Bedroom Warfare

You’re looking forward to this. A rare night off, some drinks, catching up with your best friend, and finally meeting the girl who has him acting like she hung the very stars in the sky. He talks about her constantly, non-stop bragging. How she’s different, how she keeps him on his toes. You can’t remember the last time he was this into someone, so yeah, needless to say you were curious.

The roads are getting bad, snow already piling along the curbs. You should’ve come earlier, but fuck it, you made it.

You step up to the door, stomp the snow off of your boots and knock twice before letting yourself in. The second you touch the handle, time stops. The cold hits you, but it's a different kind of cold from the snow. A voice in your head screams that opening this door will certainly lead to doom.

The feeling is so sharp, so visceral, you freeze.

A warning.

You ignore it. This is ridiculous. Staying outside any longer might actually make you freeze. You push the door open.

And then you see her. The voice was right.

Yuna.

She’s curled up on the couch, leaning casually into the cushions like she’s not a demon wearing human skin. Like she hasn’t detonated a nuclear bomb of all the worst emotions just by existing in this room. And the worst part, you think, is that there isn’t a trace of any of that on her face. Just a perfectly practiced smile as she glances your way, eyes alight with smug confidence and feigned warmness. The bitch. She was prepared.

“Hey, man!” Your friend’s voice cuts through your brain’s searching for an escape route as he claps a hand on your shoulder. “Glad you made it. Roads are getting bad out there.”

“Yeah,” you manage.

Your friend smiles that big, dumb smile of his, completely oblivious to the way Yuna’s gaze hooks into yours like a knife. “Come in, man. Get comfortable.”

You step forward on autopilot, hanging your coat by the door like you’ve done hundreds of times. Yuna watches without a single crack in her facade, her body language relaxed, deliberate. As if she’s making sure you understand: play along. Do not fuck this up.

“This is Yuna,” your friend continues, gesturing proudly. “Babe, this is my best friend. The one I told you about.”

The one she already knew. The one whose hands were once all over her, whose voice whispered filth into her ear, whose name she moaned as he took each hole of hers as his, whose life she set on fire and walked away from without looking back.

Yuna smiles, tilting her head just slightly. “Nice to finally meet you.”

The fucking nerve on her.

Emotions swell inside you, a festering wound ripping open, but your face doesn’t betray it. You match her smile with an empty one of your own. “Yeah. Likewise.”

You sit across from them, forcing yourself to ignore the way she’s curled into his side, the way his hand rests on her thigh like a claim. It’s all too much.

Your friend, completely unaware of the hurricane tearing through the room sweeping up only you and Yuna, leans back with a content sigh. “She’s incredible, man. Like, seriously. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone like her.”

Yuna meets your gaze, and you’d have died if looks could kill, then smiles at your friend. “You exaggerate too much.”

“Not even,” he laughs. “I told him you were different. I mean, look at you.”

You do. She stares back at you. Right at you. Like she’s daring you to say something.

You force a smirk. “Yeah. I’m happy for you.”

The night stretches on, a slow suffocation wrapped in forced pleasantries and underlying malice.

Yuna brushes past you as she walks to the kitchen, her nails grazing your wrist just enough to feel like a scratch. It’s intentional, a silent reminder that she can still reach beneath your skin whenever she wants.

You let your expression remain neutral, but when she returns and settles beside your friend, you decide to push back. You swirl your drink in hand, voice casual but with deadly precision. “You ever think about loyalty?”

Your friend laughs, oblivious. “Deep question, man. What, you been betrayed by someone?”

Yuna knows. Her grip on her boyfriend’s hand tightens, her jaw flexing for the briefest second before she smooths it over with a small, cutesy sound. “Is that something you’re struggling with?”

A sharp retort, coated in molten sugar.

You grin, eyes transfixed on hers, where her soul would be if she had one. “Nah. Just thinking about how rare it is these days.”

She tilts her head unimpressed, expression unshaken by your taunt. “Guess it depends on who you’re with.”

Your friend laughs again, oblivious to the daggers flying inches from his head. “Damn, this is getting deep for a casual night.” Bless his stupid heart.

Yuna goes on to laugh a little too hard with one of your friend’s jokes, her fingers running over his arm as she throws a glance your way. It’s like she wants you to know. See? I can be happy without you.

While your friend isn’t looking and off to get another drink, you lean in slightly, whispering just loud enough that only her ears catch it. “So how long will it be before you cheat on him, too?”

Yuna’s smile doesn’t waver, but her eyes flicker with a quiet rage. “Didn’t know you were still this bitter. Having a hard time getting over me?”

Your friend is none the wiser, sipping his drink and rambling on about something you aren’t even listening to. He doesn’t see the silent war happening right as he returns, doesn’t feel the tension stretching thin enough to snap.

And Yuna? She sits there, composed, graceful, effortlessly charming. Like she hasn’t spent the entire night digging her nails into old wounds just to watch them bleed.

You can’t wait for this night to end.

Your friend’s phone buzzes against the coffee table, cutting through the forced, suffocating conversation. A moment of relief. He barely looks at the screen before answering.

“Hello?”

A pause. His expression shifts. It’s subtle at first, then tightening with concern.That big, dumb smile evaporates.

“What? When?”

Yuna straightens beside him, her fingers curling slightly on her lap. You watch the way her entire body goes rigid, instinctively responding to the shift in energy. The room tilts, like the balance of power is about to change. A ceasefire is called, as your common concern grows ever more concerned.

Your friend exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. No, of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He hangs up, already moving towards the door.

“I have to go,” he says, grabbing his keys from the counter. “It’s my mom. She’s in the hospital.”

Yuna blinks. “Oh my god?”

The snowstorm outside has only gotten worse, and the roads are probably a nightmare. You’re sure he knows that, but there’s no hesitation in his movements. You can’t blame him, you’d be much the same. He’s already halfway to the door, shoving on his coat.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, then glances between you and Yuna. “You two will be fine, right?”

Like hell you will.

No. No, you won’t be fine. Not alone. Not with her. Anything but that.

You clear your throat. There’s not enough time for an excuse, and you’d feel even worse using one in this situation. You try any resistance anyways. “I don’t think this is a good idea, dude.”

He frowns, halfway into pulling on his other sleeve. “What? Are you serious?”

“The roads are bad. You shouldn’t be out in this. Or I could come with you?”

“It’s my mom,” he says, like that explains everything. And in a way, it does.

You swallow any goodness you have left in yourself, attempting one final protest. “Still—”

“Please, stay here, just in case something happens. Yuna doesn’t know what to do if the power goes out. It’d make me feel more at ease.”

If only he knew half of it. But this is not the time to be selfish. He’s your best friend.

Your jaw tightens. Yuna doesn’t react, doesn’t look at you, doesn’t say a damn thing. She doesn’t need to. Everything she wanted to say, you already did. She wants you nowhere near her. But your friend was right. This was the better solution.

Your friend claps a hand on your shoulder. “Just stay, alright? Keep each other company.”

You nod in reluctant agreement. “Yeah. Sure.”

And just like that, he’s gone. The door slams behind him.

A rotten silence taints the air.

The performance shatters instantly.

The false smiles, the polite distance—it’s all destroyed the second his car pulls out of the driveway.

You exhale sharply, rubbing a hand over the back of your neck as you peered over to Yuna. “Fucking hell.”

Yuna scoffs, her arms crossed. “Yeah, I’m not happy about this either.”

She walks past you, and you hate that you recognize every little sway, tilt and strut her body makes. The controlled tension in her shoulders, the barely concealed hostility humming in her eyes. She’s coiled tight, inches away from snapping.

You don’t give her the satisfaction of speaking first. If anything you’d prefer to just sit in silence, minding your own business until your buddy is back.

“Guess it’s just us now.” She laughs. Fuck. So far for silence. It’s sharp, bitter. Venomous. “Like old times.”

Your hands clench at your sides. “Not fucking funny.”

Yuna turns to face you fully, her lips curling into something devious. “Never said it was.”

A charged tension crackles between you, thick with unresolved filth. You can’t look at her without the memories flooding back. The way she felt beneath you as you pounded her down to where she belonged. The way she used to moan your name, confessing her filthy desires and so-called love. The way she made you feel like the only person worthy of her in the whole world. Before she tore it all apart.

And yet, despite it all, despite your veins burning with hatred, you can feel it. You know she’s thinking the same thing. Seeing the same memories.

The past isn’t dead between you. Far from it. It’s alive, thrashing, screaming, demanding to be acknowledged.

Yuna tilts her head, breaking your introspection. She’s studying you like a bug nailed to the wall. “You look like you want to say something.”

You exhale sharply. She’s wrong. You don’t want to say something. You want to stay silent. You have to say something. “Yeah. I do.”

“Then fucking say it.”

Your hands tighten into fists, your venomous glands activating. “You cheated on me.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look guilty. Just crosses her arms and raises a brow. “Yeah. I did.”

The sheer lack of remorse in her voice sends you over the edge. You expect her to at least soften, to at least pretend like it wasn’t that bad, saving her own skin. But she doesn’t. She stands in it, owns it, like she’s daring you to throw it in her face. Daring you to do something.

She knows just how to press your buttons. It never works out in your favor, but you bite back.

“And yet I’m still the villain?”

Yuna steps forward, voice razor-sharp, knowing exactly what you’d say. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, right. I forgot. Because you think what I did was worse.”

She doesn’t agree, and the snap in her scowl all but confirms it. “It was.”

You step closer too, closing the distance between you until there’s barely a foot between your bodies. She won’t get the best of you. “You spread your legs for another guy, Yuna.”

“And you turned me into some sex trophy to fucking show off,” she spits.

She’s right, both your words serving as the flame used to light a fuse burning toward an explosion neither of you cares to stop.

Yuna’s voice drops lower, more venomous. “You think fucking me over behind my back was okay? At least I had the decency to keep it private. At least I didn’t—” She cuts herself off, centering herself before continuing. She knows her strikes will land harder if she’s calm to deliver them. “Do you have any idea how it felt?”

You don’t respond. You can’t respond, and she doesn’t stop.

“I found out months later,” she says, voice quieter now, but no less dangerous. “Randomly. Just—stumbled across a conversation between you and your drinking buddies. ‘Look at her tits, isn’t she fucking unreal?’” Her eyes are burning now, the reflection of the impending explosion clearer than ever. “And they agreed. Told you how fucking lucky you were. All while I had no idea you were passing those pictures around like a fucking trophy.”

She had you dead to rights, but you didn’t care. “I was drunk.”

Her laugh is pure ice. Unamused and willing to kill. “Oh, fuck you.”

You began forming something that barely resembles an excuse. Against your better judgement. “I didn’t think—”

“That’s the fucking problem,” she snaps, stepping forward until she’s practically in your space. “You never thought. You never cared.”

You snapped back, your version of the truth different from hers. “That’s not true.”

Her head tilts again. It’s her tell for being in disbelief, her eyes dark. “Isn’t it?”

Silence. You wanted it not long ago, but now it’s suffocating.

You don’t have an answer.

Or maybe you do, but you don’t want to say it. Maybe there is some truth to you being an asshole.

Yuna scoffs at your lack of response, then turns away. You expect her to storm off, to put as much distance between you as possible, but she doesn’t. Instead, she walks to the counter, grabs the bottle of whiskey sitting there, and pours herself a bottom. She knocks it down without effort.

You frown, knowing what kind of omen this was. “Drinking already? That’s a bad idea.”

She scoffs, pouring herself another. “Yeah, you’re famous for being good with alcohol.”

You don’t respond to her accusation. There’s no point. What she did was worse anyway. “Alcohol makes you messy.”

She smirks bitterly, raising her glass in mock salute about as same as she raises her eyebrows, taking a deliberate sip. “Yeah?” Her eyes catch yours, a toned down version of the scowl she gave you when you called each other all of the worst names in the book. “And whose fault is that?”

You don’t answer.

Yuna leans her hip against the counter, swirling the amber in the glass, watching the shards of ice melt with cold despondency. It’s clear she intends to keep drinking until she forgets you’re here, only further encouraged by you telling her not to. “You know what really pisses me off?” she says, voice flat and almost bored to the point you expect her to start ranting about traffic. “You never once apologized. Not really. Not in a way that meant anything. Kept blaming us falling apart on me.”

You shake your head. Why the fuck should you have? “What would that change?”

She laughs, like she still can’t believe someone like you exists. “Clearly nothing for the better. Imagine if I forgave you and we’d still be together? God, my life would suck.”

She makes you want to punch the wall. Grab the bottle, pour a drink yourself, and then throw it across the room. Instead, you can’t help but just stare at her, the way she’s holding herself together with poison and venom and clear lack of self-awareness.

She turns, propping herself on her elbows the way she used to when you’d talk late at night, half-naked and always moments away from fucking. “You really are some kind of fucked up curse I can’t get rid off, aren’t you?” she says. “Even after the breakup. Even now.”

You move away to the other side of the kitchen. Matching the distance you clearly need, but still not being able to let go of needing to keep her in view. “You’re the one playing house with my best friend. I was fine letting it go.”

She rolls her eyes so hard you can practically hear them. “If I knew he had anything to do with you, I wouldn’t have fucked him in the first place.”

The old rhythm of the fight, the same beats, same dying breaths of your relationship are familiar. “You’re the bitch who started sleeping around before we even broke up.”

She swings her gaze at you, face flushed now, lips parted. “You want to talk about sleeping around? You were fucking half the city before I even finished moving out.”

You try to remember who, but the truth is blurry and unimportant. “That’s not the same. You know it.”

She downs her second drink, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “You know what’s different? I never lied about what I was doing.”

You flinch, because you remember the night she found out. Her phone on speaker, your voice in the background with your friends, and her face going still and cold as she listened. You remember the way she threw your shit out the window, the way she didn’t cry until you left.

You let your voice go flat. “What do you want from me?”

She laughs, low and bitter. “Nothing. That’s the point.”

“What about you?” she asks. “Do you actually care about him, or is this fight you’re picking all about me?”

It’s a punch in the gut, and she knows it. You care about your friend, of course you do, but the truth burns in your throat: you care more about not being the one who gets to have her.

You settle for a half-truth. “He’s my friend. I don’t want him to get hurt.”

She snorts. “You always were the hero, weren’t you?”

You let that hang in the air, thick and ugly.

She doesn’t. Waits for you to rot in it, and continues, “You know, the thing about you is, you always want people to think you’re the good guy. Even when you’re doing the same shit everyone else does, you want a gold star for feeling bad about it after.”

You flinch. She sees it. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you say.

A pause. “Fuck you.”

She pushes herself up on the counter with ease. She was always stronger than she seemed. Theatrically crosses one leg over the other, lazily taking sips from her drink. It’s almost habitual how you reach for your phone, wanting to frame her, take another beautiful shot she’d thank you for, before posting it on her instagram. You kill that thought, but you can’t be blamed for it.

She just looks so infuriatingly good with the dim kitchen lights barely making her sheer fabric top translucent enough to cast the same checkered patterns on her skin. Her olive-green top hugs her front but leaves her hips open, with that pleated skirt riding so high on her thighs you can almost tell the full color of her ensemble. Her hair a slightly lighter color than leaves in decay, the orange a contrast to the darkness inside her, perfectly framing the soft sharpness of her face.

She’s dangerous, deadly, venomous and poisonous combined. Simply, beautiful.

She tilts her head, watching you watching her, and clicks her tongue. “You’re still pissed.”

You don’t answer. You don’t give her the satisfaction. Instead, you turn, bracing your hands against the counter, pretending like you can still create distance.

But she doesn’t let you. Instead, she hops down, her black thigh high boots clicking against the floor as she steps in your space, closing the gap you just tried to make and then some. “Are you fucking scared, or something? Going to ignore me?”

Your jaw tightens. “I think it’s the only option that doesn’t end in disaster.”

Yuna hums, unconvinced. “That’s funny. Considering every fucking disaster in my life has your name on it.”

You exhale sharply, fingers curling against the counter. “Don’t act like you’re some fucking victim.”

She scoffs. “Don’t act like you’re not to blame.”

A thick silence lingers between you, and the storm outside rages harder. Then, she lifts a hand, threading her fingers through your hair. And pulls. Hard. The crazy bitch.

“I know you,” she whispers.

Your hand shoots up, wrapping around her wrist, firm and threatening. “You don’t know shit, bitch.”

“We’re the same,” she says, and makes it sound like an insult. “We’re exactly the fucking same.” She grins, mean and razor-sharp. “And I know you still fucking want me.”

Your fingers tighten around her wrist. You should push her away. You don’t. Instead, you're caught wondering if she’s also reminded of the last time you were together, and how it started with her hands in your hair too but ended with you fucking her against the wall. You don’t prod about it though.

“I knew alcohol would make you messy,” you mutter.

Yuna scoffs, yanking back just enough to glare up at you, eyes flashing. “Oh, fuck off.”

You smirk despite everything. “Did I hit a nerve?”

Her eyes darken, rage flaring hot and immediate. “You’re the last fucking person who gets to talk about self-control.”

Your jaw locks. “And you’re the last fucking person who gets to act like you’ve got any left.”

She locks up for a moment, and then just sighs. Her hand lets go of your hair, and her other finds your free wrist. She pulls it close, you let her, and it lands right over her heart, palm just above her chest.

You can feel the way she hammers against your palm. She holds your hand there, pinning it hard enough you know she’s daring you to pull away first. She won’t let you.

“You feel that?” Yuna whispers deadly soft. “I bet I can feel the same happening inside of you right now..”

You can’t look at her, so you stare at the bruising throb beneath your palm. She’s always been like this; turning vulnerability into a weapon, making every weakness a blade. You remember the first time you saw her cry, the way she clung to you with the same desperate energy, making you dance to her tune using any beat she could.

Your fingers twitch against her skin, a reflex, a mistake. You try to cover it up. “I don’t care,” you say, but your voice cracks on the last word.

She catches it instantly, a cruel smirk ghosting over her lips. “See? You feel it too.”

You close your eyes and focus on your breathing, trying to remember what you’re supposed to be angry about. It’s so much easier when you can’t smell her. When you’re not staring at the shape of her hips, the color of her lips, the way her skin always felt warmer than anyone else’s. But she’s always been good at making things impossible.

Your breath is controlled. “You don’t know what the fuck I feel.”

Her nails dig into your wrist, her eyes burning with something hotter than her skin. “I know exactly what you feel. I know because it’s the same as me. I hate you so much I can’t fucking breathe.”

“Yeah, I fucking hate you too, Yuna.” Your voice is low, wrecked, and dangerous. “You think I don’t hate you for being a cheating bitch? For what you fucking ruined?”

She laughs, and the sound tunnels into the veins in your neck like a snake's venom. “You think I ruined you? You ruined me first.”

She lets go of your wrist. She leans in so close her breath ghosts across your lips, and you think she might kiss you, or slap you, or maybe both. Instead, she rocks back a half-step, and with a theatrical roll of her eyes, she grabs the hem of her shirt and yanks it up.

Her tits are as you remember, small, perfect, the kind of delicate symmetry that haunts your every half-drunk jerk-off to that video you promise yourself you will delete; next time, for sure. You’re fucking awful. But so is she. Fucking exhibitionist. She cups them, thumbs rolling over dark nipples already hard from the cold or the fight or both.

“Tell me you don’t still think about these,” Yuna jeers, rolling them in her palms, the motion so practiced it’s less seduction than threat. “What’s the matter?” she says. “They look so good you forgot how to talk?” Her fingers pinch at her nipples, a show for you and only you. “I remember how you couldn’t keep your fucking mouth off them.”

You grit your teeth and look away, but she’s relentless. “What, you’re too good for them now?” She leans in, voice dropping to a hiss. “You worshipped these. Licked them raw, bruised them, bit until I came. That’s the only thing you were ever good at—fucking.”

You want to deny it, to bury her under old resentment or laughter, but your hands are shaking and your throat is closing up and they just look like they fit perfectly in your hand. “They’re not even that special.” You spit it, hoping to make it true.

“Liar.” She tips her head as if considering you, then slaps her own tit, hard, the sound sharp in the silence. “Remember how you’d do this?” Another slap, harder. “You’d make me beg for it when you were mad. You’re still mad, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I remember you begging for it,” you say, voice hollowed out. “Remember you begging like the slut you clearly still are.”

Yuna chuckles, nose wrinkling and points at your twitching fingers. “God, you’re predictable. You can’t even pretend you don’t want it.” She grabs your hand, forces it up against her chest, smashes your palm flat against herself. Her nipple’s hard as glass, her skin hot, electric. “Go ahead and tell me you don’t think about these tits every night.”

You try to pull away, but her grip is iron. Or maybe, it’s the magnetism of her tits working your hands. “I don’t think about you at all.”

“You know what I think? I think the only honest thing you have is your cock.” She moves your hand, thumb and forefinger pinching her nipple the way she likes—hard—notching pain into pleasure, just enough to remind you of every night that ended like this and every morning after that didn’t.

“You still jerk off to that video of mine you shared?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The silence is admission enough. But you will certainly delete it now.

She lets the shirt loose, but it catches halfway, leaving her chest bare and her stance unbothered. She leans in close, close enough that you consider kissing her so she doesn’t say what comes next.

You can’t.

She says, “I know you do. I bet you fucking need it. Bet it’s the only way you can get off anymore.” She trails a finger down your chest, slow and deliberate, then flicks the button of your jeans. “You want me to prove it?”

The words cut something open in you, and you hate her for it, hate yourself more for the way your cock goes hard, for the way your hand refuses to let go.

She sees it. She feels it in the way your hand pinches her nipple tighter every time she opens her mouth.

“See?” she taunts, voice almost gentle. “You literally can’t let go. You miss me. Miss my taste. Miss how I let you do whatever sick shit you need to get off.”

“Fuck you,” you say, but there’s no real threat behind it. No silence either.

She steps in, her hips buck against yours and her spine arches. “Go on. Do it. Get it out of your system. You know you want to. Ruin another relationship, asshole.”

You lock eyes, both scowling at each other like you want to see blood.

And then, everything explodes.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s her. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it doesn’t fucking matter.

Her mouth crashes against yours like a car wreck, all teeth and desperation and violence. There’s nothing soft about it, nothing careful. Just rage and ruin and years of hatred bleeding into something equally destructive.

Your hands tangle in her sunset hair, yanking, punishing, dragging her closer as her fingers dig into your back, nails scraping, desperate to pull you apart just as much as she’s trying to hold you together.

You bite her lip, hard enough to barely not draw blood, and she laughs into your mouth, the sick bitch, dragging you forward by the collar of your shirt until your tongues clash. She fists your hair and yanks your head back so she can look you dead in the eye, her own pupils blown wide and wild.

She tears at your shirt, buttons popping, and you’re just as ruthless, pushing her back until her ass hits the counter, lifting her by the thighs and slamming her down so hard the glasses rattle. Her laugh is muffled by your mouth, but she’s not backing down, not for a fucking second.

She yanks your jeans down in one practiced motion, and your cock springs out, hard and angry. She spits in her hand and jerks you, slow at first, then rough, just short of painful.

“Look at you,” she taunts, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Such a piece of shit. You’d fuck your best friend’s girlfriend in his own kitchen?”

You grit your teeth, refusing to look away. “You’d let me.”

She grins, mean and triumphant, and leans in close enough her breath is hot on your mouth. “I’d let you do anything, remember?”

You don’t let her have the last word. You reach up, grab her by the throat, just tight enough to remind her what letting you get your way means. “Such a fucking bitch, getting off on cheating. You’re fucking dripping already.”

She bares her teeth in a grin, even as you squeeze, and hikes her skirt up, spreading her legs wide. “And I bet you fucking missed it. Missed ruining me.”

Your body answers on instinct. Fingers slide into her, two at once, rough and unkind, just how she liked—fuck, just how she needed it. She bites her lip, eyes rolling but locked on yours, daring you to go further. Her cunt is soaked, hot, clutching at your fingers like she’s starving. “Still a whore, Yuna,” you murmur against her jaw.

She jerks your cock harder, twisting her wrist with every pump, spit and precum making it filthy. “Still a fucking loser. You’re dripping like a teenager.”

You pull your fingers out, shove them into her mouth. She doesn’t miss a beat, her lips wrapping around them tight, eyes never leaving yours, tongue swirling like she’s refusing to grant you a single ounce of her taste. You pull away, and she smirks, wiping her mouth clean with the back of her hand. “Fucking sicko.”

You go to shove your fingers back in, but she slaps your hand away, eyes gone wide. “Don’t,” she says, voice low. “Stop pussy-footing. I don’t give a shit about your fingers.”

She wants to get fucked, and you’re angry enough to oblige her. You yank her off the counter by the hips, her boots scraping against the tile as you spin her around, pressing her front-first against the humming fridge.

Her skirt is all bunched up over her ass, and you don't give her a second to play coy, just ram yourself against her, cock hot and thick at her entrance, her cunt so wet there's zero resistance. She's expecting it, braced for it, rocking her hips back into you with a snarl like she thinks she can take anything you've got.

You slam into her like you’re trying to break her. This isn't just about pleasure, it's about taking what’s yours; about hammering every inch of her until she remembers. You palm the back of her neck and shove her cheek to the fridge, hold it there while you drive into her hard enough the magnets rattle off and polaroids slither down the door. She laughs, a shrill and gasping sound, then cuts it off with a ragged moan.

"Fucking little slut," you spit, the words pure reflex now.

She just smirks at your reflection in the metal, voice breathless and mean as ever: "Yeah, keep pretending you don't love it, loser. You always pound like a dog in heat when you're angry."

You clamp a hand around her throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to get her attention. "You belong to me. Always fucking did."

She hisses, "Then fuck like it, asshole."

She coughs out a laugh even as you tighten your grip, her body clenching around you so hard it almost hurts. Her skirt rides higher, exposing pale lines of ass and thigh, the harsh red imprint of your palm already blooming on her skin. “You missed my pussy,” she taunts, wriggling her hips, milking you with every thrust. “Probably couldn't even last a week before you started thinking about it again.”

You want to deny her, but the crackle of her body under you, the heat of her, the way her voice shakes with every ragged inhale. It’s all too fucking much. You yank her hips higher, angle her tighter, so you can slam in deeper, harder, the way she always used to whine for. Yuna makes a guttural noise, forehead pressed cold to the fridge, fingers splayed and bracing as you rut into her like the worst of animals.

She sneers over her shoulder, her hair a whip of fire, mouth ruined with spit and laughter. Her eyes dig in before her words do. “God, your best friend? That’s so fucking low, even for you.” She’s goading you, because where does she get off on? She’s his girlfriend. But the edge is real: she wants you to hurt her, to make it worse for both of you.

You do. You grab a fistful of her hair and wrench her back, her back arching as you keep her pinned and helpless.

“Admit it,” you growl against the shell of her ear. “You thought about this every day. Couldn’t get yourself off without thinking about me fucking you like this.”

She inhales, sharp like a sob, but you know the sound; it’s the edge of hysteria, the same one you still wake up with hard and guilty. “You wish. You wish I gave a shit.” She’s already close, the heat in her voice melting into desperation as you snap your hips up and in, grinding against her clit the way she always melted for.

You feel her pulse on the brink, body taut as a wire, and you want to drag it out, make her beg for every second. When you slow, just enough to keep her hanging, she shrieks and slams her boot down, catching you in the shin. "Don’t you fucking dare," she barks. "Fuck me harder, you stupid idiot."

You see red. You snap your hips forward, brutal, driving every inch home so she has to gasp, has to bite back her own noises lest she makes you think they’re for you. Her hands slap the side of the fridge, desperate for purchase. “Oh, fuck, yes, like that—don’t stop, don’t you fucking dare—” The voice is shrill, splintered, not herself at all, and you know how close she is by the way her muscles start to flutter and seize.

You lower your voice, inject it like a toxin. “You gonna cum for me? Show me how much you love being my fuckhole?”

She glares back, lips sneered and eyes wet, and hisses, “I fucking hate you.” And then, just to spite you, she squeezes around you, thighs shaking, cunt gripping so hard it feels like she’ll milk you dry. You barely keep it together.

You grab her tighter, knuckles white, palms bruising her hips, and fuck her so hard she’s got to scrabble for traction, boots slipping across the linoleum, boots that make her legs look a mile long. Her cheek and tits mash up against the freezer door, open-mouthed noises leaving her and you’re her only audience.

She’s gasping, cursing, pushing back into you with everything she’s got left. “God—fuck—you—” Each word chopped up and useless between thrusts, but you match her beat for beat.

Her cunt clamps and pulses, the heat of it slick and obscene, and you slam into her until the only thing holding her up is your grip on her hips and her toes barely reaching the floor. The wet impact of your bodies echoes in the quiet house, so loud you wonder if the snow outside could forget even after it melted.

She starts to shake, you feel her whole body shudder. You’d forgotten what this looked like; her going silent, her body wracked and raw at the precipice. You press closer, cheek to the nape of her neck, and rasp it into her ear: “You’re mine. Doesn’t matter what you say. You always crawl back.”

Her back arches, boots scrambling, and you feel her legs give one last valiant effort before she breaks, her knees buckling. You brace her up as she cums, clutching her around the waist as she spasms against you. But this time, it’s different. The orgasm goes so hard she shrieks, a high, ragged sound, and suddenly she’s gushing, the inside of her thighs slick with an impossible heat. She fucking squirts. It’s never happened before, not once, not even in your best self-congratulatory memories.

Yuna sags, legs boneless, and you let her collapse to the floor, boots folding under her as she clings to the fridges doorhandle. The slick puddle spreads around her knees, glistening wet on the tile. She stares up at you in dazed disbelief, face flaming red, every inch of smugness burned out of her for one glorious second.

She glares up at you, lips trembling, still shuddering in aftershock. “F-fuck off—” she gasps, and tries to push to standing, but her legs won’t work. You crouch down, grip her jaw in your palm, thumb digging bruises into the hollow beneath her cheek.

“Doesn’t matter who you fucked, or who you’re fucking,” you begin to degrade. “You belong to me. You always fucking will.” You jerk her head up, make her look at you, make her see it.

She doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t flinch.

She laughs. Not soft. Not amused. It’s cracked and furious and full of something sharp enough to draw blood.

“Belong to you?” she rages. “You don’t get to say that.”

Her voice is a dagger. Her eyes are fire.

“If I belonged to you, you would’ve protected me. You would’ve fucking treasured me. But no. You had to show me off to your drinking buddies like I was some shiny fucking toy—send my body around like a trophy.” She shoves at your chest, not to get free. Just to drive her point deeper.

“You ruined me before I ever cheated. You treated me like a fucking prize, and then got shocked when someone else reached for it.”

You open your mouth to shoot back, but she’s not done. Her voice shakes now, but it doesn’t soften. “You ruined what we had the second you turned me into something to make other men jealous of. You wanted them to look. You wanted them to imagine fucking me. So don’t come crawling back now, acting like I’m yours.”

Your jaw tightens. You fire back. “You didn’t just let someone reach,” you growl. “You opened your legs and invited him in.”

“Oh, I fucking did,” she shoots back, eyes blazing. “But you made it easy. You made me feel disposable. So I disposed of us.” She leans in, breath hitting your mouth like fire. “And now?” she says, voice dropping into something cruel and final. “Now your best friend gets everything you lost. Gets to fuck me like this. Every day. He’ll get my moans, my body, my mess. All of it.”

She grabs your wrist, claws digging in, daring you to flinch. “And you’ll remember you had it first—and still fucking lost it. Because you didn’t keep me. You didn’t treasure me. You paraded me.”

You bark out a bitter laugh, your eyes avoiding hers. “Like you were ever something fragile.”

Her nails press harder. “I was yours, you stupid piece of shit.”

She leans in so close your foreheads almost touch.

“You want to fucking own me?” she whispers, but it hits the inside of your skull all the same. “Then you should act like you’re the only one that fucking deserves me.”

You grab a fistful of hair, knot it at the base of her skull, and feel the helpless tremor that courses through her as you haul her up onto her knees. “You need to learn when to shut the fuck up,” you growl.

She snorts, but her mouth is already open and waiting, tongue out like a dare. She braces herself, but you don’t give her time to prepare. You guide your cock right to her lips and shove it in without warning, forcing the head onto her tongue and the rest past her teeth before she can even suck in a breath.

She’s always struggled with you. Always loved to whine about your size, the ache in her jaw, the way it made her eyes water if you even hinted at holding her down and making her take it all. But she never said no.

She gags on you the way she always did, never compromising, never making it easier for either of you. The wet heat of her tongue makes your knees shake. You want to bury yourself in her, fuck her throat until she sobs, but you don’t. Not yet. You pull until she blinks back tears, the orange strands wrapped around your fist fully tensed.

“I’m not letting you off the hook until you get it all the way down. Nose to skin,” you whisper, digging your heel in because you can, because for once, she’s on her knees in a way that feels like a win.

She faces it head on. Or rather, she tries, but even as she forces her face forward, you feel the resistance, the frantic contraction of her throat, the wet sound of her choking on you, the drip of spit running down her chin. It only makes her clamp harder, fight more. You anchor both your hands in her hair, hold her steady. “All of it,” you say. “Don’t you dare fucking stop. I want to feel you choking on it.”

God, she tries so hard, her mouth straining open around your girth, her hands clutching your thighs for leverage. She's always been so proud—‘I can take it, I can take anything’—but her gag reflex is a cruel fucking adversary, her throat clenching and rejecting even as her eyes water in defiance. She pulls off, coughs hard, wipes the spit string from her mouth with the back of her hand, and glares up, tears streaking mascara in runnels down her cheeks.

“Fucking asshole,” she barks, voice hoarse. “You expect anyone to fit a sewer pipe down their throat?”

“Never heard you complain before,” you sneer, still holding her tangled hair.

She laughs, ugly and bright. “You never asked the impossible before.”

But even in her accusation, she leans forward, tongue swiping the underside, jaw shuddering as she lines her lips up and tries again. She tongues the slit, working you over, cheeks hollowed, and lets your cock slide in, out, in, gradually deeper. She’s making a show of it. She knows you’re watching, knows you want her to suffer for it, but she’s not going to let you win easy. Inch by inch, she forces herself further, the muscles in her neck trembling as she approaches her limit.

You don’t force it. That’s the bargain. She’s the one who decides what’s possible, and she’ll choke herself out before she surrenders an inch of pride.

She gags again, pulls away, gasps for air and spit drips on the floor. Her throat is raw and angry, but her eyes are nearly feverish with exertion and a hatred so rich it could almost be mistaken for love. She clenches her fist, pounds once on your thigh like the world’s dumbest drumline, then sets her jaw and goes in for round three.

She’s determined now, nails digging into your thigh as if she could punish you for the size of your cock.

She sets a rhythm, shallow at first, more theatrical taunts than real progress, but you can see the calculation in her eyes: the miserable, obsessive math of her pride against the next few minutes of her life. She’s going to do it or die trying.

You let her. Let her fight for it, tongue killing it with spit and tenacity, jaw flexing, lips straining to stretch and seal, every slip and drool and gag making her more desperate to win. She hates you more with every motion, and fuck if it isn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

Her face is a mess, smeared makeup, cheeks wet, eyes wild and glassy, and you know without asking that she wants you to watch every second of this. Wants you to remember it. Wants to make you remember her.

After a dozen abortive half-bobs and recoveries, she leans her head back, sucks in a gasp, and glares up through her ruined lashes. “If you want it all the way, asshole, help me. I can’t do it on my own.” She wipes the mess off her chin and doesn’t blink. “Do it before I change my mind.”

You twist your hands in her hair and pull, hard as you dare, until her chin is up and her mouth is open and her eyes are locked on yours. “Fine,” you say, and you mean it. She wants punishment, wants to see what you’ll do when she gives you the green light to ruin her. What’s one more thing for her to regret about you?

The first drive in is deliberate, slow enough she can anticipate it, fast enough you know she’ll try to flinch. You bring her mouth to the crown and hold her there, thumbing at her jaw to make her open wider. She breathes through her nose, determined, hands braced on your thighs for the impact. Your cock slides in, meets the first resistance at the roof of her mouth. She gags, just once, and you ease off. You hate her, but you want to enjoy this more.

You let her retreat, let her cough and spit and wipe her lips. “Again,” you demand. She grits her teeth and sets her mouth, and you fuck into her face a second time. This time, you don’t stop until you feel that resistance, the muscular gate at the back of her throat, and you hold there, gentle pressure, waiting. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to breathe around you, but it overwhelms her, the wet, frantic clench of her tongue and throat as she coughs against your length. You let her off, let her gasp for air, let her pride curdle into something even meaner.

“Again,” you growl once more, and she obeys, hating you for it, loving the feeling of it. Third time, she nearly gets it, the tip pushing hard against the tight ring, but she loses her nerve and yanks back, coughing, tears streaming now. She’s a mess, mascara everywhere, spit pooling at the corners of her mouth. She’s never looked better.

She glares at you, wrestles her head back. “I’ll bite if you don’t get this shit over with, this time like you fucking mean it.”

She clamps her lips around your cock, jerks her head forward and jams you in, nose the shortest distance from your groin for a split second before her body rebels and she chokes, throat seizing, spit and pre-cum leaking out as she yanks off, retching. You almost bust right then and she can feel it. Has always had her tongue on your pulse for that.

You give her a beat to recover. She doesn’t need it. She’s already going back in, driven by spite and the need to prove herself. She works you over, bobbing shallow, then deep, using her tongue like a weapon. Every time she sinks lower, you feel it; her throat fluttering, the tight, desperate seal of her lips. She gets it halfway, three-quarters, then finally, on the fifth attempt, she rams herself down, takes every fucking inch, and stays there, nose mashed to your skin, throat shuddering and pulsing around your cock, impossibly tighter than her pussy.

Hell, it might become your new favorite hole of hers.

She can't make a sound, can't even breathe, but her eyes roll up to find yours, something giddy and hateful and victorious in them as she holds you at the hilt. The last shreds of self-preservation are gone. She's going to black out before she lets you have the last word.

You count the seconds. One. Two. Three. Her nails score furrows into your thighs, the world narrowing to a white-hot tunnel of pressure and pride. At four seconds, her whole body seizes. At five, she slaps your hip—a desperate, furious signal—and you pull her off, fast, your cock slithering out with a wet gasp that leaves her hacking and sobbing for air. But she doesn't flinch away. She stays on her knees, hanging off your thighs, eyes glazed and wet, mouth open and drooling.

You want to gloat. You want to tell her she finally did it. But the way she's looking at you, spit and tears shining on her skin, you can't say anything. You just stare at each other, panting, until she wipes her face and grins. It's crooked, half-mad, feral. “You really are stupid, huh?” she rasps, eyes wild. “You didn’t win. You just watched me prove I can take more than any other bitch you’ll ever fuck. And I’m not even done yet.”

She reaches up, slow and shaky, and smears the mess off your cock with her palm, then licks it off her hand. Every motion is a dare.

You haul her up, unable to stand the distance, and kiss her. Hard. You don't care about the taste, the mess, the bruises blooming beneath your fingers. You just want her, want to swallow her whole, want to make her stay this time. She melts into you, body limp and boneless from the fight, but her tongue is still a blade; cutting, searching, never surrendering.

The hatred between you is a living thing, snarling and slavering, but it’s got nothing on the hunger.

She breaks the kiss with a sharp bite to your bottom lip, pulling away with blood on her mouth and spite in her eyes.

“That’s all you are,” she whispers, ragged. “A habit I haven’t killed yet. A fuck I regret just enough to repeat.”

You want to slap her. You want to fuck her again. You can’t decide which.

She stares you down, dazed but deadly.

“You’re never going to get over me.” Her grin turns feral. “And I’ll still be riding someone else’s cock.”

You snort. “Yeah? And you’ll be thinking about me the whole time, and you fucking know it.”

Her lips part, ready to strike, but the words falter. For a second, there’s nothing, just the heat of your breath and the metallic taste of blood where she bit you. She stares like you’re a puzzle, or an infection. Then she shoves up from the floor, boots leaving streaks in the puddle she’d made, and stalks to the sink, not bothering to look back. The muscles in her back and ass flex as she leans over the basin and runs cold water, splashing it onto her face, hands, the insides of her thighs. She peels off the soaked skirt, flicking it into the sink. Top goes next, then the bra. She wipes her face, then turns, wearing nothing but black panties still pulled to the side and those tall, stompy boots.

She stands there for a minute, breathing hard, then turns to face you, arms crossed under her bare chest, pushing those tiny tits upwards every so slightly. "You're not done," she says, voice hoarse but level.

"Excuse me?"

She grabs the whiskey bottle, pours two fingers into a glass, and takes it back in one gulp. "Go lie on the fucking couch. Lose the clothes."

You almost laugh. "Why the fuck would I do what you say?"

She leans against the kitchen island, all hips and attitude. "Because you haven't cum yet and your cock is still twitching like it’s begging to knock me up." She grabs another glass, fills it, and sets it on the counter. "If you want to still paint my insides white, you'll go get on the couch and wait for me to ride you so hard you can't even remember your best friend’s name."

You want to argue. You want to stop this all at once the moment she mentions your best friend, but your cock’s still hard and your body’s still shaking and you know, deep down where the ruined part of you lives.

You strip off your shirt and jeans, leave them in a heap by the kitchen, and stalk into the living room, collapsing onto the couch with a resigned sigh. The cold leather against your back makes you shiver, but it doesn't matter. Every nerve is dialed up, every memory still alive in your skin. You lean your head back, close your eyes, try to remember what it was like fucking without destroying lives.

You hear the click of her boots before you see her, the slow, deliberate steps down the hallway. She doesn't bother with theatrics, just climbs right on top of you, knees pressing into the cushions at either side of your hips. Her panties are gone, tossed somewhere between the kitchen and here, and her cunt is still leaking, inner thighs glistening under the living room lamplight.

She climbs onto your lap, straddling you with that same insouciant, unhurried arrogance, like she’s measuring how long you can stand denial, how much you’ll suffer to get her. Her hands frame your face, nails tracing the ridge of your cheekbone, and for a split second her gaze softens. Not love, not even nostalgia, just a shocked recognition of how little either of you has changed, how perfectly you fit together even in pieces.

She pulls your mouth to hers, tongue hot, kiss bruising, and when she finally angles her hips and lines you up, she doesn’t let you in. Not all the way. Just the head, just enough to make you shudder, just enough to make you beg. She holds you there, hips rocking tiny, hungry circles, cunt squeezing but not taking you in, not yet.

You grab her waist, try to force the issue, but she’s stronger than she looks, core muscles locking you out. “Always so fucking impatient,” she chides, breathless. She tilts her head, hair falling over her jaw, and taunts you with a slow, sinuous grind. “Beg.”

You consider telling her to go to hell, but you’re not that proud. Not anymore. “Please. I need you.”

She rolls her hips, teasing the head of your cock against her entrance, and for a split second you see a tremor in her jaw, something tender that she shoves down the second it appears. She slides down, slow, deliberate, taking you in inch by inch until you’re buried so deep you can’t tell where she ends and you begin. It’s so fucking good, so tight and hot, you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t remember why you ever thought you could survive without this.

She rides you hard, but different this time. Not angry, not punishing, no, for the first time all night, she fucks you like she remembers what it was to want without hate. She keeps her eyes on yours, refuses to let you look away, refuses to let you hide. She kisses you in the gaps between thrusts, little kisses, soft and hungry, and you feel something collapse in your chest.

You want to tell her to stop, want to tell her to never stop, want to ask if she remembers falling asleep in your arms, if she remembers the promise you made that you’d never let anyone else in. You wonder if she knows you’re breaking in reverse, right here, with her splitting her insides open upon you.

You reach up and run your thumb along her cheekbone. She goes still, breath caught, and for one awkward, naked moment it almost feels like you’re about to say it. That you love her. That you need her. You open your mouth.

She cuts you off with a slap to your cheek. She knows you, and knows what was about to come. “Don’t you dare,” she mumbles, staring you down. “Don’t you fucking dare, because I’ll say it too.”

You nod, silent. You both know what would happen if either of you said it out loud. It would ruin everything, all over again.

She shifts her hips, changing the angle, and it’s so fucking perfect you can see the sun rise in her eyes.

She’s so close you can taste it; the way her breath stutters, the way her body clings. You feel yourself edging, and try to warn her, but she just shakes her head, eyes wild and dangerous. “Do it,” she gasps, voice cracking. “Fucking fill me. You know you want to. I’m yours right?”

It destroys you. You lose it, hips snapping up, cock pulsing deep inside her as you cum, and she collapses down, grinding her clit against you, riding every wave. The feeling of your see spilling inside her, rope after rope bursting hot filling her up tips her over, and she spasms around you, shaking, teeth gritted, lips pressed to your neck. You hold her through it, arms locked, body pressed so close you can feel every aftershock.

You stay there, breathing each other’s air, until the world comes back.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t lift her head. Just lets herself slump against your chest, heartbeat wild and frantic. You run your hand up her back, gentle, tracing the line of her spine with just fingertips.

“Fuck you,” she says, heaving against your chest, breathing in rhythm with you. “I should still hate you for this.”

“You do,” you say, voice ruined.

She snorts, a tiny laugh, and nuzzles closer into your neck. “Not enough, apparently.”

A long silence. You think she’s fallen asleep, but then she says, so softly you almost miss it, “I didn’t even want to cheat on you, you know.”

You blink, stunned. The words don’t feel real. “You’re lying.”

She shakes her head, hair brushing your lips. “I’m not. I mean it.” Her next words are so quiet you can barely make them out. “I just didn’t know how else to lose you.”

You swallow, throat tight. “I’m sorry for giving you a reason to want to lose me. But you could have just left.”

She shrugs, a flutter against your chest. “I tried. You always came back.”

You pull her tighter, a mix of comforting and restraining her.

She whispers, “I hate what we do to each other.”

You say, “Me too.”

Neither of you moves for a long time.

Eventually she slides off of you, boots clicking as she strides to the kitchen fully naked, a fucking sight to behold, and pours two glasses full of her favorite cheap whiskey.

It’s all starting to become a little too real right now. You really fucked up.

A minute later, Yuna returns with a glass in each hand, knees a little wobbly, causing her to slosh some of the liquid on the floor as she sits beside you on the couch. She hands you a glass. You take it. You don’t toast or say anything. You just drink, side by side, with only the sound of wind and snow outside. The world is quiet, the storm outside muffling every regret and unspoken word.

“There’s no way he’s making it back tonight with this weather,” she opens up. “You know that, right?”

You nod a single time. “Yeah.”

She nurses her drink, gaze fixed on nothing, just straight ahead. “He’s a good person. You don’t deserve him.”

You smile, the taste of her still on your lips. “Neither do you.”

She laughs, and there’s no venom in it this time, just exhaustion. “True.”

You lean back, let the whiskey do its work. You’re so tired your bones feel like glass. The only warmth in the whole house is the furnace glow of her body beside you. You close your eyes.

A few minutes pass before you hear her phone buzz on the coffee table. She glances at it, then silences the notification.

You don’t even need to ask who it is.

She was right. You reach for her hand, and she doesn’t pull away. Instead she laces her fingers through yours, tight and desperate and bruising. The two of you sit there, broken and unfinished, until the world outside is nothing but a white static, and everything inside is a ruin you’re both too tired to escape.

After a while she curls against you, her head on your chest, your hand drifting across her bare back in mindless, endless, automatic strokes. You could almost imagine a different ending, a version where you both said the right things at the right times and never did the wrong things. You could almost imagine something good.

You sit together, not talking about anything that matters, because nothing left between you could ever matter again.

But when she sits on your lap, when she presses her cheek to your throat and breathes you in, you know it’s never over. Not really. Not for people like you.

You fuck on the couch again, slow this time, her hips grinding in lazy circles, your hands roaming her body like you still know every inch by heart. She comes with a soft sigh, legs wrapped tight around you, lips pressed to your collarbone.

She’s the first to speak, when you’re both breathless and spent:

“We’re fucking monsters,” Yuna whispers, and you hum in agreement, too tired to argue.

She cups your chin, angles your face to hers, and kisses you, soft and long. You think it might be over.

But instead, she gets up and heads toward the bathroom. Pauses in the doorway for good measure, poses in a way to frame her ass too good to not stare at, looks over her shoulder and says, “For the record, I still hate you. But I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

You hate her. You love her. You pour yourself another drink, then follow her.