like she knows it.

(Well, maybe it isn’t sudden at all. She stills like she knows she’s safe with you—and maybe you’re just seeing something that’s been there the whole time.)

It’s nights like this, you think. There’s finally nothing for either of you to hide.

Miyeon slips into the warm, soapy water like it’s an invitation, lets you clean her up like she’s exactly the kind of royalty she presents as—monarchy, but without the haughtiness, the demands. She’s sleepy, exhausted, sentences blurring together as she talks, as she tells you every thought like she’s never had a reason to fear honesty.

(Maybe she has—maybe just not with you. Maybe you’re giving her all the right reasons to trust you, instead.)

You’re wiping at her face with a washcloth, and she’s telling you the full story of her and Minnie, the one you always knew had to be coming eventually—they’ve been best friends for years, they have a past, a history: they used to hook up, Miyeon tells you, but feelings got involved, and it got complicated, and they had to break it off or she knew it’d destroy them.

“I just couldn’t give her what she wanted, I guess,” says Miyeon, softly, as you brush her damp hair away from her face. She’s naked, but you’ve had her naked in front of you so many times—it’s different like this, like she’s peeled off her armor, her defense mechanisms; there’s her skin, there’s her soul. “So, if… if you’ve ever thought she seemed especially antagonistic about you and I—that’s why. I know you probably noticed it, at first. It’s different, after these past few months, but…”

You listen, and Miyeon looks at you closely, carefully, like you’re a decision she’s making.

“I swear she likes you now,” she says. “She’s a lot more comfortable with you. I can tell by how she talks to you. It’s just—I think it was weird for her, at first. But she knows how much you mean to me.” Her nose crinkles prettily, and she leans into your palm on her cheek, your thumb stroking the high line of her cheekbone. “She knows that you make me happy.”

She says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, and maybe it is.

“Well,” you say, and you’re forgoing filth for once in your life—you’ll give her the truth, no matter how soft it’ll come out. You trust her, too. You’ll show it. “That’s all I want, baby. For you to be happy.”

Miyeon blinks up at you, her eyes a little wide and wondrous—and then she smiles.

“I know that,” she says, brilliant, radiant: there aren’t angels on Earth, you’ve heard, but you’ve got one in your hands anyway. “I know.”

So—maybe there’s a lot more to loving her than just wrecking her. You break her to put her back together; you hold her, and listen, and make her laugh. Maybe you can’t get one side without the other: you love her, and there’s the ruination, and then there’s this.

(Maybe you wouldn’t have it any other way.)

Minnie’s jaw actually drops when she sees you two—that’s the first thing.

“Why are you even awake?” Miyeon asks her, too content for her usual bite with Minnie, their banter. It’s early—you’re dropping her off on your way to work, but you had to walk her inside: it’s common courtesy, or whatever. You might have kept Miyeon as your personal cockwarmer at your apartment for forty-eight hours straight, but—hey, chivalry’s never dead.

“God damn,” Minnie says—it’s a reaction to how Miyeon looks, or maybe you, or the two of you together; it’s a toss-up—and ignores the question entirely. “Please tell me you fed her something over the weekend besides just your cum.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say; you’re used to the lack of boundaries. You get it, now, this open obscenity, the teasing: it’s Minnie approving of you, in her own weird way. “Took a lot of convincing, though. She was like-”

“Oh, here we go,” says Miyeon, rolling her eyes mildly, and already entirely tuned in to whatever performance you’re gearing up for. She’ll play her parts and play them poorly—she’s holding your hand tight, and there are really no believable façades, after that.

You’ll let her off the hook in that regard, and no other. “She’s like—no, no, you don’t even have to feed me, your bodily fluids literally work fine-”

“This is disgusting,” says Miyeon, clearly loving it. “And slanderous. I don’t even sound like that.”

“But obviously I’m like, well, I think I’m gonna have to veto that on account of not wanting your body to shut down from malnutrition, sweetheart-”

“Responsible,” notes Minnie, lips pursed to keep from laughing.

“Right?” agrees Miyeon, grinning openly, giving up all her pretense.

Here’s the second thing, or at least how it starts: Miyeon can barely walk, and is so shaky on her feet that you kiss her temple, then pass her into Minnie’s arms, endeared as Miyeon laughs at herself, tries to keep her balance.

“Thanks for bringing her back in one piece,” Minnie says to you, taking Miyeon’s arm.

There’s something about the strange, sleepy calm of the morning, the sun still rising—it’s softening the moment, turning it to something with presence, with intention. Minnie skips past the usual ribbing, maneuvers around the back-and-forth. She’s serious when she says it, and it’s maybe the first time you’ve ever seen her like this.

“Of course,” you say. “I’d never let anything happen to her.”

Minnie’s expression slants, shifts like it’s cracking open, and there’s an abrupt, blinding vulnerability there that throws you for a loop.

“Yeah,” she says, quietly—she’s not wearing makeup, not any of her usual careful, curated adornments—but her eyes, richly dark for once, are every bit as intense as they always are. She pats Miyeon’s shoulder once as she passes through the doorway, accepting rather than possessive. “I know.”

I love her, you think of saying, but you don’t. You see it in the look on Minnie’s face: this, too, is something she already knows.

There are turning points, winding streets and landmarks. Miyeon stays a few nights, stays more. Look, you know this road, know exactly where it leads—you could hook all the rights and lefts with your eyes closed. You both know exactly where you’re going.

It’s a Friday and Miyeon’s leaning on your bathroom counter, dazzling eyes squinted as she applies mascara in the mirror, runs a fingernail under her lash line, blinks once, twice. She’s in this tiny red top, light-wash jeans ripped at the knee, blonde hair loose and wavy down her back. There’s this meticulous way she inspects her own reflection, lips curling—she knows what she looks like, how people perceive her—knows she’s got the kind of face men would walk through hell for.

(Well, those men will just have to get in fucking line.)

“Anyway, Yuqi’s band—Minnie’s supposed to be the keyboardist,” Miyeon’s saying, “but she flakes out on, like, every other gig. I took piano lessons for a while when I was younger, so I’m the next best option, or something—I fill in whenever she bails.”

There’s a show next week—apparently it’s this recurring theme, the band drama, except no one can ever stay mad at Minnie despite her being notoriously unreliable. Somehow, she’s still in the band, and no one has the heart to kick her out. You won’t pretend to know the politics of musical performance.

“I’m coming,” you say, and it’s one thing that’s not up for debate.

Miyeon meets your gaze in the mirror, eyebrows raising. “Well,” she says, mirth threading her tone, like it’d been obvious, unspoken: like she’d prefer you to be in all parts of her life, out there cheering her on. Like she’ll always do the same for you—it isn’t even a question. “I’d hope so. Okay, it’s at Club Cosmic-”

“The strip club?”

“Hey.” Miyeon’s mouth flicks up at the corners. “Burlesque club. Show them some respect.”

“Classy joint, then?” You’ve never been; you wouldn’t know.

“Oh, totally.”

She tips into your arms, won’t let you smudge her lipstick—you settle for your hand at the nape of her neck, instead, thumb tangling in a curl. She looks at you, and you’re both so far gone, so far ahead: you’ll make your jumps sooner rather than later. You’re always here for me, her gorgeous eyes say, like some reckoning—let me do something for you. Let me even the score.

“So,” you say. “There’s actually—so, I’ve been writing this story.”

“I’m aware,” says Miyeon, bemused.

“Right,” you say—this is your push, your leap—you’re falling, and Miyeon’s smiling at you like there’s never been a risk to it, never a single threat. You’re so far from where you started. You’re so close to so much more.

“Well, then,” you say, and that’s the thing about trust: when it goes both ways, it’s everything. “Do you want to read it?”

(She’s smiling at you, and it’s like you already have all the answers.)

See, there’s a practicality to the choice: that’s one part of it. Miyeon’s almost obsessively well-versed in literature—she’ll pore over thick novels just as easily as she’ll run through screenplays, dozens on articles on films she loves—and she reads just as much as you do, so you trust her judgment implicitly. In any other situation, she’d still be a perfect first reader; she’d be fair, she’d be great.

“It’s rough,” you warn her, beforehand. “It’s finished, but—it’s messy.”

Miyeon laughs, and you think of your story, how every line is punctuated with a feeling, an emotion, a passion—you think of the way she says I’m yours like it’s this immutable fact, this law of the universe. It’s all there. If she reads it, it’s all out there—and it should make you want to run, but it doesn’t.

“Don’t worry,” she says, and her fingers tangle in yours. “That doesn’t scare me.”

(The other part is that—ah, there’s nuance, there’s subtext. You trust her to pick up on all of that, too.)

You’re on all the right roads, rocketing down highways, but here’s one last detour: you tell her that weekend that you have to go into work to pick up some papers you left behind, and Miyeon offers to join you.

“I haven’t seen the school since I graduated,” she says, lips puckering. “I mean, it’d be so cool to see it again.”

“Uh-huh,” you say. There’s an angle here that you’ll choose to ignore—she’s plotting, and you’ll let her. “Well, it’s a weekend, so no one’ll be there—I can bring you if you really want to go.”

“Oh,” says Miyeon, and there’s that mind of hers: pretty, fucked up, taking fate by the throat and throttling it, making it hers and hers alone. You and she should’ve never happened, by any metric, any measure of morality or common sense—but you’re happening anyway, and she’s already miles ahead. “Isn’t that convenient?”

(It’s a detour, but you two already know where you’re going. It’s a moot point. You think everyone else must already know, too.)

You’ll take it to instincts: call it an accident, call it a fluke, call it bullshit. You’ll think of the first time you saw her in that bar, saw all the enticing lines of her body and knew you should never, ever cross them—there’s the glint of her smile like caution tape, the stunning eyes like stoplights—but you ignored all the warnings, so you’re here. Sure—actions, consequences. It’s her, and you’re paying every price.

“Wow.” Miyeon’s leaning against the corner of your desk, surveying the empty classroom. Even having her here again—and everything’s different, she’s blonde and she’s not your student and you’ve fucked her into oblivion a hundred times—is still getting you tense, riled. “It looks exactly the same.”

She’s in a big sweatshirt, one of yours. Her hair’s down, her shoes black and shiny. You’re entirely aware that this is dangerous territory, but you’re never gonna be able to pull yourself away.

“Stop,” you say, at your desk chair.

Miyeon glances over at you, all feigned innocence. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Your tone, princess.” You’re opening up one of your desk drawers, trying not to look at her too closely. “You’re forgetting how well I know you.”

You’re right on the edge of it; you’re calling her princess in the exact place the nickname was born, you’re shutting your drawer to stare at her mouth, her thighs. Eternal damnation’s calling your name, Satan’s right over your shoulder—or she’s perched on your desk, ready to eat you alive, fangs bared and raring to bite.

“And you’re forgetting how well I know you.” Miyeon steps around your desk, tilts her head—here’s Eve with the snake, here’s the definition of temptation. “You don’t want me to stop.” Her eyes are dark, devilish: you’ve got all this power over her, but sometimes you misjudge how goddamn mutual it can be until she’s in front of you, her slender legs like satin, finger tracing the zipper of her sweatshirt. “You brought me here. You knew what you were doing.”

You did, but you’ll die before you admit it. That’s the thing about a power play: when you and Miyeon are on opposite sides, there’s no backing down for either of you.

“You’re the one who wanted to come,” you say, and the tension’s unbearable, intoxicating; it’ll blow the roof off, it’ll shatter the windows.

“Huh,” she contemplates, like it’s just dawned on her. The suspense is a bomb in the room, ticking: you wait any longer and it’ll turn you both to dust. “You know—I guess you’re right.”

And then she tugs her zipper down, and it’s every single abominable sin wrapped up into one.

There aren’t even words for it, how she looks: she’s in this profanely fitted white polo, cap-sleeved and with too many buttons undone—and it’s so thin, it’s not hiding a damn thing—and there’s a tie, too, black and loose around the collar—and the skirt, pleated and plaid and so short the hem of her hoodie had covered it, so you hadn’t known, so you can’t even speak-

It’s this bastardization of a school uniform, defiling the very fucking concept of it.

“Miyeon,” you get out—and then there’s nothing else.

(Oh—it’s a lost cause, and you can’t say you weren’t expecting exactly what she’s giving you. There she is, that’s your girl: that’s your one-way ticket to hell, ready to throw herself right into your arms.)

“This is really fucked up,” you manage, finally, voice hoarse, guttural.

“Sure,” allows Miyeon, slipping out of the sweatshirt, tossing it to the desk. “But you love it.”

She even moves like sin itself, slow and deliberate as she stands in front of you, between your legs—she rests her fingers at your shoulders, thumb scraping down the side of your neck as if she’s seconds from ripping out your jugular. It’s the outfit—the classroom—the knowing way she’s looking at you, like she can sense how close you are to losing your shit, to tearing her apart.

“Come on, sir.” You’re right on the road to death’s door and she’s taking you there, she’s got her finger on the pulse, she knows all the right buttons to push—she’s so tiny and there’s all that fucking power, in her eyes, her blown pupils, her hand sliding downwards to grip your cock through your pants. “See—oh, you’re so hard.”

Miyeon squeezes, and she’s all smooth, all seduction, but what really gets you is the way the muscles at her throat constrict on a swallow, a needy desperation that she’s trying her hardest to hide—and the only reason you spot it is because you know her. You know every inch of that body, every minute reaction: she wants to be fucked so bad, she’s barely keeping it together.

“So hard for me,” she murmurs, and her tongue darts out, sweeps her full bottom lip. “It’s turning you on to think about fucking your favorite student, yeah?” There’s the rapid rise and fall of her chest: the things she can’t hide, the dead giveaways. “Thinking about filling up my tight little cunt with your cock?” There’s the corner of her mouth, tugged upwards, but the point’s not sharp enough for a smirk. “You’re gonna go insane if you can’t have me.”

It’s the taunt in it, it’s the way she says favorite student—it’s so fucked, and she needs you, and you know it-

In a quick, vicious motion, you’re reaching out and trapping her delicate wrist in your hand. Miyeon inhales so sharply that she almost chokes, cheeks suddenly, violently flushed, eyelids fluttering; she’s so close to breaking, and you haven’t even done anything yet.

“Actually,” you say—oh, you’re giving in, you’re absolutely going to hell—and you’re sure everyone saw this coming. It’s Cho Miyeon, and it’s you, and you can’t resist her—you’ll repeat history; you’ll make moves and you’ll never, ever learn from them. “I think you’re the one who’s gonna go insane if you can’t have me.” You tighten your grip—the whimper she makes is like a melody, the way she trembles in place like some obscene piece of cinema. “Look at you—you’re barely even breathing. That’s how bad you need to get fucked, princess.”

Miyeon tries to hold your gaze, tries to breathe in, out: it takes so much visible effort for her not to just collapse on the spot, to start begging and pleading for your cock, your cum—she’s still pretending like she’s got the upper hand.

You’ll show her that she’s never been more wrong. “You need to be taught a lesson, huh?”

“Maybe I do,” bites out Miyeon, and it’s taking all her energy to even manage words. “You’re my teacher, aren’t you? Isn’t that your fucking job?”

The tension fills the room, suffocating both of you, cloying like smoke in your lungs—you stare, can’t believe her god damn nerve—it fills, and it’s asphyxiating, and then all at once it snaps.

In no time flat you’re out of your seat, you’ve got Miyeon bent over your desk and her panties down her thighs, both her wrists wrapped tight in one of her fists—you’re never exactly gentle with her while you’re fucking her within an inch of her life, but there’s something different about this, feral, animalistic—she never pushes you like this. It’s the plaid skirt, it’s the environment; shit, it’s not like it matters: you’ll fuck the attitude right out of her.

It’s only seconds and then you’ve got your cock out, you’re bottoming out inside her cunt—“In case you forgot who the fuck you belong to,” you snarl, low at her neck, emphasize it with a thrust: “I’m the one who makes the rules, princess. I’m the one who owns this pussy.” You bring your other hand down hard on her ass, and she squeals, she’s already bordering tears—you’re gonna leave bruises on her wrists with how hard you’re gripping them. “Are you proud of yourself? You goaded me into fucking you in my classroom, in your slutty little uniform—does that make you feel good?”

Even if Miyeon wanted to respond, she can’t—her cheek is pressed to the wood grain of your desk, and she’s whining, sobbing, moaning—and you’re laying your claim to her, you’re destroying her cunt—that’s what this feeling is: it’s so destructive. You were her teacher years ago and you’re right back where you started. She’s in uniform, you’re railing her wet, leaking pussy, she’s been your student and now she’s acting like it: it’s sick, it’s hot, it’ll cave in the walls and leave the doors to purgatory yawning wide open, waiting for the both of you-

“Sir,” Miyeon’s blubbering, as if it’s the only thing she remembers how to say. “Sir, sir, sir-”

(Well, at least you’ll be together. At least you’ll know there’s nowhere else that’ll suit you and Miyeon quite so perfectly.)

“Cum-” Miyeon’s choking out, like her own words are strangling her. “Cum—sir, please, please, I need—cum inside me, please-”

Time slips away when you’re with her, inside her—you’re too enamored with the devil in the details, in her black tie by her mouth and spit-soaked, in her tears ruining her mascara for the millionth time—and it still all gives you this novel rush of satisfaction, of pride. You’re fucking her and you’re fucking her up. You know exactly how you got here and you still can’t fathom how it happened so fast. You’re gonna cum so soon—but for once in your life, you’re not gonna give Miyeon what she wants.

“Not a fucking chance,” you say, venomous, right at her ear. “Only good girls get to be bred.”

Now it’s your turn to switch gears, to shock her: you pull out of her and her limp body collapses to the floor, her legs askew underneath her. Miyeon cries out, and doesn’t even have time to plead, to repent: she’s sprawled on the linoleum beneath you, her pussy dripping and her plaid skirt hiked up around her hips, and then she’s looking up at you, baleful, doe-eyed, staring at how you’re jerking your cock in your fist-

Your cum splatters all over her face.

For a few heavy seconds—there’s been so much sex in the air, the slick sounds and noises, and now it’s wall-to-wall with this unearthly quiet, and you’re not even sure you’re still breathing—there’s this slackness to Miyeon’s elegant features, debased with sticky, creamy white: her mouth is open, the picture of sudden surprise, and there’s globs of your cum on her bottom lip, on her cheeks, on her right eyelid from where both eyes have fluttered shut. She’s frozen, some absolutely filthy marble statue, some pinnacle of degenerate artwork—you’ve glazed her gorgeous face in your cum, and she doesn’t move an inch. She’s so still that you aren’t sure if she’s breathing, either.

Her mouth closes.

You hold your breath while you watch her, mesmerized-

And then Miyeon’s lips tilt to this dreamy, satisfied little smile.

“God,” she exhales, and skims a thumb across her eyelid, blinks her Bambi eyes open a beat later—and then she’s just staring at the cum on her finger. It doesn’t take long—an instant and she’s got her tongue lapping at her thumb, and she’s grinning around it, still, beaming dumbly as she slurps your cum off of her own hand.

“Miyeon,” you mumble, and each syllable is shot.

“Sir,” she says, and she sounds just as wrecked as you do.

Slowly—you’d swear she’s on display, it’s performance art, she’s behind glass and showing off for all the prying eyes—she drags her slender fingers through the cum on her cheekbones, across the sloping bridge of her nose. It goes right in her eager mouth, and you’d think she’d been starving; it’s all hungry, kittenish licks as she cleans your semen off of her skin, tidying up her face meticulously, indulgently.

There’s a pause. There’s still cum on one of her eyebrows, on her chin, under a heavy-lidded, sated eye.

Miyeon asks, quietly, “Is it in my hair?”

There’s no dancing around it: it’s all over her—it’s all the build-up, it’s how you’re sure you’ve never cum faster, how you’ve lost all sense of time—in her blonde hair, sticking to the soft line of her jaw, soaking into the fabric of that sheer white polo-

“Sir,” Miyeon asks, again, in that same tremulous voice. “Did you cum in my hair?”

“Yeah,” you say, almost croaking—you can barely get it out. “It’s—yeah. Yeah.”

There’s that otherworldly quiet, again—she could be furious, but you know her, know the silence is born from something else entirely—and then one of her hands is on top of your desk, searching.

“Please,” Miyeon says, almost shuddering with the effort, the desire, and her knees slide up to her chest; you don’t realize what she’s looking for until her palm slaps your phone screen. “Can you—I want to see, can you-”

It’s like you’re on autopilot. You take your phone from the desk, and when you turn back Miyeon’s fingers have slipped between her thighs—there’s all these wet, vulgar sounds as she sinks one finger inside herself, then two, her cheeks pink, drool collecting at the corner of her mouth—she’s all desperation, complete carnal need.

(You don’t ask what she wants, because you already know.)

It’s all in front of you, the perfect, shameless snapshot. It’s so flawless a scene it might as well be scripted, practiced: her knees are parted, her hair covered in ropes of your cum—you open the camera on your phone, you point it right at her—her tie off-kilter, her fingers sloppy and soaked as they pump in and out of her pussy-

She’s filthy; she’s yours, and no one else’s. You aim your camera at her, and that’s all it really takes: you’re getting all the proof you need of exactly who Miyeon belongs to.

You flip your phone around, show her the photo—and her reaction is fucking unholy.

It’s this visceral, full-body trembling that passes through her—and you know what she’s seeing: her in this depravedly slutty uniform, her dripping with your semen, her greedily finger-fucking her cunt, her tear-filled eyes and her wet, pretty mouth—and all at once she’s gasping, panting, like something in her can’t reconcile how shattered she actually looks when she’s like this, how she’s textbook corruption, taking purity and polluting every meaning of the word-

“You like seeing yourself like that, princess?” You can’t believe this girl—can’t believe she’s even real. “Covered in my cum?”

Miyeon’s nodding wildly, strands of her blonde hair sticking to her face, tripping over her own pace as she fucks herself. Her eyes flick shut, open, keep landing on that photo of her: you don’t think she’ll ever get over it.

“Come on, baby.” You’re standing, and there’s that dynamic—she’s crumpled on the floor beneath you, not an ounce of composure, losing her mind as she drips all over her own hand. You’re not even touching her, and yet she’s looking from that picture to you, fast, manic, waiting for permission, a green light, an open door. You won’t mind giving it to her. “Make yourself cum for me.“

It’s an order in your mouth, and her fingers in her cunt, and she can’t do anything but obey.

When Miyeon cums, the way she looks is fucking pornographic—and it’s the sex, the setting, the photo on your phone as it slips from your hand and clatters to the ground—all of it: it decimates her. There’s something so dirty about you above her, watching her: small and spent on the classroom floor, limbs all limp and useless, doing exactly what you tell her and nothing else.

“I-” she tries to say, wrought with the aftermath, and it’s garbled, it’s nonsense. This is the sweetest part—how any orgasm leads straight to incoherency. “I—Jesus fuck, I…”

Miyeon looks at you, and she’s still a disaster, helpless. She holds both her arms out to you, bottom lip wobbling: it’s an offering, a request for salvation. Oh, she’s the most provocative angel you’ve ever seen, you’ll give her that—you refused her once and you’ll never manage it again.

“Alright, baby,” you say, and you’re laughing. She’s so cute—and suddenly, the indecency fogging up the room begins to filter out just from the look in her eyes. “Come here.”

You lean down to pull her up by her elbows, settle you both back into your chair. Miyeon curls into your lap, catlike, inexplicably, immediately comfortable. Your phone’s still on the ground: that incriminating picture dims before the screen goes dark from disuse; that’s another step. You’re sitting in hell, flames licking up the walls, consuming—you’ll let them take you. You’re holding her and there’s no place you’d rather be.

Miyeon’s nose bumps your neck, and she’s covered in cum, tears, sweat: there’s nothing right about this moment, not to any higher power. Neither of you are ever seeing heaven, but she’s all yours—no afterlife could give you anything better.

You’re not sure how long it takes before she speaks again, but then she does.

“It’s you.” It’s only a murmur, halting, like Miyeon’s right on the edge of some epiphany, and you’re not sure she’ll even remember saying it later. “I think—for me—I think it was always going to be you.”

(It’s probably morally reprehensible, or whatever—but you’ve got her here with you. There’s nothing that’ll ever matter more than that.)

“So, listen,” Miyeon says, once she’s at least partially recovered. “There were some implications going on there.”

“Uh,” you say, unsure where this is going. “I’d say that’s sort of an understatement.”

“I seem to recall you alluding to me being a bad girl around ten minutes ago, give or take.” Ah, here’s her angle. She’s listing her sources—she’d bring out footnotes, citations; she’d take it to visual aids, if need be. Okay, maybe she’s not completely out of character. “For example-”

“Jesus Christ,” you say, one arm around her waist, thoroughly entertained.

“I’m gonna quote you on this—‘only good girls get to be bred’. Right? You said that? So—because you didn’t end up cumming inside me, I think making the inference that you were calling me a bad girl in that moment is, like—it’s pretty logical, pretty reasonable-”

“Okay—good God, Miyeon, you can tone it down.”

“No, I’m not even playing into the student thing right now, babe. I’m dead serious.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

“You’re fucking obsessed with me,” points out Miyeon, smiling sweetly, and she’s so right, she’s never once been wrong. “Are you gonna let me make my case now?”

“You don’t have a case,” you point out, and you’re even more right than she is: that’s the two of you in a nutshell, always raising the stakes, always the devil’s advocate—going up to bat for hell and winning. “You just want me to call you my good girl again.”

Miyeon shrugs, caught and unabashed—she’s got nothing to hide from you and she knows it. “Possibly,” she says, tries for coy and veers entirely off-course; she’s grinning too wide, her gorgeous eyes crinkled up, the faint dimple in her cheek winking at you. She’ll debate for the fun of it. She never seems to mind losing to you.

“Possibly?” you echo, endeared, hand in her still-ruined hair.

The mess, the sweat: you’ll handle it all. You’ll take her home, you’ll clean her up. See, you already both know what’s next—sex isn’t where it ends so much as it’s a gateway: it’s an open door, it’s the beginning of everything. You fucked her until she sobbed, and now she’s making you laugh, and you’re gonna take her back to your place and hold her until you both fall asleep: there’s a story in that too, you think. There are hundreds.

“Can you really blame me?” Miyeon’s got her hand at your jaw, got her heart in her eyes, adoration with nothing to do but fill the room. There’s the dirtiest things you could do to her, and then there’s the way she looks at you: talk about underlying themes, context clues. She’s in your lap and there’s a bigger narrative tucked away in the wings, just aching to reveal itself—there’s a time and a place; it’ll get its turn.

It’s just like you said: there’s the ruination—the sex, the obscenity, the rough shit, the old tricks and nicknames and games—and then there’s this, hiding under it all. Everything’s so clear when you’re seeing it in the light.

“I’m yours,” Miyeon says, and she’s grinning like it’s the only true thing either of you have ever known. “I like hearing you say it out loud.”

(It’s not like it is in all the novels. It’s not a fairytale, and you’re not sure anyone here to witness it would categorize it as anything close to romance—but you have her, so you understand what they don’t: something doesn’t have to be romantic for you to know it’s love.)

It’s your own detour to wind your way out of, but you’re not doubling back on any of it—there’s that road, stretching out in front of you. There’s only one thing both of you want, and by some wholly sacrilegious miracle, you already have it.

Miyeon’s in the passenger seat of your car, again, just like all those times before—the sun’s streaming through the windshield, turning her dark eyes warm, honeyed: you’ll think of hearths, you’ll think of home. She’s with you, and you’re already there.

“You are mine, you know,” you tell her.

There’s something different about it, saying it here: during sex, it’s all possession, all power—it’s getting your hand in her hair and tugging, it’s using her like you’ve got your name branded to her body—but now you’re not, and you’re driving her back to your place, and she’s wrapped in your sweatshirt, her face tipped towards the setting sun like something out of a movie scene. It feels gentler: care, connection, hope. It feels like you should kiss her at stop signs and red lights, let her laugh into each one—oh, they’re clichés, you know that; it’s a film you’ve seen before. Well, you know what they say about fiction: there’s nothing sweeter. You’ll emulate it. You’ll say exactly what you mean.

“I’m yours, too,” you add, tilt it, attempt to go for humor, attempt to make it lighter. “In case I don’t say it enough.”

“Oh, that,” says Miyeon, vague and fond, and her eyes have fallen shut—she doesn’t even have to look at you to confirm it. It’s then, that it hits you, a tidal wave crashing overhead: there’s not a single thing she’s more sure of than the way that you feel about her.

“It’s okay,” she tells you, and she’s smiling. There’s the glittering sunset—the sea, evening itself out, finally reaching the shore. “I think I’ve known that forever.”

She spends the night at your place, falls asleep in your arms. She’s made a home out of your apartment, your bed, your heart. She’s the kind of girl people wax poetic about like they’re getting paid for it; you aren’t, and you will, anyway.

Miyeon’s in between your sheets, her body pressed against you, and for once there’s no suggestion, no innuendo. It’s you, and it’s her, and it’s the kind of love that has paragraphs flickering in bedside lamps, covering the ceiling, sewing itself on the forefront of your mind—it’s the kind of love that inspires invention, creation. There’s nothing closer to heaven than that.

The writing’s on the wall, really. There’s only one way this can end.

“Hey,” says Miyeon, the morning after. “I need to talk to you about something.”

If it were anyone else—any other relationship, any other guy facing down a pretty girl proposing a serious discussion—those words would’ve set off wailing sirens, sent men running; you get it, you do. It’s just that it’s not the same, and it never is, with you and her: Miyeon’s on the edge of your bed, legs tucked underneath her, tiny and soft in one of your faded t-shirts, looking at you like you hung the moon just for her. There’s no threat: you’re so far past that.

“Sure,” you say, sit up—she scoots towards you, knees pressing to your calves. "What’s up?”

“So.” Miyeon’s smile tilts a bit lopsided, a bit too tender for her usual flawlessness. Her pale neck’s littered with purpling hickeys, her blonde hair a little messy; there’s early light coming through your cracked blinds, turning her to a goddess, bathing her in gold. “I finished reading your story.”

It should be a killing blow—a bid for anxiety, kickstarting your heart into high gear—but it lands so, so softly. It’s her. You’re not afraid of a damn thing.

“And what’d you think?” you ask, hooking your thumb into the hem of her shirt—your shirt—tugging her close. You barely need to ask; she’s radiant, her sparkling eyes putting the sunrise to shame. You know the look. You know how long it’s been there.

“Well,” Miyeon says. “I think that you’re in love with me.”

(See, here it is, a moment straight out of cinema: let it all fall back on clichés, on swelling violins, on a laugh and a kiss and a happily ever after—oh, you’ll give up talks of hell and heaven; maybe this is what you both deserve. Maybe you’ll take it—just grab her hand and run.)

“Look at you,” you say—you’re so breathless, you’re playing it off so badly—you skim her waist, and watch as she goes soft at your touch. “Noticing all the subtext.”

Sure, there’s that thing you said about her being the best student you’ve ever had, about loving literature, about being able to read between the lines—but there’s this, too, the real truth: no one understands you like she does. It wouldn’t matter what you wrote—she’s reading it, and she knows your mind like she knows her own, and there’s nothing left that you’d ever want to hide.

“Yeah.” Miyeon goes for a sigh, a valiant attempt at nonchalance. It’d probably be more effective if she wasn’t beaming the way she is, stealing sunlight just to keep it in her smile. “Which would probably be, like, super fucking awkward, but—I’m in love with you too, so I guess you get a pass.”

There’s something about it, something that knocks the air clean out of your lungs—and you’ve known it this whole time, but it’s so different when she says it out loud—and there’s something in the glimmer of her irises, love threatening to pour out of her and never stop, contained only by some grace of some god and nothing less—you don’t know how the room’s intact, how the sky hasn’t fallen, how time hasn’t stopped just to watch her: she’s everything, you want to say, and you will, you swear—something about this moment, about everything slipping right into place-

“You love me,” you say, stunned, struck dumb.

“Obviously.”

“I love you,” you tell her, because you can’t help yourself.

“Believe it or not, that’s actually even more obvious.”

There’s that haphazard front of hers: Miyeon’s trying to keep it snarky, sarcastic, but her arms are looped around your neck, and it’s a battle she’s already lost. She’s seconds from letting it all go, pressing your mouth to yours, saying I love you, saying you’re mine, saying there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you and I mean it.

It’s in those eyes: you see it. She’s so close.

“Princess,” you say, smiling like you’ll never stop, and that’s all she needs to break.

Her blush is instant—so is the way she’s kissing you. “Shut up,” she exhales into your mouth, and she’s giggling—your hands are in her hair, and she’s almost in your lap—and her fingers trap your cheeks, claim you as her own. She’s so vibrant she puts every other pretty thing to static, background noise; the world mutes itself, paints her as the focal point. “Shut up. You knew how I felt this whole time, didn’t you?”

There’s always space to take a joke as far as she’ll let you. “Well, sure. It was the sex that tipped me off, you know: way too intense to be casual. I realized somewhere down the line that you had to love me at least a little bit.”

“Oh, really?” Miyeon’s catching your tone, calling your bluff. Every single front’s crumbling, worthless with what they’re up against. “That’s what it was, then?”

“No,” you admit, giving it up—you always will. “It’s because it’s you. I don’t know anyone better than I know you.”

You’ve been a writer for what feels like forever; you’ve penned every feeling to death and then some, dreamt up every figure of speech, every possible convoluted phrase. It’s just that you’ve never felt anything like this before—call it fate and it’s not enough, call it love and it is, but it’s more. You’ll never be able to put it into words—you’ll spend the rest of your life trying.

(You’ll be just fine if you don’t find it. You feel it, and it’s all you need. You’ll be alright.)

You don’t know when it happened, but there’s a sheen in Miyeon’s eyes—she’s got your face in her hands, she’s got your heart and made it her home—and you don’t think there’s ever been anyone so breathtaking, so happy, so alive.

“I love you,” she says—oh, there’s a declaration, a confession fit for the classics. You stroke Miyeon’s jaw, and her tears don’t fall, and her voice is thick, and she’s smiling so wide. “I really love you. Like-” Miyeon’s laughter breaks her sentence, and the sound’s like music—you swear the universe goes silent just to listen in. “Fuck. This is really—this is kind of fucking crazy. What are we supposed to say when people ask how we met? I mean—god, people are gonna think we’re insane-”

“I don’t care,” you say, blunt, and the laugh you earn from her is irresistible—even if you spend the rest of your life hearing it, you don’t think it’d be enough. “I love you. What else matters?”

There’s no need to say it out loud: you already both know the answer. Miyeon leans in, touches her forehead to yours, eyelids slipping shut. “Say it again.”

“I love you.“ You kiss her, because you have to—she’s right there, and she’s beautiful, and she’s yours. “We don’t need anything more than that.”

There’s a pause here for a final score, an epilogue, a closing scene—it’s there, but it never comes. Maybe the only way this can end is for it not to end at all.

"You and me,” muses Miyeon, and it’s an echo from nights ago, a line of poetry she’d left hanging—she’ll wrap up every loose thread, write it all just for you. You’ll have more. You’ve got all that road ahead of you, and her by your side: there’s not a single conclusion in sight. “We’re gonna be really good together, huh?”

“Baby,” you tell her, grinning, and it’s only just the beginning. “I think we already are.”

thank you all for 600+ notes on the first part… hope you enjoyed <3

we could call it even (twice nayeon)

(smut, idol Nayeon, car sex [oral], semi-public sex, choking, fluff, angst [kind of], 12k words)

For the record, it’s been seven years since you last saw Im Nayeon in the flesh.

You don’t really like to think about it: about being sixteen and getting the news that your best friend in the whole world - the person who’d been by your side as long as you could remember, the person who’d been there for every single significant event in your life, who you’d been with through tears and failed tests and shitty high school relationships and nights spent at the beach in your hometown, running right into the waves the moment school let out - was heading off to chase her dream, to become wildly, unimaginably famous, which meant that you probably wouldn’t see her again for a very, very long time.

“It might not even go anywhere,” Nayeon told you, wrapped up in a towel, the two of you huddled together on the beach, stars glimmering overhead. “I might - I mean, it’s totally possible that I’m going to fail miserably.”

“You won’t,” you said, wistful, because you were acutely aware that Im Nayeon - gorgeous and charismatic and talented beyond belief, even then - was meant for so much more than anything she could get in your town. “There’s no chance you’re going to fail.”

Nayeon glanced over at you, bottom lip caught between her teeth, eyes glassy, and you already both knew that things would never be the same.

So - that’s where it ends, really, or at least where it should. She left, and got famous, and you stayed, and went to college. She didn’t keep in touch, because she couldn’t, and you didn’t expect her to. You stayed and you loved her and you understood.

It’s not like you haven’t been keeping up with her, though.

See, she’s everywhere: magazines, social media, on the radio, playing over the speakers in every store - there’s that voice, that perfect face, that body in form-fitting gowns and slinky designer dresses, caught by paparazzi in jeans and crop tops - now she’s all grown up, and a superstar, and so breathtakingly beautiful you do a double take every time you see her. Snapshots of her on red carpets, music videos; Nayeon’s present all the time, even when she’s not with you. You’ll be okay with it, you think. Not everything’s meant to last forever. Sometimes, it’s just a moment, but it’s enough.

Your childhood best friend, taking the world by storm; you, behind the scenes, always cheering her on. Like you said, that’s where it all should end. Call it there - give it a clean break. It’s what you both deserve.

It’s all over, except you’re in grad school, and it’s winter break, and by some miracle, you’re both in your hometown at the same time.

You don’t know it right away. You’re too caught up in the stunning nostalgia of your childhood bedroom, which is so deeply saturated with Nayeon’s presence that it’s almost like she’s still there - almost like she never left. It’s the pictures, it’s the candle on your nightstand that she bought for you, graphic t-shirts in your dresser that she used to steal; being here is like cracking open a time capsule, playing a supercut of the two of you, a short film cutting off right before the end. It’s more than a little bit suffocating, this kind of history spread out right in front of you, but you’ll deal. You always have.

You’ve been here for a day, and you’re still settling in. It’s a sleepy afternoon, chilly in mid-winter, but the sun’s out, and the sky’s clear and cloudless. You step outside with your keys in your hand, about to go for a drive - there are ways to seek out nostalgia without drowning in it; you’re thinking old streets, movie theaters, coffee shops-

You stop short, confused.

You don’t actually make the connections, at first. Look, you were never close with Nayeon’s family: for all you know, they could’ve moved away years ago; you wouldn’t be surprised. And there’s no reason for her to be here - so it’s a fleeting thought, flickering out like a light.

Plus, the girl you see right now, loitering by the car parked in the driveway of the house across the street, has long, silky blonde hair, catching in the sun like a halo. So - there’s no chance, you’re thinking, no way: it’s some new neighbor, or, like, a criminal - well, she’s tiny, she’s unassuming, so probably not that, but still-

The girl keeps leaning in, mumbling to herself, checking the back left tire.

“Oh, shit,” she says, suddenly, and then lands a very ill-placed kick to the tire with her shoe.

It’s a bad choice. It must hurt, because she gasps, tips to balance herself on the car - you notice her nails, which are these ridiculous acrylics, talon-sharp and with swirly white patterns - and you can’t see her expression, but her head ducks, swivels fast, glancing from her shoe to the tire, and then-

“Shit,” she says, again, and she bursts out laughing - and that’s when you realize it.

Even from all the way across the street where you can’t see her face, even though this girl is blonde and there’s zero fucking chance she should be here right now, kicking her parents’ car with one of her beat-up leather boots - it’s all in that laugh, ringing brilliantly in the air like the music she makes. It’s been seven years, and it’s still her.

“Nayeon,” you call. It’s not a question. You’ve never been more sure of yourself.

She turns, and - God - it’s like everything kicks into sudden slow motion, blurs, sharpens; you see her like you’re seeing her for the first time, and in an instant, it’s all in perfect clarity.

There’s that face: the one across billboards, album covers, the one in every photograph you have from high school, pressed close to yours - and abruptly it’s like you can’t even breathe, looking at her. Oh, none of the pictures do her justice, but you already knew that: she’s unbelievable, and right in front of you, and so, so real.

It’s something straight out of a movie, out of some fantasy, a far-off dream. Nayeon stands, straightens, stares, stares-

Then, casual to the point of comedy, she says, “Hey.”

And it’s all so easy: like it hasn’t been years since you two have spoken, like you might be sixteen again and preparing to corral her to your side so you two can go to the beach - so natural, like nothing has changed at all. Nayeon props a hand on her hip, gestures to the car, asks, “Does this tire look flat to you?”

You’ll play along. Hey, you always did. “Um,” you say, from the sidewalk, grinning like an idiot. “I’m not an expert or anything, but - yeah, it does look kind of fucked up, huh?”

“Kind of,” agrees Nayeon.

“Yeah.”

Nayeon doesn’t even look at the tire; doesn’t take her eyes off of you for even a second. She’s so insanely, impossibly beautiful - and then her full lips crack to a smile, flashing her teeth at you, radiant enough to rival the sun.

“Hey,” she says, again, except now her voice is thick with emotion.

“Hey,” you echo, and wait.

It takes one beat, then two, and then Nayeon’s running at you, her laugh carrying on the wind. Her leather boots clap on the asphalt, her blonde hair streaming behind her, giving up every act, every attempt at playing it cool. It’s just like her, around you again: you’ll click right back into place like it’s the only thing you were ever meant to do, and-

“Oh my god,” Nayeon exhales, and then she’s launching herself right into your arms.

For those few moments - those moments when you catch her around the waist, and her hands loop around your neck, and you hug her body close to you, half-drunk on the smell of her hair - she’s not Im Nayeon, global phenomenon; she’s your Nayeon, your best friend, your girl, yours. Yours, and she’s laughing that wonderful, infectious laugh, giddy like she knows it.

It’s been seven years - and then Nayeon pulls back, palms slipping to cup your cheeks, and it’s like it’s been no time at all.

“Oh my god,” she whispers again, reverent. “You…”

Her thumbs find the sides of your face, the dimples bracketing your mouth that she used to obsess over, and her words slip away into nothing. “Me?” you ask, teasing her. “You. That hair, Nayeon-”

“It fits me, right?” Nayeon’s tongue pokes out between her teeth, eyes sparkling. There’s something about her name on your lips: it makes her shiver, and you press your fingers into her hips, needing her closer - her chin’s tilted up at you, expression open, like she needs the exact same thing. “It’s for my new comeback. No one’s seen it yet.”

“Saving it for me?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

You laugh out loud - the vulgarity. You can’t imagine she’s been able to be so profane in her day-to-day life, not in her line of work: she’s had to be pristine, this whole time, holding back with a camera-ready smile and a script. It’s something else, seeing her instead of her image. There’s something you’ll test later - what rules she’s ready to break, after all this time. You’ll get back to it.

Nayeon’s beaming, sunlight threading through her hair. She’s still got your face in her hands, and you’ve got your hands on her waist, and there are no boundaries like you’ve never spent any time apart. “You look so…”

She trails off, flushing prettily.

“I look so what?” you prompt, entertained.

“No,” says Nayeon, accusatorily. She pats your cheek with one hand, and there’s that charming glint of her front teeth in her grin - that’s a smile people’d pay just to see, and they have. “I’m not saying it.”

“You don’t have to,” you say, and pat her hip in retaliation. It gets another laugh from her, bright and pleased. “I know what you meant.” You grin, pull her closer, add, “Right back at you.”

You could kiss her and you don’t. Instead, you draw her into your arms, hug her body tight to yours, feel all the new, firm muscle where youthful softness used to be; everything seems so different, on the surface, and you’re both older and busier and there’s her blonde hair, her nails, how every part of her seems planned and curated, a trademark of the celebrity life - she’s in a cream-colored sweater and jeans and no makeup, and still looks permanently silver-screen perfect. It’s been years, and she’s grown into herself elegantly, beautifully. It’s been years, and she’s in your arms again, and she’s become everything she wanted to be and more.

Nayeon buries her face in your neck, and takes a few deep, shuddering breaths, trying to keep it together - and you realize that maybe some things never change.

See, you and Nayeon never actually date in high school.

There’s all this pretense, at first. You’ve spent basically all your lives glued to each other’s sides, right on the edge of codependence, but it’s high school, and it’s the status quo, so you both try dating other people. It’s not that it’s totally disastrous, or anything - it’s just that none of the relationships last, and none of them are as important as the two of you together.

“They’re so boring,” Nayeon complained to you one day, both of you in your living room, watching some movie, her feet kicked up in your lap. “Well - okay, maybe that’s not totally accurate. It’s just - every date I go on, I just think of how much more fun it would be if you were there.”

“Yeah,” you said, pinching her knee, earning a squeal from her. “You, me, and your boy toy of the week. It’d be a laugh riot.”

“Fuck off,” said Nayeon, nose wrinkling, staving off a smile. “No, I mean - if you were there instead of him.”

So - sure, it’s really obvious, and everyone who knows you two sees it too. It’s you, and it’s her, and no one else is ever really going to be able to compete.

The reason why you never say it out loud is because of the only thing bigger than how you feel about her: Nayeon’s ambitions, her goals, her passion and drive. She doesn’t belong in this town, with you. She’s got stars in those gorgeous eyes, dreams of glitz and glamour and fame - and if there’s one thing you know about Im Nayeon, it’s that she knows exactly what she wants and just how to get it. You sort of always know that one day she’s going to end up leaving you behind. You know that the thought of tying her down, shackling her to the streets of this town, to you - it makes you nauseous. Holding a girl like that back would be a mortal sin: the universe would never forgive you for it.

(You know it all the way up until the night before she leaves for good, when she kisses you at your front door, her suitcases already packed - it’s not the first time you’ve kissed her, and it certainly doesn’t feel like the last, but you know it’s all you’ve got for now.

Don’t forget about me, alright? Nayeon said, then, tears in her eyes, tears in yours.

Never, you said. I could never.

You didn’t tell her you loved her, because you wanted to have something to give her when she came back, no matter how long it took.)

You and Nayeon never actually date in high school, but somehow - as delightfully easy as breathing, as inevitable as the stars slipping right into alignment - you two end up falling in love anyway.

It’s seven years later, and your heart is hers, just the same way as it always has been.

“No one knows I’m here,” Nayeon tells you now, from the passenger seat of your car; turns out her tire actually is flat, so now you’re chauffeuring her around, basically - not like you’re complaining. “I’ve done a pretty decent job at keeping my childhood private - the general public cares a lot more about my present than my past.”

Plus, no one knows she’s blonde yet, you point out, not even her fans. “Because you were saving that for me,” you insist. “You wanted to get my opinion first.”

“Shut up,” says Nayeon, then softens, goes serious. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t sure if you’d even be here, you know.”

The truth is you haven’t been, for the most part. Your university’s around an hour and a half away, and you don’t visit as much as you should. But now you’re here, and she’s here, and you’ve been driving in circles for the past hour - going past your old school, the church, all the rich neighborhoods. It’d be too risky to actually go anywhere, so this is what you’ve got, and neither of you seem to mind.

“Hey,” you tell her, flick your blinker, hook a left. “I’m always going to be here.”

You’re not talking about the town. When you glance over at Nayeon, she’s got this tilt to her mouth, a telltale sign: she understands exactly what you mean.

You’re falling back into old rhythms, patterns. You go through a drive-through, and Nayeon studiously stares out the window the whole time, trying to cover her face with her hair - it’s an admirable attempt at staying incognito, considering anyone who takes a single look at those eyes and that dazzling smile is going to know exactly who she is.

“Smooth,” you say when it’s over, pulling into the parking lot. You’re splitting a giant coffee and it’s like you’re back in high school. “Were you just planning on holing up in your house the whole time you’re back? You can’t exactly go anywhere without being recognized.”

You both click your seatbelts off, and now Nayeon’s got her legs tucked to her chest, her cheek resting on the tops of her knees. “Honestly?” She waves her hand at you, glittering acrylics flashing - you tip the coffee towards her, let her sip from the straw. “I didn’t really plan any of this. I had time off for once, so I took it. It’s the holidays, so it was just…” She shrugs. “The most reasonable plan of action, I guess.”

“You could’ve gone anywhere,” you say; you’re fishing for something, and she knows it. “Like, way more fun places than this shitty town. Los Angeles. The Bahamas. Paris.”

“Sure.”

“So?” You set the coffee in one of the cup holders. “Why didn’t you?”

You and Nayeon were best friends for so long that you basically grew to share a brain, thoughts, opinions - there were those times you’d look at her and know exactly what she was thinking, those times where just a lift of her eyebrows or a curl to her lips could communicate whole sentences, sentiments - things with her have always been so natural, so instinctual. It should be awkward, after seven years, after her rise to fame and your lack thereof. There should be oceans between you, whole worlds. There should be stumbling, time to find footing, missteps and whatever thread always tied you two together at least frayed, if not snapped entirely.

There should be, but there isn’t. Nayeon’s always been able to read your mind just like you can read hers, and that’s not about to stop now.

“You don’t need me to answer that,” she says, gaze stuck on your eyes, your teeth, your throat. The two of you are just as inevitable as you always were, and she’ll prove it. “I think you already know.”

Like you said, you’ve kissed Nayeon before: too many times to count.

You don’t really have a logical explanation, for all of that. It’s just that when you were younger you two spent every waking moment together, and you two were deliberately, unusually touchy: you can’t even begin to fathom the amount of times your classmates ran into you and Nayeon in the halls, or at parties, and pointedly backed off like they thought they were interrupting something.

(Well, they kind of were - it’d be her with a grip on your forearm, her with her legs in your lap, you with an arm slung around her shoulders, her waist, caught up in some conversation that was only comprehensible to you two. It’d have killed you to be apart, back then, even though you always knew it was coming. You knew you’d be ripped apart, eventually. You took all the time you could get.)

The kissing - you can’t even blame that on alcohol, can’t fall back on cop-outs or excuses. It wasn’t like you two ever truly planned for it to go down like it did. Just - sometimes, you’d be looking at her, so filled with unbridled, uncontained affection, something you couldn’t even begin to put into words - you’d see her eyes, and the soft way she’d look at you, and it was like everything you’d wanted had already happened.

So that’s where it starts, really: you’d kiss her just to make a point, tilt her face towards yours, slot your lips together. If it were anyone else, they’d have freaked, called you insane; Nayeon just smiled afterwards, eyes shutting, content and understanding, the kind of knowing that comes with whatever cosmic connection that was obviously keeping you two tangled up together beyond repair - intertwined at the hands, at the heart.

You didn’t talk about it, because she was always leaving, even while she was right there with you. You could feel it, more than anything. You’ve always sort of been running out of time.

The point is - well, you’ve kissed her plenty of times, just to tell her how you felt without saying it out loud. Careful, and gentle, and with all the clear intention in the world.

(The point is, it’s all these years later, and you know exactly how it feels to watch Nayeon leave. The point is that you have nothing left to lose, so-)

You’ve driven around so long that it’s dark outside. You’ve talked for hours, recapping the past seven years as best you can, hanging on each other’s every word: going through friends and careers and drama and conflict in excruciating, meticulous detail, and you’re still not even close to being done. It’s pouring outside, raindrops coating the windshield, and Nayeon says, abruptly, “I’m leaving in a week.”

“Okay,” you say, and pull your car into the driveway.

It’s not a question, and it’s the opposite of tension. You park the car and step out, and she’s right there at the passenger side, rain soaking her blonde hair, dripping down her neck, staring at you. It’s pitch-black outside, but there are those eyes: luminescent, longing personified. She’s the most famous woman in the country - you’ve seen those eyes everywhere. It’s nothing compared to having her in front of you now.

“A week,” Nayeon says, again, shutting the car door. “That’s all we’ve got.”

It’s not a question, so you don’t answer it.

It all gets away from you, in a split second - time, and your mind, and all your inhibitions - you’re rounding the car, and then you’ve got your hands in her drenched hair. Your mouth’s inches from hers, and her lips are already parted - you think of deja vu, you think this has already happened, or it was already meant to - you think of crazy, impossible things, and then you kiss her.

Nayeon melts underneath you, like succumbing to a wound - no, it’s too soft to be that, too safe - like slipping between sheets, like finding rest and relief after months on your feet - it’s a thunderstorm after a drought, an oasis, a second chance - and she’s so small when you press her against the car, as her mouth opens, spine curving, hands finding the nape of your neck.

The energy between you is electric, a shock to a system: it’ll be an overload, if you don’t fuck her right now - it’s been too long, it’ll blow all the breakers. You need her and it’ll kill you if you don’t have her. “Nayeon,” you murmur, fingers tangling in her hair, hips trapping her to the car door-

Nayeon makes this otherworldly noise into your mouth, high and keening and needy, and for a beat you actually think you’re going to die.

“Your house,” gasps Nayeon, panting when she pulls back, the pressure from what feels like eons wanting you and being denied finally dropping to the pavement, washing away with the rain. “Is it - please tell me no one’s home.”

It’s the two of you, and every single star aligns, for once in seven years: call it a comet, an eclipse, something to capture and study and scrutinize. “No one’s home.”

There’s that moonlight, gleaming overhead, breaking through the clouds. It bathes Nayeon like it’s blessing her, like it sees the extraordinary life she’s led so far and deems her deserving of it - like it looks at you, and by some million-in-one chance, by some surreal string of fate, it deems you deserving of her.

(Maybe you are, then. Maybe you always were.)

“Okay,” says Nayeon, and her hand takes yours - for a moment, you swear she’d run away with you, leave it all behind. “Then let’s go.”

Somehow, in the dark, you still know her.

You stumble up to your bedroom and you never even make it to the light switch - the moon’s coming in through slats in your blinds, the rain’s a drum line, a soundtrack - and Nayeon’s peeling off your shirt, fumbling with her ridiculous nails at the button of your jeans.

“Don’t strain yourself,” you say, grinning, your hands finding the hem of her top. “Your company will crucify you if you fuck up that manicure.”

“Fuck you,” says Nayeon, and suddenly she’s laughing, a harmony to the growing storm outside. She pops the button, drags the zipper, slow like she knows she’s unraveling you in the process. “Fuck you. Fuck me.”

The rain’s got her soaked to the skin - you get her sweater off, and then her jeans, and she’s in this scarlet-red bra, matching panties - it’s an image straight out of all your wet dreams, and you can’t help but stare, mouth agape, fingers lingering at her hips. Nayeon’s too flawless to be real; she’s smirking at you like she knows it. She’s used to be ogled, stared at, lusted after: she’s used to people wanting to rip her apart, and she’ll act like it.

“Jesus christ,” you say, unable to tear your eyes off her body - there’s her collarbone, her tits, her smooth, toned midriff - her wet hair, her creamy thighs - it’s all there, just for you. No one else gets to see her like this, no eager fan or follower - just you.

“Right?” says Nayeon, breathless and amused, high on how you’re looking at her. “Red really is my color.”

Somehow the arrogance only heightens the mood, the overwhelming arousal steeping the room. Something about making a god learn manners, respect; something about taking a deity and putting her in her place. “That ego,” you consider, skating your nails up her back, stopping at the clasp of her bra.

“What about it?”

“No, nothing.” You unhook it, grin at the shaky breath it gets from her. “I just think you might need to get it fucked out of you.”

Nayeon’s used to being mythologized, idolized, painted so perfect that everyone arounds her considers her something more than human, more than magic: she’s got hundreds of thousands of people ready to kneel at her feet, give her the world on a silver platter. She’s been spoiled, you think, tracing her body with your fingertips. She’s been treated like carved marble, behind glass and roped off, invulnerable, untouchable.

(But here you are, anyway: the one person on the planet who truly knew her before all that - before fame took hold of a girl and made her a legend. Before fame took the love of your life and let everyone else fall in love with her, too. Well, you’re not about to blame them; you never could.)

Nayeon’s staring at you, a challenge in her eyes, a sharp, secret violence in her smile.

“I don’t know about all that,” she says, “but you can try.”

It’s a dare, it’s a taunt - after all this time, and you’re still the only one who can match her beat for beat, touch for touch: there’s her bra, slipping to the floor, there’s your thumb over her nipples, hardening them to points, your teeth on her chest and leaving marks. She’s on your bed, her damp hair tumbling over one shoulder, the intoxicating ring of her irises like a shot in the dark.

“You don’t even know,” pants Nayeon, voice thick with heat, as you stroke her pussy through her panties. “You don’t even fucking know how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Oh,” you say, and pull her underwear to the side roughly - there’s that cunt, just for you, glistening and sopping wet and so, so ready - and a smirk finds your mouth, just off the brink of cruel. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

Nayeon’s so greedy, and you get it - she’s gotten everything she’s ever wanted for years and years, without question or hesitation - and she’s reaching for your hand, your fingers, needing you inside her in any way she can get you. She’s beyond wet; you already know she’s going to ruin your sheets, she’s gonna ruin something-

“Watch it,” you snap, grabbing her wrist so hard she yelps. “If you wanna get fucked, Nayeon, you need to behave.”

“Please,” Nayeon shoots back. The words tremble - she’s so turned on, she can’t hide it - but she’ll never back down from a fight. “I could get anybody to fuck me. I could walk out of here right now and have someone else’s dick in me in ten minutes.”

She’s rambling. You’re gonna bruise her wrist. Her tits heave as she tries to catch her breath, and when you brush against her pussy with your other hand, she lets out this gorgeous, weakened whimper - you’ve got her, you’ll make an example of a higher power, take an idol and make her human again.

“Sure.” Your fingers find her clit, teasing; Nayeon’s eyes snap to yours, ferocious, murderous. “But you don’t want just anybody.” Your dick throbs - there’s something primal, animalistic; if you wait any longer she’s gonna jump you, take what she wants and fuck you stupid. It’d be a threat if you didn’t want the exact same thing. “You want me.”

“Fucking asshole,” says Nayeon, hoarsely, but then you’ve got two fingers in her, her pussy clenching around you, and there’s a waning edge in the hostility: you know her too well. She’s not into being patient, ever. There’s never been a line between you two that she hasn’t been willing to toe. “You know - you know I never wanted anyone but you.”

That’s the blow, the bomb that’ll implode the two of you - or it would, but there’s never been a single secret between you and Nayeon, and that’s not about to change now.

“I know,” you manage, stunned, mesmerized by her, your palm falling from her wrist to her flat stomach, your fingers sliding out of her with an obscene, slick sound. “I know.”

“Please,” she begs. “Please fuck me.”

It’s filthy, it’s feelings, it’s years in the making. The head of your cock is at her needy, drooling cunt, and you can see it in her eyes, in the bruising marks you left scattered across her tits, her throat. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been. No one’s ever going to know her how you know her - no one’s ever even going to come close.

Your bury your dick inside of her, and it’s like there’s an ache you’ve waited lifetimes to relieve - and then, finally, ultimately, you’ve got her perfect pussy just for you, and you relieve it.

“God,” you hiss; Nayeon’s already whining, squirming under your hand firmly at her middle, holding her down - you think of going for her neck and you will, you think of flipping her over and watching her ass bounce back on your cock, and it’ll happen - but working your dick inside her impossibly tight pussy is more than enough for the time being; you’ve got your hands full, figuratively, literally. “This fucking pussy, Nayeon-”

You say her name, and it wrecks her - her fingers find yours where they’re balanced on her midriff, curling around you - and her jaw is slack, expletives falling from between her pretty, pouty lips like she’s never been advised to keep up a clean image. She’s with you, and she’s nothing like she is on camera. “Fuck me,” she’s babbling, “fuck me, fuck - your cock is so - fucking big, fucking me so good-”

She’s nothing like she is on camera, wrapped around your cock and crying out, but she’s everything that Im Nayeon has always been, otherwise: beautiful, irresistible, the most incomparable thing this town’s ever seen, and ever would. There’s all that bite to her, but she’s giving it up. You’re fucking her and for once she’s not gonna fight you on that.

“Just like I thought,” you murmur, and your thumb skates over her clit, gets a squeal, gets several. “You were fucking made to take my cock, weren’t you?”

You’re back in your time capsule of a room, and your veins are on fire, skin up in flames - you knew you wouldn’t be able to fuck her without dragging emotions into it, dragging your heart along as you pound Nayeon’s cunt, jerk your hips and get her screaming - you know that when you say it, you’re really saying something else, too. We were always going to end up this way, weren’t we?

“Yes,” Nayeon moans, voice ripping at the seams - it’s all the pleasure, all the anticipation, consuming, devouring. “Yes, yes, yes-”

You’re captivated by every single sound out of her mouth, every minute expression of that face, every gut-wrenching squeeze of her pussy, tight around your cock - call it a vice, the way she clamps down around you, the way you indulge in her perfect body like it’s a drug you’re using. Nayeon’s features crumple, fold: you’ve seen her onstage with all that bravado, all that confidence, showing off for a crowd - you’ve seen her hips and her tits and her tiny waist in form-fitting, skimpy outfits, practically painted to every curve - but now, she’s all for you.

(Hey, maybe her ego’s contagious; maybe you’ve got the girl everybody wants, and you get why they all treat her like a god.)

You’ll mind all your breaking points. “Cum for me, baby,” you order, and Nayeon screams.

There’s no air in the room, anymore, none in your lungs - it’s a fire without oxygen, nowhere to stay or go or feed on - and as she’s still shaking from her orgasm, jaw slack, you’re pulling out of her just to shoot your load all over the flawless, flat plane of her stomach, covering her skin in your cum - there’s everyone’s god, now, underneath you, slutty and sloppy and so thoroughly fucked-

“Oh, god,” Nayeon chokes out, strangled, the moment your cum soaks her. “Oh my god-”

It’s all in the air, with the two of you: the sex, the intimacy, the history. You take her stunning face in her hands and you dip to kiss her, fully aware of how responsive she is, the very second your lips meets hers. There’s a moan, there’s the arch of her back, there’s her tongue licking desperately into your mouth - “Nayeon,” you murmur, and tip your forehead to hers. Her breath’s uneven, eyelids fluttered shut. “Nayeon.”

Her eyes are closed, but a smile finds her lips, lights up her whole face; it’s a smile you’ve seen forever, in photos, across billboards, in all your best memories.

“You don’t even understand what you do to me,” she says, serenely, faintly. “When you say my name like that.”

There’s all that desire, and then the quiet honesty, and you swear a moment like this could last a lifetime. “Hey,” you say, and kiss her face - her nose, her forehead, both cheeks. You’ll take her as long as she’ll have you. “I think we’ve established by now that I know all about what I do to you.”

Nayeon’s a little hypnotized by how much you came across her stomach, a little stuck on it - you get up to get her some tissues, and when you turn around, she’s got cum-covered nails in her mouth, sucking on them shamelessly. The noises she’s making are fucked, and you stare.

“Fucking hell,” you say, dropping at her side on the bed.

“What?” asks Nayeon sweetly, licking her bottom lip. “You’re the one who came all over me. What did you want me to do?”

She’s trying to go for your usual banter, but it’s too soft, her smile too knowing and familiar, her body too open and comfortable. You can’t call this a one-night stand, can’t call it a fluke - she’s so safe in your bed that it looks like she’d stay there forever, if she could, you and her and these four walls.

Nayeon’s clothes are all over your floor, and you clean up all that silky skin. Her hair’s a mess, and the moon’s still coming through your window, glossing her body, her gorgeous eyes. You watch her face, and you can read her as well as you always have: every thought, every single intent.

(She’ll have to let this go, but she’s got a week to feel it first. It’s torture, the ticking clock, but it’s nothing the two of you haven’t had to feel already.)

“I can’t believe we haven’t done that before,” muses Nayeon, as you brush her hair off her forehead - she’ll have to take a shower, and you’ll have to join her, naturally. “Well, what’s the verdict?”

You eye her, sensing the jab like she’s already said it. “Sorry?”

“Fucking someone famous.” Nayeon tilts her head, smile sparkling like the stage lights she spends all her time under. “Was it everything you thought it would be?”

“Shut up.” You grab her at the hips, and she laughs, a mess of giggles, filling the space - she’s a celebrity, she’s larger than life - you’re the only one who can ground her like this. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” you say, touching your lips to the top of her head. “That’s the only reason I wanted to fuck you, Nayeon. Because you’re famous. That’s all this is, obviously. Thanks for the bragging rights.”

The sarcasm drenches each syllable, and Nayeon laughs louder - she can read your every thought, but this one’s a lie that’s too clear to call out: you loved her long before all the superstardom, all the money, all the recognition. She knows exactly how you feel about her, and she won’t pretend otherwise. You know just how she feels about you, and it’s the most certain you’ve ever been about anything.

“Oh,” she says coyly, and leans in to kiss you. “You’re so welcome.”

The next morning, you’re taking inventory, staring at the girl in your bed and wondering how you’re going to explain this to your parents. She’s dressed by now, in one of your t-shirts and a pair of your pajama pants, drawstring pulled tight around her small waist and so oversized they cover her feet - that’s already bad enough, but then there’s her neck, pale skin marred with hickeys - okay, it’s worse.

“How do you feel about sneaking out the window?” you ask.

Nayeon tries to kick you and almost slides off the bed. “You think your parents will care that we had sex?” Her hair’s freshly washed, tied up and out of her face. “They’ve wanted you to marry me since the first time I came over.”

You gape at her, but her nose crinkles up with her grin, and, well - it’s not like she’s wrong.

True to her word, your parents are thrilled that she’s here - they’ve never really grasped the scope of exactly what a big deal Nayeon is, now, so they treat her just like they did when she was younger, spending breakfasts and family dinners with you, fitting in so smoothly it was like she’d always been there. To your parents, you think they’ll kind of always see Nayeon as that bright-eyed, eternally charming girl that stuck by your side like you’d both collapse if you had to be apart. There’s that same smile, that effervescent laugh - you can’t really fault them for it.

“How long are you here?” your mom asks her, as she’s making breakfast, and Nayeon’s at the kitchen table, nonchalantly recounting stories of all her famous friends. “Just for the holidays?”

“A week,” says Nayeon, glancing at you, mouth twisting ruefully.

Your mom makes a sympathetic noise. “Oh, that’s not very long, huh.”

Compare it to the seven years you spent apart - and no, it’s not. It’s a blip, a snag in time. In the grand scheme of things, it’d probably be nothing.

“No,” agrees Nayeon; it’s never nothing, when it’s the two of you. Her hand finds yours under the table, and it’s everything that matters, wrapped up in an hourglass, sand slipping through your fingers. “But we’ll make it count.”

“We’ll make it count?” you berate her, later, in the car as you’re driving up to the mansions on the hill, testing codes for gated communities, pointing out gaudy architecture like you’re real estate snobs - it’s an old game, a remnant from high school shenanigans. Nayeon could buy this whole neighborhood, and it’s somehow become hilarious, all these years later. “Way to tell my mom that you and I are going to be fucking nonstop the whole time you’re here-”

“Like she didn’t already know,” says Nayeon, unapologetic, and points to her neck. She’s still in your clothes: no point in getting dressed when she can’t exactly leave the car without getting recognized, but you think she’d stay in your t-shirts all week, regardless.

It’s an old story, between the two of you. “You’re such a slut.”

“Yeah, and you’re directly benefiting from it, so I don’t know why you’re complaining.”

She says it like a proposition, and - hey, that’s an opportunity you’re never going to pass up. You’ll cash your checks, reap your benefits. You’ll pull off to the side of the road and throw the car in park, bury your hand in her hair as she leans over the console, tugs down your pants, gets her pouty lips wrapped around your dick in record time-

“What would your fans say?” you tell her, lowly, hypnotized by how she gags around you. “Seeing their angelic little idol with a cock shoved down her throat.”

Nayeon pulls back just to laugh, raspy and shot, spit dripping from the corners of her mouth. “They’d fucking love it and you know it.”

You’re up in the hills, in the midst of construction sites, all danger and risk and safety hazards waiting to happen; you can’t get enough of how Nayeon slobbers around your cock, how she’s everything you’ve ever wanted wrapped up in one - the slickness of her tongue, the tightness of her throat, her blonde ponytail in your fist as her head bobs, fast, faster-

When you cum in Nayeon’s mouth, she chokes on it, can’t even swallow it all down. “Jesus fucking christ,” she gets out, and she’s giggling, so pleased with herself, wiping the cum dribbling from her lips, down her chin. “You - wow.” She taps the head of your cock with the ridged back of one of her nails, works her jaw like she’s trying to memorize the feeling of your dick filling her mouth. “Your cock is so sensitive.”

“Gloating?” you ask, struggling to catch your breath. “That’s - like - that’s such a turn-off, Nayeon.”

It’d be slightly more convincing if she didn’t still have your cum staining her lips. “Liar.”

You hook your fingers in the collar of the shirt she’s wearing, tug her closer to nip at her neck - she gives this noise that’s somewhere between an affronted squeal and an aroused, needy exhale. She’s so easy, but so are you. She’s so transparent, but with this little time there’s nothing else to be.

You’ll make it work; you’ll catch up. “Fine,” you admit, pressing down on hickeys you’ll only darken, aggravate - she’s got you wrapped around her finger, but at least it’s mutual. “I guess your narcissism is kind of sexy, or whatever.”

“I hate your fucking guts,” says Nayeon, but she’s smiling.

There’s all this ease to it, something you’ve never found with anyone else; something you don’t think you’ll ever find again. You two have always been a little obsessed with each other.

“More than a little,” Nayeon revises, considering it; you’re three days in, walking back all your history. You can’t keep your hands off of each other, can’t keep your mouths closed, can’t keep from falling for the millionth time. “I just remember thinking that I could tell you about every embarrassing shitty thing I’d ever done, and you’d just listen, and not make fun of me for it. You knew what I could handle, you know?”

You get what she means: teenage boys like to tease, to insult - you weren’t exempt from that, but you looked at Nayeon and you always seemed to know what lines never to cross. How to be gentle with her, when you knew she needed it.

“You too,” you point out; Nayeon was perceptive when it counted, reading rooms, boundaries. She’d defend you to the death without hesitation. “Whenever I was with you, I knew I could trust you. Like I felt safe with you.”

You can think of situations where you’d feel emasculated, admitting it - but there’s Nayeon with her eyes, her genuine, generous smile, sitting at your desk chair, jeans and a gauzy white top. She gets you, and you never have to explain, never have to bother with defenses. You’re with her and vulnerability spills like it’s never had a reason not to.

“All this past tense,” pegs Nayeon, charmed more than concerned.

“Right,” you say, realizing. “Hey, it all still applies. I feel safe with you.”

There’s your past: teachers knowing you two were a matching set, classmates calling her your other half, texting any second you were apart, touching the moment you were together again. Shifting from jokes to sincerity so easily, ride-or-die in all senses of the phrase. Well, here’s your present: there’s the sex, now, and that’s another angle to it. You’d think it’d ruin a friendship this intense; you’d assume it’d only complicate things - you’d be wrong. There’s never been anything simpler, between you and Nayeon.

Nayeon softens, and rises from your chair just to fit herself into your arms. There’s that smile: no one gets me like you get me, she’s saying. You’ve got only days left; you’re picking your battles. You’ll remember everything that made you two exactly who you are now.

(Oh - it’s not like you ever really forgot. Nayeon’s got all the love and attention she could ever need, and she’s still here, with you.)

“Flattery,” Nayeon says, finally, arching an eyebrow at you, her face too adorable for the suggestive tilt to her voice, “will get you everywhere.”

Her palm slips to your chest, finds your heart. “I’m not even trying to flatter you,” you say, amused. “And if I was, I can do better than that.”

“Then do better,” replies Nayeon, rapid-fire. “What, you need some incentive?”

It’s just like the two of you: teasing, to truth, to seconds away from ripping each other’s clothes off, taking sexual tension and bending it entirely to your will. There’s so many routes to intimacy - you loop your fingers in the waistband of her jeans, and this is the one you’re choosing tonight. She’s leaving, either way. You’ll fuck her like you’ve got all the time you could ever need.

You’re all about old habits, the two of you: your jaw drops when you get her out of her clothes, and then you laugh so hard you almost topple over.

“I’m sorry,” you say, enamored, fascinated, “you packed lingerie for a holiday break in your hometown? So - you aren’t even pretending that your plan wasn’t to get fucked, now.”

Nayeon sticks out her bottom lip, furrows her brows. She’s playing at irritated, but she’s too proud of herself, how your eyes are glued to her body even though the laughter - she plants her hands on her waist, and that’s only one place to look. Her lingerie’s all lacy and black and ribboned, panties so tiny you could snap them between your fingers, the cups of her bra with scalloped edges, fit to every curve like it was custom-made for her. It’s Im Nayeon, anyway: you wouldn’t be surprised if it was.

“What can I say?” She shifts, tosses her pale curtain of hair over a slender shoulder. All those cracks about her ego - well, you won’t lie here: it’s so fucking hot. “I like to be prepared.”

You hook your fingers in the sides of her panties, tangling your grip in what virtually amounts to nothing but flimsy strings, biting into the creamy skin of her hips. “Was this expensive?”

“Very.” Nayeon’s dark eyes flash at you, already following where you’re going. Perks of fucking someone who basically shares half your brain. “Which means if you rip any of it in any way, you’re paying for the damage.”

“You’d foot the bill for me,” you say, one hand already going to cup her pussy.

Nayeon’s knees tremble, glare slipping down a few watts - she attempts to recover, to double back with twice the venom. It’s a valiant effort, or it would be, if she weren’t so visibly, undeniably desperate. “Uh, the fuck I would.”

“Hm.” She’s already soaked, and the whine you get from her when you slip a finger inside her cunt is music all her fans would bankrupt themselves just to hear. “I think I could probably find a way to convince you.”

You rip the panties, because you know what lines to never cross, and which ones Nayeon’s just begging you to run right through. “See?” you say, gratified, as you make her cum, and cum, and cum. “Told you: I can be very convincing.“

You think she’d probably try to put up a fight, on this one, but she’s too busy clamping down tight around your cock, her gorgeous eyes rolling back into her head, lips dropping moan after moan. She shudders when you slide out of her, your cum dripping from her pussy, and curls up right to your side - okay, so maybe there’s no fighting anything. Nayeon presses her lips to your jaw, and smiles like her own satisfaction is a secret she’s hiding.

“I’ll let it slide,” she whispers, soft against your neck. “Only just this once. Only for you.”

Here’s the thing: you’re running out of time, but you always were. You could ask her to stay with you, give it all up, but you won’t; you’d never. She fills you in on every minute detail of her life, and she’s so happy - you’ve never seen her so happy.

“Fame suits me,” says Nayeon, unashamed. “It’s exhausting and fucked and anxiety-inducing - and it’s so much fun. It’s exhilarating. It’s like - it’s a non-stop adrenaline rush.” She laughs, free, talking the dream she’s living into reality - like you’d ever be able to wrap your head around it. “I think I’m kind of good at it, too.”

Her lips quirk at a corner, a deliberate understatement; she never needs to act humble with you.

Nayeon doesn’t even have an agenda, with this. She loves talking about her life, all the opportunity: the events, the fans, the attention, the way she can sing anything and people will listen. You talk about your own life, your major and your mentors and the friends you’ve made, and it’s then that you realize it-

“We really did make it,” you tell her, a little wondrously. “Without each other.”

Nayeon’s curled up to your side, on your couch. Something’s playing on the TV that she keeps laughing at, her whole face scrunching with delight. She looks at you sideways, says, “You didn’t think we would.”

It’s not a question, and you know because now she’s playing with the cuff of your shirt, bottom lip tucked into her mouth thoughtfully. Codependent - everyone said you were. You had a lot of skeptics, looking at the two of you, people disbelieving that either of you would even survive after Nayeon left.

“I wasn’t sure if we would, either,” she says, quietly.

Her life’s all in lights, in every magazine, spread across all the websites; yours is the opposite, but she listens to all your stories anyway - she gets the gist. You’re happy, too. You’ve worked hard to get where you are and it’s all you could’ve ever asked for. You and Nayeon have got success in completely different places, but you’ve got it anyway: you’ve found it all on your own.

“But we did,” says Nayeon, after a beat. There’s a joke on the television that she grins at, wrapped up in your arms. She’s leaving in a few days, a bomb waiting to go off. There’s an implication in this, something she’s not telling you but you understand anyway. “We did make it.”

We did make it, she’s saying. We can make it again, you and me. You with me, even if we’re worlds apart.

Your thumb skims her cheek, slips into her hair. Nayeon looks over at you, then says, “Give me your phone.”

You twist so she can slip it out of your back pocket - she knows your passcode, knows every facet of your life down to the letter. “Nayeon?” you ask, a little puzzled, as her nails click across your screen, the top of her head bumping your chin. “Are you…”

“Shh,” she says, mildly, then without warning, she’s on the camera, flipping the phone to take a picture of the two of you. You raise your eyebrows, intrigued; she’s falling back on her idol training, a peace sign and her tongue poking out from the corner of her mouth. “There,” she says, after, tapping once and then handing the phone back, a new, decisive set to her lips. “That’s my number. My real number.”

Your gaze drops to the phone screen - there it is, her number and her name and the picture she’d taken sitting as the contact photo - and when you glance back, Nayeon’s observing your face, checking for your reaction: if you’re in this just as much as she is. If you’re serious - if you’re really going to do this. If you get what’s going to come next and if you’re ready for it.

“I can call you on this?” you ask, slightly struck.

Nayeon scoffs, eyes sparkling, shoulder pressed to yours. “Uh - yeah, genius, that’s kind of the point.”

You’re smiling too wide. “So…”

“So if you leak my phone number, my company’s gonna sue you for everything you’re worth,” Nayeon says, haughtily, rapping her knuckles against your thigh. She’s severing the sentimentality of the moment, covering it up with humor. You get it - it’s a way out, an exit route. You know what she means by this even if she’s not saying it out loud.

“Okay,” you murmur, and kiss her temple. Nayeon’s nose scrunches up, pleased. There’s another one-liner on the show you’re watching, and this time it makes you both laugh, Nayeon hiding her giggles in the back of her hand. You’d think it’d be the point where the moment snaps shut, but instead it’s spreading, encompassing - like in a few days, she’ll be on the next flight back to the place she calls home, and you’ll still be able to feel her next to you, music in her laugh, forever wound in the curve of her smile.

She’s leaving, already. Her number’s in your phone, her heart’s in your hands. She’s leaving, but for once, maybe it doesn’t mean that anything has to end.

There are two days left, so you’re taking all the chances you can get. Sure, there’s catching up on shows, gossip; there’s her in your room, telling you things that probably break NDAs - from the outside looking in, you’d never guess that she’s at this ungodly level of fame and that you two haven’t talked in seven years. It’s all so normal, so relaxed, so cute.

Well - okay, most of it is cute. As long as you’re overlooking all the-

“You know, if you get any louder, we’re gonna get caught.”

Your week’s almost up, and you’ve got all your extended family filling your house, so you’ve found your escape the only way you can: in the backyard, your cock tapping against Nayeon’s pouty lips, the both of you drenched in shadow. And - true to form - she’s being a fucking menace about the blowjob that she’s barely giving you.

Everything’s pared down to the tactile, the physical; her hair’s back in two braids that you’ll tug, she’s testing your patience. You glare down at her - her fingers wrap around your cock just to release it. “And who’s fault would that be?”

Nayeon’s tongue darts out to lap at the head of your cock, flicking fast, eyes trained on you, watching as you struggle to keep it together, struggle not to wrap your hand in her hair and bury your dick inside her throat. She’s a tease like it’s her job - because if you think about it, it kind of is. There’s that intoxicating, cunning glint in her eye: she could do this all day.

“You’re fucking evil,” you manage, voice strained.

Like you said, Nayeon’s always had that ego - all the fame’s only stoked the fire. “Sorry?” she murmurs, blinking pointedly up at you, breath hot on your cock, torturous. “I can leave right now, if you wanted to take care of this all by yourself.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re not gonna get to if you keep talking to me like that.”

Oh, that’s a threat with absolutely zero weight behind it, but you already know it. A split second after you cum in her mouth - she’s still wiping semen off her chin, cheeks puffing out trying to swallow it all - you’ve got her up against you, your hand down the front of her sweatpants, her pussy already dripping wet, getting her right to the edge of her orgasm like it’s nothing.

“Look at you,” you say, vicious like a risk just begging to be taken; you know exactly what she wants and how to give it to her. “Now who’s being loud?”

Nayeon tries to roll her eyes only to get caught on a climax, instead. Ah, well: it’s one way for you to call it even.

“I’d kiss you,” she tells you, after, “but some guy just came in my mouth five minutes ago.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you say, unnecessarily - you’ll make her, instead.

Your time’s almost up. She wakes up in your bed on the very last day, hickeys spanning her neck, her tits, her thighs. You run your fingers along them and wonder how the two of you are ever going to get away with this. “What’s your company going to say about this?”

Nayeon laughs, soft in the morning, sun-soaked and ethereal. “Contrary to popular belief,” she says - she’s built her living around playing coy, showing just enough to tantalize, baring what’ll draw allure and nothing more - “it’s not my company’s job to keep me out of trouble.”

“No?”

“Nope.” There’s that gorgeous face, those eyes trapping stars, captivating anyone who even comes close. “It’s to keep everyone from finding out about it.”

“Oh,” you say, grinning. “Is that right?”

“Yep.” When Nayeon kisses you, it’s like a promise she’s making, an oath she’ll make and swear on. “Believe me,” she says, and smiles just to sign on the dotted line. “I can get into all the trouble that I want.”

You stay in for old times’ sake, enjoy no one’s company but each other’s - wrapped in your duvet, Nayeon half in your lap - except instead of talking about shitty classes and dramas and movies you’re planning on watching together, Nayeon’s tilting her phone towards you, letting you flick through unreleased photos for her new comeback. “Perks of fucking me,” she tells you crassly, conversationally, like that’s all it is - the fond curl of her mouth betrays her. “You get all the sneak peeks.”

“I’m getting more than a peek,” you say, struck dumb by a series of photos of Nayeon in this sinfully tight, abominably short pink bodysuit, monogrammed with red. It’s fucked up, so you’ll say it out loud. “Jesus, this outfit.”

Nayeon taps the screen excitedly, nails clicking; it’s beyond adorable how excited she gets about it all, about the music and the aesthetics and the clothes and the choreography - it’s one thing to see her on-screen, and it’s another entirely to see all the passion in person, all the effort. It’s times like this where you understand it all perfectly: if there’s anything in the world she was made for, it’s this. “Right? It was made from this Louis Vuitton towel just for me to wear it - insane, no?”

“Yeah,” you say, gawking at the photos of her with those mouthwatering thighs all on display, the buttons popped at the collar. She’d said red was her color - and it is, but it’s Nayeon, and every color looks like it was created for her. “It’s fucked up.”

“That it’s made out of a towel? I actually thought it was ingenious.”

You take a look at her expression - there’s that mischief in her eyes, a dead giveaway. “Obviously not that,” you say, then amend, humoring her, “well, that’s cool, too. You’re right. A towel - ingenious.”

“Totally.”

You clip her on the hip, making Nayeon gasp, go to pinch you on the shoulder. “No,” you correct, dodging, “the fucked up thing is how hot you are.”

Nayeon’s in one of your t-shirts and her own underwear and nothing else, her neck so marked up that anyone would think she’d gotten mauled, her blonde hair disheveled from sleep and tumbling over her shoulders. You’ve never once had a filter around each other - never had any room for embarrassment or shame, between the two of you.

“You and that flattery,” says Nayeon, her teeth gleaming in her grin.

“Uh-huh.” You press the phone back in her hand, lift your eyebrows in a provocation. “Where’s it getting me?”

Nayeon clicks it off, tilts her head like she’s studying you. You’ll take all your last risks before you wrap it up. “Where do you wanna go?”

You bring it back to the start. You end up on the beach, the two of you curled up on a towel, another one around both your shoulders, staring out at the waves: there’s the moonlight overhead, everything hazy like you’re living in a dream.

It’s freezing, so you won’t touch the water. Nayeon’s head is on your shoulder, and neither of you want to snap the silence, but you will, anyway. It’s a night for confessions - there’s the moon, listening; the waves, all salt and seafoam, thinning out to reach the sand. Nayeon whispers, like she’s afraid someone will hear her, “I’m gonna miss this.”

Your hand is slipped under her cardigan, thumb notched under the strap of her tank top - sometimes it’s like you’d just die if you weren’t touching her. Her fist’s at the hem of your shirt, nails brushing your abdomen; you know she’s always felt the same way.

“I know,” you say, and there’s no one else to hear it, but for once Nayeon’s right here, and it’s enough, and she doesn’t need an audience to prove it. “Me too.”

There’s a presence to this kind of intimacy, how it blooms, how it settles. It’s freezing, so you’ll pull her body into yours - there’s the wind, there’s the risk of being caught, nipping at all her smooth skin - and there’s never been any sex like this, for either of you. It’s more than just feral, more than just fucking: Nayeon moans your name, lets her back arch like she has no control over her body, lets her cunt clench tight around your cock like the only thing she has control over is you.

“Please,” she whimpers, the swirling winter air stealing the words right out from her lungs. “Please - please fuck me, please cum in me, I need to feel your cum - filling me up, wanna feel it leaking out of me - please.”

The beach is empty, but you’d fuck her the same way in front of rooms full of people, of watchful, prying eyes. It’s all meant to be secret, something between the two of you and no one else - you’ll keep it as long as you have her, safe somewhere in your chest, spread between your fingers. When she falls back to flashing cameras and adoring fans, she’ll play like she’s up for grabs, but she isn’t: she’s yours, in every way. She’s yours, always.

“I’m yours,” Nayeon breathes into your neck, pliable and needy underneath you, every part of her body reaching for you as if you’re her first and only instinct. “Yours, yours.”

Please don’t forget, her eyes beg you. Please love me like this forever.

Your fingers wrap around the pale column of her throat - you’ll steal her words this time around, make her eyelids shutter and her eyebrows draw together, panting; she’s slicker than the ocean around you, thighs salty with sweat, cum - and when you squeeze, Nayeon falls apart.

She’ll be gone tomorrow. She’ll be gone, and there’s no telling when she’s coming back.

“Baby,” you exhale, dipping to kiss her, shuddering as your orgasm builds like it’s something to break. You can’t even fuck her without throwing your feelings right at her feet; can’t have her neck in your hand without having her heart, too. There’s no separating the sex and the sentiment. She’s your best friend, she’s the love of your life; you’ll never have one without the other. “Always.”

Forever, you tell her, in your lips on hers, in her nails scoring welts down your back. Years in the making, and it all culminates here. I’ll love you forever.

Nayeon’s whining and writhing and gasping for air by the time you cum inside her, and the moment you let up on her throat she’s rising to kiss you again. There’s so much, between the two of you - there’s the ocean, threatening to drown, consume; there’s fame, alive in every shimmering skyline - and then there’s her number sitting in your phone, a years-long yearning waiting to become something more. The stars are overhead, aligning. The moon’s winking at you, turning all the tides.

You kiss her one more time, and say, “Let’s go home.”

It’s the middle of the night, and you’re back in your bed together, thumbing her ribs like you’re counting lifelines, following the curve of her waist like you’re cartographing all the places you’ve already been. You’ll be back, someday. You’ll trace her bare wrist, follow the pathways of her veins right on home.

“You know I always loved you, right?” Nayeon asks, voice soft, close.

It’s not the time for insecurity, for mincing words, for purposeful ignorance. “Yeah.”

“You know I still do, then.” Nayeon lifts her head, irises glinting with unshed tears, her blonde hair a mess over her forehead. Fame turned a girl into a god, and she came back to you anyway. She’ll do it again, in time. “Don’t you?”

“Nayeon.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” you say, heart high in your throat. “I know. I always knew. I love you, too.”

There’s too much emotion in the room for words, and Nayeon finds your mouth in the dark like she’s been doing it her whole life. You’ve said so much already. You’ll crack open every window, let the air in; you’ll crack your chest apart, and let your love breathe.

The morning comes, and it’s time for a return to form - you’ve got lives to live, both of you. Responsibilities, obligations. There’s something in the sunrise, like it’s calling her back; the limelight won’t know how to survive without Im Nayeon sparkling under it. She can’t stay. She never could.

“It’s been fun, I guess,” says Nayeon flippantly, defaulting to stupid humor; if she doesn’t make you both laugh, then you’ll both crumble.

“Shut up,” you say, thickly, as she takes your hand, drags you out of bed. Her eyes are glassy, her fingers laced with yours like she’s scared to let go. “You’re such a dumbass.”

You lean in to kiss the crown of her head. There’s a twist to Nayeon’s mouth, tender - and you know that even when she does let your hand go, you’re still going to be hers and hers alone.

Well, you know what they say about distance, absence: it’ll all make the heart grow fonder. It’d been true, before. Maybe it can be true again.

“What an optimistic take,” says Nayeon, dryly, and her bottom lip’s already trembling, breathing already uneven as she tries to choke back tears. You’re out on the sidewalk again, and it’s all circling back, cyclical; she’s in your arms, and you’re both right where you started. “I agree completely. Seven years wasn’t enough. I need to get away from you, stat.”

It’s so her, making dumb jokes just so she doesn’t sob herself to pieces. Her hair’s spilling over her shoulders, golden; her stunning eyes are locked on yours, one hand pressed to the side of your neck, thumb finding your jaw. There’s a car waiting, her luggage packed up and put away; it’s gonna hurt, and you already know it. Nayeon’s shoulders are high like she’s preparing herself for some physical ache, the moment she steps away - she’s putting up her fronts, but they’re all slipping. She’s putting up a good fight and it’s already lost.

“I love you,” you say, emotion twining up your throat, and it’s enough to cleave her façade in two.

“Fuck,” Nayeon manages, and lifts her wrist over her mouth, expression collapsing in on itself. “I know. I love you. I’m - I’m so sorry-”

“Hey, hey-”

You go to everything you’ve ever learned, all the ways to ground Nayeon again before she floats away: there’s her face in your hands, and you’re looking right at her, firm so she can see how serious you are. “Hey,” you say, trying to soothe her even as your own heart threatens to constrict, shut off; she’s more important. She always has been. “You don’t need to be sorry, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong. This is just - it’s just how it is. We both know that.”

It’s been seven years: you and Nayeon, and it’s the oldest story ever told. It’s no one’s fault - not hers, for everything she’s accomplished; not yours, for not begging her to stay.

(See, she’s got the whole world waiting with bated breath, clamoring to get a glimpse of her. She’s got her whole life at her fingertips, ready for her to reclaim her titles. You’d never, ever hold her back.)

“Yeah,” chokes out Nayeon, visibly distraught, eyes wide and watery, “but, like - it still fucking sucks.”

It’s not the place, or the time - you’re both fracturing at every place that’s already been broken, over and over - but she says this, and it’s such a crass, blunt, stupid way to sum it all up. You can’t help it. She says it, and before you know it, you’re both dying laughing.

Nayeon’s leaning into you, breaths caught on giggles, on sobs - laughing like it’s all okay, laughing like she’s not leaving - and her fingers are gripping your elbows, her face crinkling up, that brilliant grin even through her tears. “Nayeon,” you get out, and your adoration strikes a match through your bloodstream, forest-fire flames licking, demolishing. That’s your girl: so gorgeous no one else exists. “Nayeon.”

She’s laughing, and free, and wonderful, and in that one stunning moment, you feel it: you know you’re both going to be okay.

“Like, this is stupid.” Nayeon’s still on her tirade, her palm slapping your forearm vigorously, pitch picking up. You can’t stop smiling, can’t stop the tears building; you’ve never loved anyone more, and never will. “We’re in love and all that shit. We’ve always been in love. Why - I just - I feel like we never have enough time.”

“Nayeon,” you say, for the third time, and finally her focus tunnels completely and only on you.

“What?”

“We’ll be alright,” you say, and press your lips to her forehead so she knows you mean it. “We have all the time in the world.”

She kisses you, one last time. It’s a prospect, or that oath she’ll swear to keep, coming back around. She’s in your arms, chin tipped up at you, and there are doors you’ll throw wide open, hurdles to get over. It’s not going to be easy, this kind of love, this kind of distance, but you’ll make it work. You’ll love each other, and it’ll work.

Nayeon’s smiling up at you, heavy-hearted, hopeful, eyes glittering like constellations. “Promise me something.”

Anything, you think of saying. Anything you want and I’ll do it. “Okay.”

“Call me.” Her hands are in yours - there’s the sun, overhead, and it can’t even hope to compete with her. “If I can’t answer, leave me voicemails. Text me. Tell me everything, even the dumb shit.” There’s that pain building in her voice, half-strangling her - you tap the inside of her wrist, mind her pulse points. You’ll listen like everyone does. “I’m going to miss so much of your life, but - make me feel like I won’t, okay? Make me feel like I’m there.”

“I promise,” you say, softly.

Nayeon sinks into your arms, breath catching, stumbling. You bury your face in her hair and wonder if you can memorialize a second in time like this one, weave it into your soul, lock it up in your ribcage; if there’s a way to take this feeling and make it physical - if there’s a way to cup it between your palms and make it forever.

“One more,” whispers Nayeon, into your neck. “Make me one more promise.”

“Anything,” you tell her, out loud - there’s not a thing you’d ever hide from her.

“Promise you’ll remember that I’ll come back to you.”

It’s an exhale, a pause to take a breath. It’s not even a question. Your pinky finds hers, coils them together. “I promise,” you say, and you feel her smile against your skin.

Whatever thread’s always been between you two knots, and tightens, encased in steel - you’ll feel it even miles away, whatever’s tying her to you, tugging at your heart, linking your fingers. You’ll feel her, even if it takes years; oh, it’s Nayeon, and there’s nothing you won’t do. You’ll have faith. You’ll keep your arms open, ready for her to come running home. She’ll love you from worlds away, and you know she always will.

(I promise, you say, and you know you’re gonna make it.)

Her car leaves, peeling off the asphalt, taking her back to a universe that adores her, worships her, would do anything to possess her and make her theirs. You could stand on the sidewalk forever, unmoving. You could let your own life disintegrate into nothing. You could cry, and scream, and curse out every deity you can think of, damn everything pulling you two apart down to hell.

Instead, you call her.

"Oh, shit,” Nayeon says, on the other line, forgoing any greeting. “I just left three seconds ago. If you can’t even handle that, this relationship is totally fucked.”

You can still hear the remnants of tears in her voice, the ghost of watery laughter. A phone call can’t hide a thing - not from you. “I love you.”

A sigh, a huff, a put-upon irritation that’s seconds from cracking wide open. “You’re so clingy. How are you gonna survive on just phone sex until you see me again?”

“Nayeon,” you say, grinning.

“I love you,” she says, with all the unabashed endearment in the world, and just like all her songs, you swear it’s a melody sweet enough to break records. “I’ll see you soon.”

You smile up at the open sky, and you know that you will.

stream IM NAYEON <3

hard to break the habit ((g)i-dle yuqi, minnie)

(smut, public sex, degradation, choking, biting, squirting, car sex, anal, threesome, strap-ons, sadomasochism, mentions of blood, sex tapes, fluff, 22k words, technically a companion fic to this but you don’t have to read that one first)

Here’s the thing about this disaster, this whole mess with Minnie and Yuqi - you can’t even go for denial. Oh, it’s all documented: you’ve got all this picture proof. Photos, videos, hidden folders on computers - you’ve got Yuqi’s pink hair all over it, Minnie’s black bangs, skin on skin on skin-

“Wow,” says Yuqi, in front of Minnie’s laptop, with Minnie half in her lap and half in yours. “You’re actually really photogenic, now that I’m looking at all this. It’s kind of crazy.”

“Thanks,” you say. “I’m glad that’s your main takeaway from our sex tapes.”

It’s so crude. You’d never thought yourself the type for it: all the pornographic filth, the focus, the filmography. If you were a more creatively inclined person, you could probably find some art in it, but that’s not your style and you won’t bother. Every video is hard evidence that you three’ll permanently ruin each other one day, if you keep going on like this.

“You know what my main takeaway is?” Minnie asks, a proposition in the way she looks between the two of you. There’s a danger to it, but - well, you can’t really bring yourself to give a fuck.

Yuqi glances at her, lips twitching: there’s a smile she’s suppressing. “What?”

“I think we’d be really great in a sequel.”

Well, if you wanna talk main players, settings and scenes, you should know that this is how it all begins:

It’s a weekend - isn’t it always? - and there’s a burlesque club - that one’s a little rarer - but Club Cosmic’s a classic, a stage pointedly set for debauchery. Call it a breeding ground for that kind of shit, or something like that. You’re behind the bar. You’re always a little removed from the action. You’re a professional, but then there’s nights like this.

“Fancy meeting you here,” you tell Jeon Soyeon, as she hops up on a barstool.

“I didn’t know you were working tonight.“ Soyeon’s unaffected by the patented customer service charm - you’ve been friends for long enough that you know all of each other’s tricks. “Is it usually this packed?”

“Yep.” You’ve worked at Club Cosmic as a bartender for a few months now, and there’s always something for everyone, that’s their selling point: there’s the scantily clad women, and then there’s the music. “Saturdays. What are you doing here?”

“My band?” Soyeon waves a hand behind her vaguely, like it’ll somehow summon the rest of her bandmates. “We got booked here because our keyboardist is friends with Lisa.”

“Oh, congrats!” Saturdays, like you said: it’s Club Cosmic’s version of an open mic night, where they let outside performers take the stage. You really have to impress the manager to get a gig here - or at least exercise strategic friendships. Lisa’s the new rookie choreographer, but she’s brilliant, she’s got pull here. Hey, that’s showbiz: all about connections.

“That’s so cool,” you say, and you mean it. “I can’t believe I haven’t seen your band play yet.” Soyeon’s busy, you’re busy: the stars never quite seem to align.

Soyeon’s lips tilt. “Well,” she says, and they’re all aligning now. “I hope we don’t disappoint.”

You get swept up in the rush of the night, easily. The music’s great, the club’s dark, the people are chatty and every woman wants something from you, and not just drinks. It’s the whole himbo thing you’ve got going on, Soyeon tells you, and frequently - you just seem dumb as shit, she’d said, and not meanly. Like, so clueless, but in a very well-intentioned way. It’s very compelling, to the right people.

Is that a compliment? you’d said, at the time.

I’d take it as one, Soyeon replied, so you did.

“I swear I don’t mind filling in.” When you check back in with Soyeon, there’s a remarkably pretty blonde girl sitting beside her, barely loud enough to be heard over the music. “Plus,” the blonde girl’s saying, “my boyfriend’s never seen me play before, so for once she did me a favor by being such a flake.”

Onstage, one of the regular performers is charming the crowd, doing some routine with a chair, a blazer she’s peeling off. She strips - the crowd goes wild. Soyeon notices you before the blonde does, says, “Hey, let me get your opinion on something.”

“Sure.”

Soyeon ducks her head, leans in to combat the whooping audience. “Purely hypothetical, here,” she says. “If you were in a band, and you had a member of your band who ditches a ton of your gigs, would you kick them out?”

You’d never be in a band because your musical talent is nonexistent, but that’s neither here nor there. “Well,” you say, genuinely considering. “It depends. Are they my friend? Are they ditching gigs for a good reason? If that’s the case, then I’d probably let it slide.”

Soyeon laughs, like you’re predictable. “That’s sweet,” says the blonde girl, tipping forward. “Hey, you go to our college, right? I’m-”

“Oh my god.”

Like it’s nothing - like she’s not interrupting a damn thing, and if she were, she’d be completely justified - a girl plops herself right into the seat next to Soyeon. “Literally,” she pronounces, smacking both hands palm-down on the bar like she’s readying for war, “the only reason we got the gig is because of her connections - or what-the-fuck-ever - and she can’t even be bothered to show up?”

This is obviously related to Soyeon’s hypothetical - and this girl obviously disagrees with you, vehemently. That’d be enough to strike up a debate, but there’s one thing that’s keeping you from words, from a fight waiting to happen, and it’s the only point more obvious than your conflicting opinions-

See, she’s a huffy whirlwind of pink hair and wild hand gestures and this smoky perfume that carries even across the bar - and she’s unbelievably, insanely, mind-numbingly beautiful. You’d argue your position, but you can’t even speak. You shouldn’t stare but you’re staring. She’s all dark eyes, sparkly eyeshadow, eyebrows furrowed ferociously - she’s got the face of an angel, the cadence of a goddamn chainsmoker - she jams one of her nails straight to the lip of the counter, parts her pink-glossed lips-

“She needs to die,” the girl says. “The next time I see her, I’m beating the shit out of her.”

She’s got this vicious edge that shouldn’t be nearly as captivating as it is. She’s being loud, overdramatic, aggressive, antagonistic. She’s clearly a little batshit, and it’s so fucking stupid - but you’re kind of obsessed on sight.

“Chill,” says Soyeon, admirably unfazed. “I know you’re a lunatic, but dial it back a little.”

“Fine, okay.” The pink-haired girl rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, throat bobbing as she swallows: you’re caught on every single move. “Death is too far. She just needs to get kicked out of the band, stat.”

“You think you could beat the shit out of her?” the blonde asks, mouth in a delicate curl. “Please be serious.”

“I am.” The pink-haired girl leans her elbows back on the counter, suddenly perfectly smug. There’s an visible arrogance to her that shouldn’t be charming and somehow is anyway. “I could do a lot of things to her.”

“Oh, gross-“

Without any warning - and you think there should be, alarms wailing, lights flashing; no one should be expected to face her without at least some prior tip-off - the girl shifts on her stool, and zeroes in on you with sniper-shot precision.

“Eavesdropping is fucking rude,” the girl says. “I should report you to your boss.”

“Uh,“ you say, because she’s so hot head-on that your brain forgets how to string together a sentence.

“Jesus Christ, Yuqi.” Soyeon swivels on her stool. “He’s not eavesdropping. I was having a conversation with him and then you just barged in, so if anyone’s being rude, it’s you.”

“Oh,” says the girl - Yuqi - and she’s delightfully, wholly unapologetic. She shrugs a shoulder at you, unperturbed. “My bad, man.”

“No problem,” you say, and you don’t know how anyone in the room is looking at anything but her.

“I wouldn’t have actually reported you to your boss.” You’re stuck on those night-sky eyes, the alluring fix of her mouth, the way her lip gloss complements the pink of her hair like she’s straight out of a painting, a pointed example of color theory. “I’m not a snitch. Just - you know, making threats is pretty fun sometimes. All the drama. Hey, you’re kind of cute - has anyone ever told you that before?”

You’re not blushing - you don’t do that - but it’s sort of close. You can’t help it; she’s just such a production, the hair and the mouth and the attitude.

“Oh my god,” mumbles the blonde to Yuqi, hands over her eyes, appalled. “Be normal, I’m begging you.”

“Sure,” you say to Yuqi, miraculously keeping your cool. “I’ve heard it once or twice.”

Yuqi’s very conspicuously eyeing your biceps in your shirt. “Do you work out a lot? You look like you work out.”

It’d be flirtatious in any other context - and maybe it still is, in this one - but there’s this matter-of-fact way that she says it that makes it slightly hilarious. You don’t know where you’re going but at least you’re getting somewhere. “Yeah, pretty often.”

“Hmm,” says Yuqi, jutting her bottom lip out approvingly. “Okay. Sick.”

“Yuqi.” The blonde is actually starting to flush pink - you’ve never seen someone feel second-hand embarrassment so acutely. “Please.”

“I’m not doing anything,” says Yuqi, and inclines her head at you, assessing, appraising - she doesn’t smile, more so nods like she’s checked for flaws and found you serviceable. “I’m being super normal. You’re cool,” she says to you, apropos of nothing.

“You don’t know me,” you say, hypnotized.

It’s all in the background - the previous performers on the stage wrapping up their number, Soyeon hopping off her stool, trying to corral both Yuqi and the blonde, the lights and the drinks and the vibe. That’s all faded, and for those few moments, it’s just her: Yuqi’s hair spills over her shoulders like water, and she’s watching you like you’re a challenge to be taken, like you’re something she wants to possess and own and ruin.

(Oh, you’re not nearly as clueless as you seem, on the surface; you’d like to see her try.)

“Nope,” says Yuqi, unbothered. Her mouth tilts steeply, finally, finds a smirk like a weapon. “But I think I’d like to.”

Her fingertips skim the counter. She’s got on ridiculous acrylic nails, like Soyeon, but only some of them are intact; she’s missing one on the thumb on her left hand, missing more on her right: the pointer finger, the middle, the ring. There’s something about her stare that makes you think she’d like to rip you apart, if given the chance; she’d dig in her claws and start tearing, if she ever got you alone.

“Break a leg,” you say, slightly breathless - and now you know exactly where you’re going.

“Thanks,” Yuqi says, the flash of her teeth like fangs, and it hits you like oncoming traffic: she’s gonna get everything she wants from you and then some.

Time slips out of order, or maybe that’s just a cliché. You’re behind the bar, and Yuqi’s center stage, shadow and light and her fingers all over this red electric guitar, her lips pressed to the microphone-

The songs are good, all of them. There’s Soyeon on the drums, and the blonde on the keys, and two other girls, both black-haired and gorgeous, on the bass, on another guitar - but the only thing you can look at is her.

It’s that damn outfit she’s in - black and white, patterned, showing off her taut, toned midriff, her sharp collarbones - and it’s the way she moves, like sex itself, a suggestion just in the swing of her hips and the clap of her knee-high boots across the stage - but more than anything, it’s that voice. You’re caught, shellshocked. You’re not even sure you’re doing your job properly. Yuqi’s singing, and it’s a siren calling to shore, or a spell, or a succubus - it’s unreal, the way she sounds, like you could listen to her forever.

Time gets away from you, and Yuqi’s eyes meet yours, glimmering darkly under stage lights.

(You’re not fucking her yet, but you both already know how this ends.)

It all happens so fast - everything’s fracturing, fragmentary - one minute you’re staring at Yuqi onstage and the next she’s leaning over the bar, neck and tits all sweat-slick, gaze raking up and down your body, straight-razor sharp.

“You work here,” she says. There’s more music onstage, more people crowding the bar. You’ve got colleagues who’ll cover for you. You’ve got time.

“Yeah,” you say, even though it’s not a question.

“Great.” Yuqi moves like the music’s patterned beneath her skin, a bass line and a beat and a melody. “Then you know a good place we can fuck and not get caught.”

You just met her, and there’s zero reason this should be happening - you’ve been immune to beautiful women who’ve wanted to fuck you before, you’ve kept your composure, you’ve been professional - but Yuqi’s looking at you like she’s already won this game, gun to your temple, knife to your throat. She’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen, but it’s more than that: it’s the danger, the recklessness. She’ll send you off a cliff and laugh when you hit the bottom.

“Yeah,” you say, again, throat desert-dry. Well, it’s a risk you’re willing to take. “I guess I do.”

There’s a single-stall employees-only bathroom that’s always occupied, but you two somehow get lucky.

Yuqi backs up against the counter, tips her chin up at you like she’s cocking a rifle. She’s breathing a little unevenly, wrought with anticipation - she’s trying to hide it, affecting nonchalance. “So?” she asks, licks her bottom lip. Your fingers find the bare strip of skin at her waist between her top and her skirt. “Do you need me to give you an instruction manual, or you think you can figure out how to fuck me all on your own?”

She says it boredly, like she’s trying to go for icy bitchiness, but everything she says is so hot, in every sense of the word - angry and cutting and pissed off, a fire striking in the kindling of her irises. Your grip tightens on her waist and she doesn’t flinch a bit.

“Drop the attitude,” you snap, so harsh that you surprise yourself.

Yuqi’s eyebrows fly up; you’re not the only one startled. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” All of a sudden, it’s like you realize how much smaller she is than you - she talks a big game, but she’s got nothing to back it up. “You’re the one who was desperate enough to get a random stranger to fuck you in the bathroom, so drop the attitude or you’re not going to get fucked at all.”

You’re not even sure where the words come from. You’ve had girlfriends before, but all the sex has been sweet, sentimental, loving - you don’t know where the cruel edge to your tone comes from, only that it tosses kerosene to the fire behind Yuqi’s eyes, catches flame at her parted lips. You’re mean and she likes it. If you’re rough, then she’ll-

It’s like you’re a man possessed. In one smooth, deliberate motion you ruck up her tiny skirt around her waist and brush your knuckles against the crotch of her panties, and-

You’ve barely done anything. You’ve touched her waist and you snapped at her. And Yuqi’s so, so wet.

“You,” Yuqi says, vague with a point, a purpose - like oh: you’re about to be more than I bargained for.

“Me,” you agree, and watch her grin turn devilish.

Yuqi doesn’t drop the attitude. No, actually, she seems to take your order as a challenge and nothing more, because-

“Jesus fuck,” says Yuqi, like it offends her, her hand on your cock over your pants - when she squeezes, she’s not gentle, and then she’s going for the zipper. “You’re this hard already? I’m not even naked.”

“Look who’s talking.” The moment she gets your cock out, you grab her wrist in your hand, pin it back to the counter. It’s taking all your effort to not go wild on her right now - to not flip her around, rip her underwear, shove your dick deep in her pussy. “You’re creaming your fucking panties just at the thought of my cock inside of you, Yuqi.”

Yuqi’s fierce eyes snap up to yours, cheeks flushing angrily, prettily. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

“Oh, are you gonna make me?”

In a second Yuqi’s fisting the front of your shirt between her fingers - faintly, you register that one of her ridiculous fake nails hooks against your sternum and scrapes, smarting - but that all falls away, because she’s kissing you, and then falls even further, because there’s a much more prevalent pain at your mouth when Yuqi’s teeth sink into your bottom lip, hard.

You almost choke on your breath from the unexpected hurt - you can’t help it - and pull back, heart pounding. There’s something in this: the high, the adrenaline. It hurts - and you don’t think you’ve ever been harder in your life. “What the fuck?”

“What?” asks Yuqi, smile cunning. She’s gorgeous, she’s evil; her fingers twitch like there’s a lot more damage she could be doing.

“You bit me,” you say, incredulous. There’s the metallic taste of blood in your mouth, a red smear on the back of Yuqi’s hand as she presses it to your bottom lip, draws it back in interest. “You actually fucking bit me.”

“Yeah,” replies Yuqi, unabashed. “I’m aware, thanks.”

“I’m bleeding.”

“Great.”

Oh, she’s just begging to rile you up: you can see it in her eyes, in the way her focus drops from your face to your cock, circles back around. It’s a game, for her: to see how far she can push you. To see what you’ll do when she’s got you at the edge.

You’re seething, you’re seeing red; you won’t mind showing her. “You fucking - dumb fucking whore, Yuqi-”

“What?”

You rip her panties down to her knees - there’s her cunt, pretty and pink and dripping wet - and then you’ve got two fingers inside of her, just like that, and the throaty, stunned gasp you get from Yuqi - the way she buckles under you against the bathroom counter - is like you’ve already got her neck between your hands. There’s power here, there’s fury - it’s in your veins, thrumming, it’s in her eyes, her ridiculously tight pussy, dripping-

“I’m not one of your little toys who’s gonna just let you push them around, darling,” you say, and it’s almost a taunt; you’ve never heard yourself like this, callous and cruel even to your own ears. Your other hand slides down the toned curve of her back. “If you act up, you’re gonna get what you earn.”

Yuqi’s chest is heaving, teeth dug hard into her lip, trying to choke down her moans, trying to wrestle back the upper hand. It’s a lost cause: her cunt’s leaking all over your fingers, your wrist. She’s fucking soaked - and there’s all that unadulterated rage in her eyes, irate that you’re the one in control, that she very clearly loves it-

And then just as you draw your fingers out of her pussy, your hand comes down hard on her ass.

Yuqi shrieks - or she would, but your slick hand clamps down over her mouth, the other one ravaging her ass, groping, slapping, getting whatever you can. She’s wild, smacking your shoulder with an open palm, trying to get you to let her go, but then her fingers sneak under the collar of your shirt and-

A stinging pain, right across your collarbone. Immediately, you lose your grip on her. “Shit, you fucking-”

Yuqi takes advantage of your shock, slips out from where you’d had her pinned against the counter. You turn only halfway, struck, and in a second flat she’s shoved you roughly against the counter, the lip digging into your lower back. She’s breathing unevenly, staring - she’ll let you break the lull.

“You scratched me,” you say, astonished. You’re probably bleeding again. “You psycho bitch.”

“Yep,” says Yuqi, simply, pale pink hair a disaster and her underwear tangled at her ankles. You haven’t even gotten your cock in her and she’s already a goddamn mess. “I did.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“And you’re the one dying to fuck me.” Yuqi’s hands are curled into tight fists. Her skirt’s shoved unceremoniously up around her waist, and you can see how wet she is - her cunt’s glistening, caught up in the overhead lights. Her thighs gleam with sweat. “What does that say about you?”

It’s all a game you’re playing, in the end - you’re at opposite ends of the battlefield, waiting to see who makes the first move, mapping out weapons, weaknesses. She talks like she’s ten feet tall and she’s tiny. She’s got a mouth on her like she’s bulletproof and you could probably snap her clean in half.

“I think that says I’m gonna get exactly what I want,” you say, and then you shove her chest-first up against the wall, and slide your cock right into her pussy.

Oh, there’s no hiding anything now - Yuqi’s moaning between her stuttered, hiccuped breaths, crying out when you smack at her ass, then at her thighs - it’s so loud, and anyone passing by is going to know - so you might as well take it all the way. Talk about possession, ruination; you’ll show her the definitions, mark them into all that fair, smooth skin, carving like it’s marble. It’s what she wants, what she won’t admit out loud. You’ll make her, in time.

“Look at you,” you growl; you’re barely keeping it together. You’ll never get over this pussy - so tight, and so warm, and so wet. “Moaning like a bitch in heat around my cock. Yuqi, if this is what you wanted-”

“Fuck you,” snaps Yuqi, and jerks her elbow back, sending the sharp point of it right into your ribs. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t talk, useless dipshit-” Her voice breaks off on a whimper, and she’s bucking her cunt right back on her cock - it’s violent, and it must hurt - but then you realize that that’s precisely the point. You hand finds her hair, wraps it up into your fist, tugs hard; you’ll give in. “Just fuck me. Just fuck me.”

Yeah, you’ll give her what she wants, too; it’s so convenient that you just happen to want the exact same thing.

There’s no room for patience, for sweetness - it’s all about cut corners and the ungodly vice grip of her pussy, how Yuqi fucks you like there’s a threat in it, how you’re fucking her just the same - call the blood in your mouth foreplay, the red welts forming on your collarbone setting the mood; you bring your hand down hard on her hip just to see her tremble, trying to do anything but admit how much she’s living for this kind of fucking: rough, ruthless, mean.

“No, I know what you want.” Her shoulder hits the wall; her foot in her platform heel connects with your shin. You tug her head back so you can see her expression, make an example of a demon. “You just want me to cum all over that pretty little face.”

There’s that split second of panic, cracking Yuqi wide open - it’s written all over her features, in how her cunt is gushing around your cock, so tight - she’s so close, and you’ll take it as far as she wants to go. “What? Wait - no, don’t-”

“Is that what you need, Yuqi?” You’ve got your hair in your fist, and you’re pounding her cunt like you’re trying to tear her in two. “Me, cumming all over your fucking face - in all this hair-” You yank her hair harder to make a point, and Yuqi sobs, can’t hold it back. “And make you walk out there, covered in my fucking cum - drag you out there in front of everyone, so they all know that you’re just a worthless fucking cumrag for my cock-”

“You sadistic motherfucker,” Yuqi spits, but it comes out strangled between her raspy moans. She turns her head halfway - the tears glittering in her fiery eyes is like victory, like your name all in lights. “You fucking asshole. I’ll kill you. If you fucking cum on my face and make me go out there, I’ll-”

She never actually finishes her warning, because her back arches, and she’s cumming all over your cock.

“Well,” you say, and you’ll let it go: it all turns out the same, anyway. “Maybe next time, baby.”

And then you pull out of her and spill your load all down her creamy thighs.

For a second, it’s like it all tunnels - you forget where you are, who you are, there’s a girl in front of you and she’s exhausted and stunning and devious, and there’s your cum dribbling down her pale skin - and then clarity returns, and Yuqi’s slumped against the wall, her head tipped sideways so her cheek rests against your shoulder. She’s breathing hard - there’s music outside, somewhere far off - everything’s wet and hot and woozy-

Yuqi huffs out an airy noise, and your eyes flash right to hers.

There’s that fire, sparking, bordering an inferno. For a second, you wait with bated breath: will she scream at you, will she slap you, reprimand you, tell you that you went too far-

It’s none of that, in reality: you’ve picked up on all her signs just like she wanted you to. Yuqi’s head tips back against you, her eyes sliding closed. There’s all that tension between you two, pulling taut, snapping, tying up its ropes. Your hand closes around her waist, gentle - you’re past leaving bruises, here. You’ll mind your edges. You know when a moment falls shut.

“God,” she says, finally, and then she grins so widely you swear she bursts the bathroom lighting, her fingers sliding between yours. “You - holy fuck.”

“Holy fuck,” you agree, spent, euphoric, and you know right then: you’ll never be able to get over this.

It’s weird, how easy it is: you grab some paper towels, help Yuqi clean the cum off the backs of her thighs. She inspects herself in the mirror, swivels from side to side. There’s absolutely no reason she should’ve let you - a complete stranger - do half the things you just did to her, but at least that goes both ways.

“Your tattoo’s really cute,” you say, surprised.

“I’m a really cute person,” says Yuqi, pulling her skimpy panties back up around her hips, eyes glittering like gunmetal.

“Uh,” you say - it’s not the first word you’d choose.

“I’m adorable,” reiterates Yuqi, tossing her hair, and she has this loud, brash way of saying things that makes unexpected laughter bubble up from your chest. You’re a little delirious. It’s to be expected.

Yuqi lifts an eyebrow at you. “Are you laughing at me?”

“That was the most insane sex I’ve ever had,” you admit.

Yuqi smiles, suddenly cheeky - and, fine, you see the cute thing, now that she’s not fucking you like she wants you dead. “Honestly?” She shrugs her thin shoulders. “I have a lot of intense sex, but - yeah. You really…” She waves a hand up and down her body - there are the red handprints forming on her thighs, hips, ass. “You did a number on me, dude.”

“You too,” you say, charmed. There’s your bleeding shoulder, your raw bottom lip from where she’d bitten you; you’ll probably wake up with bruises from her shoving you into the counter. “Dude.”

“Everything was…” Yuqi flips you a thumbs-up. “Good? Not too rough?”

(Oh, here’s the kicker: she may fuck you like she’s a demon trying to steal your soul, but that’s all over now; she’s sweet, she’s genuine. You never do this: you’re not someone who has sex with strangers, and not in public, and not like that. There’s no reason she should be as comfortable with you as she clearly seems to be.)

“Good,” you confirm, mesmerized by her face; her dark eyeshadow’s a little smudged, eyeliner messy. It adds to the whole seductive rock star look like it might’ve been pre-planned. “We can work out limits in the future, yeah? Set boundaries.”

Yuqi latches onto it like you figured she would. “Oh,” she says, voice already steeped in ridicule - she can’t pass up giving you shit. “In the future.”

“Uh-huh.”

Yuqi gathers her hair up off her neck, lets it drop, pleased. “You want me so bad.”

“No, I had sex with you because I feel no desire towards you whatsoever.”

Yuqi laughs right before she drives her fist into your shoulder - but it’s too late, by then. She’s got the most gorgeous laugh you’ve ever heard: rich and raspy, so full it engulfs the room, drowns you two in it - and she laughs with her whole body, too, shoulders shaking, head tossed back. She laughs and you’re a fucking goner.

“God damn,” you say, grinning, pressing your hand to your shoulder. That’s another bruise waiting to happen. “You’re so aggressive.”

“Right back at you,” Yuqi says, and she’s got a point, she’s got several. It’s a score to settle at a later date - you’ve been here long enough. Yuqi taps your wrist, gestures to the door, her intent unspoken: time to face the music.

See, you’re not expecting to get out entirely unscathed, but you’re not expecting two of Club Cosmic’s veteran performers to just be waiting out there for you two, wrapped up in lingerie and silk robes, guarding the door like they’re particularly slutty angels and it’s Judgment Day.

“Oh my god,” you say. Yuqi, to her credit, looks undaunted - you have no idea how she’s pulling it off. “You guys are creeps. Were you eavesdropping the whole time?”

“We weren’t eavesdropping,” says Bona, tucking her long curtain of dark hair behind her ears. She’s not an inch over five-four and even in heels manages to look delicate. “You were the ones who decided to have very noisy and disruptive sex in the employee bathroom.”

“Yeah,” says Eunseo, leveling you with a very pointed glare. “I have to pee.”

It’s less than convincing. “Right.”

“Okay, fun,” says Yuqi, breaking any sort of suspense in that straightforward, vaguely tactless way you’re quickly realizing is her trademark. Ah, she’s got half a smile on, hands laced in front of her - it somehow manages to come off cute instead of caustic. With a face like that she’s probably never had an issue getting away with the attitude. “So - is there anything else you two needed, or-”

“Jiyeon has a question.”

“Bona,” corrects Bona, elbowing Eunseo. “Christ. I’m on the clock.”

“Sure,” says Yuqi, mildly intrigued. Her chin’s tilted up, slender arms crossing over her chest. She looks exactly like she’s been getting the life fucked out of her and she doesn’t seem a bit self-conscious about it. “Make it quick.”

“Fine, fine.” Yuqi’s being bossy to the point of being rude, but Bona’s lips tilt in a conspiratorial grin, undeterred. “So, what’d you rate it?”

Yuqi quirks an eyebrow. “His dick, or-”

“The bathroom. Like, out of ten, how good is it to have sex in?”

“Bona’s been trying to seduce one of the investors for, like, months,” Eunseo explains.

“Baby,” drawls Yuqi, even though she must be younger than Bona - and miraculously, it sounds suggestive rather than condescending, although that could be the glint in her eye as she gives Bona a languid once-over. “If it’s taking months for you to get this guy to fuck you, he’s obviously either blind or insane. You’re gorgeous. I’d give it up.”

It’s her tone, her expression; Bona, who makes a living off of being drooled over, freezes in place, suddenly a little spellbound. “Um,” she says.

“She’s not wrong,” you add, amused. Well, it’s good to know you’re not the only one so easily dazzled. It’s the arrogance, the husky voice, the disheveled state of Yuqi’s hair, her thighs still red from how rough you were - you’re not sure anyone with a pulse could resist her.

“I’d give it a ten,” says Yuqi, winks, pats your shoulder. She’ll pull out the charisma when it counts. “I’m very satisfied.”

“Hey,” Yuqi says, and you’re making your way towards the front, even though you’re technically still supposed to be working. By the doors, the pretty blonde in Yuqi’s band is wrapped up with this guy who’s so much taller than her their height difference is almost comical. “There’s a party next Saturday that you should go to.”

You glance over at her. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Telling you,” says Yuqi, stone-faced, radiant eyes alight. “It’s an order.”

“God,” you say, almost inappropriately endeared. She’s so pushy. It’s cute. “Okay.”

She rattles off the address, lets you type it into your phone. “That’s Miyeon’s place,” she explains, nods towards the blonde - “Fairy princess Barbie with the boyfriend, over there.”

“Sure,” you say; the description’s so spot-on, but it also goes largely in one ear and out the other. “Hey, so-”

You’re about to ask her for her number, but at that moment the blonde girl - Miyeon - turns and spots the both of you together, and her jaw drops. Yeah, Yuqi looks thoroughly fucked and she’s wearing it wonderfully; you’re probably not much better off. “Song Yuqi.”

“That’s my name,” says Yuqi, dryly, and then Miyeon’s tugging her towards the entrance.

You sigh, you let it go. It’s for the best, probably; you should get back to work, be responsible. You’ll see her next weekend, anyway. You’ll be inevitable.

By the door, Miyeon’s incredulous, talking loud and completely enthused. “You had sex with a stranger in a dirty club bathroom?” she’s saying to Yuqi. “Who are you, me?”

“You didn’t fuck a stranger, Miyeon. You fucked your teacher.”

“And look how well that turned out.”

Oh, it’s none of your business, it’s Club Cosmic; it’s not the place for a moral compass. Besides, you’ve got all your own problems: Yuqi’s pink hair catches the light, falls to shadow. You’ll have bruises, wounds to clean. You’ll play games: power, control, battle strategy. It’ll be a train wreck waiting to happen.

You smile at Yuqi’s retreating form, and think you’ll take whatever she throws at you - it’s only fair, because you’ll give it right back.

Look, it’s not like she’s the only thing you think about: you’ve got responsibilities, obligations. But you let your mind wander and she’s there, straight out of all your dirtiest dreams. You’re thinking it’s a one-in-a-million encounter, a once-in-a-lifetime girl - you already know you’re in deep, in regards to sex and otherwise. You’ll have your hands full with Yuqi. There’s a week to wait for the party, and the whole time you’re on the verge of a one-track mind.

And then suddenly it’s Saturday, and - well, you know what they say about best-laid plans.

You’re a party person, but only sometimes. You’re used to low-key things, college dorms and cheap beer. You’ve got friends with sketchy standards, you’ve got a bartending job in a burlesque club - you’re not sure what you were expecting when Yuqi invited you to a party, but-

So, the apartment’s huge. Like, okay, you already forgot whose party this is - it’s been a week, and that’s too long - but whoever it is, their family probably comes from blood money. It’s cool, it’s intimidating. It also means you can’t find anyone: not even Yuqi, not even if you tried.

You make yourself busy in the meantime. The party’s packed, so you do end up running into people you know, eventually: there’s Lisa, the rookie choreographer at Club Cosmic. She’s your age, she’s there with that blonde chick she’s always with - Chaeyoung - and Chaeyoung’s boyfriend, who’s breaking up with her constantly, or something. Campus drama; you try not to get involved. They’re all drunk and hysterically funny, and you get distracted easily.

“So, Club Cosmic, huh?” Chaeyoung’s boyfriend is saying to you. He’s always struck you as a bit of an asshole, but mostly in a harmless way. He pats Chaeyoung’s waist. “Rosie would never let me work in a place like that,” he tacks on, eyebrows raising emphatically. “All that temptation.”

“What?” splutters Chaeyoung.

“Uh,” you say - you’re not getting into it. Plus, it’s occurred to you that Chaeyoung’s boyfriend pushes her buttons on purpose - and after Yuqi, you’re sort of seeing all the appeal of that kind of dynamic.

Lisa, somehow, has gotten way more wasted than the other two, and you, amazingly, have barely even touched a drink. “Who’re you looking for?” Lisa asks, then presses a hand to her temple. “I’m slurring. I can feel it.”

She is, but it’s not the point. “Yuqi,” you say. “Pink hair? From the band last Saturday?”

Lisa snaps her fingers, then keeps snapping, finds the beat of the background music like it’s nothing. “Right. Oh, oh!” Her attention darts to someone behind you, and suddenly she’s gesturing wildly at them. “Then - okay, you know Minnie, right? You must. You have to. Minnie!”

You frown; the name doesn’t ring a bell. “Does she work at the club?”

“What? No. She’s - hey, Minnie!”

“Oh, my god.” The exasperation is startlingly close to you: right over your shoulder, voice silk and velvet and sultrier things. “I’m right here, bitch. You don’t need to scream my name.”

“Minnie,” says Lisa, again, like being blind drunk has started to affect her general comprehension. Er - okay, that’s probably the goal. “You two know each other, right? Minnie, you’ve met-”

It’s supposed to be an introduction, normal, perfunctory - you’re supposed to turn around, wave, smile; you’re good with strangers, you’re a bartender and it’s your job, for fuck’s sake - but the second you swivel and your eyes land on this girl, it’s like every social cue slips right out of your brain and falls straight to the floor.

“Holy shit,” you say.

“You too,” the girl says, rapid-fire, like it’s a sentiment she’s used to getting.

“Uh-oh,” says Lisa; she’s not drunk enough to miss out on the sudden vibe, the instant implications. She is, however, drunk enough to unintentionally snap all the tension, or at least do a very good job at trying. “Oh, no. You think she’s hot.”

“I am hot,” says the girl - Minnie. There’s a curl to her mouth. You’re gawking like an idiot and you can’t even bring yourself to care.

“And you think he’s hot,” Lisa says to her, awed, giving the play-by-play. Chaeyoung’s got her face buried in her boyfriend’s shoulder - so, they’ve reconciled in two seconds flat - laughing half from sheer embarrassment.

“I do,” agrees Minnie, before you can say anything. “What a coincidence.”

You can’t help it; you’re stunned, you’re staring. It’s the eyes, more than anything: so preternaturally, absurdly beautiful, a sea-glass green too light and clear to be real. You’ll take it back; despite Lisa’s best efforts, there’s no way she’s breaking off this kind of tension. Minnie’s like something out of a comic, a cartoon, dreamt up by some passionate artist and brought to life gorgeously - it’s so fast, but it’s a party, and she’s the prettiest thing in the room, in any room. You can’t focus on anything but her.

“Do you two know each other?” asks Lisa, bordering confusion. There’s a strange familiarity there, maybe: Minnie’s looking at you like she already knows everything you’ve thought about doing to her in the sixty seconds since you first saw her. “You do, right?”

“No, we don’t.” You can’t tear your gaze off Minnie’s eyes, but when you do, now it’s everywhere - her long, slim legs, her sharp collarbone, her fingers, all capped with eye-catching hot pink acrylics - she’s in the shortest skirt, the tightest top. She’s like sex just standing there and her smirk suggests that she knows it. “But - I mean - it’s nice to meet you. You’re-” You’re tripping over all your words, losing your mind. “Jesus.”

You’re not drunk, but you might as well be - there’s no way you’re thinking straight. Chaeyoung snorts and starts herding her boyfriend and Lisa away, giving you two the illusion of space; the party’s still full, and there’s no escaping it. Minnie tilts her head, eyes curving to half-moons, says, “Thanks. Hey, I think you’re pretty Jesus, too.”

“Get a room,” calls Lisa, loudly.

So, there’s no reason this should be happening - it’s insane, and it’s so soon - but it’s a party, and everything’s dialed up, and Minnie’s so strikingly, unreasonably gorgeous you can’t recall anyone else’s name.

“That’s not a bad idea.” Minnie’s got a hand on her hip and she’s studying you like she can read your mind - well, you’d let her. It’s been two minutes and the only thing you’re thinking about is her. “Maybe we should do that, huh?”

There’s practically zero pretense. She’s got a smile like she’s holding secrets, like she knows you’re just dying to unravel them all - she’s stupid hot, and it’s a party, and you’re helpless. That’s the beginning and the end of it all, or it should be.

“Maybe,” you agree, and all your plans fall through in an instant. There’s really no other way it could go.

Here’s the thing, about you and Minnie: façades drop fast.

Minnie’s tall in her sky-high heels, eyes like she could kill a man, body dripping sex appeal like sin - for all intents and purposes, she should be exactly who Yuqi was to you, a week ago. A girl who you’ll fuck like you’re getting into fisticuffs. That’s obviously your type - you’ve had that revelation, now. You like getting marks almost as much as you like leaving them.

Somehow you end up in a bedroom, get horribly distracted by conversation. She’s still impossibly hot, but there’s less seduction, suggestion. See, it occurs to you in record time, after you say something funny and she giggles out this ridiculous, stupid, hilarious laugh: she’s cute. That’s the thing sitting under all the allure, threaded through her laugh and her fast-talking energy: she’s fucking adorable.

“You’re cute,” you say, eventually, because you can’t help it. She’s sitting on the bed, attention flicking from you to the expensive-looking camera on the nightstand. The door’s locked, and you both know what you’re doing here.

“Yeah,” says Minnie, smiling that slightly lopsided smile, a bit too wide to be properly coy. “Well, I think you’re cute, too.”

“Is that why you dragged me into a bedroom within a minute of meeting me?” you prompt, standing at the footboard. Minnie’s platform heels are gone, now, and she’s got her slender legs tucked under her, skirt riding high on her thighs. “Because you think I’m cute?”

“That’s one reason.”

“One?”

“One of many.”

You’re not a one-night stand guy, but this is your second in a week, or it’s about to be. It’s a fever dream, both moments: there’s a risk you’ve never taken, there’s a girl watching you like you fascinate her, inexplicably. If you looked in the mirror you’re not sure you’d recognize yourself - you don’t do this, you don’t.

(You don’t do this, but you’re doing it - again.)

“You’re hot,” Minnie says candidly, nails skimming over the camera on the nightstand. “And I like your smile. And your arms. And everyone at this party is so boring.” She tilts her head, examines you. There’s a shift to the room, the suggestion coming back full-force; she pulls the camera into her lap, and now you’re seated at the corner of the bed, fingertips brushing her bare knees. “And I like how the first thing you said when you saw me was holy shit.”

“That can’t be an uncommon reaction,” you say. “I mean, you’re - you’re fucking gorgeous. Everybody must tell you that.”

“Sure,” says Minnie. “But I guess I like it a lot better coming out of your mouth.”

There’s something new at her lips, wicked; she passes you the camera a beat later. Her top pulls tight against her chest as she moves, her glossy black hair brushing just past her collarbone. “Hey,” she says, and stretches out, leisurely. There are her legs, her thighs, the elegant line of her neck - there’s too much to concentrate on, right in front of you. Minnie nods towards the camera. “Take my picture.”

“What?” you say, startled. The camera feels heavy in your hands. You’re not sure how Minnie got the nerve to use some random person’s bedroom, take their belongings - you’re not sure if you should ask. “Really?”

“Please?” Minnie asks, eyes beseeching, and - oh.

That’s when it clicks in your head: she’s not like Yuqi at all.

Forget the fronts, the forwardness, the sex appeal. Minnie’s not gonna fight back, or make demands. She’s gonna beg and plead and do exactly what you tell her to do. There’ll be no violent standoffs: she’s spread out on the bed, and she’s already surrendering.

“Hmm,” you say - you’re slipping, you’re leaning into it. If she wants you in control then she’ll get it. “Give me something interesting to photograph, then.”

Minnie raises an eyebrow coolly, but her teeth notch into her bottom lip, incriminating. “My face isn’t enough?”

“I don’t think so.” It’s a lie - that face could sell magazines, fit perfectly on billboards. “You got anything else?”

Minnie fixes you with a look, but it’s not really even a question: it’s an order, a test. You’re feeling out your boundaries, unfamiliar territory - and then her hands go to the hem of her skintight shirt and she’s peeling it overhead. Talk about magazines - you’ll find her in dirtier ones, fantasies, obscenities. Her bra’s lacy and black, hair mussed; she waits, lets you drink her in.

“That’ll work,” you say, and that’s only the first picture. You know the very second you take it that there’ll be a lot, lot more.

You kiss her and there’s a switch flipped, a bomb dropped - you mind the debris, leave goosebumps every time you touch any part of her - her throat, her tits, her toned midriff. “Look at you,” you say, and there’s something shifted in you, too: it’s your tone, it’s how she reacts to it. “So fuckin’ needy.”

The camera’s forgotten on the nightstand; instead, you go for her bra, get it off, get it to the floor. Your eyes flick up to Minnie’s, and that’s a vision, her striking eyes spilled wide with expectation. She’s slender, breakable - you’re on top of her, and she’s already trembling - so you’ll start slow, first. This is all on your terms and she knows it.

You dip, scrape your teeth across a nipple, and Minnie lets loose the prettiest whine.

“It’s actually kind of incredible,” you say, conversationally, as your bottom lip drags down the defined line of her stomach, stops at the waistband of her tiny skirt. You’ve got a hand on each thigh, spreading them gently; you won’t be nice for long. “We just met, you know? You and me.”

There’s a point here - you’ll make it as you unbutton her skirt, pull the zipper, drag it down her thighs. Minnie hasn’t said a word: you’re not sure she could, even if she tried. Then her skirt’s gone, and it’s all fair game - you hook a finger under the crotch of her panties just to find her soaked.

“Oh,” you say, darkly - you’re testing your limits, testing the flimsy fabric of her underwear. “Here, see - we just met,” you say, and punctuate it by running your finger through the folds of her pussy, “and you’re already so fucking desperate for me that your slutty little cunt’s leaking all over my fingers.”

Minnie inhales so sharply that it’s like she takes all the air out of the room, eyelashes fluttering: that’s your go-ahead. You let your grin tilt cruelly, and then you rip her panties right off of her.

You know the fabric must bite into her hips by the mewling noise she makes, but it’s that same noise that gives it away - she loves it. Maybe it’s good that you’ve taken up a vice like this, these one-night stands - you know the tells and you know what to do with them. There’s a sick kind of power, standing above her like this, undoing your own zipper; Minnie’s almost salivating by now, lips parted, focus trained on your hands and what they’ll do, what they’re already doing-

You drop one hand around her throat just to wrap it in your fist, and in the same beat, you sink your cock straight into her pussy.

It’s pornographic, how Minnie submits, how she dissolves, how she lets you fuck her right into the mattress, stuff her mouthwateringly tight cunt with your cock - “Oh my god,” she chokes out through your grip on her neck, your fingers so rough it’s likely you’ll leave bruises; there’s your thumb under the line of her jaw, nail pressing down-

“Fuck me, please - feels so good, fucking my pussy so good-”

Minnie’s barely getting the words out, but she doesn’t even have to. See, her pleasure’s visible, and it’s everywhere: her hands half-curled to fists, her dazzling, tear-blurred eyes, her whines, her back curving to an archway. She’s so gorgeous getting fucked like this, and you should be thanking God that you even get the chance to feel a pussy this perfect - but you’re not. Instead-

Your hand lets up on her throat just to trap her face between your fingers, pressing hard. “Shut the fuck up,” you snarl, “stupid fucking slut - do you want people outside to hear you acting like a greedy fucking whore for some stranger’s cock? Want them to come running in and see you like this?” Your fingertips dig into her cheeks. “You don’t even know me, baby. You have no idea what the fuck I could do to you.”

You’re really in it now: fucking her like there might be weapons on the table, guns readied, knives unsheathed. The door’s locked, you know that; oh, technicalities. It’s not like it really matters. The idea of it’s enough.

Your cruelty’s a killer. It gets some kind of perverse Pavlovian response from Minnie, something that gets her sobbing with her face in your hand - “I don’t care,” she’s saying, words garbled, slurring at each syllable: “Don’t care, just fuck me, fuck me, please - you’re right, I’m just a stupid slut, just use me, use my cunt-”

Your hands have a motive and they’re leaving marks - she’s so tight, so unbelievably wet. You’re ruining her and you’ll prove it.

“That’s my girl,” you say, and suddenly you land a smack across her cheek. It’s not as rough as you could be - you’re in dangerous territory, you’re toeing lines; there’s a lot more damage you could do - but Minnie yelps anyway, caught on a sob, stares up at you with tears beading her eyelashes, smudging mascara, eyeliner. One of her hands is around your wrist, acrylics leaving indents. “Yeah, yeah, you know what you are. Just a dirty little fuckhole-” There’s another slap, another strangled moan- “for me to use.”

It’s building and it’s building fast - there’s something about how mercilessly you’re fucking her pussy that makes Minnie squeal and shudder and clench tighter - and you know she’s about to cum, so you lean in to bite at her neck, collarbone, tits. You’re sinking your teeth in just to suck, soothe it with your tongue; it’s all about pain thresholds, and you’re pushing her past her limits-

It’s like you feel it before it happens, but then it happens.

“Fucking cum for me,” you order, and then you pull your cock out of her - just as Minnie squirts all over you.

It all unravels, after that - you’re jerking your cock, cumming all over the perfect, flat plane of her midriff, all that pale skin glazed in white - and Minnie’s panting, whining, struck with the aftershocks. Your brain cuts off at the stem. You’re balking, open-mouthed.

You have to understand, she’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen: Minnie, sprawled out in front of you, her pussy wrecked and raw, her stomach covered in your cum. You can’t help it. You grab her by the throat and drag her mouth to yours.

“You’re so fucking hot,” you exhale, and Minnie melts into your lap, becomes putty in your hands, licking, writhing - you can’t turn off the aggression. You’ve got her throat in your hand and your other slipping down to her chest just to smack hard at her tits, get her squealing. “That’s my dirty fucking slut. Squirting all over me - squirting just ‘cause you love my cock, huh? Just ‘cause you’re a whore for my cock?”

Minnie’s whimpering through your grip on her neck, spine curving when your hand returns to her tits, pulling hard at her nipples. You’ve never, ever been so ruthless - you can’t even describe what it is about Minnie that gets this out of you. It’s her body, her needy, tear-filled eyes - that’s a girl that was made to be fucked hard.

“That’s it.” You move your hand from her neck to her cheeks, gripping her face in your hand. Minnie stares at you, green eyes glassy, baleful, drool falling from her open mouth, her lolling tongue. “There you go. Here, let me-”

There’s that camera, on the nightstand. When you let Minnie’s face go, she tumbles out of your lap, falls back on the soaked sheets - she doesn’t even try to pose and it’s like it comes to her naturally, her legs tucked up to show her dripping cunt, the stain underneath her, her makeup a disaster - and that’s it, right there, something ready to frame and display-

You pull back, and you take the shot.

(You’ve never, ever been so ruthless - except a week ago, scathing and sinister, fucking Yuqi in a public bathroom like you wanted to kill her. There’s something in that, a line to be drawn. It’ll come back around, in time.)

“So,” you say, after. “Do you usually make a habit of squirting all over random people’s beds?”

Minnie’s recovering, letting you wipe the cum off her stomach with tissues - still, it’s all sort of a lost cause, considering her squirt covers everything. You honestly need a shower, and there’s an on-suite you’re thinking of using. You’re probably past party fouls at this point.

Minnie’s staring at you, eyes narrowed strangely, lips parted - and it’s so cute you get momentarily distracted. “What?” you ask, tugging her towards you, your hands busying themselves fixing her bangs. “What’s that look?”

Minnie tips her head, lets you adjust her in any way she wants; it’s completely natural, instinctual. “Who invited you to this party?”

“What?” you ask, like you’ve forgotten all other words.

Minnie pats the soaked sheets. It’s just then that you notice that there’s a color scheme going on: the bright pink of her acrylic nails, the pale pink of the bedding. “This is my apartment,” she says. “My room. My party. My…” She throws her hand towards the camera, and now she’s laughing her ridiculous, infectious laugh, and all of a sudden your own laughter’s pouring out and you can’t stop it. “How’d you even get here? Where’d you even come from?”

Oh, well - now that makes a lot more sense. “One of my friends - so, it was, like, completely on a whim. I basically had no details before coming.”

“Fate!” concludes Minnie almost instantly, clapping her hands, dropping all other lines of questioning. Clearly, she’s a girl after your own heart: her attention span’s basically nonexistent. “We were so meant to meet. And fuck.”

“No, I agree,” you say, smiling, because she’s so adorable even when she’s not getting fucked into oblivion. So, this is about to be really bad for you. “We have… we’ve got, you know-”

“Sexual chemistry.”

“Absolutely.”

That throws Minnie into another round of delighted giggles, and she’s got you frozen in place, grinning like an idiot. It’s those eyes, so intense until they soften, completely - she’s beyond beautiful. It’s a problem. “I bet our zodiac signs-”

“Here we go.”

“I’m so serious!” Minnie smacks your knee, over-the-top. “I bet we’re, like, cosmically intertwined. No one fucks me that good on the first hook-up.” She’s already reaching for her phone on the nightstand. “Come on, when were you born? No, I said I’m serious, I need to work this out-”

You humor her, give her all the information she asks for. You can’t stop taking pictures of her, now that you know it’s her obnoxiously expensive camera - you’re not even close to being a good photographer, but she’s unbelievable in front of a lens, the eyes and the ruined makeup and the new hickeys spanning her neck, chest - and Minnie just grins, laughs, pays you no mind.

“No, see,” she says, and she’s comparing your birth charts with half-assed sincerity; it’s become increasingly obvious that she knows as much about astrology as you do, which is basically nothing at all. “That’s it. That means our sexual desires - um - run parallel to each other, according to the stars, which means-”

“You’re so full of shit.”

Minnie wrinkles up her nose, gives you a dirty look. There’s a smile flickering at her mouth; that’s another photo, right there. Oh, you’re not sure you’ll be able to leave this room until you’ve got enough to fill a gallery - it’s a good thing that she doesn’t seem to be complaining.

You do actually end up taking a shower - it’s probably still some sort of party foul - but at least you’re not alone. When you’re done, Minnie’s working sweet-smelling leave-in conditioner into her damp hair, a towel wrapped around her - her makeup’s gone, and she’s still so gorgeous she belongs somewhere in MoMA - you leave it be.

“I’ll get you a new shirt,” she says. “I mean - least I could do. My roommate’s boyfriend leaves stuff here all the time, so I can just run over to her room and grab you something-”

“Oh,” you say, kind of alarmed. “That’s - um, so that’s-”

Minnie waves you off. “He won’t care,” she says. “Like, not to rub it in, or whatever, but he’s let guys I’ve fucked borrow his clothes before. We have an arrangement. He’s just cool like that.”

“If you say so.” Her blatant unselfconsciousness reads as charming, somehow. There’s still a party going on outside - Minnie actually got to take off her clothes before you fucked her, so her outfit’s fully salvagable. Well, except the panties, obviously.

“You think I would’ve let you rip my underwear if I didn’t have, like, fifty other pairs readily available?” Minnie’s shimmying a new pair of panties up her thighs.

“Yes,” you say, bemused. “You would’ve let me do whatever I wanted to you.”

“Ugh,” says Minnie, eyes feline and luminous, mirth catching at her lips like a wick to a flame. “You’re so…”

“So Jesus, I know. I’ve been told.”

She leaves, comes back eventually, with the shirt, hair still damp and smile still remarkable, radiant. You exchange numbers, and you press her up against the door before you leave, kiss her until you take all the air from her lungs.

“See you around,” says Minnie, pupils blown, panting. “Seriously, get out of here before we end up fucking again. I don’t know if you realized, but I’m kind of having a party right now.”

“Send me copies of those photos I took,” you say, and pat her hip before you leave.

(She and Yuqi are nothing alike, not in the slightest, but that’s the thing that makes you realize it: limiting yourself to one type is so fucking stifling.)

You’re ready to go, but first - naturally, accidentally - you run into the blonde from Yuqi’s band, Miyeon, and her ridiculously tall, very mature boyfriend. Her teacher, allegedly: okay, it’s none of your business, but the logistics seem sort of sketchy. You’ll have to get the details at some point.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” says Miyeon’s boyfriend; he’s got a half-smile on like he and Miyeon have a private joke that you’re not in on.

“Hi,” says Miyeon, obviously a little drunk. “Uh, nice shirt.”

“Thanks.”

Her dark eyes, attentive even while intoxicated, flick behind you, where Minnie’s probably standing in the doorway of her room. “Oh,” Miyeon says, fine eyebrows raising. “Oh. Well, that makes sense. Don’t worry,” she adds, leans in like she’s sharing a secret. “I won’t tell Yuqi.”

“What?” you say, sort of flustered. “Will Yuqi care that I hooked up with some other girl?”

Miyeon and her boyfriend exchange a brief, coded glance. “Some other girl,” repeats Miyeon, slowly, studying you oddly. “You are talking about Minnie, right?”

“Yeah, but I mean - like, another stranger.”

There’s another glance between them that you can’t even begin to decipher. “No,” says Miyeon, eventually, and suddenly her entire demeanor’s shifted, enthusiastic out of nowhere. “Not at all!” she repeats, chirpier. “She’s not gonna care. Why would she? Like you said - Minnie’s a stranger. Yuqi won’t mind.”

“Miyeon,” says her boyfriend.

“She won’t!” Miyeon nods cheerfully, reassuringly. “She’s totally - you know, totally chill. She doesn’t even - yeah.” Her boyfriend’s nudging her arm, wrapping her hand in his; well, you think it’s cute that they’re so affectionate. “Anyway. Have a good night!”

(In retrospect, Miyeon’s tipsy, and it’s certainly not the most subtle she’s ever been. In retrospect, you just had amazing sex, and it’s not the smartest or most perceptive you’ve ever been, either - ah, well. Call it a combined effort, her fucking with you like this.)

“Have a good night,” you reply, and you let it go. You’re sure it’ll come back around soon enough.

It doesn’t, for a bit. It all carries on.

You realize that you missed out on seeing Yuqi again at the party, but there’s Minnie’s texts coming in on your phone, semi-frequently - she has this habit of taking hours to respond, but when she does, it’s twenty texts all in a row, ranting about something either hilariously stupid or genuinely thoughtful; she loves photography (apparently the expensive camera wasn’t just for show), she loves music. It’s fun, it’s light. You’re very easily distracted and this is no exception.

But then it’s a Friday and you’re in the middle of a shift at Club Cosmic, making small talk with some of the performers between numbers. Bona’s still trying to seduce that investor, but he hasn’t come around in so long, she tells you.

“Maybe I should give it up,” Bona’s saying, sipping on something fruity, barely alcoholic - the manager doesn’t like the performers to go on drunk. “Maybe your girl-”

“My girl,” you echo, entertained by the prospect - you already know who she’s talking about.

Bona fixes you with a look, catching the tone. “Yeah,” she says. “All I’m saying is that maybe she was right.”

“I usually am.”

It’s as if on cue, or something close to it - there’s a score leading in, there’s a camera, focusing - and suddenly Yuqi’s plopping herself down on the barstool next to Bona, perfectly nonchalant.

“Speak of the devil,” you say, and you mean it.

It just so happens that the devil in question has half of her pale pink hair tied up in a silky black ribbon, so gorgeous it’s heart-stopping, disarming. Too sweet-faced to be so evil, to have all that power right at her fingertips - it’s all about contradictions, with demons; that’s how they reel you in. Yuqi cocks her head, lets her wavy hair waterfall over a slender shoulder; it’s like she’s taken all the light out of the room, leaving the glint of her deep-space eyes and nothing else.

There’s all that instant danger in it: you’re on the edge of a black hole, a void. “I didn’t see you at the party last week,” you say. “Find a better offer?”

Yuqi shrugs. “Maybe.”

“But here you are,” you prompt - you’re waiting for it. “Visiting me at work.”

“Tone down the ego,” says Yuqi, and smiles over at Bona. “I’m just here for the pretty girls.”

Bona’s already faintly flustered, blushing. There’s something so addicting about getting Yuqi’s attention, and it’s something you’ve already become aware of, maybe even since the first second the two of you ever met - she looks at you and it’s always with a risk, a sharp-shooting focus - and you already know what’s happening here.

“Um,” you say, mouth dry; you can only keep up a casual rapport for so long, with Yuqi right here, and looking like that. “I’ll - you know what, let me get someone to cover for me.”

“Dear god,” says Bona, as if she doesn’t understand entirely where you’re coming from.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly ask you to neglect your job for me,” says Yuqi. She’s going for demure, but the smirk on her mouth gives her away - her lips are blood-red, a preview, a prequel. “I can wait. Patience is a virtue, or whatever.”

“Bullshit,” you say, bluntly, and Bona actually chokes on her drink. “You don’t have any patience.” You nudge your coworker, call her over - “Hey, Sojung, can you-”

“Right,” says Sojung, spotting Yuqi and her grin and every inch of her perfect face, her neck, her collarbone. She gets it like it’s scrawled across the bartop; it might as well be. “Yeah, yeah. You totally owe me, though.”

“Sure,” you say, on edge, obvious, and Yuqi’s brilliant laugh unfurls like she knows she’s got a claim to stake.

It all moves fast, after that - you’re following Yuqi out to her car, and you’re incapable of doing anything more than that, for the time being; she’s in an enticingly short skirt, and you can’t help it. You’ve got her pinned up against the driver’s side, her back hitting the door so hard it could bruise her spine - you’ve got your hands in her hair and her tongue in your mouth; there are angles to consider, possibilities. You’ve got her car and all that fair skin to mark up, every part of her flawless body curving into yours like she’s calling your name-

“Good choice,” says Yuqi, hot against your lips. “I hate waiting.”

“Stop fucking talking,” you reply, and you’re right back where you started.

You fuck her in the backseat of her car, and it’s filthy on principle - it’s cramped and she’s on top of you, riding your cock, hands on your chest, ducking so she won’t ram her head into the roof of the car. Yuqi’s hair is all over you, and that’s the succubus in her, or it would be: she’s all-consuming, suffocating. She fucks you like you might not make it out alive, fills the car with the heady scent of sex, sweat, salt.

“I’m gonna cum inside you.“ You’ve got red handprints scattered across her ass; she knows you’re not asking permission. She’d let it go on its own, probably, but you’ve always got to take it a beat too far - “Gonna fill your dirty little cunt with my cum, make you walk out of here all fucked out and used and filled like a common fucking whore-”

Yuqi slaps you - actually, fully slaps you, the clap of her hand across your cheek shockingly loud. You smirk up at her, all your teeth. It doesn’t matter if she likes it or not; you’re about to make good on every single threat.

“You know,” you say, after. Yuqi’s trying to find wherever you threw her panties, trying to keep your semen from leaking out of her pussy onto her backseat - she’s failing on both counts. “I think we’d make it out of fucking with way less wounds if you’d just admit that it makes you wet when I degrade you.”

“Oh, baby.” Yuqi eyes you, smiling, then reaches behind you to fish out her panties from where they’d been trapped between your back and the door. She’s so close - cheeks flushed, lips slick, pink on pink on pink - it’s like some higher power made her with an aesthetic in mind, hand-crafted with a purpose. “I’m not trying to hide that. Just like you’re not trying to hide that you like it when you come out of sex with some wounds.”

She’s making fun of your word choice. “So do you,” you counter mildly.

Yuqi cards a hand through her hair - she’s lost her ribbon, somewhere, back when you yanked it out, made her yelp with the sting. She tucks her knees under her, observes what a mess you must be in return: your mussed hair, your red cheek, the new welts from her nails across your skin, dangerously close to your jugular.

“Like I said,” she tells you, her grin a forest fire waiting to devour. “Not trying to hide it.”

You walk it back, take steps you should’ve taken the first day you met. You’re trading numbers, talking in circles: you’re a bit hung up on the fact that Yuqi made it a point to visit your job just to find you. It’s both insanely flattering and kind of hilarious.

“Like, what’d you do?” you ask, as she puts her number into your phone. You’re outside her car, you’ll have to get back to work eventually - her windows are rolled down, airing it out. “Just come to Club Cosmic every night on the off chance that I might be bartending then?”

You’re joking, but Yuqi takes too long to respond, eyes studiously trained on your phone. It’s a dead giveaway.

“Really?” You stop, stare, enchanted by the information. Okay, it’s flattering, it’s hilarious - it’s also completely fucking adorable. “Yuqi.”

“Shut up,” says Yuqi. She’s not embarrassed, exactly - you’ve yet to see if that’s an emotion she has the capacity to feel - but when she looks up at you, you can tell by the new tint to her cheeks that it’s something close. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Ugh,” says Yuqi, and doesn’t bother giving you a direct answer. “And I didn’t come every day, you idiot. I came once earlier in the week and ran into Bona, so I asked her when your next shift was.”

She’s pressed to your side, tiny next to you; she hands you back your phone, then gets distracted with the cuff of your sleeve, fiddling with the button. “Once?” you prompt, unable to tear your gaze off of her.

Yuqi rolls her eyes, but there’s a soft defense to it, caught. “Fine - twice,” she amends, “but only because I got - I got sidetracked, the first time. That’s it. It’s just - not a lot of people can fuck me how you fuck me. And I meant what I said, when we first met.” She shrugs, like she never says things she doesn’t mean. “I think you’re cool.”

Yuqi’s thing is all blunt honesty, but it’s here, too, without the impact, landing light and too fond for how little time you’ve truly spent with each other. You’re helpless to do anything but watch her for a second, how her gaze flicks to yours and then up to the stars, the moon.

“You’re cute,” you say, and kiss the top of her head.

“I’m cool,” Yuqi insists - it’s all about keeping it mutual.

“Sure, sure.” You settle your hand low on her back, slip your pinky under the waistband of her skirt; it’s not specifically suggestive, but you feel this need to touch her, so you’ll touch her. You’re teasing, so you’ll soften the blow. “You’re everything. You’re greater than God, baby.”

Yuqi’s eyes match the sky, reflect constellations like she’s got some celestial ownership to them. “You’re so fucking annoying,” she says, “but damn right I am.”

“Hey,” you say to Bona, afterwards. “Thanks for breaking our professional code of conduct and telling Yuqi when my shifts are. If I ever get a stalker, I’m glad you have my back.”

“No problem,” says Bona drolly, her silk robe tied loose around her waist, only half-covering the intricate lingerie she’s got on. “Any time. Hey, I would’ve broken our professional code of conduct sooner-”

“Oh, thanks so much-”

“But the other time she came here she brought her really hot friend, and I thought it’d be rude to interrupt.”

There’s an emphasis there, on friend - you’re slow on the uptake, sometimes, but this is one thing you don’t miss. “Yuqi brought someone here?”

“Yeah, and she was fucking gorgeous - like, unbelievable.” Bona shakes her head. “They were all over each other. I was honestly kind of surprised Yuqi still remembered that you existed, after all that.”

You’re not really sure what to make of that, so you don’t really make anything of it. You and Yuqi have only fucked twice - sure, there’s the exchanging numbers, there’s the promise of more - but you’re not expecting you two to be exclusive, for obvious reasons-

Your phone pings, and that’s the first one, blinking right up at you from the screen.

hiii, Minnie’s texted, and she never settles with just one message. youre working tonight right???? come over after youre done with your shift? i miss your cock and you i GUESS… but mostly your cock

You’d be a raging hypocrite if you were upset about Yuqi hooking up with someone else, so you won’t be. Harmless fun - that’s all. You’ll keep your affairs in order and she’ll keep hers. No exclusivity, no drama: that’s what you signed up for and that’s what you’ll get.

“Uh,” says Bona, and when you look up, she’s raising an eyebrow pointedly. “Hot date?”

Another text: a photo this time. You open it, and - oh.

“It’s not like Yuqi and I are exclusive,” you say, grinning, clicking your phone off. You won’t deny it: this whole thing’s incredible for your ego. “She can fuck around with whoever she wants and so can I. We’re just - you know. Fuckbuddies. That’s all. It’s not serious.”

“Huh,” says Bona, not buying it, but she lets it go. For the best, probably: it doesn’t matter if anyone else understands this, because you’re the only one who really needs to.

You’re wiped by the time your shift ends, bone-tired by the time you make it over to Minnie’s. “Hey, you,” she says, when she opens the door; her eyes are dark for once, and somehow just as captivating. “Oh, seriously - you’re barely even awake. Why’d you even come over?”

“You sent me a picture of my cum all over your stomach,” you say, and Minnie cracks up. “Coming over is, like, common courtesy.”

You’re so sleepy you’re not even sure the words are coming out right. Minnie ends up ushering you into the apartment, anyway; her hair’s tied back in two low pigtails, secured with white ribbons, her shirt tight and her shorts pink, so tiny they’re showing off all of her irresistible thighs. She’s so fuckable - but you’re so exhausted. Minnie’s amused and rueful all at once: “You could’ve said no!” she tells you, insistent. “It’s not like you can even fuck me like this.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” you say, but you break into a yawn immediately after.

“Babe,” says Minnie, endeared. “You’re fucking adorable, but don’t even try.”

Somehow, this leads into you showering in Minnie’s bathroom - again - and then it’s mutually agreed upon that you should probably just stay over, because if you try to drive back in this state you’ll definitely end up crashing your car. It’s all logic, really. It’ll be a facet of the fuckbuddy arrangement, so to hell with it - you’ll spend the night in her bed.

It’s all unmasked in the morning, anyway. You wake up to Minnie on top of you, her cunt hotly choking your cock, and there’s not a fucking chance you’re gonna make apologies for getting so comfortable so fast when it leads to all this in the daylight.

“Oh, fuck-”

Minnie’s on top, but she’s already relinquished every bit of power the moment your eyes snapped open. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t ride your cock like it might’ve been something she was trained to do - there’s the hypnotizing roll of her hips, her flat stomach - that’s something that needs to be immortalized in film one day, but for now-

“That’s my fucking cockslut.” You’ve got your fingertips digging bruises into the dip of her waist, pressing tight to her ribs. “Couldn’t even wait for me to wake up - you just had to have my cock inside your needy little pussy. Couldn’t resist, huh?”

It’s not even a question: no, she can’t, and she never, ever could.

“Good morning to you too,” you tell Minnie afterwards, with her hair balled up in your fist and squirt covering your stomach - you’ll have to take another shower, but at least she’ll be right there with you. “Fuck, Minnie. Is it bad to say I could get used to that?”

Minnie hums, spent - she tries to get out of bed and wobbles on unsteady legs. “Nope,” she says, voice raspy with sleep and sex, and you grab her wrist to balance her. Your cum’s dripping down her thigh. “I think we’ve established by now that I don’t mind taking orders.” She shrugs, like it’s the easiest thing she’s ever said, her dark eyes gorgeous, genuine. “Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

“You’re my fucking dream girl,” you say, grinning, and Minnie throws her head back and laughs.

Oh, you’re kind of a fan of monogamy, historically. You don’t do one-night stands, or two, or four - you’re racking up numbers with both Yuqi and Minnie and there’s no point in keeping count. You don’t do the friends-with-benefits thing. It’s never appealed to you. Except-

“Tell you what: if you somehow manage to finish this puzzle in the next five minutes, I’ll get on my knees and suck your cock to completion.”

“To completion?” You’re on Yuqi’s couch - she has two roommates and every video game console in existence, apparently. You’re playing this horror game that’s way too puzzle-heavy to actually be scary, but your eyes are glued to the screen and Yuqi’s tucked close to your side; you’ll be alright with it. “As opposed to what?”

“I don’t know, stopping halfway through? Giving you blue balls? Dude, I’m just trying to motivate you.”

See, you’re better at video games than she is, in general, but she’s smarter than you, intuitive - when you’re playing convoluted single-player games like this, you always play them together. You make a good team, or something. You don’t do the friends-with-benefits thing, usually, but you’re doing it now - and there’s honestly more emphasis on the friends part of it than you’d originally bargained for. Well, Yuqi’s gorgeous, and hilarious, and gives just as good as she gets. You can’t say that’s something you’re complaining about.

You’re carving out routines, here. Friends-with-benefits is turning out to be something of a major time commitment, especially when-

“Minnie, I gotta be honest: public sex is off the table forever. You’re just gonna squirt everywhere and then we’re both gonna be royally fucked.”

There’s only one thing Minnie likes more than sex, and it’s spending money: that’s something you learn fast. Another thing is that she has more money than she knows what to do with, apparently - wild, considering she’s an unemployed college student, but you’ve seen her apartment; it’s not that much of a surprise. My family’s comfortable, she tells you once, humorous with an understatement. You know, they’re well-off.

They’re filthy rich, you’d interpreted, and the smile you got was all the confirmation you really needed.

It only leads to more routines, in the end: she takes you out shopping with her just to offer to buy you anything you pay even a modicum of attention to. She’s spoiled, but she loves to spoil. It’s cute and you won’t deny it.

“Forever?” Minnie’s got shopping bags lining her thin arms, and you’re carrying more for her - call that a built-in workout. She turns her eyes on you, wide and pleading. “Forever’s a long time.”

“Cut it out,” you say, and she bursts out laughing. “Jesus, I hate it when you do that.”

You’re lying and she knows it. “Do what?”

“You know what I mean. The thing with your eyes.”

Minnie bats her eyelashes, lets all the submissive sweetness fade from her expression. She knows what characters to play and when. “It’s not my fault you find me irresistible,” she says, and you laugh with her because she’s right.

Ah, it’s a problem with both of them, sort of: you might be doing this whole friends-with-benefits thing wrong. It’s too fun, being with them. It’s supposed to be all cool and casual, but it’s possible that you’re getting attached. One minute you’re fucking strangers and the next they’re both your friends.

It’s a bad idea, considering you know both Yuqi and Minnie are fucking around with more people than just you: there’s that thing Bona said about Yuqi bringing someone to the club, and then there’s the fact that Minnie’s always marked up - the telltale scratches of nail marks down her back, thighs; hickeys, bruises. A lot of them are from you, but there are also a good amount that aren’t.

“I’m fucking a demon,” Minnie sighs, when you ask her about it, and for once she’s not talking about you. “Takes up a lot of my time.” She presses her thumb into a particularly nasty hickey right at her inner thigh, smirks, says, “Believe me, it’s nothing that I wasn’t begging for.”

It should be a mistake, crossing lines - but you’re having a great time. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you’re happy right where you are. You won’t complicate it. You’ll take them as long as they’ll have you.

(This is what you’re thinking about, so in hindsight, maybe it makes sense that you miss all the signs.)

It’s probably only a month and a half in, or a little longer. There’s this mutual obsession going on, with you and Yuqi, with you and Minnie - your phone’s always blowing up, you’re always, always busy. Your coworkers tease you for it and you couldn’t give less of a fuck. You’re moving fast and it’s exactly your speed.

i’m coming over, you text Minnie - you’d agreed to after both your classes had finished. It’s late afternoon, and yesterday you’d accidentally spent half the day playing some gory new horror release with Yuqi. Minnie’d left you rambly voicemails, like she’s in the habit of doing, and you’d responded in kind. You two are so often on the same wavelength, guessing at moves before they’re made.

So, so often - but not today. You’re about to knock on her front door, but then you realize it’s already unlocked.

“Minnie,” you call. You let yourself in; you’ve done it before. “You really need to stop leaving your door unlocked.” You shut it behind you, round the corner - “Seriously, babe,” you’re saying, making your way into the kitchen, “one of these days someone’s just gonna-”

You stop short.

Because Minnie’s here, but she’s got her eyes screwed shut, and she’s bent over the kitchen counter, moaning, writhing - a mess, hair a wreck like it’s been tugged at, a series of hickeys so raw on her collarbone they look like actual bite marks, like there might’ve been blood drawn - and she’s getting absolutely, completely railed from behind by-

“Yuqi?” you sputter.

Yuqi’s got her hand wrapped around Minnie’s neck, her fingers tight around the column of her throat - she’s so in it, and there’s that look on her face, that vicious way she fucks when she’s fucking you, all over her here, now - and then she looks up, and her dark eyes find yours.

“Oh, fuck,” she says, and pulls her strap-on right out of Minnie in one smooth, slick move.

You’re staring, jaw halfway to the floor. Yuqi’s so thrown she keeps blinking hard at you, like she has no idea what in God’s name you’re doing here right now; the feeling’s mutual, because nothing about this makes sense, not even a little bit - Yuqi and Minnie - Minnie and Yuqi, together-

“What the fuck,” pants Minnie - she hasn’t noticed you yet, somehow. She’s whining, distraught, clinging to the lip of the countertop for dear life. “What the fuck, Yuqi - put it back in.” She reaches blindly behind her, her perky tits bouncing, sweat beading along the curve of her back. “Yuqi, Yuqi-”

“Sweetheart,” says Yuqi, and clamps her hand down on Minnie’s shoulder with the sort of firm, authoritative familiarity that indicates she’s beyond used to leaving marks on Minnie’s body. You recognize it immediately - you do the same thing. “I’m not gonna put my strap-on back in your ass. My fuckbuddy’s here.”

Well, there’s a lot to unpack there - but first-

Your eyes zero in on Minnie’s freshly fucked asshole, just as Minnie turns her head and spots you standing there.

“Oh, fuck,” she echoes, lost for words, for breath. Then: “Wait - your fuckbuddy?”

You’re floored, you’re speechless, you can’t even reconcile it: this whole time the two of them have been occupying opposing corners of your mind, Yuqi hilarious and quick-witted with a bite, a brutality, Minnie with her hysterically funny laugh and her mile-a-minute way of speaking - in your head, they should never connect, they should never cross paths, they should never be here, with Yuqi bending Minnie over her kitchen counter and filling her ass with a strap-on-

“Let’s get some clothes on,” directs Yuqi, and it’s the first time she’s ever made a proposition like that in front of you. “Seems like we have a lot to work out.”

“Let me get this straight.”

You’re gathered on Minnie’s couch - Minnie’s in an oversized t-shirt, leaning on the side, consciously avoiding putting any weight on her ass. Yuqi’s got her hands spread out on Minnie’s coffee table like there’s a puzzle she’s putting together. “You first fucked Minnie at the party I invited you to-”

“You invited him?” Minnie asks, startled. “Well - I mean, thanks. I guess we never would have met if it wasn’t for you.” She shoots you a grin, impressively cheeky considering you just walked in on her getting her ass fucked; oh, that’s Minnie for you. When it comes to sex there’s no shame she feels, ever.

“Shut the fuck up,” says Yuqi, not unkindly. “No - what I’m saying-” She locks her gaze on you. “Is that you knew that I invited you to a party at Minnie’s apartment and you still didn’t realize she and I knew each other?”

“Oh,” you say - okay, that’s your bad. “I guess not. To be fair, you didn’t tell me whose apartment it was-”

“Yes, I did, you fucking dumbass. I even pointed at Miyeon, who was, like, a foot away from us-”

“Oh,” you say, again: well, you completely forgot about that part. “Sorry. That’s - yeah, that’s on me. I just remembered that you said it was one of your bandmates, so when I met Minnie, I obviously didn’t think-”

“Dude.” Yuqi has a hand pressed to her temple. “Minnie’s in my band.”

Your mouth falls open. “Really?”

So, it’s all unraveling pretty quickly: Minnie and Miyeon are roommates, which you probably could’ve put together if you’d mustered up an ounce of critical thinking, but - hey, you’ve been having incredible mind-blowing sex, lately; no one’s gonna blame you for that fogging up your brain. Minnie’s the flaky keyboardist that Yuqi complains about constantly, the one Miyeon was replacing the night they performed at Club Cosmic - it’s unraveling, but it’s all coming together. Minnie and Yuqi have been fucking since before you met either of them, apparently. It’s a whole thing, or at least that’s what they tell you. Lust at first sight, claims Minnie - clearly there’s a story there, but they’re not saying it yet.

“Maybe I’m stupid,” says Yuqi, staring from you to Minnie. “I knew Minnie was fucking someone else because she always had crazy bruises all over her every time I saw her, but she just told me she was having sex with a demon, so I just took that at face value, I guess.”

“She told me she was having sex with a demon,” you say, in disbelief, and Minnie dissolves into her obnoxious, infectious laughter.

“You’re both stupid,” Yuqi decides, pointing an accusatory nail between the two of you, fingers flicking fast. “You’re both morons who only get away with having fucking worms for brains-”

“Jesus,” you say, biting back a smile, because she’s at her best when she’s dishing out insults.

“-because you’re hot. That’s it.” Yuqi sighs, frustrated. “If you weren’t both so sexy you’d never get anywhere in life.”

“Thanks,” chirps Minnie - if there’s one thing she knows how to do, it’s take a compliment.

In the end, maybe it’s not so hard to understand: Minnie loves being bossed around, ordered and roughed up and fucked senseless. Yuqi’s just like you - it’s no wonder she’d love having Minnie like you love having her, whining and submissive, ready to get dragged through hell and back and beg for it. You’ve kept them separate; they’ve kept you separate. It’s a comedy of errors you’re not even sure qualifies as coincidence: you think of Minnie, the night you first met, saying fate with a grin like she knew something you didn’t - maybe she’s always had a point.

So, that’s where your conclusions land: “I think we can just keep doing what we’re doing,” says Yuqi, eventually, shrugging and rising to her feet. “I guess it shouldn’t really change anything. We can all just keep doing our own thing.” She says it like it doesn’t really faze her, and it’s Yuqi, so it probably doesn’t.

“Yeah,” you say, slowly, because it is happening to faze you - just not in the ways you’d expect. Minnie’s glancing between you and Yuqi like she’s trying to calculate all the combined marks you could leave on her; she’s thinking what you’re thinking, but she won’t say it out loud. “I guess so.”

“Sick,” says Yuqi, in that hilariously flippant way of hers, and Minnie laughs so hard she accidentally rolls onto her clearly sore ass. “Well, see you later.”

Minnie sobers up so quickly it’s almost comical. “Wait, what about-”

“Baby,” says Yuqi, and there’s the sin creeping into her voice, flames flickering in her irises. She loves having the last word, so she’ll take it. “If you wanna still get your ass fucked, ask your other fuckbuddy. I’m sure he’d be happy to take care of you.”

She smiles, too adorable for the filth coming out of her mouth, and leaves you and Minnie to it.

Well, she would, except-

“Oh, hey,” says Miyeon, slipping into the living room. “I just passed Yuqi on my way in.” Her gaze lands on you, and she grins. “I guess you guys finally figured it out, huh?”

“Are we dumb?” Minnie asks, genuinely.

“Yeah,” says Miyeon, sweetly, blinking her Bambi eyes at the two of you like every Disney princess personified. “Both of you are stupid as shit. Don’t worry - you’re both pretty enough to make up for it.”

She kisses the top of Minnie’s head as she passes, and that’s when you realize exactly how much Miyeon’s been fucking with you this whole time. These girls - and maybe both Yuqi and Miyeon are right, and there are dots you should’ve connected weeks back, days in.

Well, you’ll give yourself some leeway: you’re here now. Journeys, destinations, whatever the fucking cliché is - you’ll let everything slot right into place.

You all know where this is going, but it still takes a week and a half for it to happen, give or take.

Look, you’re all returning to form - you’ve taken out space in your schedule for both Yuqi and Minnie, but it’s still pointedly separate; you know they’re doing the same. You’re still fucking Yuqi in every single public place imaginable, and you’re still making your mark on Minnie like she belongs to you, even though she’s got someone else bruising her neck like she’s trying to leave a collar. There’s a power play there, somewhere, between you and Yuqi: who can ruin Minnie more, who can push her to her breaking points. It’s almost like foreplay. It dials up your sex with Yuqi to something intense, something with sky-high stakes; you fuck like you might be playing for keeps.

“Oh, hey,” says Yuqi, one day, trying to get a rise out of you. It’s a lost cause; she’s taken over for a video game you’re playing together, and her head’s on your shoulder. “Minnie just sent me a text.”

“What?” There’s another reason the rise is unsuccessful: “She just sent me a text. A video, actually.” A video, and then an accompanying message: for your eyes only <3.

“She sent me a video,” says Yuqi. “And she said it’s for my eyes only, so fuck off.”

You wordlessly tip your phone screen towards Yuqi, and that’s the final straw: Yuqi laughs until her shoulders shake and she’s hiding her face in your collarbone, her pink hair tickling your neck. “Shit,” she says, and you can hear her grin in her voice: something you’ve learned is that no matter how much Yuqi teases Minnie, she’s also a little bit obsessed with her, too. “Let’s see what our girl wants, then.”

“Our girl,” you mimic, loving it, and then you both press play.

It just so happens that the video’s of Minnie pounding her own pussy with a dildo until she squirts wildly, and every sound is amplified, obscene - her sopping wet pussy, her moans, squeals, screams-

Neither of you are laughing now. “It’s the same video,” Yuqi says, voice suddenly low, husky: it’s a telltale sign, sirens beginning to wail. She looks up at you and you catch that look in her eye, like she’s on the verge of something violent, murderous. “Isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you say, throat dry - there’s nothing more you can say.

“Well,” says Yuqi, and lets her phone clatter to the coffee table. There’s a tilt to her expression that’d send bystanders running for cover, if they could see her now. “Let’s show her that we can make a little video of our own.”

There’s a group chat made just to send the video: you’re slipping, crossing the clear lines between the three of you. Oh, you’re past worrying about propriety - you’re sending a sex tape, sending Yuqi on her back and getting her pussy railed by your cock, the two of you fighting as much as you’re fucking - it’s brutal, and it’s hot.

“Fuck,” says Yuqi, when she watches it back, pulling her clothes on again, mesmerized by how hard you’re fucking her, by how merciless it is - like you could’ve actually hurt her and you wouldn’t have cared. You’re caught on the threats she’s biting out, just as enthralled. “We should film ourselves more often.”

“We should,” you agree - there are fantasies waiting to happen, erotica writing itself - and then you press send.

LMFAOOOO, Minnie texts back, once she sees it. the iphone quality…. HAHAHA its even in portrait mode omfg im crying

wtf, you say; the quality looked great to you.

i’m gonna beat the shit out of you, says Yuqi, somewhat inappropriately. don’t pretend like it didn’t make you wet

oh it def did, Minnie replies. you guys are unbelievably hot when you fuck. im stupid horny im not denying that im just saying…. if i ever make a sex tape im totally using one of my nice expensive cameras for it

i’m sure the 20 other people you’re regularly fucking would really appreciate that, says Yuqi.

:( says Minnie. dont slut shame me its mean also you two are the only people im regularly fucking just for the record

Yuqi makes an odd, thoughtful sound, out loud, perched on the edge of her bed.

“You’re thinking about it,” you say, knowing.

“I’m not,” Yuqi says, but her bottom lip’s tucked between her teeth. “I keep my fuckbuddies very separate from each other. It’s transactional, or whatever.”

“Right,” you say, amused by her stubbornness. You’re a little too close for you two to convincingly be just strangers who’re hooking up, anymore. You’re too friendly, too comfortable with each other - that’s a hurdle you’ve already cleared. “Transactional. That’s why I’m sleeping over here tonight, right?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Yuqi grumbles - and that’s how you know she doesn’t really have to be convinced.

It’s inevitable, and you know it. It’s all that anticipation, stacking to skyscrapers. You’re over at Minnie’s place one day, and you’re drinking coffee at her kitchen counter, sharing some waffles Miyeon’s boyfriend made earlier - it’s all very domestic, kind of. Minnie’s studying you, carefully, her eyes startlingly green and watchful, like there’s a thread she’s tugging at and hard.

“What’s up?” you ask.

“I’ve been thinking,” begins Minnie.

“That’s new.”

“Shh,” says Minnie, mildly, tapping her nails across the table. “I’ve been thinking,” she continues, “that it’s actually fucking ridiculous that you and I and Yuqi haven’t had a threesome yet.”

“Oh,” you say - you’d be more shocked, but like you said, Minnie’s got no shame in regards to anything sexual; she likes what she likes and loudly. “I’ve been thinking that too. But Yuqi seems… you know. She’s really dragging this out.”

“I’ve noticed,” agrees Minnie; she sees how inevitable this all is, too. “It’s crazy. She loves fucking you and she loves fucking me. It’s, like, basic logic.”

She’s gorgeous, she’s scheming: you see Minnie lick her lips, like she’s picturing Yuqi’s touch all over her - you’re thinking of the possessive way Yuqi wrapped her hand around Minnie’s neck when she was fucking her, imagining the way she’d bitten at Minnie’s collarbone - Minnie’s the single most fuckable girl you’ve ever met, and there’s Yuqi who exerts power during sex like she’s taking out her grudges, like she’s wielding weapons - just the concept of it is enough to drive you nuts-

“We can set it up,” you say, and you think Minnie can see your train of thought all over your face. “You and me and her.”

There’s all this new territory to explore, maps to make and trails to mark. “We can,” says Minnie, tilting her head. There are oceans behind her eyes, seafoam and salt, wet and wild and fatal. “What’d you have in mind?”

You put your plan in motion a day later, because patience is a foreign concept when it comes to the three of you. “Call her,” you’re mumbling against Minnie’s mouth, her spine already curving to your fingertips. There’s an ambush happening, battle plans being drawn - you’re in Minnie’s living room, and you can’t keep your hands off of her. “Before we get too far.”

“I texted her before you got here,” Minnie says, and you can feel her grin at your lips. “She’ll be here soon. Go as far as you want.”

That’s a request with tempting parameters, so you’ll take it: a split second later and you’ve got Minnie pinned to the couch, her tiny waist in your hands, your teeth scraping across her neck. “I will,” you say, darkly, and you’re already in it. “I’ll do whatever I want with you.”

“Please,” begs Minnie - she’s rapidly losing composure, but she’s always this easy, this wanton and ready. “Please.”

You can’t deny a plea like that, so of course you get carried away: your fingers slip up the hem of her shirt, find her tits; she’s underneath you and then you’re switching to the top of her denim skirt, tugging at belt loops, finding the button and undoing it-

The front door slams.

That’s your cue. You fall into it practically pre-rehearsed: you and Minnie dramatically break apart, you tumbling off of her, her catching her balance on the arm of the couch. “Oh!” gasps Minnie, wiping her mouth, spilling her eyes wide - they’re dark and sweet and guileless, today; she’s playing her parts perfectly. “Yuqi - oh my god, sorry, I-”

Yuqi’s standing with her arms crossed, and maybe your efforts might’ve been in vain - you can tell by the look on her face that you’re already caught.

“You guys think you’re so fucking slick, huh?” she says.

Minnie rakes a hand through her hair, glances slyly over at you. “We’re not?”

“No.” Yuqi’s advancing, distinctly predatory - her eyes are stuck on Minnie’s unbuttoned skirt, on your hands against Minnie’s lithe frame, like you might be minutes from ripping her apart. “You’re stupid, and obvious. If you wanted to seduce me, there are better ways to do it.”

“You’re fucking both of us,” you point out. There’s that fire sparking in her eyes, and it’s already over: you know how she looks right before she gives in. “We don’t need to seduce you, Yuqi. You’re already obsessed with us.”

“Obsessed is a strong word,” says Yuqi, flatly.

She says it, but already her voice has gone gravelly, gained that razor-blade edge. She’s closer now, standing above the two of you sprawled on the couch: you see her fingertips drop, dig under the waistband of Minnie’s skirt, pressing into her hips. Minnie’s mouth has already fallen open, pupils blown - Yuqi’s barely done anything, and Minnie already looks like she’s seconds from begging to get on her knees-

“Bedroom,” Minnie says, climbing to a whine, rising on unsteady legs. Yuqi laughs; she clearly loves Minnie’s desperation just as much as you do. “Please. I have - there’s something - please.”

Yuqi cuts her eyes across at you, takes Minnie’s face in her hand. There’s something so intoxicating about the height difference between them, how Yuqi stands just a little shorter than Minnie and she’s somehow still got her in the palm of her hand, wrapped right around her finger, or several-

“Use your words, gorgeous,” purrs Yuqi, and the way she talks to Minnie makes your head spin, sends a lump to your throat: like she’s so sure of her hold over Minnie, her complete and utter control. You’ve imagined it so many times since you first caught them together - it’s another thing entirely to see it in action. “You got us both here, yeah? We’re right where you want us.”

She tugs on Minnie’s jaw - a demand, not a request - and then Minnie’s ducking her head to kiss her.

It’s instantly sloppy, filthy - they both love it messy and you know that from experience, in every way, every context - and Yuqi’s slipping her tongue into Minnie’s mouth like she’s she’s seconds from ravaging her, and there’s the telltale glint of teeth, raring to annihilate-

Minnie gasps suddenly, pulls away quick. Her hand flies up to her bottom lip. You catch the mix of pain and exhilaration all at once - it’s barely started, and there’s already been blood drawn.

“See?” Yuqi’s looking at you now, smirk pulling sharp like knifepoint. “Someone likes it when I bite.”

“You’re insane,” you say, but you’re standing, now, so caught up in it. You meet her match, blow for blow - Minnie just takes and takes and takes, loves it like she’d drop dead for it. Yuqi makes her bleed and you can see it all over Minnie’s face: she’s never been more turned on in her life, trapped between the two of you. “You’re the fucking devil.”

“Sure,” says Yuqi, and clips Minnie on the hip, knuckles blunt. “C’mon,” she orders. “Talk to us.”

“I have one of my cameras,” Minnie blurts out, thin and high and reedy. “In my room.”

“Oh,” says Yuqi, and raises an eyebrow at you. “That’s an idea.”

It certainly is: it’s one that’s got you straining against your jeans, dropping you right into animal instinct - Yuqi’s similarly riled up, pulling at your wrist, at Minnie’s waist. She’s waited long enough. She never goes far without getting exactly what she wants.

“Then let’s go,” she’s saying, and it’s not something up for debate; with Yuqi, it never is. “Let’s go.”

There’s the three of you and all that build-up, all the weeks in the making; Minnie’s already half out of her mind, sprawled on the bed like she knows you and Yuqi are about to fuck her within an inch of her life. There’s a strap-on on the nightstand. You’ve got a lightweight camera in your hands and it’s filming.

“Does this camera have, like, a microphone on it?” you ask, somewhat clueless.

Yuqi snorts, rolls her eyes - it alleviates the moment, but barely. “Don’t worry about it,” says Minnie, hands twitching, eyes flicking from you to Yuqi like she doesn’t know who to start begging for first.

“Nuh-uh,” Yuqi tuts, noticing - she’s so impressively attuned to Minnie’s every move, picking up on giveaways like it’s nothing. You recognize it: she’s the same with you, knowing right when to bite and snap and apply pressure. “You can be patient. You’re the one who was desperate enough to trick me into coming here.”

“No,” says Minnie, and points to you. “I promise you it was totally a team effort.“

“Watch it,” you say, tamping down laughter - it’s really not the time.

“Yeah,” agrees Yuqi. “I fucking hate snitches.”

Minnie’s infectious giggles fill the room, and you’re seconds away from joining her - but all of a sudden, Yuqi’s shoving Minnie’s shoulder, pushing her farther down the bed. “Like I was saying,” she says, and suddenly her fingers curl around your wrist, “you’re the desperate one here, Minnie. I think we’ll make you wait. Plus,” she adds, to you, and all of a sudden she’s facing you fully - the two of you are standing, and Yuqi’s back is to the footboard of Minnie’s bed, her eyes with a challenge. “She likes to watch.”

“I could’ve guessed that,” you say, and slip Minnie the camera. “She’s always struck me as the voyeuristic type.”

Yuqi’s lips are wickedly red, curled at a corner. “I’m shocked you know what that word means.”

“Okay,” you snap, and you’re in it now, finding your ground - your hand flies to Yuqi’s hair, wraps it around your fist and tugs. Yuqi lets out a sharp noise, somewhere halfway between a yelp and a moan; you hear her breathing start to pick up, the rise and fall of her chest. “I get that you don’t want to seem weak in front of your little pet here-” You jerk Yuqi’s head towards where Minnie’s curled up on the bed, jaw dropped, still and staring- “but that doesn’t mean you can take up an attitude with me, darling.” Your thumb snags at the side of her mouth, scrapes her chin. “So cool it.”

“It’s so fucking funny that you think I take orders from you.”

There’s a time to use words and then there’s a time for force, time to prove how much bigger than Yuqi you actually are - you let your hand drop from her hair and start to go for her face, find a way to manually shut her up - but she gets there first, digs her nails into your forearm and claws-

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you hiss, skin stinging - she’s pushing you farther than normal, she’s putting on a performance. Well, you won’t mind putting one on too.

In seconds you’ve got her twisted around, one elbow knocking against the footboard - and then your hand’s at her ass and you’re spanking, groping. She’s still got her shorts on, panties, but that doesn’t stop you in the slightest; Yuqi’s squirming underneath you, snapping out vulgarities-

“Get the fuck off me,” she snarls, and you won’t, and you hear Minnie’s uneven, stuttered inhalations from her spot on the bed. She’s probably never seen Yuqi like this - never seen her smacked around and helpless. You know firsthand how addicting it is - Yuqi, with her arrogance, being pushed and put in her place-

All of a sudden, Yuqi’s foot knocks right into your knee, hard, and that’s how she worms her way right out of your arms.

“Fuck me or leave me the fuck alone,” she warns, voice low, dangerous. Her tiny hands are going for your cock, unzipping your pants and dragging them down - you help her along, drunk on the ruthless look in her eye. “I’m not some dumb whore that’ll just let you shove her around. You know that.”

“I’ll give you that,” you acquiesce, and you’re peeling off her shorts, she’s slipping off her top - she’s not wearing a bra, and her tits bounce, nipples hardening in the air. “I’ve already got one dumb whore that’ll let me do whatever she wants to her.”

You turn, and you look right at Minnie.

She’s trembling, the camera in her hands and fixed on the two of you - she’s already such a mess, cheeks flushed and every intake of breath fleeting, unsteady - she hasn’t touched herself, not once. She’s being so good, waiting for orders. She’s fucked you and Yuqi long enough, by now - you two may rough up each other, but it’s nothing compared to what you’ll do to Minnie if she misbehaves. Her eyes are wide, saliva collecting at her mouth; she’s so ready to be fucked, owned, ruined.

Your gaze darts to the camera lens, and you smile.

“Baby,” you say, and there’s a go-ahead she’s been waiting for. “Get undressed.”

Minnie moves quick, frantic - she passes the camera from hand to hand, slips out of her skirt, her tank top - you’ve snuck your fingers into Yuqi’s panties, stroking her drooling pussy; so, looks like someone likes having an audience. You’re with her: you do too. Knowing you’re being filmed is nothing compared to the greedy way Minnie’s eyes follow you as you tug Yuqi’s panties down her thighs, let them drop to the floor. Your shirt’s come off in the interim. You hook one of your hands under Yuqi’s knee, push her leg up, zero in on her cunt, dripping wet-

“Minnie.” You snap your fingers at her. “Play with your pussy.” Your cockhead brushes against Yuqi’s slit, earns the whistle of air through Yuqi’s teeth. “I wanna see you squirt before either of us even touches you.”

You don’t even have to look at her to know if she obeys - oh, it’s Minnie, and she always will - and then you’re stuffing Yuqi’s pussy with your cock.

Yuqi chokes on her own moans, head tipping forward; you don’t even give her time to adjust to the stretch before you’re pounding her, thrusting your cock deep, deeper, the pressure of her cunt almost overbearing, overwhelming - she always matches your pace like it’s nothing, her eyes on yours, the intensity something euphoric in itself, watching her eyebrows knit and her breath trap itself in her throat-

Your hand’s back in her hair, keeping her stare locked on yours like a gunfight, watching her try to keep from completely losing it in front of you, or Minnie - it’s all that pride, like it’s the only thing keeping her standing. One of these days you’ll break it out of her, but you won’t deny it: it’s so fucking hot watching her try to keep from falling to a slutty, squealing mess.

“Oh, there you are,” you say, condescending - you’re never gonna pull back from a taunt. “What were you saying about not being a dumb whore?” You tug her face so close to yours that your noses brush. “Because it kind of seems like you’re just all talk now that you’ve got my cock in your dirty fucking cunt.”

“I don’t think I’m the one who’s all talk,” Yuqi bites back, words shot and shattering. She’s so small compared to you that when you bury your dick inside of her it wracks her whole body, makes her shiver: no matter what venom she spits at you, she can’t fight the physical. “You’re barely even fucking me, you limp-dick asshole - are you even trying?”

You laugh out loud - you know Yuqi’s really loving it when her insults get nonsensical, so obviously untrue it’s something straight out of a comedy routine. You thrust harder, dig your fingers underneath her thigh; Yuqi can talk shit all she wants, but you see the way her eyelids flutter, her lips parted in pleasure she’s trying her hardest to deny. It’s no use - she’s clenching, she’s soaking your cock.

“Here you go again.” You hook in your blunt nails to her pale skin, make her gasp with the sudden pain. “Trying to act all high and mighty in front of your little fucktoy.” Minnie whimpers from the bed - she’s got three fingers inside her own cunt, she’s being almost as aggressive as you are with Yuqi - you’re just waiting for her to drench the sheets. “You don’t want her to know that you’re just as much of a greedy little slut as she is, huh?”

“Please.” You pick up the pace - Yuqi cries out, tries to talk herself through the way your cock’s destroying her - it’s a very valiant effort. She’s so close, so fast - her body can’t hide that from you. “No - fuck - no one’s as much of a greedy slut as Minnie is.”

The degradation’s like a return to power, for her: that wild, sharp smile appears on Yuqi’s face, even now, sweating and slick and shuddering tight around your cock. She’s seconds from breaking and she’s still got that ego, slicing through it all. All those jokes about fucking the attitude right out of her - oh, you’ll never be able to truly do it. You fuck her like you want her dead, like you want to kill her - she looks you right in the eye like she’s saying you can’t, and anyone who tries better run.

You’ll do the next best thing, instead: you’ll make her fucking cum.

You drop her hair, slide your hand down to her throbbing clit. “Well,” you say, and match her smirk like you’re trading blows, “you’re sure giving her a run for her money.”

Yuqi opens her mouth - she’s got some poisonous reply ready, or she must - but then she’s rocked with an orgasm so intense that any trace of it melts straight off her tongue. That’s one thing, all on its own - but there’s Minnie, on the bed and taking instruction beautifully, squealing, squirting-

You’ll get to her, in a minute. You fuck Yuqi all the way through it, let her fall pliant, winded, on the verge of collapse - she’s white-knuckling one of your wrists, her collarbone shiny with sweat, and you’re still burying your cock deep in her cunt, overstimulating - you’ll get there, you will-

“Wait,” Yuqi manages, breathless, wavering, cutting her gaze over to Minnie. “Don’t cum inside me. Save it for-” It breaks off, comes back doubly punishing. “For this fucking cumslut.”

You both glance over at Minnie at the same time, at the soaked sheets, at the camera she’s gripping like a lifeline, trained on the two of you. Yuqi gets off your cock, sinks to the end of the bed, thighs damp and shaking - she’ll take her reprieves, her relief. You’ve still got a load to spill. You can handle Minnie all on your own.

Minnie’s wiped from her own orgasm, cum clinging to her fingers, but the moment you get close to her she’s already perking up: she knows what her place is, here. You drag your eyes pointedly from the squirt-stained sheets underneath her to her toned legs, her dripping cunt, her hips, waist, ribs, the hard points of her nipples - Minnie shifts under your scrutiny, like just you looking at her sets her aflame - and your hands find the column of her throat, then the fine line of her jaw. Minnie waits, completely willing, passive - she lets you touch whatever you want like you own her.

“Did you like that, sweetheart?” You brush your palm across Minnie’s sweaty forehead, thread your fingers through her hair. You can’t get over her eyes, when she’s like this, so turned on she’s going out of her mind - so dark and dazed and needy. “You liked seeing Yuqi get put in her place?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Yuqi retorts, still gripping the bedframe - as long as you’re in the moment, it doesn’t matter how hard you fuck her, how many times you make her cum: she’s always going to snap back.

You grin at Minnie, conspiratorial like you’re sharing a secret. “She’s cute when she’s angry, huh?”

You’re not expecting it, so it actually shocks you when Yuqi lurches forward to go for your neck, her fingers wrapping tight around your throat. Her eyes are glimmering, dangerous, some feral animal just waiting for the kill - you stare right on back, pulse pounding in your ears - she’s never sexier than when she’s like this, like she’s right on the brink of murder. She’s seconds from strangling you and you can’t resist her.

“Keep fucking talking,” says Yuqi, remarkably steady for someone who just came all over your cock, “and you’re never gonna fuck me again, you got that?”

That’s a threat she’ll never make good on, but she’s so criminally hot that you let her have it.

“Fine,” you say - you’ll throw up the white flags.

“Great,” says Yuqi, and then she dips to kiss you, loosening her grip, letting you go. “Give her hell.”

The camera trades hands out of necessity alone - Yuqi takes it, rests back against the bedframe - and yours find the flare of Minnie’s hips, thumbs pressed against the raise of her hipbones, against bruises you’ve left before and you’ll leave again. “Alright,” you murmur - Minnie’s blue nails are a flash against the sheets where she’s tangled her fingers in them. You’re canvassing her body, all that ground to cover. “I guess you deserve at least a little bit of a reward for being so patient.”

Then you deliver an open-handed slap against her waiting cunt.

Minnie screams - in the foreground, there’s Yuqi’s cruel, stunning laugh - and you’ll take it as a soundtrack, a lead-in - you smack her cunt again, harder - Minnie wails in pain, in consuming pleasure: that’s how it all starts, and you shove your cock deep inside her.

She’s so fucking wet - between the shrieks spilling from her lips, you can hear the sloppy sounds of her pussy as you’re pounding her, the noise obscene, sin audible like it’s made a home of her voice - and you’re so rough with Minnie that you swear you could rip her in two, or die trying. Oh, maybe you’re showing off - Yuqi’s with that camera, on the corner of the bed, her view picture-perfect-

Maybe - but part of it’s that fucking pussy, part of it’s the writhing, the squealing, part of it’s how Minnie’s begging for more, more, more-

“More?” This time, your hand finds her flawless face instead of her cunt, but the slap’s a lightning strike, just as loud. “Sounds like someone is getting a little spoiled. You do realize that you’re just a stupid fucking toy for Yuqi and I to use - you get that I don’t give a fuck about how you feel, because your slutty fucking pussy is just going to squirt the moment you get a cock inside you-”

Minnie does actually squirt, then, clear liquid spraying everywhere - there’s Yuqi’s laugh, again, so openly delighted-

“Yeah, you hear her laughing at you?” Another slap, and then you bring your attention to Minnie’s throat - you can never keep your hands away from it for long. “It’s because it’s so fucking funny how easy you are, Minnie - how you’re just a dumb, desperate fuckhole-”

Minnie’s eyes squeeze shut, and you feel how it rolls through her whole body, the sheer, stunning humiliation, how she eats it all up-

“And we’ve got it all on camera, baby.” That’s the thing that does it - it’s one thing to fuck her and it’s another thing to fuck with her head, and that’s everything else: the slapping, the choking, the way you talk to her like you couldn’t care less what happens to her - “You can’t go back now, sweetheart. Now we’ve got all this hard proof of just how fucking greedy you are to get fucked like a bitch - now everybody can see for themselves how much you love it.”

Minnie’s got tears rolling down her cheeks, now - you’re gonna cum, and you know it - but you can’t hold back from getting the words out of her.

“Minnie,” you say, expectant, sinister - you press down on her throat, and then you finally let go. “Tell the camera how much you love it.”

You can actually feel Yuqi getting closer, playing her role - she’s not even touching Minnie, and yet the smugness is coming off her in waves, and it’s that ego, that undisputed power, and it’s building up, and up, and up-

“I love it,” sobs Minnie, babbling to the point of incoherence, slurring, weightless - and you think you might’ve finally broken her. “I love it - fucking love it - I’m fucking useless, I’m just a hole for you to fuck and cum in - I don’t care if everybody knows, I want everybody to know, it’s what I deserve-”

“Damn right,” says Yuqi, and she’s right at your shoulder, camera lens doing slow circuits from Minnie’s pussy to her face - there’s her cunt stuffed full of your cock and wrecked, there’s her expression with every profane bit of pleasure written across it, like you might’ve taken a pen and scrawled fuckdoll on her forehead, branded her yours - oh, that’s an idea for a different day, and Yuqi’s eyes are a reckoning, her voice slicing like glass-

“That’s our filthy little fucktoy.” Yuqi’s nails are against your back, claws at your shoulder blades - each time you thrust in and out of Minnie, they scrape against you, stinging - and it’s doubling the senses, the feelings, pushing it all to the edge - “Just dying to get that pussy filled up with cum - he’s ruining your tight fucking cunt, huh? I’ll be surprised if you can even fucking feel anything after this, stupid fucking whore-”

Minnie cries out, shudders, squirts violently around your cock - Yuqi digs her nails into your spine, hard - you’re groaning out loud, cumming like you’ll never stop-

“Oh, you think it’s over?”

All of a sudden, the camera’s getting pushed into your hands, and Yuqi’s shoving you backwards - the moment you pull out, the load you spilled into Minnie’s cunt starts leaking out onto the already drenched sheets - and then Yuqi flips Minnie over, drags her ass to her crotch - and you don’t know what it happened, but Yuqi’s stepped into the strap-on, and she’s positioned the dildo right at Minnie’s leaking cunt, still full of your cum and dripping.

“What do you think?” You pose it like a casual question, conversational - your fingers slip through Minnie’s hair and tug, getting a pained yelp - you’re talking about her like she’s not even there, and she’s obsessed with it. “She hasn’t had enough?”

“I don’t know,” Yuqi says, and places the flat of her palm on the smooth line of Minnie’s back, smirk glittering, treacherous. “I think she can take a little more.”

Minnie’s so far gone, and it’s all over her face - she’s practically limp, eyes glassy - you think if you weren’t both holding her down she’d just float away, mindless, choking on her own overwhelming pleasure - she’s in heaven and hell all at once, and it must be fucking killing her-

“Are you okay with having my sloppy seconds?” you ask, but it’s less malicious than most things you say when you’re pushing Yuqi’s buttons. You’ve struck up an alliance, here. You’ve got a common goal, a girl as your collective property - for once, you’re on the exact same side.

Yuqi laughs like she knows it, the sound gorgeous, godless - in a second she’s kissing you, licking hot into your mouth. “This cunt’s always sloppy,” she says when she pulls back, callous, saliva stringing at your lips. Her hand settles on the curve of Minnie’s ass, smacks down hard like it’s her right. “I think I’ll make my peace with it.”

There’s smoke in the room, or there must be - Yuqi’s hubris is suffocating, cloying, the hottest thing you’ve ever seen - and she jerks her hips sharply, harshly, and buries the dildo deep inside Minnie.

“Oh my fucking god-”

Minnie’s gasping, incoherent; it’s dirty, it’s filthy - Yuqi fucking your cum deeper and deeper into Minnie’s pussy, slapping so hard at Minnie’s ass that you know it’ll turn red and bruise - and Minnie’s drooling, screaming, begging for it-

“You like it when it hurts, huh?” says Yuqi, the devil on her lips, and she’s so unforgiving with her, so careless - you see the way Minnie’s striking eyes roll back in her head and you know it’s the only way to ever properly fuck her. You could treat her nice, but it’d never make her this fucking wet. “You like being used like a worthless fucking cockslut? You like knowing the only thing you’re fucking good for is to be fucked and spanked and filled with cum?”

You’re rounding the bed, you’re at Minnie’s sloppy mouth - it’s a mouth made to be fucked and you’ll get your turn. “I think you should answer her, baby,” you tell her, first, tapping at her pouty bottom lip. “Yuqi doesn’t like being ignored.”

Minnie looks up at you, uncomprehending, and all that comes out is complete fucking nonsense, words without a sentence or sentiment to stick to - “Fuck,” she slurs, and you swear she’s losing more than her voice. “Fuck - cockslut - hurts - I love it, I love - fuck-”

“Sorry, darling,” you say to Yuqi, faking all your sympathies - and then you promptly shove your cock down Minnie’s throat. “I think we might’ve fucked the cognitive functioning out of her for the time being. Oh, fuck-”

See, like you said, you can handle Minnie on your own - but it’s so much more fun handling her with Yuqi.

The look on Yuqi’s face is carnal, devastating - Minnie’s got one cock in her mouth and another in her pussy, and you’re both so messy there’s barely any rhythm to it - and Yuqi latches onto the moment, takes advantage. There’s a thought here, one where the two of you are switching off, filling up the one hole you haven’t touched. Yuqi’s eyes slip down between Minnie’s ass cheeks, then back up to you - you’ll get there in the future, but Minnie’s sobbing, slobbering around your cock, and for now-

“Sure,” replies Yuqi, and cants her hips hard - it’s an image you can’t look away from, her pink hair wild and her thrusts deliberate - she looks like she was made to fuck Minnie like this, like she can do better things with a strap-on than anybody else would be able to do with their real dicks. She’s just got all this control, she’s unbelievable, she’s got the whole world in the palm of her hand, begging to bend to her will-

“But - personally - I think this slut’s always been completely fucking brainless,” Yuqi adds, smirk cutting and crooked - when she fights, she’ll fight dirty - and Minnie squirts for the final time.

You’re jerking your cock, dumping your cum into Minnie’s mouth. She barely swallows any of it, lets creamy white spill down her chin; Yuqi pulls out of her, and she collapses to the bed, entirely limp. Yuqi’s tumbling off to the side, pushing sweaty hair off her forehead, so visibly pleased with her handiwork - she’s fumbling with the strap-on, but you think if given the chance, she’s be tracing every line of Minnie’s body with delicate hands, fingertips trapping sweat and slick-

She gets the strap-on off, and you’ll let her get there - but first, you think she deserves one more orgasm.

“Yuqi,” you say.

Yuqi looks up at you, and for the first time all night she’s lost her guard, let it fall. “Yeah?”

In two seconds flat you’ve tugged her across the bed, and you’ve got your grip on her like there’s a point you’re proving. Three fingers in her cunt, your other hand rubbing furiously at her clit - the camera’s on an angle on the bedspread, and Yuqi’s cunt is wide open for you, already raw and pink and wrecked, already so close to the edge-

“Fucking cum for me,” you demand, and it’s one order she won’t mind following. “Fucking cum.”

There’s those throaty moans, spilling from her lips - there’s her pussy clamping down around your fingers-

She cums, and that’s the finale you’ve been waiting for.

When you slide your fingers out of her, there’s a lull, finally, a peace treaty signed and delivered. It’s not silent - there’s the panting, the loud pull of air into your lungs - but it’s something close, significant. You’re calling a ceasefire. You’re pulling the camera and you’re yelling cut.

Yuqi leans back against the bedframe, her hand finding your wrist; she draws your cum-drenched fingers to her lips, sucks her own orgasm off your fingers. It’s so hot, but you’re past that. Minnie’s not unconscious, but she’s almost there - she’s completely drained, mouth slack and salivating, her cunt and her throat so thoroughly used that she’s got cum spilling from both holes. The sheets are never going to recover from this - you already know that.

You don’t know how long it is before you speak, but then you do.

“Think about it,” you say. Yuqi glances at you - Minnie rolls over, and you’re still not sure if she remembers how to form words. “We could’ve been doing that the whole time.”

“We would’ve killed her,” points out Yuqi, lips tripping up at a corner, gesturing towards Minnie’s virtually lifeless frame.

Minnie’s smiles spreads, shows teeth - so, you’re both wrong: she’s more alive than she’s ever been. “Probably,” she agrees, woozy and wrecked. “But what a fucking way to go.”

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s a slow crawl back to clarity; Minnie’s still splayed across the cum-soaked sheets like she doesn’t have a damn care in the world. She’s grinning stupidly, gorgeously. You can’t take your eyes off of her. She says, “I wouldn’t mind making that a habit.”

Her voice is hoarse from screaming, shot and scratchy. You can’t take your eyes off of her - but then Yuqi’s laughing, unruly and intensely beautiful, and now you’re stuck on her like you’d never want to look away. These girls: they’ll be the fucking death of you.

You smooth a hand over Yuqi’s hair, kiss Minnie’s sweaty forehead. “You think we can all fit in your shower?”

“Bitch,” says Minnie, mildly delirious, on the verge of laughter. “I don’t think I can fucking move.”

“Well, she’s gone,” Yuqi says to you. She’s rubbing Minnie’s slender shoulders, expression suddenly soft, something sparking in her dark eyes that’s not nearly as destructive as it was five minutes ago. Her eyes shift to you, and the look doesn’t fade. “I’ll run a bath,” she says, quietly, as Minnie’s eyelids flicker closed. “There’s one in the bathroom down the hall. Can you-”

“Water?” you ask, picking up on it immediately - the ease of it’s just another new habit. “I’ll get you both some.”

“Thanks.” The camera’s on the nightstand, the video stopped: it’s something to revisit at a later date. You’re in an entirely different moment now, and it’s nothing any film will ever get to see - you think you can safely say you’re fine with that.

Yuqi sighs, runs her thumb down Minnie’s collarbone. She says, “I don’t know if you can get dehydrated from squirting too much, but I think Minnie probably made it happen.”

You burst out laughing - it’s so sudden, and so crass. Well, you see the situation you’re in: at least it fits. “You’re so stupid.”

“Minnie’s not the only one who got the cognitive functioning fucked out of her.” Yuqi makes sarcastic air quotes with her fingers - even now, she’ll find a way to tease you. “Cut me a break, dude.”

“Dude,” agrees Minnie, mumbling and barely awake. “Thanks for the sex. Best ever in my life. Ever. Forever. I’m going to sleep.”

“You do that,” you say, standing in the doorway, chest expanding, inexplicably endeared. “Dude.”

“Say dude again and I’ll break your kneecaps,” says Yuqi, and her smile matches Minnie’s exhausted one like it’s a scene straight out of a movie, pre-planned and perfect. “Come back soon or we’ll miss you.”

You’re laughing again as you tumble out the door - you’re only getting water, you’ll be back in two minutes, tops - but somehow, you think you get exactly what she means.

There’ll be more days, nights, videos - ruination caught on camera and put on replay. You kind of know, even though you never say it out loud: there’s a next time, here, there’s a future and there’s fantasies, a hundred different ways to fuck the two of them. You’ll fall apart, fall back together. It’ll never be just once. You’ll never be able to let this go.

“Yeah,” says Minnie, in the bath, smiling and sweetly contemplative. Yuqi’s stroking shampoo through her hair - you’re tipping water to her lips. “I’m fucked. I think I’m really fucked. Literally and metaphorically.”

“You know what a metaphor is?” Yuqi asks, feigning shock, and you lose it laughing. Minnie’s right: you’re all completely screwed, but you’re in way too deep now to ever go back.

(Oh, well. That’s the thing about a habit like this: it’d be just so terribly tedious to break - so you won’t.)

"You’ve got us,” you tell her, and you mean it. “I think you’ll live.”

hard to break the habit, part 2 ((g)i-dle yuqi, minnie)

(smut, threesomes, public sex, anal, double penetration, oral, bodywriting, strap-ons, sex tapes, birthday sex, mentions of blood, biting, choking, squirting, sadomasochism, public humiliation, fluff, polyamory, 29k words, i originally wrote this for minnie’s bday so she gets to top for once lmfao, first part here)

“So, about that sequel.”

It’s the three of you, but it usually is. It always starts with the most familiar scene.

“Ugh,” says Yuqi, arching an eyebrow at you, the equivalent of a title card, opening credits. “Your obsession with sex is genuinely so unflattering.”

She’s got her hands in Minnie’s hair, thumb skating along the side of Minnie’s neck. Her nail trails across a row of hickeys you’d bitten and Yuqi’d made worse - or maybe the other way around. Oh, well. It’s not like you’re clamoring for recognition, competing during awards season; there’s no point in keeping score.

“I’m up for it,” says Minnie, smiling.

Her eyes flutter open, irises so green you suddenly can’t look away. Tilts her head, the line of her jaw an edge you’d love to drag your tongue across. She says, “I mean, I’m always up to get the life fucked out of me.”

“We get it,” says Yuqi, mouth curling. Her gaze flicks to Minnie’s face, anchors there just like you. You’re supposed to be playing a video game together, but it’s all a completely lost cause. There are too many pretty things in the room to resist. It’s a real problem. “You’re a whore.”

“Just for you two,” Minnie says, so easily that Yuqi actually stops short.

Her surprise is almost comical, because anyone with a view would be able to pick up on the context clues. Minnie, her head tucked into the crook of Yuqi’s neck, her arm splayed across Yuqi’s stomach, fingers brushing at your palm; Yuqi, working her fingers into your sleeve, tugging absentmindedly; you, and the kiss you’d pressed to the crown of her head seconds before. That’s an establishing shot, showing rather than telling; you’re all a little addicted to the physical. One look at the three of you and any audience would get it on sight.

“Oh, come on,” Minnie says, grinning when she spots Yuqi’s expression. “That can’t really surprise you, Yuqi. I’ve been fucking nobody but you guys for months.”

“Yeah,” you add, egging her on. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one out of the three of us.”

“I am,” insists Yuqi, but her dark eyes are gentle, lips quirked like a vulnerability. Heroes and their hamartias. “You guys have a collective IQ of, like, five. It’s not a high bar to clear.”

“Five,” repeats Minnie, jutting out her bottom lip at you thoughtfully.

“I think it’s gone up,” you agree.

“Stop talking,” says Yuqi, wrapping her fingers in the strap of Minnie’s tank top and tugging hard, letting it bite into her hickey-smattered collarbone. Minnie yelps, a breathy, needy noise - and your eyes flash right to Yuqi’s.

“Sequel?” you offer, again.

The pink’s almost completely faded out of Yuqi’s hair, but it smells sweet, tickling your neck. She’s got her tongue settled at the corner of her mouth, Chekhov’s gun - it’ll come back around just in time for the climax. The kind of criminally gorgeous that turns on you in a plot twist, betrays you and does it beautifully.

“You and your fucking one-track mind,” says Yuqi, scoffing.

But there’s the catch that they’re perfect scene partners, dripping chemistry; at her side, Minnie tilts her chin up, effortlessly alluring. Any camera would drink her in greedily, nab all the details: sharp points, places to apply pressure. Slant of her sternum. Slender lines of her shoulders. She’d walk on-screen and turn an audience wild.

“Well,” you say, grinning at the two of them. “It’s probably a little more than a one-track mind.”

Their reactions might as well be straight from a script; Yuqi breaks on a husky laugh, the echo like music itself. Minnie immediately pauses to watch, drawn like a sound cue, waiting with bated breath for the swell, the shift in tone. It’s art in motion, film in real life. Maybe sex isn’t really the thing you’re all obsessed with, in the end.

“Ha,” Yuqi says, sarcastic and somehow delighted, all at once. “You’re evolving.”

“That’s fucked up,” Minnie tells her, smile already beginning to spread. “You know we don’t know what that word means.”

“What, did you skip basic biology?”

“Basic what?”

And it wouldn’t be your kind of art if there was a single hard cut to a happy ending - there’s still a story to tell. You’ll be the narrator, asking your audience to just walk with you here. Stick it out; you’ll get there. Maybe it’s not all about sex, maybe it’s never so straightforward: fine. Maybe you’ll have to look a little deeper.

(Maybe it’s just each other, then. Maybe it’s just this.)

“Oh,” Minnie tells you both, one day. “You should probably know Miyeon’s giving me so much shit about this.”

“About what?” Yuqi asks, neck lolling to look at her. “Getting fucked regularly?”

All this talk of films - sure, the three of you together is more of an episodic thing, a serialized narrative; every moment slips neatly into the next. Apparently Miyeon and her boyfriend had spent the morning making some romantic breakfast together - crepes, blueberry and chocolate - and by noon you and Minnie and Yuqi are out in the kitchen sleepily scarfing down leftovers. It’s domestic. It’s mundane. It’s a perfect kind of day.

Yuqi’s sitting on the counter, splitting a chocolate-filled crepe with Minnie. “She’s one to talk,” she’s saying, about Miyeon. “Her teacher boyfriend’s like twice her age and he fucking ruins her every time they get together.”

“I actually have a question about that,” you say, already on your second crepe. “Or several questions. So, when you say he’s her teacher - do you mean that he’s her professor, like, currently, or-”

Minnie licks chocolate off of her bottom lip; Yuqi freezes, hooked on her mouth. Well, you’ve all got your weaknesses. “He was her high school teacher,” Minnie says, and inexplicably doesn’t elaborate, setting her plate aside. “Anyway-”

The sun’s drifting in through slats in the blinds, a snapshot framed naturally, spilling midday light over the counter, the floor, filtering through Minnie’s glossy black hair. There are subtleties in the set dressing, in the distinct lack of hickeys, bruises; everyone’s able to walk straight, that’s a first. You all stayed the night here yesterday after getting caught up watching some ridiculous rom-com, and managed to miss out on the sex, for once.

(Well, maybe not for once. There’s a recurring segment, like a bit played for laughs - oh, you all meant to be fuckbuddies; now you’re making a habit of sleeping over, sharing breakfast. It’s hysterical. It’s a riot. Slapstick humor at its finest, how you somehow tripped and fell into each others’ beds, and lives, and you just can’t manage to find your way back out.)

“Her whole point was that I have a bad track record,” Minnie’s explaining. “I have a habit of falling in love with my fuckbuddies.”

Yuqi stiffens. “She told you that?” She shakes her head vehemently, brows lowering in distaste. “That’s so shitty. I’ll kick the shit out of her.”

“Is it shitty?” you ask Yuqi, confused.

Yuqi’s jaw works. She’s inspecting Minnie’s face carefully.

“Yeah,” she says. “Considering the reason Miyeon stopped hooking up with Minnie was because Minnie fell in love with her, I think it’s pretty goddamn tactless of her to say.”

“Hey,” says Minnie, gently. She lifts her shoulders in a shrug, smile rueful. “I’m okay now. It was a while ago.” Her gaze runs its usual circuit, you to Yuqi, back again. She’s so good at playing parts that no stranger would be able to separate truth from fiction - but you can. You know she means it when she says, “I’m over her.”

“Still,” says Yuqi, irritated. She’s never so easily mollified. “Want me to talk to her?”

“Talk to her? You’re just gonna threaten to beat her up.”

“Yeah, and she deserves it.”

“Yuqi.”

You’ve all started this thing out by sneaking in and out of each others’ beds like you’re all teenagers engaging in some secret love affair - two’s company, three’s a crowd; that’s what they all say. Dodging roommates and donning each others’ sweatshirts. Playing games like there’s some kind of prize to be won, bruises and bright red lines scraped over skin, tallying up your points.

“She didn’t mean it like that,” Minnie’s clarifying, patting Yuqi’s knee soothingly, hopping down off the counter. “Like, she didn’t say it was a bad thing. She just wanted me to make sure that I knew what I was getting into.”

But it’s been months now, and somehow, even without all that drama, you’ve learned you can still have fun.

Everyone knows you’re fucking anyway, you’ve all decided; what’s the point in an act? Alright, you’ll spend entire days joined at the hip, let your friends recognize you all as a trio, as partners in crime. Laze around Yuqi’s apartment playing video games and splitting coffees. Get stern talking-tos at the library because you and Minnie can’t stop laughing at some absolutely foul joke Yuqi makes. You drag them both to the gym with you at least twice a week - Minnie never fails to don the most revealing athletic wear you’ve ever seen; Yuqi always ends up drowning in one of your t-shirts. Minnie rounds you all up at her favorite coffee shop between classes. You go to every gig Yuqi’s band has. There’s a name for this kind of thing - some kind of romantic trope, some cliché.

“She’s my best friend,” says Minnie, settling herself between Yuqi’s legs, fingertips dancing across her thigh. “She knows me.”

She knows this, too, you think of saying. Miyeon, with her fondness for flowery novels and pretentious films, mindful of foreshadowing, the way plot points thread together and tie themselves up in bows.

“Fine,” says Yuqi, a little petulantly. Her hair’s swept up, pale pink twining down her spine. “But - don’t you already know what you’re getting into?”

Haven’t we covered this by now? she’s saying. You and me and him. I’ve spent the night here every day for the past week and only half those were because the sex was so intense I couldn’t move afterwards. You know, don’t you? You know.

Because that’s how Yuqi sees things; she’s got no logical reason to stick around. She’s always got things to do. But she’s here, anyway, with the two of you, letting Minnie touch her however she wants, letting you sneak over and press a kiss to her shoulder, just above her tattoo. It’s a Saturday afternoon, mid-autumn. A moment of sweet, languid silence, letting the scene speak for itself, letting all the main players just breathe. There’s no other word for it but peace.

“Yeah,” says Minnie, and grins over at you. “Yeah, I think I do.”

Well, the peace doesn’t last very long, but it never does.

It can’t, really. Not with Yuqi, always something of a succubus, seconds from pulling out claws, fangs, going feral; not with Minnie, submissive like it’s something permanent, invariably ready to get on her knees. Not with you, utterly helpless in the face of both of them - oh, scratch that. You have agency. You knew what you were getting into. The point is that you’ve got a sequel to get to, so:

hey, Yuqi says one day, and it’s not in the group chat for once. you’re at minnie’s place, right?

You are, but you’re far from the only one. There’s something about Minnie and Miyeon’s apartment - okay, it’s not exactly a mystery, it’s gorgeous and way too much space for just the two of them; ah, the things old money can buy - that tends to attract strays. Today that just happens to include some of Miyeon’s friends, laughing with Miyeon out in the kitchen; Miyeon’s boyfriend, flipping through a dog-eared book on the couch; you, next to him, asking him if he can proofread one of your essays. Hey, it’s all about using your resources.

yes? you text back, puzzled. why?

minnie and i are on our way home. make sure the apartment is empty before we get there.

Just like that - like there’s no room for debate. ? you text, then: ???????

No response. You stare at your phone for a second, glance up at Miyeon’s boyfriend, watching you expectantly. In the kitchen, Miyeon squeals at something one of her friends says. It’s not even your apartment, but-

hey, you text Miyeon, discreetly. yuqi just texted me saying she wants me to clear the apartment out before she gets back…. can you help please

Desperate times, desperate measures. You’ve learned to read Yuqi’s tone even through texts. It’s an order you’re not about to ignore.

“Sorry,” you say to Miyeon’s boyfriend, “Yuqi is - you know what, never mind.” It’s a lost cause; there’s no point in explaining Song Yuqi’s whims. Instead-

You wait a beat, and then you hear Miyeon snort out a laugh from all the way in the other room.

sure, Miyeon replies over text, because despite it all, she’s a girl who knows how to pick her battles. give me like five minutes.

“Sorry about this,” she says to her friends moments later, true to her word, as she’s ushering them out the door. Her boyfriend’s arm is wound around her waist, the staggering height difference between them as adorably funny as it always is. “I totally forgot we have date night tonight.”

“It’s okay,” says one of Miyeon’s friends - she’s remarkably tall, willowy, voice sweetly soft and understanding. “Have a good time.”

“Yeah, whatever,” says her other friend, a brunette who is ostensibly wearing sunglasses indoors. You recognize her vaguely as one of the baristas from the coffee shop near campus. “You don’t have to be, like, coy about it. If you’re gonna get fucked senseless, just say that.”

“Yunjin,” admonishes Miyeon, adopting that faux-scandalized tone that you recognize on the spot. Miyeon’s rarely anything but shameless, but she’ll play her parts. “No - we’re going to dinner. We’re classy.”

Yunjin slips her sunglasses to the top of her head just to give the most dramatic eye-roll you’ve ever seen. “Sure,” she says, and moves to tug the other girl out the door. “Have fun. Don’t get a venereal disease from having sex in a public bathroom. And don’t get pregnant.” She pauses, purposeful. “Or do, whatever. You’re into that, right?”

Miyeon sputters; it takes a lot to catch her off-guard, but Yunjin’s doing it wonderfully. “I - you-”

“Bye, Miyeon,” the other girl tacks on, earnestly sincere, and lets the door fall shut, leaving you all speechless in the process - and it’s certainly one way to make an exit.

“You’re welcome,” says Miyeon, standing in the doorway with her boyfriend’s hand clasped in hers. “The only reason I did that is because I know Yuqi will hit me with her car if she finds out I’m the person who cockblocked her.”

“I owe you one,” you say. There’s no fighting those allegations; when Yuqi’s that demanding, it can only mean one thing. “Thanks. Seriously.”

You’re about to bid them farewell, but something gives you pause, drinking them both in.

See, you were right about Miyeon knowing stories like yours, her penchant for romantic novels and tales spun - but there’s this, too. Miyeon, who’s been right where you are now; who gets the way sex and situationships can slip into a future, into a finale, into the rest of your life.

Well, at least she’s on your side. There are worse allies to have.

“No problem,” Miyeon says, and her smile spills her own secrets. “Good luck.”

Oh, about your sequel: obviously, you’ve got to outdo yourselves this time. It’s all about setting new standards. There’s a camera, there’s a set-up, there are toys, tricks, daydreams to indulge in, novelties; there’s Minnie, practically asking to be tortured-

The front door slams shut.

“Hello?” you call, and get nothing back but silence.

(Contrary to popular belief, you and Yuqi don’t get riled without a reason. If you’re going to rough Minnie up, take her to the point of no return and push her past it, you’ve got to have at least some incentive. You’ve all been fucking so regularly that it’s a given - but it’s got to be a special occasion, to bring out the cameras.

So: this all means you’re not exactly sure what to expect when you wander into the entryway, but-)

“Oh,” you say, when you see her. “Hey?”

It’s all there, immediately. The flushed cheeks, stark against the faded color in her hair; lips screwed up, half a pout, half a scowl, cute with an edge, adorable with an aggression. The footfalls of her feet in her platform sandals, determined; she’s in jeans and one of your t-shirts, so oversized it’s slipping off a shoulder. Her fingers flex like she’s thinking of wrapping them around someone’s hair. She’s fuming, from the jump. It’s hilarious. It’s hot.

“Uh,” you say, watching Yuqi fumble with the straps of her sandals, too worked up to work anything. “Are you okay?”

“Minnie,” snaps Yuqi, furious in place of an explanation. “She’s fucking - I’ve been out with her all day, and she’s-”

It’s nonsense. You open your mouth, about to ask for clarification - but then Minnie walks through the door after her, and you instantly get the gist.

“Oh,” you say again, struck.

“Exactly,” says Yuqi, seething.

Minnie’s not even paying attention to either of you, humming softly to herself as she leans down to slip off her shoes, teeth notched into her bottom lip. She’s in these criminally short black denim cutoffs, riding high and shameless up her thighs, this cropped black sweater, showing off her flat midriff and dipping low at the neckline - every part of her is slender and lean and gorgeous, just begging to be bruised and bitten and scratched - there’s her silky black hair, her eyes green and rimmed with dark eyeliner, mascara, ten times more arresting than usual, half-lidded and devilishly sexy, lips red and throat just begging for a fist around it - okay, she’s not even fucking doing anything, but-

Minnie glances over at the two of you, gathering up her hair in one smooth, fluid motion; it wouldn’t usually be this teasingly hot, but - alright, that’s a lie. It’s Minnie and everything she does is like an invitation to rip her clothes off, or at least it is for you and Yuqi.

“Hey,” she says, nonchalantly, letting her hair drop back past her collarbones.

“I’m gonna fuck you up,” says Yuqi, like there are a dozen unspeakably violent urges she’s repressing all at once.

Minnie’s mouth falls open, somehow actually startled. “What?”

“You look really hot today,” you translate. “It’s making her, um-”

“Horny?” Minnie supplies, catching on.

“Homicidal,” you correct. Well, when it comes to Yuqi, they pretty much go hand in hand.

Minnie cracks into a smile. “I’m hot every day,” she says, planting a hand on her hip. She lifts her chin, and there’s the fantasy again: tall, toned, threateningly attractive. That familiar brand of beautiful, like something you want to rip up and ruin. “I would think you’d be able to control yourself by now.”

“Don’t be a brat.” Yuqi’s patience is already running thin - there’s a tightrope you’re walking, precarious. There are fault lines, already splitting ground. “You’re such a fucking cocktease.”

“Okay,” says Minnie, still smiling. She’s used to how Yuqi’s sexual frustration practically possesses her, something of a spirit, fury flushing her veins; it’s always a bit demonic, but that’s the fun of it. “Do you want to do something about it?”

She asks it so innocently. She’s always down to push limits. It’s enticing, to her: the opportunity to drag the devil up from hell just to taunt her.

But then Yuqi jerks forward to grab Minnie’s forearm in her hand, and that’s enough for Minnie to give it all up entirely - Yuqi touches her and there’s no point in putting up a fight, not that she’d even want to. She’ll have bruises later. She’ll wear them like jewelry: against her wrists, her neck, bitten into her thighs; rubies, amethysts. This, you’ve come to realize, is a girl who’s used to living in luxury. Sex like this is just another way of showing status.

So you’ll give her what she wants. “Well, baby,” you say, at Minnie’s wide eyes, as Yuqi tugs her roughly towards the bedroom, “when you’re crying later, I hope you remember that you did this to yourself.”

Minnie blinks owlishly at you, but it’s an act with fraying edges; she can’t hide the smirk unfurling at her mouth. Yuqi throws the door open, says where’s your fucking camera - Minnie doesn’t break eye contact with you, flattens herself against the wall, already prepared to get tossed around and manhandled. She’ll make herself smaller, shyer. She’ll give you exactly what you want, too.

“Oh,” Minnie says coyly, and she’s always so much more in control than she’ll pretend to be. “I absolutely will.”

(See, Miyeon was only partially right when she wished you good luck: it’s a sweet sentiment, sure, but it’s becoming very obvious that you’re not the one who needs it.)

It’s the outfit. The shorts, more accurately. It’s what you manage to glean from the way Yuqi gets Minnie on the bed, gets them off and to the floor like they’ve personally offended her. You know Minnie; know she probably spent the whole day bending over in them, irresistible to get a reaction, insatiable when it comes to attention. She’s fond of skimpy clothing - she’s got a figure she loves to show off - and you’re obviously not complaining, because you’re allowed to stare and grope and touch. Yuqi is too, but something about today, something about the mood-

“Here’s what you don’t seem to understand,” Yuqi says to her, voice low and deadly. “If you dress like a dumb slut, you’re gonna get fucked like a dumb slut.”

Your eyebrows raise involuntarily.

(Look, today’s particular outfit wasn’t even close to the most revealing thing you’ve ever seen Minnie wear - but your gaze falls to the godforsaken shorts abandoned on the bedroom floor, and you kind of get it, regardless.)

You’ll let Yuqi have this one. Plus, you’re not about to start complaining about this, either, especially when-

“Proposition,” continues Yuqi casually, above Minnie on the bed, trapping her wrists in her hands. “You wanna take two cocks at once, sweetheart?”

It seems like it’s been established by now, the answer to that question: you’ve fucked her throat, Yuqi’s fucked her pussy. Minnie can take dick like she was built for it, her body lithe with a purpose, designed for sin, sex, debauchery - but Yuqi leans in closer, mouth like readying a weapon, preparing a stipulation:

“One in your cunt,” she says, and for a second it’s like she’s already bitten down and broken skin, “and one in your ass.”

And that’s-

“You think she can handle it?” you say, camera in one hand, lens trained and remarkably still. Minnie whines, inhalations shallow; she loves being talked about like she’s not there, loves the dehumanization of it. It takes a certain kind of person to get off on being treated like fucking property, but-

“She’s a fucking whore for anal,” says Yuqi, dismissively, then laughs, raspy and ruinous. “I mean - she’s a whore all the time, we know that. But she really does love getting fucked in the ass.”

You reach out, take Minnie’s face in your other hand. “Is that true?” you ask her, almost placatingly; condescension drips from your tone. “You want that, baby?”

It’s immediate. Instinct, practically. A strangled breath from Minnie’s parted lips; a squeeze of her thighs together, stomach taut and back ready to curve to archways - a tilt of a camera, a discovery of a new angle, a clearer light. It’s rhetorical: you’ve heard it all over again, a million different ways - I’d let you do anything, she says, often and to both of you, halfway to begging; I’d let you fucking tear me apart, I don’t care, God damn, sometimes I just want to get fucked-

“Yes,” Minnie whispers. Then, pathetically: “fuck, please.”

There’s so much power in having her underneath you. It’s a miracle she ever makes it out of shit like this alive. There’s no real guarantee - this could be the time that ruins her for good, but that goes for every time. Yuqi laughs, fingers tightening around Minnie’s wrists; there’s her mirth in a minor key, there’s Minnie’s pulse like a funeral march. The risk is just the fun of it, really.

“Alright,” you say, grinning, and steady the camera; well, it’s all a show, anyway. “Then we’ll make it happen.”

It’s so fast, but that’s how it always goes: Yuqi hates being patient and you’re right there with her. She’s been riled all day, ready to call for warfare. She needs to see Minnie fucked and filled with cock, she says, smirk halfway to sinister, and she needs it now. Just like the two of you, she always gets what she wants, so there’s this:

Minnie, on all fours like it’s an automatic reaction. Yuqi, drenching her own fingers with lube, watching as Minnie whimpers against her pillow, made to part her own ass cheeks with her hands and wait-

Yuqi hums low in her throat at the sight, and shoots you a look behind the camera. “You getting all of this?”

“Obviously,” you say, and your voice sounds just as wrecked as hers; you both purport to have the upper hand, at times like these, but you’re both victims to your desires just as much as Minnie is. It’ll be abundantly clear, when you watch it back. You can’t really bring yourself to care. “Like I’d ever fucking miss it.”

And you can’t - no one can, no one in the room, no future versions of yourself watching it all back, no prospective audience - as Yuqi presses a lube-slicked finger to the pucker of Minnie’s asshole, and truly starts to fuck her.

The intrusion kicks a gasp from Minnie’s lungs, air whistling through her teeth. You can’t take your eyes off of her ass, Yuqi’s hands, the nearly feral gleam in her eye; that’s a sight you could get addicted to, no holds barred. Oh, it all shows here, somehow, underneath the abject filth-

“Yuqi-” Minnie’s voice breaks off, a strangled semblance of a moan. “Yuqi, fuck-”

-because Yuqi’s gentle when it counts, in the end. She’ll let violence bloom in other ways: a harsh smack to Minnie’s bare ass, a laugh at the mewling yelp it gets. The way she balls Minnie’s black hair in her fist just to yank her hair hard, just to see her back curve beautifully - just to snarl, “Nasty fucking slut.”

You can’t look away from the way she works her fingers into Minnie’s asshole, can’t get over the concept, the anticipation, the mind game in motion - Yuqi shoots a grin your way, beckons you closer - the strap-on’s waiting on the sheets, the lens is waiting for a performance.

“You ready?” Yuqi murmurs.

You pass her the camera - it’s all about setting the scene, about getting the perfect shot - okay, that’s only in theory, because in reality you know it’s just about getting fucked in more ways than one, but you’ll use your excuses while you can still think clearly - and then-

(It’s like it’s all been for practice. That’s the first thing you can even manage to come up with, and even that slips out seconds later, your brain too consumed by the feeling, the physical - Minnie’s cunt clamping down on your cock, Yuqi’s strap-on buried in her ass, and then she starts to thrust-)

“There you go,” you choke out; it’s all you can manage. You’re underneath Minnie, and you can’t take your eyes off that face, her devastating eyes, her lips parted prettily. “There’s our girl.”

That’s what you mean: like you don’t even have to say it out loud to fall right into it, to fuck Minnie like you’re returning to a rhythm. There are so many days with sex as a sort of sadistic competition, between you and Yuqi - who can hit Minnie harder, make her cum faster, make her scream louder - but it’s never been clearer: you’ve always had the same goal in the end, identical objectives, purposes and paths to ruin. Like you’ve both taken a girl and corrupted her, wholly and completely. Like - like-

“Like you’re just a cheap little whore.” You can’t see Yuqi’s face, but you don’t even have to; the rasp of her voice is enough. “That’s what it feels like, huh? Having your slutty fucking holes stuffed with cock?” Only a part of it is her performing for the camera, you know; get her in the right mood and this is what’ll make it out of her mouth regardless - predatory, ravenous, like she’s been starved for the sound of pain - or pleasure, whatever, like anyone can even tell the fucking difference - and needs to hear it again, and again, and again. “Having his cock in your cunt while I’m making your asshole gape-”

You’re letting her take the lead, but it’s partly because you can barely breathe, Minnie’s cunt like a vice, her perfect face above yours, green eyes dazed and watery, mouth slack and wet. Her body is so hot it’s almost feverish, simmering on high - her blood’s kerosene, her arteries sparking up in flames - there’s a hunger to this kind of craving, how it scalds and burns and consumes-

“Because you know,” continues Yuqi, so thick and rough she’s almost slurring. Her strap-on’s the kind that stimulates her clit, makes her shudder visibly with every thrust. “That this all belongs to us.” A loud smack on Minnie’s ass - Yuqi’s got the camera, probably getting the perfect angle, Minnie’s spine a winding road - you’ve got a view with how Minnie shrieks, tears forming in her eyes and spilling over - and Yuqi says, “We own you.”

The sound Minnie makes next - needy, desperate, shattering like glass and gorgeously - isn’t anywhere near a protest. Yuqi’s there with her defenses anyway, on the offensive as if Minnie’d screamed out loud, as if she’d writhed and fought it, as if she doesn’t know that it’s exactly the brutal truth. But there’s nothing Yuqi loves more than an argument, so:

“Baby,” she purrs, and cants her hips, “if we wanted to get eight strangers in here to fucking gangbang your tight little body - throw you around and use you like a fucking toy - you know you’d just get on all fours and take it.” Adds snidely, insult to bloody injury: “You’d let us film it, too.”

You suck in a breath at the image, struck, groaning. It’s one of those moments where everything starts to blur at the edges, tear apart at the seams - anything in the periphery seems to swim, melt, fade to obscurity - Minnie’s always deliciously tight, but Yuqi’s strap-on in her ass takes it up tenfold, makes her cunt nothing less than suffocating - you’re not sure how you’re not splitting her in two, how you’ll ever be able to come back from this-

“Gonna cum,” she whimpers, needy and threatening nonsensical, or it will be, in a few seconds. “Fuck me, fuck me, I’m gonna cum-”

She squirts - right there, right around your cock - but neither you or Yuqi stop. Self-control is fucking overrated, Yuqi’d said to you, once; I like taking what I want, especially when she’s fucking begging for it.

But there’s no space in the room for begging now, no opportunity for that kind of effort, for anything other than cumming, crying. Minnie’s sobbing incoherent - you bring that perfect face in your hands and drag her in for a kiss, and all you taste is salt, sweat, tears - her lips part and she’s drooling into your open mouth, unraveling, reduced to nothing but a wet, well-fucked mess-

It’s like you’re both trying to wear her out, make her something to fuck and tear apart and discard later. Hey, all bets are off in this bedroom. You’ll make her scream your names.

But it’s all about the benefits. You’re wired by the expression on her face, saying, “You know we only do this because you get off on that shit.” There’s your hand to her neck, the way she sees it coming and still flinches, still clenches tight around your cock. “You like when we treat you like a dumb fucking cocksleeve, choke you, hit you-”

It’s practically a cue; you hear how Yuqi’s hand comes down on Minnie’s ass, hear the smack, the strangled squeal. She must go for the curve of her hip next, because Minnie jerks to the side, gasps for air, squirts again-

Time shifts, has a way of becoming irrelevant - everything so slick and wet and sloppy it’s impossible to put a source to; Minnie won’t stop cumming - you and Yuqi have your hands everywhere she wants them, nails finding purchase wherever they can: there’ll be broken skin and blood, her body like a crime scene, but at least Minnie’s fucking asking for it - Yuqi’s panting, demanding, “Fucking cum, fucking cum in her-”

You think Minnie cums at the same time you do, but you can’t be sure. The room’s flooding, your head’s underwater; you can barely hear anything, blood rushing in waves. Minnie falls to the side next to you, gasping for air.

Yuqi’s above you with a camera, running a hand through her hair. The line of her neck shimmers with sweat. She looks victorious in the way only she can after sex, like there’s a war she’s won. Hair fucked up and falling down her back. Grin like a gold medal.

“Yuqi,” you say hoarsely, once you can speak.

She turns towards you, and you make your move.

You get the strap-on off in seconds, push it out of the way. For once, it’s all slow; sloppy but somehow gentle, two fingers in her cunt and your mouth on her clit - you fuck her and there’s no danger in it. Sometimes, you’re content to just make her cum; sometimes, she’s content to just let you. Oh, the roles are fun, the swearing and the slapping - but Yuqi’s thighs tighten around your head and she’s cumming around your fingers with a moan, and there’s nothing that compares to this, either.

Something clatters to the nightstand next to her.

You draw back, instantly suspicious, still licking her cum from your lips. “What was-”

But Yuqi’s already got the camera back up again, focused even with her thighs trembling, chest heaving; panning from Minnie’s slack, exhausted face to her tits, to her midriff, where-

FUCKDOLL, it reads, in crude letters across the flat plane of her stomach. Like she’d seen a canvas she just couldn’t resist. There’s an eyeliner pencil on the nightstand, entirely incriminating. You raise your eyebrows at Yuqi, not quite questioning the impulse - you’re so far past that - but entertained by it, nonetheless.

Yuqi grins back, catches the look.

“Well, look at her,” she says, stroking her thumb down Minnie’s midriff, pausing to trace the letters, the sweat dappling her skin. Looks back up at you, smirk wicked and wild, and her expression says it all: it’s the truth, isn’t it? Tilts the camera, supporting evidence. She’s calling it how she sees it, how anyone would. Look at how we fuck her, she’s saying. Look at how she’d fucking die for it.

Hey, she doesn’t need to prove anything to you. You’re seeing it all firsthand. Squirt ruining the sheets, the gape of Minnie’s asshole; her well-fucked cunt, drooling your cum onto her thighs. A toy by any definition - like her body’s designed for it, her pussy, her ass, her brilliantly expressive eyes.

“Realistically,” continues Yuqi, a little cruelly, “there are way worse things I could’ve called her.”

But another second passes and she’s giggling, tracing the sloppy letters, enjoying her own handiwork. It’s practically a compliment, coming from her. An endearment. A giveaway. Anyone she liked less would get something much meaner - but it’s Minnie.

“I don’t give a fuck,” mumbles Minnie, fingers splayed lazily across the drenched sheets. Dazed and only half-alive, words melting into each other like honey. You laugh at the state of her because it’s hilarious, and you kiss her, because she’s gorgeous. She smiles against your mouth, murmurs, “Call me whatever you want.”

(See, but she doesn’t really need to tell you that, either - you’ve known the entire time.)

It’s like that thing all the great filmmakers say: every single frame like a painting, Minnie at your mercy. Vaguely surreal, unbelievable, like she can’t actually be that filthy, that fucked, that beautiful - getting this all on camera; well, it’s something of an art form, if you actually think about it-

“What the fuck are you talking about?” exhales Yuqi, reaching out to brush your sweaty hair off your forehead, affection dulling the snark somewhat. Then: “Oh, God. You’re losing it, too.”

Too, she says, because Minnie’s already long gone, but that’s a given. “No, I definitely have a point,” you protest weakly, throwing a haphazard gesture towards the camera. “We could - like - win awards for this shit.”

“There is something seriously wrong with you.”

You try in vain for a glare, about to fire back, but-

A breathless laugh. Half a wheeze, so scratchy you would be alarmed - but you know better. Minnie’s got her entire face buried into your shoulder, giggling deliriously, sounding partially like she’s seconds from complete lung failure, a marginally worrying and entirely familiar mark of exhaustion. She’s too adorable to resist, fucked out and hopeless. Yuqi stares, says, “Great. That’s great,” and opens her mouth again, like she’s readying another insult-

Minnie swivels just to tip her cheek into Yuqi’s neck, eyes closed and makeup ruined, a slight, dreamy smile gracing her lips. Yuqi’s mouth snaps shut.

“You were saying?” you prompt.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Not a chance,” you say, delighted, too caught up in the moment to be anything else. “Not when I could be fucking you instead.”

Yuqi rolls her eyes; she’d probably punch you if she didn’t think it’d disrupt Minnie. “Boo,” she says, instead, and throws you a withering look. “That sucks. You get girls with lines like that?”

Minnie’s laughing again, suddenly. She mumbles something incomprehensible into Yuqi’s neck, then tilts her face out, says to Yuqi, “It got you, didn’t it?”

“Please,” says Yuqi, never missing a beat. “I’m only here because you guys are better than nothing.”

But she’s stroking a hand through Minnie’s hair, the curve of her lips soft and honest in a way that she can’t be openly, sometimes; too tender, too shy. She doesn’t try to hide it, but she doesn’t announce it either. She’s content as you lean over, kiss the tip of her nose, make her laugh; content just to be there, with the two of you. Happy to give in, after all of it.

“Right,” you say, smiling back, because you’ll let her confess when she’s ready. “Let’s go with that.”

The dust settles, eventually; the camera’s shut off, the sheets are stripped and thrown in the washer, you distribute Gatorades, waters. You rebuild each other, afterwards. You clean it all up. Minnie needs it most, but she always does; she falls right into your arms, in the end. Fine, says Yuqi, I guess I’ll forgive you for dressing like a whore - but she’s laughing.

“Yeah, what was that?” you ask; it’s all unmasked, the curtains finally drawn back. You’ll thumb back through the script, double back on your lines. “I’ve seen Minnie in way sluttier outfits. That was kind of an intense reaction to a pair of shorts that I’m pretty sure she’s worn, like, forty times.”

Minnie makes a tiny noise of protest - with the kind of money I have? you can imagine her saying, overdramatic and bratty to get a reaction; you know I don’t fucking repeat outfits - but now she’s too sleepy for any real argument, too sated to even want it.

“I was looking for an excuse to lose my shit,” says Yuqi, shamelessly. She tilts her head, thumb tracing a circle on Minnie’s bare hip. “Plus, she liked it.”

“I like you,” says Minnie, dreamily. She pokes your cheek, grin beaming like stage lights. “You too.” She pauses, briefly swerves into another train of thought. “Are you actually going to get eight strangers in here to gangbang me?”

“Of course not,” you say, entertained, before Yuqi can even open her mouth. “Yuqi’s too territorial. She’d curb stomp anyone who tried to go near you.” You stop, amend, “Except for me, obviously.”

“Even you’re on thin fucking ice, by the way,” Yuqi adds, trying her best to glare at you. “No, I’d never have you do that, Minnie. That takes a certain kind of sadist, I think.” She shudders. “To make their girl get fucked by a group of random guys and film it.”

“What?” says Minnie, smile growing.

“Aren’t some people just into that?” you ask Yuqi. “Like, that’s what being a cuck is, no?”

“Wait,” Minnie tries to interrupt, still smiling.

“Okay, but I think at that point it goes past… cuckism. Like, if it’s on that extreme of a level - that’s just fucked up. For someone to get their girl-”

“You said it again,” says Minnie.

Yuqi glances at her, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. “Said what?”

“I don’t think cuckism is a word,” you say, three steps behind.

Minnie shifts, sheets pooling around her hips. She’s exhausted; you both had to hold her up in the shower, wash her face, her body - she drifted in and out, repeating your name, tipping her face towards Yuqi as if asking for a kiss. Yuqi obliged, every time, cupping Minnie’s cheeks in her hands carefully. There are some things that don’t have to be said out loud.

“You said it’s fucked up for someone to do that to their girl,” Minnie says. “Like you wouldn’t have me do something like that because I’m your girl.”

For a second you and Yuqi just blink at her, caught out and characters broken. Both of you have told her as much a million times while you’re fucking her - you own her, she belongs to you, like property, like a possession - but you know that’s not what she’s really asking, now. Eyes dark again, full of stars, wide and wondrous. Alright: not everything has to be said out loud, but then there’s this.

“Jesus,” Yuqi mumbles, pressing a finger underneath Minnie’s jaw - and then she can’t do anything but kiss her. “Yeah, you are, okay? Fine. You’re our girl.”

“Good,” says Minnie, and curls comfortably between the two of you, like she knows it’s exactly where she belongs.

There’s another life where you’d compartmentalize all of it, draw clear lines. You’d fuck them both and leave without another word. Yuqi’d cut her losses, be just as cold as she pretends to be; Minnie’d slip back into her favorite façades, tall and imposing and intimidating. You don’t need to stay and never did. Truthfully, it’s crazy that you’ve all made it this far, but-

“Cuckism is a word,” Yuqi announces, scrolling through her phone. “I mean, if you consider Urban Dictionary a reliable source. Which I do, so.”

“One of these days,” you say, charmed by her, “you’ll learn how to lose an argument.”

“That’s never happening,” says Yuqi. “I’m always right. I never lose.”

She’s wrapped up in a king-sized bed, recently fucked and cheeks flushed, all three of you smelling like Minnie’s shampoo. Content to stay for the night, stay for all of them. Tuck away all her weapons and sheathe the blades. The morning will come, and Yuqi won’t feel the need to run - she knows what it feels like to be safe when she’s had it in her arms for months.

“No,” you agree, quietly. “I don’t think you do.”

October slips into the frame, eventually. There’s the leaves changing, that bite to the air; autumn’s everyone’s favorite season, here.

Minnie’s birthday is on the horizon - fucking Scorpios, says Yuqi, rolling her eyes like that means anything - so you get caught up discussing outfits, presents, parties; they’ve got a gig at Club Cosmic a few days after that that they’re trying to put together a coherent concept for, something that goes with their songs, their vibe. They’re searching for something new, they tell you. Soyeon’ll be the one who comes up with whatever they end up choosing, probably - she’s the brains behind the whole operation and always has been. But in the meantime-

“Minnie just wants us all to wear lingerie and cat ears,” complains Yuqi, the three of you walking to your usual coffee shop, soaking up the sun and the weather. “Zero imagination.”

“I’m saying we should be sexy cats,” says Minnie, unbothered. “It’s, like, a classic.”

It’s one of those perfect days, more light than lust, more peace than power plays. You’re with your girls and the sun’s high in the sky, blanketed by clouds, hands brushing casually as you walk like you’re right out of a trite, cheesy drama, all three of you. “Ew,” says Yuqi. “What’s sexy about cats?”

“Miyeon says it’s camp,” says Minnie, whimsically, which isn’t an answer.

“Miyeon would rather throw herself into traffic than disagree with you,” says Yuqi. “Her opinion means nothing.”

Minnie’s lips pull up at a corner, amused. “No,” she corrects, “that’s why it means everything.”

The coffee shop’s mildly busy when you enter, but nothing too stifling, occupied by the usual college students and not much more. Some are shamelessly in pajamas, faded sweatshirts, taking up outlets with their laptops. Cramming for exams, probably, writing essays; you’ve been there. Miyeon’s friend - Yunjin - is working the register, chatting with her coworker and the tall, graceful girl she’s with all the time. Yunjin’s saying something to make both of them laugh: the other girl hides her giggle behind her hand, leaning half on the counter.

“Hey,” Miyeon calls from the table by the window.

Her boyfriend’s by her side, thumbing through a heavily annotated novel, tiny post-its sticking out from the pages. Minnie draws out her wallet, redirects towards Yunjin - oh, she knows all your orders by heart, and she’ll be generous. She can afford it.

“Hey,” you say, and you slip in the booth first, take the window seat. Yuqi slides in next to you. “Okay, so, Minnie’s birthday-”

Yuqi groans immediately, and even Miyeon sighs lightly, moves to take a sip of her coffee like just the mention of it’s exhausted her. You’ve been rehashing this conversation all month, practically. They’re throwing a party, but that’s a given. No, the real dilemma is the presents.

Here’s the thing about Minnie - something you already know, but Miyeon, who’s known her the longest and still knows her the best, corroborates immediately: she’s not picky, when it comes to gifts. She’s so easy to please, points out Yuqi. Minnie has everything, so she’s happy with anything; she’d be content with something with a sentiment, and that’s all - and it almost makes it harder.

“What’s an appropriate present to buy your regular fuckbuddy?” you wonder out loud. “Like, what’s too much? What’s crossing a line?”

“Ugh,” says Yuqi, punching your arm. “I’m pretty sure if there were any lines, we’ve already crossed them all, dude.”

She’s got a point. Well, you think, recognizing that you’re sort of on a double date right now, sort of with your favorite people and their favorite people, sort of the happiest you’ve ever been - you’re here, and it already says all it needs to. There’s a silence, contemplating, and then-

“I need help,” calls Minnie loudly from the counter.

You all turn just to see her trying to balance three to-go coffee cups in both hands, eyes wide and exaggeratedly desolate. Behind the counter, Yunjin’s snickering at her instead of coming to her aid, but that seems pretty on-brand. Minnie casts a dramatic, miserable look over at your table, repeats woefully, “Help, please.”

She’s adorable. Half the students sitting at the far wall seem like they’re seconds from sprinting out of their chairs to help her, but - obviously - Yuqi’s never gonna let them get the chance.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” she grumbles, standing up to collect the coffees with her. “Stop making that face. Stop. Minnie. Nicha.” A disgruntled sigh, like she’s hopeless. “You’re not as cute as you think you are.”

Minnie smiles in that charmingly lopsided way of hers. “Yeah,” she says, simply, “I am.”

Oh, you think to yourself - her grin’s too infectious to resist, and you’re sure Yuqi knows it too - neither of you can really argue with that.

Nobody gets anything done that morning, except Miyeon’s boyfriend, who has an actual grown-up job and constant work, so you let him be. You and Minnie and Yuqi and Miyeon are content to be dumb college students, dicking around, drinking too much coffee, talking too much shit; Minnie goes to the counter, orders two more for you and her. Yuqi scoffs, says things are better in moderation - “Look who’s talking,” you point out, and she kicks your shin. Like you said - one of those days.

Yuqi’s gotta leave earlier, so you’re the one walking Minnie back to campus. Bids you farewell, in the usual way: “Bye, gorgeous,” she says, leaning in to drop a kiss to Minnie’s lips, then moves on- “Bye to you too, whore,” she says to you, but kisses you anyway, deepens it, nips your bottom lip - right there in public, like she’s thinking of inspiring complaints, disgusting any possible observers with the PDA - breaks it off before it can get too extreme, grin vindictive. “Don’t get any public indecency charges without me.”

“That girl is a menace,” says Yunjin admiringly behind the counter, when Yuqi leaves.

“Completely,” you agree.

“She didn’t bite me,” says Minnie, unhappily. She turns towards you, tips her face up towards yours, lips pouting. “Make up for it, please.”

“Oh, nasty,” says Yunjin, somehow even more entertained.

“Chill,” you say, and Minnie grins, drops the pout and the wide eyes. She’s never really as bratty as she pretends to be, never as demanding; all the things she wants are things she already has. You dip your chin, touch your lips to her hair. Complain, not meaning it, “The face, Minnie.”

Minnie tilts her head, and in a second she’s fallen straight into sultry, eyelids shuttering in that almost sleepy, sexy way, eyebrows lifting, lips finding a curl. Bedroom eyes, sure - it’s the tone she goes for when she’s trying to seduce, inviting tempers, begging to be tortured. “What about now?”

“You heard Yuqi,” you say. “No public indecency charges without her.”

“I’m seriously going to throw up,” says Yunjin, lowering her aviators with a manicured nail like it’ll help her examine you closer. “God. I hate people in love.”

Oh: there’s that word again, like a sucker punch, like something to weaponize - or it would be, but it isn’t, today. The morning’s too beautiful. You’re all too close. Minnie’s in one of Yuqi’s jackets, and your bottom lip is swelling from where she’d bitten it, and you both kind of smell like her perfume.

“I’ll remember this when you finally fall in love,” Minnie says to Yunjin, without any real animosity. “I’m gonna give you so much shit for it.”

It’s a way of relenting, a sort of confession in itself. Yunjin says, disdainfully, “Never happening.” Shakes out her hair, tucks her sunglasses into the front of her shirt, dark eyes sharp and prettily shrewd. “Love is, like, so fucking overrated.”

And Minnie - Minnie, next to you, black hair pulled up and bangs falling in her eyes; wearing Yuqi’s hoodie, wearing your arm around her shoulder, proof of people who would do anything for her. Wearing a hickey on her collarbone like a necklace. Wearing her heart in her grin.

“Hm,” she says, and keeps it to herself, for now. “I think you’ll change your mind, someday.”

“So,” says Yunjin, passing you two matching vanilla lattes, hot and extra-large. “Are all three of you guys, like, dating, or-”

“It’s complicated,” says Minnie cheerfully, hand clasped in yours. She seems perfectly content to leave it there, so you do.

(She’s a little bit of a liar. You think everyone knows it, already: it’s not very complicated at all.)

“I don’t exactly make a habit of sleeping with the same people,” Yuqi says, once. “Familiarity breeds contempt, and all that.”

“Right,” you say.

“I’m sorry,” says Minnie, “my brain stopped working after you said breed.”

“Ew,” says Yuqi, pulling a face. “You’re into all that breeding shit? What the fuck is sexy about pregnancy?”

“I think for guys it’s like a power thing?” you offer, then confess, “I don’t get it either, honestly.”

“No, no,” Minnie agrees, “it sounds like a fucking nightmare. I mean, the thought of being pregnant makes me nauseous - if anyone ever brought it up during sex, my pussy would probably dry up on the spot. Like, if you want to turn me on, threatening to put me through the excruciating pain of childbirth is not the way to do it.” There’s a pause; Yuqi’s already snickering, taken with her bluntness. “Miyeon was always super into it, though.”

“I’m sure her boyfriend loves that,” quips Yuqi.

It’s another one of those days: clouds covering the sun, sky threatening to split and storm. You’re safe in Minnie’s bedroom, thrown about the room somewhat; Yuqi’s swiveling aimlessly in Minnie’s desk chair, scrolling through her phone; Minnie’s leaning over her vanity, doing her makeup. Suddenly, Minnie says, “He wrote this story about her.”

You turn towards her from your place on her bed, hugging one of her egregiously oversized stuffed animals to your chest. Yuqi looks similarly puzzled, brows lifting. “What?”

“Miyeon’s boyfriend.” Minnie squints into the mirror, evens out the precise points of her eyeliner. “He’s a teacher, but he’s also a writer, you know? And he wrote this short story about her.”

“Was it dogshit?” Yuqi asks, always ready to jump to the least flattering conclusion.

“I wish,” says Minnie, turning to meet Yuqi’s gaze. “No. It was gorgeous. It was like - it’s incredible, you know? To love someone so much that you can make something like that for them. In honor of them, inspired by them.” She stops, then tacks on, a little wonderingly: “I feel like - in another life, I could do something like that. I could love someone enough to make art for them.”

She purses her lips thoughtfully, casually returns to her makeup. Yuqi abruptly can’t stop staring at her. Minnie’s like that; she’ll say things without realizing how they come across, how personal and profound. Like she’s not making your head spin just by opening her mouth.

“Oh,” says Yuqi. Then, haltingly: “I think I could, too.”

You watch her, can’t help yourself; the way her dark eyes seem to catch a spark, fondness like a wildfire, consuming everything it touches. It’s such a romantic idea, creation and love intertwined. You think that’ll be the most of it, but then-

“You already do that, though,” says Minnie, sweetly, simply, like it’s the most obvious thing. “Through your music.”

And it’s like you can see it - can see the moment when Yuqi’s heart works its way out of its chest and leaps right into Minnie’s hands. Like you can catch the split second, frame it as a photograph, in vivid, screaming color: if it was showcased and shown off, it’d be titled one word, four letters. A seismic shift; one slip-up and you’re falling.

“Minnie,” you say, unable to fight your grin.

Minnie glances over her shoulder, your tone alerting her. “What?” she asks, and then spots the expression on Yuqi’s face - and then she’s laughing, swiveling to look at her. Eyes lined in black, eyeshadow shimmering, glitter and gold. Beautiful like it’s something she was born for.

“Yuqi,” Minnie says, and then, smiling, “Baby.”

“Shut up,” says Yuqi, hotly, and looks away, but she’s smiling too.

Yuqi never actually finishes her point, whatever she was trying to say about not usually sleeping with the same people - but, in the end, you know she doesn’t even need to.

“I was wondering about that, actually,” Soyeon says to you, one day, as you’re out grabbing lunch together. “It’s so weird. I’ve known you probably about as long as I’ve known both Minnie and Yuqi, but-” She shakes her head, purses her lips. “I wouldn’t have put the three of you together.”

“It’s crazy,” you agree, tugging absentmindedly at the sleeve of your coffee cup. “What about it?” You add, before she can answer, “Minnie says Miyeon thinks it’s more than sex, with the three of us.”

“Miyeon’s like that,” admits Soyeon, full lips in a half-grin. “Hopeless romantic. Also - she’s in love, so she likes to see other people in love, too. She can’t help it.”

“Well, what do you think?” You’ve known her long enough to trust her judgment.

Soyeon’s silent for a beat, considering. Then she says, “You know how Yuqi and I write the songs for our band, right?”

“Uh-huh.” You spend enough time with Yuqi that you’ve seen her bent over the small notebook she scrawls lyrics in, caught up in a moment or a melody, gaze darting from you to Minnie like she thinks she’ll discover prose in your eyes, her mouth. She smiles, sometimes, like she’s gotten what she’s looking for. Never once says what she finds. “So?”

Another silence. “I don’t know,” Soyeon says, but her tone suggests entirely the opposite. “She’s just - she’s been happy, lately. Even if she won’t say it out loud, it shows in the things she writes, you know?”

Yuqi, playing at detached and unaffected, until she isn’t - passion with a bite, affection still sometimes on the offense - and then a second, a misstep, features softening and eyes crinkling at the corners, laugh raspy and suddenly brazen, so gorgeous you think you could stop breathing, just looking at her face. Tucked under your arm hiding from some scary movie; leaning through the passenger side window to kiss Minnie’s forehead before she leaves. It’s all so normal, shockingly easy. Get her outside of the bedroom, and there’s that feeling again - peace.

You get what Soyeon means. Yuqi won’t give it up that easy, but she’s also not the type of girl to lie about the things she wants for long.

(A moment, a few weeks back. It’s a normal day, or it would be - you’ve all got nothing to do, and that’s the way it begins.

Yuqi’s got her notebook open on her thighs, penning lyrics as they come to mind. There are points where she’ll pause, hum out loud, fingers tapping at the inside of your wrist like she’s trying to find the chords at your veins, notes in your bloodstream. She’s been inspired lately, she says.

“Oh, I get it,” says Minnie, slyly, nudging your arm. Her eyes glitter, conspiratorial. “We’re your muses. The songs are about us.”

“The songs are about sex,” says Yuqi, dryly.

“Same difference,” you point out, and tug Minnie into your lap, grinning as she squeals. “There’s no one else you’re having sex with.”

There’s a pause, a significance. It’s the three of you crowded on Minnie’s couch, limbs overlapping; sometimes, you’re with them, and there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

“No,” says Yuqi, finally, softly, like there’s something she’s confessing. “There’s no one else.”

You turn, meet her eyes. Minnie goes still in your lap, reaches for Yuqi’s hand, tangles their fingers. You don’t say it out loud, but it’s there, anyway; you’re not going to be able to ignore it forever.)

“Yeah,” you say, to Soyeon, smiling. “I know.”

It’s a Saturday, when they give you the full story. Rain, thin and misty outside the windows, streaking down the glass; you’re inside with tea and television shows, curled in blankets. Yuqi’s got some of her coursework on the coffee table, wavering between her textbook and her laptop. You’re all bored. That’s the first step.

Minnie’s recapping the story of how she got involved with the band - she starts with how she met Miyeon, which leads to a long, convoluted narrative of their best-friends-with-benefits arrangement that kind of went to shit - “It was then,” says Minnie, dramatically, “that I learned to never catch feelings for someone you’re fucking,” and you and Yuqi exchange an amused glance. Minnie’s got her legs in your lap and she keeps folding post-it notes into adorably lopsided hearts, tossing them in Yuqi’s direction. There are some phases you’re past.

“So,” you say; you’re pretty sure she’s leaving you in suspense for a reason. “How’d the two of you meet?”

Yuqi’s fingers pause over her keyboard. She’s in one of your sweaters, hair finally lifted to a striking blonde, loose down her back. Throws Minnie one of her looks: purposeful, devious, smirk deliciously sharp.

“It’s a slutty story,” says Minnie, after a moment, always too susceptible to the way Yuqi looks at her.

You raise your eyebrows at her. “When are your stories not slutty?”

Ah, there’s a point. Minnie smiles sweetly, readjusts her thighs, leaning back into the couch. She’s almost feline in her grace, her intention. “Does that mean you don’t wanna hear it?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” you counter, and Yuqi pushes aside her laptop abruptly, picking up on a mood. It’s not the most suggestive expression - but it’s not the least, either. There’s a lot you could be doing with your mouth, right now; Yuqi stares like she’s calculating just how much, lashes flickering. “I’d love to hear it.”

“Huh,” says Minnie. Then, demurely, “But it’s not even really that interesting, babe.”

“Fuck off,” says Yuqi, fed up with the games, and enjoying the theatrics regardless. It’s all about the contradictions, with her. “I’ll tell it.”

They tell it together; they can’t resist. There was a party, they inform you. Something like lust at first sight, they say. There was a moment. There was a short dress and there were idle hands and the devil right there in the room with them - and like all bad habits, that’s how it starts.

“Miyeon had just broken things off with Minnie,” explains Yuqi, setting the scene, “so she was looking for a rebound, which meant she was in the sluttiest outfit known to man, which meant everybody in the room was staring at her-”

Oh, you can see the image just fine; you remember how you and Minnie met. You know what it’s like to see her face and promptly forget anyone else in the world exists. You throw an entertained glance to Minnie, who shrugs, unaffected: she’s not ashamed of her coping mechanisms.

“-and I took one look at her and then I told Soyeon, if I don’t get that girl on her knees in front of me in the next ten minutes I’m actually gonna go fucking insane-”

“Cute,” you say.

Minnie grins, somehow flattered. “Right?”

You can see it so clearly - Yuqi will never admit it out loud, but she’s so easy when it comes to Minnie, when there’s a pose or a smile or a look in her eye; the light hits Minnie just right and it’s like Yuqi will drop dead if she’s not touching her. Some nights she won’t let Minnie out of her sight, won’t let anyone else lay a hand on her, won’t let anyone look at her without bringing the claws out-

Well, anyone except for you, but by now that’s old news.

“And then,” continues Yuqi, and all of a sudden she’s studying Minnie a little too intensely, like she’s projecting the night on her all over again, scrawling the past across her skin, “I went up to her, and I was like, hey, and she was like-”

Minnie waves her hands in the air, giggling - “No, no,” she interrupts, “I was a fucking mess-”

“She couldn’t even talk,” says Yuqi, smugly, sketching circles over Minnie’s bare thigh, nails blunt with a threat. “She was just staring at me.”

Minnie sighs, throws her hands up, shoots a helpless look over at you - can you blame me? she’s saying, with the rueful tilt of her mouth, and you’ve been right where she was, so you can’t. “I thought she was the hottest girl I’d ever seen,” she says. “Her hair was dark back then, and she was in, like, the tightest shirt, and this black miniskirt - I couldn’t breathe. And she looked at me like she wanted to kill me - and she didn’t even know me.” Minnie shakes her head, always one for the histrionics. “It was so sexy.”

“Masochist,” you prod affectionately.

“Yes,” says Minnie, despite it not being a question. “Yeah. I am. Everybody knows that.”

There’s a beat, meaningful. Yuqi cuts her gaze across at Minnie, doesn’t say a word. They’re both recalling history, the beginning of everything. There are no other details at first, but then-

“It was probably a bad idea to tell this story, now that I’m thinking about it,” says Yuqi, belatedly. “It always makes Minnie wet.”

Yuqi wears arousal more subtly - she’s never as outwardly eager as Minnie, but no one is - but you can see it, regardless; you just know her too well. There’s an indication in the tense set of her jaw, the way she keeps clenching her hands to fists, like she’s already imagining strangling something between her fingers. Minnie’s hair, your cock, either of your throats in a chokehold - pick a poison. It’s that familiar gleam to her eyes: cunningly dark, devastating. They can’t hide a damn thing.

“We’re all full of bad ideas,” you muse. “Isn’t that how we got into this whole situation in the first place?”

Minnie shifts conspicuously between the two of you on the couch, bottom lip bitten into her mouth. Light pouring through the windows, the sea-glass green of her irises: she couldn’t be more fucking transparent.

“Sure,” says Yuqi, carding a hand through her hair. She’d be something out of a classic old-Hollywood movie - the pale blonde, the red gloss on her mouth, the stunning sensuality - but she’s got that vicious edge to her, fatally gorgeous, too rough, too reckless. Well, you wouldn’t have her any other way. “So - you need a reenactment or something?”

“Jesus,” you say, entertained.

“I don’t know,” says Yuqi with a sigh. She tips her head, levels Minnie with a conflicted stare, false and facetious. “I’m thinking I need to elaborate a little bit more.”

She’s just looking for an excuse to fuck Minnie. She’s not terribly discreet, but none of you are.

“I mean,” you say, already where she’s at. “Minnie does look great on her knees.”

That’s an invitation, and Yuqi knows it; the look in her eyes is enough to whip up the rain outside, drown you all in a matter of minutes - she’ll take down the house, if given the chance.

“Exactly,” she says, and the devilish line of her grin is so familiar you could cartograph it, pinpoint just where it leads. Redirecting the weather; there are better sources for a storm. Let the wind pick up and bolt all your shit to the ground and wait, wait, wait.

“If you say so,” says Minnie, smiling in the face of a tsunami, and lowers herself to the floor.

They carry it out, right there in the living room. You ask if you should get the camera, but-

“Respectfully,” says Yuqi, the rasp in her voice reminiscent of knives on steel, her ass perched on the coffee table, one hand wrapped tightly in Minnie’s hair, “if I don’t get her mouth on my cunt right now, I’m gonna kill both of you.”

Minnie’s knees are pressed to the tile floor - she looks like she’s seconds from worship, from complete and utter devotion - she’s tugging desperately at Yuqi’s shorts, at her panties; she knows an order when she hears it, knows a threat when it’s a blade pressed to her throat.

“By the way,” says Yuqi, her eyes locked on yours, “don’t even think about jerking off to this right now.” Minnie gets Yuqi’s shorts to her ankles. “Or you won’t get to fuck either of us for a month.”

“Please,” you scoff. “Like either of you would survive that long without my cock.”

Minnie stops, waits for permission, rests her cheek delicately against the inside of Yuqi’s thigh. She’s practically salivating already, but her eyes are big, expectant; she knows the deal by now. You’re all talk, really. You’re the one who wouldn’t make it.

“Believe me,” says Yuqi, grinning deviously down at her, and the dip of her chin’s a go-ahead. “We have lots of ways to entertain each other.”

Minnie’s eyes snap to you for a millisecond, and you see a smirk so quick you could’ve mistaken it for your imagination - turning tables, proving points - but a second later and she’s perfectly meek again, and completely prepared to demonstrate exactly how good she is with her tongue, so:

“Minnie.” Yuqi’s hand tightens in Minnie’s hair, tendons straining under skin, pale and startling - voice breaking on a rasp, intoxicatingly husky - says, “Jesus, fuck-”

Minnie’s a demon when she’s giving head - when she’s got your cock shoved down her throat, when she’s lapping messily at Yuqi’s cunt - partly because she’s so damn good at it, but partly because of those eyes.

She doesn’t let her gaze leave Yuqi’s face, not even once. A flick of her eyelashes, fingers curling tight into Yuqi’s thighs; she’ll leave bruises, but it’ll be allowed, for once. Yuqi can’t look away, and you can’t either - Minnie between Yuqi’s legs, tongue-fucking her pussy, so sloppy and filthy you can hear every slick, obscene sound, and that’s almost too much - it’s accosting every single sense, the way Yuqi’s trying not to moan and failing, thighs quivering around Minnie’s head-

“Fuck,” mutters Yuqi, voice low and raspy, cheeks flushed and chest heaving - and no one’s even touching you, but it doesn’t matter. “God - Minnie-”

(You see a hint of it, then - everything that’s to come. Minnie’s nails are scarlet, digging into skin like she’s capable of drawing blood; her eyes flash somewhere near arrogant, half-lidded and calculating. For a second all her sharp edges - her collarbone, the points of her wrists, knuckles, jaw - turn weaponized, like she used them to kill once, like she could do it again. She’s been so submissive in front of you, so far. You forget, sometimes; she’s taller than Yuqi, imposing when she tries, intimidating when she feels like it. She’s got hands that know what they’re doing. The only reason she ever gets smacked and shoved around and fucked senseless by you and Yuqi is because she allows it.

It’s then and there, watching Minnie - her utter, striking satisfaction at making Yuqi moan her name - that you really start to wonder.)

But it slips away as you watch Minnie make a mess of herself, works her tongue like a professional, keenly aware of each stumble, each hitched breath, the way Yuqi’s face crumples as she comes closer and closer to cumming. Minnie’s the one on her knees, but she’s undoubtedly in control; it’s a side of her you never get sick of seeing.

(Well - a side of her you don’t see enough of, really. You’ll get there.)

So you watch, struggling against your own instincts, violent impulses - you believe Yuqi’s ability to follow through with a threat; she doesn’t believe in self-control, until it comes to a punishment. Forced to stay still and painfully silent as Yuqi’s head jerks forward, mouth wrapped around expletives, lips made to part and pant. Minnie’s eyes dart to you, again. She slows her pace.

“Greedy,” she mumbles, eyebrow in a point like a challenge. “That’s the thing about you two, huh.” It’s not a question. “You’re both so fucking greedy.”

She’s showing her hand. Yuqi’s hips rock, but she’s too keyed up to get a counterargument out - you’re the one on your knees, she could say, so who’s really greedy here - but Minnie’s licking her pussy again, sucking her clit; there’s no room to manage words. Not that she’d even need to; Minnie gets how to follow orders, knows her expression fixed in obedient innocence makes Yuqi just as wet as her mouth does, knows half the pleasure is in the power of the position, knows when she cums Minnie will lick it up like she does everything else - she will, and she does.

Later, tracing a thumb over her chin, sucking cum into her mouth: “You’re good at that,” you tell Minnie, as Yuqi’s coming down, thighs trembling.

Minnie’s clambering into your lap, palm brushing your cock through your pants; you’ve been good, you’ll get rewarded. “At eating pussy?” she asks, eyes exaggeratedly naïve.

At getting away with it, you mean. At maintaining control by letting someone else take it. At hovering in this impossible place between being a toy to use and being the one pulling the strings - at understanding that sometimes, you could tell her, if you let people do something to you, you’re really doing it to them.

“Sure,” you allow, instead. “I mean, among other things.”

From her precarious spot on the coffee table, Yuqi throws her head back and laughs radiantly. “She’s multitalented,” she says, as Minnie flicks her focus up at you from her place between your legs - now, you’re both gonna watch her prove it.

It’s far from the wildest thing the three of you have done together, so it’s strange that this is the time that triggers it, but it does.

“Hey,” you say, to Yuqi, a day where you’re alone together; she’s got her hair tied up and her eyeliner a little smudged, making her dark eyes look even wider, deceptively adorable, gorgeously hypnotic. You can’t stop staring at her - but that’s nothing new. “Can I ask you something?”

You’re maneuvering through some video game together, something so gory it keeps making Yuqi flinch, reluctantly hide her face half in your shoulder; she’s tough, sure, but never as tough as she acts. “Whatever,” she says, gaze stuck on the game, chewing the inside of her lip.

You get distracted, press a kiss to her forehead. “You’re cute.”

“I’m literally not doing anything,” grumbles Yuqi, but looks at you sideways, smile flickering at her lips. “What’s your question?”

“It’s sex-related.”

“Naturally.”

“It’s just…” You’re thinking of the other night, considering terminology. “Do you ever, like - not top? With Minnie?”

Yuqi shrugs, unperturbed by the query. “Not really,” she says. “I pretty much always top. I mean, it’s what she likes, with me. I know Minnie likes to top, too - like, she used to fuck Miyeon regularly, and Miyeon is literally the biggest bottom I’ve ever met - but… I don’t know. It’s just what works for us.” She glances towards you. “I’m definitely open to experimenting, though.”

“Really?”

Yuqi pauses, inspects your face. In the game, you’re dissecting a dead body; her gaze cuts twice as sharp. “You’re baiting me,” she realizes, caught between pride - she’s gotta respect a good game plan - and irritation; she hates being on the wrong side of a scheme. “You want something.”

“I think I’m getting better,” you say, thoughtfully. “At the manipulation thing.”

“You’re not,” disagrees Yuqi, irked, eyebrows furrowing adorably. Doubles back, “Well, you’re learning from the best”- she can’t resist the opportunity to flash her ego - “but - ugh - what’s your point?”

“Minnie’s birthday,” you say. “We keep talking about how we don’t know what to get her, because she has everything, but…”

You make a vague gesture at Yuqi, drinking her in. Shirt oversized and slipping off a shoulder. Body softer than her words, thighs creamy and flawless, hands small and wrists dainty. Deadly in theory, five-four in practice. There’s a reason you like pushing her buttons, fighting her when you’re fucking; she’s so fun with her attitude, her antagonism, mouth like she’s contemplating murder. But for Minnie-

“It’s just an idea,” you say. “I mean, it’s the one thing she’s never had.”

Hey, you’ve always sort of wondered what it would be like if Yuqi switched up the part she plays. It’d be a challenge for her, certainly, giving up those survival instincts. Getting someone else at the reins; dropping to her knees and following orders. It seems like it’d go against everything written in her code, but you’ve just got this feeling that-

“Aw, fuck,” says Yuqi, grin blooming, the concept taking root, finding ground. “I think I kind of like that idea.”

-oh, it’d be a challenge, alright, but she’s always loved one of those.

(The one thing Minnie’s never had: complete and total power. Well, there’s a first time for everything.)

So: Soyeon’s not the only one who notices all the recent developments. She’s with Yuqi all the time - she sees her side of it. But Minnie’s different, because when she’s not with you or Yuqi, there’s basically only one other person she spends all her time with, and that’s-

“Honestly,” Miyeon tells you, once, “I think you’ve been good for her.”

You’re in the kitchen, collecting snacks. The apartment’s having something of a movie night, current partners included - or at least that was the prompt, so Miyeon’s boyfriend is here, and Yuqi is, too. It feels more official than if you’d put a label on it, somehow. You’re college kids, you’re dumb; sometimes that’s how it goes. The tiniest things mean the most.

You cast a glance towards the living room. She doesn’t say Minnie’s name, but you know. “Really?”

Miyeon lifts a shoulder, a resigned sort of nonchalance, but you get the secret significance: she doesn’t say things she doesn’t mean. “I think she was…” Her eyes follow yours, trail to where you can both hear Minnie laughing. “Not unhappy, exactly. But - I think something was missing, before she met you. Both of you.”

“Oh,” you say, suddenly a little speechless. “You think so?”

Miyeon tilts her head. She’d cropped her blonde hair short maybe a month or so ago; it brushes her collarbone. She and Minnie are so close they’re practically joined at the hip; you can’t imagine a point where it wasn’t that way.

“She loves being loved,” she says, like it’s so straightforward. “I mean, everyone does, on some level, but Minnie - she needs it to breathe, you know? Always has.” Her mouth curls at a corner, gentle and secret. “I don’t blame her. She’s just one of those people. So - so easy to love.”

She leaves it there, silence settling, like there’s something else she could say but doesn’t. A beat - another peal of Minnie’s laughter ringing out from the other room, bright and carefree - and it manages to be enough, anyway.

(But you hear what she’s really trying to tell you: thank you. For being what I can’t. For giving her the things I couldn’t offer. I broke her heart, once; thank you for putting it back together.)

“I didn’t do it alone,” you feel compelled to say. “You know that.”

“I know,” Miyeon says. “Don’t worry.” Her smile’s so soft it can’t possibly be anything but genuine. “I’ve already given Yuqi my thanks.”

“I don’t understand what you’re doing,” says Minnie, the morning of the twenty-third.

It’s a perfect day, but that’s all of them, when you’re all together. You’re standing idly by, watching her get dressed. She’s making it a production more than anything - dragging her shorts up her thighs, buttoning her loose, long-sleeved blouse up the center, black and purposely, slightly sheer, showing off the lacy bralette she’s wearing - and only Minnie could make putting her clothes on feel like a striptease, but she’s pulling it off perfectly.

“You take me shopping all the time,” she’s saying, drawing her hair out from under her collar; she’s been growing it out, letting it tumble loose past her shoulders. “And it’s not like you can buy me anything. I mean, no offense, but, like - you don’t exactly have money to burn on me.”

You snort out a laugh. It’s not a criticism coming from her - just a fact, her tone genuinely puzzled. She’s filthy rich. She’s always the one doing the buying. “I know. So?”

“So this is suspicious.” Her nose crinkles cutely, arching a brow. “And where’s-”

Her bedroom door swings open, and Minnie’s jaw drops.

Because standing there is Yuqi, blonde hair tied low in pigtails, in a godless fucking outfit.

Top skintight and black, skirt tiny and dark denim. So much creamy skin on display, her thick thighs, the tantalizing cut of her neckline - somehow the flare of her hips seems pornographic, the sliver of bare midriff - but more than anything is the way she’s got her hands clasped together in front of her, and finally her front fits every part of her face perfectly: the delicate nose, the wide, sparkly dark eyes, so often too brutal to come across as adorable, in these contexts, but today-

Yuqi looks up at Minnie through her eyelashes, chin dipped, and says, “Happy birthday.”

She can’t disguise the rasp of her voice, and she doesn’t try - but there’s something about it; you’ve spent so much time witnessing her spit venom, demand orders, laugh cruel and cold - and now there’s this new, unmistakable meekness, low and innocently soft, and-

Minnie says, “Holy fucking shit.”

She’s just staring, lips parted. You run a hand almost demeaningly over Yuqi’s hair, like you would a pet.

“Like she said,” you say, and grin meaningfully at Minnie. “Happy birthday.” Skate your fingers down the glide of Yuqi’s shoulder blades. “Here’s your present.”

For anyone else, it’d require more clarification - Yuqi in a mildly slutty outfit, what’s really new - but Minnie observes Yuqi candidly, scrutinizing her like she would a film; there’s the body language, there’s the inflection, there’s the clothing, reflecting a character choice. Yuqi, making herself smaller, quieter, letting you touch her wherever and however you want. She gets what it means. She gets what’s being given to her.

An opportunity, a power. A chance to switch sides. Minnie tilts her head, says slowly, “Cute present.”

She’s falling into it fast. It’s a comment meant to degrade and it does its job marvelously.

You hook a finger in the belt loop of Yuqi’s skirt and tug her forward. “Say thank you,” you instruct, plainly domineering. “She paid you a compliment.”

Yuqi doesn’t sigh - doesn’t roll her eyes, doesn’t snap at you, doesn’t do anything she usually would in the face of a command like that - and complies, instead. “Thank you,” she says, carefully measured, and miraculously keeps it together. It’s a good sign; like you said, it’s a challenge and she’s rising to it wonderfully.

(Well, she’s always been competitive: who’s better at being submissive, that’s a new one. Yuqi’s in front of Minnie - the best she’s ever seen do it. She’s got something to prove.)

“It’s your birthday,” you say, to Minnie, hand slipping to trace the hem of Yuqi’s godforsaken skirt. “Do anything you want with her.”

“Anything?”

You can practically see Yuqi’s teeth cutting into the inside of her mouth, regulating. She’s not used to being shoved around and humiliated like this; there’s a learning curve - but you dip two fingers between her legs, draw them back just to show Minnie how fucking wet Yuqi is - and you know she loves it anyway.

“Anything,” you confirm, smiling. “No panties.”

“Good,” says Minnie. Eyes half-lidded and lined, tongue skimming a corner of her lip, smirk drawing wide. Tone deceptively honeyed; the devil with a new host and a motive. “A slut like this doesn’t really need them, does she?”

Game, set - Minnie’s got no such motivations. She knows what she’s capable of.

“You’re about to have way too much fun with this, huh,” you say, wryly.

Minnie steps forward, grasps your wrist in her hand, laughs at the slickness coating your fingers. Lets her gaze wander to Yuqi almost analytically; oh, the quirk of her mouth says, you’re so into this - a glint of teeth - oh, of course you are. Like she’d never expected anything different. Like Yuqi, in the end, is just like all the rest of you: so goddamn predictable.

“It’s my birthday,” Minnie says, a deliberate echo. “Isn’t that the point?”

Sure, it absolutely is, but you all knew that already. Minnie cocks an eyebrow coolly and grins with all her teeth, not bothering to press for an answer. Drag me to hell, the gleam in Yuqi’s eyes replies; it’s not like I was gonna end up anywhere else.

“Exactly,” you say, anyway, and she drops your arm. “Like I said - whatever you want.”

Okay, fine - it’s October. You’re not, like, actually evil. Minnie wraps Yuqi in one of her jackets, shearling and soft black leather, collar turned up to the wind, says, “She’ll be way less sexy if she dies from hypothermia, I think,” and Yuqi cracks up.

“She’ll be way less hot, you mean,” you say, which seems like the obvious joke.

“Eat shit and die,” says Yuqi, unappreciative of puns and immediately deadpan - but this hits Minnie so hard she almost tumbles into your side giggling, nearly sends you all careening across the sidewalk, narrowly missing a passing couple.

They send you dirty looks, which only sends Minnie into further hysterics - and then you’re all a mess, dying laughing. Well, that’s the thing about the three of you, when you’re together: forgetting anyone else exists, because it doesn’t feel like anyone else even needs to. It’s a habit you wouldn’t want to break even if you could.

“What do you think of this one?”

Minnie holds the dress up to her body, swivels side to side. It’s a long, silky black slip, dipping dangerously low in the front, tied in thin, crisscrossing laces; you can imagine it on her as easily as you can imagine it on her bedroom floor.

“Love it,” you say. You nudge Yuqi’s side. “Sweetheart, what do you think?”

You can almost see the edges of conflict in her, manifesting physically: the dark, slicing sharpness of her gaze, dissatisfied pucker of her lips. Sweetheart: it’s her least favorite nickname to be called, meant to debase - but it’s a special occasion, so she takes it.

“It’s pretty,” says Yuqi, the timbre of her voice delightfully docile. Opens her mouth again, says almost bashfully, “It’d look really nice on you, Minnie.”

Minnie’s lips curl, enjoying it tremendously. “Thanks, baby,” she says, and moves on.

So far, Minnie’s been so mild. No getting a vibrator inside Yuqi and making her tremble and try and hold it together in public; no brushing up against her in an aisle, pretending the proximity is necessary. No, actually, the most Minnie’s done is encircle her fingers around Yuqi’s wrist and tug her throughout the mall, making her follow behind.

It’s like she’s a puppy, Minnie commented, almost too casually - and that’s something that’s got you thinking of collars, leashes, Yuqi with her eyes brimming with tears, mouth open and tongue lolling - now that you’ve opened that door, it’s impossible to shut; there’s a dam rushing in, a flash flood - but clearly Minnie’s got other plans, today.

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to come here,” she says casually, right before she leads the both of you into a very sparsely manned underwear boutique - there’s a salesgirl at the front who doesn’t even look up from her phone - and it doesn’t take a genius to know Minnie’s got an agenda.

You can tell how impatient Yuqi’s getting, that’s the thing: any normal day and she’d be snapping and losing it by now. She doesn’t like to be the one kept waiting. You’re pretty sure she hates that all three of you keep bouncing from store to store and Minnie won’t just yank her into a dressing room and fuck her, won’t pull you in and get you to join, won’t just put her out of her fucking misery-

But there’s the other thing, which is that Yuqi’s just so game.

“I’m kind of impressed,” you say to Yuqi, as you’re both waiting for Minnie to emerge from a dressing room. “You’re so well-behaved.”

And Yuqi - a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a lamb where a lion used to be - turns to you, tiny smile on and lashes batting, says, “Aren’t I always?”

She rarely goes for these angles - cute and coquettish, ditzy and charming as if by accident - but then there’s her big eyes, her adorably dainty features; it’s working perfectly. The pigtails, the pout; her outfit would ruin it, ordinarily, but she’s drowning in Minnie’s jacket and it somehow serves to make her look even more endearing.

“No,” you say, enamored nonetheless. “Absolutely fucking not.”

Yuqi’s eyes narrow, but she winds one of her pigtails around a finger, laying it on thick. She’s ridiculous - but it’s so working for her. “What,” she says, “you need me to convince you that I’m a good girl?”

“Dear God.”

She’s smiling again, brows raising. “I’ll do anything,” she tells you, saturated in innuendo. It would be something out of some cheesy porn, not even an attempt at subtlety - but she’s just too hot, and she’s having too much fun with it. It gets you somewhere between exasperated and aroused and impressed with her audacity. Yuqi says, “I could take a page out of Miyeon’s book. I could call you sir.”

“What?” Okay, that snaps the moment somewhat. “Does Miyeon call her boyfriend sir?” You pause, perturbed. “Her boyfriend that used to be her teacher? That feels - questionable. How do you even know that?”

“How do you think Miyeon knows that Minnie likes to get fucked in the ass?” says Yuqi, and the crudeness is way more her than the character she’s trying to play. She’s cute enough to pull it off, too. “None of us are capable of being quiet.”

“Um. I’d assume Miyeon would know that because she and Minnie used to regularly hook up.”

“My point still stands.” Yuqi stops, back to considering possibilities, varying nicknames. Tries, experimentally, “Daddy?”

There’s a short silence. “It’s not my favorite,” you confess.

“Fair enough. Not mine, either.”

“Mommy?” you offer.

It takes a second, Yuqi’s gaze sliding up to the ceiling like she’s imagining all the scenarios she could get out of it. “I could get behind that,” she agrees. “It’s hot.”

The curtain to the dressing room slides open, and - “Speaking of which,” you say.

Because Minnie’s standing there in an absolutely indecent pair of lingerie - and now Yuqi’s the one who’s speechless.

Just the sight of her forces a silence, conjures suggestion - her eyelashes flutter and the world blinks out, leaves her and no one else. Straps delicate and tied up in bows, bra scooping low and panties cut high; intricate vine-like lace decorating her hips, her chest. Running her fingers through her hair, turning from side to side like she’s already posing for photographs. You’ve seen her naked countless times and somehow there’s something so alluring about her in lingerie like this, barely covering her cunt, so sheer you can see her nipples through the fabric, midriff drool-worthy and ass on display. If it were any other day, if you were permitted to shove her to the ground and fuck her senseless-

“I hope you’re buying that,” you say, fighting through fantasies. “I don’t think you’re supposed to just, like, try it on by itself. That seems unsanitary.”

Minnie simply smiles, serenely, and raises an eyebrow at Yuqi.

It’s futile. Yuqi’s just gawking, any sort of response clinging to the roof of her mouth and refusing to release. Gaze scouring Minnie from head to toe - ah, if looks could kill, if a stare could strip down to skin and bone - you’re certain Yuqi’s seconds from saying fuck it to the plan and just pouncing, then and there-

“Yuqi,” prompts Minnie, like she knows it’s all it’ll take to destroy her.

You’re reminded of weeks earlier, Yuqi fucking the life out of Minnie for wearing a pair of shorts - you can’t believe she’s keeping her cool - but then you see the way her throat bobs, swallowing down her own instincts, and you realize that she’s not, really; not even close.

Yuqi wraps her arms around her body, defense mechanisms obvious. “Um,” she says, and runs her tongue across her bottom lip unconsciously.

“Baby,” says Minnie, bordering a laugh, then crooks a finger. “Come here.”

She takes different strategies than Yuqi does; doesn’t bottle up rage just to let it boil over. The torture’s in the tease, the sweetness: getting Yuqi close to her as if magnetizing, as if skimpy lingerie and a wicked smirk are all it takes to channel gravity. Yuqi can’t disobey, not that she’d want to. She stops in front of Minnie, too close to be casual, too far to be imposing.

“You can touch me, you know,” says Minnie, eventually, sugary amusement underlining her tone. “You’re allowed.”

It’s less a concession and more an assertion of superiority - you’re only here because I’m letting you, that’s what Minnie’s really saying; darling, you’re only looking at me because I’m giving you permission. It doesn’t go unnoticed, or unheeded. Yuqi steps forward further, and takes a breath.

“So,” says Minnie, as Yuqi’s hands trace her sides, fingernails grazing the thin lace, skimming the curve of her ass - she’s touching Minnie like she’s breakable, which you’ve never seen her do; cautious around her like you would be with a wild animal, waiting for them to coil and strike. “What do you think?” Minnie’s eyes track her face. Tacks on, like it needs clarification: “Of the lingerie.”

“It’s - it’s nice.” Yuqi’s voice unravels, stretched thin and hoarse.

See, Minnie’s good, tapping into all her weaknesses; the one thing Yuqi can’t handle is seeing everything she wants when she can’t have it. Forbidden fruit, temptation personified. Minnie in black lingerie, something straight off a particularly erotic movie screen - you’re thinking of what constitutes a femme fatale, so hot you could call it villainy.

“Nice, huh?” And now Minnie’s the one touching Yuqi, tangling her grip in one of her pigtails, threatening to tug. You’ve seen glimpses of this side of her - the sharp edge of a smirk one day, nail digging in like claws another, eyes like supernovas, collapsing - but they’ve never truly done her justice. “Any other adjectives you want to try?”

“Minnie,” says Yuqi, voice breathy, and then Minnie does yank on her hair - and the whimper it gets from Yuqi is depraved.

“That’s a noun,” says Minnie, and you actually snort out a laugh. “Try again.”

“I can’t,” says Yuqi, almost furiously; her temper and her libido go hand in hand, but she takes note of the tilt of Minnie’s mouth, modulates, lets herself be pulled at, pulled in. “You’re so - hot.”

“Aw.” Distinctly pleasant, voice bearing arrogance. “No, see, you got there.”

Her fingers deftly fall from the strap of Yuqi’s top to her hips, to her thighs. Yuqi can’t stop staring at her, ravenous and starved, knuckles bloodless from how she’s clutching her hands into fists. Minnie just laughs airily - “Oh,” she coos, “you’re adorable when you’re desperate” - and continues her path underneath Yuqi’s skirt, doesn’t inch higher than the hem.

Yuqi’s chest heaves; it’s like she can’t manage another word. Minnie tuts like she’s chiding her.

“You’re so greedy,” she notes, a purposeful reprise of a weeks-old comment. “You just take what you want all the time, huh? You think you deserve it?” Clicks her tongue, expression measuring up to condescending sympathy. “Because you just can’t control yourself when you’re horny.” Laugh ringing out again, light and breathy. “Like a fucking animal in heat. No manners at all.”

Yuqi’s mouth falls open.

Look, Minnie doesn’t take the same war plans; doesn’t go for the jugular as much as a knife to the back, sneaky and sly, seduction as a battle tactic. Not even a lick of temper. Not getting mad so much as getting even. Minnie could handle Yuqi in the same way you do, matching her blow for blow, taking out fists and firearms - but it wouldn’t undo her like this does. Body wrapped in ribbons. Smile amicable and intact.

“Let’s try this.” And suddenly Minnie’s yanking up the hem of Yuqi’s skirt, exposing her dripping cunt. You’re in public - the changing area’s barely closed off, anyone could walk in, anyone could see and say something-

But Minnie doesn’t even seem fazed. “How about” - an indulgent twist of her eyebrow, relentlessly composed - “you ask me very nicely for whatever it is you want.” Takes in Yuqi’s glistening pussy and spit-slick lips like it’s a daily occurrence, mildly comical and not much more. “Maybe even throw a please in there for once and I’ll think about giving it to you.”

“Holy shit,” you mutter. Minnie’s grin widens a fraction, feral.

Yuqi’s visibly caught off-guard, off-kilter - it’s obvious that whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t this - she squirms in place, thighs clenching - it’s obvious it’s making her so fucking wet.

“Minnie,” she says, tremulous.

“That’s my name,” says Minnie, patiently.

All the time you’ve spent with Yuqi - all her brutality and mercilessness and domineering sadism, all that insurmountable ego, all the power plays and viperous poison; heroes and their hubris - and it all crashes in an instant, here and now.

“I - I just-” Yuqi stops, stammers, as if shellshocked by the sound of her own voice, the pathetic neediness in it: “I want you to fuck me. Please. Minnie.” Her name like a plea, like a prayer. “I’m so - so wet, and you - and I - I just want to get fucked.”

They’re so close together; another step and Minnie could slap Yuqi across the face, could wring her neck, could wrap her hand in the front of her shirt and tug her in for a kiss, put her out of her misery - but she only smiles, instead.

“I don’t know if I’m convinced,” says Minnie, expression never leaving agreeable. “Maybe get on your knees this time.”

It’s the perfect move - a punch, a pin pulled, a call for checkmate. There’s a beat, then two, three, then-

It’s a testament to Yuqi’s commitment to the character - okay, it’s more likely she isn’t even thinking about anything but getting railed right now, but who’s really keeping count - how she sinks to the floor, blinking fast and pupils blown, publicly in her place. Hands clasped firmly in her lap like she’s scared of what’ll happen if she doesn’t keep track of them. Chin tilted upwards like she’s praying to a god.

And then she just breaks.

“Minnie,” Yuqi says, a whine trapped in her throat, and everyone knows she’s about to start begging. “I really need it, I really need to get fucked, I need - your fingers, your tongue, fucking anything, I’ll do anything, I just - I’m sorry for everything, I’m sorry I was greedy, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know I’m so selfish, I just want to get fucked and you’re so hot and my pussy’s so wet and no one makes me cum like you do - please fuck me, I don’t care if that makes me desperate, please, please, please-”

It’s babbling, it’s nonsense, it’s her brain cutting off at the stem and seeping out. It’s embarrassing, it’s fucking hot. You can’t take your eyes off her, can’t even think of a way to make her stop - not that you’d want to, not that the look on Minnie’s face would even allow you to, but-

“Uh,” says the salesgirl, suddenly behind Yuqi. “Hey.”

-well, that’s certainly a way to shut Yuqi up.

Yuqi immediately moves to stand, but - almost coolly, gracefully - Minnie reaches out a hand and pushes at her shoulder, hard. It throws Yuqi entirely, sending her sprawling back to the ground, jerking a tiny, flightless gasp from her lungs, forced firmly to her knees. Skirt hiked up, cheeks flushing madly, unable to hold eye contact with anyone in the room - and you’ve never seen her so effectively humiliated.

“Hi,” says Minnie to the salesgirl, seemingly unfazed.

“Please don’t have sex in here,” says the salesgirl. “I mean, I’m all for exhibitionism, but we’re severely understaffed. I don’t really want to clean that up.” Pauses thoughtfully, then says, “If you’re looking for a place to fuck, no one uses the bathroom on the second floor by the jewelry store. One-person. It’s pretty clean.”

“Oh, nice,” says Minnie. “We’ll check it out.”

“Cool,” says the salesgirl. “That lingerie looks awesome on you. Also, if you don’t buy it, we’ll have to toss it because you’re not really supposed to just put it on like that. But no big deal.” Then, apropos of nothing: “Happy birthday, by the way.”

Yuqi chokes on her own saliva. It’s only then that you realize the salesgirl looks vaguely familiar.

“Thanks,” says Minnie. “I’ll buy it. Hey, you’re coming to my party later, right?”

“Yeah, Lisa told me about it.” Without even hesitating, like it’s totally normal, the salesgirl continues, “Okay, have fun,” and then turns on her heel and abruptly leaves the dressing room area.

There’s no chance to even let the silence sit. Minnie stands there in her indecent lingerie, features perfectly placid, beautifully untouchable, composure stitched together and tight. Like she’d meant to have an audience all along, planned for you all to be caught. It’s a stunningly sharp contrast to-

“What,” says Yuqi, on the floor and trembling, “the fuck, Minnie-”

“Excuse me?” says Minnie, demure as she glances down at Yuqi, power dynamic firmly in place: Yuqi’s beneath her, in every sense of the word. “Thirty seconds ago, you seemed pretty adamant about wanting to get fucked. Needing me to make you cum.” She hums, juts out her bottom lip. “I didn’t realize it was supposed to be a secret.”

“Fuck,” Yuqi mutters, under her breath, because she knows she can’t go toe to toe with Minnie and win - she’s too far gone for that. Too disarmed, too helpless; cheeks flushed and skirt yanked up and cunt bare and drooling.

“Was it?” Minnie asks, brows sinking in feigned confusion, a gesture that indicates that the answer better be no. Voice taking on an edge. Stare like a cocking gun.

“No,” exhales Yuqi, still shuddering, still shamed and furious and so turned on. “No. It wasn’t.”

Finally - a smile. “I didn’t think so,” says Minnie, then reaches out her hand. “Get up, gorgeous.” White flags waving; you all know that’s only half the battle. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Minnie changes back into her clothes, and purchases the lingerie, obviously. Says she’ll save it for a later date with a wink, a sly grin; well, that’s the thing about fantasies, with the three of you. You always find a way to make them true.

“No one makes you cum like Minnie does?” you mutter on the way.

“Look, I don’t think you get it,” Yuqi hisses back. “I’m so fucking horny and pissed off right now - I will literally say anything to get that manipulative evil whore to fuck me-”

“Sorry?” Minnie’s voice lilts from ahead of you.

“I didn’t say anything,” replies Yuqi, just as sweetly.

Minnie lets it go, but her lips twitch, fighting off her usual breathless, raucous laughter. Oh, it’s fun to turn tables, but you all know the truth, in the end - she likes Yuqi mean and bitchy and temperamental; she wouldn’t change a thing.

“You seemed to take your entire pussy being out in front of that salesgirl pretty well,” you tell Yuqi, impressed with her current self-possession.

“I realized I know her,” says Yuqi, tugging down the hem of her ultra-short skirt. “Kim Jisoo - she’s Lisa’s friend. And she does not give a fuck about anything, that girl. A meteor could demolish the entire mall and she wouldn’t bat an eye. She probably won’t even remember this happened later.”

“If a meteor demolished the entire mall, she wouldn’t be alive to bat an eye,” says Minnie, forgetting that she’s supposed to be pretending she can’t hear your conversation.

“You’re so right,” says Yuqi. “Wow, you’re so smart. Like, Mensa-caliber.”

“Who’s Mensa Caliber?” Minnie comes to a stop in front of the bathroom, holds the door open for both of you. “Is she hot?”

“Scalding,” deadpans Yuqi. “Let’s get back in the game before I lose more brain cells.”

A game, she says, reminding you all of the parameters - Minnie blinks and she’s back in it, places her hand to the base of Yuqi’s neck before she can pass through the doorway; Yuqi sucks air in through her teeth, freezes, lets Minnie’s thumb search for her pulse, proof of life like she’s aiming to carve it out. “Sorry,” Yuqi gets out immediately. “I’m sorry.”

“Aw, honey,” says Minnie, merciful at the best of times. “It’s okay. Plus,” she adds, like it’s an afterthought and not the point, “I already know no one makes you cum like I do.”

She shoots you a smile, like she’s just daring you to try and argue - but even you know better by now.

Jisoo’s right about the bathroom - empty, decently clean, one-person, perfect to lock up and fuck in if you’re so inclined. Not that the quality of it really matters; you can tell by the look on Yuqi’s face that she’s largely forgotten all of her surroundings, like the shock of getting caught’s desensitized her somewhat. For a second you have to wonder if this was a deliberate strategy on Minnie’s part, but-

“Alright, pretty girl,” purrs Minnie, and oh, that’s something you’re learning today, how perfectly endearments fit in her mouth: “get on your knees.”

-so, it’s not like you all got here by accident.

Yuqi slips to the floor without question, follows the drop of Minnie’s chin, hands going for your pants. Sure, desensitized probably wasn’t the most accurate assessment: she’s kind of losing it, kind of out of her mind. Muscle ticking in her jaw. Tongue skimming her bottom lip, each breath like it’s a second from shattering. Voice unmoored and trembling, like it doesn’t even belong to her.

Then, leaning against the bathroom counter, Minnie says, “Remember the first time you two met?”

It’s a story you’ve both recounted for her before, too. A night in a cramped employee bathroom. The circumstances not so dissimilar to this, if you really think about it. Pushing boundaries until they crack, testing limits that were meant to bend and break; from that first day up to now, and maybe some things never change - that very first day: you, threatening to shove Yuqi to the ground, threatening to cum all over her face and make her walk out of there debauched and humiliated-

“Come on,” says Minnie, and smiles like she’s changing the subject, even when you know she’s not. “I want to see you suck his cock.”

Yuqi doesn’t fight back, but it’s not like she’d even try.

It’s only after she’s halfway there - Yuqi’s lips wrapped around the head of your cock, you shuddering against the teasing lap of her tongue; you’re attempting to match Minnie’s inhuman poise and barely keeping up - when Minnie spots the way your fingers twitch and says, “Hmm.”

It’s barely a prompt, but you glance at her just in time to see her mouth dart up at a corner, like she knew it’d get your attention anyway.

“How about this,” Minnie says, spreading one hand wide, a barbaric business proposition. “Don’t do anything. Let her work for it.”

It’s only then that you realize she’s got her phone out, recording you.

“What?” says Minnie, coyly, luxuriating in the eyes on her; doesn’t bother to reroute once she’s caught, doesn’t even try to act it off. Head put to the side and lens ready like a rifle. “I thought you two liked being on camera.”

Yuqi gazes dazedly right into the lens, mouth slack and wet. Blinks balefully. Considers herself on show, perverse performance art, the subject, the muse - then turns and fills her throat with your cock all over again.

Your vision swims, spots, narrows to points. “Fucking Christ-”

You’ve rarely had your cock in Yuqi’s mouth in a way that wasn’t definitively aggressive - railing her throat, hearing her choke and sob and slobber, a way to punish her that she’ll just volley back in a matter of seconds - never been able to get her on her knees without pounding her mouth like it’s your right, your property, her fuming and features murderous-

A blithe laugh from Minnie. “Aw, look at her.”

But that’s nothing like this.

See, Yuqi’s almost careful, methodical - working her hands, her mouth, her tongue. It’s so spellbindingly smooth that it hits you how much practice she must’ve had, before she discovered she liked getting throatfucked better than giving actual blowjobs - and that’s a train of thought you’ll let run away with you. You’ve never seen her look so obedient, so subservient, so submissive; gorgeous eyes glimmering with effort, head bobbing, pigtails curled prettily-

“She’s such a good girl when she tries, isn’t she?” says Minnie, low, sultry. “Really makes you think, right?” Strokes a hand over Yuqi’s hair, like she’s praising a pet. “Maybe all she needed was someone to bring it out of her.”

The implications are there: you’re the vessel, the weapon. The means, not the motive. Minnie’s putting you in your place just as much as Yuqi; maybe, she’s saying, eyes darkly derisive, all she needed was me.

“See, I always knew she was a whore.” It’s almost conversational, the tilt of Minnie’s lips very nearly nonchalant. “But I didn’t realize she was so good at it.”

You’ve done your part to degrade Yuqi so many times before - fought with her while fucking, tugged her hair and swore at her, called her every disparaging name in the book - but there’s something viciously sexy about the calm with which Minnie does it, the constraint. Never tightens her grip. Never raises her voice; never even needs to. Lets her tone be enough, lets her intense eyes set the scene, decide the mood - lets the camera lens of her phone center in like a sniper, the suggestion of threat and no more - and, truly, that’s all it takes.

Yuqi makes an unholy sound around your cock, shuddering under Minnie’s palm on the back of her head. You watch her thick thighs squeeze together, trembling - there’s no way her cunt’s not dripping. Minnie makes her wet and worked up on a regular day; her with this sort of power is fucking lethal-

Minnie pulls at one of Yuqi’s pigtails, dragging her mouth straight off your dick. “Uh-uh,” she says, chastising, phone steady in her other hand, pointed right at your throbbing cock: “On her face.”

There’s a pivotal pause, and it’s just enough time for it all to click.

“Minnie,” you’re in the middle of saying, incredulous - because she can’t really be planning what you’re thinking, can’t imagine she’d ever make Yuqi go that far, but - “Oh, fuck-”

Yuqi’s too far gone to see signs and storm warnings, throwing all caution to the wind. Too wrapped up in the motions and the way she spits on her palm, starts jerking your already saliva-slick cock. Too goddamn tempting with her eyebrows knit in concentration and her bottom lip tucked into her mouth right before she starts in on a filthy diatribe:

“Please cum for me,” she’s whimpering, “cum all over my face, I was such a good girl for you, I deserve it, I need it-” A subtle, sudden switch, a gleam in her eye: “I know you wanna see my face covered in your fucking load-”

Your breath catches hard and violent in your throat. It’s all there: Minnie with the camera, watching like an ill-intentioned voyeur, like she’s planning to cut and distribute this, eyes bewitchingly predatory. I know you wanna make your mark on me, Yuqi means; I know you want picture proof that I’m yours.

Well, no one’s gonna blame you for promptly forgetting how to form words.

When you cum, it miraculously goes everywhere it’s supposed to - coating Yuqi’s face, her cheeks and her chin, her open mouth - her eyes shutter closed and she accepts it like the good girl she’s playacting as, today, without even a second thought - and that’s half the appeal, the way she just sits there like it’s your god-given right to do whatever you want with her, like you could use her hair as a cumrag, rub your cock through the cum staining her jaw, smack her across the face and make her take it-

“Alright,” says Minnie, amused, like she can somehow sense the violent impulse rushing underneath your skin, barely contained. She’s seen it firsthand; she’s taken enough hits to recognize it. “That’ll work just fine.”

She shifts to press a kiss to your throat, open-mouthed and gentle, breath hot enough to inspire some sort of sensory overload - but she moves away again and it’s gone. For the best, really; you’ve got more pressing matters to attend to.

Namely: Yuqi’s crumpled, tiny form on the bathroom floor underneath you; her tongue darting to the corner of her mouth, licking away a creamy glob of cum. She looks pathetic. She looks perfect. She looks up at Minnie like she’s seconds from bursting into tears, just giving it all up to fall apart, too worked up to really put it into words. Er, okay, any words except-

“Minnie,” says Yuqi, “I really, really need to cum.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Minnie fixes her with a pitying look, hand through her hair like she’s aiming to console - like she doesn’t know the threat of tugging on Yuqi’s hair is just going to make her wetter. “You can wait a little longer, can’t you? You’ve been so good for me already.”

“Minnie.” It comes insistent, desperate.

And it’s fucking intoxicating: Yuqi, who you’ve never once known to beg, to admit when she’s smaller, when she’s needy, when her cunt’s soaking wet and desperate; Yuqi, your cum staining her face and her eyes wide and watery, lips pink and swollen; Yuqi, who hates to accept when she’s lost and is somehow doing it anyway. Wanting to be fucked and filled so badly she’s willing to do anything-

Minnie’s mouth curls, calculating. Anything - that’s it, that’s the opening she’s been waiting for.

“Well,” she says. “How about we make a deal?”

She kneels so she’s face to face with Yuqi, mollifying and demeaning and elegant, all at once. “I can make you cum right now,” she says, kindly, and Yuqi still looks like she’s seconds from tears, “but you have to walk out of here with his cum all over your face.”

There’s a long, stifling silence.

The writing’s been on the wall since the moment Minnie brought up the night you and Yuqi first met - but Yuqi’s been too busy with her efforts to please to remember her defenses and guards. Too drained to recall who she’s dealing with - Minnie, torturously beautiful, Yuqi’s chin between her fingers, the picture of polite tolerance; the devil herself isn’t really about rage, that’s what you all forget; oh, it’s all about the long game - and so when you look at Yuqi, she’s genuinely shocked.

“Minnie,” you say, again, conscious of boundaries.

You’re playing back the night in question, the employee bathroom at the club, Yuqi’s visible panic when you’d brought it up. There’s no way, you’re thinking; even Yuqi has her limits. She’s too proud. It’s too public. The lingerie store with Jisoo was one thing, but that’s an isolated incident, that’s a baby step, that’s-

“Shh,” says Minnie to you, mildly, and nods pointedly at Yuqi’s expression.

Eyes blown so wide, pupils swallowing her irises. A dreamy sort of slackness, half-dazed and somehow still completely devoted. Like she might just float away - like you and Minnie are the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

“Oh,” you say, stunned.

The look on her face - not that you’ve broken her, but like she’s turned herself over to the two of you, regardless. Handing over her own body; this is your property, do what you want with it. Bruise it, hit it. Take a marker to it and label me every nasty thing possible. Cum all over my face and make everyone who sees me stare.

“It’s up to you,” Minnie tells Yuqi, courteously, but she knows just as much as you what the answer’s going to be.

It’s not even a question, really. It barely takes any time at all for Minnie to press her back against the sink, get a finger inside her, get three - she swipes her fingertips across Yuqi’s glistening cheekbone, grins as she lowers her hand, fucks your cum deep into her cunt, slow and purposeful. It’s so vulgar - so foul - so hot-

“You know,” says Minnie, gaze never leaving Yuqi’s face, sewn into lewd satisfaction, “for someone who talks a lot of shit about breeding kinks, you seem to really like me fucking his cum into your pussy right now.”

It’s not like Yuqi can even speak over her own moans, but that’s neither here nor there - her eyes are barely open, pressure everywhere at once, putty in Minnie’s hands - mold me, she begs, make me whatever you want - and Minnie smiles, goes back in for more, cum-stained fingers leaving a slick streak across Yuqi’s chin. Retracing steps as she fucks her, works her wrist, lets her other hand hook around Yuqi’s hip, keeping her firmly in place. “If memory serves, actually,” she says, and blinks over at you, commiserating, “I seem to recall we have a lot of videos of you getting your cunt fucked raw and filled with cum, Yuqi.”

“I think we do,” you agree, breathless.

“You know what I think? I think he was right. It is about power.” Each consonant gaining back their edges - fit to strip skin off the bone - Minnie’s fingers only get more cruel, but you’ve all gone too far to go back now. “And I think you secretly like it when you don’t have any.”

Yuqi struggles against Minnie’s free hand on her hip, nails digging in, air vacating her lungs in a squeak. Aching for a killing blow. Begging to be put out of her misery, or she would be, if she could manage words - Minnie’s smile screaming you asked for this - playing mind games with the best of them like she’s the one making all the rules-

“You like someone else owning your body, huh?” It’s more than sex, but it always is - a mind-fuck, a manipulation. Yuqi’s cunt clenching around Minnie’s fingers the more she speaks like she’s drunk on every word, like she’s speaking in tongues - she can’t call it losing control when it’s getting fucked out of her with force-

“Doing whatever they want with it,” Minnie’s saying, the idea of it alone intoxicating enough. “Fucking it. Breeding it. You like being used like an object.” Her thumb on Yuqi’s clit, making her points and punctuating with a rasp: “You love that this cunt doesn’t even fucking belong to you.”

When you look back, all you’ll remember are the raw details. Yuqi’s painfully wrecked moans; the lewd, wet sound of Minnie’s fingers buried in her cunt, curling; the way Minnie’s irises glitter, voice like its own siren song. The cum still splattered across Yuqi’s face, right before she dips her mouth to Minnie’s neck-

She’s not filming this part, but it’s not like you’ll ever fucking forget it.

The one crack you’ve seen in Minnie’s composure all day, the tiny yelp she makes when Yuqi sinks her teeth into her skin - and then louder and strangled, as Yuqi bites down - and then-

It all crumbles in an instant, hairline fractures, fissures, earthquakes; Yuqi cums and it racks her whole body, sends her melting into Minnie’s arms. You’re there in a split second without even thinking about it, steadying her shoulder; Minnie reaches for you, lets your clasped hands link over the back of Yuqi’s neck. Keeping her upright. Keeping her together.

“Good girl,” Minnie murmurs, carefully soothing; she knows the right way to wrap it all up. “There you go.”

There’s blood beading on Minnie’s neck. She kisses Yuqi’s hair anyway. You don’t need to see her expression to know she’s smiling, but you tap your thumb to her chin, turn her face out just to see it - just to watch it grow. Minnie’s eyes connect with yours, irresistibly warm, unwinding rope, unbinding cords. Cutting you both loose just to watch you stay right where you are.

“You’ve got a fucked up little mind,” you tell her, mesmerized.

All Minnie does is laugh. “Hey,” she says, running her fingers down Yuqi’s spine, “don’t we all?”

“You’re insatiable,” adds Minnie to Yuqi, as you’re putting each other back together, pressing a damp paper towel to the wound on her neck, somehow managing to make it sound fond anyway. “You know the point of hickeys is to suck, right? Not literally draw blood.”

“I think it’s a kink,” you say. “Like, it turns her on to see the bite marks. And the blood, I guess.”

“A blood kink? I’m pretty sure that’s just called being a vampire.”

“I already do enough sucking, anyway,” says Yuqi, inexplicably finding the energy for a smirk.

You flick her hip, pretending not to love it and failing. “Okay,” you say, “why are you allowed to make puns, but the second I make them you tell me to kill myself?”

“I’m a hypocrite,” says Yuqi, unapologetically. “You’re just gonna have to make your peace with that.”

“Please,” you say. “If I were looking for peace, I would’ve lost your number months ago.”

Minnie’s the one who starts laughing first; she almost always is. It takes a second and you’re falling all over each other, in hysterics - Yuqi with Minnie’s leather jacket draped around her shoulders, you with an arm around Minnie’s waist, pulling them both in close. Everything’s funny, when you’re together, everything’s hot and humorous and carefree. Like every other pressing matter’s packed up and let you all be, for the moment.

“I still might,” you warn, trying your hand at snark and partially pulling it off, judging by Minnie doubling over in giggles, Yuqi’s gasp, swatting at your chest and scandalized. “No - I really could, I absolutely could-”

“Fuck off.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

(It’s a flashback on loop, the perfect moment to hit. All those days of nights you stayed, of mornings you laughed through, of times you didn’t have to be there but you were anyway, and it meant something.)

Fine - you weren’t looking for peace, but inexplicably, you think you kind of found it anyway.

It becomes almost immediately obvious that there’s been some sort of boundary broken, because as you drag Yuqi out of the bathroom, she, unbelievably, doesn’t even seem to mind.

It’s like you’ve pushed her so far nothing can faze her. Walks right on out of the mall with cum on her cheeks and no panties on, her skirt so short she could absolutely get dragged in on a public indecency charge. Makes eye contact with an older woman staring near the entrance and says, unconvincingly, “Ugh, ice cream, am I right?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you say once you’re outside, obsessed with her nerve.

“You’re the one who came on my face,” says Yuqi, somehow managing self-righteousness even with her pigtails fucked up, features glazed sloppily. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.” She catches Minnie’s eye, her pointed look; switches tone, bats her lashes, inexplicably pulls off innocence. “Not that you’re stupid, Minnie. I’d never say that.”

“But I am?” you ask.

“It’s not your fucking birthday,” says Yuqi - so, looks like obedience didn’t last long. “I don’t have to answer to you, dipshit. I was doing it as a courtesy before.”

“Watch it,” says Minnie, and presses her fingertips warningly into Yuqi’s side.

She’s obviously biting back laughter, but an order’s an order. “Sorry,” says Yuqi, and smiles like she means it.

“I thought you were a good girl,” teases Minnie. “Isn’t that what you said when you were begging him to cum on your face?”

“Yes,” says Yuqi, immediately, unwilling to refuse any prompt from her. “Totally.”

Minnie laughs out loud, and then - to both your shock and Yuqi’s - smacks Yuqi’s ass, hard.

“Then fucking act like it,” she says, and leaves Yuqi spluttering for air.

You take it back to Minnie’s place, and that’s what provokes it: all your best scenes get resumed.

There’s Yuqi, costumed and choreographed - her skirt pushed up around her waist as Minnie fucks her with her fingers, and then discarded entirely - lets herself get shoved onto all fours, back arched and ass rapidly turning red under Minnie’s hands - and Minnie says to you, “Come on, babe, I wanna see this little whore get facefucked,” and there’s no better way to make use of her pigtails. Your fingers in her hair, making her choke on your cock - there’s the fantasy you were looking for, Yuqi’s eyes watering and woeful, brows knit together in perfect, concerted effort. Minnie in control of the strap-on for once, buried in Yuqi’s cunt, making her cum until she’s the one who’s moaning, breathless, panting fuck me, fuck me, fuck me-

“You’re so cute when you beg,” Minnie tells her, and the smirk she throws you is knifelike: “we should make you do it more often.”

“What do you think of that, sweetheart?” you ask Yuqi, but she’s whimpering too much to answer.

It’ll be amplified under lighting and lenses, high fidelity - to you it’s all color without form, detached and unintelligible; to Yuqi it’s probably worse, fucked to to the point of losing recognition, distinguishing senses - or better, rather; you see the way she’s fucking cumming - and when you play it all back, all focus and film, you’ll realize Minnie’s better with a camera than both you and Yuqi combined, realize the definition of defilement when she’s panting in front of a camera, realize exactly what you’ve got in your hands. It’s earth-shattering sex. It’s some of the best you’ve ever had. Minnie will look back through the footage later and say this one’ll go in the hall of fame, ranking your sex tape like a sports commentator, and Yuqi will laugh so hard she’ll almost tumble off the bed, but you’ll catch her around the waist before she falls - and that’s the point of it all, wrapped up in a moment. Sex and safety and fun. It’s the theme of the day, but it always is.

But for now Minnie’s on her knees on the soaked sheets, analyzing Yuqi, mouth wavering like she’s seconds from bursting into giggles. Yuqi’s choking trying to catch her breath, thighs trembling, one arm thrown over her eyes. You’re filming it; it’s the thing to do.

“I’m gonna be honest,” says Minnie, “I can’t think of anything good to call her.”

“Did you ever actually see what she wrote on you that one time?” you point out. “It was just fuckdoll. It wasn’t, like, that creative.”

“Insidious bitch,” offers Minnie, spitballing, twirling the eyeliner pencil between her fingers. “Malicious hoe.”

“All too true,” you agree, sagely.

But Minnie smiles like she’s just remembered a secret, dips forward, and scrawls something across Yuqi’s stomach. Gently, despite everything, or because of it. You lean forward and laugh out loud when you read it.

ours <3

“Oh, wow,” you say, enthralled. “That’s - surprisingly romantic.”

“It’s my birthday,” says Minnie, unashamed, heart on her sleeve, on skin. “I’m feeling sentimental.”

“What did you write?” Yuqi peeks past her arm at the two of you, dark irises dazed and twinkling. “Did you propose?” A silence, considering. “That’s kind of hot, actually. I’ll do it, dude. I’ll marry you for the eternal sexual benefits.”

“Who?” says Minnie. “Me or him?”

Yuqi’s grin tugs sleepily wide. “Why not both?”

You’re not even dating, technically. It’s ridiculous that any of this is even happening at all. Minnie huffs out a breath, and then promptly buries her face in your chest, falling right into your arms, exhausted laughter hitting her all at once. Yuqi, inexplicably, starts snickering along, caught up in the infectiousness of the sound. She’s so right, you think to yourself, laughing with them and half-delirious, why not, why not-

“You really are greedy,” Minnie says to Yuqi, eyes curved gorgeously, luminous half-moons. “Can’t be satisfied with just one, huh?”

“As if any of us ever could be,” Yuqi mumbles, and when you look at her, she’s beaming, hair pouring, too pale for gold but measuring up to something more valuable, somehow - like sunlight, like stars.

Why not, indeed, you muse, kissing the top of Minnie’s head, and you let the scene come to a close.

Oh, you’re creatures of habit, after all. You just can’t let each other go.

“Happy birthday,” murmurs Yuqi when you’ve cleaned each other up, eyelids falling shut, trapped between you and Minnie; she’s smaller than you both and for once she’s showing it. “Did you like your present?”

“Sorry we couldn’t get you anything designer,” you say, kidding. “Not exactly in our budget. Some of us actually aren’t descended from royalty, you know.”

“It’s okay,” says Minnie, smiling softly. She presses a kiss to your cheek, strokes her fingers through Yuqi’s hair. “I already have everything I want.”

Later that night, you all follow through on your plans, and throw her a party.

Yuqi skips the first half or so because she can barely function after the fucking, but promises to join the fun eventually - do not let her out of your sight looking like that, she says, casting a vaguely hungry, territorial look over at Minnie, and then promptly falls asleep in Minnie’s bed, curled up in one of Minnie’s oversized t-shirts and her duvet. She’s earned it, hair towel-dried and fanning out on Minnie’s silk pillowcases, the sweet scent of her conditioner oddly soothing.

“You heard her,” you say to Minnie, grinning. “Don’t leave my line of sight, okay?”

“Who says I’d even want to?” says Minnie, head tucked in the crook of your neck.

It’s codependent, it’s possessive, it’s fun. Well, with Yuqi out of commission, you’ve gotta be hostile and protective enough for the both of you. Today’s a day for switching sides, after all.

It devolves almost immediately. Fit for the occasion, Minnie gets spectacularly drunk.

Even as she gets dragged away in conversation throughout the night, you still end up staring at Minnie across the room, but mostly because Yuqi was right about the way she looks: she’s sporting a sash and a plastic tiara, but she’s also in a production of a dress, tight and hot pink and clinging to her hips, riding high on her thighs, tapering around her waist - she’s a vision, laughing and radiant, smile blown wide. She’s with this girl you sort of recognize - a brunette who must be smaller than she seems right now, heels noticeably tall, adorably sweet-faced and with a certain tilt to her head, not looking at Minnie at all.

“The girl on the right?” Minnie’s saying, when you approach the two of them. She’s gesturing not-so-subtly towards the living room at Miyeon’s friends that you’ve come to be familiar with - Yunjin, with her ever-present sunglasses: the tall, graceful girl who’s always joined at the hip with her. “That’s Kazuha. Yeah, she’s so hot, but, like, so unavailable - she’s been dating her boyfriend for like five years, or something crazy. Which, I think - that’s true love. I mean, right? It has to be. When you meet that young, and you actually stay together-”

“Hmm,” the girl beside Minnie says mildly, watching Kazuha and Yunjin laughing over something. “That’s cute. And - the chick with the sunglasses-”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Minnie - and this is where you realize how intoxicated she actually is, because she’s rambling without reason, offering up nonsensical details; well, she does this sober, but it’s somehow even more extreme when she’s not. “That’s Yunjin. She and Kazuha are best, best friends. Um, Yunjin works at that one coffee shop - you’ve been there, you know, the one by campus…”

“Right,” says the girl, and nothing else, like she’s purposely making room for Minnie to go on.

“I love Yunjin,” Minnie’s bubbling over drunkenly, switching from topic to topic less than seamlessly. “And - oh, wow, Kazuha’s shirt is so cute. Her abs, oh my God. Her boyfriend seems really nice, so that’s good. I mean, it’d suck if she was dating an asshole, because she’s so sweet. An angel, seriously. No, because, literally-”

She’d probably continue on until the party filtered out, until the stars outside the window wrapped it up and left - but that’s right when she spots you, and promptly drops whatever train of thought she was on before she saw your face.

“Babe!” she cheers, and practically leaps into your arms.

“Hi,” you say, lips to the top of her head, grinning. “Having a good time?”

“So good.” Her eyes are dreamy, drowsy, half-shut and glittering in low light. “The most good.”

You smooth her hair out of her face. “You’re drunk.”

“The most drunk.”

You laugh when she pushes her face in your neck, mumbles something incomprehensible; she’s a cute drunk, giggly and sweetly optimistic, social like you wouldn’t believe. She’s been flitting from person to person all night, fielding birthday wishes and hugs and celebratory shots - so easy to love, you think of Miyeon saying, smile knowing - star of the show, center of attention, even surrounded by stupid wasted college kids. Speaking of which:

“Hi,” you say, a little belatedly, to the girl she’s been talking to. It’s slightly unwieldy, considering Minnie wriggling and tucked under your elbow, but you make do.

“Hi,” the girl says back. She’s got this friendly, genuine smile, strikingly pretty eyes. “I’m-”

“Hel-lo.”

The cadence of the voice is like tugging on a leash - you and Minnie turn immediately, already caught in an orbit. All it takes is a look, a smile, a second. A single word and you’re both staring.

Because there’s Yuqi, stunningly made-up, shorts denim and crop top tight and white, blonde hair wild and tumbling over her shoulders, one hand on her hip. She’s bruised at the neck, at the wrists - she’s got hickeys openly marring her pale thighs, not even a single attempt made to cover them up - and she looks fucking profane.

“Yuqi!” Minnie slips out of your arms just to bury herself in hers.

Yuqi plants a kiss to the corner of her mouth, wipes away the smudge of gloss, adjusts her dumb plastic tiara gently. “Hey, birthday girl.” Nods over her shoulder. “Why were you talking to that bitch?”

You swivel in alarm just to see that the girl Minnie was talking to is now halfway across the apartment, picking up conversation with Yunjin and Kazuha.

“What’s wrong with her?” says Minnie, eternally ready to see the best in people. She’s clutching at the hem of Yuqi’s shirt with one hand and has the other tangled in your sleeve. The party swims around you guys, suddenly completely inconsequential, particularly rowdy background noise. That’s how it is, when the three of you are together - like everything around you is just static. There are more important things to worry about. Such as:

“She’s evil,” claims Yuqi, like that’s the end-all be-all - well, to her, it probably is.

“What did she do?” you ask, mindlessly reaching out to fuss with her hair.

“Nothing I can prove,” says Yuqi, somewhat venomously. She rolls her neck, gives you space. “But her vibes are so fucked up.”

“You would know,” says Minnie, wisely.

“What?” Yuqi looks flabbergasted; as if she isn’t fully familiar with the attitude, as if she isn’t bruised to hell and back from Minnie’s hands alone. You crack up. It’s always funnier when Minnie’s the one dishing it out. “Nicha, chill-”

“Don’t pull out the government name on my birthday-”

“You know what,” considers Yuqi, managing to backtrack and twist the sentiment all at once; it’s ridiculous, it’s absolutely a talent. “You’re right. I would know, because I’m the smartest. You were actually complimenting me. Thank you.”

“You’re obnoxious,” you tell her, but pull her gently to your side, anyway. Her blonde hair’s unruly, brushing your jaw. You’re captivated by everything she says and it’s blatantly obvious. “And fucking delusional.”

“It’s a gift,” agrees Yuqi, seriously, and Minnie bursts out laughing.

It’s just one of those silver-screen nights, one of those perfect moments. Laughter on loop, boundless, endless, your favorite people and their favorite people - like you’ve had a million times since you’ve met them. You feel it constantly, but there’s a beat where it’ll just hit you, all at once, the two of them in your arms and giggling and gorgeous, happy like they don’t know how not to be. One of those moments that you hope you’ll have for a long time, after this. One of those moments where you think of turning to the two of them and saying I like my life a lot better with you in it, you know.

But it’s a party, and Minnie’s drunk and beaming by your side, and Yuqi’s got the top of her head fit comfortably into the crook of her neck, and it’s not the time, or the place. You rarely get so sentimental. You’ll let it go for now.

It’s alright, anyway. It’s just like you said - like a recording, like a rerun - you’ll come back to moments like this, again, and again, and again.

(“By the way,” Yuqi says to Miyeon, when she sees her. “You are so fucking stupid. Like, I’m convinced you were dropped on your head as a child.”

Miyeon ogles her, more amused than anything - well, she’s always been good at rolling with the punches. “Excuse me?”

It seems self-explanatory, but Yuqi tells her anyway. “You used to have Minnie topping you daily and you gave that up for a geriatric old man?”

“He’s twenty-nine,” says Miyeon, like that’s anywhere near the point. “Since when have you ever let Minnie top you?” Then she lets her stare fall to Yuqi’s clearly ravaged body. “Oh, wait.”

“Birthday present,” says Yuqi, and doesn’t bother to elaborate. “Seriously, you’re fucking dumb, dude. She’s so hot when she gets like that.”

“I’m aware,” says Miyeon.

Yuqi can’t help but stare at her - at her unaffected composure, the entertained glint in her eyes. “Then why would you ever give that up?”

The party’s in full swing around them, the people and the proximity, the hum of chatter, music. Miyeon’s in white, the pale shine of her blonde hair falling gracefully over her shoulders, something right out of a painting, every detail in place. It’s not that Yuqi’s ever felt she has to compete with Miyeon, but - but-

I know how it feels to be with Minnie, Yuqi could tell her; I don’t get how anyone could have her love and let her down, earn her heart and then break it - and she doesn’t say it in so many words, but Miyeon studies her, like she hears it anyway.

“Look at it like this,” says Miyeon. “If I were still fucking her, she never would’ve started fucking you. And you never would’ve gotten the chance to get this far.”

She juts her chin across the room, where Minnie’s got her arms slung around your neck, your heads bent close together. Minnie, clearly talking a mile a minute, outrageously beautiful, plastic tiara askew on her hair; you, smiling like you’ve won a contest just being in the same room as her, content to indulge all her whims at once.

You catch Yuqi’s eye; your grin does nothing but widen, obvious with your adoration, uncaring of who knows. Like no one could take your devotion away, even if they tried.

“Really puts things in perspective, doesn’t it,” says Miyeon, knowingly.

“Fuck off,” says Yuqi, and smiles back at you anyway.

Miyeon huffs out a haughty little sigh, cuter than it should be. “Have some faith in the universe, Yuqi,” she says, and it’s only then that Yuqi realizes that Miyeon’s kind of drunk. Miyeon points up at the ceiling like she’s calling on a higher power - like she’s exactly the angel she pretends to be, like she’s got a direct line to heaven. “She knows what she’s doing. Everything works out exactly the way it’s supposed to.”

“You can’t possibly believe that,” says Yuqi, charmed by the idea nonetheless.

“Why not?” asks Miyeon, mouth crooked at a corner.

And Yuqi knows this about her - she always has. Miyeon’s had a life raised on passionate ideals, on novels and films and poetry; she’s got a man who’d do anything for her, who adores her enough to craft art for her, to create, to invent; she’s got the kind of love that makes her believe in impossible things, that grants her hope. She can’t see things any other way.

But - watching you from across the room, as you tap Minnie’s hip, point her in Yuqi’s direction, as Minnie sees Yuqi’s face and beams like she’s seeing the break of dawn - it’s the first time Yuqi feels like she understands it.

“Don’t let anything happen to her,” says Miyeon abruptly, then lets out a tiny laugh, like she’s recalling a secret. “Alright?”

“Alright,” says Yuqi, so struck by the idea that she can’t even begin to dissect it, can’t find the angle. She searches Miyeon’s expression, like it’ll give her an answer. “I - you know we’d never hurt her, don’t you?”

But Miyeon only smiles, serene and comprehending. Yuqi blinks, thrown.

Oh. That’s when it hits her: there is no angle. No strategy, no tricks, no sussing out motives. Sometimes you love someone and you just need to know they’re loved, too. Sometimes you just need to hear it said out loud.

“Yeah,” says Miyeon, “I know,” and it’s enough.)

Ah, like she’s taken the thought straight from your brain: why not, indeed.

Long after the party wraps up, you get Minnie to bed with all three of you in a giggling fit. Minnie’s the kind of drunk who’s exceedingly bubbly and completely hilarious, eyelids fluttering and laugh loose and happy, cracking up at the drop of a hat - and you and Yuqi are both obsessed with her, so you can’t help but join her.

“Oh my god,” exhales Minnie, bundled up in her sheets, lifting a finger to the ceiling like she’s trying to find patterns in it, inventing constellations. “This is, like - whoa.” Falls into another peal of laughter; Yuqi’s rolling her eyes, stroking Minnie’s bangs off her forehead. “Like, the best birthday ever.”

“You’re drunk,” you say, utterly enamored with her. “But - thanks.”

Minnie lowers her finger just to wag it in your face. “Drunken words are sober thoughts,” she says, sagely, and dissolves into giggles again.

You land a kiss on her forehead before you and Yuqi pile into the bathroom, scrubbing the night from your skin. Yuqi ends up perched on the counter, the two of you in matching, moisturizing sheet masks - self-care is for everyone, she says vehemently, and you’re not about to argue - and she’s playing some game on her phone, humming something under her breath. Breaks her own concentration just to glance over at you and smile.

“What’s up?” you say, softly, and she slides off the counter.

“Just - thanks.” Yuqi’s got a hand under your chin, tipping your face downwards. She’s always smaller than she pretends to be. “For being here.”

“Well,” you say, tipsy and feeling a little philosophical, a little romantic, “where else would I ever want to be?”

You’re getting in the routine of asking rhetorical questions of each other - will you stay, will you hold me, do you understand how much you mean to me - things you already know the answer to. Learning curves you’ve followed before. Inclines you’ve made it past. It’s fun to play your games, as long as you know when to pack them up and take them home.

Yuqi smiles, slots her mouth to yours. A thousand places, she’s telling you, wrapped up in a kiss - you could be anywhere, but you’re here. Kissing you like it means something. Kissing you because you both know it does.

“Can’t wait to see what you do for my birthday,” she says against your mouth, already grinning. “Are you gonna let me peg you or something?”

And there is it - the charming crassness of her, the unyielding defiance - and there’s something else, the prospect of something living far into the future - and you laugh out loud, suddenly feeling like you’re seeing straight through time, at all the repeat performances you’ll have with her and Minnie. Something that lasts. Something that’ll never, ever get old.

“Sure,” you say, and she’s laughing with you, too. “Something like that.”

(You don’t know this yet, but a little bit earlier, towards the end of the party, Miyeon tugs Minnie into her room and drops a gift bag into her hands. It’d be unceremonious, but Miyeon’s smiling almost bashfully, tucking her hands behind her back afterwards.

“Oh,” says Minnie, softly, drunkenly. “Miyeon.” A pause, gentle, fleeting. “Thank you.”

“Open it,” is all Miyeon says in response, nodding towards the bag.

It’s a digital camera. Gorgeous, expensive, sleek and portable, the kind of thing Minnie can instantly see herself bringing everywhere, aiming it to the sky, to the scenery, to the people she surrounds herself with; to every beautiful thing that’s come to define her life, lately. It’s everything. It’s-

“It’s perfect,” Minnie finds herself saying out loud, voice strangely hoarse.

The curve of Miyeon’s mouth is stunningly tender. She’s a little drunk too, or she must be; her shoulders are a little slumped, words a touch slurred. “I know a lot of your camera usage these days is pretty slutty,” she says, not meanly - Minnie breaks into breathy laughter, adoring despite herself- “but - well, you can absolutely use this one for slutty reasons, too. I mean, no judgment. You know that. Like, have your fun, you know?”

“Get to the point,” chides Minnie, gently, cradling the camera between her fingers.

Color sits high in Miyeon’s cheeks, eternally responsive to Minnie’s tone, her impulses, her certain, deliberate looks - I can’t help it, she’d told Minnie once, laughing; you look at me like you can read my fucking mind.

Minnie’s never managed to grow out of it even now, even after everything. She’s not sure she ever will.

“I just thought…” Miyeon shrugs, shy. “I mean - I know how much you love photography. And I thought you could use it for yourself, whatever that-” There’s a break, searching for the right word. “Whatever that… entails.”

“Entails,” mimics Minnie, drunk and affectionate and stuck on the expression on her face.

“Entails is a normal word.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

“Minnie,” sighs Miyeon, and suddenly she’s pulling her in for a hug.

“Happy birthday,” Miyeon murmurs into her neck. And then, “You know you’re my best friend, right?”

And here’s what no one will know, about Minnie and Miyeon, what no one will understand: love’s just not for them, right now. There’s nothing about them that could ever work out. But they’re inseparable, they’re other halves - they’re each others’ favorite people in the world, anyway. Here and now, that works perfectly.

“I know,” says Minnie, and she does.

“You and me,” says Miyeon, sweetly, distantly, like there’s some grand secret between her and a whole other universe. “Maybe in another life.”

They’re both romantics, in all senses of the word; they’d both die for music, for melodrama, for scenes straight out of movies. See, Miyeon means it - that’s the thing. Means that she can see it so clearly, the two of them, side by side in some other world. Maybe they’re drunk. Maybe that’s all it is. Maybe - maybe-

“Maybe,” Minnie agrees, and she smiles.)

The morning after - that’s one cliché you’re readily familiar with. Hey, they’re well-loved for a reason.

“Um,” says Yuqi, in the kitchen the following day, and nothing else.

It’s a gorgeous morning, or at least the kind you all love, sky dark and overcast, rain dripping down the windows. Minnie’s half-asleep on the counter, brilliantly hungover; the only reason she hadn’t fallen asleep in her makeup and her party dress last night is because you and Yuqi had taken painstaking care of her. Yuqi walked you through Minnie’s skincare routine, cleansers, serums; you’re not the fastest learner, but some people are worth the effort. Perks of being the birthday girl, you’d joked, and Yuqi laughed, unusually soft, said, well, we’d do this for her any day, wouldn’t we?

“Yes?” you say, noting her tone. Her attentiveness last night, her affection - the look on her face now. “You need something?”

There’s always a turning point. Yours comes on a day where the sun’s hiding itself behind clouds, miraculously blanketed; giving you space to say what’s needed, granting you grace. Yuqi takes a breath, then says, “I actually have, um - I have a late birthday present.”

You watch her, confused. Yuqi’s usually immune to any sort of awkwardness, has a tendency to bulldoze past stumbling and silences without much care or tact - so this is something of a first. Even Minnie peeks up at her, crease appearing curiously between her eyebrows.

“For me?” asks Minnie, voice half-muffled by the sleeve of her sweater.

“No,” says Yuqi, sarcasm so acidic it might as well be poison: “for him. Yeah, Minnie, last time I checked, it was your birthday yesterday, so-”

“Yuqi,” Minnie says, straightens slowly, smile dawning in a storm. Yuqi only gets this bitchy in the face of vulnerability - when she’s on a cliff, on a precipice, when she feels herself falling. Minnie’s taking the high road, waiting for it. You’re right there with her.

Yuqi huffs, lets her hair fall in front of her face, covering her cheeks, the blood rushing underneath her skin. Blonde on pink on pink - an echo of the night you’d met her, like someone’d seen her and pronounced her perfectly made, put in some effort to get her standing here, get her that gorgeous.

“Fine,” she says, giving up the fight. “Fine. I - okay. Let me get it.”

“Also,” admits Yuqi, reluctantly, prods your arm. “It kind of is for you, too.”

(Because that’s the motif of it all, isn’t it? There wouldn’t be any of this without all three of you together. There’d be something missing. It just wouldn’t be the same.)

“I know,” you say, quietly, without smugness or ego, and there’s another point - Yuqi, in a room with the people who understand her perfectly, and she’s finally willing to give up the truth.

Yuqi gathers you all in the living room, and then she goes to get her guitar.

She’s bossy about it, too, tugging Minnie by the elbow, poking you in the small of your back, herding you both to the couch. That’s the thing about Yuqi: she makes it known what she wants, doesn’t apologize for it. There’s something strangely comforting about it, about being around someone who is so sure of herself, of every move and instinct.

“Okay, it’s-” says Yuqi when she sits, drumming her fingers along her guitar, expression open and filterless. She tucks her bottom lip into her mouth, bites down, lets go. “It’s kind of… rough. I mean, not in a - not in a sexual context. It’s not like that. It’s just - unrefined, right now.”

But now: tripping over her words, ready to pour her soul out, nervous like she’s unsure if you’ll both take it. You and Minnie, sitting in front of her, watching Yuqi’s lashes flicker, the morning painting her almost breathtakingly sincere. Now - the one thing she’s not perfectly sure about. Oh, she must have an idea, you think, exchanging a glance with Minnie, a soft, private smile; Yuqi must know, deep down. She must see the devotion, how it lifts instead of drowns, makes the room weightless; forget the tension, forget pressure. She must know how you and Minnie have never felt lighter.

“Alright,” says Minnie, gently. “That’s fine.”

A concession from the right person: Yuqi takes a breath, a moment. Fiddles with her guitar, plucking idly, tuning it up. And despite it all, despite the fact that you’ve seen a million times that she’s fine performing a stage, in front of strangers, speaking her mind through music, she says: “Don’t laugh.”

Minnie’s lips part a little, surprised. Your voice catches in your throat. Yuqi rarely shows her nerves like this, lets them take hold and become palpable - but when she does, it’s only for the two of you. You lower your chin in a nod, gesture for her to go ahead: of course, you’re saying. It’s you. It’s you. Say anything and we’ll listen.

Minnie murmurs again, carefully, “Yuqi.” Her name in Minnie’s mouth; it’s as mesmerizing as it always is. “We won’t.”

“Okay,” says Yuqi, believing it, and then she begins to play.

Oh, it’s stunning, but of course it is. A revelation in the rasp of her voice, the nearly sensual hum of her guitar. Lyrics about sex and seduction and wanting to make time for someone, reserve a space in your life for them, in your heart, in your home. About waking up in the morning to love and nothing less. It’s not a sad song, by any means - it’s got a rhythm, an optimism, a playful lilt in the chord changes, the melody. It’s suggestive and a little filthy and honest and hopeful. It’s so completely her.

By the time it’s over, you and Minnie are both wonderfully, completely, startlingly speechless.

“Did you-” Yuqi can’t seem to muster up full sentences, working through her blush, her own emotions trapping words in her throat. “Did you guys - like it?”

It’s so entirely sincere, and shy, and spellbinding. A remnant of a conversation from weeks earlier, about love and creation, about Yuqi’s heart in her music, about taking someone’s hand and saying here, I made this for you.

“Yuqi,” says Minnie, grin leaking into her voice.

Yuqi’s laughing, setting her guitar aside sheepishly; she can glean the answer from her tone alone. That’s the thing about love, when you’re in it - it saturates everything you make, everything you say. “What?”

She barely gets a chance to get the word out of her mouth before you’re pulling at her hip, pulling her right into your lap. She squeals and Minnie’s there, throwing her arms around her neck, wrapping her in a crushing hug. The three of you, so entwined it’d take brute force to rip you apart. Well, let them try.

“Baby,” you say, and Yuqi’s flushing pink again. “You’re so fucking adorable.”

“I know,” says Yuqi, fiercely. She’s so good at taking compliments until they get too close to home.

“And we’re obsessed with everything you do,” adds Minnie, helpfully, darting forward to press a quick kiss to the tip of her nose.

“Fucking obviously.”

But now she’s beaming like she could stop the pouring rain right in its tracks, burrowing herself further into Minnie’s embrace, tucking her knees up to brush your ribcage. The snark’s never been anything but a love language, truly. You’ve learned every turn of phrase by now.

“It was brilliant,” says Minnie, then, vehemently, “you’re brilliant,” and then she’s laughing, kissing Yuqi’s face, throwing you that look in her eye when she’s too happy to do anything but show it, unable to process it in any way but the physical. Leans in to kiss you too, hand pressed gently to your cheek. “You two,” she says, then can’t even finish her sentence - it’s such a far cry from the character she’d played yesterday, but that’s the point-

“I don’t want to hear it,” Yuqi says, but doesn’t even try to leave your lap. “You two? I’m the one who wrote the song. He didn’t do shit.”

“Did you or did you not just tell me that this song is about me?” you point out.

One hand finds its way into Yuqi’s hair, and she lets it. “That’s slander,” says Yuqi. “I would literally never say that.”

She’s dazzling when she’s blushing, bluffing, lying right to your face. “I really am your muse,” you say, entertained by the prospect. “That’s so sick.”

“Half my muse,” says Yuqi, and pokes Minnie’s ribs until she yelps. “She’s the hot half.”

“Clearly,” you corroborate, as Minnie laughs prettily, proving both your points - that’s a girl who can always take a compliment, any place and any time. Someone that gorgeous; she’s gotten used to it. “So I guess you’re stuck with both of us, huh?”

And here’s the point that should contain the purposeful score, with the camera panning out, with the confession and the slow motion. Oh, it’s not nearly so cheesy - never so theatrical, no tears or tortured secrets being revealed. It’d be a terrible whodunit, between the three of you: everyone already knows exactly how you got here, sees the fingerprints and the paper trails and the unsubtle clues. There’s no need for any grand reveal when you’re just unearthing what’s been there all along; no need for dramatically digging up graves when all you’re doing is opening a window, letting all the light in. It’s all so spectacularly obvious. It’s what you’ve always thought. It’s peace.

“Fuck,” says Yuqi, content in your arms, and she’s not fooling anyone - so it’s a good thing she doesn’t need to. “I guess I am.”

“I’m making an executive decision,” says Minnie. “We should all just date.”

It’s so simple, so straightforward. All of you and your mutual obsession, wrapped up in a label, a ribbon to tie neat and tight. It’s insane that it could end in something so easy - oh, after the sex you’ve had, the rules you’ve broken, the boundaries you’ve thrown right out the window-

“Ugh,” says Yuqi, like she’s not smiling wide enough to split her face. There’s no possible way you’ve earned this happy ending, but somehow you’ve got it anyway. “Yeah, we probably should, shouldn’t we.”

It’s not a question; no room for error. You can read her too well for that, now. Yuqi adds, belatedly: “I mean, just - like, logically.”

“Absolutely,” you agree, infatuated with how she’s gunning for nonchalance and failing horribly. “It’s just like you said.” You pat Minnie’s hip, meet her radiant eyes, forever colluding. “We’re better than nothing.”

It’s a purposeful bait - you’re getting better at those. Hey, it’s all about growth. “Ugh,” grumbles Yuqi again, burrowing further in Minnie’s arms, squirming in your lap, torn between her attitude and her own need for honesty. “No, you guys - you’re like - you’re better than everything.”

(This, hidden between lyrics, entire love letters scrawled in the margins of a screenplay: Do you understand how much you mean to me? Could you possibly?)

“Oh, wow,” you say, breathless, overwhelmed. “That’s so cliché. I thought you were a songwriter, Yuqi.”

“I hate you.” At the sound of Minnie’s laugh, Yuqi swats at her thigh repeatedly, unable to even manage a scowl. “Uh, you too, bitch. You’re not exempt just because you’re a bystander. You let this happen. Realistically, we’re all here because of you.”

“What?”

“If you hadn’t wanted to get your ass fucked so bad that one day-”

“Oh my God.”

“-then he never would’ve caught us. And we never would’ve ended up here.”

“Actually,” you cut in, mimicking. “Realistically, Yuqi, if you hadn’t decided that you just had to fuck me the moment you met me, I never would’ve gone to that first party, and I never would’ve met Minnie, so-”

“Exactly,” says Minnie, smacking Yuqi’s shoulder triumphantly. “This is your fault.”

And there’s not a stitch of regret in it, nothing that constitutes actual blame. You’ve seen this film before. It’s the same every time. Sure, it’s her fault: her fault that you’re all the happiest you’ve ever been, that you’re having the best sex you’ve ever had, that you have somewhere safe to run after a bad day, friends to fill a home, a bed where you never have to be alone. Her fault that you slipped and fell right into a perfect ending, every stray thread wrapped up and stitched masterfully and closed out. A revelation. A kiss. A faultless flourish, and a cut away.

(This, the question underneath it all, asked over and over again, slipped subliminally under each line of dialogue: do you understand how much you mean to me?)

“You know what,” says Yuqi, thoughtfully. “I’ll take it.”

(The answer, the running theme, the credits as they roll: I do, I do, I do.)

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Well, in case you didn’t already know: there’s always going to be room for an epilogue.

Call it a post-credits scene, something included just for kicks. This one centers in on a weekend - but doesn’t it always? - on the rush of a cool autumn night, on a dark club, on chatty strangers. It’s a single scene, bookended by names, labeled professions; there are more important things to worry about than this, but it’s your life. It’s where you’re at. It’s also exactly where you’d started.

“You’re not even working today,” says Bona, perched daintily on a stool, scantily clad and seemingly amused by your presence alone. “You don’t need to be here, you know.”

“I know,” you say, cryptically, settled comfortably beside her. “Just wanted to check out some of the performances.”

It’s obnoxiously vague. “Right,” says Bona, clearly suspicious. “Uh, have fun?”

The band’s got more fans than they give themselves credit for - it’s like every extra’s right where they should be, prepared for any cue. You spot Lisa and Chaeyoung in the corner, laughing loudly with Jisoo and another brunette whose name you can’t place; at one of the tables, there’s Kazuha and Yunjin, who looks to be in a weirdly aggressive conversation with Club Cosmic’s manager; over at the bar, Miyeon’s boyfriend catches your eye and waves, one arm slung around Miyeon’s waist. Around them all, the atmosphere seems to glimmer, velvet and smoke and strategic lighting, placing them all somewhere mythic.

“I will,” you tell Bona, cheerfully, and hop up from your seat.

Yunjin and Kazuha are the first to monopolize your attention, but that’s not especially surprising. Yunjin’s sporting some comically oversized sunglasses and losing her mind over some shocking celebrity breakup - two of her absolute favorite actresses, she tells you balefully, right before she downs her drink. Kazuha’s trying to console her, but also obviously trying not to laugh at her.

“I seriously don’t even believe in love at this point,” Yunjin’s lamenting, head in her hands, phone open to the news article. “Two years. They were together for two years.”

“Hmm,” says Kazuha, suddenly lost in thought. It’s then that you recall she’s been with her boyfriend for twice that long, or something similar. Nineteen and already tied down; but, you muse, stranger things have happened. You’re not gonna question love. Your life has too much of it. You can’t imagine believing in anything else.

“Is that why you were arguing with…” You gesture discreetly towards Club Cosmic’s manager, who’s only a table or two away, making her rounds.

“Sakura’s such a bitch,” says Yunjin, not quietly, and - well, there goes discretion. “She’s like - oh, every celebrity relationship is PR, I don’t even know why you’re upset, it was probably fake anyway - and I was like, for two years? That doesn’t even make sense-”

“I can hear you,” says Sakura, turning abruptly.

“Good,” says Yunjin. “Cunt.”

“I could ban you from this place,” says Sakura, hand on her hip. She’s maddeningly gorgeous just by standing there - the big eyes and the flawless skin and the long, dark hair, swept up out of her face, ears lined with delicate silver jewelry. Every time she mans the floor, she gets just as much attention as the lingerie-clad performers; that’s a talent in itself. “Also, two years isn’t even that long for a serious relationship.” She smiles, tiny and catlike. “Not that you would know.”

“I will key your car,” says Yunjin seriously, then, to you: “It’s fine. Sakura and I go way back.”

“No, we don’t,” says Sakura. “You’re an acquaintance at most. I barely tolerate you.” A pause. “Hi, Zuha.”

“Hi,” says Kazuha, amiably. “Nice to see you.”

“Don’t lie to her,” says Yunjin, emphatically, and flips Sakura off.

They’re largely caught up in their own spectacle, their own stories and lives and loose ends. It’s none of your business; it’s a movie you don’t have a part in. Fine: you’ve got your own plot points to hit. You leave them to it.

Minnie’s not flaking out on band duties for once, so Miyeon’s off the hook tonight, enjoying being in the audience. She’s the band’s biggest fan, she always says - she’ll have to fight you for that title, you return every time. She’s loitering by the bar with her boyfriend, and the second she sees you, she leans in and says, almost nonsensically, “Feels pretty good, huh?”

You lean in too. “Sorry?”

Miyeon smiles. “I heard about Yuqi’s song,” she says. Then, “It’s fucking awesome being someone’s muse, right?”

“Uh,” you say, somewhat startled - but, like, she’s not really wrong. “I mean, yeah, totally.”

Beside her, Miyeon’s boyfriend sighs tolerantly, one arm now around Miyeon’s slender shoulders, one hand sifting carefully through the ends of her hair. See, Miyeon’s exactly what anyone who’s ever read an artsy romance novel would picture as a muse: gorgeous in this elegant, almost demure way, like she’s perennially cosplaying as some sort of princess. Her boyfriend’s older, he’s seen more of the world, he knows what it has to offer; Miyeon’s such a classic counterpart for him, despite the age difference, the mildly sketchy circumstances. You look at the two of them and you get it - why someone like him would make art about someone like her.

“All we have to do is exist and be beautiful and get fucked into oblivion,” says Miyeon, dreamily. “We’ve got it made.”

Right - she’s sort of drunk. Well, you could’ve seen that coming. “Why are you assuming I’m getting fucked and I’m not the one doing the fucking?”

A tilt of her head. “Yuqi doesn’t peg you?”

“Uh - not currently?”

There’s that bright laughter, her best sign of a break in character. Miyeon tucks her face into her boyfriend’s shoulder, only half-successfully stifling her own giggles. He smiles enigmatically over at you, the kind of expression that could mean anything from wow, women, huh? to yeah, yeah: she’s the love of my fucking life.

“Baby,” he says to her instead, gently, hand still half in her hair. Lets out this endeared sort of huff, partly a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. Right, you think: love of his life it is, then.

Miyeon turns her face out again, cheeks flushed and lids heavy as she looks at you.

“You know what,” she says, candidly. “Yuqi was right. You are cool.”

“Thanks, man,” you say. Inebriation’s clearly killed her filter a little bit. “You didn’t think I was before?”

“Well, I was originally worried you might be too dumb for Yuqi, but…” She nods sagely, blinks at you slow and serious. “She’s dating you and Minnie. It’s obvious she’s into morons. Like, that’s definitely her type.”

So, that’s-

“What the fuck,” you say, and Miyeon’s boyfriend actually bursts out laughing, which only makes Miyeon start cracking up again - and that’s pretty much your cue to leave. Let them be sort of young and all the way in love. They deserve it, anyway.

“Hey,” says Bona, over the music, when she finally circles back to your side. “Your girls are performing tonight, aren’t they?”

Your girls, she says. Like music, like belonging, like a motion picture with all three of your names billed first, crossing the screen simultaneously. Like the last handful of months laced between the lines, a roll of film stretching out with no end in sight. Like something you could hear them called the rest of your life - your girls - yours.

You swallow back your grin, and say, “How’d you know?”

But suddenly you don’t really need an answer. Bona nods towards the entrance, and that’s when you finally see them.

(Oh - and about their outfits:

Unsurprisingly, Soyeon vetoed Minnie’s sexy cat idea. No, she’d said, or so you’d heard secondhand; Club Cosmic’s a burlesque club, isn’t it? You’ve all seen those old movies, vintage costumes, coiffed curls. We already employ the art of the tease, all that shit; now we’ve got the perfect setting for it. Let’s lean into it. Let’s bring a fantasy to life.)

“God,” says Bona, voice suddenly faint, like just the sight of them together’s forced some sort of physical affliction. “You don’t even know how fucking lucky you are.”

“Actually,” you say, your throat entirely too dry, “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

(Let’s bring a fantasy to life, she says, so they do.)

It’s very nearly fatal, the two of them across the room and so gorgeous your heart skips out of time; strings slipping, drums off-tempo, the pianist must’ve ditched and left you hanging. Your brain can’t catch up with itself, can’t reconcile that they’re here and they belong to you - in and out of focus like any possible camera work wouldn’t be nearly enough to capture this - can’t work out the fact that you belong to them-

“Pull yourself together,” says Bona, though she can’t quite seem to pick her jaw up either.

“Dude, I can’t,” you say, hoarsely, and leave it there. They’re speaking for themselves just by standing there, anyway.

There’s Minnie’s bodysuit, that’s the first thing: all scarlet fabric and scandalous cutouts, tucked seamlessly into a pair of tiny, tight shorts. Cords of glittering rhinestones dripping from her waist, dotting the crisscrossing threads of her fishnets. Strappy heels and shimmering jewelry wrapped snugly around her neck, something of a choker, something you’d die to hook your fingers in and tug on. She fits the aesthetic like it was made for her, every part of her perfectly arranged, tailored brilliantly. And Yuqi - all you can comprehend is the latticing detail of her stockings, everything trimmed in tantalizing black lace, the telltale straps of a garter belt. Dolled up in black, sweetheart neckline strategically low, skirt skimpy and primed to tease. Her boots, platform and buckled and beat-up leather, sending the whole look a touch theme-inaccurate, marvelously off-beat. It’s all about the details, the barely tamed wildness of her hair, nails blunt and black lacquer chipping, rough in all the right places. And it’s so completely her.

You’re sure the entire place is staring. The room almost glitters around them, the scenery a perfect backdrop. Forget every single side character, every winding plot - it’s all leading up to the two of them walking in like this, side by side. That’s it. Nothing else matters. Cut it there.

But you can’t - because you spot the exact moment the two of them see you, too.

You see Minnie’s mouth form your name even all the way across the dim club, her smile - lopsided, lovely - stunningly at odds with the allure of her outfit, her sultry sex appeal. Yuqi sees the look on your face and her mouth curls into a brilliantly red smirk, raises her eyebrows, aware of exactly what they’re both doing to you.

It’s hypnotizing, the sight of it. They could have the entire room in the palm of their hand, but they’re only looking at you.

Minnie says something you can’t hear over the music, waves one arm in a broad, indiscernible gesture. “What?” you say back, but then you notice the camera she’s holding - the one Miyeon gave to her for her birthday. Beside her, Yuqi puts a hand on her hip, mimes pouting and posing.

Right. You throw your head back, laugh out loud, and that’s right when Minnie takes the shot.

(She’s been taking them of Yuqi all night, you’ll learn later - while getting ready, in the car on the way here, outside the club. You’ll see it all after this, her blonde hair almost blown out, images soft at the corners. She’ll look inhumanly beautiful, like something magical, ethereal. God, Minnie will tell her, cycling through the photos, you’re so fucking gorgeous - and you’ll agree, slack-jawed and struck dumb.

Maybe, Yuqi will say, but don’t you get it? It’s me through your eyes, your point of view. She’ll take a look at herself on camera and laugh. I look prettiest when you’re the one photographing me. Do you understand? she’ll be asking, wonderingly. Could you possibly?

Oh, and you do. Love and art. Love and creation. Love and how it shapes the way you see the world, bit by bit, until you realize it - take a look around: you live a life full of beautiful things. You’ve got so much to be grateful for.)

You’re barely ready, and it’s surely not flattering, but they’re both grinning at you anyway, so pleased with themselves. You, through their point of view, like the best you’ve ever been. An epilogue - maybe that’s not accurate at all, then. Maybe it’s all just a preview: a marker of everything that’ll come later. Sequel after sequel after sequel.

(In twenty minutes they’ll both be up on that stage. Singing the song Yuqi wrote, the two of them sneaking glances at each other on opposite sides of the stage, catching your eye by the bar, in the crowd. Give them a little longer and they’ll both be running off the stage in record time, right into your arms - Yuqi will be complaining about a chord Minnie flubbed, Minnie will kiss her until she shuts up - and it’ll be a moment you’ll get to replay again, and again, and again. Every concert, every coming birthday, every moment, second, scene. Every night you’re gonna grin, and kiss them, and let them take you home.

You’ve got a love that’ll keep coming back around, in the end. Forget the classics, forget convention - you’d be so repressed having one type and sticking to it. You’d be bored to fucking tears without the two of them by your side.)

But that’s all what’s to come. That, and so much more.

For now, you watch as Minnie and Yuqi walk over to you, both of them trying to talk over each other at once - something about Minnie accidentally burning the side Yuqi’s neck with a curling iron; no, it’s not a fucking hickey, when has she ever tried to hide those - but all you can do is stare.

“Hi,” you say, dumbly, smiling like an idiot.

“You’re such an idiot,” says Yuqi, predictably, her hip bumping Minnie’s.

“Hey,” Minnie says, beaming back, just as predictably, and it’s a start. It’s a step. A photo in a frame, cataloging your future in a single snapshot. The way she moves forward and loops her arms around your neck, and Yuqi wriggles close to her side, unwilling to ever be left out.

“Oh, wow,” says Bona, who you’d honestly forgotten was even standing there. “You guys are nuts.”

And you get exactly what she means. You’re obsessed with each other and you’re not shy about it. You’ll bicker as often as you’ll fuck, in private, in public. You’ll be fielding queries about the logistics for a while - the three of you? people will say, pulling faces. How? When? Wondering how you turned a habit into a home, a safe place to keep your heart.

“Fuck off,” says Yuqi, muffled by Minnie’s hair. “Jealousy is a disease, bitch.”

“I’m serious,” says Bona, but she’s smiling now. “And - Soyeon’s already in the back asking for you guys, by the way. She sent me out here to get you.”

It’s a lead-in, a prompt: wrap it up. Get it all out; you’re in the home stretch. A quip, a grin, a glance. A hard cut to a happy ending. This is the story you’ve got.

“Well?” says Yuqi to you, eyes narrowing. Affection tilts her mouth. She’ll always let sincerity bleed through, when it’s all said and done. “Any last words before we go on?”

She says it like she’s about to kill you; she’s gorgeous enough to get away with it. Minnie’s giggling openly, lacing her fingers through yours. They look like they could get anything they’d ever wanted and then some. Like they’re about to be put on pedestals and surrounded by snapping cameras, nosy paparazzi searching for a way behind the scenes, a glimpse of a masterpiece in the making. Them through your eyes, extraordinary in every light, every angle. That’s the thing about all the greatest movies, all your best narratives, love behind a careful lens: there’s always something new to discover.

Fine: you’ll learn, then. You’ll stick around to see. It’s the story you’ve got - oh, and isn’t it a wonderful one.

“Break a leg,” you tell them, laughing, and let it all fade to black.

happy very very late bday to minnie! also one of these days i will write a smut that is not actually a love story in disguise but today is not that day <3

when cameras are flashing (ive yujin)

(smut, idol yujin, daddy kink, age gap, choking, “quickie”, oral, 5k words)

“So,” you say, and Ahn Yujin smiles brightly at you across the conference table. “How’d you manage to fuck up this week?”

It’s barely professional, but you’re you - you’re past all that, over courtesy, propriety. Yujin’s manager clears her throat, levels you with an unamused glare. You cock your head, spread your hands out in surrender: “Look,” you say, “I’m just trying to get a feel for the situation.”

“Oh,” says Yujin, in her carefree, entirely charming way. “Well, if you’re just trying to get a feel for it.”

You raise an eyebrow at her. She raises one right back, sweetly challenging. Hey, here’s how it goes with her: another day, another scandal.

It’s actually kind of insane, considering Yujin is hands-down one of the most normal, sincere, well-intentioned celebrities you’ve ever worked for - and that’s a long list. It’s almost hilarious, that people go after her the way they do, because as far as you can see, she never does anything wrong. She’s practically angelic, by standards of fame. No boys, no bullying allegations, no benders.

Still - and you can say this, because you’re one of the best publicists in the game - being famous at her age and with her face is a largely uphill battle. Gorgeous enough to attract jealousy, genuine enough for all the people jumping through hoops to maintain their personas to despise her, young and talented and charismatic enough for the rumor mill to love her and hate her at the exact same time. There’s sympathy, and of course you have it - but then there’s that look on Yujin’s pretty features, in front of you now.

Nothing gets to her. You find it impressive, a little fascinating: there’s a reason she’s one of your favorites.

“And?” You lean back in your chair, gaze shifting from Yujin to her manager and back again. “What are we dealing with?”

You’re observing Yujin carefully, trying to get a feel on how bad this is going to be - her long, glossy black hair falls over both shoulders, effortlessly flawless; the fluttering eyelashes, the dimple - then there’s the outfit, the tight white shirt, the pants, tapering in at her tiny waist; they’re an almost offensively vibrant shade of bubblegum pink, but she’s miraculously pulling it off-

Yujin’s manager clears her throat, again.

You smile. If she’s bothered about you staring at her client, she can say it to your face. “Yes?”

“There was a photoshoot,” says Yujin’s manager, eyeing you like she thinks you’re about to mount Yujin right there at the conference table - which is extreme. You’re a professional, you’re surrounded by obscenely beautiful people on the daily - and Yujin’s too young for you, anyway. It’s not even a question. Barely even a thought in your head. “Here, take a look-”

Yujin’s manager passes her phone towards you, lets you swipe through the photos, and - well, shit-

Okay, it’s more than barely a thought in your head.

“Hm,” you say, keeping your face studiously blank; it’s something you’ve perfected over the years, but still, Jesus. It’s a series of pictures of Yujin in this silky, slinky black two-piece - there are her thighs, the defined cut of her abs, the way she tilts her head, parts her lips; the camera loves her, but who wouldn’t - and it’s sex, it’s sin, it’s every dirty word wrapped up in one - but like you said, both Yujin and her manager are staring straight at you right now, and you’re a professional.

You place the phone back down on the table, summon all the nonchalance possible. “Looks fine to me.”

Clearly, you’ve failed, at least on some level. “Dial it back,” advises Yujin’s manager, disdainfully.

“Yeah,” echoes Yujin, cheerfully, fingers laced underneath her chin, dark eyes dancing. “Dial it back.”

You fix her with a pointed glance, cautionary. She’s always a little flirtatious, but that’s her thing, her trademark - it’s easy for the whole country to fall for her when she talks to everyone like they might be able to touch her if they play their cards right - but there’s something a little more obvious about it today, and you don’t know how to take it.

“Sure,” you say, relenting; you don’t know what game she’s playing and you’re not sure you want to. “What are people saying?”

“People think it’s too suggestive,” says Yujin, raking a hand through her hair, the delicate point of her wrist only a little mesmerizing. “Or seductive, or something. Which is crazy, because it’s just me being hot and existing.”

Somehow all her comments come off as charming rather than arrogant - or she manages both, all at once. It’s that smile: goddamn irresistible. You get why she bounces back from every stupid scandal, and it’s not just that you’re helming the ship of her image. People hate her, they love her, they do both at the same time. Price of fame: it’s a fickle thing. The one constant is that it’s Ahn Yujin, and people never really stop talking about her - and in the end, for a girl like her, that’s the ultimate goal.

“They’re overreacting,” says Yujin’s manager, but her eyes are back on her phone, her fingers suddenly flicking fast. “It’s not - ugh - I mean, it’s such an insane double standard, the way they treat you versus the way they - fuck, I’m sorry,” she says, right when her phone rings. “I have to take this.”

“Go ahead,” says Yujin. There’s a goal, here - her eyes dart to you, smile drenched with intention - and she tips her chin up at her manager as she stands. “We’ll behave.”

This gives her manager pause, right in the doorway. She holds her phone in her hand, lets her gaze do circuits between it and the two of you - but she’s responsible, so she doesn’t have a choice.

“You’d better,” she says, a warning meant solely for you; it’d be insulting, but she probably knows better than anyone how men like you act around girls like Yujin. “I’ll be back in, like, two minutes.”

Then the door’s clicking shut - the sound is like a latch to a coffin, a vault decimated and snapped right open - sealing you in, sure, but opening up something else entirely. Yujin runs her tongue under a canine, studies you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room; you can’t figure out her angle.

“So,” you say, coolly - you’re trying to maintain some approximation of control. See, you’re far from the most fascinating sight in the vicinity; you’re on one of the highest floors of the building, and all the windows are spotless, glass gleaming - there’s a view to die for, streets and cityscapes and all that open sky - and she’s still looking only at you.

“I think you’ll be fine,” you continue. You’re not that intimidated by a pretty little pop star, so you’ll hold her gaze. It’s one challenge you don’t mind taking. “It’s not that much to dig you out of. It’s not like the photoshoot was anything majorly scandalous - people are just blowing things out of proportion, but that also means it’ll blow over fast. Because, really, it’s like you said. It’s just you being - well - it’s just you existing.”

Yujin looks mildly entertained by your fumble, like she knows it was an amateur move. “It’s just me being what?”

You pin her with a look, but she presses on, smile curling at her mouth - it’s a slip-up she’s not going to let slide. “Are you afraid to call me hot?”

“Afraid’s a little strong,” you say, dryly. “I’d say I’m being mindful. Respectful. Professional, if you will.” There’s that word again; you’ll hold onto it like a lifeline.

“Oh, yeah?” There’s a turn she’s taken, something sneaking into her tone, something primal saturating her dark eyes. Yujin sits up straight, drops her elbows on the table, inclines her head like she’s assessing you. “You think admitting that you think I’m hot would be unprofessional?”

“Deeply,” you say, flexing your fingers so you don’t do something stupid like stand up, like walk over to her, like grip her hair in your fist and trap her body against the conference table. “It’d be a scandal waiting to happen.”

Turns out all your self-discipline is a moot point. Now Yujin’s the one standing from her chair, approaching you slow - there’s something about the way she moves her body, so aware of every dip and curve; it’s like a weapon she’s flaunting, a knife right to your jugular - and she stops right in front of you, propping her hip to the table. She’s standing, and you’re still seated. She’s not exactly short, but she’s tiny compared to you. You shouldn’t think about it, but you’re thinking about it.

“Like I care,” says Yujin, grinning. “Besides - there’s no scandal I could get in that you wouldn’t get me out of, right?”

“You’re feisty today,” you comment, still wrestling for the upper hand. “Does the threat of losing your career get you going or something?”

“I’m not going to lose my career,” says Yujin, airily, like she finds the prospect hilarious. There’s that arrogance, and it’s so much more enticing than it has any right to be. “And - no, it doesn’t. But watching you try to keep your cool while looking at pictures of me when it’s so obvious that you want to fuck me - yeah, I’d call that a turn-on.”

There’s that weapon, aiming and firing; there’s that blade, straight into your neck. There’s your lifelines, sliced to ribbons. “Who says I want to fuck you?”

Yujin laughs at that, full and musical. “Come on,” she says, and it’s a battle you’ve already lost. “Everybody wants to fuck me.”

Your eyes flicker over to the closed door. “Your manager said she’ll be back in two minutes.”

“She’ll take twenty, minimum.”

“This is a bad idea,” you warn, but it’s a half-assed cover, barely concealed - you’re not scared of her, but then there’s everything touching her would trigger. She’s got her weapons, but you’ve got your own. The flat of your palm finds her hip, and you won’t stand; you’ve got other plans. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Why do I have to get into anything?” Yujin’s hands drop, and now she’s popping the button of her pants, sliding the zipper. “It’s just sex,” she says, watching your expression, perfectly cavalier. You grit your teeth. You don’t go for it yet. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“For a girl like you?” you ask, and now she’s dragging down her pants, revealing her panties, thighs, inch by mouthwatering inch. “It would be close.”

You’re talking about reputation, about the ever-present threat of social suicide - she’s a perpetual hot topic, and just her face sends tongues wagging, so this’d be doomsday - but Yujin’s got her pants pushed down to her knees, and there’s an undercurrent to it, a desire that goes somewhere beyond sexual. You’ll bite:

“What’s your angle?” you ask finally, surveying her. Ah, you’ll give her what she wants, but it’s the nature of your job: you need to find every possible way to spin it, all the light and shadow and nuance. “I’ve been your publicist for this long, and you just decided out of the blue that you wanted me to fuck you?”

Yujin pauses, eyes glimmering, keening into your hand on her hip. “Most guys wouldn’t ask this many questions.”

“I’m obviously not most guys.” You’re older, you’re smarter, you run her fucking career - if she falls, you do, too. “Are you done deflecting?”

Oh, talk about light: Yujin tips her head, silky hair spilling over her collarbone, sunlight filtering in through the windows - she’s drowning in it, catching it in her irises like gold, her glint of teeth like there might be already cameras flashing - and slowly, you ease her up onto the table, until you’re sitting in front of her, right between her legs. She’s criminally gorgeous, she’s filthy, she’s everything; she’s staring down at you, deliberating, mouth curved in something like victory.

“I guess I just realized that I’m getting the reputation of being slutty without actually having any of the fun,” says Yujin. “And I guess-” She plants her hands flat on the table, lets her legs part. “The first person I thought of to help me fix that was you.”

“Smart choice,” you commend, your hands on her thighs, your thumbs already hooked into the waistband of her panties; you’re touching her now and you’re not sure how you’ll ever stop.

“I always wanted you to fuck me,” Yujin says, letting the confession slip like it’s weightless. “I promise you it’s nothing new.”

Well, and that’s-

That’s something that shuts your brain off entirely, reduces you to the tactile - you forget why there was ever a need to hold back, so you won’t; you’ve got your fingers on her skin, spreading, pants shoved to her ankles - you tug her panties down and flick your tongue up, and Yujin whimpers, “Daddy.”

You stop short, focus flying to her face, and her dark-eyed stare slams right into yours.

“Yujin,” you say, when you finally manage to unstick her name from your throat - it comes raspy, a little ruined - but there’s her attitude, and all that tension between the two of you. The age difference, and the power, and there’s a dynamic, a connotation - and maybe you really should’ve seen this coming.

“Daddy,” Yujin exhales, again, voice tripping to breathy, needy - and, fuck, you think she’s gonna kill you. “I need your mouth.”

You don’t break your gaze on hers, searching - her hands tremble on the table, restless with an urge; she’s used to making demands, but she knows how to read a room. She may have instigated this, but now you’re in it: there’s a switch flipped, a shift in control. You’ve got both hands on the wheel, foot to the gas. She won’t get anywhere by being bossy with you.

“Fine,” you say, smile slipping dark. You can’t say you’re a man who hates having power. “But no touching me.”

Yujin tucks her bottom lip between her teeth, nods quickly, frantically - it’s not good enough. You hold her eyes, dig your thumb harder into her thigh: “Words, please, Yujin.”

“I won’t touch you,” Yujin swears. She’s so wet - you can still taste her cunt on your tongue, so you’ll take more. Your mouth’s so close she’s barely forming sentences, squirming with anticipation - “Daddy, I won’t, I just need you-”

There’s an invitation, and you can’t pass it up. This is a girl who always gets exactly what she wants, and you’re not going to be the one to break that streak, so you lower her mouth to her pussy - there’s her clit, and she’s soaked, she’s mewling - and she’ll be pliant in your grip, in your tongue right where she needs it: “Daddy,” she’s saying, over and over, like it’s the only thing she can remember - oh, you kind of like her that way. “Daddy, daddy-”

Yujin’s hips stutter like she wants to grind on your mouth, like she wants to dig her fingers in your hair and ride your tongue - but your fingers press into her skin like a warning, and her fists stay staunchly clenched at her sides, fiercely white-knuckled-

“Good girl,” you mumble, against her cunt, listening as Yujin’s moans tumble from her mouth. “That’s my good girl.”

“Daddy, I’m gonna cum-”

She says it, but she doesn’t have to - her eyes are shut tight, her perfect face screwed up like she’s on the verge on collapse - she’s shuddering, she’s on a precipice, she’s so, so close-

You scrape your nails lightly down her thighs - I could hurt you but I won’t; there’s always an implication - and then Yujin’s cumming in your mouth.

You’d let her settle, let yourself linger, but you really don’t have the time: “Baby,” you say, and you’re rising, licking your lips - she tastes like something holy, but that’s a given. “We only have twenty minutes, so if you want me to fuck you, you better get moving.”

“Can I touch you?” You’re helping Yujin off the table; you’re dragging her towards the windows. You’ve got an agenda here, and her fists are clenching, unclenching - she’s got her gaze trained on your cock straining your slacks. “Let me, please - I want your cock-”

“Look at you,” you say - you nudge her until her back hits the glass, and she’s facing you, pants wrapped around her ankles - she’s gorgeous, she’s waiting; she’s impatient but tamping it down just for you. It’s those eyes, so expressive: if her mouth wasn’t saying it, you’d still know exactly what she wanted. “Asking for permission.”

“Daddy.”

“Yeah, baby,” you say: it’s not a relinquishment of power, it’s a reinforcement. “Get my cock out.”

Yujin does, in record time - she’s keyed up, deliciously wired, but her hands are certain, don’t fumble a bit - you’re skipping lines and walking them right back, so you kiss her first, catch her mouth with yours: there’s a surprise to the way she loses her own breath against your lips, and then a surrender, a giving in - you’re grinning, devilish. You’re sure she can feel it.

When you pull back, she’s panting, lips slick. She can taste her pussy on your tongue and you know it. “Tell me,” you’re saying: you need to hear it. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

“I want your cock.” There’s not even any hesitation - Yujin’s so far past that. Hey, maybe she did know what she was getting into: she knew exactly the way you’d treat her. “Want your cock in my pussy, want you to fuck me, want you to make me cum around your cock-”

There’s her perfect face, crumbling to pieces, pupils blown so wide they’re drowning her dark irises - you flip her around and skim your hands down her flawless ass, push her up against the floor-to-ceiling windows - it’s all so ruthlessly transparent, like you’ve gotten into a museum just to vandalize the art, mark it up and make it yours, destroy her encased behind glass - and Yujin’s soundless, so wanton and wet she can’t even form words, noises-

And then you slide your cock in her cunt, slowly, torturously, and her voice gets ripped right out of her throat.

“Daddy-”

Her throat - oh, there’s a corner to cut, a sculpture to tear up and ruin - your fingers wrap around her neck from behind, rendering her helpless, strangled. “Shh,” you murmur, sinister, low, “sweetheart - you don’t really want to get caught like this, do you?” There’s a thrill, there’s a high - you’ve got her against the glass like she’s suspended in thin air, and there’s her smile on a billboard across the street, there’s all those people who know her name crowding the sidewalks below - and she’s all yours. “Getting your little pussy fucked during a professional meeting because you’re just too slutty to control yourself?”

Yujin’s shirt and bra are pushed up roughly, carelessly, her perky tits bouncing, nipples skimming the glass - she’s leaking all over your cock, and you’d hate to be the janitor after this, but at least they’re getting paid well - it’s all about scrutiny, about secrecy, hiding behind tinted windows and sunglasses and silver-screen smiles, and you’re destroying all of that just by using Yujin’s suffocatingly tight cunt, tensing your hand around her throat-

Your thumb digs into her jaw. “Answer me.”

“I - I don’t - I don’t fucking care.” She’s barely getting words out under your grip on her throat, between the lungfuls of air she’s chasing after, faint and flightless - “I don’t care, daddy,” she’s insisting, and her vehemence is fucking consuming, addicting - “Don’t care, I just want your cock in me, just need you to fuck me, just need you to make me cum, make you cum, fill me up-”

“I’m not cumming inside you, baby.”

“What?” She sounds so horrified that you can’t help but laugh, and the sound rings cruel, sharp; people call you cold in this conference room, sometimes, conniving, callous. It’s nothing, to you: you do what needs to be done and you keep it at work and work alone - or you did, until her. “What? But - daddy, please, daddy - please-”

She’s being too fucking loud - you’re bottoming out inside her pussy relentlessly, recklessly - you’ll spin excuses later, or you won’t. The worst thing anybody can do is talk, and you’ll talk over them: your PR training wasn’t for nothing. You could manipulate the apocalypse out of the press as long as you find the right angle. You weren’t lying, earlier: anyone catches her like this and it’d be close.

“Doesn’t matter how much you beg for me, Yujin.” There are caveats, barriers you won’t cross; not with a girl like her, not yet. “You might be fucked up enough to risk your career just for a load inside your cunt, but I’m not. Your career is my career, sweetheart. If you fuck up, it’s all on me.”

It’s like the atmosphere is electric, wired with sex, sensuality - anyone who walks into this room after this is going to know exactly what you’ve been doing to her - anyone on the sidewalk who so much as glances upwards is going to see-

“You don’t wanna fill up my pussy with your cum?” Yujin’s cunt is so tight that she’d probably be able to convince anyone of anything, and then there’s that voice, throaty and heated, letting filth pour as easy as her moans. “You don’t wanna use me as your - fuck - your fucking cumdump, daddy?”

That’s a question she’s posing and precariously, a proposition so tempting you’d call it fatal - but there’s your fist around her throat, there’s you in control, drafting rules, contracts. You’re too experienced to fall for it. You’re on the clock even when you’re not. You know just how far to take it and when to pull it back.

“Nice try,” you say, and your hand presses down on her neck in a warning, your cock burying in her pussy in an emphasis, “but I’ve been on this scene a long time, Yujin. Your pussy’s great - but I’m sorry, baby, my career’s just a little bit greater.”

It’s so degrading - it’s you, older and condescending and cutting her down to size with a smile - and she loves it, she lives for it. You shouldn’t have expected anything less.

“You think I’d give it all up for some slutty little pop star?” you press on, and you’re rubbing it in, salt in the wound: “You idols are all the same.” Another thrust, another moan: here’s how it goes with her. “All that fucking ego.”

Her whole body’s tightly wound, a spring coiled and ready to burst - she’s so wet around your cock, she’s so ready - “Daddy,” Yujin begs, syllables rasping prettily, and even the way she gets fucked is like music, “I’m gonna cum - gonna cum on your cock-”

There’s no acoustics that could ever do that voice justice, no photoshoot that could ever capture that body, every creamy curve, her ass as your hips thrust - the arch of her back, the column of her throat, architecture made soft and breakable and shattered - your hand drops to her clit-

“Cum for me, baby,” you murmur, and shove her tits against the window: if the world wants to see Ahn Yujin like this, all they have to do is look up. “Cum for daddy.”

She follows the order so easily it’s practically compulsive; it’s the sound of your voice, your fingers on her clit, your dick pounding at her cunt, it’s everything - and Yujin’s whole body contorts, convulses, slumps against you as she cums, a high noise trapped in her throat. It’s some attempt at your name, or at least the one she’s calling you now.

You nip at her neck on the comedown, allow her to ride it out. “Get on your knees,” you murmur, then you let your teeth sink.

It barely takes a second - she’s not even coherent - but Yujin’s neck arcs, gives you access; you’re not sure she understands a word until she’s falling right out of your arms, off your cock, dropping dutifully to the floor. You can’t fight the smile: she’s so easy, in this context and no other, her shirt shucked up and her pussy slick, glistening, her mouth opening expectantly like she’s just waiting for you to use it. Your hand finds her cheek, suddenly soft: she’s been good, she deserves it.

“Yujin.”

Yujin doesn’t say a word, just lets her jaw slacken, her eyes wide and wondrous, gorgeous; you see the dimple flicker in her cheek, an aftershock, betraying her own satisfaction. She can’t even control herself. Her thighs are still trembling, expression mildly dazed.

“Sorry I couldn’t cum in your cunt, sweetheart,” you say, loftily. It’s hardly genuine, but she’s too sated to care. “You think I can settle with your mouth?”

There’s that dimple, deepening; she’s somewhat incapable of saying no to you, and that’s a new development, that’s something you’ll prove over and over again - Yujin jerks forward, and wraps her salivating mouth around your dick.

Her tongue’s sloppy around your cock, spit-strung, messy, like she’s so well-fucked she doesn’t remember how to work it - it’s your job, so you’ll take it all into your own hands; hey, it’s what you’re used to, it’s the part you were always meant to play - there go your fingers, digging tight into her hair, forcing her jaw deeper, forcing tears from her brilliant eyes-

“You better swallow it all,” you tell her, low and dangerous; your nails scrape her scalp, and she chokes around your cock at the feeling - it’s that hint of pain, humiliation, her on her knees in your conference room. “You wanna be good for daddy, don’t you?” Your hand finds the back of her head, shoves your cock down her throat. “Then swallow.”

You cum so much you can hear the wet, huffy noise in Yujin’s mouth, the air through her nose - and she swallows it all, even as you pull out and it clogs her cheeks, and she’s staring at you with glassy, impish eyes like she’s got something to prove-

And then it’s all gone.

“Good girl,” you tell her, a little wrecked. Hey, she fucking deserves it.

Yujin trails a finger around her mouth, licks off the remnants of your cum, looks up at you through her eyelashes. It’s obscene, it’s dirty, it’s hot - and that’s your last thought before you drag her up from the floor and catch her lips with yours, because you can’t be bothered to come up with anything else.

She tries to talk, slurring against your tongue. “You just-”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“In my mouth-”

“Yujin.”

It’s something about your tone, accidentally petulant rather than bossy, exasperation soft and unmasked - all of a sudden Yujin’s laughing right into the kiss, her arms wound around your neck, the sound half-delirious, glorious.

“You were so wrong,” she mumbles, licking hot like she’s readying for a round two. You’ve got her face in your hands, you can’t get enough of her: if you could you’d freeze time and indulge her, over and over again. “This is the best fucking idea I’ve ever had.”

She’s kissing you again, right back in it, and, well - you can’t really say that you disagree.

“I think you were heavily exaggerating, by the way.”

“Hmm?”

“You don’t have the reputation of being slutty,” you say, a hand in her hair, watching the sun illuminate her eyes. That’s the thing about windows, all this glass and open space: they show off views, but they’re also creating them right in front of you. “I’d never let it get that far.”

Yujin grins at you. “I know,” she says - she’s returning to form, letting the moment close. She’s back on top. It’s probably a good thing that you’re right there by her side. “You’re good at your job, or whatever.”

“Now, you being slutty in real life-”

“Shut the fuck up, old man.”

Okay, you can’t possibly be that much older than her. “What happened to daddy?”

“Daddy privileges are revoked on account of you being fucking annoying.”

“That mouth,” you say, considering - there are ideas taking shape, but you’ll let them dissolve. You’ve already used up more time than you should have. “What would your fans say?”

Yujin tips her head back and laughs. “I don’t care,” she says, smiling, and that’s the best view of all. “I have you to deal with that.”

You and Yujin are on opposite sides of the conference table when her manager gets back, but neither of you are fooling anyone. Sure, you’re both remarkably cleaned up, stitched back together - but the room smells like sex, and her hair’s just a little fucked up, and you can’t stop looking at her; her dark eyes glint right on back, one leg demurely crossed over the other.

“I don’t even want to know,” says Yujin’s manager tightly, firmly in the doorway, like she’ll get contaminated just from stepping into the room.

“Good,” you say, “because you can’t know. Legally. I made her sign an NDA.”

“What?!” Yujin’s manager splutters, irate, and Yujin laughs loudly, prettily, head tipping back, clapping her hands in the air - she laughs like her own amusement is something to spill over and share with everyone in the vicinity, alluringly infectious, and - yep, you get why the whole world is obsessed with her. You’ll join the club.

“I’m kidding,” you put in, grinning at Yujin as she stands, lips puckering to hide her own mirth. “You remember what a joke is, right, Jihyo?”

“Jesus,” mumbles Yujin’s manager. Hey, you and Jihyo came up in the industry at the same time, you’re not opposed to bringing out first names in the conference room with her - and you think any semblance of professionalism is pretty much gone at this point. “You know this is how rumors get started, don’t you?”

You wink at Yujin as she goes to Jihyo’s side, towering over her almost comically. Jihyo may barely hit five-three, but she has enough behind-the-scenes pull and power to start or end anyone’s career with a snap of her fingers. You’ll placate her, for everyone’s sake.

“Well,” you say. “It’s a good thing my job is to get those rumors to stop, then.”

“Like, how convenient is that?” Yujin tacks on, chirpily, flashing her dimpled smile at Jihyo.

Jihyo’s eyes dart from you to Yujin, clearly agitated and annoyed in equal measures. It’s sort of bad already, but here you are pushing her buttons anyway; you’ll walk it back.

“It’s already happening,” you tell her, because it’s not exactly up for debate. “Might as well get on board.”

“This is your jurisdiction, buddy,” says Jihyo, throwing her hands up - it’s as close to a stamp of approval as you’ll ever get from her. “I’m not touching this.”

Your eyebrows raise, and Yujin covers her laugh with her palm. “Uh, I sure hope not.”

The innuendo, the scent of sex, the way you swear there’s a hickey forming on Yujin’s throat - it’s too much for her to handle all at once. “You two are fucking insufferable,” declares Jihyo, pretty mouth in a scowl; not a lot fazes her, but this is pushing her limits and hard. “I’m going to get permanent brain damage from being around both of you together. Yujin, come on.”

Yujin wiggles her fingers in a wave, sends that adorable dimple your way. “Bye, daddy,” she calls to you, and pulls the conference room door shut behind her.

In the retreating distance, you hear Jihyo choke on her own breath, audibly appalled. “What did you just-”

Oh, after all this, maybe it doesn’t really matter who hears. You’re you, you can talk your way out of anything - and then there’s Yujin, who wears fame like it’s something designer, something inherited by birthright and tailored just for her. She’ll never be out of the spotlight for long. She’ll always bounce back, in the end.

Plus - you can admit it now, since there’s no point in a trite thing like shame - there’s something so satisfying about the idea that you’re the only one who can get her out of this kind of trouble, but you’re also the only one who got her in it in the first place. Like you said: it’s all about power. You’ll keep it, you’ll nurture it. Yujin, to her credit, doesn’t seem to mind that at all.

(She’s never been more right: it’s just so fucking convenient. You’re pretty sure it’s a match made in hell, but a match nonetheless. You’ll take it.)

The next time you see her is a week or so later, and it should shock you, but it doesn’t. She drops by, unannounced, unburdened by bodyguards or company representatives or Jihyo, shows up in your office doorway in jeans and a black top, hair tied back and bare-faced and heart-stoppingly beautiful.

“Hey, baby,” you say, like it’s instinct. It’s probably about to be. “How’d you manage to fuck up this week?”

“No fuck-ups yet,” says Yujin cheerily, eyes trained on you as you round the desk. “I was kind of hoping you could help me get a head start on that.”

Look - this is still probably a bad idea, or it would be, if you were anyone else. It’d be so difficult to find a way to spin this, if you were found out. She’s one of the most famous celebrities in the country. People are just begging to ruin her, to see her fall from grace. It’d be so easy for this to be a complete fucking disaster.

(Ah, well - it’s pretty fortunate that she’s got you, then; she’s in very, very good hands.)

“You’re in the wrong place,” you tell her, blithely conversational. There’s a smirk unfurling at the corner of Yujin’s mouth - you know what kind of game you’re playing. “It’d actually be great for your career, I think, if you’re only fucking me and no one else.”

“Is that your professional opinion?”

You press your palm to her cheek, drag her face to yours; you skip her lips, drop your mouth to her forehead, instead. Yujin flicks her glittering eyes up at yours, her dimple winking at you. She’s not short, but she’s small next to you - you think she might like it that way.

“Yep,” you say. “Whenever you want to avoid a scandal, call me.”

“Ugh,” says Yujin. “You’re lucky I think you being possessive is hot.”

You’re missing a reckoning by inches, skirting the end of the world by a thread: alright, you’ll let it happen. You’ve got a girl in front of you and you think you’ve met your match. You’ve got all that power, but she does, too - you’ll never say it out loud, but it’s possible she’s got you wrapped around her finger, she’s got you breaking rules. It’s all very delicate, this thing you’re getting into.

“Sweetheart,” you say, and watch as her grin cracks wide open, sun through all those open windows - there’s no sight in the country that compares. “I think we’re both getting lucky.”

Yujin groans, but then she kisses you, and that’s where you’re drawing all your last conclusions: you think you wouldn’t mind risking everything as long as she’s with you.

<33

takes one to know one (twice chaeyoung)

(ft. jihyo & sana) (smut, mommy kink, public sex, titfucking, breeding kink, fluff, angst, gold digger chaeyoung, but also gold digger you, 21k words)

Look - everyone’s always got something to hide. It’s the nature of summer, pushed into keeping everything safe and surreptitious, tucked into corners, finding shadows, reprieves; the sun’ll leak your secrets if it catches you at the right time. It’s just that kind of season.

“Did you know?” Chaeyoung asks you once, near the end. She’s in your arms, pressed to your chest, her eyes the most stunning thing in sight. “When you first met me - did you think it’d all happen like this?”

Like this, she says - fucked, fated, doomed. Like all heavy, all-consuming things. Like loss. Like longing. See, the two of you are cut from the exact same cloth; you’ve always been after the same thing. All you know how to do is get the money and run. Love isn’t in your vocabulary and for a good god damn reason.

(There’s always a breaking point. Yours is thinking back to the day you met her - there’s a girl on a beach, and the day’s gorgeous, but all of them are. You stare and you can’t help it. You swear you’ve met her before and you haven’t. She turns to you and smiles, and it cleaves you right in two, and it’s impossible but just like that you know.)

“Yeah,” you murmur. The writing’s always been on the wall. “I think I did.”

Chaeyoung glances up at you. In those few moments, she’s reduced to all the details: the long, wavy black hair, winding its way past her shoulders, the colorful tattoos - the dimple, the mole underneath her full bottom lip, the way she blinks and her eyelids shutter starlight. You’ve been pushing your luck just by having her by your side.

“Me too,” she says, softly.

There’s the ocean rolling out in front of you, proof that not all destructive things have to come to an end. It’s just the two of you, then. You’re the exception to the rule - you’ve broken enough of them by now to know it.

(Something about her, you’ll say later. Something about us. Something unquantifiable. Sometimes you meet someone and it’s already over.)

“I guess,” says Chaeyoung, softly, haltingly, like it’s a confession in itself. Oh, like you said: it’s just that kind of season. “I guess I’m just glad that it happened at all.”

There’s a lot to be grateful for. There’s a lot to feel that you haven’t let yourself until now. It’s summer and you’ve spent enough time hiding from it. You’re with her. There’s never any use.

Your hand slips under her chin, tips it up; your mouth finds hers like there’d been a map to it, a beacon, a lighthouse. She smiles and it’s like she’s calling you home, the opposite of a siren, or a succubus; leading you to the shore, right to safety. You’ve spent your whole life jumping ship. Now you kiss her like you’re saying I’d follow you everywhere, even if you both know it’s a lie.

“I know,” you say, fingers threading through her hair, because you always did. “I know.”

(It hurts, but in the end, you’ll say later, that’s exactly how you know it’s love.)

If you’re taking it back to the start, here’s the truth: you’ve broken your fair share of hearts, but that’s never been your goal. It’s not that you’re a bad person, not really. You’ve got your own moral codes. You never went into any of this hoping to lead women on and leave them behind, leave them crushed and cursing your name - that’s never been the point. The point is-

Well, if you really wanna know the long and short of it, the point is that you need money.

“It’s this super swanky resort,” your ex-girlfriend is telling you over the phone. “It’s packed with famous people. The pay’s sort of not the best, but their whole thing is, like, super intense discretion. You definitely have to sign NDAs. All of that.”

She’s trying to get you a summer job, just for context - and she’s also selling it horribly. “What?” you ask, thoroughly confused. “Why would anyone want to work there if the pay’s shitty?”

“Amenities. The resort’s on this remote island, it’s gorgeous, you get to live there the whole summer in these bungalows, you get access to all the facilities-”

“A remote island?” It’s sounding more and more like a cult by the second. “Are you trying to get me ritualistically sacrificed?”

“Babe.” Your ex-girlfriend may not be your girlfriend anymore, but she’s never grown out of the pet names. “My point is that there are rich and famous people. Rich and famous people who pay a lot of attention to the hot employees.”

You’re quiet.

“They pay more than attention,” she adds.

“So you’re suggesting I prostitute myself.”

“Like you don’t do that already.” You make an affronted noise, but she’s already talking again, in that rapid-fire mile-a-minute way that’s so characteristic of her. “No, I’m serious! I know you’ve been in a dry spell ever since your last sugar mommy, like, died of old age or whatever-”

“You’re so fucked in the head,” you say, a smile twitching at your mouth - okay, you are too. There’s a reason a break-up wasn’t enough to tear you and your ex apart. “She didn’t die, you dumbass - and she was only ten years older than me or whatever. She moved away for work.”

“Same difference,” says your ex, unperturbed, and you feel an uncomfortable pull in your throat. It’s not like she’s that far off. She’d cut off a good chunk of your income, just like that; she might as well have fallen off the face of the earth. “Look, you know I love you to death, and I’d keep paying for whatever you wanted, but-”

“I know.” Your ex has no qualms about supporting you financially, especially considering your current situation; she may be your ex-girlfriend, but she’s also been your best friend since forever, basically. Her family’s obscenely wealthy. To her, it’s no sweat off her back to pay for things for you. “Your dad’s cutting you off from giving me money because he thinks I’m a leech.”

“Which you’re not.”

“I kind of am.”

“You’re my favorite person in the world. Even if you were a leech I’d let you suck me dry.”

“Ew,” you say, but you’re laughing. “Why would you put it like that? Like, why the fuck would-”

“The job,” interrupts your ex, so vehement your humor dies right on your mouth. “It’s just for the summer. You’re already a certified lifeguard, so that’s not an issue. I’ve been summering at the resort for like three years straight, so I can get you a gig right away - they trust my judgment and shit. Just say the word and I’ll get you in contact with the boss.”

You fall silent, thinking. She’s trying - you know that. You’ve got odd jobs at home, but without a college degree, they’re all manual labor, they’re easy to pack up and transfer. There’s always work for you to do. Leaving for the summer won’t ruin you - and when you’ll come back, you’ll have everything you need. You’ve done this before. You’re good at your games.

“Look at it this way,” says your ex, softening. “You’ll be doing exactly what you do at home, except you’ll get to be in paradise for the entire summer. And I’ll be there. Are you in or not?”

She’ll be there - that’s part of the selling point in itself. She’s your other half. She knows every single skeleton in your closet; she knows why you need this money. She knows, in essence, that this opportunity is one of the best she can give - that it’s one of the best someone like you can get.

You know it, too. And that’s the reason why you sigh, stop, say-

“Okay,” you tell her, and that’s where the story begins. “I’m in.”

It’s not about love. It never is. It’s about strategy, really. It’s about being a fantasy, a product to promote and sell. It’s all curated, calculated: your body, your charm, the way you hold yourself, built but approachable, magnetic without being too intimidating. Women flock to you and you let them; you’ve made yourself that way.

(Oh, it’s just one of those things. You’re perfectly aware of what you look like and what that does to people. You also just happen to be smart enough to take advantage of it.)

It’s the first day of summer, and you’re causing a stir with your face alone.

You’re on the deck of the ferry, headed straight to the island. You’re making a presence of yourself: there are already people staring, whispering, all those prying eyes. You’re laughing into the phone, because there’s no point in being attractive without being accessible - and also because no one makes you laugh more than your ex-girlfriend.

“What if I get lonely?” you’re asking - you’re close enough to the island to be picking up a signal. You’re being annoying and it’s sort of justified. “I can’t believe you aren’t getting here for two weeks.”

“I get it,” says your ex, cheerful nonetheless: okay, so you’re, like, mildly codependent. It’s old news. “You can’t live without me - I know.”

“Am I supposed to make friends or something?”

“You’re so adorable. Just take your shirt off and I promise everyone will want to be your friend.”

“Ugh,” you say, like you haven’t relied on that exact trick countless times before. There’s a reason being a lifeguard is one of your most well-received jobs. Hey, you’ve been called plenty of things in your line of work - sugar baby is one, gold digger is another; you can’t exactly fight it when it’s true. “You’re my only friend and you know it. I’m bad at making friends.”

You say it, but then-

See, you’re actually not expecting it, the way it all happens. Sure, you see people staring - you’re unnaturally attuned to the way it feels when there are eyes on you, but that comes with the territory - but you’re visibly an employee and they’re all not, they’re leagues above you in influence, in wealth - you’re usually hot enough to transcend social status, but still-

“I could probably help you with that.”

It’s so fast. You’re not even really doing anything - but you turn halfway, regardless.

There’s a woman standing there, one hand on her hip, authoritative like she’s already marking her territory just by talking to you. There’s a pause here, catching you momentarily startled, throwing you off your course-

But an expectant, sudden smirk tugs at the woman’s mouth, and you get it.

You swivel to face her, adjust yourself, take on all your best angles. “Oh,” you say, out loud, because this is going to be much easier than you’d originally thought. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

All of the other guests on deck avert their gazes, like they understand the message loud and clear. Somehow, they realize it: this woman’s in front of you and smiling and staking her claim, all at once. Hands off, the curl of her lips reads, possessive and delightfully transparent - this one’s mine.

(Well, you’ve always been a fan of women with power. Alright - game on.)

“Sorry,” you say into the phone, “I’m gonna have to call you back.”

“New friend already?” your ex asks, amused.

There’s the power, like you said - that’s the first thing. The smooth, easy confidence, the way the woman’s standing in front of you like she knows she’s getting sideways glances just from talking to you and she doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by it. Like she’s spent her whole life getting attention, knows it’s something she deserves - ah, you’ve always been into that kind of ego. It flicks something on in your brain, an instinct, an impulse. You love pleasing people who know exactly what they’re worth.

Then there’s the second thing, which is the fact that she’s completely fucking gorgeous.

“Something like that,” you answer, grinning. “I guess we’ll see.”

There’s a pair of designer sunglasses perched on her head, her hair short and black and shiny; her eyes are brilliant, huge, smile a certain kind of infectious, mesmerizing - and then there’s the outfit, a pink two-piece that she somehow manages to make indecent by just standing there; the shirt’s cropped, the skirt rides sinfully high - and it’s all wrapped up with this air of notoriety, of self-importance, of fame and splendor, like she’s spent her whole life in the limelight, or somewhere awfully close to it. She looks at you and you get the sense that you should know her name and you don’t. You look right back and you think you’d like to.

“You’re new,” says the woman, and you slip your phone into your back pocket.

“I am,” you say, trailing your eyes down her body like you’re taking inventory - despite the demeanor, she’s tiny, barely five-three in spotless white sneakers. “New hire. It’s my first summer here.”

“You’re working at the resort,” says the woman, but not like she’s actually surprised; her tongue slides under her top teeth, studies you like she’s calculating the staggering height difference between you two down to every last inch. “I thought so.” There’s an implication here. There’s a reason she approached you first. “So you do need friends, then, huh?”

You’re playing the long game. “Friends is one word for it,” you say, allow suggestion to serve as an undertone, salt in the sea breeze. “What, you think you can help me out?”

The woman’s so stunning you can’t stop looking at her - her bone structure is regal, elegant, but then there are those eyes: huge and irresistible, knocking the vision off-kilter, curving so easily with her smile. She’s beautiful in the most disarming way, the sort of thing that triggers double-takes, slip-ups, mistakes; she’s got this way about her that makes you doubt any enemy of hers has gone head-to-head with her and lived to tell the tale. Oh, power, beauty - they go hand in hand.

“Sure,” says the woman, all too casual, the ocean wind pulling enticingly at her hair like it could’ve been choreographed. “I’m Jihyo.”

“Jihyo,” you repeat, and that’s a name you wouldn’t mind having in your mouth all summer. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” says Jihyo, head on an incline, teasingly cordial. “I was just thinking,” she adds on, tone with a motive, “you and I - I think we could be really good friends.”

It’s not even an attempt at subtlety. She’s forward like she’s never heard the concept of rejection, like it might be some far-off illusion - for a woman like her, it probably is.

You raise your eyebrows, allow yourself a breath, a smile. It’s summer, after all. It’s exactly the time to get hot and reckless and wild. No matter how composed someone like Jihyo is, there’s no fighting that kind of temptation - and you’re right here, inviting it for all the wrong reasons.

“Me too,” you say; she’s not being shy in the slightest, so you’ll go to her level. “I guess great minds think alike.”

Jihyo lets her laughter fall so easily, and that’s how you know you’ve got her.

So - you’re playing the long game, in theory.

You don’t call her a mark, or a target; you’re not a con artist. You’ll make sure you both know where you stand. Yeah, you’ve broken your fair share of hearts, but you don’t do that anymore - you make it known exactly what you’re giving and how you’d like to be compensated for it. It’s a learning curve. You’ll work out an arrangement.

In practice, well-

“Do you do this a lot?”

You’re below deck, you’re in dark corners, you’re alone together and that’s danger by every definition. Jihyo’s so small in comparison to you, pressed against the wall, chin angled upwards like a threat; you’ve got a hand up her shirt, you’ve got one of her legs hooked around your waist, you’ve got your cock in her pussy and you’re ruining it. It’s fast, it’s greedy, it’s primal - realistically, it’s all going according to plan.

(Hey, look at it this way: anyone who plays the long game like you do knows exactly how to kick it off with a bang.)

“Fuck strangers I just met?” Jihyo’s tits are unbelievable, and then there are those eyes - all heat and hazard lights, every thrust getting her eyelids fluttering - and you grin, lean in to kiss her. “Never.”

It’s all sloppy, half-ravenous; it’s also patently untrue. “Liar,” Jihyo pants, right into your mouth, calling your bluff and beautifully.

“Maybe.” You squeeze hard at her tits, scrape your nail over a nipple; you lower your teeth to her neck, let them bite and sink, leaving marks that you’ll return to all summer. Oh, well. As long as she knows what she’s getting into. “But I don’t think you really mind that I’m experienced.”

“I-” Jihyo tries to say, gasps, fails. “I - Jesus, your fucking cock-”

You snap your hips, you bury your dick inside of her, you’ve got her right where you want her - drastic times, drastic measures. You’ve got more than a few tricks up your sleeve. You’ll earn your keep. You’re only getting started.

“Yeah,” you breathe against her throat, grinning wolfishly as she moans - “that’s kind of what I figured.”

This is something you come to understand, almost immediately: Jihyo’s perfect.

“So, you’re about to make this summer very interesting.”

You’re stepping off the ferry, side by side. Jihyo’s tossing her glossy hair, blooming hickeys scattered across her throat like needlepoint, darkening all her smooth skin. It ruins the image, the put-togetherness, the grace and the big, bright eyes - or maybe it’s just tying it all together. There are people staring. Jihyo’s smiling, serene, like it’s something she’s far past used to.

“Yep,” you say, pleased with your handiwork.

Jihyo glances over at you, lifts an eyebrow lazily, lets it fall. The sun’s shining overhead, taunting. It’s the ideal time for playing games, drawing maps - here, you’ll point out, here’s everywhere I could take you; stick with me and you’ll see.

“Lifeguard, right?” she asks, a piece of information you’d dropped casually, earlier, right before you’d slid your hand up her skirt and found her soaked. “I’ll find you later.”

The resort looms in front of the two of you, gorgeous and giant and opulent, unselfconscious in its own grandiosity - it’s a lot, overdone, overwhelming. Everything’s straight out of a Hollywood movie, the sparkling coast and the streamlined architecture, palm trees swaying in the breeze like they’re on some automated timer, uncannily flawless. It’s almost too beautiful, too vibrant, too much.

You’d gawk, but you know it’d give you away; you don’t belong here. Everyone else admires the resort in their own detached, cavalier manner, like it’s something they see on the daily. Even Jihyo barely bats an eye, lets employees flock around her, taking her luggage - Miss Park, they call her politely, like she’s a woman who needs no introduction, like she could snap her fingers and bend the world to her will.

It’s so not your scene, on principle, but you’ll make it work. You’re good at pretending, slipping seamlessly into places you shouldn’t fit - events, buildings, beds. You’ll get there.

“That’s what I’m counting on,” you tell Jihyo, your mouth at a tilt, holding tight to your own suitcases. Someone like you is never an outsider for long.

(It’s you being honest, or the closest you can get. It’s what you’re counting on, because you quite literally can’t afford to do anything else.)

“Good,” says Jihyo, flip, intention clear in the way she examines you. There’s something so hot about someone who knows exactly what she wants. “See you on the beach, honey.”

The nickname’s deliberate, drenched in condescension, sardonic superiority - you laugh out loud, and Jihyo breaks, cracks to a grin. Oh, at least she’ll be fun. That’s something you don’t encounter often, with the women you usually go after. Well, you did say it’s time for something new.

“Sure,” you say, skim a hand down her back, the curve of her ass; Jihyo leans into it in more ways than one. “See you then.”

See, Jihyo’s perfect, because she’s everything you need right now: wealthy, shameless, bored, beautiful. It’s not about love and it never was, and that’s not about to change now. It’s not about anything more than money.

It’s all paradise, and that’s the point. The sun’s glaring down on you like it disapproves, but it’s not about to get a say. It’s not your scene - which means, really, it’s the one and only place to be.

Turns out that you’re not alone, with the kind of agenda you’ve got. You get settled into a bungalow with some of the other employees - bartenders, dealers at the casino, lifeguards like you - and they’ve all got their own plans, attachments, schemes to cook up and carry out. It’s summer, and all the guests here are powerful and apathetic, all in one; sex is just the thing to do.

“The other employees just aren’t as good as me,” you’re explaining to your ex over the phone, because you can’t go more than twenty-four hours without speaking to her - fine, it’s more than mild codependence.

“At sex or at being a con artist?”

“Um, I’m not a fucking con artist. But - I mean, both.”

You don’t consider them a threat, in the end. The other employees seem nice, they’re generally hot, but then there’s you: you know how to play the game. Show enough honesty to seem vulnerable, show enough grit to appear rough around the edges; it’s all intrigue with a risk. There’s an art to seduction, really. People don’t seem to see that there’s a lot of effort that goes into turning a profit.

“Okay,” says your ex, entertained. “And what about your actual job? You know, the thing you’re employed for? How are you holding up there?”

“I don’t know what you’re implying. I’m an amazing lifeguard.”

It’s your first day on the job, and you’re forgoing focus so you can fill your ex-girlfriend in on your sexual escapades: amazing is a little bit of an exaggeration. You’re just going to pray no one drowns, pretty much. God’ll be on your side, or whatever.

In the interim, you’ll stay in your lifeguard chair, surveying the beach, the sand and surf - there are pools at the resort, but this is where your first shift ends up being, watching the guests wrapped up tanning or in the waves or playing truly tragic games of beach volleyball - tucked under an umbrella, and with your phone on speaker, recapping everything that’s gone down within your first twenty-four hours on the island. Or, considering the way you fucked Jihyo on the ferry, island-adjacent-

“Wait,” says your ex, voice suddenly high and disbelieving, “Park Jihyo?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Her voice rises to a squeal. “You fucked the Park Jihyo?”

You pull a face, uncertain. “Am I supposed to know who she is?”

Your ex shrieks something incomprehensible right into the phone.

You pull the receiver away from you, fighting down a laugh. There’s the crash of the waves ahead of you, some faint music playing in the background, speaker echoing melodies across the beach; she’s snapping the serenity without even being present, but that’s a talent in itself. “Like,” your ex says, once she can speak, “I guess not - she’s not a household name or anything, but she manages them. Okay - you know Ahn Yujin? The singer?”

“Obviously.” There’s not a soul in the country who doesn’t know Ahn Yujin; she’s one of the biggest pop stars in the game right now, she’s everyone’s favorite topic of discussion. “Wait, Jihyo’s Ahn Yujin’s manager?”

“Yes! See? See?!”

“Whoa.” So you were right on the money, there: powerful’s gotta be incredibly accurate. “Then - yeah. I fucked the Park Jihyo.” You can’t keep the ego from sneaking in. “I think it’s gonna be a recurring thing, actually.”

“So she’s your mark for the summer?”

“Well.” There are those con artist insinuations again - it’s not like you’re going to swindle her.

“No, no, it’s perfect,” your ex insists. “She’s everything. She’s filthy rich and she’s so, so hot. What more do you even need?”

And she’s completely right: that’s the thing.

Your gaze follows the line of the sea, trails to where the palm trees frame the volleyball nets - it’s pressureless, it’s relaxing, it’s fun - watching some of the guests flail and crack up over missed points, over bad calls. You’ve never been in a place more beautiful. This is something you’re not used to, either, not in the slightest.

“I’ve never even gotten to talk to her even though I’ve seen her around the resort a bunch of times,” your ex is saying. “Oh, my god: you have to introduce us, I’m serious. I’ve tried so many times but she’s so sexy I forget all my social skills the moment I see her-”

“Alright, chill.” Ah, your ex and her taste for obnoxiously attractive women: there’s an answer to why you two never would’ve worked out romantically, and it’s not just that you come from two completely different worlds.

This is her turf, the glamor and the opulence and the designer swimsuits - the way she can be carefree and careless and she’ll never have to pay for it. It’s foreign territory, for you, being able to let things go like you will here. That’s the name of the game, in actuality; it’s all about leaving things behind. No strings attached. Nothing tying you down.

It’s not about love. It never was. When August slips away, so will you.

Off to your left, you hear a bright, musical laugh ring out.

“I’m so jealous,” your ex says. “You think she’d be down for a threesome?”

Your eyes skate the sand, the scenery. You’re not far from the ridiculousness of the volleyball matches - there’s a group over on your left, people hollering insults at each other, hurtling the ball back and forth. You don’t know what you’re looking for, but you’re looking. “You don’t want a threesome with me. You barely even like men.”

There’s that pretty laugh again, echoing in the distance, a little wild, intoxicating. There’s a twinge at your spine, like a memory unraveling itself, peeling back layers, defenses, walls. Your ex says, whimsically, “I could take one for the team.”

“Oh, and what-”

There’s a point you’re trying to make, there’s a retort on your tongue, there’s the world, upright and spinning on its axis - but that’s right when you see her.

(There’s no explanation for anything that happens next, really. You’re just gonna have to take it and run.)

One minute you’re on solid ground and then you’re not. One minute there’s your heart beating in your chest and then it’s not there anymore, suddenly, somewhere far-off and fleeing, somewhere with a girl and a laugh and a crazy, cosmic impossibility - and all at once, it’s like-

(Sometimes you meet someone, and it’s already over.)

It’s like you forget all other words. There’s no reason for it, no logic. She’s laughing, and you’re struck silent, stonelike, drowning on dry land; she’s beyond beautiful, like she’s making a mockery of the concept. There’s the universe, and nothing’s where you’d thought it was: all the noise dulls to a hum, falls insignificant, unimportant; the sea melts into the sky, bleeding all shades of blue. The sun lets up, acquiesces, lets you be. You swear there are higher powers listening, or there must be - devils placing bets, angels throwing their hands up, gods above saying there, right there - that’s where it all goes wrong.

She sees you at the same time you see her, or close enough that the gap’s indiscernible - and that’s a story in and of itself, a start and a conclusion. There’s a leap and you’re taking it just by the way your eyes meet; it’s summer, and you’re throwing yourself off a cliff, crashing straight into the waves.

Son Chaeyoung smiles at you, and just like that, you know.

“Hello?” Your ex is actually clapping into the phone. “Did you die? Oh my god, did you drown? Did you save someone else from drowning?” There’s a pause. “Are you giving a hot MILF mouth-to-mouth? Because, like - okay, I get it, priorities, but-”

“Um.” You can’t speak, can’t think. You’re having a faintly out-of-body experience. “There’s - um.”

“Talk. Use words. Are you having a stroke? Do I need to call 911?”

It’s a valiant effort, trying to get through to you - it’s also completely futile. Your brain’s cut off, disconnected. All you can comprehend is the girl smiling at you from the sidelines like there’s an inside joke you’re both in on, something about her stare strangely familiar and nostalgic, intimate, bemused. The corners of your mouth twitch up, mirroring. You don’t know what it is but you know that you’re feeling it.

“Sorry,” you say, and your voice sounds odd even to your own ears, distant and distracted. “There’s a girl.”

It’s a wild understatement. It’s only a fraction of everything you want to say: she’s stunning, you mean, she’s surreal, she’s everything - you could say it all, and it’d be the truth.

“A girl,” repeats your ex, appropriately intrigued. “Okay. Elaborate.”

A girl, like that could be her title and hers alone, like you’d stare at a masterpiece on the wall of a gallery with a plaque and a frame and a presence, and attribute each detail only to her. Long, black hair spiraling down her back, haphazardly tied out of her face; the barely-there flash of her teeth, the inordinately perfect porcelain lines of her face, the slope of her nose, mouth, jaw; there’s so much skin on display. Tattoos, all over her: the one winding up her spine, out of the waistband of her denim cutoffs, the colorful ones scattered across both arms, intricate like they each have a story, a purpose. You see her and you’re drafting folktales, creating mythos. You’re not sure how you could ever sum it up.

“I can’t,” you say, helplessly. You take one look and you’re thinking of walking over, of laying down your rules, of saying it’s insane, but I swear, there’s something about you- “I’m, like - Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Oh, man.” Your ex is laughing into the phone. “Don’t tell me you just fell in love at first sight.”

“That’s not a real thing,” you say, automatically, but now you’re clambering down from your lifeguard chair, your feet hitting the sand. The girl’s still studying you, arms crossed over her chest - waiting, patient, the sun soaking her golden. There’s a pull, there’s a thread she’s tugging. There’s an inevitability and a promise.

(Something about her, you’ll say later. For now, you don’t have anything else.)

“I have to go,” you tell your ex.

“Fine,” she says, delighted. “Ditch me for the love of your life.”

“I haven’t even met her yet,” you say, but even that seems wrong, stilted. Like there’s not an excuse in the world that could keep you away from her. You say, “Bye,” and you hang up the phone, and you don’t wait for a response.

(Sometimes, you see someone, and you just-)

The girl tilts her head as she sees you approaching, dark eyes a little wide and dazzling, spellbinding. Your heart’s unsteady, thrown off-kilter - you see her straighten, see the wind tangle the inky waves of her hair, see the knowing flicker of a deep dimple in her cheek - even feet away, she’s got this grip on you - there’s no way to explain it-

You’re seconds away from it, really. From saying hi, from saying I know you, don’t I?, from saying it’s you, you, you, and falling right into the rest of your life. It’d just take a moment and no more. You already know it.

“Hey, you.”

You stop in your tracks.

It’d just take a moment and you’d fall - the ocean pauses with bated breath, your pulse hollows out your ribs, arteries - but then it slips away in an instant.

You’re too late: the conclusion dawns slow, sunrise-like. You’ve already made your choice, drawn up your strategies. You’ve kicked off your game and now you have to see it through, no matter what it takes.

“Oh,” you say, and you pull your focus off of the girl, torturous, turning to the side. It feels wrong, uncomfortable, your skin too tight, your heartbeat somewhere it shouldn’t be - but you have to, so you do. “Hey.”

Because there’s your perfect plan for the summer, clad in a criminally skintight green bikini, staring you right in the face.

“Told you I’d find you,” says Park Jihyo, eyes sparkling over her sunglasses.

There’s the devil you know, then the devil you don’t. Well, you’ve made your bed, you reason, and you can’t figure out why the thought is mildly suffocating. Jihyo’s here and deathly gorgeous and she wants you; more importantly, you need her. You have your whole life ahead of you, to make all your mistakes. This is the one thing you need to get right.

(You don’t look back at the girl, because you don’t think you’ll be able to ever look away.)

It’s all going according to plan - that’s where you are. There’s no reason to get distracted by anybody else.

“Lucky me,” you say to Jihyo, smiling, and you let her take your hand.

(The girl watches you walk away, a thoughtful tilt to her head, full lips screwed to the side. It’s like she’s saying fine, leave me be for now, go have your fun - it’s only a matter of time.)

Work hard, play hard - sure, sure. You’re ditching your very first shift. You might get fired for this.

“You’re not going to get fucking fired,” huffs Jihyo; you can’t take your eyes off her body in that fucking bikini - everyone’s scantily clad in swimsuits and somehow hers is more obscene, nearing pornographic; there’s her huge tits, her waist, hips, thighs - you’re tongue-tied, speechless - you’ve got her pressed up against the side of a building, and there’s the sun, there’s the threat of public eyes-

“You got a thing for exhibitionism?” You’re on your knees, mouth pressed to the inside of her thigh, teasing, laughing. “You seem to like having your tits out where you could get caught.”

“All these assumptions,” bites out Jihyo, words already wrecked.

“I’m not assuming anything.” You’ve got her swimsuit bottoms pushed to the side, her cunt inches from your tongue. “You’re so fucking wet.”

Jihyo’s got her big brown eyes fixed on you, one eyebrow raised in performative snobbiness - you can see her swallow hard, you’ve got all the proof you need of exactly the front she’s using. “Alright,” she says, and there’s something so hot about her above you, about you giving up your stature just to make her cum. “Are you gonna do anything about it?”

You smirk up at her - that’s not a question that takes words to answer.

The noises she makes are like fucking blasphemy - something about her gasping, breathless sounds, trying to choke back her own pleasure, the way she’ll let a moan crack her façade right open - and you hold her thighs apart, flatten your tongue. “Fuck,” Jihyo gets out, fingers tangling in your hair, pushing your mouth further into her pussy: “Fuck, fuck-”

You’re not thinking about anything else but what’s right in front of you. You know better than to lose focus.

Jihyo rides your face when she cums, rocking her hips - it’s hot in all the ways you’re used to, her treating your mouth like something to fuck and ruin and leave - and when you pull back, breathless, your lips and your chin slick, Jihyo hooks her fingers in your lanyard and tugs you to your feet.

“You aren’t going to get fired,” she reiterates, even though you’re ditching a beach full of people who could definitely drown at any second. “Aren’t there, like, three other lifeguards manning the beach right now?”

“Sure,” you say, distracted by her tits in your hands, how her thumb skates your chin, gathers up her own cum.

“Hm,” says Jihyo, distinctly humorous, tapping your mouth.

“What?”

“First of all.” You part your lips, let her slide her fingers between them - you suck, obedient. “Another reason you’d never get fired is because I can bribe the higher-ups out of it.” That matter-of-fact arrogance creeps into her voice, the edge searing, filthy hot. “And second of all,” Jihyo adds, mildly, “I think you’re obsessed with my tits.”

“Who isn’t?”

Jihyo laughs, lets her hand creep under the waistband of your swim trunks - she’s turning the tables, pushing you up against the wall, pushing you both into darkness. It’s summer. Hiding is just par for the course.

“Let’s see where this goes,” she tells you, tone reckless, ruminative. “Maybe I’ll let you fuck them.”

That’s an idea you’re more than enamored with - fine. You’ll have all the fun in the world with her. That’s what you’re here for - that’s the point. There’s nothing more to it.

“Oh,” you say lowly, and Jihyo blinks with all the faux-innocence she can manage, right before she wraps her hand around your cock. “I think we both already know exactly where this is going.”

and when i arrive on the island and steal park jihyo away from you… your ex texts, at roughly three in the morning. then what.

then i’d be broke, you say. you would literally be ruining my livelihood just for some pussy

SOME PUSSY????? IT’S PARK JIHYO!!!!!!!!!!! have some RESPECT you heathen >:(

heathen? she’s not a god lol

YES SHE IS, says your ex, and you know her so well you can practically hear her squealing it at you already. plus didn’t you meet the love of your life or whatever earlier….. like leave some women for the rest of us. WHORE

alright… i’m blocking you

She says love of your life and your brain’s back on the beach, stuck and staring, transfixed. There’s a girl in denim cutoffs, covered in tattoos. She’s smiling at you and there’s a breaking point - you’re smiling back, and you’re doomed from the start.

no but seriously i don’t even know what happened with that girl, you say. chalking it up to temporary insanity. heatstroke probably plus i ate jihyo out behind one of the buildings like 5 minutes after so it obviously wasn’t THAT serious

alright, replies your ex. I’M blocking YOU

It’s so much easier to make jokes about it, play it off: that’s territory you’re used to. There’s nothing you do with women that needs to be taken seriously. There’s no script here, no note with an emphasis on eye contact, on feeling, on fate - nothing scribbled in the margins, arrows indicating here’s the call to action, here’s the catalyst. No moments straight out of movies. You just don’t live that kind of life.

it’s not a big deal, you say. i don’t even know her name.

(It’s like the opposite of a blind spot, really. Something so consuming and obvious that you can’t look at anything else, can’t think, can’t do anything but pinpoint a before and an after: a timeline, a lifeline, an I was fine before I saw your face, and now I don’t know what I am.)

hmm, texts your ex, cryptically, because she still knows all of your tells. i have a feeling that won’t last long.

She’s right: it doesn’t. It’s a day later and you’re strolling through the resort lobby.

I’m gonna leave you something at the receptionist’s desk, Jihyo told you, yesterday, licking your cum off of her hand, so casually it almost didn’t register - and it wouldn’t have, if you were anyone else. Stop by there tomorrow.

Oh, you said, because you’re not anyone else; it’s exactly the opening you’d been waiting for. So you’re reimbursing me for the sex now? What am I, a prostitute?

Jihyo studied you, blatantly entertained.

Consider it a token of my appreciation, she said, grin unfurling.

For the orgasms? you’d asked.

Sure.

Okay, you’d said, like it was her idea all along, and you were the one begrudgingly going along with it. I’ll take that.

Jihyo raised her eyebrows at you, like she knew exactly what kind of game you were playing and loved it. You’d better, she’d said, and then you were off.

The lobby’s showy, pleasantly busy. There’s music playing, something light and ambient. The floor gleams, the light fixtures seem to sparkle, the sun pours in through wide floor-to-ceiling windows: it’s gorgeous, it’s doing everything it’s supposed to. You, like most of the other unreasonably attractive employees, are doing your advertising and doing it perfectly just by stepping into the room. You’re getting stares. You’re used to it.

“Hey,” you say once you get to the desk, half-distracted by the huge painting spreading across the back wall, the ocean curling blue and green into meticulously detailed sand, spilling at the coastline. “So, one of guests left something-”

Your eyes land on the receptionist, and your throat promptly dries up.

(There it is again: like the world pauses, holds its breath. You swear there’s no one else in the room. You can’t chalk it up to temporary insanity when it happens every time you see her face - the sun glows, serves as a spotlight - there are things going unsaid, there’s all your instincts on high alert, wanting, waiting-)

“Hi,” you say, voice markedly more strained.

“Hi,” the girl from the beach replies, and she’s so stunning up close you forget how to speak.

She’s clad in a frilly white dress, flimsy straps, black hair half-clipped up, dripping over her slender shoulders like ink, all night skies and silk. You can see all of the tattoos that line her arms, swirls of color across her tan skin - her eyes are wide and dark and impossibly sparkly, like some animated cartoon character brought to life - she’s otherworldly, she’s unfathomably beautiful. You don’t know how you’re still standing.

There’s a gold nametag pinned to her dress, flashing in the light.

“Chaeyoung,” you say, and her name feels too familiar on your lips, like it’d already found a home somewhere close years ago, lifetimes.

“Lifeguard,” Chaeyoung replies, gaze flickering to the lanyard around your neck; it jumps right to your face, gets stuck there.

It’s one word, and it still comes belated, a little breathless - and for one crazy second you think of bending across the desk, think of asking you feel it, don’t you? You feel it too?

She’s got the most perfect face, so flawless she doesn’t even look real - doll-like, angelic, mouth full and pink, inviting, inevitable. There are all the subtleties - the dip of her cupid’s bow, the slope of her nose, the twitch of her dimple, the mole underneath her bottom lip. You’ve never met anyone more gorgeous; she’s staring at you like she’s thinking something similar. There’s an intensity so tangible it’s like you can taste it.

“You said a guest left something for you?” Chaeyoung can’t look away from your eyes, can’t break the contact; oh, it’s just another thing that’ll be entirely mutual. There’s a slow pull to her smile, deliberating. “Isn’t this, like, your second day ever working here? That was fast.”

You feel a laugh bubbling up, something beyond your control. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me?”

You mean it to be light, teasing - but Chaeyoung just cocks her head, lifts a shoulder, says, “I guess I have.”

There should be something here - an introduction, an exchange of pleasantries, small talk - there should be a tip-off that the two of you have never met before, somewhere. You shouldn’t feel so comfortable staring at her. She shouldn’t feel so comfortable leaning over the counter, casually, pouty lips fixed in a curl, examining your face like she’s trying to commit it to memory, or maybe like she already has.

(There isn’t any tip-off, because it doesn’t feel like the first time you two have met at all. There’s no rationalizing it. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to.)

Chaeyoung’s eyes crinkle at the corners, a small scrunch appearing at the bridge of her nose. You’re so strangely aware of every minute change in her, tuned in to all the finer points: she adjusts herself, as if she’s observing at you from a different angle. Her dimple deepens, satisfied, like there’s something she’s been looking for forever and now she’s found it.

“Park Jihyo,” she says. “Right?”

There’s this way she asks it, like it’s not really a question, like she’s already on your wavelength.

“Right,” you say, and Chaeyoung lifts her eyebrows, impressed, and reaches for a drawer behind the desk.

You’re fascinated by the ease of it. “Is this in your job description?” you ask, somehow uncaring of boundaries, taking it slow; it just seems like you’re past all that, like you have been for years. “Shuttling presents back and forth between guests and employees?”

Chaeyoung produces a small gift box with a sticky note on it, your name haphazardly scribbled across it in pen. The implications are hilarious: like Chaeyoung might have a whole stock of identical boxes just past the counter, lined up for delivery. You’ll ask her to see it later, you think - and that’s a thought that should be taking it too far, a future, a pathway. You’ll shelve it for now.

“I’m not technically supposed to,” says Chaeyoung, equally uncaring, like it’s no big deal she’s spilling her secrets within a minute of your first conversation. “But the guests all give me some great tips for it, so.”

“Oh,” you say, grinning. “So you’re not doing it out of the kindness of your heart. You’re doing it so you can extort people.”

Chaeyoung smiles back, mischievous, managing to read adorable nonetheless. She’s so ridiculously beautiful it should be intimidating, tattooed and confident and so sure of herself, but there’s something in her eyes, the way her lips seem perpetually pouty, her dimple always ready to reveal itself: she’s cute. You’re hopeless. It’s already a disaster.

“It’s rich that you’re accusing me of extortion,” she says, prodding the box towards you. “What’d you do to get a present from Park Jihyo again?”

“I don’t know,” you say, nonchalant; Chaeyoung narrows her eyes at you, visibly enthused by the act, not buying a word. “I guess she just saw my face and couldn’t resist.”

There’s a fine print here. It’s been minutes. There’s something about you, you want to tell her, something here, something about you and me - but you meet her gaze and there’s the sun winding its way through her hair, there’s the tug in your heart, there’s the textbook nostalgia that you shouldn’t be feeling and are anyway. It’s impossible, insane. You look at her and you think she already knows.

“I’d believe that,” says Chaeyoung, simply, plucking the sticky note off the box. Her lips pucker, theatrically pensive. “It’s quite the face.”

She glances up at you through her eyelashes, smirk flickering at her mouth, and it’s like she’s confessing something else entirely.

“You’re bad news,” you say, eventually, but you say it like I want you anyway.

“Right back at you,” she tells you, like then come and get me.

That’s the thing: this is a horrible idea. This isn’t going according to plan at all. She doesn’t have anything you came here for - doesn’t have the money, the status, the privilege - but you’re still here, somehow.

“By all means,” says Chaeyoung, unbothered, fluttering her hands at the box. There were lines but you’ve crossed them. She’s relaxed in a way she probably shouldn’t be, elbows on the counter, eyes big and curious - you’re old friends playing catch-up, you’re feeling history that you haven’t made yet. “I wanna see what she got you. I’m nosy.”

“You’re telling me you haven’t gotten any gifts from the guests?” Your eyes trail down to the tattoos crossing her arms, all that meticulous art, vivid color, clean lines. You think of tracing them, ink on her skin like roads - you think of letting your fingertips follow them as far as she’ll take you.

Chaeyoung shrugs. “Maybe I have,” she says, flippant. “But - trust me, it took a lot more than my face to get presents from people.”

“See?” Oh, that’s not a surprise, somehow: you know strategy when you see it. Chaeyoung’s gorgeous with a point, an plan in motion. “You get it.”

“I get you,” Chaeyoung says. She sticks the stray post-it note to your top, pats your arm like it’s nothing. It’s an admission she’d let slip too easily, like she’d meant to dodge the weight of it but missed - I know you, she’s saying, I see you and I understand - and it’s too much, too soon. You stop short, examine her, watch her flush slightly like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

She does feel it, you realize. Well, collective insanity, then, contagious; you’ll stick with that, for now.

“I know your type,” Chaeyoung corrects herself, a little haltingly, pink sitting prettily at her cheeks. “There are tons of people like you working here.”

“People like me, huh?”

“Hot,” she clarifies, recovering fast, dimple winking coyly. “Arrogant. Slutty. Money-grubbing.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Chaeyoung waves off the sarcasm. “Hey,” she says. “It’s not a bad thing. You’re just like me.”

(Well, and that’s the root of the issue, really: you two are cut from the same cloth. You two are after the same thing. You’re always going to take the money and run. She gets you, for some godforsaken reason, and that’s something she can’t act off forever - but she’s sure going to try.)

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you say. “It’s good to meet another kindred gold-digging spirit.”

“It’s summer,” says Chaeyoung. “This place is full of them. We’re not special.”

Ah, but that’s where she’s wrong - there’s all this ease to your conversation, there’s the sun lighting your way, there’s how Chaeyoung’s eyes trail your body like she has some right to it, like she’s earned it and nothing less. Like you’re something that belongs to her, or you will be soon; hold a mirror up, and you’re sure you’d be caught the exact same way, enraptured by a feeling that shouldn’t even be there in the first place.

“Really?” you ask, quirking your mouth. Chaeyoung’s gaze lingers there, skates your lips like she might find them unavoidable. “I think we could be.”

Chaeyoung sighs, as if it’s all a war she’s already lost.

“Your lines aren’t gonna work on me,” she says, but she’s smiling. “Plus, I don’t think you can afford me.” She lifts her chin, and she’s surveying you again, top to toe. “I definitely can’t afford you.”

“Probably not,” you say.

“You should just walk away now,” advises Chaeyoung, mirth poorly disguised, tapping her colorful nails to the table. “Us hanging out together would be really bad for business.”

“I should,” you agree. You’ve got a gift to open and an inability to pull yourself away from her, something unimaginable, incorporeal. She says lines and you don’t have any. You look at her and she’s a girl with an allure, smoldering, vaguely destructive - there are tsunamis, there are forest fires, things that do nothing but devastate. You should walk away and you don’t; you should, and you don’t know how you’re ever going to.

(It’s summer, so it’s the only place to be.)

The gift just happens to be this ridiculously expensive watch, gleaming silver - but there are also, for some reason, bills in cash tucked just past the buckle, folded and clipped neatly together. You stare, open-mouthed, and Chaeyoung throws her head back, exposing the pretty column of her neck, and laughs so hard you can’t help but join her.

“Jesus fuck,” you say, in awe, running your fingers over the watch, the cash. “I don’t know if I’ve ever gotten a payout that’s been this…”

“Ostentatious,” Chaeyoung supplies, like she’s throwing out the answer to a crossword puzzle.

“You read my mind,” you say, entertained - you don’t think you’ve ever used that word in casual conversation before. “No, I was gonna say fucking awesome. Like, did she get this delivered or something?”

You don’t know why it happens like this, but all of a sudden you’re slipping the watch into Chaeyoung’s hand, letting her buckle it around your wrist. There should be boundaries, convention says, somewhere far-off and distant. There should be personal space and there’s not.

“We have a gift shop here at the resort,” Chaeyoung’s explaining, her hands tiny around yours, fiddling with the clasp. “It’s really well-stocked. Lots of people come here for, like, complete discretion, you know?” Her thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, sends a shudder up your spine; you barely move, outwardly, but she looks up at you pointedly, like she’d felt it regardless. “So the gift shop has basically everything anyone would want to buy their mistresses, or their secret summer flings, or their sugar babies. And - yes, they’re all this insane. Jihyo’s a… repeat offender, so to speak.” She throws a sly look your way. “She always spoils her boy toys like this.”

“Lucky me,” you say. “I think it kinda clashes with my uniform, though.”

You’ve got a point - you’re in a tank top and swim trunks - but what really gets you is the way Chaeyoung laughs, so sudden and sweet that it steals all the air from your lungs, leaves you marveling at how her eyes crease, that same slight scrunch appearing at the side of her nose. Everyone here is so beautiful, but then there’s her. Like something in her is calling to you, just by existing.

“I can keep it safe for you,” she says, leaning on her elbows, an offer without expectation. “If you wanna come back after your shift and pick it up. Wouldn’t want it to get waterlogged from you heroically rescuing some billionaire from drowning, or whatever.”

You grin at her; there’s an inflection you take, a provocation. “Is this you trying to steal shit from me or are you just looking for an excuse to see me again?”

You’re aiming to fluster, but it’s like Chaeyoung’s utterly immune. Well, maybe it makes sense. She’s just like you, used to smooth-talking and movie-star charm, pick-up lines and suggestion, the prospect of sex like a threat, always on the horizon.

Chaeyoung’s forearms drop to the desk, drawing attention to the sharp line of her collarbone, the low dip of her neckline; she spills her eyes wide, all practiced, alluring innocence, the definition of sensuality seemingly without being aware of it, bottom lip pulled into her mouth thoughtfully, releasing slow. There’s something guileless about it, seductive and naïve at the same time - it’s a magnetism so perfect it should be patented. It’s as impressive as it is fucking hot.

“Huh,” Chaeyoung says, voice slipping into something just off the edge of musical, “you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”

“Fuck,” you say, a beat too late. “You’re good.”

Her dimple winks at you, betraying the performance. “So I’ve heard.”

“Your dimple,” you say, distracted entirely, unable to stop yourself. “It’s so fucking cute.”

Chaeyoung starts, almost like she wasn’t expecting something so honest, something without innuendo - and suddenly she cracks right open, tosses the act out the window, out to sea. Here, she’s saying, and then she laughs again, but it’s almost shy, soft. I don’t need it anymore.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, and she’s switched topic on a dime. “It’s just - thanks, I’m glad you think so, but-”

(It’s exactly the opposite of all her rehearsed charisma; this is her, going woefully off-script. You’ll follow. You think you always will.)

“Okay, I’ve been thinking this the whole time, but - I need to say it.” Chaeyoung straightens, like she’s doing something reckless, thoughts disorganized and taking flight all on their own. “We’ve - I swear we’ve met before. You and me. Like, before working here.” She clears her throat, wavers, somewhat amazed just by you here, standing in front of her. “This just feels so…”

Her expression slips out of the meticulously constructed mask she’d had on - she lets her smile split and it’s real, lets her head shake, her shoulders slump, unable to label it. It’s like seeing some award-winning sculpture coming to life, seeing a masterpiece in oil paints get up and walk straight out of the frame: something impossible, dreamlike. You can’t stop staring.

“Yeah,” you say, breathless. “I know. I’m getting insane fucking deja vu or something.”

“You’re getting it too!” Chaeyoung taps her knuckles against the receptionist’s desk, relieved. “I thought I was going crazy. But I have no idea where I’d know you from.”

“Maybe we knew each other as kids,” you suggest.

There’s that dimple again. “Ugh. Too cliché.”

“You got anything else?”

Chaeyoung shrugs, throws her hands in the air, gives it all up so easily. “I don’t know, man,” she says, so genuinely you’re laughing again. “Maybe we knew each other in a past life.”

“Oh, because that’s not cliché at all.”

“I’ve fucked my fair share of screenwriters,” laments Chaeyoung, somehow crass and cute simultaneously, an animated series with filthy dialogue, banking on the juxtaposition like she invented it. “I’ll come up with something better.”

(She tells you this, but you’re not sure that she can. There’s nothing sweeter than fiction, or at least that’s what people say; they just haven’t seen the two of you yet.)

Strangely enough, you leave both the watch and the money with her, like you trust her. There’s no reason why you should - you just fucking met her - but you do. This might come back to bite you later, but not in the ways people would think. It just depends on where you’re going, really.

“All this cash,” you say, feigning disinterest, tossing the bills back in the box. “I feel like a hooker.”

“Shut up,” says Chaeyoung, so blunt and brash that you bust out laughing. “You are a hooker.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“You literally don’t know me,” says Chaeyoung, but there’s a twist to her mouth, a pointed kind of irony. She scans your body like she’s cataloging landmarks, places she’s already been; your eyes, your lips, your hands. There’s no explaining that, either.

Even looking at her feels both like a possibility and a death sentence, everything you can’t have but you want anyway. The post-it note with your name on it flutters to the desk, but it doesn’t matter; there are some things so familiar neither of you will ever forget them.

“Sure,” you say, dryly, and her smile widens. “Let’s say that.”

“Um,” you say on the phone, later that day, and nothing else.

“Hello to you too,” says your ex. “Wait, let me guess-”

“Here we go.”

“You talked to the love of your life today?” your ex asks, smug, and she can read you front-to-back, even through the phone. You’re too caught up in everything to be even remotely surprised by it; you think of it like something anybody would be able to see, like someone would spot you and Chaeyoung together and automatically have you two pegged in an instant.

“It’s not like that,” you try and say, even though it kind of is.

“Right.”

(You came back to the lobby in between shifts to pick up the gift, take it back to your bungalow. Chaeyoung was waiting for you. Hey, she said, and slid you the box. See, I didn’t swindle you.

Oh, I knew you wouldn’t, you said, and she smiled.)

“It’s just-” You have no idea how you’re going to put this into words, but you’re going to try. “Have you ever talked to someone and it’s like - like you knew them before you met? Like everything feels so - I don’t know. So familiar. Like it’s all happened before.”

Your ex pauses.

“Huh,” she says, suddenly softer. “You’ve got it bad.”

“You think?” you ask, even though you already know the answer. There’s a beat, and then-

“She’s your soulmate,” declares your ex - and that’s what breaks you, gets you to laugh out loud; she’s fucking ridiculous. “You’re on that twin flame shit. Don’t laugh, I’m serious. You’re never gonna be able to leave this alone. It’s, like, decided by the cosmos.”

“You’re so dumb.”

“I’m so right.”

She isn’t, because you’re a man of logic, of cynicism, or at least you try to be - theoretically, you’re nothing if not practical. It’s what you’ve had to be forever. Daydreaming’s never gonna get someone like you anywhere good, so you don’t bother. You keep impossible things right where they belong; out of reach, all far-off concepts. You don’t think of hope, because it’s the sort of thing that devastates plans like yours. It’s all a running joke, the past-lives thing, the familiarity, the nostalgia. There’s nothing else it can be.

“You’re not,” you insist. “I’m fine.”

(You can’t figure out why that somehow feels like a lie.)

There’s this sense of a storm warning in there, a little, predictions of a catastrophe. It’s summer, and Chaeyoung’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever laid eyes on. There’s no point in playing for keeps. She’s not even part of the game.

“Here’s the problem,” you tell your ex. “She’s also here to be a gold digger.”

“Whoa,” says your ex, stunned. “She really is your twin flame.”

“That’s not a thing,” you insist, exasperated, but maybe it doesn’t really matter. Your ex is right about something, after all: you’re never gonna be able to leave this alone.

“I see you liked the watch.”

You’re in between shifts - you’re gonna have to be at the pool in an hour and a half, but that’s a problem for later - and you’re in Jihyo’s hotel room, being everything she paid for. Your shirt’s already off, but Jihyo’s in your lap, trailing her fingers up your wrist. You can’t imagine she dresses like this in her daily life, but out here she’s all miniskirts and gauzy tops, so form-fitting they might as well be painted on. She’s got her arms looped casually around your neck - her bed’s huge, and you’re ready to take full advantage of it. You’re not thinking about anything else.

“Yeah,” you say, skimming your hands down her sides, “it was quite the gift. The cash was a little much, though, no?”

Jihyo rolls her eyes, presses her palm to your cheek. “Okay, look,” she says. “I think we can stop pretending that you have zero ulterior motives for fucking me. I know guys like you. You’re super broke and I’m rich as fuck. I get what’s going on here.”

You laugh out loud. “Okay,” you say, more endeared than you probably should be by her callousness, “I’m not super broke-”

“I don’t care,” interrupts Jihyo. “The sex is fucking amazing. I’m getting everything I want out of this. We can mutually use each other, honey.”

You lift a hand, slip it through her hair; there’s the big, gorgeous eyes, the no-nonsense demeanor, the way she smiles and it transforms her whole face - “Fine,” you say, and tip forward to kiss her jaw, uncharacteristically chaste. There’s something mildly demeaning about the way she calls you honey, something slightly patronizing; you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it, and you’re pretty sure she knows it.

Jihyo presses her thumb to the spot your lips touched, pleased. “I guess this settles it, then.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m your sugar mama for the summer.” She pauses, considering, comfortable in your lap like she has all the time in the world. “Does that sound right? I have to admit, I’ve never been one-hundred-percent on the terminology. If I were a guy it’d be a sugar daddy-”

“Sure.”

“-but does that make me your - well, I guess sugar mommy works, too.”

It does work. The thing between the two of you’s simple, synchronous; this is what it means to be practical, really. You get sidetracked by the way your hand spans her toned thighs, skin all tan and smooth - everyone’s getting sun these days, including you. It looks good on her, but everything does.

“Hm,” you say, a little belatedly.

You stroke your fingers up her inner thigh, but Jihyo eyes you, hand back on your wrist, suddenly suspicious. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“Why’d you say hm like that?”

You flounder, caught. So, you hadn’t exactly meant to give yourself away this early. “Uh, I don’t - I mean, I didn’t say it in any particular way.”

It’s useless; Jihyo spends all her time getting exactly what she wants out of everyone she knows, and you’re no exception. Nothing gets past her, that shrewd intuition, those eyes - she barely knows you, but somehow she still gets this like you’re the easiest person in the world to read, like you don’t have a thousand defenses at the ready. She’s too smart for you, in effect. It’s a real fucking liability.

“Oh,” Jihyo says, a smirk finding her mouth. “You like hearing me refer to myself as mommy?”

“Um,” you say.

“You do,” interprets Jihyo, thrilled, readjusting herself on top of you. “That’s fucking priceless.”

That’s one way to put it, but you let it slide. Or, at least, you have to, because now Jihyo’s got her hands pressed to your bare chest, nails mapping a path to your waistband, deliberately teasing. She tilts her chin up at you, dark eyes glinting, tone right on the edge of a warning.

“You want mommy to titfuck you?” she asks, and leans in, goading. “You want mommy to wrap her tits around your cock and make you cum?”

“Jesus,” you say, voice hoarse. “Yes. Fuck.”

Jihyo arches an eyebrow, perfectly, sternly authoritative. “Yes, what?”

You’re so much bigger than her, taller and more imposing, intimidating; you could crush her in an instant, push her into any position, wrap your hand around her throat and press down. She’s the one calling the shots, and you won’t - you’ll give in.

“Yes, please, mommy,” you exhale, and Jihyo grins like the devil.

(Here’s how Jihyo sees it: there’s something about having a huge man under her control, wrapped around her finger. You’re so tall and built you could snap her in two. Instead, you just get on the bed, get underneath her, get naked and start begging. Hey, Jihyo’s always loved having power, in all aspects of her life - this is just one of her favorite ways to exert it.

“C’mon, honey.” She’s moving her tits up and down your cock, she’s got you right where she wants you - sprawled on her sheets and speechless. “I know you wanna cum on mommy’s tits, huh? You wanna cum all over mommy’s tits?”

It’s not even like you’re fighting instincts. You, with all your charm and confidence and presence, submit to Jihyo like it’s the easiest thing you’ve ever had to do.

“Yeah,” you’re panting, the strain in your voice intoxicating, something you could bottle and get wasted on. “Yes, mommy. Please let me cum-”

Let me, you say, and you’re already pleading for permission, composure ripping itself to pieces.

“Fine,” says Jihyo airily - it’s all about knocking you down a peg - and slides her tits up your cock one more time. “Then cum.”

You do, but recover so fast it’s inhumane; you steal back control like it’d never left, get Jihyo on top and riding your cock, but it’s your fingerprints scorching her hips, the filth falling from your mouth - mommy gets a cock in her slutty little cunt and suddenly she’s not so high and mighty, huh? you taunt, and she’d slap you, but you’d probably like it - and it’s how you leave her breathless afterwards, unreasonably spent and satisfied, cum glazing her tits, stomach. Realistically, she’s probably not paying you nearly enough for how phenomenal the sex is, she thinks, but she’s not about to tell you that. It’s not the money; it’s her pride. She’ll let you figure that out on your own.)

This is the problem - well, you’ve got a lot of those, in retrospect, but here’s the main one:

“Hey,” Chaeyoung says, sunglasses perched on her head, finding you lifeguarding out by the pool a day later. “So, you wouldn’t fucking believe who checked in yesterday-”

It comes out casually, like talking to you is something she’s been doing her entire life. Her chin’s tilted up, face drenched in sunlight, eyes glimmering. You’re fucking someone else. You’re here only for the summer. It’s all so awfully impermanent - and she’s so beautiful your breath catches at the sight of her.

You’re giving up, giving in. There’s a gravity you can’t resist. You look at her and it’s like everything in you’s craving her: your arteries, your bloodstream, nerves shorting out and shot. Impossible things: she’s all of them wrapped up in one, standing in front of you, like she already knows how this ends.

“Tell me,” you say, and that’s how you know you’re doomed.

That’s how it really begins, if you had to pick a moment: you two start talking and there’s never a time that hits where you want to cut it off. It’s so uncannily natural, instinctual - there’s no awkward silences, no fumbling through conversations, no mind games or hidden motives. Chaeyoung picks a lounge chair next to you and has to crane her neck to look up at you, but you make her laugh and it’s like there’s no space at all.

“This is weird,” you comment, halfway through, a little amazed. “You and me.” You’re used to being a great, strategic conversationalist; it’s one of your best tactics. This feels different and you can’t put a name to it.

“What’s weird about it?” says Chaeyoung, smiling. “That I’m in a bikini and hot and you’re not trying to fuck me?”

“No,” you say. “I’m definitely trying to fuck you eventually. Just not, like, right at this moment.”

Chaeyoung splutters with laughter, and - oh, you two could get carried away here; you’re both barely clothed and there’s a tension between you two that shouldn’t be, a possibility, a yearning - but she says, “Let’s table that for now,” and it all stays where it is. “Hey, have you ever read-”

It’s the second day you’ve ever spoken and you can’t get enough of each other, somehow. You’re always picking up on threads, easily sidetracked and prone to detours - you can’t just talk about one thing. She tells you about all the books she’s reading, but recaps them more like action movies - you’re telling her about crazy hook-ups you’ve had back home, age gaps and wild kinks. It could be suggestive, but instead it’s not. You’re too busy laughing.

“It is weird,” she says suddenly, in between stories about her own various sugar daddies. “I just - there’s something about you. Like I want to tell you things I don’t usually tell people.” She rolls her neck, black hair unruly past her shoulders, down her back, curling around the tattoo covering her spine. “Which is probably stupid, right?” She grins, only half-joking. “You’re a gold digger. You’re untrustworthy by default, pretty much.”

“So are you,” you prod back. “That’s why this works, I think.”

“Damn,” says Chaeyoung, amused, and you get it - God, it’d be so much easier if it didn’t work so well. She stretches back out on her chair, an unholy amount of tan skin left uncovered; the sunglasses on her head are vibrantly red and shaped like strawberries, oddly enough. “Fine. Just tell me if I’m boring you.”

“You could never,” you say, almost without thinking. It’s you, you want to say. You feel it, don’t you? It could’ve been anyone, but here you are. It could’ve been anyone but you’re with me.

Chaeyoung tucks her tongue to her cheek, eyes narrowing, picking up on your tone; she’s so familiar with you. It’s just another sign. “Careful,” she says, voice like blaring alarms. “We barely know each other. I could really end up disappointing you.”

We barely know each other, she says, but she’s got an eyebrow raised, like there’s an inside joke between you two and the universe, some cosmic plotting and planning required to get you both in the same place. There’s nothing about this that should feel this monumental, but it does anyway. The pool’s filled with chatter; off to the side, glasses clink. The music’s soft like it’s meant just for your conversation alone, ambience tailor-made. The sky’s in on all your secrets.

“I don’t see how that’s even possible,” you say. “My opinion of you’s already so low.”

There’s a shocked beat, and then-

“Fuck you,” Chaeyoung gasps, but instantly she’s laughing, fully aware of how absurdly false that is. I could’ve never predicted you, you could tell her; that’s the real truth. I couldn’t have even dreamt you up. Like I didn’t know what I wanted, and then I saw your face.

“Maybe one of these days,” you say. Innuendo’s your favorite fallback. “We’ll get there.”

“Not if you keep being an asshole to me,” says Chaeyoung, sweetly, and now you’re the one laughing - she’s never told a more obvious lie.

(“I’m joking, by the way,” you add, because you can’t help your own instincts. “My opinion of you is actually unreasonably high. That’s the weird part.”

“You’re hard to impress,” Chaeyoung interprets, miraculously following where you’re going; she doesn’t seem to mind that you’ve given yourself away, given forth to honesty instead of carrying out the joke. There are steps you’re skipping. “That’s cute.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” she says, decisively. “I’m the opposite. I’m really easy to please.”

“I could’ve guessed that,” you say, unable to fight your grin. “I bet you have a lot of fun in our line of work, then.”

You think you’ve got her, but then she pauses, tilts her chin up at you, says lowly, “Maybe you can see it first-hand sometime.”

That’s something that’s got immediate fantasies in your head - Chaeyoung in your bed, Chaeyoung whining and wrecked, Chaeyoung without that bikini on - and you choke on your own spit, losing the battle immediately. It breaks her front, sends her into hysterics. She’s better than you at this, probably.

“Shit,” she says, giggling, “you’re so easy, dude.”

“Not usually,” you say, vaguely, and the implications are obvious; her laugh softens to a smile, her eyes dial down and crease, understanding. There are things you don’t have to say out loud for her to get them.

Not ever, you mean. Not until you.)

It’s the second day - or the third, since you first saw her. It’s way too fast.

it’s not like you’re fucking her? your ex texts. what’s the issue??

You don’t know how to explain that it’s right there - that is the issue.

sex is easy, you reply. it’s simple. like it would make more sense if we WERE having sex but we’re not i don’t know what this is. like i don’t know what to call it

friendship? your ex offers. LMFAO

it’s not that, either, you say, and nothing else. i mean i barely KNOW her… it’s been two days.

the heart wants what the heart wants… your ex says, cryptically. and sometimes the universe just makes it happen :D

you and your fucking fortune cookie wisdom

omg…. you think i’m wise…….

ok. don’t talk to me

love you too <3

You know friendship - you learned it from your ex herself, weirdly enough. You know what it feels like to have someone you’d do anything for. It’s not a foreign concept. It’s just-

i literally don’t know what’s wrong with me i’m obviously used to getting close to people really fast just cause that’s my job you know but there’s like no other motive i just LIKE her or i’m drawn to her, you say, and you’re rambling, you know that. i don’t know. it’s insane. it’s way too soon

You’re like a teenager with a crush - except it all feels so weighted, so significant. You’re breaking it down in the simplest terms you know how. You don’t know another way to say I see her and I want to tell her everything; even the awful things, the skeletons, the things I’m running from. It’s too soon and it’s like her smile snaps me open. It’s too soon for all of it.

oh, you, your ex says, and you can practically hear the teasing fondness even now. i always knew you were a hopeless romantic.

(twin flame, she says, later. i was onto something.

fuck you, you respond, because it’s better than admitting she’s right.)

So, you’ve met a lot of people that do the same thing you do.

It’s straightforward, hypothetically. You need to be hot, you need to be charming, you need to keep your eye on the prize. There’s a healthy amount of manipulation in it, sometimes: if your target’s not on the same page as you, you’ve gotta drag them there. Make them think it’s love for the right price. Make them fall and be there to catch them, as long as they pay up.

“I don’t do it like that anymore, though,” you tell Chaeyoung. “I grew a guilty conscience, or something.”

“That’s commendable,” says Chaeyoung. She’s with you on one of your lifeguard shifts, which gives her an excuse to stroll the beach in a skimpy, colorful bikini top, denim shorts so tiny they show off her tanned legs, thighs. She’s in the sun almost constantly - it’s turned her golden, angelic. Then there’s the amount of skin showing, which presents as something like devilry, inhumane; you want to touch her and you can’t.

“Really,” she says to you. “I mean, personally, I try not to break people’s hearts - but sometimes it’s definitely, like, oh, maybe I’ll love you if you spoil me enough. Art of the tease, I guess.” She shrugs, the sea breeze toying with her black hair. “People like that. The idea that I could be theirs if they play their cards right.”

It’s not the first time Chaeyoung’s brought up the way she plays the game. She has this matter-of-fact way of talking about it, so different than the way she talks about anything else - Chaeyoung’s passionate by nature, you’ve discovered, dropping into tangents at the drop of a hat: there’s art, there’s music, there’s films she adores, there’s the smell of the sea or the blue of the sky, capturing her attention in seconds - but she’s so clinical, with the way she makes her money. Like it’s not even connected to her. Like she’s putting her body up for grabs and her soul is somewhere far, far away.

“Sure, it’s selfish,” she says, another day, “but honestly, selflessness is a luxury I can’t exactly afford right now.”

You don’t say anything, because you know exactly what she means.

You’ve met people like you: sugar babies, gold diggers, leeches, professional opportunists. You’ve seen it all, people using their looks to get what they want. You’ve been there. You’re very, very good - but Chaeyoung’s better.

You don’t realize quite how much until one day where you might be ditching your shift just to hang out with her, loitering around at the receptionist’s desk. It’s a little bit of a habit - you swear you’re only there to check for new gifts, pay her a visit, but it’s too easy to get tangled up in conversation with her - so it’s a lost cause. You’re with her and you can’t pull away. You’d probably get in trouble for it, but you’re shirtless.

“Whoa,” says Chaeyoung, when she sees you, eyes blown comically wide. “I thought this was a classy establishment. No shoes, no shirt, no service.”

“I am the service,” you point out, and she breaks on a laugh, delightfully easy to entertain. “Plus, I’m good for business. Half my job is just standing around looking sexy.”

Chaeyoung cocks her head, lets her gaze rake down your body. “Fine,” she says, lips curling. “Then I’d say you’re succeeding.”

You’re here to check for new gifts, or at least that’s your excuse. You forget to even ask about them because there’s something magnetic about Chaeyoung, something polarizing about you and her; the moment you’re in her orbit you can’t just leave it, like there’d be a physical ache if you tried. It’s stupid, and you can’t explain it. You won’t even try.

“I was supposed to go to art school,” she’s telling you, now. “Well - okay, technically I still am going to art school. I start in the fall. But I actually got accepted earlier than that; I had to take a year off so I could save up some money for it.”

You startle a little at the mention of the fall - at the mention of a time after summer, a time where you and her won’t exist. You brush it off, quickly; you’re jumping the gun. You’ve got months.

“Art school,” you muse, and avoid the undertone; you already knew she needed money. She wouldn’t be here otherwise. “Yeah.”

Chaeyoung grins at you, anticipatory. “Yeah, what?”

“No, I was just thinking-” You shake your head. “Sorry. It just suits you, that’s all. Like, I can imagine you there kind of perfectly.” It’s too sentimental, so you backtrack, let it fall to jokes: “I mean, surrounded by people who are just as pretentious as you-”

“Shut up,” says Chaeyoung, but you can tell by the way her nose crinkles that she’s pleased.

“-debating the meaning of life and the law of attraction or whatever-”

“Uh, okay, you clearly have no idea what art students are like.”

“I know you,” you point out, too easily: you’re recalling long-winded rants on metaphors in cinematography, on the symbolism of color in art, on lyrical prose in dictionary-thick novels, on poetic theories of the universe. That’s Chaeyoung for you - so fascinated by the world around her, so completely in love with just existing, like she’s never had a reason not to be. It’s the simplest things, she tells you one time. That’s what makes life worth living, for me.

Chaeyoung doesn’t even falter at the confession, just tips her head, examines you slowly. “Yeah,” she agrees, softer than you were expecting. It’s been a little more than a week. It’s crazy but she won’t deny it. “You do.”

“Excuse me.”

The new voice effectively jolts you both out of the moment. Chaeyoung’s eyes flick to yours, meaningful - it’s the closest she’ll get to rolling them, to sighing, to saying I can’t believe I have to do my fucking job right now when all I want to do is talk to you - but she straightens in her chair, puts on a smile. You back off, angle yourself against the desk; it’s your way of making yourself decorative, a selling point.

“Hi,” says the man standing in front of you both. He glances at you, but he settles on Chaeyoung; you’re not about to blame him for that. “I wanted to check in?”

“Well,” says Chaeyoung, sweetly, “I guess you came to the right place then, huh?”

And, so, like you said: you’re good, but she’s better.

The change in her is instantaneous, flipping the charisma on like a switch, like an innate skill. It’s her tone of voice, the way she talks - bubbly, bright, so ready to laugh or smile or give any reaction that’ll validate - but it’s also strangely in her body language, her facial expressions. There’s a certain way she arranges her features when she’s aiming to charm: spilling her eyes wide, flashing her dimple like it’s a party trick, the parted lips, the glimpse of teeth, the angle of her jaw. She leans forward, tilts her head on an incline, like she’s placing specific emphasis on how small she is, how easy she’d be to pin against a wall and feel up and fuck - she plays so innocent, but every part of her body screams danger, the tan and the tattoos - she knows exactly what she’s doing and she’s doing it spectacularly-

“I’m Chaeyoung,” she’s telling the guy, now, hands clasped underneath her chin. “If you need anything, I’ll be right here. Like - if you wanna ever take me up on that volleyball game, let me know.” She smiles up at the man; there’s an inside joke you’d missed while tuning them out - you should never underestimate how Chaeyoung can craft connections in seconds. “I’ll go easy on you, I promise.”

“Right,” says the man, flashing a vaguely predatory grin. He’s studying her a little intensely, like he’s thinking of balling her shirt in his fist, wrapping his hand in her hair. “Chaeyoung. Thanks so much, sweetheart. I appreciate it.”

Chaeyoung waves him off, her laugh like bell chimes. “Hey - no need to thank me, sir. Just doing my job.”

You don’t quite realize it until then, how seeing her in action is a masterclass: cute, coquettish, inspiring dirty dreams just by opening her mouth. She’s so good at it that it’s kind of fucked up. There’s a power in knowing how pretty you are; it’s another thing entirely to know just how to wield it, how to put it in practice.

“Sir,” you repeat once the man is out of earshot, impressed despite yourself.

“Nice touch, right?” Chaeyoung leans back in her chair, adorably self-satisfied. “How much you wanna bet he’ll want me to call him that when I fuck him?”

Ah, the games you play - it’d be stupid to bring money into it. You know better than to bet in cash: you’ve got other things in mind. A kiss, a touch, a possibility. You can’t want her, because everybody does. She can’t want you, because it goes both ways.

“I’ll bet a night,” you say.

Chaeyoung lifts an eyebrow, uncomprehending. “What?”

“I’ll bet a night with you.” You place a hand palm-up on the counter, leveling your offers. “If he makes you call him sir while you fuck-”

“Jesus,” says Chaeyoung, a little strangled, like the insinuation of established titles during sex means something completely different coming out of your mouth.

“-then we stay out for a night and you take me anywhere on the island.”

There’s an insinuation, here, and for once it’s something past sexual: you don’t have nights together. You spend most of yours in Jihyo’s bed and Chaeyoung spends hers hopping between whoever’s paying the right price - you’re indentured to the highest bidders. It’s just the way things are.

(Give it up for me, for once - that’s what you’re really asking. We already both have a million things to lose - give yourself one more.)

It’s not even really a question, in the end. Chaeyoung watches you, lashes fluttering, no longer putting on a performance but somehow just as mesmerizing, surreal, stunning. The magnetism’s always been mutual. She’s never really going to say no to you.

“Fine,” she says, like she knows what she’s getting into - like she’s counting on it. “I’ll take that bet. What do I get if I win?”

“I’ll be your doubles partner in volleyball.”

Chaeyoung gasps, jaw dropping, so earnestly excited by the prospect that you can’t help but laugh, endeared. It’s cute, how easy she is to please - well, at least it’s always been easy for you. “Really?”

“Really.” She’s been begging you to go out to the beach with her for days. It’s only fair. You were always going to give in, anyway. Even if you win, you’re probably still going to.

“Deal,” says Chaeyoung, grinning wildly. “You’re on.”

It’s a bad idea, probably, but they all are. You’ve never been a betting man but you’re starting now. The hands of fate have already gotten their grip on you, on her - there’s the moment you first locked eyes, there’s the world shattering at your feet - so you’ll leave it up to them, now. They took you this far.

You shake on it, Chaeyoung’s hand in yours, a risk the second you’re touching her. Fate, that’ll do it; it’s so much easier when there’s someone else to blame.

“I’m aiming to fuck him anyway,” Chaeyoung reasons, a little later, tapping her vibrantly lacquered nails to the desk. “The bet’s just on the sir part of it. The sex is already happening - or, most likely,” she adds, an afterthought, a far-off scenario. “I mean, there’s always a chance he’ll turn me down.”

“He won’t,” you say. “He’s a man. You’re the hottest woman alive. Wanting to fuck you senseless is practically instinct.”

It’s crass, it’s forward, it’s an admission of guilt; it’s the first time you’ve said something about you fucking her that hasn’t landed as half a joke, too dark and deliberate. You pause, wholly incriminating, and you wait for it.

It’s a direct hit. Chaeyoung freezes, stares, genuinely speechless, like she doesn’t get men throwing themselves at her feet on the daily - like she doesn’t get married guys offering to leave their wives for her, like she doesn’t get billionaires offering to pay her college tuition, like she’s not the most gorgeous girl to ever walk the earth - and says, finally, somewhat breathless, “God, don’t talk to me like that.”

(She’s speechless, you know, because it’s different with you, when you say things like this and mean them.)

“Like what?”

Like you want me - that’s what she’ll never say. Like you’d die to fuck me. Like you have a bed with my name on it. Like you know I want you too.

“You know what,” Chaeyoung murmurs, instead, and you do. She doesn’t have to say it out loud for you to understand..

(“Also,” she says, “that’s hilarious. The idea that men are biologically programmed to want to have sex with women - like, okay, forget the spectrum of sexuality, or whatever-”

“I’m not forgetting anything,” you say, entertained. “Believe me, I know all about the spectrum of sexuality. I’m an equal opportunity gold digger.”

You’re not sure what kind of reaction you’re expecting, but then-

“I probably could’ve predicted that,” admits Chaeyoung, considering. “I mean, we’ve already figured out that you’re just like me.”)

You’ll get to the bet, eventually, but in the meantime-

“How many people are you fucking on this island besides me?” Jihyo asks you, one night, as you’re perched on the edge of her bed, getting re-dressed. “If you can’t keep count, just give me, like, a ballpark estimate.”

You burst out laughing. She’s a bitch, but only at the funniest moments. It’s strangely adorable. “Jesus Christ.”

“You can tell me,” Jihyo says candidly, running a hand through her hair. “I won’t be mad or anything.”

“You’re cute,” you say, and lean over to drop a kiss on top of her head; Jihyo scoffs but allows it, too spent from the orgasms. Her chest is littered with hickeys - you can’t keep your mouth off her and you won’t pretend you want to. “I’m only fucking you. Contrary to popular belief, I like to focus on one person at a time.”

“One person at a time to exploit,” says Jihyo, haughtily. “For money.”

She’s not fooling anyone. “Baby, we don’t have to fuck if this isn’t working for you.”

“Ugh,” groans Jihyo, slumping backwards, looking like she’d rather launch one of her pillows at you. You follow down her gorgeous face to the line of her neck, her collarbone, the tops of her tits purpled with bruises, nipples that you’ve found are insanely sensitive-

“My eyes are up here,” says Jihyo, but there’s a sudden grin in her voice; she’s kind of in love with how obsessed you are with her tits.

“What eyes?”

“Perv,” she snipes, rolling over on her side. You stand, admiring the view; there’s no way any of her shirts will be able to cover up those hickeys. She looks a little like she’s been mauled. “Hey, if I’m the only person you’re sleeping with, what the hell have you been doing with all your time?”

“Working. Doing my job. Obviously.”

She gives you a droll look. “Uh-huh.”

She’s got a point; you’re kind of fucking terrible at your job. Hey, at least no one’s drowned on your watch yet.

“I’m being social,” you say. “I made some friends. Well, one friend.”

You don’t even say Chaeyoung’s name, but it’s like the mention of her puts her ghost in the room, puts weight on your tongue; Jihyo tilts her head, assessing you, strands of short black hair cutting through her cheekbones, eyes with a gleam. She’s too aware of the details, the giveaways. Chaeyoung’s on your mind and somehow it changes things.

“Oh,” Jihyo says, meaningfully, smile forming slow. “A friend.”

“That’s what I said,” you reply, not giving in. “Okay, bye.”

You hear Jihyo’s laughter ring out behind you, but you don’t look back. There are some things you aren’t even admitting to yourself, yet - you’re not about to let her figure them out first.

“Look,” says Chaeyoung, just as you’ve hit two weeks. “I’m just saying, you’re fucking Park Jihyo. If you’re not a tit man, I don’t know what you are.”

“Um, excuse you. I like a lot of different things. I’m multifaceted and shit.”

You’re blowing off one of your shifts again, but it’s worth it - it’s paradise, and you’re making the most of it. You’re existing on borrowed time, but at least you’re existing at all.

“Plus,” you add. You’re leaning on the counter, noticeably less clothed than everyone around you; Chaeyoung’s remarkably casual today, matching you perfectly. Despite how high-class the resort purports to be, she’s dressing like she’s the one on vacation and somehow getting away with it. “I’d be fucked financially if I only got involved with women that fit one specific type.”

Chaeyoung’s currently got a tiny, lined notepad out in front of her, the top of it embossed with the resort’s logo. She says, “Okay, but if you had to pick a type.”

There’s something a little wild about her, a little unruly: her black hair falls down her back in wind-mussed waves, her shirt askew, slipping down one shoulder to expose her collarbone, her nails each painted a different vibrant color, polish chipping at the edges. Her denim shorts are unbuttoned, rolled down carelessly at the waistband, exposing patterned blue bikini bottoms. Her tongue settles at the corner of her mouth, and she’s humming between sentences - there’s a pencil in her hand, tattooed fingers drawing lines, curves, thoughtful and deliberate. Stop, wait, any filmmaker would say, if they could see her now: there, that’s the shot.

“I’m looking at it,” you say, grinning.

Chaeyoung glances up, catches your smile just to mirror it, immediately, an instinct she can’t fight off. “Boo,” she says, like she’s heckling you, and pretends to chuck her pencil in your direction. “Lame. So lame.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” sighs Chaeyoung, like that makes it ten times worse. “You’re not subtle, dude. You - I mean, you look at me like I was made for you.”

It’s two weeks in; time grinds to a halt. You stop short, startled. Chaeyoung hesitates, momentarily struck by her own words. You’re always doing this, always dropping the ball, always drawing lines just to cross them; you’re shifting tones, lanes. She says sentences like they’re not revelations, like they’re not the end of the world. It’s two weeks in, and you’re both saying insane, outrageous things - wondering why they slip so easily into conversation, why it’s like they’re making themselves at home.

“Well,” you start, too soft to serve as a joke. “Sometimes - sometimes, it’s like-”

“I know,” says Chaeyoung, again, hands stilling on her page. “Don’t say it. We’ve known each other for, like, five seconds, you lunatic.”

She says it because it’s what’s expected; it’s all too quick, too soon, too sudden. It’s all feelings that shouldn’t be there here or now or ever. It’s all wrong - but Chaeyoung’s lips tilt ruefully, understanding. She can never keep things from you, or at least that’s what you’re learning. Like it’d be going against something preprogrammed into her code.

“But,” she concedes, quietly, “yeah. It’s like that for me, too.”

(It might make us both crazy, she’s saying, but sometimes I feel like you were made for me.)

“Actually,” says Chaeyoung. “While we’re on the subject of of types.”

“I’m yours. I’m already aware, Chaeyoung.”

“You’re mine,” agrees Chaeyoung, raising her brows wryly, and there it is again: every statement loaded, a weapon to aim and fire. “Shut up. So - okay, I know we made that bet about me fucking that one guy, and I will-”

“I’m counting on it.”

“-but there’s also this girl I was planning to get with this summer.”

It’s a short story, this girl she’s got her eye on. She’s an heiress, Chaeyoung says. She’s gorgeous, she’s sexy, she’s generous - and she spent all of last summer attached to some world-famous pop star that Chaeyoung won’t name, lest she break the half a dozen NDAs she’s locked into-

“But she’s late,” groans Chaeyoung. “I’m starting to think she’s not even gonna show up.”

“Wait,” you say. “Can we circle back to the pop star?”

“No.”

“Just give me a hint on who it is.”

“Uh.” Chaeyoung’s forehead puckers thoughtfully; she’s never really going to put up much of a fight against you. It’s become obvious that you both want the same things, really. “She’s hot?”

“Chaeyoung, you think every famous rich girl you meet is hot.”

Chaeyoung scrunches her nose happily, dimple taking precedence; it’s you, you realize, the way you talk to her so easily, like you’ve already gotten her all figured out. Like you have some right to know her, to treat her like this: like you’ve known her forever.

“Well,” she begins, like she’s considering it, “you’re not completely wrong. The thing about my heiress is - oh, shit.”

There’s some sort of commotion going on behind you; you can hear it, the all-too-polite, mildly smarmy, gossipy murmurs that you’ve come to recognize as characteristic of the guests here. They’re used to it, probably; drama, intrigue. It’s probably not cool to be anything but detachedly blasé, so they aren’t. Chaeyoung’s the opposite; you pause, distracted by how her irises sparkle, lips parting prettily - but she’s zeroing in on something just over your shoulder. You finally give in, turn, and there’s-

“Huh,” says Chaeyoung, a satisfied smile in her voice. “Speak of the devil.”

Standing there in the middle of the lobby is a girl so outrageously beautiful that it’s like time stops around her - like everyone in the room freezes, like there’s a spotlight with her name on it, like there’s a spell she’s cast just by walking into the room. She’s lithe and lean, dark-haired, infuriatingly attractive: the kind of beauty that makes people want her dead, the kind of smile that makes it impossible for anyone to do anything less than adore her. Her shirt’s black and cropped, her jeans skintight and dark - she’s beaming, giggling, waving off the doorman like they’re old friends. The whole lobby’s half in love with her from her eyes alone, dark and long-lashed and endearingly earnest, like she’s never had a bad intention in her life. She’s got monogrammed Louis Vuitton luggage, a fluffy blue Prada bag hanging off her arm. She’s slipping right into the center of attention as if it’s a space carved out just for her. She’s captivating, she’s everything, she’s like a five-five supermodel, made to be put in print and looked at - she’s probably the most stunning thing anyone in this room’s ever seen.

You laugh out loud, because, well - if there’s anything your ex-girlfriend knows best, it’s how to make a fucking entrance.

It’s the sound of your laughter that does it, or it must be. The girl in the center of the room swivels immediately, and her eyes land on you, jaw falling open, always one for the theatrics. Oh, you’ll indulge her. It’s just the way the two of you work.

“Hey, gorgeous,” you call, and Minatozaki Sana drops everything just to run right into your arms.

“Oh my god, it’s a fucking miracle.”

“Sana.”

“I haven’t seen you in, like, years. I thought I was going to die.”

“It’s been less than a month,” you inform Chaeyoung behind the counter, which is mildly hard to do given that you have a habit of lifting Sana up when you hug her, and she also currently refuses to detach herself from you. “She has separation anxiety when she’s not with me.”

“Please,” retorts Sana, but brightly good-natured, pulling back just to cup your face in her hands. She’s being so over-the-top she’s drawing eyes, her smile megawatt, blinding. “You can’t survive without me either, babe. Codependence is a two-way street.”

You drop a kiss to Sana’s forehead, laugh as she beams brighter, satiated. “It’s true,” you relent to Chaeyoung, as Sana slips from your arms just to rest her head against your shoulder. “I’m in this bullshit for life, probably.”

Chaeyoung doesn’t say anything, instead watching the both of you, head at an angle and eyes narrowed.

Well, you can already tell where she’s probably at. It’s what any sane person would think seeing you and your ex-girlfriend attached at the hip, intertwined, somewhat addicted to being around each other - it should probably be time to call it there. Name whatever’s going on between you and Chaeyoung dead on arrival, mark the time and wait for the rigor mortis to set in: it’ll be over before it begins. There’s no use in getting involved with a guy who spends all his free time with his ex-girlfriend, especially when that ex-girlfriend is-

“Miss Minatozaki?”

“Oh, fuck, my luggage,” realizes Sana, and then rushes to meet the bellboy halfway, where he’s already wheeling them towards her. She’s a whirlwind of expensive perfume, perfectly styled hair - there’s never a thread out of place, never an imperfection, even as she waves her hands bashfully. “Sorry, sorry!”

“This is an interesting development,” pegs Chaeyoung, once Sana’s out of earshot, tone an enigma, unusually unreadable.

“Jealous?”

“Never,” says Chaeyoung, slyly, like she knows something you don’t. “Just… reevaluating.”

You shoot her a look - oh, the company you keep and their flair for the dramatics - but Chaeyoung sees your skeptical expression and cracks into a grin, unable to be cryptic for long. There’s something so cute about it, so simple and significant: how she can fake anything for anyone except for you.

“Sana,” greets Chaeyoung, suddenly, propping a palm under her jaw, smile sweet and intact. “Great to have you back this summer.”

“Chaeyoung!” squeals Sana on her return, like this might’ve been the first time she’d noticed her; you wouldn’t be surprised. That’s the thing about Sana, heedlessly flighty, easily sidetracked. “I missed your face. God, I haven’t seen you in forever.”

Sana’s leaning across the desk in greeting, the collar of her cropped black top gaping open, a few too many buttons popped and her hand suddenly slipped in yours, fingers adorned with expensive silver rings. Chaeyoung, to her credit, seems slightly more preoccupied by Sana’s grip on your hand than the way Sana’s shirt reveals her chest. She’s probably the only one.

“I know,” says Chaeyoung, lips twitching in that way they do when she’s fighting off a laugh. It’s Minatozaki Sana - it’s impossible to not be enchanted by her. “I was starting to think you’d abandoned us.”

“Ugh. No.” Sana flaps her free hand in the air, like the thought’s ridiculous. You tug her back close to your side, dropping her hand just to absentmindedly fix one of the buttons on her shirt up. “Are you kidding? No other resort has such sexy employees.”

You pause, letting her shirt fall; Chaeyoung barrels on smoothly, flicking a painted nail between the two of you. Despite it all - the messy waves of her hair, the too-casual outfit, the chipping polish, the colorful tattoos scattered across her arms - there’s a sudden sophistication to her, a pointed, practiced charisma, sanding out all her edges.

“So,” Chaeyoung says. “How do you two know each other?”

You almost say her name, call her on it. Logically, there’s no reason for Chaeyoung to be performing like she is right now, in front of you, and it’s just Sana-

“We’ve been best friends since birth, or whatever,” says Sana cheerfully, wiggling her fingers like it’s nothing. “And we used to date. But we broke up a while back. Mutual thing. All good.”

One of Chaeyoung’s eyebrows inches upwards. She’s looking at you, trying to figure out your strategy - Sana’s practically hotelier heiress royalty, her dad the owner of a long string of luxury establishments; everyone here knows her money and her name. She’s a payout personified, or she would be. “Right,” she says, slowly, like she’s attempting to discern whether your friendship with Sana is just an obscenely long con or not. “That’s-”

“Chill,” you say, amused, beating her to the punch. “I’m not fucking Sana for money - or at all. She’s seriously my best friend. And she already knows I’m a gold digger.”

“I didn’t say anything,” says Chaeyoung, pulling out her large, patently innocent eyes, like some obnoxiously adorable cartoon animal; a flutter of her lashes and she could talk her way into anyone’s bed, or heart, or bank account. “I would never insinuate that you’d sleep with someone for money. That’s, like, really inappropriate.”

“Sure.” You’ve become too familiar with that particular trick to fall for it at this point. “And now you’re doing the eyes-”

“My eyes literally just look like this,” says Chaeyoung, lying, breaking character. She can’t hold up the performance for long. Half as sweet and three times as gorgeous, mischievous; this is a genuineness she seems to save just for you.

“Not to mention you call me a hooker constantly-”

“Okay, well, you behave like a hooker constantly.”

“Says you?” you point out, and Chaeyoung huffs, tosses her hair over a shoulder, opens her mouth to fire back-

“Whoa,” says Sana, gleeful, tapping her finger to the receptionist’s desk like she’s tallying points. “What’s this?”

You and Chaeyoung exchange a glance - ah, it’s always something. The corner of Chaeyoung’s full mouth pulls up, revealing her dimple. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Chaeyoung, playing coy like she’s getting paid for it, slipping right back into the charm. “We’re just…”

“Having friendly workplace camaraderie,” you pick up, shooting her a grin. Chaeyoung rolls her eyes, turns her head so you don’t notice her hiding a laugh; you see it anyway, hear it in your head like she’d let it loose.

“Oh my god.” Sana nudges your elbow, jaw dropping. Chaeyoung looks away, and Sana zeroes in on you, dark eyes wide with the realization - she tugs at your hand and mouths love of your life. “So this is-”

(Love of your life, like it’s the most obvious thing. It’s true, then: it’s there, and everyone can see it. It’s you and Chaeyoung and both of you are blowing your own covers just by being around each other. It’s been two weeks, barely. There are some things that are impossible to quantify.)

“Alright, that’s enough.” You cut Sana off, poke her in her ribs. Sana immediately squeals with laughter, ticklish; she bats wildly at you with her hands and in the process attracts at least twenty prying eyes. “Don’t you have a room to check into or something?”

“This is amazing,” declares Sana, looking from you to Chaeyoung in the least subtle way possible. “I obviously got here at the perfect time.”

“I’ll say,” cuts in Chaeyoung, timbre back to airy, dripping with that light musicality you’ve come to recognize as her first giveaway. There’s a switch flipped, somewhere: eyes wider, lips poutier, dimple deepening warmly. “This place has been a snoozefest without you, Sana.”

You watch Chaeyoung closely, mark the moves she’s made - there’s something here you’re not seeing. Sana giggles; she’s quick to laugh, quicker to flirt, always receptive to some effort.

“Oh, no,” she says, demurely, “it seems like you two have been getting along just fine all by yourselves.”

It’s a line unexpected enough to throw Chaeyoung off her game. Her shoulders rise, perturbed, and she looks at you immediately, like there’s a pull she can’t fight - someone mentions the connection between you and it’s like you can’t do anything but prove it, her eyes locked on yours. Well, you’re both caught and badly. There are a million things neither of you will admit out loud, but you don’t really need to - it seems like everyone can tell, anyway.

“I guess we have,” Chaeyoung says, softly.

(Turns out there’s no need to call a time of death, after all. You and Chaeyoung are always breaking some rule, somehow - the status quo’s just first in line.)

“Wait,” you say, after Sana’s gone - it’s not for long, but it’s a moment - and everything clicks so much later than it should have. “Did you say speak of the devil, earlier?”

Chaeyoung’s got those eyes on again, deliberately, politely customer-service clueless. “Sorry?”

“She’s your heiress.” You laugh out loud, getting it all at once: the demeanor, the tone, the act. “You’re trying to fuck Sana.”

There it is: the interesting development. She came here to snag Sana and somehow she got you instead, off of some far-off twist, some butterfly effect. Somewhere, you swear you hear fate laughing at you - oh, she’s saying, you thought you could beat me.

“Yeah,” says Chaeyoung, pointedly, “before I knew that she was your ex.”

“My best friend,” you say, not quite a correction but an amendment nonetheless - it’s always what’s been more important. “Don’t worry, you’re not breaking bro code or whatever if you go after her.” You grin at her, dryly glib. “Business is business, right?”

“Ew.” Chaeyoung flicks your arm. “But, yeah. Thanks.”

There’s a pause here, yet another thing left unsaid. It’s not about Sana and you both know it. It’s about you and Chaeyoung, about that pull, about gravity - about the feeling you can’t shake, the one that indicates the two of you are hurtling towards something inevitable, an eclipse, an astronomical phenomenon. Something that’ll consume you both, in the end.

You pass over it; you have all summer to get there. “But that means I know all about the pop star from last year, by the way,” you say - Sana isn’t shy about anything, but especially not all her high-profile hook-ups. “Im Nayeon, right?”

“Yes!” Chaeyoung smacks the desk with her fist, taking the out, eyes lighting up. “It was wild. I swear I caught them seconds from fucking, like, fifty different times. But I don’t think Nayeon’s coming back this summer, so - God’s on my side, I guess. No competition.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think she’d come. Nayeon has a boyfriend now.”

“What?”

There’s something genuinely fun about gossiping with Chaeyoung; she always gets so wholeheartedly invested in it all, expressive and animated in the best way, the exact opposite of all the bored, disinterested guests roaming the island, too cool to get so caught up. Chaeyoung’s never had any of those reservations - she’s nosy, she’s chatty, she loves drama. It’s cuter than it should be.

“No,” Chaeyoung gasps, fully impassioned. “No way! But she’s - people would know, wouldn’t they? I haven’t heard anything about it. Is she even allowed to date?”

“It’s this big secret: he’s some random no-name guy from her hometown. High school sweethearts, or something.”

“Wow.” Chaeyoung presses a palm to her chest, apparently overcome, eyes dreamily wide. Somehow, with you, she always ends up with her emotions on her sleeve. “That’s so romantic.”

There’s a sudden, familiar rush of affection; there’s no reason a girl like her should be so invested in love, and yet she is anyway. God, you think of saying, crazily, I hope you never change.

“That’s new,” you tell her, instead. “A gold digger who believes in romance, huh?”

“I love love,” Chaeyoung says, shrugging unabashedly, open and without defense. In front of her, pencil sketches stretch out across her notepad, anatomy whittled down to something whimsical - hearts and hands, ribs sharp enough to count, the human form turned to a fine art. “It’s just really impractical for me right now. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe in it.”

You’ve never really had anything to believe in - no religion or higher power, no hopes, no false deities - but now you’re here, with her, and somehow, things are different. You smile to yourself, and that’s all there is to it.

(There’s something to be said about faith, here, but neither of you ever find the words.)

“Hey,” Sana says, a day or two later, when you catch her out by the pool. “Why is the love of your life trying to fuck me for money?”

So, Chaeyoung moves fast; you can’t exactly say you’re surprised. “Uh, please don’t call her that.”

Sana turns in her chair, looking at you over her Prada sunglasses, brown eyes wide. “What else should I call her?” she asks, crooking an eyebrow.

It’s rhetorical. There’s not an answer you could give that wouldn’t give you away.

“Well,” you say. “Do you want to fuck her?”

“Yes,” says Sana, immediately. “Obviously. She’s so hot. But if you don’t want me to, I won’t.”

“It’s not like she and I can even do anything,” you say, but even as it comes out of your mouth you don’t mean it. “Or it’s not like we should.” There’s jokes, and then there’s craving; there’s no money in it and so it shouldn’t happen, but somehow, you already know it’s going to. You’ll go for denial first. “And it’s not like she and I are - I mean - we’re friends, Sana.”

Sana tilts her head, dark hair falling smoothly over a shoulder. “That’s not what you texted me.”

You throw her hands up, lost. There’s no way to explain it - no way to say I see her and it’s like no one else exists. “I don’t know,” you say. She’s right - you’re not just friends. It’s not up for debate. You get within feet of Chaeyoung and she can’t stop touching you and you can’t stop looking at her and you’re woefully trapped in each other’s space, supernovas tugging and ruthlessly, black holes threatening to ruin everything you’ve worked for. There’s a galaxy in her eyes; she smiles and it suspends the world.

Sana watches you, waiting. She’s always known you too well.

“She can’t fuck me for money,” you point out, eventually, and that’s the problem in itself. There’s no bite to it, no bitterness. It’s just the truth.

It’s two weeks in. You’ll play your parts. It hasn’t nearly been long enough for you to give in so easy.

(Here’s how Sana sees it - you and Chaeyoung are both fucking blind.

Don’t you know how rare it is? she wants to say. Don’t you see how amazing it is that you two are even in the same place at all? It takes forever to meet someone and just know. You know. Why are you wasting that?

But she’s known you long enough to know she can’t push you into anything. Plus - she’s not as selfless as she tries to be. She sees Chaeyoung and her tattoos and her eyes and her pointed seduction; she sees a pretty girl and she needs her hands on her. She’s used to getting what she wants and you gave her a go-ahead. Well, we can’t all be perfect people.

“Alright,” she says, cheerfully, settling her sunglasses atop her head. “Then it’s settled.”

“Have fun,” you tell her. It’s odd, but you don’t seem jealous, or bothered. Maybe you know, she thinks. Maybe you can read the way Chaeyoung looks at you, too: like nothing else has ever mattered. Sex is inconsequential, to people like you. It won’t change a thing.

“Yeah,” she says, smiling, standing. Oh, she’ll have her fun, alright. “I will.”

Also - and this is her real point - she sees what happens when you and Chaeyoung get into the same room. Really, she figures, it’s only a matter of time.)

“Hey,” you point out before she goes; there’s one last thing she hadn’t mentioned. “I thought you were trying to fuck Park Jihyo. Like, steal her from me and shit. How are you gonna do that if you’re with Chaeyoung?”

It barely takes a second to get an answer. “I can multitask,” says Sana, serenely, and - yep, you can’t say you were expecting anything less.

“Oh, Jesus fuck.”

“Thanks,” says Chaeyoung, the next time you see her; you’re grabbing breakfast at one of the cafés offshooting from the resort, for once actually utilizing your breaks and not just ditching your shifts. She grins like it’s a compliment she’s taking. “I think so too.”

“Shut up.” You slide in the chair across from her. “Man. I forgot how much Sana likes to bite.”

Chaeyoung’s got her hair tied down in two braids, tiny colorful clips wound through them - her shirt’s low-cut, making a point. There’s been at least some effort to cover the hickeys scattering her neck and chest, but she’s not hiding much of anything, regardless.

“Yep,” says Chaeyoung, cheerily, and nothing else. She passes you an iced coffee; she’s gotten in the habit of ordering for you. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

You’d think it’d be more awkward - she’s fucking your ex-girlfriend, and you’re both dancing around whatever nameless, consuming thing you’ve both got going on with each other - but it’s not, somehow. Sex isn’t a taboo topic; you’ve recapped hook-ups like they’re nothing, every gory detail and then some. It’s not this emotionally charged thing, for the two of you. At worst it’s your job and at best it’s just fun.

It’s nothing new; you fall back into your rhythm. She’s got her tiny sketchbook and her huge, clunky headphones slung around her neck. “Oh, by the way,” she says, suddenly. “He did want me to call him sir.”

It’s apropos of nothing, but you still get it - that’s the thing about you and Chaeyoung, constantly on identical wavelengths. It’s just another sign. “What? How do you even have time to fuck all these people?”

“I’m efficient,” she says, comically straight-faced. “Anyway, you won the bet, so…”

Chaeyoung trails off. The implication’s in the air, unsubtle. A night with her - that’s the agreement.

“I did,” you say, considering.

Chaeyoung puts her pencil down, fixes her eyes on you. “Is this gonna be a sex thing?”

“Please get your mind out of the gutter,” you say, and she cracks up. “And - of course not. I thought I made it clear by now that the last thing I want to do is have sex with you. Like, I have standards.”

It’s such a lie that Chaeyoung swallows her laughter - she walks in the room and you can’t peel your eyes off of her, you want her and it’s the farthest thing from a secret; you’d worship her if she’d give you the chance. “Right,” she says, settling her tongue at her teeth, droll and disbelieving. “No, no, I get it. I’m not even on your radar.”

“Exactly,” you say. “I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but you have zero sex appeal, Chaeyoung.”

Oh, that’s a joke taken too far - now it’s more on the edge of a challenge. Chaeyoung’s eyebrows lift, fingers pausing, head stopped at an angle; it’s like you see the moment she’s decided to make you eat your words, kick them back through your teeth. There’s the bruises on her neck, the full lips and the dimple, the collarbone and the tattoos - she drips desire, she takes a breath and you’re thinking of fucking her. She’s irresistible, and you’re full of shit. You stare and realize she’s about to prove it.

“Huh,” Chaeyoung says, cryptically, dark irises glittering, grin curling wicked. “We’ll see about that.”

(“I’ll play volleyball with you,” you offer, like that’ll absolve you of whatever she’s planning. “Even though you lost the bet.”

Chaeyoung stands and she’s in a denim miniskirt, top cutting off high at her midriff, legs lean and toned. She looks at you and she’s almost unbearably beautiful, every single sin and their synonyms. She smiles and it’s like something from a myth, or a memory. There’s no way to explain it but there never is.

“I know,” she says. “You were going to do whatever I wanted either way.”)

You’re just daring her to torture you, really. You’re always a breath away from losing control. A taunt’s never just a taunt, a joke’s never a joke: you know what I want, her eyes say, even when her mouth won’t; I want what’s right in front of me.

“Hey,” Chaeyoung says, breezily, as you meet her during one of her later shifts. She’s still in her miniskirt, but she’s worked her hair out of her braids; it falls over her shoulders in waves, disheveled like something you could wrap your fist in and tug. Well, you’ve already lost. “About what you said earlier.”

“Don’t,” you warn.

She smiles, the glint of her teeth only slightly feral. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Whatever you’re about to do is a bad idea.”

“Isn’t it always?” she asks, and she’s right - it’s all been the worst idea in the world, since the day you saw her and lost your breath, since the day she leaned across the counter and touched your wrist like your veins had her name on it, possessive. Maybe this is something you lost a long time ago. “I just thought you might wanna hear some more details about my night with that guy.”

“Chaeyoung.”

Her name on your tongue - in the right context you think it could kill her. Her eyes twinkle, her mouth seems like it could grow fangs, break skin and suck; in this one, it just spurs her on.

It’s late; the lobby’s got people, but barely. You’re not under scrutiny but one wrong move and you could be. Chaeyoung says, “It shouldn’t be an issue, since you’re not attracted to me or anything.”

She’s got the devil in her voice, words dripping poison. There’s this thing people say, about craving, about temptation: wanting something you can’t have only makes you want them more. She’s already got bruises on her neck. It’s so easy to imagine biting down.

“Come on,” she purrs, leaning closer. You’re just drawn to her - call it planets, call it predestination. “Let me tell you. I know you want to know.”

It’s been a little more than two weeks. There’s always a breaking point. The sun’ll leak your secrets, but it’s the evening and it’s not spying on you anymore; there’s the moonlight instead, and it’s got nothing on her. Sex and emotions are two separate things, you’ve thought. It hasn’t been nearly long enough for you to give in.

“Well,” you say, and you give in. “It’s not like I can stop you.”

(“Lots of guys have this thing with me,” she says. “Because I’m, like, five-three and pretty tiny compared to most people. It turns them on to use me, I guess.” Her smirk’s like knifepoint; her eyes are so wide, unassuming. “Throw me around, mark me up.” She drops her tone. “Do whatever they want with me and my body.”

“You’re sick,” you say, hand to your temple. She’s gonna be the death of you.

“So this particular guy.” It’s almost conversational, the way she says it. “He wanted me to call him sir - yeah, that was a given. It’s the age gap. Lots of people get off on that. Like they think because I’m so young that I’m just this innocent little girl who doesn’t know the first thing about getting fucked, I guess. Like the second they get their dick in me they’ll be corrupting me.”

She laughs, but her eyes don’t change, trained on you like she’s tracking your movements. You can’t look away. You’ve traded war stories from the field - like you said, sex isn’t taboo, for you two - but she’s never shared them like this.

“He’s got me in his hotel room,” Chaeyoung says, slowly. Her hair unfurls over her thin shoulders, brushes the countertop; her eyes are half-lidded, lazy. “And he can’t stop touching me. He’s like, baby, you’re so small - which is basically code for I want to fucking break you. Like if he gets his cock in my cunt he’ll split me open.” She shrugs. “Maybe it’s demeaning, sure, but he was hot and I was wet.” She pauses, then says, deliberately, “It’s not like anyone else was gonna take care of me.”

The room’s closing in - there’s gotta be water pouring down the walls, there’s gotta be the threat of drowning, suffocating, losing air. There’s no one else: you and Chaeyoung in the open ocean. Your mouth’s a desert. You’re not even touching.

It’s not like anyone else was gonna take care of me, she says. It’s not like you were there.

Because-

It’s the kind of insinuations that dig their claws into your mind and don’t come out, crafting fantasies - and it’s the point. You’re staring at her and thinking about all the positions you could push her into. You’re thinking about rounding the counter and bending her over, your hands on her ass, getting her skirt up, getting her panties down - fuck it all, fuck everyone who sees, fuck the plan, the money, all logic - you’d get your hand in her hair, there’s no way you’d be gentle - you’d get her dripping wet and wanting, panting, all her ego and seduction on the floor, useless now that you’ve got her in your grip-

“He doesn’t even want foreplay.” She’s got her elbows on the desk, top slipping low. “He says, fuck, I can’t believe you just walk around looking like that. How does anyone you meet do anything but think about fucking you?”

Chaeyoung, you’d say, her name as a weapon. Tell me what you want.

“He says,” Chaeyoung murmurs, “if I were that lifeguard friend of yours, I’d have fucked your needy little cunt a long, long time ago.”

“Stop.” Your voice is shot. “He did not say that.”

She doesn’t stop. “He says, it’s so clear you want to fuck him, sweetheart. It’s so obvious he’s all you want.” She knows she’s stripping you bare - peeling back your skin, layer by layer; she knows it’s something more violent than taking off clothes, consuming and catastrophic. “It’s so obvious that you dream about him fucking you nightly. He says, I know that when I fuck you right now, all you’ll be thinking about is him.”

“Chaeyoung.”

Tell me what you want, you’d say, but it’s no use: you already know.

“And I say, well, sir, that’s actually the problem. He is all I want. Every since I first saw him, every time I fuck someone else, I only think about his cock, his hands, his mouth, moaning his name. I think about him cumming inside me. I think about him being the one who breaks me.”

You’re too close to the edge. There are tsunami warnings; there are tides coming in that won’t stop. You’re staring at her lips, her tits, her hands, hips - you’re thinking about dismantling, about crumbling, about the sea and how it devours everything, in the end.

“But he won’t.” Chaeyoung’s eyes, the full moon lighting your way: every rule, every treacherous desire. “He won’t even lay a finger on me.”

You’re stranded, together. Someone made this island just for you two, you think. Someone must’ve known. Someone must’ve seen the summer and you and her and said ha, let’s throw them together, come on - let’s watch them both ruin their own lives.

“And then…” It’s barely a breath, barely a whisper. “He says, oh, baby, it’s okay. If he won’t breed your fucking cunt, I will.”

Someone must’ve drafted a script just like this, put it all in motion. They’re perfect for each other, the foreword reads, they’re twin flames, they’re something. They’re not even ready for it. They won’t even know. They have no idea that they’ve never known what it is to crave something until they find each other.

Chaeyoung hasn’t even touched you, not once, and she’s fucking destroyed you.

“And then he did,” she says, and her mouth curls, and her irises burn, and she’s finally, truly won. “So I guess it was worth it.”

Oh, you think, raw and hollowed out and gorgeously ruined. Oh, I guess it was.)

“You’re bad news,” you say, hoarsely, “but you know I want you anyway.”

“Right back at you,” she says, smiling. “Come and get me.”

It’s crazy, it’s irrational, it’s impossible. You’re both losing your minds. Sometimes you meet someone, and there’s no way to explain it, but you find them and you’re never the same. It’s over. It’s a disaster. There’s an eclipse swallowing the sky; the sun and moon will trade all their private affairs, share every dirty thing they’ve seen. They won’t tell anyone else. You might just get away with this.

Tell me what you want, you could say. We came this far, didn’t we? Tell me.

You, she’d say, every time, and the ocean pulls you both under. You. I swear I never wanted anything until I wanted you.

this was meant to be a one-shot for the comeback but then it got too long even for me LMFAO… so i’m breaking it up into parts. aka part 2 eventually lol. stream between 1&2! <3

in love like we were (red velvet seulgi)

(ft. the rest of red velvet) (smut, female reader, actress seulgi, actress you, cheating, choking, homewrecking, mommy kink, spanking, praise and degradation, semi-public sex, fluff, i support women’s rights but more importantly i support women’s wrongs, jk this is fiction do NOT cheat on your partners…, 24k words)

So, here’s the bottom line: you never meant for any of this to happen. Hand to God. Er - alright, whatever, maybe you shouldn’t be dragging God into any of this, considering-

“Christ, you’re so fucking wet.”

-okay, you’re pretty much in the least holy position possible.

The lighting in the bathroom’s dangerously dim, but if anyone were to walk in, there’d be no mistaking it: the scent of sex, the needy, desperate whines, the way Kang Seulgi’s got you on the counter with two fingers driving into your cunt, laughing as you drip down her wrist, embarrassingly soaked. The media would have a fucking field day. Your careers would be permanently ruined. And yet-

“Shut up,” you’re choking out. “Shut up, shut up, just fuck me-”

“Baby.” Seulgi tuts. Her fingers stall. “Ask nicely.”

You know what she wants. And - unfortunately, humiliatingly - it happens to be the exact same thing you want.

Your eyes squeeze shut. “Mommy-”

Beside you, her phone starts to ring.

Seulgi stops cold with her fingers still buried in you at the sight of the name flashing across the screen. The picture, too: Seulgi, grinning widely, with her arms thrown around an unbelievably gorgeous dark-haired woman. Smile demure. Not a hair out of place. Looking like she’s straight off the movie sets she frequents, made-up and meticulously styled.

“Oh, wow,” you say, strangled, breathless. Derisive, at the contact: capitalized, first and last. As detached and businesslike as she could possibly get. “Your contact name for her is just Bae Irene?”

“That’s her name, isn’t it?”

It quite literally isn’t, but you’ll let that one slide. “Unsentimental much?”

“You think so?” A harsh thrust to your cunt. You buckle at the movement, gasping, clutching the lip of the bathroom counter. Seulgi’s smirk is murderously sharp, eyebrows twitching upwards. It’s a good thing one of you is finding this funny.

“Seulgi-”

“Enlighten me then, sweetheart.” She leans in close. Timbre of her voice like gunfire, like she knows she’s about to deliver a fatal blow. “What was your contact name for her when you dated her?”

And that’s something that should be digging up graves, unearthing corpses: there’s the coffin, there’s your past relationship haunting you, there’s the residual remorse like Catholic guilt. There’s the fact that she’s got a girl at home and you’re casting yourself as the other woman just by letting her touch you. There’s Seulgi’s other hand wrapping around your throat, just as her fingers curl deep inside your cunt - and every ghost in the room packs up and goes home. They know a foregone conclusion when they see one.

You can’t talk. You’re back to whining pathetically, pussy clenching around her fingers. “That’s what I thought,” husks Seulgi, maniacally victorious, and lets Irene’s call go to voicemail.

“Mommy, mommy, mommy-”

Fine, God can get the fuck out of here. Yeah, Seulgi’s your ex-girlfriend’s current girlfriend, and now she’s making you cum harder than you ever have. The holy spirit’s just gonna have to make his peace with that. We all make mistakes. It’s so human. Seriously, come on: it’s not like you’ll make this one ever again.

Well, probably.

For context, a month and a half ago, you just had the worst breakup of your life.

There’s no real need to recap the gory details, play back a previously-on to catch an audience up. Really, all you have to know is this:

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

It’s late September. Sky clear and cloudless through your windows. The day ironically gorgeous around you, like it’s taunting you. And Irene stands in your doorway with her hands balled into bloodless fists by her side, the expression on her face never wavering.

“It’s just not working,” she repeats, like that means anything. Like it’s rehearsed, inflection practiced and pristine. “And-” A breath, regulating. “I feel like it hasn’t been working for a while.”

Here’s where you’re at: reeling through a shock to the system. It’s you, adrift in the center of the sea, fatally unmoored; you and no map and no way home, facing down the last two years of your life in the resolute line of Irene’s mouth. All your words shipwrecked; any fight you have left chained to stones and sinking. You, alone.

“For a while?” you get out, sounding very small.

Irene’s lashes flutter fast, a miniscule crack in her composure. Then, like it takes a Herculean effort for her voice not to shake: “I’m sorry.”

And just like that - cut to black, let the credits roll, force the audience out of their seats; pack up the rest of Irene’s clothes and let her take them, leave like she was never there. No warning, no explanation. Just like that, it’s over.

The news’ll hit the press by the end of October. It’ll make the rounds throughout social media, pictures of you and her together, award-winning actresses, looking so happy and in love that you’ll feel like throwing up. There’ll be conspiracy theories, headlines claiming to know exactly where it went wrong; fans mourning melodramatically, hashtags and trending topics. Someone will talk about it and it’ll rip all the same wounds right open. It’ll break your heart on loop. It’ll be horrible.

And in any other life, if you’d just left it alone after that, you would’ve gotten out of it all completely unscathed.

See, it’s all about the narrative. You as the designated victim in your story; she broke up with you, and you’d be able to thrive off the sympathy from that forever. Themes of love and loss, healing and recovery, forgiveness and starting fresh. And one day - in some sort of neat little epilogue, wrapping up loose ends - you’d be able to meet up with Irene again and laugh about the old times, and you’d be so benevolent, accepting apologies; she’d take the blame, and smile, and wish you the best. Leave you as the heroine, with your perfect happy ending. Time healing all wounds, as they say - what a tale, what a message; critics would’ve praised the life lessons taught, call it coming-of-age, honest and raw and real. But instead-

Well, instead, you’ve got no other story to tell but this. You figure it’s as good a place to start as any.

It’s a month and a half after Irene breaks up with you, but she somehow manages to send you into complete and utter insanity all over again. It’s a talent, but she’s always had a lot of those. Here’s how it really begins:

“I actually have a new lease on life,” you say, over the phone on a Friday, lazing on your couch. “I’m actually feeling so optimistic right now.”

The feeling’s warranted, you’re thinking. It’s a perfect, peaceful day. You’re in between projects; you don’t start filming again until January. It’s a much-needed break, and you’re taking full advantage of it.

“That’s amazing,” says your best friend, sounding like she means it. “That’s so, so great. So - uh - if that’s the case, I do have some… news for you.”

To her credit, she takes it upon herself to soften the blow, at first. Gives a comprehensive recap of the celebrity rumors going around lately, dances around it with the best of them. First there’s all that baseless (and biased, you’re pretty sure) gossip about Park Sooyoung’s fiancé being a cheater, there’s the usual scandal around Ahn Yujin, there’s that conspiracy theory about Im Nayeon and her secret boyfriend-

“That’s her shirt. ”

And there’s one very specific rumor about your ex-girlfriend and Kang fucking Seulgi.

“Look, it’s…” Your best friend is peering down at your phone screen with the single worst poker face you’ve ever seen. Then again, she’s not the actress between the two of you. “It’s probably not even that serious. It’s, um. Yeah, it’s probably nothing.” A cautious peek out of the corner of her eye. “It might not even be Irene’s, right?”

“Wendy.”

Wendy draws back at your tone, then immediately pats your shoulder gingerly like you’re a particularly prickly feral animal. “Dude, I’m trying to be consoling here.”

She’s doing a shit job at it, but even if she wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter. You’d be losing your mind either way.

Because when Wendy first got you on the phone while she was on the way to your place, filling you in on the goings-on of your rich and famous peers - right, she told you, like an afterthought, people are saying there’s something between she-who-must-not-be-named and Kang Seulgi, but that’s ridiculous, that’s obviously not happening, isn’t that so funny - and you’d laughed along, too, disbelieving. It’s been a month and a half, you thought. Kang Seulgi’s not even Irene’s type. Earlier this year you’d seen one of Seulgi’s smash hit blockbuster flicks with Irene and the only thing Irene said about Seulgi’s performance was a semi-scathing critique about the way her face looked when she was crying. It’s nothing. It’s-

“It’s her shirt,” you say, again, floored.

Wendy gusts out a tiny sigh, giving up the performance. “Yeah,” she says. “I know it is.”

Now you’re both sitting on your couch, staring blankly at Kang Seulgi’s most recent Instagram post. Disheveled black hair. Delicate lines of her nose, her jaw, her mouth. Smoldering dark eyes, lips pulled up in a careless little grin. Tall black boots and heinously expensive jewelry, all caught in high definition. And to top it all off-

“I used to wear that shirt,” you say, viciously, glaring hard at the picture.

“And it looked so much better on you,” says Wendy, lying badly.

“Seungwan.”

“I said I’m trying. ”

“Okay, and I appreciate it, but-” You accidentally swipe to the right; oh, wow, it’s a photo series, that’s fantastic. “Oh my God.“

It’s a bloodbath, really. Every image is that same infuriatingly effortless brand of sex appeal that Seulgi’s clearly become accustomed to marketing; she could stick a serial number on it at this point, sell it in stores like she sells out theaters. Face strangely regal and refined, almost austere; smirk pushing it just off the edge, measuring up to sexy rather than stoic. Filthy bedroom eyes, curl of her mouth suggestive by default. It’s obviously a practiced expression. Probably an equally practiced pose, something crafted to deliberately accentuate the toned muscles in her thighs, lean pull of her calves-

“Are you-” starts Wendy, eyeing you suspiciously.

“I’m really, really pissed off,” you clarify, like that explains why you’re staring so hard at Seulgi’s legs. “I seriously can’t believe this is happening.”

“Right,” says Wendy, slowly. “Because for a second I thought you were eye-fucking photos of your ex-girlfriend’s new girlfriend.”

“I would obviously never do that. That’s crazy.” A pause, and then it actually hits: “New what?”

Your voice hitching frantically high is enough to send Wendy on the immediate defense; no, she says, nothing’s actually confirmed, so you can chill out. One shirt - even if it is so obviously Irene’s, down to the tastefully frayed tear in the collar; bought distressed, of course, because Irene’s too classy to rip up her own clothes - doesn’t actually prove anything. They’re probably just fucking, crass as it sounds.

“Yeah,” you say sarcastically, “because that makes it better.”

Wendy simply arches an eyebrow, her almost elfin features - warm, long-lashed eyes, prettily pert nose; today she’s got drawn-on freckles that complete the illusion - arranged in mild confusion. “Well,” she says. “Doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” you echo, a little grouchily, eyes still stuck resentfully on Seulgi’s face.

Look, it’s not just that you’re losing, here - it’s that you’re losing because of her.

“I mean, yeah,” says Wendy, like it’s indisputable. “Because would you rather Irene just be hooking up with Kang Seulgi for fun, or would you rather know that Irene fell for Kang Seulgi in a month and a half in some cheesy whirlwind romance where they discovered that they’re soulmates and now she’s totally over you?”

There’s a pause.

“Okay,” you say, disgruntled. “When you put it like that. ”

“I’m not putting it like anything,” Wendy replies, whimsically. “That’s the way things are, man.”

“Ugh,” you respond, and bury your face in her shoulder.

Because if it’s true, and that’s the way things are-

You’re backpedaling to a month and a half ago, abandoned in the doorway of your apartment; a tsunami with no warning signs, no signals or sirens. Irene’s winning, in a different way. She’s got Kang Seulgi as her girlfriend with her victorious smirk, her reputation, her awards and her fans and her fame. If they’re dating, Seulgi’s cast as the perfect counterpart, the brooding bad-girl love interest, and they’ll sail off into the sunset together, and you’ll die the anticlimactic off-screen death of the side character no one gives a fuck about. Probably from tuberculosis or something equally depressing. Alone.

“This is so ass,” you say miserably, voice muffled by Wendy’s sweater.

“Look at it this way,” replies Wendy, softer, smoothing a hand over your hair. “It’s been a month and a half. You dated Irene for two years. This-” she taps Kang Seulgi’s unreasonably pretty face with a manicured nail- “is definitely just a rebound. Meaningless.”

You emerge, watch her face, watch her click your phone off, screen going blissfully dark. It’s easier to cope when the problem’s not staring at you from a screen, smiling like she’s at the top of the world looking down, forever above it all. “Really?”

“They haven’t gone public with it, right?” Wendy reasons, defaulting to logic. “So it’s clearly not serious. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

It’s hard to argue with her when she takes that tone. No, Wendy’s not an actress, but she spends her life up on a stage, performing in front of a crowd - she knows how to be convincing when the occasion calls for it. Yes, of course I adore my fans, of course I love all my songs, of course the idol life is perfect; of course your ex-girlfriend wouldn’t move on so fast, she loved you, she’s struggling too.

“Okay,” you say, sucking in a deep breath, watching Wendy’s reassuring smile. You’ll buy into logic for one in your life. You’ll be like everyone else, and believe her, for now. “No, you’re right. You’re right.”

And she must be. Because if she’s not, then-

“The shirt’s ugly as shit anyway,” says Wendy, loyally, leaning into last-ditch efforts. “Like, you were doing charity by even letting it touch your body.”

“Thanks,” you say. “You know what? You’re absolutely correct.”

“It’s basic, too. Vintage, my ass. I could buy one that looks just like it off of Depop for ten bucks.”

“I’m really digging all the hate in your heart for this t-shirt right now.” You shift your head towards her collarbone. “Except I did used to wear it, so I don’t know what you’re trying to say about my taste.”

“A lapse in judgment,” Wendy proclaims. “You have great taste, historically.”

It’s sweet of her to say. Of course, in, like, three days from now, you’re going to make her eat her words, but neither of you know that just yet. You’ll let it be true until then.

Wendy leaves a little later; she’s got an early flight tomorrow, some music show overseas. Call me if you need anything, she tells you, and you hug her goodbye, but you tell her you’ll be fine. Sure, you end up idly scrolling through some of Kang Seulgi’s recent posts, but that’s normal, that’s justifiable. Checking out your replacement, even if it is just a short-lived fling. Photo after photo of her draped in leather jackets and stretching in sports bras and glittering gowns on red carpets - fine, she’s so fucking hot, she’s perfect for a rebound. Womanizing reputation and all. It’s understandable. You wouldn’t be able to blame Irene for wanting her. Dating her, though-

But they’re not. You dispel that thought as quickly as it comes. Logic, you remind yourself. Like Wendy said: they haven’t gone public with it. Meaningless. Ridiculous. So, really, you have nothing to worry about.

A day later, they go public with it.

“Okay, so I’m not a mind reader,” Wendy is saying frantically into the phone, like she thinks she’s talking you off a ledge. “I didn’t know. Dude, I didn’t know-”

You’re staring at SEULRENE trending on Twitter, under news article after news article touting that the two actresses announce they’re dating, that they finally made it official, that they’re so infatuated with each other, so happy -

“I’m gonna kill her,” you say, seriously.

“That’s such a horrible idea.” A pause. “Which one?”

In the two years that you and Irene were dating, together you managed to curate a particularly rabid fanbase between the two of you, people who lamented that love was fake and didn’t exist after the report of your break-up was made public information. Posting selfies of them crying. Dramatic edits of you and Irene to sappy sad love songs. And now, in the wake of Irene dating someone new:

ooooh no bc this is actually very nasty and evil, someone Tweets. ok so based on the timeline my moot put together (thread linked below of insta stories & tweets for proof) it’s been literally a month & 14 days since they broke up… either irene moves on fast or imo she was prob fucking around with seulgi the whole time…

Somehow your fans are keeping better track of the details than you are, but maybe that’s not so surprising. They’re like the FBI, or something. It’s honestly impressive.

NO… someone else replies underneath. YOU THINK IRENE WAS CHEATING?

idk but the timing sure seems suspicious doesn’t it 🤨🤨🤨🤨🤨

“Was Irene cheating on me?” you choke out into the phone.

Another, longer pause. “Are you stalking your own stans on Twitter?”

A guilty flick across your screen, swiping out of the app. “Of course not.”

Wendy makes a noise like hissing air through her teeth, as if in physical pain. “You need to delete all social media off of your phone right now. For your own good, man, I’m serious. For your mental.”

“I’m gonna hit Kang Seulgi with my car,” you say, fuming. “I’m gonna commit vehicular manslaughter.”

“It’s not manslaughter if it’s premeditated. And you don’t even know how to drive.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

And it’s not like Irene’s done anything wrong, per se - it’s not even that. Sure, it’s a quick turnaround, but the two of you are broken up, and she’s allowed to do whatever she wants. No, it’s something else, something much more bitter and bruising-

Okay: it’s not lost on you that Kang Seulgi’s basically your exact opposite.

She’s the country’s favorite bad girl, reputation larger than life and with this air of mystery, of carelessness, of unassailable cool. Starring in all these gritty action flicks or psychological thrillers or hard-hitting dramas, perpetually covered in blood and soaked in sweat, defined lines of muscle in her arms, along her stomach. Straight-faced and curt and sarcastic in interviews, when she chooses to give them. A revolving door of girls that’ve never been granted any official title - nothing exclusive, nothing serious - or, at least, not until Irene. You’re the antithesis, the sweet-faced girl next door, dressed up in schoolgirl skirts and playing high schoolers even at twenty-one. Innocence personified. Even dating a girl a decade older than you wasn’t enough to tarnish your image.

So it’s so easy to imagine Seulgi with Irene, smiling that same heedless smile that’s plastered all over her Instagram - saying I know what you had before; I know it wasn’t enough. Let me show you everything you’re missing out on. Oh, she bored you to tears , didn’t she; come on, watch me bring you back to life. Serpent in Eden, fangs like the devil. Smiling because she knows she won.

“When did this become a competition?” asks Wendy, after a beat. “I mean, I’m all for coming up with crazy delusional narratives in my free time, but - what, you think she did this on purpose?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you insist, scrolling through her Instagram again. “It’s just - God. It’s like, out of everyone, why did it have to be Kang Seulgi?”

A sigh. “No, I get it. You feel like they ended up having this instant connection, or whatever. Because it’s so fast. So it’s kind of like - you’re wondering what she has that you don’t, right?”

Well, sort of. You know what she has that you don’t, on a surface level: she’s (marginally) more famous than you, hotter and more established, she’s got more awards, more money - she’s got visible abs and those toned thighs, hands threatening in every photograph; seduction down pat, like she’d been trained for it; this way of making everything she does seem so easy-

An extended stretch of silence. “So is it that they’re in a serious public relationship or is it really just the Kang Seulgi of it all?”

You’re swiping through a photo series of Seulgi on set for her most recent action film, her with a fake cut done up in SFX makeup stretching bloody across her collarbone, her nose glinting with a sheen of sweat. Gaze trained off into the distance, bruises underneath enticingly dark. Flex of her bicep in the sixth one as she closes her fist around a pistol. Half a smirk at the camera in the eighth, eyes saying it all: you want me and you can’t have me; you want me, but doesn’t everyone?

“Can’t it be both?” you say, staring hard.

“Well, it kind of seems like you think she’s really hot and you’re mad about that first and foremost.”

“Um,” you say, and abruptly it’s like you’ve never acted in your life. “No. It’s, like, way deeper than that.”

Wendy sounds like she’s holding back a laugh. “Okay,” she says, and lets it go. It’s the kind thing to do.

“I think I understand it now,” she says, later. “She’s currently your mortal enemy because you think she’s better than you.”

“I can handle her being better than me,” you say. “She’s my mortal enemy because she’s better than me and my ex-girlfriend’s in love with her.”

“Who said anything about love?”

But along with the story, there’s a handful of paparazzi pictures posted in each article, plastered all over Twitter - Irene and Seulgi laughing as they pile into a car together, hands linked, smiles blindingly bright. Stunning even through blurry photographs, in every medium; the two of them spotting the cameras and not caring at all, treating them with great angles, perfect shots. So sure of themselves. Pictures and a thousand words, et cetera. It says everything it needs to.

“Seriously, though, do I really need a reason?” you add, after an hour of ranting. “She’s my ex’s new girlfriend. It’s been a month and a half. I’m allowed to want her dead.”

“Totally,” says Wendy, supportively. “I’m sure there’s no other explanation for why you feel so strongly about her.”

“There really isn’t,” you say, and leave it at that. It’s practically the truth, anyway.

Later that night, as you’re still stalking Seulgi on Instagram, you accidentally like a photo from February. It’s bad, but it could be worse. At least it’s not from last year. At least she’s clothed in it.

(Mostly. It’s her sprawled over a motel bed in a ripped band tee and lacy panties and nothing else. But it’s also very clearly a photo from set - you recognize it from a movie of hers that you went to see with Wendy a few months back. R-rated, fully scandalous, entirely brilliant, sure to sweep the end-of-year awards ceremonies you have coming up. Seulgi played the drug-addicted fuck-crazy frontwoman to some rock band, had half a dozen topless scenes, thrown back on the sheets like a timeless sex symbol: makeup smudged, chest heaving, moans practically pornographic. Eyes heavy, hooded, meant to seduce.

But this picture’s got none of that. Seulgi’s very clearly mid-laugh in it, for one, breaking character; someone had happened to snap a candid, catch her in a moment of gorgeous, wild imperfection. It’s one of the only photos on her Instagram that isn’t her face fixed in a practiced smolder, that doesn’t relegate her pretty mouth to a smirk. A rarity, where she’s not living up to her reputation.

And you can’t stop staring at it. Wondering what it was that got her to crack. Strangely spellbound by that one expression, unable to pull your eyes away.)

So your finger slips, and you like it - whatever. But it’s probably fine: you doubt Seulgi even has her notifications turned on, and even if she does, she gets hundreds of thousands of those per day. She’ll never see it.

Nobody needs to know, really. And even if they do, it’s not like it means anything.

do you think this is heartless of irene though, you text Wendy. like i know i said i wasn’t mad at her but

irene? heartless? replies Wendy. generally yes. but in this context….. ummm…

???

i mean. sorry. but its KANG SEULGI

and? you say. And then, because it’s easier to lie to Wendy through your teeth when she can’t see the expression on your face: kang seulgi is like deeply mediocre as an actress. and otherwise. i don’t know what you’re talking about.

It’s a mistruth of biblical proportions. Miraculously, Wendy doesn’t even call you on it.

whoa…. she says, instead. cant wait for these texts to get leaked so u get crucified on twitter for talking shit about THE kang seulgi

wendy why would these texts ever get leaked.

idk….. for the right price…..

you leak these texts and i’m leaking your nudes.

go ahead i look fucking great in all my nudes!!!!! tf!!!!

And that’s how you know it’s really over: Wendy can’t even blame Irene for going after Seulgi. Wendy, who’s always had a vague vendetta against Irene (her vibes are permanently fucked and can never be resuscitated, Wendy informed you once, while drunk, and has since never offered another explanation), backing down from an opportunity to insult her. It’s bad. It’s really bad.

KYSSSSS, you say. Then, immediately: okay i’m sorry i didn’t mean that i’m just emotional right now.

we’re going to a party when i get back, texts Wendy. u need to get out of the house before u become so delusional that u have to be institutionalized.

fine, you say, unable to fight back. It’s starting to seem like she kind of has a point.

(Looking back on it now, the actual first problem is this:

Wendy’s right. You think Kang Seulgi is so, so hot. But the even worse thing is that you’ve thought this for ages: binge-watched every movie she’s ever been in, gone through dozens of interviews, drooled over red carpet photos. Since you started dating Irene. Since long before that. But it’s always been fine - distant and manageable, irrelevant and light-hearted - because you’ve never once acted on it, because you’ve never once met her. Nothing that’ll ever come to fruition at all, and for good reason. And it doesn’t matter now, because she’s dating your ex-girlfriend and so you want her dead. It’ll never be anything more than that.

Or, at least, that’s what you think.)

Two days later, and - well, there’s always a party. You’re all too rich and famous and repressed. It’s just how it’s always been.

The typical scene’s already in full swing, when you get there: looming mansion, rooms gaping wide, the most well-known names in the country spilling out over the spotless tile flooring, laughing and drinking and enjoying some semblance of freedom. You’re all so used to smiling into a lens like surveillance is second nature - you’ll get reckless at times like these, when you know you can afford it. When you know there’s only a miniscule chance of getting caught.

“Seriously,” you say, phone tucked close to your ear, talking loud over the music: “if I don’t find you in the next ten minutes, I’m leaving.”

“But then how will you get laid without me?” Wendy says, on the other line.

You roll your eyes, then shoot a wave at one of Wendy’s idol friends across the room, someone she probably knows from a music show or a collab stage or because they’re part of the same company. The idol industry’s a little different than yours; they’re constantly at the same events, frequenting the same venues. It’s easier to forge connections. “You mean because you’ll be my wingman or because you’ll take one for the team and fuck me yourself?”

“It’s a toss-up,” says Wendy, who’s talking equally loudly, probably trapped in some opposite corner of this manor of a house. “I still haven’t seen if you look hot enough tonight. I have standards, bitch.”

“Right,” you say, as you notice Park Sooyoung and her fiancé, isolated off to the right in what seems like a particularly intense conversation for a party. “You really know how to turn a girl on, Wendy. I’m, like, creaming my jeans.”

A horrified pause through the pounding music. “You’re wearing jeans?”

“Obviously not. Weren’t you the one who said-”

“Yeah, yeah. The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”

Cliché, but you won’t knock it ‘til you try it. They’re tropes for a reason. So you’re looking for a very specific kind of attention tonight: short skirt and shoes with a heel and hair straightened to a shine. This Kang Seulgi thing is the last goddamn straw, giving you a mission, an objective: you need to get fucked, and soon. You don’t need to find the love of your life, or whatever. You just need to prove you’ve moved on.

“Shouldn’t be that hard,” says Wendy. “I’m sure there are plenty of social climbers at this party who want what you have and think they can fuck their way into a job or whatever.”

“So you’re saying that they’d want me for my fame and not anything else?” She’s got a point, but you’re not about to tell her that; it’s enough to get a fuck, and that’s all you’re asking for. “Thanks. Really, that’s so helpful.”

“Your fame and your ass,” replies Wendy, cheerfully. “What else do you need? Like, it clearly wouldn’t be for your personality-”

“Fuck off. I’m going out to the balcony,” you say, beelining towards the glass double doors; they’re recognizable enough, and you need the backup. “Come find me, okay?”

“Okay, no, that’s too vague. There are like fifteen balconies in this place. How will I know-”

And everything that happens next occurs with horror-movie proportions: the fatal anticipation, the red flags flying. Any audience member’s screaming at the screen right now, warning you: don’t go through that doorway, don’t make that decision, turn on your heel and run. It’s a slasher and you’re heading right into the killer’s arms. It’ll ruin you for life. It’s so obvious-

(There’s a storm coming. There’s the crack of lightning, electricity at your ribs. The sky’s a second from splitting open. What are the odds, what’s the mathematic probability; you and the girl you’ve been obsessing over for the past three days - or earlier than that, if you’re counting just how many of her movies you’ve seen, put on repeat, lost your mind a million times over - in the same place, the same time. You’re distracted; you’ve forgotten to put your guard up. Again with all the fucking clichés.)

-but there’s hindsight, and all its clarity. You’re just not there yet. You’re too close to see it coming.

There’s a woman smoking on the balcony.

There’d be a sitcom laugh track here, if anyone were watching - how clueless can someone be, how comically stupid - because you don’t even realize it at first, much less recognize who it is. You’re pushing open the heavy double doors, still talking loudly to Wendy, trying to elaborate on statues that could serve as makeshift landmarks - and in the rush of the cool autumn wind, you finally spot her standing there. Cue raucous laughter. Take a breath for delighted applause.

“Ah, sorry,” you say, automatically, coming to a stop.

“Yeah, you should be,” says Wendy, still on the phone.

The doors shut with an ominous sound behind you; bad omens, butterfly effects. Smoke curling around the woman’s hair, turning her silhouette spectral, ghostlike. Clad in a dress so short there’s no way her teeth aren’t chattering around her cigarette. You say, into the phone, “Not to you, idiot. I’m talking to-”

And then the woman turns, and you’re so shocked you accidentally hang up the call. Because it’s-

Well, everyone probably already knows by now.

What they don’t know - what nobody could know, except you, in this one moment - is the overwhelmingly, tragically physical effect seeing her in person has on you. Lungs suddenly like they’re struggling for air. Pulse like the thrum of music still blaring inside, bass as a bloodline, melodies as chemical compositions. Somehow, entirely by accident, you’d built her up in your head to be this deity, this goddess, this fictitious impossibility: she’s otherworldly in her films, in photographs, spur-of-the-moment snaps taken by fans. Beautiful like something out of a Renaissance painting, striking and regal and ruminative. You’d never even imagined anything else.

And it’s there, in bits and pieces, a glimpse of the myth in motion. Threat in the high hemline of her skirt. Lips startlingly red, blood and sin and more suggestive things. Collarbones like cliffs to throw yourself off of; glint in her eye like she’s armed and dangerous. Like she’s everything her movies paint her out to be.

But then there’s everything else.

“Oh,” you say out loud, throat dry, and you’re paralyzed.

Because she’s nothing like she is when you’ve seen her in print, awards shows and billboards - and in that moment, it all starts crumbling to the ground.

She’s positively tiny in real life, that’s the first thing. Sporting platform boots and still a few inches shorter than you are; sleeves hitting below her elbows, veins visible in her arms, patterned under her skin. Lipstick bleeding just past the line of her mouth, smudged unevenly at her cupid’s bow. Hair a little wild in the wind, slipping undone and coarse over her shoulders. Eyeliner worn-in, mascara leaving faint, sooty shadows under both eyes. Tiny moles you’d seen photoshopped out in magazines; one just underneath her eyebrow, stark against fair skin; one of her knees is badly bruised, blooming a faint, sickly yellow-green. Posture slightly slumped as she turns to look at you, shoulders rounded, set of her lips a bit crooked, pulled up at a corner.

“Hey,” Kang Seulgi says, voice gravelly, and that’s really when everything falls apart.

Because she’s nothing like she is on billboards. Because she’s better.

Here’s how it happens, if you had to explain yourself: you meet and it’s already so far gone. You can’t help but blink dumbly, heart thrown into an avalanche, splitting your ribs; smoke everywhere, fires set ablaze. Off the key of reason, each bit of her just past perfect and heading straight to immeasurably, unquantifiably beautiful. Rough edges and nails unpolished, hands like an invitation. Lips puckering around her cigarette, hair somewhat blending into the night sky - and Seulgi looks right on back at you, staring openly, drinking you in.

“Hi,” you say, breathlessly, because you forget that you’re supposed to hate her guts.

“Hey,” says Seulgi again, and she’s still staring, eyes wide. It’s becoming incredibly apparent that there’s no need for introduction. She knows who you are.

(That’s the next problem. You know each other, even though you’ve never met. There’s no escaping it now.)

The seconds tick by in spellbindingly slow motion. Like you’re waiting for the clock to strike midnight; waiting on an inevitability, a prewritten series of events, an entirely scripted array of scenes. Moon a deliberate director. Stars the screenwriters, setting marks, assigning meaning: put a pause here, pull back on the dialogue - the critics will get all the subtext.

You’re frozen. You just can’t stop looking at her.

“Sorry,” Seulgi says, suddenly.

“Um,” you say back, because for one crazy moment, you think she’s talking about Irene. And for an even crazier moment you think of saying no, it’s fine, I forgive you - no, obviously I haven’t been obsessing about it since I heard the news; God, you’re so much more than gorgeous, I get it; fuck, I’d never blame anyone for going after you. Look at you. Look at you.

But then Seulgi gestures with her cigarette between two fingers, and you realize she’s talking about the smoking. And she abruptly doesn’t sound sorry at all when she says, “You can go back inside, if you want. Not trying to offend anyone’s delicate sensibilities here.”

Your mouth falls open.

“Seriously,” Seulgi tacks on, at your silence. “I wouldn’t want to, you know.” Slow pan of your body, your hair to your heels. Something about the way she looks at you, then; severe quirk of her eyebrow, the amused sniff of air through her nose. “Get in your way.”

And, well-

“It’s a bad habit,” continues Seulgi, mouth at an exponentially sharper tilt, and takes another lazy drag.

-it occurs to you that she’s kind of being a bitch.

And that in itself is fucking mind-boggling. Because she’s the one dating your ex-girlfriend after a month and a half. Because if anyone should be getting nasty here, it should be you - you’d have the right to, you should be furious (and you are, you remind yourself, you’ve been furious at her this whole time, she’s your mortal enemy, seeing her in person doesn’t change that), you should follow through on your threat of running her over with a car, it’s so stupid that she’s the one trying to get a rise out of you right now-

“Disgusting habit, actually,” you say, barely giving her a chance to breathe. “But if you want to die from lung cancer, that’s totally your prerogative. I don’t care either way.”

So, obviously, you make the split-second decision to be a bitch right back. It’s just the thing to do.

A tiny, maddening smirk curls around Seulgi’s mouth. “That’s a little strong, kid,” she says. “You wouldn’t care if I died?”

“Does it really matter to you what I care about?” You’ve got your arms folded over your chest; you can’t believe she just called you kid. Yeah, she’s got like ten years on you, but - Jesus Christ. “You don’t know me.”

“You don’t like me,” says Seulgi, like she’s mildly delighted by it.

“I just said I don’t know you, Seulgi.”

The moment her name leaves your mouth you know it’s a mistake - but you can’t quite figure out why. Just that you’re both aware of something of a seismic shift, the whole house tipping sideways; moon slipping slightly out of orbit, constellations doubling back to take another glance. Both of you unsteady in your heels; Seulgi’s lips part, and she’s staring again. Expression oddly slack, as if struck. Smoke softening the line of her jaw.

“Seulgi,” you say, again, trying to recover.

You can’t come up with anything else. It’s as if you’ve never done improv, like you’ve never charmed your way through talk show interviews. There are tiny, glimmering studs lining Seulgi’s ears, a perfect match to the small pendant she’s got around her neck, glinting in the moonlight. Nestled right where her neckline dips scandalously low.

“My eyes are up here,” says Seulgi, apparently taking the opportunity to bring back the hostility full-force.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say, just as fast. “There’s barely anything worth looking at there.”

There’s a pause.

Okay - fine, it’s possible that was maybe going a little far. To be fair, you’ve never had a first conversation this tense, with anyone; you don’t know the regulations. It’s ridiculous that you’re acting like this. But it’s her - it’s something about her stupid smile and her smoking, her reckless beauty and her big reputation, that look in her eyes that says she gets whatever she wants, even if she has to take it.

You glance upwards just to see that Seulgi actually almost looks like she’s about to burst out laughing. Lips twitching, irises strangely bright under silvery moonlight. Smile revealing her teeth.

But she doesn’t, though it looks like it takes some effort. “Wow,” she says, instead, and returns to condescending amusement as quickly as she’d left it. “That’s really mature.”

“You’re the one who stole my girlfriend and you wanna talk about maturity?” you spit. “That’s hilarious.”

It’s not your best move. As if anyone could steal a grown woman, much less one like Irene - but Seulgi’s looking at you like that, and you have to land a blow, even if it’s irrational. Plus sometimes you’re susceptible to social media bullshit.

Seulgi’s still smiling. “I’ll have you know there was no overlap,” she says. “Very above board. But it’s cute that you buy into Twitter conspiracy theories. Spend a lot of time stalking your own stans?”

“Okay,” you shoot back, “but how would you know that my stans are coming up with Twitter conspiracy theories in the first place?”

There’s another long silence.

“So you’re stalking my stans,” you conclude. “That’s way worse.”

“Um,” says Seulgi, suddenly looking considerably less intimidating than she did two seconds ago. Then, “Well, you’re the one who liked one of my half-naked Instagram photos from February.”

“Okay,” you say, again, arms crossed over your chest. “But why do you know that?”

“My stans are well-informed,” Seulgi explains, tapping her cigarette against her bottom lip. “They like to keep track of who likes my shit.”

“All I’m getting from this is that you regularly monitor both my stans and your stans when they talk about me.”

Seulgi stares at you, mouth opening a little; like she’s guilty, like she’s caught. “So,” she says.

“Loser,” you say, probably proving her point about immaturity.

But it doesn’t even faze her; you blink once and she’s smiling again, for some godforsaken reason. She says, “You know what, I think we got off on the wrong foot.” Corner of her mouth curling further, putting her cigarette out on the railing. “I’m actually a big fan of you, to be honest.”

“Ugh,” you say, cheeks flushing hot with frustration. It seems so obvious that she’s making fun of you; because she’s older and sexier and more famous, because there’s no way you were even on her radar before she started dating your ex. “You’re so - whatever. I’m leaving. Bye.”

You turn to go, fully intending to never speak to her again. Asshole, you’re thinking, she’s such a-

“No, no,” Seulgi’s saying, laughing, “hold on, we should-”

And it’s the littlest thing that does it, in the end:

Seulgi’s fingers close around your wrist, and all she does is tug lightly. Barely any pressure at all. But she’s stepped forward to get her hand on you, and so she’s so close when she pulls you back to her; you stumble a bit in your heels, not expecting it, almost tumbling right into her. And - as if it’s an instinct - her other hand falls carefully to the small of your back, steadying you with her palm at your spine. Face so near to yours you can smell her perfume under all the smoke. Gazes locking; clink of chains, discarding keys, handcuffs latching tight. It’s instantaneous.

There are fifty things you should probably say right now - don’t touch me, we’re strangers, we don’t know each other; are you this presumptuous with everyone you meet, do you try to provoke them, or is it something about me; please don’t say it’s me. But the truth is that the moment she gets her hands on you, it’s already pretty much doomed.

“Oh,” Seulgi breathes out, like a revelation.

She’s no longer laughing, so thrown even she can’t act it off. Eyes so dark, pupils scarily dilated. Wind flicking inky strands of hair across her face. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips; you shiver underneath her hand on your back, your wrist, pulse hammering underneath her thumb. Seulgi’s been messing with you since the second you met her, but even she doesn’t have the power to charge the atmosphere like this; electric current, preparing for the roll of thunder, bones thrumming restless and wired under your skin. Seismic shift, give it a sequel: any second the house’ll catch fire and disintegrate.

“You should probably let go of me,” you warn, faintly, shivering, staring at her mouth and thinking fuck, fuck, fuck.

Seulgi’s lashes flutter fast, blinking herself out of a trance.

“Yeah,” she says, but there’s an undertone to it; she steps back, lets you go, visibly bites the inside of her cheek. Like she needs to snap herself out of it before it’s too late. “Right. Sorry, kid. I didn’t - I really am a fan, you know.”

“Are you,” you say, too enthralled to try and catch her in a lie. The air’s still so thick: it could splinter every surrounding window from the outside in, tear through glass like paper. You can’t comprehend the change - can’t understand why you can still feel her hands on you, white-hot and consuming. It’s too fast a tilt, throwing your head into vertigo; you’re still so full of misplaced expectation. Will she, won’t she.

“I have been for a while,” says Seulgi, suddenly bashful. She won’t, you’re certain. She can’t; she’s out of your league and so gorgeous and she’s taken, she’s so unavailable, you just met, she’d never. “I think you’re…”

“You think I’m…” you mimic.

Seulgi’s eyebrows raise, and her gaze drops. Surveying you again, your face, your hair, your body - measuring you up to your films, the fiction and the fantasy. And there’s this look in her eye; you can’t tell what she sees when she looks at you. Her hair’s filtering moonlight; she’s all surrealism, the temptation of imperfect things, the immeasurable beauty. Soft line of her neck. Sharp glint of her stare. And out of nowhere you already know it’s over, before she even opens her mouth.

“Fucking incredible,” she murmurs, at a sensuous rasp, throaty insinuation curling around every syllable.

(She will, then - it’s done and decided. She will.)

And it’s so idiotic, because you’re actresses, for God’s sake. You make a living off of faking feelings, playing parts. But there’s something about you and her and how high you are off the ground, on top of the world, larger than life and the city far beneath your heels; all it takes is a little bit of proximity. You’re both too used to having everything you’ve ever wanted right at your fingertips. All it takes is a touch.

“You should go,” you say, quietly, hands aching to have her.

Out of nowhere you’re too close together again. You’re not sure who stepped forward first, not sure who started it; not sure who’s fault this is going to be, when you play it all back. You can’t rationalize it in the least. Sometimes it’s just a feeling.

“I don’t think I want to,” Seulgi murmurs back, just as inexplicably captivated as you are, too near to rein it in. “Do you really want me to?”

“You have a girlfriend.” It’s not an answer. You’re drawn into her eyes as if by gravity; deep-space, brilliant astronomy. You can’t make yourself sound as guilty as you should. “Seulgi.”

There’s that problem with her name in your mouth again: like a death sentence, like a missile deployed, like a cocking gun. It’s a direct hit. You’ll never be able to take this one back.

“Fuck,” Seulgi says, out loud, and then she kisses you.

(Oh, there’s no way to explain it. It’s exactly the kind of thing that’d cause walk-outs in theaters, reviewers throwing up their hands in disbelief, baffled; the chemistry is there, sure, but where’s the logic, where’s the narrative sense, where’s the justification. That can’t be all it takes, that would make you and Seulgi both morons: five minutes of snarky conversation and sexual tension and you both cave, how does that work, who approved this fucking script-

Well, they’re just gonna have to get used to it. It’s a film where neither of the main characters have any common decency, so what did you really expect - and, truthfully, it only gets worse from here on out.)

Right away it’s too intense, too sensual and filled with filthy intention. Countdown clocks, hourglasses dripping sand: you’re existing on completely stolen time and it shows. Her thigh finds her way between both of yours; your back hits the wall right next to the double doors. You’ve never had a first kiss so fucking sloppy - licking along your lip gloss, the seam of your mouth; teeth colliding, fingers digging into your hips; deliciously invasive, like she’s trying to devour you: motive shifting, nails working their way against your scalp, scraping until you whimper. You’re seconds from humping her thigh like an animal, making a mess to clean. And you’re suddenly so, so wet.

“Are we really doing this?” Seulgi’s all smoke, old horrible habits; vices, addictions. “We - God-”

“Depends,” you say, too turned on to be anything but a bitch. “If you wanna be a morally corrupt cheater who cheats on your girlfriend with someone you just met-”

“Are you gonna say that’s my prerogative again?”

“Well.” You can’t believe she’s onto you so soon. “It is.”

“You’re such a brat,” she says, with feeling, and then sees the look on your face. “Oh, wow. Of course you’re into that.”

Apparently she’s onto a lot of things about you. “Who says I’m into that?”

It’s a bad point to call her bluff. In no time at all Seulgi’s got her thigh between your legs again, dislodges her hand from your hair and holds a fist to your shoulder; pressing you down, forcing friction. You can’t stop yourself - you’re rocking your hips, you’re soaking through your thong, trying not to whine - you can’t comprehend how you got here so fast, so wanton and desperate, how natural it feels for her to pin you against a wall and work whimpers out of your mouth - how much you want it-

(Fine, maybe the real truth is that the minute you saw her and her eyes and her hands and her short dress you wanted her so bad you forgot how to function, she got a little mean with you and it turned you on, she got too close to your face and you instantly thought of her fucking you senseless - fine. It’s been doomed from the very first second. Maybe you’re just as morally corrupt as she is. Maybe even more.)

“Huh, I don’t know.” There’s no justifying it. Seulgi’s mouth held in a wicked smirk, gleam of teeth like the definition of the upper hand. Taking it without question; you’re into that, so she’ll be what you want. “Your cunt dripping all over my thigh right now?”

“This is so fucked up,” you manage, needing to kiss her again, needing to be bent over and fucked on her fingers, needing more. Her own question thrown back in her face: “Are we really doing this?”

You’re finally gonna get your answer. It’s her, and it’s hopeless. Serpent in Eden. Fangs like the devil. Heedless smile, photographs and their infinite words: let me show you everything you’ve been missing out on; come on, baby, let me take you home; let me bring you back to life.

“Yeah,” sighs Seulgi, and presses her lips to yours, one more time. “I think we are.”

She pulls you inside by the hand, shoving past some of the most well-known names in the country. She’s careless about it, too. Like you’re incomprehensibly the only thing in the room she can see, fingers intertwined tight with yours, your nails and her bare knuckles, a near-perfect fit. She trips over someone’s foot and has to catch herself on a doorframe, and you laugh until she tells you to shut the fuck up, but she’s laughing too, and kind of looking like she wants to kiss you, right there in public. She doesn’t, because she can’t, and you know it. You let the moment go.

Seulgi doesn’t take you home. She’s got Irene there, probably; that’s the first reason. The second is that, truthfully, the two of you aren’t only stupid, you’re also impatient - if you have to wait any longer you’re gonna lose your minds.

“You know, I have this theory about you.”

So that’s how you end up in some upstairs bathroom, your back flush against the sink, her hands up in your hair and her teeth over your throat, your nails leaving marks on her wrists, her thighs. Those fucking claws, Seulgi says, and grins at the scarlet-red scratches; like she likes you when you’re riled and needy, like there’s a sort of test you’ve passed. Tugs the neckline of your top down with rough fingers; kisses sloppy and open-mouthed down your neck, your collarbone, licks a line down your chest. And right as she’s hovering over a nipple, breath so hot you’re already whining, that’s when she says-

“What?” you say back. Too thrown off, too turned on; you’re blinking down at her swollen mouth, panting. It barely registers. “You have a what?”

“Here’s how I see it.” It’s almost conversational. Seulgi flicks her tongue over your nipple, draws back just as quick. You whine without meaning to, spine curving, begging for more. “Girls like you,” she says. “You always have a type.”

There’s something dangerous about her tone, something sending you on high alert, alarms wailing, windows blown out or breaking in. Something about how she says girls like you, like she’s already got you all figured out - physical evidence to a heinous crime, already crafting her case. Motive and opportunity. Gleam in her eyes before she puts you away for life.

“What?” you say, again, voice wavering.

Her hand trails down your stomach, searching for more skin. Tugs the hem of your skirt up. “I think you have a thing for it,” Seulgi says, and dips her chin, indicating herself. “Older women. All that entails. See, I don’t think someone like you accidentally starts dating someone like Irene.” Her hand stops at your inner thigh, won’t go near your cunt, won’t touch you where you need it. “You get off on that kind of age gap, right?” She doesn’t need you to answer for her to know it’s true. “You like feeling helpless. Like you need to be taken care of.”

She leans forward; her lips hover over yours, unwilling to kiss you again. She’ll make you work for it. She says, “You like pretending that you’re just this naïve good girl, corrupted by some older woman who couldn’t keep her hands off you. Like you’re just such an angel, baby. They couldn’t resist.” Raises her hands to your hips and presses down. “I think it makes you so fucking wet. ”

You hold your breath. You can’t give yourself away this early, you’re thinking. You can’t be so predictable - it’s humiliating, it’s unbearable. “Seulgi-”

Unwilling to kiss you, or at least she’s trying to be - but you say her name, and that’s all it takes for her to break.

There’s something about the way she kisses you, then, hoisting you up until you’re perched on the bathroom sink, tongue slipping across your bottom lip: like you should’ve known. Like the first second you saw her, it should’ve sent your nervous system haywire, veins knotting themselves and bloodstream freezing like ice. Like no matter what - talk about butterfly effects, talk about roads and pathways and predestination - the second you saw her, she was always going to see right through you. Like she was always going to tilt her head like this, pull back with her lashes a flicker against her cheekbone. Pull back and demand-

“Say it.”

You’re barely breathing. “Say what?”

Seulgi lifts an eyebrow, amused by you playing dumb. And there’s a purpose to it - a monologue, an anticipation, a breaking point. Testing you against the pull of her blunt nails scraping your thighs, won’t touch you further until you give in. Excruciating, temptation incarnate.

“Say it,” she purrs, again. “I know you want to.” One hand on either thigh and parting them, slowly. “I’m not gonna fuck you until you say it.”

And then she runs her knuckles against the drenched spot on your panties, right where your cunt’s soaked through - and the pressure’s not nearly enough. Pulls your thong to the side, your cunt glistening wet; every part of you throbbing with aching need. She’s watching your face with an intent, arrogant sort of certainty. She knows you’re about to give in.

“Sweetheart,” Seulgi says, sends your skin simmering hot with just a word. You can’t handle how shiny her hair is, still tangled from the autumn wind - can’t stand the way her irises glint in a dark room, like she’s so great she’s defying logic, like fame’s really made her something supernatural. Can’t stand that she’s unfathomably beautiful. Can’t stand that she’s not yours.

So you give in.

“Mommy, mommy, mommy-”

Somewhere in there - that’s when Irene calls. But it’s not a question, what’s more important right now: Seulgi lets you run your mouth and stays hooked on every word, taunting you, laughing as your cunt soaks her hand. Keeps fucking your pussy like there’s nothing in the world she’d rather be doing, and lets the call go to voicemail.

Seulgi fucks you like she’s everything her reputation makes her out to be, and that’s the only way to put it: rough and brutal and intense, off the edge of violent. You’re thinking of the box office killer you saw her in a few weeks back - she played the love-interest-turned-villain, led the reveal with knuckles chapped and split, smile lined in blood - and it’s the risk, the ruthlessness: it’s like no one’s ever gotten what you need until her. Throat under her hand, saying filthy things about how wet you are, how fucked up, how pathetic and naughty, fingers around your neck and squeezing hard. You’re long past the threshold of embarrassment, recognizing humiliation - the only thing you’re thinking about is cumming around her fingers, her murmuring against your skin. You’ll let her say anything.

Which is probably a bad call, in retrospect, because the obscenity that comes out of her mouth-

“No,” she snaps, when you try to cover your mouth with your palm, stifling moans. Slips her hand from the base of your throat to your wrist and tugs. “Let me hear you moan for mommy, baby.”

You’re helpless to obey, and she laughs when you do - fully laughs, fingers curling in your cunt, the sloppy wet sounds loud enough to fill the bathroom, echo off the walls. “Mommy,” you’re whimpering, losing it, stare hooked on her red, irresistible mouth, “fuck, you-”

There’s a dark flush in her cheeks, up to her neck; you try and kiss her and Seulgi holds her mouth out of reach. Leans in and says, breath hitting your teeth, “Are you always this fucking desperate?”

No, you can’t say, no, never. I swear it’s something about you. You. It’s you.

Because it’s so mortifying, but it’s true: Seulgi’s eyes and her hands and the way she’s got you firmly in place, one hand between your legs, the other returning delicious pressure against the nape of your neck. Tone of her voice, musical with mirth. The way it’s like she’s got everything that’ll turn you on indexed and itemized - demeaning you, making you work for it, beg for it, in this bathroom where the party’s still carrying on outside, blissfully unaware - like, somehow, she already knows.

Then, like you’d spoken it out loud: Seulgi grips the back of your neck hard. “Or is it just that you like fucking other people’s girlfriends?”

See, you’re an actress, in your profession, in your habits. You’re so used to being in control. Pulling at your muscles like they’re on marionette strings, perfectly maneuvering your face, your body. You can lie your way out of anything, if you put your mind to it. You’re even better with the truth.

But you can’t even shake your head, can’t get a protest out past your whines. Seulgi’s got a hold on you and your thighs clamping down around your wrist. “I think it turns you on,” she says, and as if to punctuate it, her hand leaves your neck and connects with your cheek, quick and hard. “Smug little slut. Acting all bratty, humping my leg - you wanted this, didn’t you? I bet right when you saw me you got so wet. Already thinking about calling me mommy. ” Lips ghosting over your jaw. “You’re so obvious.”

“That’s not-”

Another slap, the crack of her hand mesmerizing, head-spinning. “Don’t lie to me,” Seulgi says, but it’s almost amused, one eyebrow raised, sharp pull of a smirk. “You think I can’t feel your pussy clenching around my fingers?”

And she just keeps going and going - it’s a revenge fantasy for you, huh, she says, seducing your ex’s girlfriend, whining like a bitch in heat until I finally give you what you need; irises like staring down the barrel of a gun, dark and explicitly dangerous. The world’s suddenly impossible to hold in your head, parameters blurring, inhibitions seeping out at the edges - you abruptly can’t comprehend anything but the tactile, the physical - fuck status, fuck scandal, fuck anything but her in front of you - saying you’re so soaked, baby, creaming all over mommy’s fingers like that. Saying cum for me. Saying now.

You do, and then she doesn’t stop. It’s not like you expected anything less.

“You’re lucky I think you’re so fucking cute,” she tells you, pain in all the right places. “Depraved as fuck, but cute.”

Afterwards:

“God,” you mutter into the crook of Seulgi’s neck. She’s holding you upright on the counter, laughing a little, breath against your temple. Lips brushing your hairline, impossibly gentle. You’re so thoroughly fucked; you forget what the protocol for no-strings sex is, illicit affairs. You were in a relationship with the same girl for two years: you’ve never learned how to have meaningless sex. Well, it’s coming back to bite you now. “Seulgi.”

She stops laughing, sucks in a sharp breath. “You’re fucked up,” she tells you. “Saying my name like that.”

“I’m not-” You’re grinning. “I’m just saying it. Like a normal person.”

“Nothing about you is normal,” says Seulgi, with mild fondness, and lets one hand drop between your thighs.

It’s meant only to tease, obviously; she drags two fingers through your drooling cunt, makes you whimper from overstimulation when she bumps your clit. You’re trying to blink yourself back to clarity - all you can see is her face, her smudged lipstick, mask slipping further. Mascara fading under her eyes. Sheen breaking through her foundation on her forehead.

“You,” you say, captivated. “You’re so…”

You just met her for the first time tonight. She just introduced her current infidelity into the fucking dirty talk, like a taboo straight out of some really questionable porn - and, yeah, she just made you cum like you never have before. She’s possibly insane. She’s sick in the head. She’s so, so stunning.

“You have serious issues,” you say, instead. “And you probably need to seek professional help for them. Let me make you cum.”

Seulgi fully laughs then, something clearly out of sheer surprise, and it’s lovely: nothing like the sexy, raspy, careless thing you’ve seen her do in movies, on talk shows. No, it’s this adorable, unselfconscious bout of giggles, like she’s close to letting out a snort. You’re struck, staring. Watching her eyes squeeze shut and her head tip back, cheeks flushed. Watching her, gorgeous.

“Okay,” you say, too weirdly endeared to be frustrated by it. “You don’t want me to make you cum, then.”

Seulgi’s lips part, laughter dropping off. “It’s not that. It’s just - baby, you can’t even stand up right now. And you don’t have to.” Runs her tongue across her top teeth, like she’s been starved for years and she’s finally satiated. Lets her eyes fall half-lidded, and adds, lower, “Fucking your needy little pussy was enough for me right now.”

Your mouth dries up.

But the idea’s already spreading feverishly hot; settles at the tips of your fingers, gives your hands a motive. There’s that low throb behind your navel, desire untameable, physical. You need to hear it, hear her moaning for you, feel her cunt clamp down around your fingers. You’ll fight dirty to get it, too. Alright, it’s more than returning the favor, it’s so selfish-

You slip down from the counter, heels meeting the tile with a click. Your body trapped between Seulgi’s and the sink. You, leaning in, noses bumping, and say, breathless: “Mommy, I wanna make you cum for me.” Further, mouth capturing hers, the barest amount and nothing more. “Please.”

-but this started out selfish, so there’s no other way it could really end.

“Jesus,” exhales Seulgi, ruined. Then she pauses. “Wait, you’re gonna finger me with those?”

You stare, uncomprehending.

Seulgi nods downwards. “What are you trying to do, slash my vulva?”

Right. Your nails - almond-shaped, painted a glossy black; they’re not acrylics, but they’re uniformly long, regardless. “Um,” you say. “Fuck.” Then, “Well, I can probably improvise.”

You both rummage around in the bathroom cabinets until you - remarkably - find both a nail clipper and a nail file. It’s one of those really nice ones, too, metal and practically indestructible. “God’s on our side,” says Seulgi, as she watches you clip your middle fingernail down, then your ring.

“I seriously doubt it,” you say. “You’re gay and unfaithful. God definitely hates your guts.”

Seulgi swirls the nail file in the air, wisely, like she’s communing with a higher power. “No,” she disagrees, and takes your hand gently, getting to work. “God totally gets me. She understands.”

You lean back and let her, entertained against your will. “Understands what?”

“That I’m dumb.” Seulgi’s concentrating hard on sanding the uneven edges of your newly short nails; better safe than sorry. “And impulsive. And I make really self-destructive decisions. And you’re so adorable and so fuckable. And I really, really can’t help myself.”

“All valid reasons to cheat,” you say, dryly, even though this definitely isn’t something you should be joking about.

“That’s what I’m saying,” says Seulgi, equally as straight-faced, and presses her lips to the back of your hand. “All good, baby. You can make mommy cum now, or whatever it was you were begging to do.”

“Asshole,” you mutter, jerking your hand back. It’s futile, meaningless; all you do is take a step closer to her, anyway, looping your arms around her neck. “Why would I make you cum if you’re just gonna be a bitch to me?”

“Sweetheart.” She’s smiling now. “I think we’ve established that me being a bitch to you just makes you want to fuck me more.”

Well, shit. You can’t really argue with that one.

She’s the one on the counter this time, and you get two fingers inside her before she can run her mouth more - and Seulgi’s so responsive when she’s getting fucked, like she’s forgotten the role she’s playing, the arrogance and the degradation. Eyelids shuttering, head craning back, exposing the line of her throat. Kissing you like she can’t hold back from it, tongue trailing your teeth. Her voice drawls sweet and sultry, calling you good girl, oh, you’re so good for me, sweetheart, fucking mommy so good. I know, you wanna eat me out so bad, but you can’t ruin your makeup, I get it. Priorities, whatever. I respect your vanity.

“What?” you say, caught on a strange, sudden laugh, still pumping at her cunt, drawing sordidly wet sounds; cracking jokes at your expense while she’s on the verge of cumming all over your hand, that’s a new one. “Uh - fuck you?”

“Right,” Seulgi pants, gripping your wrist, bearing down on your fingers. “Exactly.”

And that’s probably the first red flag - the second, third, fourth; fine, you’re collecting them like the bruises you’ll have tomorrow, on your throat and wrists and thighs - because there’s a camaraderie there that shouldn’t be. You don’t even know her, and you’re trusting her enough to make you cum, make you laugh. It’s a warning sign. You’ve blown past those. Perfect, she’s repeating, anyway, pleasure stringing syllables together. You’re so perfect. So-

You hold her gaze when it’s over, suck your cum-soaked fingers into your mouth, enjoying the way Seulgi’s expression cracks open candidly, staring without shame. Not all your nails were cut short; your left hand’s scrawled scarlet marks into her thigh. Maybe they’ll fade fast - maybe they won’t. To be fair, that’s not exactly your problem.

Seulgi breathes out harshly, looking somewhat tortured. “Baby.”

Talk about red flags, you’re thinking, and release your fingers from your lips with a wet little pop. Maybe you’ll leave a few of your own, too.

For all intents and purposes, this aftermath should be devastating. Apocalyptic, the end of the world. There should be some huge, tearful declaration of regret, of remorse, repenting to some higher power. Maybe you’d slap her. Maybe you’d blame her. Maybe she’d turn into a crying mess, lamenting betrayal, crying how will she ever come back from this, it’s the biggest mistake of her life-

“So,” says Seulgi, suddenly. “You wanna get out of here or something?”

You turn and look at her in the mirror, sentiment like whiplash. “Excuse me?”

She’s already watching you, mouth quirked at a corner, caught - and then she doesn’t stop staring. Observing you openly, like she’s got a complete and total claim to you, canvassing every part of your body. Penetrative and unrelenting.

“Like, go home with you?” you ask, stepping forward.

You skid a little bit in your heels; Seulgi steadies you at an elbow. “Yeah,” she says.

“No,” you say, staring at her mouth, her pretty white teeth. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You have a girlfriend. You have Irene. Why would I…”

But you’re standing here in this bathroom, freshly fucked and nothing close to classy; there are probably dark smears of lipstick covering your mouth, your collarbone. Hair beyond saving. Why would you, you’re thinking - but then again, you already have.

“What the fuck is wrong with me,” you say, out loud.

“So much,” Seulgi says, “but I’m definitely into it.”

And now she’s more than smiling - positively beaming, with teeth and all, lighting up her whole face - like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. And she’s gorgeous. Something vaguely poetic about her face, features purposely and masterfully articulated; she’s so striking you can’t ever picture her being a normal girl, going to college classes and working part-time jobs. Maybe she fell into fame by accident; maybe it dragged her in, parasitic and poisonous. Either way, she’s here.

You step closer; you can’t help it, like magnetism, like gravity, like all everlasting clichés, applying even in the worst contexts. “Shut up,” you’re saying, and it’s only then that you realize you’re accidentally mid-laugh. “I’m not going home with you, Seulgi. And you’re definitely going to hell.”

Seulgi’s hand finds your waist too easily, slipping into place. Eyes glittering in the half-light; you’d call it seeing stars, but that’s all of her. Space sweeping wide with the fall of her hair, curve of her mouth like a sliver of the moon. Guiding you right into a storm just to make you beg for more.

“Alright,” she says, perfectly content. “But I’m pretty sure you’re gonna end up in hell, too, kid. We’re in the same boat here.”

Kid, she says, making you smaller. You should hate it and you can’t bring yourself to.

“Promise?” you say, and hold out your pinky.

It doesn’t mean anything. Her word’s been rendered null and void since she moment she touched you; there’s no commitment she makes that you should trust. But you’re fuck-addled and delirious and enchanted by the look on her face, the way her irises are so dark almost match her pupils: midnight, shadow, sin. You’ve known her for an hour, tops. She’s so beautiful you want her to do everything to you, but you won’t let her. There’s still a line, hypothetically.

“Promise,” Seulgi says, without a hint of irony, and wraps your pinky around yours. It’s so funny, it’s hilarious. You laugh until you fall right back into her arms.

It’s over. Well, in theory.

Mostly, it’s the worst mistake you’ve ever made, and you’re not going to repeat it. So you don’t get Seulgi’s number. You don’t say something coy about doing this again sometime, about seeing her soon, about how she should maybe dump her girlfriend and get with you instead - there’d be no point. Because it’ll never, ever happen again.

“Totally,” agrees Seulgi, and presses you up against the bathroom door just to kiss the life out of you. Forehead bumping yours clumsily, breathing against your teeth. “Never again. I’m right there with you.”

“Seulgi.”

“Jesus,” she says, laughing right into your mouth. “You’re cute.”

There’s nothing choreographed about it, nothing sorted through by intimacy coordinators, directors critiquing your chemistry. She’s got your jaw gently between her fingers, all smoke and sweet perfume. Kisses you once, lightly.

“I’ll see you later,” she says, like another promise.

You try and scowl, can’t quite pull it off. “The fuck you will.”

“Fine,” Seulgi says, eyes curved in her smile, thumb to your bottom lip, skimming lightly. “Fine. We’ll never see each other again.”

Never again, you’re repeating as you leave, reminding yourself, clutching the stairwell. Going home alone, swearing you regret it. Never, ever again.

omg ok i’m so sorry please don’t be mad, you text Wendy, right after calling your driver. i know we didn’t meet up but i don’t feel well and i think i have to head home :(

ok no worries take care of ur mental!!!!! says Wendy. also i ran into park sooyoung and she and her fuckass bf just had a fight or something so now we’re going to ditch the party and go get food.. wish me luck <3

her fuckass fiancé, you correct. they’re getting married next month.

Then: the bite of the wind, the hit of hypocrisy. Pots and kettles. Purpling edges of bruises spilling out from the neckline of your shirt, you can probably still smell Seulgi’s smoke in your hair - fuck, alright, okay.

You follow up, quickly: so if you’re going to homewreck their relationship you better do it before the wedding!!!! it’s just easier legally.

She doesn’t answer for a beat. You squint, re-reading it; okay, it’s sort of extreme. ummm i’m joking LOL, you text again, chewing on your lip. homewrecking is very bad!

right right right right, says Wendy, who has never taken any severe moral stance on homewrecking and isn’t about to start now. okay i love u pls call ur therapist and get better soon!!!!!

The thing about calling your therapist: that’s probably something you should do, yeah. Get better soon - not fucking likely.

And here’s the worst thing:

None of it breaks. You go home, you wait, you bide your time waiting for the other shoe to drop; there’s gotta be people who saw, who are trying to turn a profit off of selling secrets, who are good and honest and won’t tolerate something awful like cheating - but there’s nothing. No articles insinuating guilt, no trending Twitter hashtags, no headlines or anonymous sources or incriminating photographs. You’re not stupid enough to think you’re gonna get away with this, but it kind of feels like you’re gonna get away with this.

“Fuck,” you say, out loud, as you’re scrolling through Netflix and landing on one of Seulgi’s new action films, an automatic preview starting to play. She’s gorgeous, she’s villainous; the rasp of her voice alone sends your spine aching. “Fuck.”

So you’ve decided that you’re never going to make this horrible mistake again; one and done, one strike and it’s out of your system - that’s the smart choice to land on, in the moment. But then none of it gets out. And it plants the dangerous little thought in your head: if nobody knows about it, you begin to wonder, if it’s this easy to keep this terribly illicit affair a secret - well, it kind of makes you think that-

You watch the movie. It can’t hurt, at this point. You’ve already committed graver sins than that.

“Okay, seriously, what is the matter with you?”

So, it’s all you can fucking think about. Not that it’s even a surprise.

In the shower, while you’re on the phone talking to your agent, thumbing through a script for a new project. Images in your mind on repeat, abject filth: Seulgi with her mouth on yours, Seulgi pinching your nipple between two fingers, Seulgi with your thighs clamping around her wrist and making you whimper mommy, mommy, mommy; stain of her lipstick on your neck, sweat shimmering over her delicate collarbones, how she’d looked at you after a little bit in awe, and laughed. Not meanly, not condescending. Just like the situation amazed her, to be there with you.

You’re hopeless, floating through the next few days in a fog. Brain skipping through the same details, uncannily appreciative of cinematography: black hair mussed by the wind, blue-green veins pale in her wrists. Rasp of her voice, breath hot against your ear, against the sensitive skin of your neck. Your cunt dripping down her hand as she curls her fingers; her dark eyes like the night in the dimmer light, like they’re sewn up with stars-

“Are you dissociating right now?” says Wendy, eyeing you like she’s seconds from getting your psychiatrist on the phone. “Alright, wait - name five things you can see, four things you can touch-”

-and Wendy, obviously, is not going to leave you alone about it.

“That’s for anxiety,” you say, staring at your nails. You’d clipped them all short after the party; it’s less incriminating that way. “And I’m fine.”

Wendy snorts. “Now I know you’re full of shit. When are you ever fine?”

It’s two days later. You, horrifically enough, have an awards show to attend in the evening; in about fifteen minutes you’re about to have an entire team swarming your apartment, makeup artists armed to the teeth, hairstylists wielding heat protectant and flat-irons. Before that, though - okay, you’ve never been good at hiding things from Wendy.

“So,” you say, as the two of you are lounging across your bed. It’s hard to know how to put something like this gracefully without lines to memorize, cues to follow. “Remember that party the other day-”

“Obviously.”

You’re stalling. “I know I said I went home because I felt sick. But, um…”

Wendy throws you an aghast look. “But you lied?” She hits you in the thigh with her phone. “Figures. Fucking actresses. You’re all just pathological liars who learned how to profit off of it.” She rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. “Ugh.”

She’s got you pegged early, but she always seems to. “What about Park Sooyoung?”

“Park Sooyoung’s an angel,” says Wendy, immediately. “She’s an exception.”

You’d probably be able to chat around the topic for hours, if you’d felt the need - but you’re dying to talk about it, a little bit. Nothing’s like I thought it was, you want to say. I swear the sun’s put itself out, I swear I saw the devil in the flesh; she was so much more than I thought she would be. “At the party,” you say, instead, bracing for impact, “I kind of - okay, when I was on the phone with you, and I hung up - it was because I ran into Kang Seulgi.”

Wendy gasps. Rolls over on her side, auburn hair splayed over your sheets, eyes comically wide. “And you didn’t end up in prison for murder?”

Oh, no; you just did something a lot worse. “We did have an… altercation.”

The implication alone jolts Wendy upright. “You fought her? Like, physically?” Mouth open, jaw hanging off its hinges. “Without me?”

“Uh.” You guiltily divert your gaze out the window. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?” Wendy tugs at the sleeve of your shirt, forcing you to face her. “What does that mean? There was just mild bitch-slapping or something?”

You pause. It’s not the time, but it’s there anyway, the way you make a wet dream a memory: Seulgi with her palm pressed tight to your throat, Seulgi with her hand smacking across your face. Seulgi with her gaze dark and attentive, the path of her fingers slick across your thighs, always pushing for more, more-

“Um,” you say. “I mean, there was slapping involved.”

And all hell breaks loose.

It’s actually almost impressive, the way Wendy hears slapping and instantly connects the dots. Even more impressive, the way she loses her shit on the spot, goes one to ten - punching your shoulder repeatedly, voice reaching a fever pitch, shrieking oh my God, you evil homewrecking whore, what the hell, I knew you wanted to fuck her but I never thought you’d actually pull it off-

“What are you talking about?” you say, thrown entirely.

“Come on.” Wendy’s got one of your pillows in her fist and is now attempting to clobber you with it; she’s tinier than you and more uncoordinated than her ultra-successful idol career would insinuate - it’s an easy dodge. “Every time you see a picture of Kang Seulgi you start salivating, and you have no morals when you’re horny. You think I don’t remember how many times you saw that movie where she was topless for fifty percent of it-”

“I watched that for the plot. It was my favorite movie of this year for the plot.”

“Jesus,” Wendy says, appalled at how transparent you are. “You call yourself an actress?”

But here’s probably the more fucked up thing - Wendy doesn’t really care. It’s not the kind of thing she’ll unfriend you over, or leak to the press, or tell Irene; her morals are just as compromised as yours are, here. And in the end, all she does is laugh so hard it brings tears to her eyes, says you’re setting an example for queer homewreckers everywhere. Says you have to teach me all your tricks - I wanna be where you are. It’s nasty of her, probably, but Wendy’s always on your side. She’s also in love with a girl who’s getting married in a month. She’s got her own motives.

“I wasn’t even trying to do anything,” you say, defeated. “We just met and right away it was so-”

You don’t even have the words for it. How do you sum up a mortal sin in a sentence, verbalize an impossible chemistry - there’s no rationale that makes it okay. You say, lamely, “I just wanted her.”

“And you always get what you want,” Wendy interprets, because it’s true. Even if it’s awful and wrong, goes unsaid. Even if you’re willingly ruining someone else’s relationship; even if it’s selfish and horrible and you’re going to hell for it.

“Yeah,” you agree, sighing. “I mean, most of the time.”

And it’s ludicrous. You’re reworking your own code of ethics because you saw Seulgi through the blur of a smokescreen, because you’re addicted to the look in her eye, because you’re realizing she’s way less cool and collected and mysterious than she pretends to be. Fucks you like she wants you dead then lets you make her cum with a gentle hand stroking through your hair, all praise and open pleasure. There’s no excuse for it.

“This is going to be a total trainwreck,” says Wendy, with very malicious glee; it’s a film that’s bombed in the box office, all the critics hate the conclusion - the characters should’ve got what was coming to them and they didn’t, they say, what the fuck kind of message is that. “But I can’t wait to see how this ends.”

“Besides,” you say, “It doesn’t matter. It’s completely a one-time thing. It’s never happening again.”

Self-fulfilling prophecies and all that, you’re telling yourself. Maybe if you repeat it enough, it’ll come true.

So, if you wanna know about the second time it happens:

It’s later that same night, because irony loves to make a fool of you, laughing at you from behind a camera, thumbing over a script, lines she already knows are coming. Awards shows, it’s how they go; all the major players are there. Well, except for Irene, who’s overseas as an ambassador for some high-end fashion brand; you see people talking about it on Twitter, disappointed that she and Seulgi won’t make their power couple debut on the red carpet. Either way, she’s not coming. It’s already completely fucked off of that fact alone.

im putting 100 bucks on kang seulgi taking u home tonight, texts Wendy, beforehand, as you’re getting your makeup done. all the pieces are in place…

please get a grip on reality seungwan i am NEVER talking to her again, you say, and leave it at that.

Look, you know Seulgi’s gonna be there. Embarrassingly, just the thought of it sends your stomach into knots, your brain into overdrive. You’re used to keeping your composure even under the most stressful of situations - nature of fame, it’s just how it works - but the anticipation of seeing Seulgi again is so -

lmfao ok, says Wendy. as if u can keep ur hormones in check….. whore!!!!! 💀💀💀

i will get my bodyguard to beat you to a pulp, you say.

alright thats it. im reporting u for making threats to my life.

you can’t report me on twitter for something i said over text lol…

bitch i meant report u to the AUTHORITIES.

You swear you have a spine, a backbone. You swear you’re gonna show up and stun on the carpet, maybe take home an award or two; realistically, you’re not even gonna run into Seulgi at all. You’ve made it this far - you stepped onto the scene at eighteen and so it’s been three years of frequenting the same ceremonies as Kang Seulgi, and you’d never met at any one of those, never so much as interacted. Maybe you’ll get out of this alive. But there’s still that fucking feeling, the whole way to the venue - like there’s fingerprints as evidence on your body, like everyone might be able to see through your dress to all the places she left a mark on you-

(You get there and she’s gorgeous. She’s there and she looks like a goddess, dressed in blue, submerged in it, sweeping you along. Same boat, you remember her saying; if we go down we go down together. Sink to the bottom of the sea and let the ocean swallow us whole. You force her voice out of your mind; it’d be better to pretend she doesn’t exist. It’s also impossible.)

You’re not nominated for any of the same awards. You sit in entirely different sections. But you’re so aware of the fact that she’s in the room that it’s driving you a little crazy; you have to make this concerted effort to keep your eyes off of her, keep from staring, blushing, making any missteps or wrong moves. You’re back under spotlights, scrutiny. You don’t let your eyes trace her body in her dress, and she doesn’t look at you at all.

At first, it actually seems like you’re going to make it.

(Same boat; same room and opposite sides. Same old fucking mistakes.)

It all goes to shit when you steal away to the bathroom halfway through the show, and - because behind the curtain, someone’s controlling the setting, the scenes, getting you exactly right where you’re supposed to be - Seulgi’s already in there when you step in. It’s a trope. It’s formulaic. It’s real life reduced to rom-com clichés, except there’s nothing funny about a moment like this.

It’s done. You stop dead in your tracks, door shutting soft behind you. “Hi.”

And you’ve been so good all night, you have - keeping your smile contained and your eyes from straying - but it’s different when she’s in front of you, like seeing a deity in the flesh, like someone that you should drop to your knees and worship. Dress a glittering navy, floor-length and cap-sleeved, tapering in at her waist. Hair in tastefully tamed waves, begging you to run your fingers through it. There’s something about the stark black of her hair, the starlike sapphire beadwork gleaming on her dress, her fair skin, her pink lips - she looks almost ethereally ghostlike, a spirit out of a story, so gorgeous she leaves everyone she touches haunted. Skin silk-soft. Makeup immaculate. Nothing like how she looked when you saw her last, already half-undone, autumn wind throwing her into gorgeous disarray. She’s living up to her reputation, curated perfection. And she’s flawless.

Seulgi’s staring at you with that same wide-eyed look she had the first time you two met. She says, sounding somewhat strangled, mesmerized: “Oh.”

It’s then that you realize she’s playing some dumb mobile game on her phone.

“Uh,” you say.

Seulgi immediately abandons her phone on the counter. “Sorry,” she says, and it’s like you’re getting deja vu.

“Are you ditching an awards show to play games on your phone?” you say, stepping closer. You can’t help yourself. Seulgi straightens as you do, like an automatic reaction to your presence, spine curving to face you. You try not to read into it.

“I got bored,” she says, blinking. Her eyes are stunningly made-up, sending them otherworldly striking; liner sliding into sharp points at the corner of each eye, false lashes individually glued and arranged purposely. That’s the thing about awards shows: you’re all selling a product, acting even more than you do on set.

“You really are a loser,” you say, somehow delighted by it.

“I know,” she says, leaning against the counter, and now she’s smiling. “Hey, kid.”

And it’s as if you’ve both forgotten how to act at all.

Because it’s the same as it was before; like a reprise, like a relapse. You get too close together and you feel it, that impossible tug, the way the moon controls the tides, the way celebrities control their own images; Seulgi rests her elbow on the counter and you watch the flex of her bicep, the splay of her fingers, nails manicured but enticingly short. Remembering how it felt to have those fingers fucking your cunt, wrapped around your throat. Realizing that not an inch of her belongs to you, and that you don’t have a backbone, and that you want her anyway. She’s parting her lips, inhaling deep. She knows.

Nothing helps. You’re halfway to dry drowning; shutting off airways, breathing rendered impossible. Water won’t reach your lungs, but it’ll still be the thing to kill you.

“I don’t think we should be alone together,” you say, softly, the first to call it as it is.

“Alright.” Seulgi folds her arms over her chest. You’re struck by the way the straps of her dress pull over her collarbone, her slender shoulders; tailored to perfection, and she’s too beautiful to be real. “Then go pee. I’ll leave.”

“I didn’t have to pee,” you say. “I just - nerves, you know. I needed some air.” You wave vaguely around the bathroom. “Or alone time, I guess.”

“You did,” says Seulgi, getting implications. She tilts her head. “But you’ve been to so many of these, no?” You’re moving even closer without realizing it, pulled out to sea. “And just this show is making you nervous?”

You’re supposed to be cutting off conversation at the source, quitting your vices cold turkey. “Yeah,” you say instead, throwing her a dirty look. “I wonder why that is.”

“It’s a mystery,” Seulgi agrees.

“Jesus.” Her attitude’s so cavalier, her eyes so fucking intense; you couldn’t wrench yourself away even if you wanted to. It’s intoxicating. It’s irresistible. “You and I had sex a day after you went public with your relationship with Irene. Can you at least pretend to feel remorseful about it?”

Seulgi cocks an eyebrow. Her arms unfold; her mouth flicks at a corner. I do too much pretending in my day-to-day, the expression says; I don’t let my life imitate my art. I’m with you. Why fake like I want to be anywhere else?

“You’re an actress,” you add, like anyone needs a reminder.

“So are you,” she returns. “I don’t see you feeling very remorseful about any of this either.”

“I do,” you say, itching to step forward, to fall into her arms, to make her laugh, to beg her to fuck your brains out. “I regret it. It was a mistake. I really fucking regret it.”

“No, you don’t.” Seulgi’s fingers graze your wrist, wrap around your hand. Pulling you closer like it’s something she’s allowed to do. Calling your bluff, again, like she’s seen too much of you to be fooled by all your usual tricks - and there’s tension brimming where there shouldn’t be. Like you’re back on the balcony, inhaling smoke; like it’s all about to go up in flames.

“Well,” you say, unsteadily. “I will.”

But, first-

You shouldn’t fuck her. There are a million reasons why you shouldn’t fuck her. Every regular watcher is threatening to cancel their streaming subscription - the self-sabotaging, the mess; God, the screenwriters must hate you, constantly making you make the shittiest decisions, ruining your character; where’s the resolution, where’s the redemption arc. But-

“You’ll be a good girl for mommy, right? Be quiet while I fuck your little cunt?”

But you’re fucking her. There’s no way around it.

You’re pressed against the bathroom counter and she’s pushing your dress up your thighs; you’re clutching handfuls of your full skirt, hitching it up to give her access. She trails a hand upwards, takes your panties and pulls them to the side. “Sweetheart,” Seulgi says, intention cut into her mouth, carnal and wicked, “I asked you a question.”

You’re nodding wildly, lip tucked tightly between your teeth. You’ll be quiet, you’re trying to communicate with your eyes alone, you will, you’ll behave-

She thumbs your clit, dips to feel how soaked you are, pulls back with the pads of her fingers wet and glistening. Eyes snapping to yours. Pitch leaving no room for discussion. “Words, please.”

“Yes, mommy,” you whimper, and Seulgi grins.

“You’re so much less bratty this time around,” she muses, sinks one finger in your dripping pussy, leaves you gasping for air. “All you needed was to get your pussy fucked right, huh? That’s all you needed to learn your lesson?”

She really starts fucking you, then, like she’s addicted to the moans you’re letting out of your mouth; works in two fingers, then three - it’s not as brutal as the first time, but just as all-consuming, life-wrecking, devastating, the sounds as she finger-fucks you just as slick and nasty. Cunt clenching around her fingers, wet down your thighs, hips rocking; she goes for your jugular, pressure against both sides of your neck; claustrophobic, erotic, breath shuddering low and trapped in your throat. Grinding when she rubs her palm over your clit, aching for more. Begging to cum in a low rasp. You’re not learning any lessons in this room: that’s a fucking given.

Seulgi’s more in control than you are, but barely; her eyes are tied to your lips, to the wet raw heat of your pussy, dripping down her hand. I’d love to fuck that face, she says like a threat, ride that pretty mouth, cum on your tongue - but I really can’t ruin your makeup tonight. (Privately, you think she’s already ruined a lot more than that.)

“Next time,” she promises, eyes sly and undertone murderous, and you cum right around her fingers.

(There are a million reasons why you shouldn’t, but you do anyway.)

You’re right, in the end. You’re absolutely gonna regret this.

Afterwards, take two:

Any second it’ll hit, you’re telling yourself. Reality, all-consuming guilt, the weight of what you’ve just done - again. Your conscience is gonna make you start sobbing, push you to a confession, push Seulgi away and scream at her. Any minute now, you’ll-

“You’re definitely gonna win it,” Seulgi’s saying, about your nomination for your most recent drama, the award you’re up for. “You were unreal. I swear every time I see you cry on-screen, I really feel it. It’s so…” She shakes her head, overcome. “Powerful, I guess. Sorry. That sounds lame.”

“No, it doesn’t,” you say back, smiling. “Thanks. And - you’re gonna win yours too.” She’s nominated for your favorite film of hers, the one where she played the rock star, wore too much eyeliner, created a character that broke your heart. “That movie’s my favorite one of this past year, just for the record. I’ve seen it like a million times. I love it to death.”

“You would,” says Seulgi, arching an eyebrow, but there’s something soft around the edges of her grin. “I’m topless for so much of it.”

“Not because of that.” You pause, allow: “But it was a perk.”

“I’m sure.”

“No, seriously.” You turn fully; Seulgi’s leaning a little into your side, already, and doesn’t flinch when you bump her shoulder, fingers at the crook of her elbow. She chances a glance at you, smooths a hand over your hair. “It was your voice.”

Seulgi lets out a little laugh. Brushes under your eye with a careful thumb, flicking away a flake of mascara. “What?”

See, she’s a rock star in this movie you love, like you said; it’s all made up of concert performances and sold-out stadium tours that look so real, fake talk show performances, studio audiences. Strumming at a guitar in the quiet moments. Singing aloud to herself, her band, her love interest. Rich and honeyed, gliding over every note, thick and raspy at all the right times. “Your voice,” you say. “I mean - it’s amazing. You would’ve made a killing as an idol, you have to know that. The soundtrack to that movie - it was all I listened to for months. You’re absolutely gonna fuck my Spotify Wrapped.”

Seulgi’s mouth opens a little. Her fingers pause at your temple, the bobby pins holding your hair back.

“So I guess you could say I’m a fan, too,” you say, suddenly shy. “I have been for a while.”

You were right, before: no one should’ve allowed you two to be alone together. It opens the door for this, for opportunity, for mortal fuck-ups; Seulgi’s manicured fingers drop to your neckline, the walls threaten to tear themselves down, the sinks ache to switch on and flood the room. Current rushing in, taking you both away - where are the lifeboats now, the escape routes - you’re swept off your feet in the waves. Seulgi tangles a hand in your necklace like she wants to snap it off and she’s tempering her instincts. Anyone could walk in and catch you. They don’t.

“You,” she says, sighing. Not like she’s giving up, but like she’s giving in. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“You’re gonna have to,” you say, hot and helpless under her touch. “You have a girlfriend. And this is all really fucked up.”

You keep saying this like it means anything, like it’ll trigger a fight or flight response, send Seulgi running. “I know,” she says instead, stays exactly where she is, blunt nails grazing your collarbone. Fastened to you as if with thread, incapable of tearing herself free. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I don’t know what you think,” you point out, searching her expression. “I don’t know anything about you. Except that you’re a fan of me and you love being called mommy and every time you get your hands on me you try to fuck me until I can’t walk.”

“See?” says Seulgi. “You know all the important things.”

There’s nothing funny about this - her cheating on her girlfriend, her girlfriend being your ex - but there’s this expression on her face, corner of her mouth turned up, studying you freely. Dark eyes reading nothing but beguiled amusement. Tapping two fingers against her bottom lip like she might still be able to taste your cunt off of them.

“We’re strangers,” you say, so enthralled by her. “Complete strangers.”

(That’s the problem with fame, you think of saying. It doesn’t feel like it. I’ve seen hours of your interviews, all of your movies. I was lying: I know so much, I know more than I should. You feel like you knew me before we met; I see the way you look at me, the way you touch me. Like you’ve imagined it happening a million times before.)

“I know,” Seulgi says, smiling.

There’s a kind of odd acceptance to it, in that one single sentence. You can’t look away from her, and it’s mutual - Seulgi pulls your chin down with her thumb, and kisses you.

It’s almost tender, sweetly gentle, like she has every right to do so. You’re smiling, for some reason, grinning against her lips. She must know it, because the next thing she does is sink her teeth into the corner of your mouth, enough to sting but not enough to break skin - and a whine traps itself in your throat. You kiss her and you can feel it, really feel it: this uncontainable scope of fame, between the two of you. Supernovas in this sort of world, side by side like meteors on a crash course, like heat death, like that same self-fulfilling prophecy.

Give it one more minute and you’ll call it off, you’re thinking, winding your arms around her neck. Any minute now.

You’re actually about to leave at the same time, but there’s the telltale sound of some music performance going on, some idol group; it’s better to sneak back into the show on a break, an intermission to situate. That’s what you tell yourself. In reality, it’s probably something about the allure of stolen moments - Seulgi leans against the counter, opens her phone, starts playing the same dumb mobile game she was engrossed in when you first walked in; you crook your head over your shoulder, watch her do it - and nothing about it makes sense. It’s all beyond logic. For some reason, she’s talking freely, randomly, now asking your opinion on festive outfits for pets; for some reason, you’re indulging her. It’s almost normal. It’s fucking asinine.

“This is crazy, you know,” you say, unprovoked, as she loses the same game for the fifth time.

“This is crazy,” Seulgi agrees, somehow correctly attributing it to your situation and not her lack of gaming skill. “There’s something about you,” she says, chin in her hand, gazing at your reflection. It’s exhilarating, the way she stares without trying to hide it; the way she doesn’t even attempt to play it cool. “Like I want to crack your head open and pick your brain.”

“You are so psychotic,” you say, loving it. “You can’t just say you have a crush on me?”

“I’m twenty-eight,” she says, a little petulantly, pout offsetting the sentiment.

“Not too old to have a crush,” you say. “Not too old to have an ongoing affair.”

There you go again: acknowledging the weight of what you’re doing like it’ll snap you out of it, force your moral compass back into alignment. Seulgi huffs a little through her nose, absentmindedly drops her lips to the side of your head. Leaves with the line of her lipstick still intact, somehow. Starts talking again, about what she usually does on Christmas, seeing if she can order some miniature Santa hats for her cats, new colorful lights to put around her house; you’re watching her phone and humming a little in agreement, drawn in. Rasp of her voice something like the North star, guiding you to unfamiliar territory. She keeps making you laugh. You both know exactly what you’re doing and you’re doing it anyway.

“Congratulations,” Seulgi says, as you’re about to leave, holding the door open for you. “On your award.”

“I didn’t win anything yet,” you tell her, bemused.

“But you’re going to,” she says, laughing, leaving no room for debate. Squeezes your hand as you pass, like she’s saying, I mean it. I’m lying through my teeth to everyone else but you. It’d be no use. It’s you.

You roll your eyes, and let her have it. You’ve let her have so much already.

She’s right. You win the award. You step up to the podium, thank your manager and your company and your fans. From the tables of actors, Seulgi wolf-whistles - honest-to-God, loud and disruptive; probably just to make you laugh, and it works. You can’t stop grinning. You’ll see the pictures later, plastered across social media: smile more genuine than any movie you’ve ever been in, any performance you’ve ever put on. Wow, some of your fans will say, already crafting theories; I haven’t seen her look this happy in a while; I wonder what it is, I wonder if she’ll tell us. It’s dramatic of them, you think. You don’t read into that, either.

You could DM Seulgi, private message her on Twitter, get her number from an acquaintance, contact her in fifteen different ways. You don’t. It’s for the best, really.

ok you’re right i need to go to jail, you text Wendy, after. i need to be arrested and put in jail…. i am a danger to myself and others.

YOU WENT HOME WITH HER???? is the immediate response. I CALLED IT PAY UP BITCH

no we fucked in the bathroom 😭😭😭😭

in PUBLIC???? oh my god. And then: u are so lucky u got famous right after u graduated high school because u would never have made it into college. DUMB FUCK

ok that’s going a little far.

U ARE UR EX’S GF’S MISTRESS UR THE ONE WHO TOOK IT TOO FAR FIRST, says Wendy, and then sends a string of incomprehensible emojis. u could have fucked ANYONE else. ANYONE. U ARE THE ONE WHO MADE THIS HAPPEN!!!!!

Alright, it’s certainly aggressive. But she’s not really wrong, either.

You post a series of photos on your Instagram of your dress, of the night, thanking the designer and your fans, saying you’re so grateful for the award, the opportunity. You look just like you always have; clean-cut and pristine, good-girl shine completely intact, like you’ve never made a single mistake in your life. Seulgi doesn’t like it, doesn’t comment. You let it be.

lolll at her and seulgi both being at that event at the same time, one of your fans says on Twitter, about you. come on there have to be SOME pap pics of them getting into a knock down drag out NASTY fight in the street like

no catfight sry, someone else responds, and links a video: this is the only interaction we got between them? but it’s kind of…. idk

The video’s a fifteen second clip of the event itself; you and Seulgi aren’t seated at the same table, but it’s close enough for you to both be in the same shot. And it’s barely anything at all; the announcer says something and Seulgi looks over her shoulder at you, twitches an eyebrow upwards. You meet her eyes immediately, nose scrunching, the subtle dig of your front teeth into your lip. She smiles, just barely; your lashes flutter fast, and you look away.

It’s the tiniest thing. Could read as anything from hostile to cordial to a complete accident to what it truly was, at the time: like you’re both high schoolers commiserating over a lame teacher, an annoying classmate, sharing a private joke between the two of you. Much too comfortable to be strangers. It’s your second time meeting; you’ve both seen too much of each other - on-screen, uncovered skin - to be anything but overly familiar.

is anyone else seeing the enemies to lovers vision, someone says. like the chemistry…. OH

??????, someone replies. IT’S A 15 SECOND CLIP AND SEULGI’S STILL DATING IRENE.

okay but look at the material like they’d be hot together i’m sorry

As if that’s all it takes to make it okay, you’re thinking, scrolling through it, entertained when you shouldn’t be. The two of you being hot together, erasing all your sins. Ah, well. Maybe in a perfect world.

You watch the movie you’d been talking with Seulgi about that night - your favorite one, the rock star role and the topless scenes and her stunning voice. It bowls you over like it always does, brings tears to your eyes at the ending; it’s just that kind of film, angsty and gorgeous and devastating, Seulgi’s performance somewhat earth-shattering every time. All the right nuance, leaning into the subtleties. She’s brilliant; every line brutal and beautiful in equal measures, every turn of her head a revelatory, religious experience. The very first time you watched it was alone, a few months back, clicking through various streaming services - you like everything Seulgi’s been in, so it was a no-brainer - and two hours later you were sobbing into your hands, rethinking your whole life and every personal career choice you’ve ever made. Putting it as five stars into your secret Letterboxd account and adding a review that says i’m pregnant and the baby daddy is kang seulgi’s performance in this movie and leaving it there, self-explanatory. It said enough, you thought.

Honestly, it’s possible you should’ve seen this whole affair coming.

“So, what’s the deal?” asks Wendy, when you see her in person the next day. “Are you still pretending like this is just a - what, a two-time thing, now? That you came to your senses and it’ll really never happen again this time?”

“Um,” you say.

(The fact of the matter is this: there’s a new ache in you, something only she can ease. You try fucking yourself - with your fingers, with toys - and it’s nowhere near as satisfying. Even with you picturing her voice murmuring low in your ear: so pretty, baby, taking mommy’s fingers like that. Cum for me. Cum. So you touch yourself and it’s effective in the barest sense, and nothing more. Like Seulgi broke you the second she got her hands on you and now she’s the only one that can get you back. You’re needy all the time, distracted and wet; longing for her voice, her mouth, the hungry glint in her eyes when she looks at you. Longing for something you know you shouldn’t want, and it only makes you want it more.)

“It’s gonna happen again,” you admit, and Wendy bursts out laughing. At least you’re being honest with someone.

Later that night - because you hate to make sound decisions, because common sense has thoroughly escaped you, because you can’t make mistakes without making them habits, too; because there’s the sharp edge of a horror sting, Hitchcockian, and every murderous whodunit needs a plot device and a dumbass final girl - Wendy says that the two of you should go to a party. Another one of her idol friends’ places, she says. Plus, the last party you went to worked out really well for the both of you, so.

“Is Seulgi gonna be there?” you ask, sussing out motives. “Is that why you’re doing this?”

“How should I know?” says Wendy, innocently, but you figure everyone probably already does.

(Because - yep, you’re gonna be the person who fucks your ex-girlfriend’s new girlfriend three times in one week. God’s just gonna have to deal with that in his own way.)

So you return to the scene of the very first crime, in spirit: another party, another packed mansion. Another short skirt and sheer tights and an opportunity to fuck your whole life up. Well, at least Wendy’s by your side for this one - it makes a difference, having her for support.

“Wait,” you realize belatedly, when you get inside. “This is Park Sooyoung’s house.”

“Oh, is it?” says Wendy, arm linked in yours and searching the crowd. “That’s so funny.”

“Good God.” It’s not hard to pick Sooyoung out; she’s at her own kitchen counter, black hair spilling over her shoulders, her fiancé with an arm around her waist and a drink in his hand. She also spots Wendy the second she enters the vicinity, breaks into a smile that echoes something like relief, all teeth and tired eyes - wedding planning must be taking its toll. “So we’re at this party for you, then.”

Wendy smiles back at Sooyoung, the same way she does in every broadcasted performance; grin glittering, irresistibly earnest charm. The line of Sooyoung’s mouth softens, goes tender. “I figured if you’re gonna homewreck a perfectly good relationship just so you can fuck the girl of your dreams, I should get to do the same.”

It’s one way to land a blow. “The girl of my-” you choke out, stop, have to take it back. “Okay, Seulgi is not-”

“Uh,” says Wendy, raising an eyebrow at something over your shoulder. “Turn around.”

You stop cold. You’ve seen a movie just like this before - you know a spoken cue when you hear one. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“We just got here. She can’t already be here. It’s too soon.”

Wendy bites her bottom lip into her mouth, agitated and amused in equal measures; you’re too wired to place the source of it, waves already crashing against the hull, the threat of salt and sea and drowning. You’re putting off the inevitable. If you turned around right now, it’d all play in slow motion, your gazes meeting in a crowded room, right out of one of your dramas - she’d stare at you like she always does, those fucking eyes, craving and unreal and unrelenting, and-

“Anything else,” you say, frantically. It’s too early in the night; you’re too fucking sober. “We can even go talk to Park Sooyoung. Come on, girl of your dreams-”

Wendy’s focus flicks behind you again. “Alright,” she agrees, too easily. “Let’s go.”

It’s then that you should probably figure out what’s going on here, but you don’t.

It’s always been easy to talk to Sooyoung, for you - the two of you first met on the first big project you’d ever filmed, where she’d played your older sister - and tonight she’s just as lovely, effervescent and flawlessly gorgeous, always indulgent in conversation. It helps that Wendy’s there; they go back even farther, though it’s a story you’ve heard a million times. Sooyoung has a specific smile she saves just for Wendy, a way she laughs when Wendy cracks a joke - that’s a whole narrative on its own, prologue to finale.

“The wedding’s so soon, though,” you’re saying emphatically, propping your hip against Sooyoung’s counter, preoccupying yourself with staring at her engagement ring so you don’t let your eyes wander anywhere else. “Are you stressed?”

Sooyoung hums, adjusts her long hair over her shoulder. She, for some unknown reason, has her fingers hooked in the sleeve of Wendy’s top, fingers absentmindedly brushing her wrist. Her soon-to-be husband’s suddenly nowhere to be seen. “Not really,” she says, though the minute crease in her forehead says otherwise. “I mean, I have a wedding planner that I’m paying a small fortune to, so. Basically the only thing I have to do on the day is show up and look pretty.”

“Oh, no,” says Wendy, grinning, sensing an opening. “How are you ever gonna make that happen?”

Sooyoung shoots Wendy a sideways look. “I know,” she says, mouth at a playful tilt. “Getting me to look good? Ugh.”

“Hey, if you believe in miracles…”

You fight back an eye-roll. For as long as you’ve known them, they’ve always been like this; the banter, the back-and-forth, irrationally entertained by each other from the jump. It’s beyond you how Park Sooyoung’s ever convinced herself that she likes anyone more than she likes Wendy - why spend the rest of your life with anyone else but your favorite person - but she’s made her own decisions. It’s not like you’d have any room to judge, at this point. Speaking of which-

“-is everything okay there?” Sooyoung’s saying, when you start listening again. “I bet it’s at least a little awkward, right?”

“It’s very fucking awkward,” says Wendy. It becomes immediately apparent that they’re talking about you, either sensing that you’ve tuned out or so wrapped up in each other that they’ve forgotten you’re standing there entirely. “But - you know. She’s working through it in her own way. Certainly making some drastic choices.”

“But not good ones,” Sooyoung interprets, tone indicating she thinks it’s a joke.

“Absolutely not,” confirms Wendy, deadly serious.

A sigh from Sooyoung. “Is it fine that all three of them are here, then? I guess - I never know how to go about these things, I don’t know, like, what’s fair game, whose side to take-”

“Wait,” you say, cutting in. “All three of us?”

Wendy grimaces, tossing another glance right over your shoulder, scoping out how bad the situation is. There’s a bomb she’s been managing to delay in increments, a hastily built dam holding back a rush of water - and, now, that break in the floodgates. It’s over. It’s been over for ages.

“Well, yeah,” says Sooyoung. “You, and Seulgi, and-”

Needless to say, you’re about to prove Wendy completely right, yet again - the only choices you ever make are fucking awful, but you’ve gone way too far to go back now.

Look, at least it’s nothing like the movies.

It’s the farthest thing from slow motion: you turn around and it’s like everything hits in that same split second, no soundtrack to soften the blow - a sucker punch, a car crash - no perfect pacing, leisurely pan of a camera lens. It’s you and your ex-girlfriend and the girl you’ve been fucking; the roof seems to sink low, walls pulling in tight, doors locking you all in. Debris and smoking wreckage. There’s no way to romanticize that.

“Um,” says Sooyoung, already turning to go. “You know what, I’m gonna…”

It’s a relatively graceful exit for a moment like this. Wendy, whether out of some loyalty or some sick desire to see how this trainwreck plays out - alright, it’s probably both - stays right by your side. Like you said: backup. There are some things you don’t have the sanity to face alone. Such as-

“Hello,” says Irene, with a hesitant little smile.

It’s very nearly devastating - that’s the thing. It comes so close.

There’s her categorically perfect face, beautiful like she’s getting put in front of a panel and scored on it, tens across the board - poise of a pageant queen, composure like the movie star she is - exactly like you’d always remember her, since two years ago when you first started dating, since nearly three when you’d met for the first time. And despite her haughty, aloof image, there’s still that visible soft spot she has for you: in the gentle tug of her lips, chin tilted barely upwards, color of her eyes warm and familiar. It’s enough to pull you back in. It’s enough to dredge up memories like floodlands, something that’ll consume you entirely.

“Hi,” you say, speechless for all the wrong reasons.

(And here’s the thing: you should be thinking of all that. You spent two years loving her, kissing the curve of her smile, wrapped up in her arms; her date to every movie premiere, your face all over her social media. You’d been a brand together, a phenomenon, a love story to admire and aspire to - a perfect slow-burn, strangers to friends to lovers, soft and simple and romantic; you hadn’t fallen in love, like the poets say: you’d slipped into it quietly, like being tucked into bed at night. And that was better. That was the way it should’ve been.)

You should be a mess, right now. You should be racked with guilt - she loved you, how could you do this to her, what about your morals, your dignity - honestly, and it comes so close to being devastating, you swear, the first time you’ve seen Irene since the breakup, in front of you and smiling like that, it’s almost enough to bring you to ruin-

“Hi,” says Seulgi, next to her, voice short and somewhat shot. “Nice to meet you.”

-but it’s nothing compared to the way you want to get absolutely fucked to death by Kang Seulgi right now.

“Oh, that’s right,” says Irene, cordially, and your history hightails it out of the room. It’s a party; she’ll keep it friendly, light. You clearly aren’t making this a whole thing, so she won’t either. “You haven’t met Seulgi before, have you?”

“No, I don’t think so,” you say, playing along. It’s the role of a lifetime: acting like you’re someone who didn’t cum all over Seulgi’s fingers just yesterday. “Nice to meet you, Seulgi.”

It’s a bad move, saying her name - but then again, it always is.

You just can’t help it. You’re too overcome by the sight of her. It’s like she’s never looked so close to you, so dangerous; top with too many buttons undone, deep cut down her chest, divide of her collarbone, skin unmarred and inviting, hair loose and wild. Suddenly it’s like you feel everywhere she’s ever touched you, marked by notes and chalk outlines, body a crime scene; here’s the evidence, here’s the guilty verdict, open-and-shut. And Seulgi’s looking right back at you, too, lips parted, flushing through her foundation, eyes heavy with liner and blatant desire. Bites on the inside of her lower lip, visible and rough; scans your entire body, top to toe, throat constricting as she swallows. She’s wearing the tiniest plaid miniskirt, like she’s making a mockery of a school uniform, fulfilling someone’s very specific fantasy. And she’s so, so fucking hot.

“Yeah, cool,” says Seulgi, staring like she wants to bend you over the nearest flat surface and rail you in front of everyone, and not making much of an effort to act at all. Then, abruptly: “I need a cigarette.”

She turns on her heel and bolts for the back door.

“Wow,” says Wendy, next to you, watching Seulgi as she makes her escape. “She seems… nice.”

Irene’s silent, watching your expression, face impassive.

“No, I get it,” you say, working your tone into something sympathetic; keep the layers, the feigned bitterness, the judgment. “I’m her girlfriend’s ex. Of course she’d feel a little awkward around me.” You smile reassuringly at Irene. “It’s okay. I’m sure she’s great.”

The corner of Irene’s mouth turns up, grateful. Close press of her lips, and doesn’t speak.

“It’s good to see you,” you say, getting the gist anyway.

Because Irene’s as she always is, at the end of the day; assuming she doesn’t need words to communicate, counting on the people around her to read her mind, do the heavy lifting for her. There are worse character flaws for a person to have, you reason. It’s at least a damn good thing she never learned to do the same for you.

(Oh, the things she’d see, if she could get into your head. Brimming with the uncontrollable urge to either burst out laughing on the spot at Seulgi’s unsubtle exit or run after her and kiss Seulgi senseless, watch her smoke and let her make you smile, lean into her body and say you’re so cute, do whatever you want with me; I’ll be yours for tonight, if that’s what you need. We’ve made so many mistakes, you and me. Let’s make some more.)

“It’s good to see you, too,” Irene says, finally. She won’t pull you in for a reconciliatory hug, won’t lay a finger on you; she knows all her boundaries. She’s probably the only one in this room who does. “I’m glad to see that you’re doing well.”

“Thanks,” you say, because if only she knew.

Speaking of worse character flaws.

“Get your shit together,” you say, out of the corner of your mouth, when you run into Seulgi on the back patio. “I thought you were an actress.”

“It’s a crime that I’m not fucking you right now,” Seulgi says around her cigarette, lighter flicking fast. A beat, and it catches. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

There’s that same pretty pink blush high in her cheeks. It could be the cold but it isn’t. “Your girlfriend’s here,” you say, like she’s unaware, like that’ll make her take it back, like you don’t wish you were on your knees and eating her out just as much as she does. “We are horrible fucking people, Seulgi.”

There’s really no use - it’s a formality, completely performative. Seulgi’s got her gaze stuck on your tight top, your legs wrapped in sheer black tights, your boots, your blunt nails. Stare hooded, expression suggesting unspeakable things.

“Alright, kid,” she agrees. Alright, she’s saying; I’ll be anything, as long as I can have you. “I think I can be okay with that.”

It’s a long, torturous night.

Not that you thought it’d be any different. Irene’s as much of a presence as she always is, despite how physically small she is - it’d be hard to find a room she couldn’t command with a snap of her fingers, a click of her stilettos - but it’s unbearable when she’s with Seulgi, the two of them attracting stares and attention simply by virtue of being together, stunning separately and surreal on each others’ arms. It’s manageable, at first; your jealousy’s so misplaced and so you start drinking a little yourself, laughing loud with Wendy, ignoring it. It’s fine.

But it starts unraveling completely probably about two hours in.

“I can’t take this anymore,” you say, watching Seulgi prop her elbows atop Sooyoung’s kitchen island, hair winding its way past her shoulders, looking like how light runs from night skies, seeps its way from shadowy corners. Can’t stand the way she leans in and whispers something to Irene, and Irene’s reactions are as muted as they always are, when she’s not on camera; a quick quirk of her mouth, and nothing more. Seulgi’s eyes slide to you every other minute. She looks bored. She looks vicious. “I need to be admitted to the psych ward.”

“So I’ve been saying,” says Wendy. “For years.”

Seulgi’s laughing, now, but in that closed-off, false way she does in talk show interviews. Playing with Irene’s fingers, their heads bent together. She darts another look towards you again. Put your money where your mouth is, you want to tell her; you want me so bad, then have me. Give it all up for me.

“I wanna test a theory,” you say, to Wendy, because it’s all about the scientific method, and you know Seulgi won’t give anything up for you at all, unless pushed to the brink. It’s just the way things are.

Wendy tilts her head. “Is it Kang Seulgi-related?”

“Uh.” You’re too obvious.

She rolls her eyes, rephrases. “Is it gonna get you laid?”

“Yeah,” you say, because it’s too late for shame, but it’d be tactless to say well, that’s gonna happen regardless. Even if it’s true.

“Fine.” Wendy sighs, sends a baleful look over to where Park Sooyoung’s smiling softly by the back door, wrapped up in her fiancé’s arms. “At least one of us should be getting fucked tonight.”

You’ve acted in enough dramas to know how to manufacture chemistry with anyone, but it’s a little extra effective with Wendy; the two of you aren’t scared to touch each other, giggle together like you’re in on a dirty, private joke, ignore that there’s anyone else in the room. You’re codependent, and she’s gorgeous, crop top revealing her toned stomach, plenty of places to trace with your fingertips. It’s easy to put on a show. And it’s not at all a subtle one; Wendy’s got an arm around your waist in turn, murmuring something in your ear, lips brushing your jaw when she pulls back. Transforming every touch into something intimate, suggestive.

“I really don’t think you need to be doing all this,” says Wendy, as you wind a lock of her hair around your finger, flutter your eyelashes like she’s flirting. “Seulgi’s already cheated on Irene with you twice. Doesn’t that already prove enough?”

“No,” you say, stare purposely focused on her mouth. It’s pettier than that, anyway. See me with someone else, you’re thinking; see how you like it. It’s a thought that’d be understandable if you were trying to stick it to Irene right now, instead of a girl you’ve met (and fucked) twice, but- “Is she looking?”

“Oh, yeah.” Wendy’s grinning, unable to work her lips into a sultry kind of pout; it’s something she’d be able to do on stage, but it’s different when she’s back here on earth with the rest of you. “And I think she’s gonna wring my fucking neck.”

You throw a glance over your shoulder. Seulgi’s still over in the kitchen, jaw flat and eyes trained on you without a cover, no façade in sight. She’s getting that look on her face - the one that says she’s gonna fucking strangle you for this - and the way her fingers flex outwards instead of curling to fists - saying if I do, you’re gonna beg for more. It’s working. Of course it’s working. Seulgi’s fingers are trembling a little bit, restless; desperate for a vice, you or her nicotine. What’s worse, really.

“How far are you willing to go for this?” you ask, hand falling to cup Wendy’s cheek.

“As far as you want.” Wendy’s always game, and she’s spent a few too many nights alone. She’s got her own points to prove.

“Great,” you say, smiling. “Kiss me.”

“So romantic,” says Wendy, but she does it anyway.

It’s not like you haven’t done it before, but it’s different under the influence - under alcohol, under Seulgi’s stare burning a hole in your back, under the cover of darkness like you’ve never shone under spotlights - and it works.

“Oh, man,” says Wendy, pulling back, sliding a hand through your hair; your lip gloss glimmers on her bottom lip. “We’re fucked up. And I think I need to stop before Seulgi actually puts out a hit on me.”

“She shouldn’t care,” you say, innocuous, tracing Wendy’s sides with your fingertips. “She has a girlfriend. Why should she give a fuck who I’m making out with?”

“We’re not making out,” says Wendy. She’s got glittering eyeshadow on the inner corners of both eyes, sparkling in low light. You think of city streets and skylines, her face on billboards, her voice on the radio, how her fans would froth at the mouths if they could see her like this. “I kissed you once.”

“We’re not making out yet,” you correct her.

“Well, in that case,” says Wendy, and pulls you back in.

(By the back door, Park Sooyoung’s watching the both of you, lips pressed together in a thin line, blinking fast as if unable to reconcile what she’s seeing. Unsure of what she really wants, never knowing how to get it. Feelings are funny like that.)

It’s only a matter of time, but it always is.

come outside, the text from a number you don’t recognize reads. i’m taking you home.

seems like a bad idea to hitch a ride home with a stranger, you respond right away, knowing even with the anonymity, fingertips trembling like your entire body aches to scream her name. Wendy’s got an arm around your waist, the two of you tucked in a corner and talking to one of her friends; she reads the texts over your shoulder and laughs out loud. You add, i’m famous or whatever. there are a lot of people who want to hurt me.

yeah, is the only response, like a threat in itself. you’re right. they do.

You don’t know what Seulgi tells Irene to get away with this, but it doesn’t really matter.

“Oh, wow,” you say, as you make it down the driveway just to see her already standing by the front gate. She’s got her phone in her hand and a sleek black car idling on the curb. “What a coincidence. You know, I just got this text from this person who’s clearly stalking me, wanted to take me home with them - so crazy, seriously, fans these days-”

“Get in the fucking car,” Seulgi snaps, voice deadly low; closes her fingers around your wrist and tugs.

She doesn’t leave you any room to argue, but it’s not like you would, regardless - you wouldn’t leave even if she’d let you.

So you’re piling into the backseat of the car, and the second the door shuts, windows tinted, she curls her fingers in your hair and kisses you. Desperately, like she’s been wanting to the moment she saw you, right when you walked in a room; possessive and sloppy, the taste of her mouth, the bite of alcohol - oh, she’s drunk, she can’t curb a single impulse like this. Knuckles bone-white and every breath like a gasp; you’re losing your mind already, inhibitions like a foreign language, something you could never really get a grasp on. She sighs right on your tongue, sharing air like a necessity. The car starts moving. Nothing registers but her.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” says Seulgi roughly, fingers tangled in the flimsy strap of your top. “I don’t give you attention for one night and you start throwing yourself at anyone desperate enough to fucking touch you-”

“Are you jealous?” you taunt, asking for it. “Even though you were there with your girlfriend?”

Her gaze locks on yours. Pupils drowning her irises. Staring at the flick of her tongue against her teeth. Other hand on your thigh, underneath your skirt.

And then she wraps one hand in the fabric of your tights and tears.

All the air vacates your lungs, a head-rush if there ever was one - and now she’s got complete access to everything she wants, your thong, the way she can probably see how you’re soaking through it. You get out shakily, like it’s what matters: “Those were expensive.”

“Darling,” says Seulgi, smugly arrogant, “I’m pretty sure I can afford to buy you new ones.”

Her ego shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but it is. You’re squirming in place, begging to be touched; you’d let her fuck you right here in the back of this car with her driver stone-faced at the wheel, let heat fog up the windows, let it be a sex scene straight out of some filthy erotic art film, you squealing and cumming all over the leather seats - but you’ve been bad, Seulgi murmurs against your ear, and so you can wait. She’s thumbing your cunt through your panties, agonizingly slow, forcing you to grind down against her fingers. Anything for friction, for pressure, for her hands right where you want them-

“You make me kind of insane,” she mumbles against your mouth, a break in the character, revelation of the truth. Pulls back with her lips swollen and red. “God. I just wanna do super fucked up things to you, all the time.”

“Then do them,” you breathe out, and Seulgi smiles widely, teeth glinting like they’re coated in venom.

You don’t fuck in the car, but it’s close. Her driver doesn’t say a thing. That’s something you’ve all come to know, early on in this world: money can buy anything, especially silence. It’s the only way you’ll ever make it out of this alive.

Finally, she takes you home.

Your first thought is that it’s fucking unbelievable.

You’re so used to McMansions and penthouse apartments, sterile and unwelcoming - but Seulgi’s place is artsy and cluttered like she’s an ancient, eccentric billionaire instead of a twentysomething movie star. Strange intricate sculptures and colorful throw pillows. Paintings covering the walls that seem vaguely obscene. Sprawling plush rugs, overgrown plants situated at almost every corner in glazed terracotta pots, vines weaving their way towards the floor, over windowsills. A few very elaborate-looking cat trees, dangling with lilac fabric flowers and strung up with tiny plush bees. The view’s stunning. It’s not the only thing.

“Whoa,” you say, forgetting you’re supposed to be begging for forgiveness, or something. “The feng shui of this house is, like, nuts.”

“Thanks,” says Seulgi, mildly endeared and holding your hand, like she’s accidentally forgotten the same thing.

But it doesn’t last long - she drops to her knees right there in the entryway and works your boots off of you, one leg at a time - her heels are undoubtedly thousands of dollars, but she discards them like they’re nothing, lets them clatter across the floor. You don’t even make it to the bedroom before she’s got your skirt rucked up around your waist and she’s pulling at your ruined tights; off, she’s saying, standing, mouthing at your neck, I need them off - and you’re too needy and pliant underneath her, too ready and desperate to be ruined. “Mommy,” you’re saying, making your eyes big, tapping into every trick of the trade, “mommy, I’m so wet-”

And there’s the sharp sound of her hand colliding hard with your cheek.

“I don’t wanna hear it,” drawls Seulgi, tone slipping low and deadly, and drags you up the stairs.

You don’t have time to catalog the rest of the feng shui - you would if you could - because the second you hit her bedroom Seulgi’s tugging at the rest of your clothes, lifting your shirt overhead, unclasping your bra; you’re pawing at her in a similarly insatiable way, hands unbuttoning her blouse, yanking at that goddamned schoolgirl skirt, entranced by the look on her face: lips bitten, cheeks flushed, painstakingly pretty. Like you might be ruining you as much as you’re ruining her. I’m so sorry, you’re blubbering, as her nails scrape at you, mommy, I know I was bad-

“And you know what happens to bad girls, right?”

Yes, you’re thinking, staring up at her with watery eyes - oh, yeah, you know how this ends.

Stomach-first on Seulgi’s lap, for one. Soaked and trembling on top of her, drenched through your thong. Gasping because you can’t quite catch your breath. That’s how it goes with sex, with her, like you can never get your fucking bearings, like you never know when she’s gonna strike-

“Here’s the thing about you,” you hear Seulgi say, one hand stroking gently through your hair, voice suddenly soothing. “You’re never gonna learn how to behave unless I teach you, huh?”

-and that’s right when the flat of her palm comes down on your ass.

Tears spring to your eyes immediately. “Fuck-”

“Oh, baby girl.” Her hand’s back in your hair. Click of her tongue against teeth. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”

Another one, the loud crack of her hand. You flinch violently, wriggling in her lap - she gives a tiny laugh, loving it, yanking a little on your hair. She says, in a rasp: “And you’re so wet, aren’t you?”

It’s barely a question. You’re leaking through your thong, dripping onto her thighs. She’ll probably make you lick it up later, make you face it, take it. You can’t hide forever, she’ll say. I see what all of this does to you.

Seulgi leans down, rubbing her hand up your spine, fist clutching at your hair. “You can’t be acting like a whore in public like that, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “It’s unflattering.”

You can’t speak, squirming and humiliated, embarrassing whines tearing their way out of your mouth, out of your control. You’re shuddering, you’re pathetic, seconds from coming apart at the seams; her fingertips skate back down, circle your ass, threatening to hit. She’ll hurt you and you’ll like it, she knows. You already do.

“In private - I mean, do whatever you want.” Another hit, then another - you’re crying now, dizzy and light-headed - you’ve never been more wet in your fucking life. “That’s how you got so far in this industry, isn’t it? You just let everybody take a turn with this slutty fucking cunt. That’s how you get all your jobs, right?” Seulgi’s palm rubs the length of your cunt, harsh and rough; the apartment’s crumbling, foundation tearing itself up - she hits you again - leave as many bruises as you want, you think of saying, give me something that’ll haunt me when you leave, please - “I mean, I already know you like fucking people with experience.”

And it’s a vile thing to say, it’s so sick, and so not true. You’re a superstar, you should have your own level of ego, should fight allegations like those - but the truth is the only star left in the room is above you, laughing as your pussy leaks all over her thighs. She adjusts your body in her lap like you’re made for her to manhandle, turns you until she can see your face, the tear tracks on your cheeks.

Your eyes on her, never snapping away. Do whatever you want to me, you’re saying, I’ll take it.

“Like a good girl,” Seulgi interprets.

“Yeah,” you say, hoarse and already gone. “Like a good girl.”

(If you’re gonna make all the wrong choices, you might as well make it worth your while.)

Seulgi makes you cum first - and then second, and then third - with her hand forcing you down by your hipbone, lips at your navel and trailing downwards, lips wrapping around your clit and sucking. It’s somehow filthier fucking her in her own bed, no public bathrooms or images to keep clean: she makes you cum and cum until she emerges with her chin glistening and a feral smirk on her face, pleased with her handiwork, the half-moon crescents of her nails against your thighs, the way you can’t stop whining.

“Oh, baby,” she sighs after, at the look on your face, spaced out and wrecked. “Did mommy work you too hard?” Rubs a wet hand along your ribs, uncaring of the way she smears your own cum along your skin. “I thought you said you could take it.”

“I can,” you say, vehement, trembling all over. Prop yourself up on your elbows, breathless, and say: “I can give it pretty good, too, mommy.” Lean forward, capture her mouth against yours, tasting your own cunt. “If you’ll let me.”

Clutches the headboard and sits on your face, hips rocking against your mouth, your tongue lapping greedily at her cunt, dripping cum all over your jaw - she cums once and you push her to the bed, work your fingers in the tight wet heat of her pussy, say mommy, I just wanna make you feel good. Thumb circling her hard little clit, fingers curling inside her, punching out full-hearted moans from her slick mouth. You’re supposed to be a pillow princess, probably, that’s absolutely your archetype - begging for a girl’s fingers or mouth, getting fucked into oblivion and calling it there - but you’ve always been greedier than you should be, needing to take and own and touch and fuck. And Seulgi’s so fucking sensitive.

“That’s my girl,” Seulgi’s saying, one hand wound in your hair, syrupy-sweet; she won’t raise her voice anymore when it’s like this, when you’ve been good, when you’re seconds from making her cum again. She knows when you deserve the praise. “God, fuck-”

You push her to orgasm over and over until she hits her own limit, shoves you to the bed and says, Jesus, I can’t, I can’t. Ends it by taking your wrist and dragging your fingers into her mouth, tongue laving over her own cum, stringing sticky over your hand. Looks right at you the whole time, perched on your thigh, breathtaking. She’s smaller than you, but you never feel it. Like without trying, she could bring the whole world to her feet and make them beg for salvation - like without effort, she owns you.

“I’d ask you who taught you to eat pussy like that,” Seulgi tells you, voice gravelly from moaning, “but I think I probably already know the answer.”

It leaves you giggling, nose against her neck, consumed by her. It’s a fucked up thing to joke about, but it’s just one more thing to add to the list.

(It’s hysterical, because she’s the one who should be begging for salvation - no one needs to repent more than she does. Oh, well. She’s about to spend all night on her knees, worshipping; if she’s right and God gets her, then it’s possible God can let this one slide, just this once.)

Afterwards - ah, you know what they say. Third time’s the fucking charm.

You don’t really mean to stay the night, but it happens anyway. Maybe you’re learning to pick your battles. You’ve made it this far giving into every stupid impulse - you know what you want, so why fight it, really.

Seulgi’s something of a miracle to witness, first thing in the morning: gorgeous and completely dead to the world, streaks of eyeliner smeared across her closed eyes, foundation shiny and worn, whatever was left of her lipstick staining her pillowcase. Everyone’s favorite movie star, so utterly human. She’ll probably break out from falling asleep in her makeup. You probably will, too.

“Seulgi.”

You stretch, disentangle yourself from her; you’re sore in all the most satisfying ways, ass a stinging mess. Seulgi shifts in lieu of a response, hums, clearly a light sleeper. A smile flickers at her mouth.

“Seulgi,” you say again, brattier, and bury your face in her hair.

It does the trick: her name, your tone. “Kid,” Seulgi says, curving to make space for you, voice hoarse from sleep, like she’s retaliating. Then, with a laugh, eyes blinking open: “I can’t believe you stayed.”

You pull back just to cock your head at her, assessing intention. She reaches out a hand under the sheets and grazes your bare thigh. Like she’s trying to see if she’s sleepwalking, lucid dreaming - her subconscious knows what she wants; it’ll cater to her. Sometimes she touches you like she’s not convinced you’re real. Sometimes you think you do the same for her.

“Did you want me to leave?” you ask, grinning, somehow already knowing the answer.

“No,” Seulgi says, anyway. Smile sleepy and stunning, a glimpse of the sun in the room with you. “Stay as long as you want.”

It’s a blatant lie, but a heart-stoppingly sweet one. Actresses, you think, disparagingly, and lean in to kiss her mouth. “Bullshit,” you say, calling her on it.

But she’s giggling in that way she only does when it’s real, and so you slip back between the sheets, letting her arm fall comfortably over your waist. Let the other actors carry on without you; let the plot shift around you as it goes, improvisational; let it leave you be. Oh, you don’t deserve this kind of reprieve, not by a long shot. Somehow, it’s still what you’ve got.

(Because the truth is that the moment she takes you home, it’s already over. It’s one thing to keep an affair like this confined to public bathrooms and dark corners - it’s another to hold its hand, wrap it up in her bed, let it sneak into the sheets and spend the night. Look, you’ve seen all the movies: there’s no feel-good film that lets people like you and her win. But the tape’s still rolling: there are still people listening in, sound technicians with boom mics, directors monitoring your work. We’ve set you free, let you play it by ear, they’re saying - impress me, come on, show me something good. Give me an answer that’ll satisfy an audience. You’ve made it this far, haven’t you?)

Stay, Seulgi says, like she’s even got a right to ask. Stay, she says, so you do.

Fine. The truth can wait for another day, after all. You’ll just have to let it haunt you until then.

obligatory author does not condone cheating and homewrecking disclaimer here. also this is another case of me intending this to be a one-shot and then it got too long….. okay the part 2 will come eventually i SWEAR!!!! if you made it here thanks for reading 24k words of fuckery and brainrot ily <3

DOWNRIGHT ICONIC (aespa karina)

(smut, male reader, screenwriter you, stranger karina, public sex, rough sex [choking/slapping/biting/spanking/hair-pulling etc], oral, anal, facefucking, titfucking, facial, bondage, degradation, name-calling, other weird stuff, 26k words, it’s been 1 million years…, BUT WE’RE SO BACK BABY <3)

Hey, turns out the critics really are onto something:

You’re going to win an Oscar for this.

You aren’t surprised when the nominations are announced. It’s all anyone’s been talking about. You’re this up-and-coming screenwriter, this newly-minted visionary, and - cue the applause - you’ve just made the movie of the year. Clips go viral everywhere; the reviews are calling it extraordinary. They all want to know how you - a relative nobody - managed to pull it off. What’s your secret? What’s your inspiration? Where’d you get this billion-dollar box office idea?

And here’s one version of the truth:

“Well,” you’re quoted saying in every single interview: “honestly, it’s about a girl.”

Everyone eats this up, of course. It’s so fucking romantic.

You’ll tell an abridged version of this story for the rest of your life. A blip in time in early January - a certified slow-motion movie moment. You’ll say things like she was the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen. You’ll say things like, I know it sounds lame, but that’s how it went. She took my breath away. She fascinated me. I saw her and I don’t think my life has ever been the same.

You’ll never once say her name.

“It’s weird, actually,” you’ll say in an interview after the news of the nominations drops. “Making this movie about her. She’ll last forever there, you know? She’ll always exist in this film, in this one moment in time. She’s in all of it, basically - every scene, every line. It’s all her.”

“You make it sound like she’s dead,” the interviewer will say, all open-mouthed melodrama.

You’ll laugh. “Oh, God, no,” you’ll say. “She’s alive and well.” As if it hasn’t been years since you last saw her face, watching you from down the corridor, looking lost and torn apart and very, very small. “She’s okay. I mean - I think - yeah, she’s okay.”

As if you’d know.

Because here’s another version of the truth:

You’re going to win an Oscar for this. You’re going to stand up on that stage and thank your family and your friends. You’re going to stare at all those faces until they swim together into one golden, glittering blur, and then all you’ll see is her - her dark eyes, her glossy hair, her wrist in your grip, her throat between your fingers - her in your sheets, her smiling in your doorway, her shivering in your shower, her sobbing into her hands, her bleeding in your bed, her walking away. Her, her, her. Immortalized forever in this perfect thing you made, winning awards off the reconstruction of a memory. Art imitating life; reality warped into something magnificent, and beautiful, and better.

And the only thing you’ll feel like doing is throwing up.

Sure, you’ll bask for decades in the thrill of it: the fame, the fortune, the glory; the adoration, the worship, the attention; the eternal, endless love. You’ll be able to look back on your life when you’re decrepit on your deathbed and know that you - brilliant you, utterly superior you - were divinely blessed with earth-shattering success, and no one will ever be able to take that away from you. You made your mark. You meant something. You were the best, for fuck’s sake, and you have the accolades to prove it - you really, really were.

So here’s the full truth - the final bottom line:

You’re going to win an Oscar for this. You’ll live the kind of life people beg God for. You’ll get everything you ever wanted.

It won’t be worth it at all.

First, though, there’s this.

Disturbingly enough, you’re in the romance section of a bookstore when everything starts.

This is really not your genre - that’s the funniest part. Historically, you’re bored to death by the cartoonish pastel covers; you don’t get your kicks from seeing the same delightfully quirky heroines fall for brooding bad boys, or whatever the fuck goes on in those books. You have your standards. You prefer your art a little gritty, a little fucked up, a little more interesting - the kind of thing that can leave you shellshocked in a movie theater, overcome with the sort of full-body, lightning-struck epiphany only truly good work can manage. It’s not a judgment call - you’re not trying to be pretentious. It’s just that you prefer something with some fucking bite.

The second funniest part is this:

You’re pressed against the shelves, surrounded by the cutest, chastest love stories ever told-

“Are you serious?”

-and Karina’s on her knees, about to take your cock down her throat.

Maybe this is what your contemporaries call cinematic irony.

That’s gotta be the only phrase for it, really. The scene itself dripping with classless, crude, erotic filth - the way she ducks her chin to spit on her hand, the slow pump of her fist around you, the rough hum in her mouth at how achingly hard you are - nasty and irredeemable, too fast and too loud. The gross lack of subtlety in her sex appeal: all pale thighs and porn-star tits, the wet pink flash of tongue. Seductive in a way that screams at you. It’d be so easy to write this off as some deliberately controversial opening scene, gory shock value, horror-film suspense - starring you and the slut you’re about to ravage and ruin and potentially leave for dead.

“Baby - are you sure?”

It’d be so easy, if Karina didn’t look like an angel incarnate.

“I mean, you-” You’re stammering. You’ve got both hands in her hair, fingers sliding through the glossy black in petting, soothing motions - your clumsy attempt at reassurance. “You don’t have to, if you don’t - we’re in public - I’m not expecting you to - I don’t need it-”

Karina’s fine, sculpted eyebrows twitch upwards. Her lips are a twist of scarlet, distinct and amused. She doesn’t quite smirk, doesn’t give a voice to the sarcasm, but the sentiment is the same - yeah, right.

And then she lowers her mouth to lick.

“Jesus fucking Christ-”

Scratch that, then. This is the funniest part. The most inhumanly beautiful girl you’ve ever seen, debasing herself in public like some sort of desperate common whore - come on, bring in the laugh track.

Not that anyone’s laughing now.

You’re no poet - they’re a few sections over, Plath and Yeats and Dickinson - but Karina’s the kind of thing that makes you understand the motivation completely: only capable of being captured in metaphor, without context, painstakingly interpreted hundreds of years from now by people who will never get this right. All carved-out cheekbones, fluttering lashes; tight fuckable body clad in a little low-cut dress, feet tucked neatly behind her like she’s simulating worship. Dirty and religiously devoted in how she stretches her full glossed lips around your cock and lets your grip tangle in her hair and-

“Karina,” you get out, but her only response is to blink sweetly up at you and suck.

Well, who gives a shit about the poets, anyway? You doubt any of them ever got to fuck a mouth like this.

There’s an unfamiliar caution to the rut of your hips, a wincing fascination every time she gags - and she gags loud, choking and heaving, saliva dripping slick around you and down her chin - that seems to both entertain and confuse Karina. A skeptical crease in her forehead, saying everything she can’t: you don’t wanna fuck me up? Ruin me? Cloudy spit falling in strands to her tits, seeping into the crimson fabric of her dress; she’s wearing a worn black sweatshirt that’s slipping off one shoulder, exposing the clean line of her collarbone. The hollow of her cheeks, the obscene painful sound of your cock clogging her throat - it’s subtext, explicit suggestion. A preternatural understanding. I know what this is. I know what you want from me.

Which - she couldn’t possibly.

“Baby.” You sound so wretched that it’s humiliating. Karina’s sharply lined eyes seem to flash with humor, smug and lazily self-satisfied. “You’re gonna make me fucking cum.”

The thick, sloppy, choked noise she makes is the closest she’s gonna get to a laugh.

Oh, sure, whatever, it’s not like you’re not thinking about it: digging your fingertips into her scalp and really fucking her face, relishing in the way those eyes would go wide and glassy with unshed tears; refusing to let her have control, to let her lick and lap and breathe. You’re scripting it in your head already. You’d strip her bare and make her sob. You’d wreck her throat and cum all over her face and force her to walk out like that: coated in the sticky, filthy evidence of everything you’ve made her - look at this, you’d say, look at what I have. Look at what I did - all this, all me.

“God.” Your thumb braces against Karina’s temple, like the gentle stroke of a brush, like you’re painting her right into existence. “You’re just-” A harsh gag; a fall of dirty, drooling spit. “You’re really enjoying this, huh? Getting on your knees in public for a fucking stranger?”

That’s why the fantasy of fucking her into brutal submission is actually so understandable. You don’t know her. You don’t owe her shit. You could destroy her and it’s not like she could do anything to fight back - not when she’s already below you, looking up. When she asked for this.

Except-

“Karina.” You can’t stop saying her name. “You’re - fucking perfect.”

And it’s true.

So you cum.

Karina swallows it all with the same amount of sultry grace she seems to do everything - how she laughs and walks and talks and takes your cock like a fucking professional - languishing in the practiced bob of her throat, the preening flicker of her eyelids, her face shiny and pale. It tugs the same feeling out of you as a flawless shot in a film, a well-timed bit of dialogue: watching an expert at work, pulling out all their stops. One hand through her hair. Her nails the same rich color as her mouth and her dress. Nasty, slutty, impressive attention to detail - Christ, get this girl in front of a camera, get the moon to be her limelight - you’re breathless, you’re enthralled, you’re so fucking far gone.

Then: the sticky retreating glide of her pouty mouth, lipstick smeared badly down her chin, stark and arresting as blood.

“In my experience,” Karina says, finally, “being perfect’s never gotten me anywhere good.”

She pulls the sleeve of her sweatshirt up and wipes her face with her wrist.

“You’re unbelievable,” you say, dizzy.

“Thank you,” Karina says, sweet like she means it, and sits back on her heels.

You can’t help yourself; you’re petting back her hair again, cupping her face softly in your hand, caught on the dark glint of her irises. Angel was an understatement. She looks more than that - looks like something holy and all-powerful, something omniscient and blindingly beautiful, something who knows exactly what you need and knows exactly how to follow through. Something worthy of mythology. Something like a god.

And any sort of rough, ruthless, fucked-up fantasy - it’s never going to happen.

You just can’t ruin a girl like her.

“So?” Karina’s voice is a smoky bombshell lilt, like she’s just stepped out of some film noir from the 1950s. Hands folded primly in her lap, fingers interlocked like a lady. She could be a pop culture icon, an eternal sex symbol - a Marilyn, a Bond girl, a timeless universal beauty. “What now?”

You think your brain actually short-circuits. “Sorry?”

Head tilted, lids dropped low. Smirk still sharp and scarlet. “Are you gonna take me home?”

You open your mouth to respond, but then a customer walks by the aisle.

You’re a panicked flurry of motion - zipping up your pants, turning away, frantically patting down your clothes - but Karina just stays kneeling on the floor, little chin on an incline, utterly incriminating. It doesn’t matter. The customer passes you by. The world returns to the way it should be: just the two of you.

“Karina,” you say, flabbergasted by her composure.

Karina’s lips quirk. “What?”

You shake your head and offer your hand to help her up, but Karina laughs instead - actually laughs. It’s peculiar, beautiful: raspy like a chronic chainsmoker, as though there’s something foreign she’s trying to dislodge. The raw, gravelly aftermath of a skinned knee, a grisly scrape over skin.

“Wow,” she says, and stands all on her own, tugs the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her fingers. “That’s a yes to taking me home, then?”

“What are you doing?” You’re laughing too - you can’t help it - reaching for Karina’s tiny waist to pull her in. “What are you - what do you want?”

When Karina smiles, it seems to set her eyes aflame. Bright and dancing, lashes like a shroud of smoke. “What do you mean?”

“You just met me.” It sounds feeble, somehow: a thin, useless excuse. Nothing against the way her body slots between your hands, a smooth effortless fit; nothing compared to how she kisses you between sentences, so quick and easy it already feels like a habit. “You don’t - you don’t know me.”

Karina’s mouth puckers, coy. “No?”

“No,” you shoot back, grinning, but it doesn’t sound convincing at all. “Come on, baby, seriously. What do you want?”

There’s gotta be some motive, you’re thinking. There’s gotta be a reason. Karina is so still, so soft and pliant under your hands, all the carved porcelain perfection of a marble sculpture but with none of the cold stiffness. Spine curving under your fingertips, jaw tilting into your touch.

A complete stranger, maybe - but every part of her body is begging to be known.

“Don’t you get it?” Karina says. “I want whatever you want.”

It’s so simple and earnest it takes your breath away.

“I - Jesus.” You’re biting on the inside of your cheek, drinking her in. “What if I told you I don’t know what I want?”

Another rasp of a laugh, sound like the serrated edge of a blade. “I’d say fine, okay.” Karina’s voice is low, conspiratorial. “But I’d think you’re lying.”

And here’s the thing you know for sure:

The very second you saw Karina you swear you saw the next hundred pages of a manuscript unfurling in front of you, lines and themes and gorgeous dark-eyed heroines, tragically beautiful endings and stunning cinematography - infinite narratives in the glossy sweep of her hair, in the seductive stretch of her legs, in the way she looked at you in a crowded room and smiled a lovely, secret smile and told you she’d follow you anywhere. She’s worth making art about. She’s worth devoting lifetimes to. The most honest thing you could say to her right now is baby, I’m writing a movie about this one day, and I think you’re really gonna like it.

Karina couldn’t possibly know any of this, but it still feels like she does - impractical knowledge in how she loops one arm around your neck and kisses you again, no hesitation. Like she actually knows you.

“I want to fuck you,” you murmur against her mouth, because it’s the next most honest thing. “Is that enough for you?”

You’re a screenwriter. You know your horror movies. A small part of you recognizes that this is precisely how they start: fanged vampires, wicked succubi, femme fatales out for blood. Karina’s so gorgeous she can’t be human - teeth so sharp there’s no way her intentions are pure.

“Sure,” Karina says, smirk glimmering like starlight. “Then I want that, too.”

It’s a murder plot waiting to happen.

You take her home anyway.

(Oh, and about your Oscar-winning script-

In theory, this is how it begins.

It’s classic. There’s a stranger and there’s a beautiful girl and they’re both sitting at a bar, talking for the very first time. The girl has a rose tucked behind her ear; it matches the crimson color of her lipstick perfectly. The stranger had asked her what the deal with it was, but she’d said something vague and nonsensical about it being a gift, so now they’re talking about normal, average things. Jobs, names, flirtatious pickup lines. It’s obvious because it’s meant to be, like a set-up to some predictable porn - everyone watching knows they’re going to fuck.

She keeps getting closer to him. At one point he thinks she’s going in for a kiss.

Instead, all she does is pluck the rose from behind her ear, and hand it to him.

It’s okay, she says. No thorns.

He stares at the rich furled petals and the whittled-down stem.

Thanks, he says, amused, charmed. He thinks there’s something odd about her. He likes it, though; if she were as beautiful as she is - which is very beautiful, exquisitely fucking beautiful - and she behaved like most people do, he’d find her terribly boring.

He takes it from her. Turns over the rose in his hands absentmindedly as she keeps talking. She’s got all this hair: wild and glossy black, pouring over her thin shoulders, her ribs, her tiny waist. After a moment he feels the sharp prick of a thorn against his fingertip and releases the rose in surprise.

You said there weren’t thorns, he tells her, laughing. Ow.

Whoops, she says. Then: Did it get me too?

She turns her head, pulls her hair out of the way. There’s a scarlet bead of blood trickling down the side of her perfect pale neck. He can’t quite tell where the point of entry was, where the thorn had dug in and broken skin. It’s bleeding a bit too heavily. Covering its tracks.

She swivels, slightly. She sees the look on his face. Is it bad? she asks.

No, he says, though he can’t really tell. But - couldn’t you feel it, though? The thorn?

The girl presses her hand to the side of her throat. It comes back bloodstained, a neat smear of red along the lifeline of her palm.

No, she echoes, though this can’t possibly be true. Hey, you wanna get out of here or something?

Alright, he says, smiling. They both stand. They leave the rose where it is. Let’s go.

He cups her cheek instead of her neck when he kisses her for the first time, so he doesn’t have her blood on his hands.

It starts simple like that.)

Karina’s so out of place in your apartment that it’s almost laughable - or it would be, if you were capable of thinking about anything but her mouth and her hands and her tits crushed up against your chest as you pin her to the doorframe. She keeps making these little sounds into your mouth: low and throaty, almost agonized. You swallow all her moans off her lips - oh, baby, you’re okay - and you only kiss her harder. She doesn’t belong, among your carpet worn-down from pacing and your laptop still open and idling and the mess of incoherent colorful post-it notes pasted to your fridge. She doesn’t fit here. Here kissing your mouth, here in your arms, here on fucking earth with the rest of you heathens-

“You wanna fuck me so bad,” murmurs Karina, chin on an incline, staring up at you, “then do it already.”

She doesn’t squirm or fidget; she doesn’t get needy or start begging. She stays pinned down by your body, lips parted, and stands completely still.

It’s like she’s telling you to make your move. Waiting for something inevitable.

“What happened to patience?” you say, anyway.

Karina’s mouth curls. She palms your cock through your pants. “What the fuck is that?”

You try to laugh, breathless and turned on, but all she does is kiss you again.

You’re a creative - you’re ready to attribute meaning to every movement - but there’s nothing so profound about it when you get Karina on your bed, all that thick black hair fanned out on your sheets, her hands grasping to get your shirt off - off, she murmurs, off. Even that comes out measured. She never shakes. She’s so sure. You kiss her everywhere you can reach, her face and her neck and her collarbone and her tits, drunk on the soft, humming sounds she makes when you do. You’re so fucking gorgeous, you can’t stop saying, and Karina keeps laughing that same raspy laugh, like it’s the most hilarious thing she’s ever heard.

“You told me you already know that, right?” You’ve got her face cupped in one of your hands and your other one at the neckline of her scarlet dress. “So what’s so funny?”

“Everything.” Her teeth glint the way fangs would, a deliberate trick of the light. She’d be villainous if she weren’t so content to be trapped underneath you. “All of it.” She presses her palm to the side of your neck. “You’re too nice.”

“Fuck.” Your thumb accidentally digs too hard into her cheek. She doesn’t wince, but you feel it - the stomach-turning thrill, the possibility of leaving a bruise. Your hand drops low - lower, down her throat and her tits and her flat midriff - and slips between her thighs, up her dress. It feels safer, somehow. “How do you manage to make the word nice sound like an insult?”

“It’s not,” she says, simply, and spreads her legs.

And it must not be - because Karina’s so wet.

She makes another low velvety sound when you first touch her, seems to melt into the stretch of your finger in her cunt - just one finger, and her back arches faintly, prettily, hips lifting to take more. “Jesus,” you mutter, but Karina’s not looking at you: her eyes are shut tight, lashes fluttering black, tits heaving in her dress with each draw of breath. You’ve fucked girls who’ve seemed unsure of themselves - embarrassed by their own wantonness, how wet they are, how bad they want it - but all Karina does is wrap her hand around your wrist and tug, once: a clear soundless plea for more.

For a second you’re actually, positively certain that you’ve lost it.

It’s abject fantasy. It can’t be real. You in your apartment with the dream girl - the personal Aphrodite - the muse; God, if anyone was ever made to be a fucking muse, it’s her - underneath you with her ridiculous tits and her tight little pussy, face like a Hollywood dream. Ludicrous. Impossible. Bucking as she tries to fuck herself deeper on your fingers, all the way to the knuckle - slowing down only to say you wanna fuck my cunt open with your big fat cock or what?

“I,” you try to say, strangled - her mouth’s so fucking filthy. “I was - I mean - we could take it slow-”

“How romantic,” says Karina - and this, too, sounds like a heinous insult coming from her - but she drags your wrist to her lips and sucks her own slick off your hand anyway.

You choke on your next breath. “Karina-”

She looks up at you, unflinching, tits half out of her dress and cunt dripping down her thighs. Lipstick worn-down, kissed-off. All over your mouth, or your throat, or your shirt. Mouth chapped from the cold and stained marvelously pink. There’s something in the way her smile forms slight and crooked every time you say her name, as if there’s some private joke you’re not in on.

“You’re such a gentleman,” Karina purrs, all syrupy-sweet condescension. Then: “You really don’t have to be.”

She licks the pad of your finger. She’s so completely shameless. You feel monstrous on top of her, in this sick, superior way, like she’s just too small to be so sopping wet and slutty and fuckable - too beautiful to be anything but treated just right.

“If you want me to fuck you like a whore, baby,” you tell her, half-joking, “then just say that.”

It’s a mistake the moment it leaves your mouth - a line crossed. Because all Karina does is cock her head, your wrist gripped delicately in her hand, her legs parted underneath you, and stares. Almost droll, bemused. Like you’re so goddamn predictable.

“Didn’t you hear me?” That perfect face sears right through you. You’d nearly fucked that face. Not quite. Not yet. “I want whatever you want.”

She’s even tinier than you originally thought she was. You only realize this now, tracing her stomach under your fingertips, feeling the sharp relief of each rib straining beneath her skin. You don’t know it until you touch her, but you can span the width of her thigh under one hand. It sends a strange shiver through you: mapping every jut of bone, every startling edge. She’s tiny. Breakable, practically. Men meaner than you have probably thrown her around, fucked her up against walls, used her like a toy.

“So,” says Karina. “What do you want?”

Your fist clenches tight in her grasp, right in front of her face, knuckles going horrifically white.

Like you - like you’re going to-

An accident. A primal sort of gesture, like you’re less than human, turned under her touch into some feral hot-blooded animal who can’t control itself: carnivorous, predatory. You stare at your own hand and then the sharp scythelike curve of her mouth and feel revolted embarrassment crawl straight up your spine.

It’s abhorrent.

It also doesn’t even seem to matter.

Karina doesn’t go wide-eyed and nervous; she doesn’t look at your wound fist like she’s scared of what it could do to her. She clicks her tongue, once. Like this, too, is something she already saw coming.

“I thought so,” she says, anyway. Maybe this is it, what does it for her; looking the devil full in the face and begging to be burned. “Then do it.”

“I can’t do that to you,” you mutter, but you tug her dress up, and you fuck her anyway.

She’s a stranger. This is the point of fucking strangers. To do things to them that you’d never do to anyone else - to take out your worst impulses and tell your best lies and know that none of it matters, in the end. Because they’re nobody, and because you’ll never see them again.

But you just can’t.

She’s too indulgent and stunning and soft, with her low moans and the addicting drenched heat of her cunt, hand gentle and careful on the nape of your neck so she can keep pulling you into a kiss. She’s made up of curves, delicate edges - those hips and those tits you can’t keep your hands off of and her lips in a dreamy smile - and you find yourself stroking her hair back from her face so you can drink it all in: the blush in her cheeks, the almost serene way she lets her eyes slip shut and her mouth drop open, slack and enticingly wet. So good, baby, you keep telling her, because she is, her entire body warm and wanting and so easily fucked open, little pussy swallowing your cock right up. She doesn’t fidget or plead. She’s so sweet, such a perfect fit, humming into your mouth as your cock eases her open; so wet you can hear it, the sloppy squelch of her cunt when you bottom out. Your voice comes out coaxing. You like that? That feel good? Taking my cock so nicely, huh?

“Mmm,” Karina breathes, in an exhilarating moan, right into your mouth, against your tongue. “Mm, mm-”

She never quite manages full sentences. Never finds it in herself to make any more obscene demands. Just gets all small and soaking underneath you, licks messily at your bottom lip, and lets you do all the talking - lets you draw a careful hand through her hair and drop your other one between her thighs, clenches tight around your cock when you rub at her clit, keens low in her throat and listens. To the good girl, to the I got you, baby, to the that’s it, there you go, this is what you wanted - I know, honey, I know, you just needed to get this cunt fucked right, you just needed to cum real bad. I know what this is. I know what you need.

“Fuck.” She’s flushed pink to her chest, delightfully ineloquent. “Yes-”

Well - good thing you’re decent with your words, when it counts. Let Karina blush and drool and slick up your cock with every stroke. That’ll work just fine with you.

It’s the kind of juxtaposition you’d really lean into - the kind of thing you’d write just to get so self-indulgent with, a personalized note to the director, a wink and a nudge to every audience member. Look at that. Look at her eyes like something straight out of poetry. Look at her body like a pornographic fantasy. Look at how she gets so tamed and docile and compliant when she gets her tiny pussy stuffed full, creaming all over that cock, huge tits bouncing - look, that’s art, isn’t it? What else would you call it? What else could it be?

“You gonna cum, baby?” She’s so fragile underneath you. Color staining her cheeks apple-red; lips swollen and begging to be kissed. Fictive little fairy tale. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Yeah.” It’s breathy and barely-there. Her chin trembles, jerks in a weak nod. “I’m - I - fuck-”

See: you just can’t rough her up. It’d be blasphemous. Sacrilege. Taking one single look at the stained-glass windows of a church and tearing it all to the ground.

Still, you’re mesmerized by how utterly vulnerable she looks: the glossy shine to her irises; the way she inhales all slow and shaky, body slipping from some sort of precipice. Not just like she’s near-tears, but like she’s stunned - struck dumb from a violent blow, mouth wide open in the aftermath. And it’s just sex - and, fuck, you’ve said it, you see things the way every obsessive artist does; sex is never just sex. Every one thing means something more. A metaphor. An allegory. You get nasty and debauched and dirty because you know exactly what you can spin it into. Put the entire scene in a silent film and everyone can swoon about the things you might be saying to her, this impossibly captivating stranger in your bed with her graceful name, her dizzying moans, her shuddering frame in her orgasm. Don’t you get it? you could be telling her, hand brushing gently over her sweat-damp hairline. Don’t you feel that? You’re a stranger to me, baby, but you don’t have to be. There’s a reason we met. There’s a meant-to-be here, somewhere. I’m not a believer, sweetheart, but you could make one out of me - I swear you could, I promise-

But that’s the reason why these things are best left to the imagination, anyway.

A million scripted sweet nothings - and none of them manage to make it out of your mouth.

“Karina.” Your hips jerk hard. You sound half-possessed. “So pretty, cumming all over my cock like that. Such a perfect little cunt, baby - so fucking good-”

Her eyes suddenly shut tight; her body arcs into your touch, lips parted in a silent gasp. And for a second it seems like such a snapshot of innocence, like she’s brand-new to getting fucked quick and rough and dirty - though you know this can’t possibly be the truth, not with the way she flirts and whines and drips for more like she’s made for it - but she’s trembling under your fingertips, and you can dream. She’s your beautiful stranger, your pristine muse; you can pretend she’s whatever the fuck you want.

“God,” Karina murmurs, so soft and weak it makes your head spin.

Before you know what you’re doing - before you can even think twice about it - you’re pulling out, and cumming all over her stomach.

You can’t help it. You shouldn’t have had that thought about innocence. Jesus. This is what you mean, about you and your own painful humanity; you’ve got all the same vile desires. When you see a pure thing - all that porcelain skin, all that thick glossy black hair, all those gleaming white teeth in her open mouth - your very first instinct is to fuck it up bad.

You’d do worse, if you were worse - you’d make a real fucking disaster out of her.

“Baby,” you say, breathlessly. “Are you…”

And Karina, then, does something truly evil:

Sighs luxuriously, stretches her arms above her head, eases those gorgeous eyes open, and smiles.

As if she’s reveling in it. The scent of sex - the defiled tautness of her tummy - the way you’re not sure where her little red dress or her shoes or her panties are, how her cunt’s dripping wet onto your sheets, her hair a glorious mess. Grinning in the face of utter filth.

“You,” you exhale, running your palm down her side. “You’re so…”

Karina’s mouth pulls up at a corner, like she’s daring you to finish the sentence, but you never do.

You can’t stop staring at the stretch of cum-covered skin before you. Coating her belly, pooling into her navel. You realize with a start that there’s a new bruise blooming on her chest, a vicious sort of bite mark. You can’t remember when you did that. You’d been kissing her - of course you kissed her - her mouth and her neck and her tits, but you’d been so gentle, sucking light and soothing her skin with your tongue after-

“You didn’t want to cum inside me?” Karina asks, hoarsely.

You blink so hard your vision blurs. “What?”

“Right.” Her eyeshadow’s smudged dark underneath her eyes, making her look deliciously used up. “You did want to cum inside me.”

“Karina,” you warn - or, at least, you mean to make it sound like a warning - but her name comes out too faint. It’s horrific. Your hand traces her hipbone so reverently. You’re no match for her.

Karina arches a brow in unhurried challenge, ghosts her hand across her tummy. Takes two fingers and drags them through the cum you spilled, pulls back with it clinging thickly to her skin. Drifts down, down, down.

“Karina,” you try to say again, even more pathetic than last time. “Jesus-”

But you saying her name holds no weight here; she’s made that more than obvious. Nothing to stop her as she smears her cum-slick fingers across her glistening pussy, gaze locked amusedly on your face, tracking your reaction. She’s still so fucking wet - she rubs your cum in circles across her clit - tossing her head back a little, chest heaving and falling, fingertips just barely dipping inside her cunt-

“I can’t.” Karina lifts her hand to pop her fingers in her mouth, sucks them clean. Pointedly flashes her too-sharp nails at you like she’s unsheathing claws. “If you want it, you’re gonna have to do it yourself.”

“You,” you say, though your hand’s already pressing hard into her ribs, “are fucking cruel, baby.”

“And you,” replies Karina, head tilting, “just want to see my cunt all filled up and leaking your cum.”

Oh, she hasn’t been wrong about you all night. She certainly won’t start now.

“What?” A sly, languid smirk tugs at her lips. “Afraid you’re gonna knock me up or something?”

Your breath halts right in your lungs.

You’d been right about her too, it seems. Succubus. Vampire. She must be; she’s bloodthirsty. Tits gleaming with sweat, the scarlet stain of that bite mark you can’t remember leaving, cunt all dripping wet and desperately empty - body like a fatal fucking blow.

Karina’s eyes glint. I want what you want, she’d said.

With the way she spreads her legs, she’s gotta be ready to prove it.

So you never stood a chance. You give in and scoop up cum with one finger and sink it deep inside her aching cunt, feeling as she clenches down, as she takes it so well; like a good girl, you tell her, letting me do whatever I want with this needy little cunt; that’s my good girl. Karina lifts her hips - goes so still and so obedient - and lets you repeat it over and over again, fucking into her with your fingers until the plane of her stomach is bare and sticky and her cunt’s dribbling your cum onto your sheets. It’s completely nasty. It’s hot. It’s Karina craning her neck back and shutting her eyes as you bury three fingers inside of her and fill her with your cum, every part of her in utter surrender, entirely at your mercy, breathing out hard through her nose until your thumb rubs at her clit and she’s cumming again, all over your hand. She gets this look on her face, afterwards - exhausted, every line of her face gentle and lax - staring up at you like you’re the only person still left on this planet. Adoring, almost. As if you’re something out of another world.

It’s an expression too sweet for a scene like this - and it’s exactly what men like you make art about.

“There,” you say, soft and mesmerized, wiping your hand across her chest. “Satisfied?”

Karina laughs her strange, gravelly, gorgeous laugh.

“No,” she says, shamelessly. “But that’s not your fault.”

Your fingers curl around the curve of her jaw. “No?”

She barely looks like she belongs in your bed - she must be something divine, lit from within, god-blessedly gorgeous. She’s a fucking fever dream: stunning eyes and the bob of her throat and her tits and her curves and all that hair. Stay, you think of telling her. Let me see what I can make of you. I don’t know you yet but I could, baby, I really could.

“Nope.” Karina smiles, and somewhere, soliloquies are writing themselves. “I always want more.”

“Okay,” you say, mouth hovering over hers. “Then stay.”

So she stays.

(An update on your script:

The stranger and the girl are back at his place. They’re sitting on his couch. Nobody has cleaned off her neck. He’s been too busy pawing at her: at her face, between her legs, at her tits in her tight dress. I need you, he’s been murmuring to her, and it feels like he really means it: like he’ll die if he doesn’t get her desperate and whining underneath him, his cock stretching her tight little cunt wide open. He doesn’t feel too bad about it. She’s a dirty slut. She’s said as much. She’s got her own needs, too.

What happened to your window? she asks, suddenly.

He pulls back from her chest, his spit clinging shiny to her skin.

She isn’t looking at him. He has the sudden, unnerving feeling that she hasn’t been looking at him the whole time. Not like she’s had her eyes closed in blinding, overwhelming pleasure - but like she’s deliberately been trying to look at anything else.

But his hand falls between her thighs, and he realizes she’s already wet.

A bird flew into it, probably, he says. That happens, sometimes.

They’re talking about the stain on the once-clean glass of his window. The backdrop of the night sky behind means it’s barely visible, but the suggestion of it is enough. Implicit gore. Tiny little black feathers, caked in blood from the impact, dark and dried. It’ll be scrubbed off soon enough, he knows. It’ll be all gone eventually.

Oh, she says. She doesn’t apologize for potentially killing the mood. She hasn’t, anyway, not really. She’s still wet and small underneath him, begging for it. Poor thing.

Yeah, he says.

She turns back to him. Her hair’s everywhere, all over the arm of his couch, wayward strands beneath his fingers. She’s clearly expecting something - to be kissed, to be fucked hard, to be called baby and angel and good girl. It doesn’t really matter either way. Those are the only things he can give her.

He stares at the blood on her neck.

Let me clean that off for you, actually, he says, and goes to the kitchen to get a washcloth.)

Much, much later:

“I admire you,” Karina says, all tucked up in your bed, underneath your sheets, half-buried into your side. Moonlight bleeds into the room. Her eyes gleam like galaxies. “For showing some self-control.”

“What?”

Karina’s hair pours over your pillowcase. She takes your hand and brings it close to her face, working your fingers into a tight fist.

“Fucking bitch,” you mutter, and then regret it immediately. It lands too harshly, too strange and serious. “Sorry. I didn’t - that came out weird. I don’t think you’re a bitch.”

Karina’s lips brush your knuckles. “Not the meanest thing I’ve been called.” Her voice twists with humor. She shouldn’t be so comfortable curled up with a man she doesn’t know in the middle of the night. You think of kissing her hard, of scraping her neck with your teeth, of warning her about self-preservation - sweetheart, you could tell her, this is how people end up dead. “Not the meanest thing I’ll be called, either.”

You shift. Your fist, unconsciously, goes tense in her hand. “What’s your deal?”

Her mouth tilts. “What’s yours?”

You huff out a laugh. “You’re unbearable,” you say softly, which feels much kinder than calling her a bitch. “What are you - what do you mean?”

I’m not hard to figure out, you want to tell her. I’ll let you in if you ask me to. But you - you, you imagine saying, cupping Karina’s face in your hands and saying her name like you’re praying to her, drafting scenes in your head with each whispered syllable - you. Look at you. I’d fill a thousand pages trying to find a way to understand you.

“If you want to hurt me,” Karina says, “then hurt me.”

Your throat dries up. Your fist falls open. “What?”

“I wouldn’t blame you.” Her voice is matter-of-fact. You see her tongue dart over her bottom lip, the slick glimmer of spit. “If that’s what you wanted.”

You stare at her, hard.

It’s not difficult to make out her silhouette in the dark; she’s illuminated so distinctly by the moon, like it’s her own on-set spotlight, professionally arranged - she’s got the cosmos calling her shots. You think about how careful you’d been with her: doing what she wanted and making her cum and kissing her like you have history and maybe fucking her like you love her, just a little.

You think about that bruise you left on her chest, her skin between your teeth, the feeling of biting down.

“It’s not,” you say, and the lie tastes acrid in your mouth. “It’s - it’s not, Karina.”

“You fucked my face in public within like an hour of meeting me. And fucked me and came on my stomach. And fingered your cum inside of me.” It’s far past midnight. She sounds more alert than she should. “You’re gonna start being polite now?”

It sends an odd knot to your gut, the way she puts it. Equating all of that to hurting her. Laughing in the face of your clenched fist - not because she thinks you won’t do it, but because she knows how bad you want it.

Hurt me. She says it like it’s so easy. Fuck me. Let me stay the night. Hurt me; you’ve earned it.

“I’m not polite.” The truth doesn’t taste much better. “I just have, you know, common fucking decency.”

“Hm,” Karina says, a nonchalant little noise, and nothing else.

You brush her hair off her neck and your fingertips graze the hollow of her throat. You feel her swallow under your touch. You open your mouth, though you’re not sure what you’re about to say - Karina, like a chant, like she’s consumed you in a matter of moments, Karina - but she shuts her eyes delicately, and curls close to you, and just like that the moment is over.

I have common decency, you’d said. I won’t hurt you. I promise. I can control myself.

So maybe you weren’t right about everything. You’re not the devil. That’d be a delusion of grandeur - the idea that you’d ever have that kind of power over a girl like her.

Not for long, she’d replied, in the knowing tilt of her smile. Not if I can help it.

In the morning, it’s a picture of crime-scene proportions. It takes a little work to piece it all together.

Karina’s not in bed when you wake up, but there are traces of her everywhere - telltale, incriminating bits of evidence. Strands of her hair on the pillow. Blood-red lipstick stains on the fabric. Her crimson dress crumpled on your bedroom floor, sporting a tiny tear in the hem that you don’t remember leaving; you can still smell her perfume all over your sheets, like a calling card. If this was a TV drama - a clichéd police procedural - she’d probably be dead in your living room right now, blank-eyed and beyond saving, rigor mortis deforming her perfect body into something grotesque.

This is also probably not a thought you should ever relay to Karina, but you do anyway.

“Sorry to disappoint,” she replies. She’s perched on your kitchen counter, dressed in one of your t-shirts, bare legs swinging. “I’m very much alive.”

“I was being dramatic,” you try to say, gesturing with your hands to set the scene - the lighting, the fake blood and the special effects, the potential pallor of her face. “I’m - I’m a screenwriter. It’s in my nature. I didn’t mean I wanted to find your fucking corpse out here-”

“It’s okay if you did.”

You choke. “What?”

“I’m right with you, babe.” Karina leans forward conspiratorially. There’s a sharpness to the dark glint in her eyes that kind of makes you think she really does understand: that she has the same tendency to jump to the worst possible conclusions. A kindred, morbid spirit. “I get it. I’m pretty devastated that I’m still breathing, too.”

She says this all in a scratchy, sultry voice, hoarse as though she’s been sleeping for years instead of hours. Lashes fluttering like she’s just told you something very adorable and sweet.

“God,” you say, desperately charmed, and laugh until you feel light-headed. “You’re sick.”

Karina’s mouth curls. “Right.”

“I’m serious.” It’s surreal: her wearing your clothes and sitting on your counter like this is an everyday occurrence, indulging every fucked-up thing you say to her. Maybe you’re still caught somewhere in a dream, just waiting to wake up. “You’re, like - not normal.”

“Hey.” A light, careless shrug; her palm rests over the back of her neck. “No arguments here.”

You rub a hand over your eyes, smiling like an idiot, and take a breath.

It’s late January, and cool sunlight drips into the room, over your furniture and your floors and the angel right in the middle of your kitchen. It should wash her out, blur her at the edges; it doesn’t even come close. Turns her to a freeze frame instead, carefully color-graded, every hue just a bit too intense: skin ghost-pale, lips pouty and pink, hair jet-black and tangled to her waist. Your shirt hangs off of her slender frame like it aims to swallow her up. You thought you’d been stunned by Karina before, lulled by the late night, the electric rush of touching her - you’d assumed you could blame it on the alcohol, the slutty dress and the sultry makeup and the long-held habit of artistic romanticization-

But it’s nothing compared to seeing her now.

Karina crosses one leg over the other, and waits as though expecting a rating: to be starred out of five like a film.

Face scrubbed clean. Bone structure a study of faultless symmetry, delicate in a way that feels both inhuman and invulnerable. She’s so classically breathtaking - a miraculous second coming of a tragic, iconic movie star, a phenomenon back from the grave; jaw and nose and mouth all clean lines, aesthetically precise art - but God, those eyes. Enormous without the thick liner, suggestive only of impossible innocence. Like some darling baby animal, some long-lashed lamb to the slaughter - something pristine and completely untouched.

The morning after, the direct light, the exposed behind-the-scenes - she’s still beyond beautiful.

And somehow she’s still here with you.

“That’s insane, by the way,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “That you stayed.”

There’s a loud cracking sound.

You squint, disoriented. “What-”

Karina blinks at you, wide-eyed; her jaw shifts. The sound echoes again, startling and sudden. “What?”

“Are-” You step closer. “Are you chewing on fucking glass or something?”

“Or something,” Karina replies, smile’s tiny and closed-off. She gestures to the cup next to her. “It’s just ice.”

She’s so calm watching you approach her. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the freakout, for the breakdown - or, at the very least, the scrambling excuses before the walk of shame. Here’s the truth: she doesn’t know you. Here’s an even worse truth: judging by her hickey that looks like you might’ve tried to rip her throat out earlier, she’d have every right to take one look at you and run.

Karina doesn’t do any of it. Just raises her cup to her lips and tips it back, the arc of her neck so inviting.

“That’s so fucking bad for your enamel.” You’re laughing again. You’re in front of her now, settled between her legs. “You’re gonna break a tooth.”

Karina sets her glass down. Wipes the corner of her mouth with her wrist, eyes locked amusedly on yours - heavy-lidded enough to seem lazy, but pupils blown enough to be a siren call, a deliberate suggestion.

“Oh, no,” she says, all smoky sarcasm. “Who’d ever want me then?”

She parts her thighs the second you touch them; her body’s so obedient under your fingertips, like a doll’s, something to be dressed up and posed and played with. Daring you to do everything you’re already thinking about doing.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, and give in completely.

So:

Look, you know exactly how the movies would frame this. Pandering to the wide-eyed teenagers and hopeless romantics; adding the swell of strings every time your eyes or hands or lips meet, each motion accompanied with unsubtle cues - there’s the meet-cute, there’s the moment, there’s the love-at-first-sight. It’s ridiculous to drag any of that into your real life, of course. It’d be like believing in God. Giving up logic to put your faith in something silly and mythic and implausible - to follow true love like a religion, expecting it to save your soul; to pray to the one like a healing property, a benevolent higher power.

You can’t believe in that. You can’t.

But-

Karina pulls back the barest amount, eyelids fluttering open like a new day dawning, and smiles when she sees the look on your face. So sweet and gorgeous; so struck and adoring. So comfortable wrapped up in your arms.

“Hi,” she murmurs.

And - as though it’s some bone-deep instinct, saturating your bloodstream - you just have to kiss her again.

Don’t you feel that? you think of telling her again, your hand slipping to cup her cheek - the sentiment always seems to come back around. You swear you can see scenes flashing behind your eyelids, the beginnings of a creative epiphany; it must be seeping through your fingers, staining her skin with ink, every possible action depicted neatly between brackets. A laugh, a look, a touch. A version of Karina projected across the silver screen to a wild, wanting audience. Don’t you see what you could do for me? What you’re capable of becoming?

You can’t believe in any of this, but it’s gotta be something close.

The feeling doesn’t end when the kiss does: only intensifies, made tangible somehow. Sculpted into the spit-slick curve of her lips, the flinty gleam in her eye. Like she feels it too. Like she knows.

“And it’s not insane that I stayed,” Karina says, belatedly. “You asked me to.”

For a moment you just stare at her, seconds from her mouth and speechless.

It’s the truth without difficulty. It’s a confession with no strings attached. It’s the fucking dangerous way she says it - as if whatever you want extends to a lot more than sex.

“And you don’t-” Your throat closes over a swallow; you find your eyes darting between hers, searching for anything but honesty. “You don’t think that’s insane? Doing whatever a stranger tells you to?”

Karina only laughs her strange laugh, gritty the way good music is, demanding to be heard.

“Nope,” she says, like this is all so simple. “That’s just what I do.”

It’s unbearably filthy in its implication - and it’s exactly what you need.

The room seems to fill with potential, fantasies pouring in from the ceiling, enough to bloat any manuscript to its breaking point. You let out a breathless laugh, loud and unabashed. You think of pushing for even more, pressing your nails in and digging deeper - why me, why this, why now - but Karina leans in close before you can and slots her mouth to yours, and you’re no fool: there’s no line of questioning worth giving that up.

Seems like you’ll have to come up with this character motivation all on your own.

“Look at us,” she murmurs against your lips - meaning this very minute, the chemistry, how every glittering star must’ve conspired to get you here. “Kinda feels like this was meant to be, huh?”

She’s clearly kidding, because it’s too soon and too fucking crazy, but-

Well, the way you kiss her then is absolutely your version of a yes.

Here’s something people should probably know about artists like you:

You’re rather enamored with the idea of a magnum opus.

It’s a natural thing to reach for, to visualize - the concept of your one great masterpiece. Something you can pour years and years into, water into roaring reckless oceans; time transforming the things you make into something worth remembering forever. Everyone you know - your sculptors, your songwriters - has their own version of this, somewhere. When I finally create this one perfect thing I’ll be - go on, fill in the blank. Fulfilled. Gratified. Happy. When I finally do this, I’ll feel whole.

It’s strangely fantastical. A lifelong dream a kid would have - a childlike, storybook aspiration.

Yours - as far as you’ve figured out - looks a little like this:

“It’s not as romantic as it should be,” you admit, now. “I’m not really into that as a theme. True love, I mean. Or optimism. Or hope. I want something more…” Something rougher, you mean. Something with pain. Something with blood and bruises. “Nuanced, you know? Complicated, messy.”

“I get it,” replies Karina. She has her hands twisted in her lap, watching you very closely. You’re obsessed with the way she looks at you - like she’s drinking every word in with those smoldering dark eyes, greedy for more. For you. “All the best art is about pain, huh?”

You snap your fingers, pleased to be understood. “Exactly.”

Karina smiles, small and knowing, and gestures you on.

In your vision, your magnum opus is always about a girl. Like you said, it’s the way it goes with all the best films ever made: not about love, but the futility of it lasting. Think of all the famed examples - think of the filmmakers and their obsessions, sneaking the great loves of their lives between each line: there’s something she said, there’s a dress she wore, there’s a conversation they had in the middle of the night, tangled up in sheets and whispering against skin. Your future muse will be just like that. A reincarnation of the infamous women who haunt all the greatest artists - an amalgamation of their bodies contorted into narratives and replicated in loving, graphic detail. Someone with skin like marble, a statue you could take a sledgehammer to. Someone who looks unfathomably pretty when she cries.

Someone like-

“Uh-huh,” says Karina. She must’ve just gotten out of the shower before you found her, because her hair’s damp enough to have left wet patches on your t-shirt. She licks her bottom lip, once. “Sure.”

Someone to be what you’ve always wanted: a flawless girl to fall from the sky into your lap. To fulfill your promise to yourself: when I meet her, I’ll know. I’ll be able to make this movie. When I meet her, everything will slip exactly into place.

Karina cracks another ice cube between her teeth.

“So,” she says, low with insinuation. “When you told me last night that you found me inspiring…”

She doesn’t need to finish the question. She knows exactly what you want.

“You’re…” You shake your head. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I saw you and I just - I felt like I knew. I knew. I wanted you.” You shrug helplessly, smiling. “Do you think I’m nuts?”

She should, probably. You’re a total stranger, a practical lunatic, an artist talking of your visions like you’re possessed. You don’t know her - that’s the reality of the situation. You don’t know her.

But then there’s everything else.

The unbelievable sex, the staying the night; the way she lets you touch her, blinking slow and subservient, like you already have a claim to her body. You think muse and you think in abstract concepts, glittering stars, guiding lights; you think of skin cut up and sewn together, of creators and their finest monsters, of the implicit poetry in the undoing. You think muse and you think of the way Karina smiles at you now, full lips and frail bones, a painter’s portrait reference. Unmoving, unafraid. Too otherworldly for your day-to-day but just right when she’s in your arms, like a trial-run demonstration: this is what we’re capable of. You could make it happen. You could make me fit.

You swear you’ve been dreaming of someone like her your whole fucking life.

You think muse, and now you can only think of her.

It’s a sign. It must be. And this, the next one:

“No,” Karina says, easily. “I think you’re just like everyone else.” But she raises an eyebrow, so you know it’s a joke. “I think you’re all the same.”

You laugh, delighted; Karina’s smile widens, shows her teeth. “Shut up.”

Karina acquiesces immediately - claps a hand over her mouth like it’ll keep any other words from escaping. It’s so adorable that you can’t keep yourself from pouncing, suddenly all over her like an animal: wrenching her thin wrist down, fingers threading through her hair, tugging her lips to yours as if you’ve been starved and she’s something to devour. She’s so cold, ice still melting on her tongue; even her body feels glacial, more porcelain than real. It drives you wild - the stunning impossibility of her. The desire to see it all reworked, unwound, shattered.

“So,” you breathe over her mouth. “I can write about you?”

“Babe.” Karina’s dark eyes sparkle, frozen-over streets in the mid-winter sun. “You can do anything you want with me.”

That’s the whole point of having a muse, after all. Everything they are becomes yours.

“But,” you can’t help saying right after: “you don’t have to be, like - concerned. About what I said. About art and pain. I mean…” You falter. You’re standing in between her spread legs now, thumbing the sharp curve of her jaw. “It’s fiction. I’m not that kind of guy in real life - I’m not going to hurt you.”

Karina just stares at you, sentiment clear and unspoken.

“Not like - not seriously.” You roll your eyes, laughing it off. “Not like that.”

“Not like that,” Karina echoes. The hickey on her neck seems to flush redder every time you look at it - a photograph in a darkroom, developing. “But in other ways.”

Your mouth opens, but whatever defense you might’ve had gets traitorously stuck in your throat.

Karina laughs hoarsely, lets you trace her bottom lip with a finger. She seems to get the picture - that you’d love to see it bitten and bloody, but only ever in the name of art. There’s a kind of sick, sadistic beauty in destruction, battles waged and lost. She leans into your touch like she’s seen all the war films and knows precisely why they’re so well-loved.

“For the record,” she tells you, arms looped loosely around your neck: “I look very pretty when I cry.”

“Jesus Christ.” You’re smiling. She couldn’t be more perfect if you’d dreamt her up yourself. “Then I guess I’ll have to make it happen.”

It’s like fate, probably.

(Up next in your script:

The girl is standing in the stranger’s bathroom. She’s turning a little glass perfume bottle over in her hands when he stops in the doorway. He’s perfectly content to watch her; she’s the kind of beautiful that deserves to be observed, like some exotic wild animal caged between four walls in an elaborate exhibit, mildly unaware of all the attention. Her hair is messy; her head is tilted down. Unseeing.

Oh, he says. That was my-

Except he doesn’t even get the rest of the sentence out before the girl whirls around, and the bottle slips from her hand and shatters on the floor.

Jesus. The stranger jolts back. Jumpy. He’s not too concerned about the broken bottle; it’s not his, anyway. Why the fuck did you do that?

Sorry, the girl says. She’s leaning rather casually against the counter, observing the glass covering the ground, the sickly-sweet smell of the perfume sticking to the tile. Honeysuckle and the sharp note of alcohol, rendered unrecognizable. You scared me.

He looks down. A crystalline stretch of tiny little shards - if she tried to move she’d slice her foot open.

No worries, he says. Hold on.

He ducks into the kitchen to get a broom and when he comes back he stops in his tracks. There’s something slightly off about the picture in front of him. She’s small against the background counter, frozen, barely blinking. Everything about her looks suddenly frail, fair skin ghostly underneath shitty bathroom lighting, cheekbones gaunt and sunken-in, hair pouring ink-black in endless waves. A vengeful spirit. An incorporeal haunting.

Did you…? he starts to say, thrown.

She blinks, finally. Did I what?

He pauses, reassesses. She’s gorgeous. She’s art. She’s vibrantly alive.

Never mind, he says.

It seems kind of like she’d moved, but he can’t tell. He forgets about it. She’s still beautiful and she seems okay and so he steps forward and clears the worst of the glass out of the way.

It’s silly, she says, watching him. I used to know someone who wore that perfume.

It was my ex-girlfriend’s, he says. She left it here a while back. I think it’s a common brand or whatever. Hey, let me help you.

He’s very chivalrous about it, sweeping her off her feet, cradling her bridal-style across the possible remnants of glass. She laughs all the while, playing into it - a princess out of a fairy tale, being carried to safety by some gallant knight. But then he sets her down and cups her ass and says, You gonna pay me back for the property damage or what? and she laughs harder, because there’s nothing funnier than that: sweet moments turned filthy, a startling hairpin turn in intention.

Or - conversely - a revelation of the absolute truth. Because what else could he ever want from her?

So she says, Yeah, sure, take everything, and leans in to kiss him.

It’s a normal kiss, mostly. It’s just that it begins pointedly erotic but seems to turn strange after a second, like he might be gripping her hair too hard, like she might be corpse-limp in his arms, like at any moment he could unhinge his jaw and sprout fangs and swallow her whole, cannibalistic, viperous. There’s too much spit and sound. There’s too much teeth and selfishness. It stretches on too long and lingers where it shouldn’t and overstays its welcome terribly - the score seems to fall off-beat, the lighting seems to shift dark and discolored-

But then the kiss breaks, and it’s over.

When he pulls off of her she looks like the perfect picture of flushed contentment. Eyes half-lidded and lashes fluttering, her pouty lips swollen and rosy. Smiling like she wants more, like she wants it so, so bad.

It didn’t get you? he asks finally, looking at her neck, thinking of thorns and pinprick pain and the rivulet of crimson that’d decorated her throat. The glass?

No, she says. Don’t you wanna fuck me now?

Oh, God, he says, grinning, and every other thought melts away into nothing. He likes how she doesn’t play coy. He likes how she’s smaller and has to tilt her chin up to look at him. He wants to fuck her, so he does.

It’s excellent sex. The blood on the tile doesn’t really matter.)

Before you really start writing, there’s just one singular problem: you don’t know anything about her.

“That’s not true,” Karina replies, right away.

You open your mouth, then close it, because - okay, she’s not completely wrong.

For about an hour now you just haven’t been able to stop talking to her. About anything, everything: your start into screenwriting, your favorite novels, your greatest inspirations, your neverending passion for eerie, erotic art. You can’t seem to shut up. And it would be bad - would be making you feel self-conscious right now, if it were anyone else - but it’s just not. Because it’s, well-

It’s you, you told her, thoughtfully, watching as the sun climbed higher into the sky, golden light grazing each scalpel-sharp edge of Karina’s body. You’re easy to talk to. Has anyone ever told you that?

Karina blinked at you. Tucked a strand of silky hair behind her ear and looked away, considering it.

She has this way about her: this serene openness to her big eyes, her body language. Leaning back on her hands, humming and nodding and saying I get it, I feel that way too, I understand with such sweet sincerity that you can’t help but believe her. Like a Catholic confessional, a pristinely blank page - something you could pour hours and hours of words into that would never, ever complain.

Yeah, Karina said, finally. She pulled one leg up to her chest; you could see the lacy black of her panties. I get that all the time.

Just one of those people, huh? Her character was taking shape already. A vault for everyone else’s thoughts and ideas, cradling them between her fingers like something infinitely precious. A listener. Such a lovely trait; a perfect protagonist characteristic. An observer.

Yeah. Her cheek rested gently against a knobby knee. Exactly.

It’s something of an art study. You’ve been filing away these details about Karina since the moment you met her, unraveling her bit by bit.

She always seems to think deeply before she speaks, a sort of charming self-scripting, like she wants to make sure she gets every sentence just right. She makes silence seem like the most natural thing in the world. She doesn’t laugh nervously or blush or get embarrassed, ever. She’d mentioned offhand during one of your tangents about your most beloved movies that she tends to like films about gorgeous, dangerous, scarily self-possessed girls: Thirteen and Black Swan and Girl, Interrupted. She seems both intensely present and consistently lost in thought, there one moment and gone the next, her long-lashed gaze falling in and out of focus like a camera lens. A contradiction, you think to yourself. An enigma, even. Profoundly complicated. Not just a girl but something more.

Art in and of itself, displayed deliberately on your kitchen counter, waiting to be understood.

“No, you’re right.” Your fingers have strayed to your open laptop; you’re seconds from typing Karina’s name like a title, something you’ve created all on your own. “I know…”

You’re trying to think of something nonchalant to say and failing. I know you - the first instinct, somehow. I know you’re something brilliant and remarkable and new. I know I’ve never felt this way before about anyone. I know there’s something here, I know what I feel, I know what I want - you, you, you.

Karina stares at the ice melting in her glass.

Then she says, mouth tripping up at a corner: “You know I’m a world-class fuck.”

“Jesus.” You laugh out loud, surprised. “Okay, yeah. That.” A pause. “And, obviously-”

“Obviously,” Karina echoes, like she knows where this is going.

“I know that you’re, like - outrageously fucking beautiful.”

Karina hums once, letting the compliment wash over her, and turns to look out the window.

You bite down on your lip - bite back all the other too-soon things you could say about her, threatening to claw their way out of your mouth - and go in on your script instead.

It’s shockingly easy to write with her in the room. The details seem to stitch themselves together on-page, the restorative aftermath of an autopsy: sealing the slit chest cavity back up, prepping a corpse for an open casket, making something disconnected whole and beautiful again. You’d pulled these specifics from her like pulsing, throbbing organs - her tits, her tone, her tiny waist - and now all you’re doing is repurposing them. You know her body now. You turn stretches of pale, bruised-pink skin into prose, the curl of her little fingers around her thigh into dialogue. You imagine taking that perfect frame and picking it apart again, bit by bit; not just undressing her but peeling back layers of flesh, familiarizing yourself with the stark scarlet of her bloodstream. Until there’s nothing to hide and you can finally say it - I know you - and it’ll feel earned, and real, and honest.

All very melodramatic, of course. It’s just the process: the natural consequence of being a writer.

Your eyes trace the jutting protrusion of muscle in Karina’s throat, and you think about fucking her again.

“Also,” you say, as though your earlier conversation isn’t long over. “I want to know-”

Karina makes a huffy, half-impatient noise.

You grin, gaze flicking back to her face. “What?”

“You want to know more?” Her brows furrow in exaggerated confusion; her smile is absurdly self-deprecating. As if there’s anything she could possibly be insecure about. “You already got the two most interesting things about me, babe.”

“Stop.” Your mouth twitches. “No way.”

Karina’s smile stills in place, expectant. “No?”

“Come on.” Your hand slips from the keyboard to trace her knee. “I’m sure there’s all kinds of interesting things about you I haven’t learned yet.”

The laugh she lets out is quiet and nearly secretive, legs parting to let you touch her. You’re already half in some faraway daydream, wondering if you can bottle the color of her eyes and turn it loose on the page.

“Okay,” Karina says, easily. She nudges your laptop away, scoots closer to you, her sharp chin pointed down at you. “Come and learn them, then.”

“God.” As if that’s what you’re doing. Memorizing her body as some private education; taking her apart in a classroom dissection. “Can I - I’m trying to write, Karina. I’m being productive. I…” You’re shaking your head as though you’re not already giving in, fingers slipping up her thighs - she’s smirking at you like she knows it. “You’re fucking insatiable, you know that?”

“Then satiate me.” Karina’s head tilts, lids heavy. “Fuck me. Use me.” She leans down like she’s telling you a filthy, sordid secret. “Cum in me like I know you want to.”

There’s something surreal about how certain she is: never tripping over her words or waffling over intentions, the most practiced actress you’ve ever seen. Every move - her tongue wetting her bottom lip, her hand sliding gracefully through her hair, her mouth forming a sweet little pout - all clean, choreographed precision.

I know you, she says - like it’s earned, real, honest. Inexplicable, but there anyway. I know you want to.

“Karina.” Her name comes out embarrassingly strangled. You’re pulling her thighs further apart, toying with the edge of her underwear. “You’re such a fucking - you’re so needy.”

Her smirk sharpens even as you tug her panties roughly to the side. “I’m what?”

“Needy.”

“No.” She’s so wet - she’s probably seconds from dissolving into a whimpering breathless thing, begging to be underneath you, begging for more. That damn smirk is probably seconds from shattering completely. “What were you going to call me?”

“Nothing.” You drag a finger down the slick drenched heat of her cunt.

“A slut.” Her voice is a purr, gravelly and sensual. “You think I’m just this fucking slut who needs your cock all the time, huh?”

But it’s the kind of question that you already both know the answer to. Karina takes your finger-fucking so well, hips raised and rutting, hair cutting across her cheekbones - seems to give herself over to desire so fucking easily, with her whole body, back arching and neck craned and hot little cunt a sloppy mess. Never puts up a fight, never demures or acts shy; never says wait or don’t or stop. Only spreads her legs, and drips down your hand, and waits to be fucked good and hard.

And - hey, there’s one dirty word for a girl like that.

“Well.” You raise your eyebrows at her: a challenge. “Are you?”

It’s dangerous. This is all dangerous. Stumbling down a treacherous path, asking a stranger something like this. Are you what I think you are? Do I know you? Do I really?

Karina makes a low, luxurious noise at the stretch of your fingers in her cunt, buried to the knuckle.

“Sure,” she says - and the gleam in her eye tells you she knows exactly what she’s getting herself into. “I’m whatever you want me to be.”

So, it’s possible this is really the most interesting thing about her: she’s the kind of girl who never says no.

That scene goes down how all scenes should:

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

Karina’s choking out curses like she can’t recall any other words, head lolling back to expose the pretty bob of her throat. You thrust deep right then and she lets out a sound like an aching gasp, like you’ve doubled down with a fist to her gut, like you’re knocking the the air right out of her; you might as well be - oh, she moans, like she could be in shock or awe or pain - with the way you’ve got one of her thighs pulled up so you can fuck deep into her tight dripping cunt. It’s not nice, not really. Her back keeps hitting your counter. You keep staring at her neck and her hair and her face: the faint flush of her cheeks, the flawless construction of her bones underneath - there’s so much unmarked skin - God, she’s so clean, it’s like she’s never been fucking touched-

“You gonna cum for me?” you murmur, voice coming out thick and half-animalistic.

She has one hand curled around the back of your neck. She’s got those ridiculous clawed nails on her but she never presses down. Her pussy can’t stop clenching around your cock but she takes it so well, lets you make room inside her little cunt, shuts her eyes and trips over her own breath as you force her spine hard against your counter over and over again.

“Karina.”

“Yeah,” she exhales, raspy and strained, as your cock stretches her out. “Fuck, yeah-”

“Cum for me, honey. Cum all over my cock - oh, there you go, good girl-”

It’s hypnotic. The tiny bitten-off sounds spilling from her ice-cold mouth - that small pristine face and all that hair tangled to her waist, just available to be knotted and tugged and fucked all the way up - Karina clings to you when she cums, and you feel so much bigger than her when she does, like you’ve got her sloppy and open around your cock and you could do anything to her, that’s what she told you, and even if she hadn’t, it’s not like she could stop you - she’s gorgeous but she doesn’t have it in her - she’s just too fucking delicate-

It happens too fast to process.

One minute you’re buried inside her pussy and the next Karina’s on her knees, on the ground, and you’re jerking your cock until you’re cumming all over her.

It’s obscene. It’s fucking inevitable. Thick ropes of creamy cum coating her forehead, her cheekbone, her nose and mouth and getting all in that hair-

Her hair. You don’t realize how hard you’re gripping her hair with one hand - balled in a brutal fist at the back of her head - until you disentangle your fingers from it and Karina sinks to the floor like she’s just been cut loose from marionette strings, breathing fast and hard. She doesn’t even say anything: doesn’t comment on the fact that you’d just shoved her straight to the ground or complain when the head of your cock smears cum across her jaw. Doesn’t even flinch when your cock slaps heavy across her cheek, at the indecent sound of the impact.

You’re staring at her, open-mouthed. At her gorgeous, breathtaking, defiled face.

Karina’s not looking at you. Instead, she’s preening in the most lewd, pornographic way possible: swiping her thumb through the cum streaking across her forehead, popping it into her mouth to suck. Halfway through she seems to remember you’re still in the room - seems to recall the value of a performance - and she redirects her gaze up at you, lids heavy, and smirks.

“Did I…” you start, without knowing how the sentence will end. “Did I - was I-”

Karina lifts a cum-covered eyebrow. Her mouth’s an arresting pink, puckering around her thumb like it puckered around the cubes of ice, how her lips formed a ring around your cock back in the bookstore yesterday. She lets it slip free, shiny with spit.

“No,” she says. “You’re good.”

You can’t stop looking at the cum caught in her hairline. She’d been so fucking clean.

You glance down and realize there are strands of black hair broken off in your clenched fist.

Karina’s looking at her hair in your hand too, now, but with a sort of amused detachment. She stands shakily, using the counter for support. There’s cum all over her. Her knees are red from how hard she’d been pushed down.

“You’re so cute,” she tells you, grazing the side of your neck with her fingertips. “There’s no shame in being rough with me, babe.”

“Right.” There’s an unnamed pressure coiling in your chest. “But - but you-”

“Hey.” The word comes out in a rasp, and then Karina laughs, pushing the low hoarse lilt of her voice to its limits. She steps closer, angles her little cum-stained chin up at you. “Are you really gonna tell me you don’t like seeing me covered in your cum?” She’s tonguing the corner of her mouth. “Turning me into a-” her smirk pulls wicked; your next breath hitches so badly- “messy fucking whore for your cock?”

“God,” you get out, because she’s winding an arm around your neck, and her pretty face is still sticky with your cum. “I-”

“It’s what you wanted.” Karina blinks, in a show of such doe-eyed naïveté that saliva begins pooling hot in your mouth - like you’re feral, like you’re rabid. “Isn’t it?”

You’re looking down again. Her knees are going to bruise. Black and blue, as if someone’s bullied her in the schoolyard, pulled her pigtails and knocked her to the asphalt. An echo of something teachers could’ve told her years ago: oh, look, he’s mean to you because he’s got a crush. It’s okay, really - he only hurts you because he likes you.

“You like me like this,” Karina murmurs, dangerously low. “All sloppy and slutty for you.” Her gaze is trained on your mouth. “Marking me up.” Her hair slips from your hand. “Owning me.”

Her name clogs your throat, cloying and candy-sweet. “Karina-”

Karina’s head tilts. “Yes or no?”

She’s too close to you. She’s so filthily beautiful she seems somewhat alien, some kind of foreign invention. Her jaw is smeared with your cum and her flawless teeth shine like jewels and she’s like every creative vision you’ve ever had cut in clips and playing back in a movie theater, made to be scrutinized.

“Yes,” you tell her, winded. “You’re fucking - you’re unreal, you know that?”

You’re smiling like it’s flattery, like it’s an exaggeration. Like she’s not living, breathing, visionary art.

She smiles back, like she knows just how much you really mean it.

“So I’ve been told,” Karina says, and taps your neck, lightly. “Go make breakfast.” She shakes her hair out; some of it gets stuck to the cum on her cheekbone. “I’m taking another shower.”

“Right.” You bite into your bottom lip, hand skimming down her side. “Go get clean.”

“Clean?” She steps back and flashes a disbelieving grin, gestures pointedly at herself - her creamy thighs, her porn star tits in your t-shirt, her body like sex itself. Dirty by design. “Never happening.”

Some cynical part of you keeps waiting for a slip-up, some mistake in a masterfully crafted script - no one can be that gorgeous and still be here with you. But Karina moves and your eyes are hopelessly drawn to the disheveled curtain of her hair spiraling down her back, the sharp distinct lines of her calves, the flex of muscle in her thighs. Her hands, balled into little fists. She’s alluring as if manufactured that way: engineered to be perfectly bruisable, ruinable. It defies logic. It’s movie magic.

“Well.” You snort with laughter, swat at Karina’s ass as she turns to go. “At least you can try.”

You don’t even think she can help it - that’s the thing. It’s just what she was made for.

“What would you have done if I said no, though?” you ask after a moment, as she wavers in the doorway. “Like - what if I told you I didn’t like you like this?”

Karina shrugs.

“I would’ve been something else,” she says, and closes the bathroom door behind her.

(Next:

The stranger and the girl fuck and afterwards he promises her breakfast and then he realizes his cabinets are bare, his fridge painfully unstocked. Sorry, he says, as she pokes around his kitchen. I don’t know how that happened. I usually have something to eat here, I swear.

I don’t mind, she says. Her fingertips sweep his shelves. She seems fascinated by the emptiness, admiring the vacancy. Oh, wait, look.

She finds a half-eaten jar of honey that she ends up scooping up crudely with her fingers, dripping sticky amber down her hand. He’d tell her that’s disgusting but she makes it - as she seems to make everything - into a pointed seduction, her tongue pink and wetly visible, her skin gleaming as she licks it off. It’s funny. He’d never thought it possible to turn eating into some sort of sexual performance but she manages it anyway: meets his eyes, sucks loud and lewd, smacks her lips and wipes her mouth with her thumb, ill-mannered and stunning.

I can’t imagine that’s very filling, he says, delighted by her commitment.

Yeah, well, she says. It’s a good thing I hate feeling full.

But it seems like a moment of hilarious irony when ten minutes later he’s got her bent over his kitchen counter, tits pressed punishingly to the flat surface, honey stuck to her neck and collarbone as she’s fucked hard again and again, stuffed with his cock, his fingers everywhere, like her own body barely even belongs to her - all mine, he keeps saying, and means it; you’re all mine. All filled up. Overfed. Bursting.

Sex is a manner of consuming, it seems. He might as well be eating her alive.)

“Do you do this a lot?”

Eventually, it turns into one of those lazy Saturdays. An afternoon of sitcom plot points.

It’s just so easy to fill the time, the space, the page - you tell Karina some inane story from your college years and she reacts in all the right places like your own built-in studio audience; she says something off-handed and enticingly vague and suddenly you have a new thread of dialogue to explore. You’re both sprawled out over your couch, Karina’s got her thighs tucked over your legs, wearing another one of your t-shirts, a fresh hickey bruising over her throat. There’s something delightfully domestic about it - like you’ve been doing it for a lot longer than you have, or like you could do it eternally if given the chance, holding all the silken comfort of an old routine. When you’d mentioned it - I kind of feel like I could do this forever - she’d laughed her scratchy laugh and said forever’s nowhere near as long as you think it is, babe. A perfectly cinematic line. You stared at her, leaned over, and added it immediately to your draft.

“This whole…” You’re trying to elaborate now, staring at the blinking cursor on your laptop screen. Your knuckles skim her bare, bony knees. “You know.”

“Eloquent.”

“Shut up.”

“I thought you were a writer.”

“Karina.” You’re charmed by the drawl of her voice, the raspy roll of sarcasm. “I’m just wondering.”

Karina shifts in your lap. You’ve got one hand sneaking up the hem of her shirt - your shirt - skating up her tummy, her ribs. You’re probably about five minutes from snapping your laptop shut and pulling her on top of you and saying something crass about her tits and passing it off as a character study.

“What do you mean?” She’s as close to clean as she can be. You made sure of it - licked the hollow of her collarbone earlier after she got out of the shower, tasted nothing but soap and skin. “Do I have a lot of sex with strangers? Or do I stay the night a lot after I have sex with strangers?”

“Both.” You think of taking her hair down, sifting your hand through it, wrapping the strands around your fingers. “All of the above.”

Karina shoots you a look, fluttered lashes, suggestive understanding. You hear it without her having to say it. You want me to tell you that you’re special.

“I’ve kind of been going through a phase,” she says instead, nonchalantly.

Your eyebrows fly up. “A phase?”

“I’ve been, you know.” She gives an airy sigh. “Trying to find myself in the big city. Running wild. Terrified of monogamy but being very brave and quirky about it. Sordid past with love and romance and general human connection. Doing the whole manic pixie dream girl thing.” Her eyes flick to your open laptop, abruptly too wide and innocent. “That sound about right?”

“Fuck off.” It’s a complete non-answer. You run a hand past her stomach, laughing. “You’re fucking with me.”

“What?” Karina inches closer. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Your textbook rom-com love interest?”

You make a rather disparaging sound in the back of your throat. “Ugh.”

“Oh, my bad.” Her mouth curls, contradictory. There’s nothing apologetic about her. “I forgot. You don’t believe in art about love. You wanna see broken people and broken people only.”

“See?” You’re obsessed with her tone; all flirtation, some distorted version of come-hither charm. Talking of suffering like it’s a seduction tactic. “You get it.”

Karina rakes a hand through her hair; her fingers fall to the back of her neck and linger there. She pulls herself out of your lap and turns, hooks one bare long leg over you until she’s straddling you. Your hands find her hips. You’re disarmed by her strange weightlessness, like she’s seconds from either shattering or taking flight.

Then she asks, “Is that what you’re doing with me?”

It’s gotta be a very roundabout request to fuck her stupid, because she follows it up torturously: ducks her chin, parts her lips, rocks her hips down until you groan. You watch her throat, the way muscle works over bone, picturing unspeakable things: taking her by that pretty neck and pinning her to the wall, ripping your shirt right off of her with your fingertips leaving bruises - bending her over to fuck her fast and cruel until her cunt’s raw and aching and leaking your cum - until she’s begging pathetically, saying please, God, please - and you’re triumphant, victorious. Telling her you asked for this, didn’t you? You said anything. You said anything I want.

“Depends,” you reply, when you can breathe again. “Are you a broken person?”

Karina stops, moments from your mouth.

“Depends,” she echoes. “Is that what you want from me?”

It actually takes a beat for the question to sink in. Then two, then-

“No,” you say, loudly. “Obviously not, Karina, Jesus. Why would I…”

You falter.

Karina only looks back at you, patient, tolerant. Like if right now you said that’s exactly it: I want you broken, I want you ruined, I want you decaying and dead and buried, she’d smile and say do your worst. Flashing those white, white teeth, perfect like pearls, ready to be knocked right out and strung together.

You blink the bloody vision away. “Why would I ever want that?”

Karina studies you for a second longer, expression indecipherable.

“Okay,” she agrees, breezily. “Then I’m not broken. I’m just going through a phase, like I said. I don’t like being tied down.” Her shirt rides tantalizingly high up her thighs; her hand slips down to palm your cock. There’s a twist to her lips, a dirty sort of smirk. “You understand that, right?”

You stare at her.

“Right?” Karina prods, again, low and sultry.

“Right,” you say, unable to fight your sudden smile.

The pout of her mouth’s an inevitability; her little body in your lap’s a seductive form of foreshadowing. You dig your fingers into her protruding ribs, playful, and you don’t quite get the squeal of laughter you were expecting - all Karina does is curl closer, expecting more, expecting harder. She knows what you’re capable of. You’re both just biding your time until you cross the same line you’ve been crossing and you fall back into bed again.

“A phase,” you add, considering. It intrigues you, anyway - the casualness, the connotation. “So - I’m not special, then. That’s the moral of this story.”

Karina’s fingers sift gently through your hair. “You wanna be special?”

“I mean, yeah.” Your palm falls to her neck, presses down. She doesn’t seem to mind. “Doesn’t everyone?”

Her eyebrows rise in vague, unconvinced amusement. It makes sense: she’s the most special of all, a cosmic glitch, an angelic fluke. Someone like Karina wouldn’t understand the aching, clawing, consuming desire to be extraordinary. She’s already there.

Your hand on her throat looks even bigger now, tendons straining from underneath skin.

“I think we all want to feel important,” you mumble, thumb grazing gently across her jaw. “Don’t you?”

You’re pretty sure the wry, glittering smile that sits at Karina’s mouth is an answer in itself.

Alright, forget your television metaphors - you’re not sure there’s any sitcom out there that goes quite like this.

“By the way,” you say, grinning against her hair as you pull her to the bedroom. “Did you say you don’t like being tied down?”

Karina turns in your arms and doesn’t even flinch when you force her too hard against the doorframe and its edge smacks into her shoulder blade, digging in hard. You should apologize but you don’t; the possibility of her in pain seems laughable, a distant fantasy. This is how it goes, fucking a girl who looks like a god - your brain is convinced she’s wholly immune to hurt. The universe wouldn’t actually let someone so pretty bleed.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, voice raspy with insinuation. “Let me rephrase.”

“Karina,” you say, not really like a warning - more like you’ve got something to prove. This is real. You’re really here. You’re really this perfect, gorgeous, greedy thing. You’re really made for me.

Karina only lets her lips tilt in a smirk, devilish and knowing.

“I meant that I don’t like commitment,” she says. “I love being tied down.”

She’s still smiling when you shove her through the doorway, across the threshold - across that same old fucking line.

Not that it makes a difference now, but one of the reasons you and your most recent ex-girlfriend broke up was because of what you’d both referred to as sexual incompatibility. Actually, there were about fourteen other things, too - she was a trainwreck and a textbook attention whore; you spent all your time writing and she took offense to the fact that you found your scripts more interesting than her - but the crux of the sex problem between the two of you was that she thought you wanted too much power over her. She seemed to assume that was the point of potentially tying her up and shit like that: to exert power. To put you and only you in control. To make her into this helpless little toy - and I hate that, she’d said, working herself into a fit, I hate feeling helpless.

You hadn’t pushed her. You’d also tried to justify it in a number of ways. It isn’t about that. It’s not about control. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. But it hadn’t made a difference and she hadn’t believed you and you’d come to the reluctant, inevitable conclusion that that particular dream would never actually get fulfilled.

Until-

“Look at you, baby.”

Until now, when you’ve got Karina stripped bare and tied to your bed, thighs parted as you kneel over her, pretty little cunt glistening wet and tits heaving with every breath as she waits, and waits, and waits.

Eyes half-lidded. Utterly fuckable. A curated collection of every salacious desire you’ve ever had.

“You’ve been looking at me forever,” murmurs Karina, her tone still humorous, like the reason her voice is run so ragged is because she’s holding back a fit of giggles. “You gonna fuck me anytime soon?”

To Karina’s credit, the idea of tying her up didn’t seem to bother her one bit. She’d let you knot her wrists to your bedframe and only grinned sharply when you asked her if it was too much. She didn’t seem to care about feeling helpless or feeling bad. Actually - judging from the wetness that collects on your fingers as you rub two of them over her cunt - it all seemed to turn her on either way.

“You’re so fucking mouthy.” You lift your hand only to ghost it over her stomach, leaving a lewd shiny streak across her skin. “It’s like you want to be punished.”

“Well, you put in all this work.” Karina yanks at the ropes tethering her wrists to the bedframe until they bite so severely into her skin that it turns white. “I’d hate to see it go to waste.”

“Not a waste.”

“No?” She’s got that seductive little smirk on, legs spread shamelessly, head back and throat bared.

“Nope.” Your eyes rove down her body. “It’s a great view, actually.”

You’re shocked by the sound Karina makes, then: harsh and derisive, scratchy and painful, like she’s choking badly around some injury in her throat. You’re half-expecting her to turn her face and spit blood onto your sheets - all murder-scene evidence, horrifically vibrant gore. Coughing up her own vocal chords.

It’s so awful it actually takes you a minute to realize that she’s laughing.

“Karina?” you say, perturbed.

“Oh, please.” Karina hacks out one more horrid laugh. “Cut the shit.”

You draw your hand back uncertainly. “What are you-”

“Come on, man.” There’s a glint to Karina’s gaze as she looks up at you: bored, mocking, infuriating. Irises flashing like the darkest corners of haunted houses, set-ups for a summoning; lashes like cobwebs, self-spun and delicate. “Fuck me or leave me alone.”

For a second you just stare at her, unmoving, something caustic and furious threading up your spine.

And then-

Look, none of this next part is on you. You can’t blame yourself. It’s her - her tiny hands in tight clenched fists, tummy so flat it seems caved-in, hollowed-out; her own glimmer of slick smeared on her belly, physical proof of how desperately slutty she really is. The bruise on her chest; the one on her throat. Her goddamn eyes. Her lazy, lilting drawl, the exact matter-of-fact casualness she’d had last night when she’d told you to hurt her - fuck me or leave me alone.

It’s so obvious what she’s trying to do - provoke a reaction out of you. It’s gotta be the only reason she’s talking to you like that. Like, what else are we here for? Like, what else could I possibly want from you?

So - no, God, it’s not your fault.

But-

It’s over before you can even think about it. Before you’ve even rationalized doing it, before you recognize the sound ricocheting through the room as the perfect violent land of a blow, the hot whiplash of skin on skin, your palm connecting with its target. Before you blink, and recalibrate, and you take in the rapid reddening of her cheek, and her angled jaw, and her hair falling starkly past her chin - it’s too late. It’s already done.

Because you’ve just slapped Karina clean across the face - hard.

“Oh.” You’re babbling as if on autopilot, all your nerves on shutdown. “Oh. Oh, God. Karina-”

Karina licks the corner of her lip, like she can taste the impact.

“Jesus Christ,” you’re saying, panicking; you can’t shut up. You don’t know what to do with your hands; you find yourself kneeling carefully in front of her, cupping her face, stroking her temples with your thumbs like it’ll soothe the sting. You can’t believe you hit her. All the things you could do to a girl like that, and you - “I’m sorry. I didn’t - fuck, baby. I’m sorry.”

Karina blinks up at you, expression placid and blank, porcelain-doll cool.

“For what?” she asks.

You freeze, her face still between your palms. “For-”

But the serene tilt of her mouth makes the words die in your throat.

“Seriously.” Karina’s voice is softer now, a kind twist of mirth. “Isn’t that what you wanted to do with me this whole time?”

Her features seem to fall out of alignment, occurring to you in cut, edited fragments - the baby-animal eyes, the bone-white glint of teeth, the pretty blooming flush of her cheek, blood rising underneath skin but never breaking through. No evidence of a limit breached; she doesn’t wince or wail or cry. She wears the hit so well. She’s smiling. A you-don’t-need-to-be-sorry smile, a you’re-forgiven smile: I’m strong, I’m good, I can take it. Whatever you need. Whatever you have to give.

You blink and Karina reassembles, stitched up at the seams, beautiful and uninjured and intact.

“You want this,” you exhale, a wondrous revelation.

“Of course.” Karina’s shoulders rise as much as they can with her arms so tightly tied back. “You do, don’t you?”

The panic recedes, and something else - something electric and brutal, visceral, intoxicating - takes its place instead.

It’s the way she says it: rhetorical, all-knowing. As if she’s seen exactly what’s in your mind - what repulsive daydreams have settled right behind your ribcage, clawing to be set free - and she’s offering her own body in sacrifice. Saying here, put them here.

So you do.

She doesn’t even look surprised when you slap her again.

“See?” Karina’s chin tips upwards in delicious, submissive invitation: eyes darkly pleased, pale skin a burning wildfire, curled mouth a beckoning. Like it’s been what she’s waiting for, all along. “There you are.”

And when you’re finally able to catch your breath:

Oh, you think, in some exhilarating epiphany. Here I am.

Every single reservation falls out the window. Karina’s smirk slants viciously and then you’ve got your hands all over her, on her shoulders and her tits and her hips and her throat and her face, thumb digging hard into her cheekbone. Any sort of gentle caution is gone when you’re getting on top of her and burying your cock deep inside the suffocating vice of her aching little cunt, half-drunk on the high mewling moans you’re forcing out of her, head swimming at the drenched audible sound of her pussy every time you fuck into her - at how tight she clenches down around your cock. Fuck it all, then, it’s not like it means anything - hurt me, she’d said, running through your head on loop; I want it so bad, I need it, hurt me - and so you do, wrapping a hand around her delicate neck and pressing down, slapping hard against her heaving tits, salivating over the marks that you leave. She doesn’t even struggle. Takes it like a good girl, an obedient girl: something meant to be hit and torn up and pulled apart. A hands-on art piece. A disassembling, made purely for audience consumption; a sign hung around her neck that says leave your mark, that’s the point. You’d been so naïve, thinking of being careful with her - like she’d ever even fucking want that-

“You like it like this.” Your voice sounds raw, almost unrecognizable; your fingers press into the base of her throat. “This is all you needed, huh? You just needed to be roughed up real hard.” Your hand trails up to grip a fistful of her hair, merciless. Karina shuts her eyes. “Like you’re just a slutty fucktoy-”

Karina chokes out a small, wet gasp.

“Oh, baby.” You yank harder at her hair. “It’s okay to admit it.”

But in a way, she already is. Doesn’t fight against the restraints tying her wrists, doesn’t flinch at how rough you’re fucking her, doesn’t whine or blink back tears at the harsh graze of your thumbnail against her nipple. Like she’s a plaything, here in your bed for your pleasure alone. Like-

“Like you were just fucking made for this, yeah?” She comes undone so easily: cunt a wet sticky mess when you reach down to rub her clit, teeth pearly-white where they’re caught on her bottom lip - though nothing can hold back the anguished noise Karina lets out at your pace, the thick stretch of your cock, your palm smacking at her tits over and over. “Look at you. That face, these tits, this little fucking cunt-”

Like it’s her one and only purpose - to have all her fair skin turned searing red and bruised under someone else’s hands. Her cunt just begging to be split open and stuffed full, railed so hard she could break. It’s gotta be what she was created for. She’s more than mortal, so above the concept of imperfection; a nasty little fuckdoll of a girl, meant to be used hard and licked clean. She looks too irresistible all fucked-out and ruined. It has to be in her nature. Made for this, you keep telling her: to be fucked until she can’t walk. To be treated forever how you’re treating her now.

Your ex-girlfriend couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s not about power or control at all.

“You’d really just let me do anything to you, huh?” you murmur, awed, but you’re holding her throat too hard for her to reply.

You fuck her, and fuck her, and fuck her. Rub at her clit until she clamps down and cums around you, until you can really get on top of her, force her to hold those huge tits together so you can fuck them. You can’t handle how tiny she is underneath you, her face and her mouth slack with lust, eyes glazed over entirely. She squeezes her tits around your cock. She’s hardly even human. It’s the best thing about her.

“That’s how I know you’re a fucking whore.” Your grin feels wide and manic on your face. You’re gonna cum all over her - again. “None of this even matters.”

And it’s only after - after you’ve painted her collarbone and chest creamy white and let up on her throat so she can fight for air; after you’ve groped her tits and grabbed her face after just to see your cum glistening all over her perfect slap-marred cheeks; after you’ve rolled off of her and you finally leave her alone - that Karina gives you a response.

“No,” she says, hoarsely, staring up at the ceiling. “It really, really doesn’t.”

Power just isn’t the right word for it. It’s something much more beautiful than that.

Desire. You’re dozing off, halfway in a sleepy fantasy. You imagine rolling the word around in your mouth, using it in speeches, citing it as an obvious central theme. It’s about desire, you’d say, in interviews, at film festivals, patiently explaining your motivations to the masses. That irrational animal instinct. That innate human greediness. You’ll maybe even throw in some fun anecdote about how people in past relationships never agreed with you. It’s never been about power, though, you’d explain: how foolish, how crude. It’s about the ache of truly wanting something. Isn’t that so much more romantic?

So you’ll make a movie about this one day. So you tied Karina to the bed and slapped her hard and fucked her senseless. Actually, you picture yourself explaining, foggy and on verge of falling asleep: actually, it’s about hunger. Irrepressible, all-consuming hunger. That’s why I did this. That’s why I’ll keep doing it. You’re all like me; you get it. That makes sense, doesn’t it?

And it will, to raucous, riotous applause.

Good. You’ll laugh so hard. You’re dreaming, now; you can’t tell if you’re talking about the sex or the hypothetical future movie. I’m glad you understand. Anyone would’ve done what I did.

Because - honestly - what’s the point of starving yourself of something that’s right in front of you?

(Let’s pull back from your script for a second. Here’s a real story:

A few months back you were visiting a museum with one of your friends when you got into this conversation about performance art. He’d told you about a woman back in the seventies who walked into a gallery and laid out various objects and let the audience do whatever they wanted to her for six whole hours. Her as the artist, in title only; herself as the art. A free, untethered canvas.

And what happened? you asked, morbidly curious.

Your friend grimaced. What do you think happened?

It was a rhetorical question. The performance had been a test of what the general public was capable of - a reflection of their moral compass, of what they’d do if left unchecked. The setup spoke for itself. You didn’t have to get all the gory details in order to understand.

Seriously, though, your friend said, about the artist: I don’t know what’d compel someone to do something like that to themselves. He’d shaken his head, baffled. Like - I think it takes a deeply fucked up person to just give up their body like that. Like it doesn’t even matter to them.

It’s strange. It’s an almost universally accepted fact that, at least on some level, artists are inclined to put pieces of themselves into the things they create. A memory; a feeling. Condensing twenty different emotions into a single acrylic painting, or a lyrical reenactment of heartbreak into a song - something personal and unique and lovely. Often inspired, sure, but yours.

I think that’s what’s funny about it, you told your friend, before you realized that funny was a fucked up word to use here. There’s nothing personal about that. It’s so detached. It’s about the rest of the world, whatever they might make of her - it’s not about her at all.

You were both quiet, thinking. Visualizing what it might’ve been like. To be there, one of many in the audience, watching this woman who had thrown herself to the wolves and asked to be ripped apart.

She’s just - material for them to use, I guess, you said, after a moment. A blank page.

Removing her own identity; becoming nothing, no one. A ghost. An empty vessel. A slab of clay, taking on the impression of everyone who’s ever touched her: the ridges of fingerprints, the half-moon cuts of nails, molding her into something new. Even if it took some force. Even if it hurt.

Still, it’s what she’d asked for.

You can’t imagine she’d ever expected anything else.)

There’s this fascinating complaint people have about films these days, you’ve found. It’s actually quite the phenomenon. You talk to your colleagues and scroll through social media and read comments on movie trailers trying to get a grasp on it all: market research. This isn’t realistic, people gripe. It’d never sound like that. She’d never look like that. This would never, ever happen - God, are you kidding? Who are they trying to fool? As if they’ve somehow missed the point of fiction - of a sweet, escapist fantasy. As if they’ve convinced themselves that the real world is better.

Which is moronic, obviously.

“So what’s the solution?” Karina asks.

Well, you’re no expert; it’s been a while since you’d finished your last movie.

“But you have an idea,” Karina interpets. She’s perched on the edge of your coffee table, nursing a new glass of ice. She’s watching you with her head at an angle, eyes shrewd. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be telling me this.”

As with most of her guesses about you, she’s right.

“It’s all about the details,” you say, after a moment. “It humanizes a person. Having little bits and pieces about who they are - it makes them alive. Their likes, their dislikes. Embarrassing stories. Things that make them laugh. Diary entries, favorite foods - first loves, first heartbreaks. So on and so forth.” You’ve got one of Karina’s ankles between your hands; your thumb brushes against the bulbous protrusion of bone. “It’s what makes people real.”

Karina’s mouth twists, sharp and strange; it takes a second for you to realize that she’s grinning.

“Oh, right,” she says. “You want me to spill my guts to you.” She pushes her ankle further into your grip. Her legs are just like the rest of her: thin and pale, waifish. Like a nineties catwalk model. “That’s how you’re gonna make me real. In your movie.”

You pull a face, letting her ankle slip from your hands. Spill her guts; what an ugly figure of speech. As if you’re doing something much more invasive and violent than just writing about her.

“Basically,” you agree, anyway. “I mean, it helps that you’re already, you know - a real, whole, living person.”

“Ugh,” says Karina, dry and amused. “Barely.”

You wonder if she’s also thinking about this morning; you, stunned and staring at her cum-streaked hair, calling her unreal.

She’s got a point, in a way. There’s something slightly uncanny about her sitting in front of you, as if she’s been taken straight out of some wildly different scene - some spotlit stage, some movie set, some glossy high-budget existence - and haphazardly edited into your life. You reach out and press two fingers to the side of her neck, like they do on television if they think someone’s bleeding out.

Karina tips her head to allow you access. Her pulse throbs hotly under your touch.

“I don’t know,” you say, smiling at the swanlike line of her throat. “You seem pretty alive to me.”

“Sure.” Her hair tickles your wrist. “But you want more.”

She says it like it’s this given - as if she’s always faced with people wanting more from her. You wouldn’t doubt it, little tease she is. You can picture her in motion so easily. Always running. Letting people pine and plead for more.

“Yeah,” you say. It seems pointless to lie to her. “I want more.”

Karina leans in closer. She reaches up and touches one of your knuckles with the pad of her thumb. Without makeup, you can see the shadows of dark circles underneath her eyes, but even those look painted-on, pre-planned; a study on the aesthetic allure of bruises. She lets her gaze drop to your mouth, then bites down on her bottom lip. Impish.

“Karina,” you say, grinning wider now.

It’s one of those unspoken things: the translation of body language, the transcription of the tilt of her mouth. Then have me, she’s saying, almost certainly - like a swooning melodramatic heroine, throwing herself into your lap, wanting to be saved. You want more? You want me? I’m right here. I’m yours.

“Fine,” Karina purrs, and kisses you again, like sealing a contract. “Take it all.”

You don’t fuck her again - not at first. There’s more than one way to take someone apart.

Karina says she’s got a story for you and then she pulls out her phone.

“This was back in high school,” she explains, scrolling back through her photo gallery. There don’t seem to be a lot of recent additions to it; you’d expected selfies, pictures of her with friends. There are more photos of food than anything: plates of pasta and donuts and burgers and pastries piled with whipped cream. It’s cute. It makes you laugh. “When I won prom queen.”

You splutter. “When you what?”

“What?” Karina gives you a bemused, sideways look. “Does that surprise you?”

It floors you, actually. At first you can’t quite put your finger on why, but then you look at Karina again - at her intense dark eyes and pouty fuckdoll lips and the exaggerated pinup proportions of her body - and you realize you’re making that mistake writers often do: buying into archetypes. It just makes sense that she’d be some kind of brooding bad girl. Mysterious, promiscuous; in your creative vision she’s probably cutting classes and chainsmoking in the girls’ bathroom. A favorite of the rumor mill. A pretty little delinquent.

“Wow.” Karina makes a funny noise in the back of her throat when you tell her this. “No. I was - I did fine in school. Perfect attendance, almost. And I can’t stand the smell of cigarettes.” But she doesn’t look offended, either; you imagine people make these assumptions about her all the time. “The prom queen thing - it wasn’t my idea, though. My best friend did all the campaigning for me.”

“That’s sweet.” You watch as she reaches the year she’s looking for. Flashes of her in a sparkly dress with her arms thrown around another girl - a tiny doe-eyed brunette - slide by. In one of them, Karina’s got her head tipped back, clearly mid-laugh; in another, she and the girl have their heads bent close together as if they’re trading secrets, unaware that they’re being photographed. “Well - I think it’s sweet.”

Karina’s fingers stall. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I’m just saying-” You shrug. “It’s a nice gesture if it’s something you wanted, I guess. Seems like a lot of attention, otherwise.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause. “Yeah. It was - I didn’t get to go to junior prom, so it was kind of - this was - senior year. Senior prom.” Another pause. “Yeah. She did it to make me happy.”

“And did it?” She passes by pictures that fill up with more people: friends with big grins who stick close to her side, wrapping her up in an embrace. “Make you happy?”

“Of course.” Karina’s thumb pauses on a video, the preview dark and unfocused. She says it like she doesn’t even have to think about it. “She was my best friend. She always knew what I wanted. Hey, look at this.”

The video’s of her in the back of someone’s car, prom queen tiara askew on her head, satiny sash falling off one shoulder. She’s yelling, laughing; the sound isn’t on, but her mouth’s wide open and her dark eyes are crinkled to half-moons, creased underneath heavy false lashes and glittery makeup that’s begun to smudge and fade. It makes her whole face look very soft. Young, too - cheeks full and flushed pink with excitement, hair blown-out and everywhere, glossed black. As if she’s having the time of her life.

“How old were you here?” you ask, in awe.

“Eighteen. Just turned, I think.”

“You look-” Like a baby, you almost want to say. It’s true, though. Big brown eyes, scrunched little nose - grinning like the rest of the world hasn’t quite dug its claws into her yet. Skin unmarred and infant-smooth. “You look pretty.”

Karina doesn’t look at you, but you can see the slight, entertained upturn of her lips. All the nasty things you’ve called her - all the irredeemable ways you’ve touched her - and now, inexplicably, you’re going for pretty.

“Thanks,” she says, and clicks the volume up.

“Shut the fuck up,” baby Karina is saying, delightedly. Her voice sounds high, childish and carefree. “You’re so dumb. It wasn’t - it wasn’t even like that, I swear!” She flaps one hand in the air, her nails all short and painted the same rich deep maroon as her dress. “No - you’re just saying that because you’re jealous, you idiot, I know you - you just-”

The person behind the camera says something that you can’t quite make out.

Baby Karina presses one hand to her sternum, pearl-clutching, and gasps.

“I would never,” she admonishes - over-the-top like an actress from a movie - before she throws her head back and laughs.

It’s a startling, wonderful laugh. A little-kid laugh. A mess of wild, unabashed giggles, hiccupy and sweet, so loud and infectious you can hear the other people in the car start cracking up with her; out of frame, someone reaches out to interlace their fingers with Karina’s, waving their joined hands until they smack against the car window and Karina only laughs harder. With her whole body, shoulders shaking and all. Streetlights flashing across her face, making her look sort of blurry and surreal, like something out of a painting.

“Your laugh,” you find yourself saying, stunned.

Karina’s touching the back of her neck, completely engrossed in the video. “My what?”

You don’t laugh like that anymore. That’s what you mean to say. That scratchy, almost painful laugh that she’s been gracing you with since the moment you met her - there’s no trace of that in how baby Karina wriggles with laughter in the backseat of the car until her happy, breathless blush spreads to her neck and her chest. Head tipping back against the seat, like she’s all tuckered out.

“Um,” you say, voice caught in your throat.

On the screen, her eyes fall shut, lashes fluttering so delicately.

You can’t do anything but stare. Brilliant, past-life, prom-queen Karina - grinning at nothing, and sleepy from a perfect night, and laughing as if she’ll exist as this version of herself forever. As if she just doesn’t know any better, yet.

“You,” you start to say, again-

Karina shuts her phone off, and turns.

And you’re about to say something - something about the gnawing, uncertain feeling you get when you watch this former self of hers. It’s on the tip of your tongue. You don’t laugh like that. Something happened to you. For a moment the whole image just seems off - like the way people make posthumous holograms of pop stars, superimpose faces of long-dead actors on stunt doubles. A kind of intense wrongness. A murmured, uncomfortable: that’s not really you, is it? It can’t be. I barely recognize her.

“What?” Karina asks. Her smile reveals her teeth. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Then reality hits you, all at once.

“Sorry.” Your hand finds her thigh. You laugh because you’re being ridiculous - how would you know who she really is, anyway? “I was just thinking - I don’t know. Never mind.”

She seems to take that at face value. You like that about her. How she seems to trust so easily - going home with you, winding up in your bed, staying when you ask her to stay. Giving you whatever you want: her body, her story.

“So,” you say, eventually. “I can put in my movie that you totally peaked in high school, huh?”

Karina snorts. “Yeah,” she says, playing along, and taps her dark phone screen with a clawed nail. “Say it was the last time I was happy.” She pulls a face, like the thought of it is just unspeakably pathetic. “That’s a tragedy if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Shakespearean,” you agree, and let her clamber into your lap. “It’s perfect.”

But you know she’s kidding. You’d like to think that you understand girls like her. They live in a different world than the rest of you - the kind of world where every person on earth looks at them and falls to their feet, falls madly in love. You’ll write about it one day; you’ll feel out the narrative for her, a curious exploration. That rose-tinted life she must flourish in, closed-off and flawless like a snow globe, her spinning and protected in the glass.

“Perfect,” echoes Karina, and kisses you - like she’s proving she really means it.

That’s the reality, here. That’s it. This is all there is.

Well, almost.

Karina lets you scroll through the rest of her photo gallery, front to back. You take the opportunity, because you’re greedy for as much as you can get.

There’s a lot of photos that are just her, funnily enough - selfies posed in front of the same full-length mirror, over and over again, clad in unholy outfits. Swimsuits, sports bras and little running shorts, lingerie: shit that makes your mouth water, eyes lingering, groaning out loud as she laughs at you. But it’s also her in faded old t-shirts, holding the hem up to expose her stomach. Body angled to the side in girlish sundresses. Hair pulled up, showing off her neck, her gorgeously sharp collarbone - in makeup or out of it, stare intensely focused and sultry.

“That’s hot,” you comment. “Self-obsessed as fuck, but hot.”

Karina smiles - her tiny private-joke smile - and doesn’t say anything at all.

There’s one video in particular that catches your eye. It’s recent, relatively - the date reads late December, last year. Less than a month ago. Christmastime. You click on it, curious.

Karina’s immediately recognizable in it, black hair winding past her shoulders, drowning in a large black sweatshirt. She’s smiling, but it looks sort of tense and tired - bags under her eyes, like she hasn’t slept in a while. She’s got both hands balled up into fists, held close and protective to her chest; her sharp chin rests on her pale knuckles. There’s a tiny smear of red across her mouth, lower lip bitten bloody.

“You just got here,” she says. She’s looking at something behind the camera. “The first thing you wanna do is hear me sing?” She laughs once, scratchy and hoarse. “Why are you even filming this?”

The answering strum of guitar strings, a pretty, perfect chord. An invitation, or a demand.

“You’re kidding.” Karina’s voice is flat.

Another chord - evidently not.

“Wow,” says Karina. Her smile, out of nowhere, goes very soft at the edges. “You just do this because you know I can’t say no to you.”

“What?” you ask Karina now, laughing. “Is this - what is this? Do you - are you really going to sing?”

And then - crazily enough - she does.

“Oh,” you say out loud, adoring, and Karina turns her face into your shoulder.

Her voice in the video is breathy, sweet. Shyly unpracticed, raspy from disuse, completely and utterly gorgeous; lids slipping shut and open again, laugh leaking into her melody line in lyrics about black eyes and kisses and wanting someone who’s just so, so bad for you. But what surprises you more than anything is the look that dawns on her blurry on-screen face - irises sparkling and smile bashful, hiding her mouth behind the sleeve of her sweatshirt, curled up with her knees to her chest. You see now that she’s wearing pajama pants, fuzzy and patterned with snowflakes.

She looks radiantly pretty. She looks vulnerable. And not even in a sweaty, satiated, filthy post-fuck kind of way - actually, genuinely vulnerable. Soft and wide-eyed and tender.

Suddenly, you just can’t tear your gaze away.

“Stop.”

The song’s over. On-screen Karina’s fully grinning now. Porcelain-fragile, but undeniably happy, too.

“I hate you,” she says. “Baby, I really do.”

“You love me,” says the person behind the camera. “You’ll love me for the rest of your life and you know it.”

And in the video - in vivid, fluid motion - Karina laughs.

Whole-hearted, lovely. Familiar. For a moment, you swear she’s still that girl sitting in the backseat of a car with her prom queen tiara on, giggling free and uninhibited, unhurt, untouched. A month ago - less than that, even - looking like she’s coming back to life.

That’s where the clip ends.

It doesn’t change anything, if you actually think about it. It’s just another version of reality. A Karina from a whole other universe, laughing like a child, and so, so far away from whoever she is now.

(Back between the lines of your script-

The stranger and the girl drink to get drunk and that’s about it. She reads the label of his wine; he makes fun of her for being a snob. She doesn’t really drink, she says at first, but he laughs like this is a challenge, and pours her a glass anyway. She flushes pink and fidgets around. She seems to shed hair like a cat and he thinks this is the most hilarious thing he’s ever seen, picking up thin black strands off of the arm of his couch, teasing her about girls and how they really like to leave their mark, huh?

Leave their mark, she repeats. There’s some trick of the lens here, some sort of strategic camera work - he’s in the forefront and she’s in the background, and she looks so much smaller than him. Why do you say that?

He still had his ex-girlfriend’s perfume in his cabinet. He probably still has some of her clothes in his closet. Not out of any particular emotional attachment, but sometimes this is just the way things are: when you spend years intertwining your whole existence with someone else’s, it’s hard to rid yourself of that connection. You’ve grown into each other’s spaces, tangling limbs and heart lines, putting down roots. It’s gonna take a little force to get them out.

They’re just so much, he says, gesticulating with his hands. And they affect everything in your life, like a fucking infection. And then it doesn’t work out, and you - he makes a wide, sweeping motion here, attempting to encompass the wreckage. You have to fix everything they broke. Purge them from your system and all that. It’s so fucked up.

It’s like this, he means to say - you love someone and then they leave you behind and you’re left staring at the blown-up decimated crater that used to be your life together. You love someone and they don’t love you back and all you have now is the debris.

They’re both drunk. There should be music here and there isn’t. It’s only eerie, too-still silence, suffocating the both of them with every passing second.

Well, she says, laughing, and takes another sip. You and I can agree on that, at least.)

It happens like this:

There’s a monologue you want to write.

You tell Karina this after you’re finally fucking her again, when she’s balanced on the edge of your glass coffee table with her legs spread and your mouth slick with her cum. Well - not after, technically. She’s between orgasms and you have your thumb on her clit, tracking the expression on her face, the split-second moment where she comes apart. It’s then when you realize so badly that you want to write some great speech for your heroine - something about the sweat beading on Karina’s midriff and her tits that you can’t stop touching and the jerky movements of her hips, trying to get your tongue back on her clit, panting and delightfully desperate. Something about desire.

“Desire,” repeats Karina, voice halfway into a raspy, worked-up moan.

“Yeah.” You’ve replaced your mouth with your fingers, fucking up into the obscene tight heat of her cunt. She’s trembling, dripping everywhere; she’s the very picture of what it means to want, probably. “But I just can’t figure it out.”

Karina laughs roughly, and then she cums.

“Is that funny?” you ask her, after, when you’re wiping your wet mouth with your wrist and she’s sucking on your glistening fingers, licking the taste of her own cunt off your skin. Her eyes big, lips all full and pink - slutty angel on her pedestal, perched above you. “Me writing about desire?”

Karina lets your fingers free with a loud pop. She’s still clutching your hand close to her mouth, thumb dragging through the sticky gleam of her spit. “No,” she says, eyes distant. “It just reminded me of something. There’s this Anne Carson quote, about men and desire…” She shakes her head. Presses her lips once to your fingertips in a small, startlingly sweet kiss. “It doesn’t matter. Tell me more.”

There isn’t much to tell, truthfully. Except that you’ve got this love for movie lines that are just so utterly quotable - things that make their way into the pop culture consciousness. That’s the kind of work you want to be doing: creating something that has an impact, something that’ll exist long after you’re gone. Everlasting. If you had to pull for an example, you’d say-

“You ever seen Closer?”

“Yeah.” Karina drops your elbow into her lap. “Oh, I get it. He tastes like you but sweeter. Lying’s the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off - et cetera.” She hums the melody line. “So you want an early 2000s pop-punk band to make a song about your movie? Ambitious.”

“More or less,” you say as she shimmies her shirt back down, hem falling back over her midriff. “But like I said, I’m kind of stuck.”

Karina rolls her neck. Her hair is everywhere, sweet-smelling; snapped-off strands decorate your table, looking like cracks in the glass.

“Any suggestions?” you ask, thumb skimming along the pale bruised inside of her thigh.

She smiles, mischievous. “Maybe.”

That’s how you both end up curled on your couch together with your laptop in front of you, Karina’s eyes glued to the movie playing on the screen, watching as the four main characters fuck and flirt and cheat on each other and scream at the top of their lungs. Melodramatic dialogue. How do you feel about him using your life? You’re lying; I’ve been you. This will hurt, which Karina laughs at - as if announcing the pain will make it better, playacting at exoneration.

It’s also - predictably - how you end up fucking again. You barely make it an hour in, and then-

“Hey.” Karina’s breath tickles your ear. She’s already seconds from climbing in your lap already; her thigh is hooked over yours, bare and inviting. “Are you inspired?”

You’re swallowing back a grin. “Sure.”

“Oh. Great.” She’s no actress herself, clearly. She couldn’t be subtle if she tried. “Do you wanna be more inspired?”

And - whatever. It’s a movie about sex. If anything, at least you’re sticking to the theme.

The dialogue plays in the background as Karina rocks her hips down on your lap - you can feel how wet she is again, like she never stops wanting to be fucked. You’re telling her something about how she’s the most insatiable girl you’ve ever met; the sound of the film saturates the room, setting the tone like it knows its purpose. How? How does it work? How do you do this to someone? This big, infidelity-ridden confrontation. Did you phone her? Beg her to come back? Asking him why he falls for another girl, getting this ridiculous answer - it’s because she doesn’t need me.

“Huh.” You smile into the curve of Karina’s neck, already palming her ass. “That one’s funny.”

“Is it funny?” Karina’s sharp jaw brushes against your cheekbone. Her eyes are so dark, shadowed by her long lashes. “I think it’s pretty realistic. People don’t like needy girls. It’s a burden to be loved so hard.” Her tongue darts across her teeth; her smile’s somewhat caustic. “Too much to handle, I guess.”

“What are you talking about?” This strikes you as fairly fucking ridiculous, too. “What men have you met who don’t like needy girls?”

Karina just laughs and leans in for another kiss.

It’s easy to let the rest of the film float away in the background, the lines coming disjointed, unconnected. A spoken-word soundtrack, tone perfuming the air: the angst and pain and eroticism seeping into your clothing. Once in a while you’ll pull back from kissing Karina’s neck or tits or mouth and see a thoughtful little quirk to her mouth. Like she’s genuinely listening, even as you’re taking off her shirt, slipping a hand back between her legs. Where will you go? Disappear. I can’t still see you - if I see you, I’ll never leave you. I amuse you, but I bore you.

“I bet you’ve never felt that,” you say, half into the silk of her hair.

Karina pauses. Her shirt’s on the floor; she’s gloriously naked on top of you. “Felt what?”

“I amuse you, but I bore you,” you recite. You already sound sort of fuck-drunk, far gone. “You’re the farthest thing from boring.”

Back in the movie, the female lead sobs into her fists. Karina studies you, fingertips grazing the nape of your neck. You try to imagine it - her as one of those heartsick heroines, crying herself to pieces, begging a man not to leave her - but you draw an utter blank. Some people just aren’t breakable in that way.

“You’d be surprised,” Karina says, after a moment. “People get bored of me all the time.”

“Oh, please.” Even when she’s the one top of you, you can’t help feeling so completely in control. It’s gotta be the look in her eyes, dying to be obedient. “I bet you have lots of ways of keeping guys interested in you.” You smack her ass hard just to make a mark. “I bet you let them fuck you however they want.”

“Exactly,” Karina agrees, without missing a beat. She moves in close until your noses bump together. Lets her voice go all smoky and suggestive. “Wherever they want, too.”

You open your mouth - probably about to say something very rude about what a dirty whore she is and how you should’ve realized it the second you saw her; I knew it, I know you - but then your hands slip lower and Karina presses her lips to yours and licks into your mouth, over your teeth, making you swallow your words. Filling you up until there’s nothing but her and the movie, playing on.

I think I’ll be happier with her.

You won’t. You’ll miss me. No one will ever love you as much as I do. Why isn’t love enough?

“Romantic, right?” murmurs Karina, sweet against your tongue.

“Shut up,” you say, and grab her by the hair, tugging her off your lap as you stand. “Bedroom. Now.”

Later, you’ll take the time to consider the different ways filmmakers illustrate a power dynamic - it’s playing on your laptop screen right now. The heroine’s sitting on the arm of the couch, clutching desperately at the hero’s jacket. Gorgeously emotional and pleading for another chance, her tiny chin tilted up, eyes so large and watery. Made fragile and fearful by everyone: the protagonist, the narrative, the director, the audience beyond. By herself, even. It’s a stylistic choice - she wants to look that pathetic.

And you-

Well, you’ve got Karina’s long hair wrapped up in your fist, tits bouncing as she stumbles to her feet, ankle knocking hard and horribly loud against the leg of your table. Cute little ass all red from your hand. Thighs shimmering from how drenched she is, cunt dripping from how you’ve treated her. She hasn’t managed to work her mouth into a trademark smirk fast enough: when she looks at you over her shoulder, her eyes are abyss-dark and bottomless, crease between her brows, lips parted in pained surprise.

The definition of pathetic, too - but that’s exactly the point. She’s just so much more fuckable like that.

“Ouch,” you say, touching her hurt ankle with the side of your foot.

“It’s fine.” Karina’s skin feels clammy and cold. Her smirk’s intact now, camera-ready. “I’ve been through worse.”

Her ankle throbs under the pressure of your touch; you still haven’t let up on her hair. You’ll go through worse, too, you think of telling her: a sly comment about how rough you’re about to fuck her, what vicious marks you’re about to leave. How you’re gonna hurt her exactly like she asked you to.

You don’t say a thing.

She must already know all of that, anyway.

So, Karina’s not breakable like the helpless, weepy, soft-hearted girls in the movies - but that’s alright. She’s breakable in much more enticing ways.

Case in point:

“Oh, get real, baby. Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

Well, breaking someone down doesn’t really get better than this.

It’s all a scene of your own making, a perfect pre-arrangement. You on your bed, Karina limp and bent belly-down over your lap - you in control and Karina as the most impressive toy you’ve ever gotten your hands on, creamy ass and needy cunt and skin that turns bruises to artwork. You’re goading her and failing - trying to get her to just admit to what she is, what a filthy slut, what a nasty eager fuckdoll - but it’s hard to get a response when even breathing seems to be a chore for her right now. Every noise out of her mouth is nothing but a gasping, choked-out whimper. Her face is buried in her forearm, hidden. And through the shine of lube dribbling down your hand and her ass and into the sticky wetness of her cunt, you’ve got two fingers stretching out her little asshole - and you’re just getting started.

“I know you fucking need this.” Your other hand slides up her back, slips to tangle in her hair. “You’re just too good at it.” You pull hard, wrenching her head from the crook of her elbow. “Too good at being an obedient fucking whore for me, huh?”

Karina’s whole body stiffens when you fuck your fingers deeper, as if tugged taut on a string: the flex of her feet in the air, shoulder blades straining, neck craned back almost painfully. You pull harder. It’s a buzz at the base of your skull, live-wire thrilling: the knowledge that you can yank her into whatever position you want - fuck her anywhere, work her ass open with your cock, fill her up with cum - and she’s just going to have to take it. Like she’s this pliant, powerless thing. Like she’s yours.

Your self-satisfaction seeps right into your voice. “Answer me.”

You hear Karina gulp down a breath. “I,” Karina mumbles, but she can’t do anything but babble. “I - fuck-” All teeth-clenching nonsense; she shoots a baleful glance over her shoulder, desperation clawing its way into every word. “Please-”

Your fingers pause. “You want more?”

Her cheeks are splotchy and pink; you swear there are tears wobbling in those big dark eyes. The heavy arousal in your stomach turns to violent hunger, as though your mouth could start watering at any second. You can’t help it. The thought of seeing her cry is fucking exhilirating. “You - oh-”

“Answer me. You want my cock?” You’re waiting for the breaking point. “You want me to really fuck your ass?”

“Fuck-”

But that’s not a proper reply and Karina knows it, so she doesn’t protest when you pull your glistening fingers out of her and smack your palm hard across her ass. Once, then twice, and then you just don’t stop. She yelps like a hurt animal - trembles uncontrollably, her thighs and her shoulders and her quivering bottom lip - and makes a sound in the back of her throat that might be a sob, but she still lets you hit her: gives into the harsh crack of skin on skin, over and over again. Listens as you tell her that she deserves this, that she wanted this, that you’re making her into a good girl and this is what good girls get when they’re too cock-hungry to follow orders or answer a fucking question, you know that - you know I’m this rough for a reason. It should hurt. It’s so much more fun that way.

“I’ve been too fucking nice to you,” you mutter, teeth gritted in an effort to hide your grin - as if you even need to. It’s obvious how much you enjoy this. It’s the point. “That’s the problem with girls like you - you never learned your fucking place, huh? Never really been punished for anything?”

Karina mumbles out something unintelligible, slurring from her drooling mouth to the sheets.

“Yeah.” Your hand comes down again - she flinches just before her body goes slack. “That’s what I thought.”

And after you’ve spanked her so hard that her fair skin is ravaged and raised with goosebumps along the slope of her back - her whole body in revolt - you finally, finally stop.

Karina doesn’t budge except to breathe, and even that releases shallow, unsteady. You read it all in the shaky lift and fall of her thin shoulders, her hands in white-knuckled fists, her face pressed to your sheets and hidden - her hair coats everything, all ink, all words written but left unsaid. She shivers beneath your fingers. Her cunt’s dripping all over your lap. She’s a masterpiece. She’s a wreck.

You’re filled up with thick, swollen pride. “Karina.”

Karina. Your own personal creation, transformed under your touch. Might as well have your name carved into her, too. A brand right across her back, slicing through tissue, scarring to seal her fate - this is who you fucking belong to.

“Poor baby.” You follow the sharp ridges of her spine, tracking notches, keeping a tally: counting how many times you’ll hit her, how many days she’ll stay in your bed. How many movies she’ll let you make out of her, being your brilliant muse for decades. “It’s painful when you don’t listen to me, huh?”

But then - inexplicably - you think of her bruising ankle. Her twist of a smirk, detached and humorless. I’ve been through worse.

You’re abruptly glad you can’t see the look on her face.

“Come on, sweet girl.” You dig the heel of your palm into her lower back, half a warning. “Pull it together.”

Between the strands of glossy hair tumbling over Karina’s skin and your sheets, you spot a reddish mark on the back of her neck. Like the impression of a thumbprint, small and round. Blurry enough in the dim light that your brain starts conjuring up strange theories; an old wound, maybe. A birthmark or a burn, a childhood injury.

You graze her shoulder blades with your fingertips, exploratory. She feels so small draped over you like this, a tiny wet wisp of a girl. A doll.

She still hasn’t moved.

“Karina.”

Nothing.

“Karina,” you say again, suddenly uneasy. Your hand stops. “Are you-”

For a few terrible seconds, you can’t even hear her breathing.

But then Karina shifts. Slow, sensual, deliberate. Pushing herself up off your lap, arching her back, the slick pucker of her asshole obscene from where you fucked it open with your fingers. Her bruised knees dig into your mattress as she straightens up, and her gorgeous pale face seems to glow in the midday light - heavy dark eyes, bitten-pink mouth, black hair curtaining her cheeks like a frame to a portrait.

“You,” you start to say, feeling suddenly like you’re looking at her for the first time.

“I’m really sorry,” Karina murmurs.

She doesn’t look close to tears at all. She’s so unfazed, as if having her ass spanked punishingly raw is something that happens to a girl like her on the daily. A run-of-the-mill occurrence - a consequence of having a body like that, made to be brutalized. She’s already reaching towards the nightstand for the lube.

“I just wanted it so bad I couldn’t think straight,” Karina tells you, with erotic-film certainty - reciting all the lines that’ll make her seem the most insatiably slutty. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Her lips form a pout; she leans down to press them to the tip of your cock, all sweet and demure, like she thinks she needs to convince you. Eyes flicking up at you through her thick lashes, molten-hot. “I should’ve listened.” It’s only a breath, warm and torturous. “I deserved that, I know.”

Your hand winds tight in her hair. You want to force your cock down her pretty throat, make her gag and choke over her simpering apologies, spitting up your cum until it trickles down her chin, her tits, her tummy. Both a game and a power play: prove how sorry you are.

Karina pulls back before you can, and holds up the lube.

“Babe,” she says, the term of endearment almost a singsong - a lilting reminder. “I thought you wanted to really fuck me now.”

“Uh-huh.” Her tits heave as she moves, crawling closer, offering herself up. “And I always get what I want, right?”

You feel drunk with power. You forget that this isn’t supposed to be about power. You watch as Karina coats her palm with lube and pumps your cock, her fingers slick and hot, her veins starkly blue at her delicate wrists. Expression delighted at how hard you are, pink little tongue poking out between her teeth - seduction down to an art form, meticulously calculated.

“With me?” Her smile burns. “Obviously.”

You pull her in by the neck to kiss the smirk off her mouth.

It’s interesting. There’s this other thing regular critics and moviegoers have been saying about films these days: sex scenes need to have a purpose. Some sort of coherent motivation. Strip your lead actress down to nothing and get her keening and moaning and you’ve got to explain it away somehow. It forwards the plot, you could insist, pitching it to producers and directors. It does something for the character dynamics. It’ll draw in just the right audience, the ones dying to see their favorite celebrity debauched and getting dirty on-screen - they’ll see it over and over just to get a taste. Isn’t that enough? To satisfy the masses? Isn’t that why we’re all here?

Because otherwise all people are staring at is a play at pornography: useless half-convincing make-believe. The heroine can writhe and whine and arch her back all she wants. Everyone knows she doesn’t feel anything.

“Tell me the truth.”

Oh, if you two were a movie - you don’t know how anyone could justify a sex scene quite like this.

It doesn’t matter what artsy angle you take. It all comes down to the same unforgivable details: Karina face-down ass-up on your bed, the perfect bowed curve of her spine, the depraved wide stretch of her asshole around your cock - the sweat shining along her shoulder blades, the hard smack of your palm against the red raw skin of her ass, your other hand at the crown of her skull with your fingers wrapped entirely in her tangled hair - her cunt fucking ruining your sheets, wet all the way down her thighs, each brutal shift of your hips sending her little body into full-blown shudders-

“Tell me that you fucking love it.” Your hand slips lower until you’ve got her pinned down by the back of the neck, fingers pushing down: a grip she couldn’t escape even if she wanted to. “Whoring out your slutty little ass like this for a stranger. Getting on your hands and knees for me just because you’re so fucking needy for cock, baby - don’t even try to deny it, you’re so wet, nasty fucking girl-”

You just can’t stop yourself. It’s so easy. She really is so fucking pathetic. Too fragile to get free - too easily manipulated and manhandled. Trembling and drenched and giving way as you make room inside her, forcing space. She’s just so tight - it’s godless, how you make your cock fit in her lube-slicked asshole, how she moans like a bona fide bitch in heat over it: needing faster, needing harder, needing more. Cheek pink and pressed hard to your mattress, sharp nails digging into the sheets rough enough to tear through the fabric. Giving herself up to be fucked cruelly and stupid and senseless.

Like she’s a real-

“Natural fucking cockslut, huh?”

Look, seriously - you can’t be held accountable for the things you say to her here.

Because when you say shit like you’d just let me do anything - like you’d let me fucking tie you up and keep you here forever, be an eager fucking cumdump for me whenever I want you, I know it, I know you - that’s just the moment talking. The circumstances. The pretty arch of her back and the drooling wetness of her cunt and the indecent tightness of her ass, conspiring to make you lose your mind mid-fuck - that’s the whole reason you even tell her any of it. You think you’re good for anything else? Right at her ear, your body covering hers, your cock buried deep. You’re not. Just made to get this slutty ass fucked open, and your mouth, and your cunt - this is all anyone’s ever gonna want from you and you know it - better get used to it now, baby. This is all you got. This is all you are.

It’s Karina’s fault, really. She just takes it - all of it. She doesn’t even try to fight it.

“But that’s okay,” you murmur, as she gasps and squirms and cries out like you’re killing her. “I’m still gonna make you cum.”

And with your cock filling her ass and your hand between her legs, slapping hard at her sopping cunt until she can’t do anything but collapse - shaking, shattered - her whimpers fucked-out and drool-soaked and bleeding into one big nonsensical mess, everything about her used and ruined-

“You’re mine,” you tell her, laughing as she falls apart. “You get that? You’re mine.”

-then, you do.

When it’s all over, Karina rolls over to face the wall, breathing hard. She’s slick everywhere, sweat and saliva and lube, your creamy cum dripping out of her well-fucked asshole and trickling down her thigh. You trace her lower back and grin at the way her skin seems to give into you, turning pink with a press of your fingertips. You’ve come to realize you adore her like this, the fugue state after you fuck her: utterly dead to the world.

Like she could become a permanent fixture in your bed. Too tired to move. Too tired to ever leave.

“Mine,” you say again, softer.

Karina doesn’t argue.

It’s basically all the confirmation you need.

So, really, if you two were a movie-

It goes like this: life can imitate art, too. It happens all the time. The line between fiction and reality blurs together until it’s indistinguishable - until you can’t tell where the fantasy ends, or if it ever did at all.

(It goes like this: the heroine smiles sleepily and tells the hero he’s the best she’s ever had. You’ve seen this film before. The movie stars with their fake on-screen fucks might not feel a damn thing, but at least it’s still fun to pretend.)

Also, the mark you saw on the back of her neck isn’t actually what you thought it was.

“It’s a tattoo,” you realize out loud, drowsily awed, brushing her hair away so you can get a better look. You’re both tuckered out, an inevitability when you fuck like you do; you’re seconds from dozing off. Karina’s looking away from you, on her side to escape the soreness of her ass, sheets loose across her chest. She lets you touch her wherever. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice that before.”

“You don’t know me,” mumbles Karina, half into your pillow. “It’s not your job to notice anything about me.”

The tattoo’s crimson-red, all delicate linework. It really does look like it hurts: like someone painstakingly cut the shape into her skin. It’s of a heart, rendered in anatomical detail - valves and ventricles and arteries. It’s beautiful, you realize belatedly. Bright instead of faded, and obviously cared for. Lovely.

The only permanent stain on her perfect body. You press your thumb against the ink, fascinated.

“What does it mean?” you ask, but Karina’s already fallen asleep.

(In your script, the girl and the stranger watch some gory crime show, except they don’t pay very close attention and he tugs her into his lap and makes her ride his thigh. The episode they’ve got on is about a serial killer who murders so-called sinners - liars, adulterers, the like. Slaughters them like sacrifices, cutting their throats with vicious efficiency. Fake blood drenches the screen with every crime scene: a form of fucked-up baptism, a psuedo-religious cleansing.

The girl’s putting on an equally decent show on top of the stranger: head thrown back, eyelids fluttering, high-pitched little moans. He sinks his teeth into her shoulder and keeps watching the TV.

Hey, he says, a murmur against her skin, a close-up on his mouth. You’re a sinner, right?

She’s got her hands on his shoulders, hips rolling. Sure am.

How do you think this guy would kill you?

He thinks this’ll shock her, but she doesn’t even pause. Like he kills all the rest, she says. Like an animal.

I think he’d be more careful with you, the stranger muses. You’re too gorgeous. He’d have to use, like - a scalpel, or something. Something cleaner. Something that’d keep you intact.

It’s no use. Nothing he says seems to scare her. Her eyes are far-off, almost glazed in recollection. Like she’s thought about it too - her own untimely end. Her own vivisection, skin flayed and organs visible, viscera and bone. There, hold the shot: now the audience can consider it with her, ponder all the ways she could be torn apart, all the repulsive things they could do with her desiccated body. All the ways flesh can warp under a human touch: the blue-black yellow-green purpling of bruises, a whole palette on one tiny girl. There’s value in that, isn’t there? There’s something intimately, incomparably beautiful in suffering. There’s art.

Isn’t that why everyone’s watching?

I get it, the girl says, still soaking his thigh, smiling as if it’s an inside joke between them. You want me dead. That’s been obvious since the moment you met me.

I don’t want you dead, he says, and grabs her by the jaw. I just want to fuck you.

Okay, she says, uncaring, like there’s barely a difference. Fine. Whatever you want.

They don’t turn the TV off. They let the characters scream and bleed out in the background; he fucks her like she’s got a death wish. It’s funny - he expects her to get louder the harder he fucks her, ruthlessly working over the tight clench of her cunt - but she keeps getting less and less responsive, as if he’s pushing her little body into some sort of trance: expression vacant and blank, body limp and lifeless, mouth open and speechless. It makes him angry. Give me something, he’s saying, frustrated, clawing at her hair: baby, it’s not fair, it’s no fun like this. The on-screen shrieks aren’t enough - he wants it from her. Actually, he keeps saying he needs it - as if fulfilling desire is on the same level as food or air, as if he’ll drop dead in seconds if he doesn’t get her sobbing. He gets his overlarge hands on her face and starts contorting it, pushing her mouth open, her eyes wider, his fingers down her throat until she spits and gags and chokes. Oh, the audience will love this one: it’s reminiscent of those filthy exploitation films with their cult followings, so cleverly referential. Look at her pathetic and pinned down. Look at her helpless and struggling. Think of your favorite on-screen murder scenes, and then think of this.

Anything I want, the stranger reminds her, yanking back her hair as she drools down his wrist. You asked for this, didn’t you? You said anything I want.

Except now the girl can’t say anything at all.

This moment will start rumors, invite horrified scandal the same way some purposefully marketed horror movies are passed off as snuff films - that really went down, they really died like that. This scene’ll get a similar response. Did he actually fuck her? Did he actually hurt her? Did everyone - the writer, the director, the crew, the captive audience - actually just stand by and let that happen?

Sure. Or she might just be a really, really good actress.

There. The stranger’s murmuring to her now, watching her manufactured expression, watching the tears fill her eyes. There you go. There’s my girl. And she is his, she really is - transformed into something all beautiful and new under his clumsy fingertips, molded right into art. The camera will zoom in close on her gorgeous, cadaverous face, a perverse little gift for the audience: here, have this, take a look. She’s all yours now.

There’s something to be said here about the manmade link between sex and violence - inescapable, brutal, primeval; bodies in all shades of red - but he forgets it the second he touches her, and she’s being fucked too hard to remember.

Maybe they’ll get to it next time.)

AND WE’RE BACK!!!!!!!!!!! <33333

all my luv ever to @capslocked @worldsover @passingnotions @braaan for beta reading my dumbass shenanigans and also for being the best ever I LOVE U!!!!!! AND ANYONE WHO IS READING THIS I LOVE YALL TOO……………… PART 2 COMING SOON!!!!!!!!!!!