Hold Me Like I'm More Than Just a Friend (But Godd

apr 15

busy tn?

apr 26

busy tn?

may 6

hey where r u

may 13

im coming over, r u free

may 29

hi, r u home

And sure enough, there she is, standing there in all her glory. Yena is leaning against your doorway, having been caught nearly stumbling as you opened the door. The skin around her right eye is showing the beginnings of a faint, ugly red. There’s a slight wheeze in her pants as her shoulders fight to rise and fall with her breath despite obviously hurting with each tiny movement. And worst of all, “Hey, got you some soju,” spoken through a pair of lips that are just about swelling, and she could do only so much to hide a particular gash on her top lip that widened ever so slightly with each passing syllable. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Choi Yena,” as you nearly carry her into your apartment, her arm slung over your shoulders with your hand around her waist to push her along. The heat rising from her skin gnaws at your psyche, as if demanding to be taken on by anyone close enough to care. The limp isn’t so bad this time, and at least she can talk, and her eyes follow you when you move. All things considered, she could be worse. 

You shudder at the thought.

It’s fourteen steps from the front door to your couch—you know from experience that it’s exactly fourteen steps at night—but in the morning, it’s ten. You count them all without meaning to: by three, you’ve kicked off her shoes, by seven, placed the soju bottle on the counter, by eleven, turned Yena to face the TV, and finally, fourteen, ready to sit her down while simultaneously keeping her from crashing into the cushion and making things worse. You heave to land her gently onto the receiving softness, but she’s all but willing to let go and crash anyway. You sigh.

Another thing you’ve been forced to learn, you lament as you stare up from the floor at the girl clutching her side in pain and other afflictions, is that the best place for your medkit is under the living room coffee table. You know what needs to be inside, too: cold packs, iodine antiseptic, bandages, a splint custom made for her; none of which you ever want to need, especially that last one. Hopefully you don’t need to tonight, but you're past that sort of hope that the times you don't just bring relief. 

“I—I’m okay this time—” but you cut her off with nothing more than a cold look. She shuts up like she gets the message, looks away to tell you she doesn’t care.

Start with her chest, tugging away the constructing clothing to give her more room to breathe. It isn’t in tatters this time, no holes out of place. Could’ve been smoother, but beggars can’t be choosers. As you peel away the layers, more and more of her skin comes to light: a horrid patchwork of deep purples and nauseous yellows, splashes of antiseptic that beat yours, scars you don’t even recognize. More and more of her clothes come away, more of Choi Yena’s lies made plain.

“What the fuck,” with the wrong kind of heat behind your words. You want most of all to cover everything back up, but there’s no way you can look anywhere else now. There’s no world in which you can peacefully pretend this hasn’t already dug deep into your heart, and Yena knows.

“It’s not that bad…” 

You don’t pay her any mind. Your attention is pulled towards the streak of blood just about forming from her lip, and you place a piece of gauze to stop it getting worse. Holding in place for a moment, nowhere else to look, you find her again. 

“I,” she starts, her lip drawing fresh red into the cotton trying to form words she doesn’t deserve to say, “I’m sorry.”

“No.” You so want to tear the gauze off her mouth, to shove it between her teeth, to kick her out of your apartment and out of your life for good. “No you’re not.” Instead, it stays, soaking up red until it’s full to bursting. 

She tries pushing your hand away, “You don’t understand—” and you drop it to the floor.

“Unnie, please,” you beg. Your eyes and hers fall on the gauze, full of blood now, leaking onto the floor, already leaked your fingers. It’s horridly warm and putridly rust-smelling, the kind that makes you want to lose your dinner—good thing you didn’t have one. You pick a fresh piece from the medkit, shooting her a look this time that commands her not to talk further. “Just let me.”

“Yena—”

“Stop fucking calling me that.” There’s a tear behind every single word. It’s that same weakness she tries so hard to hide, especially from you. It’s cruel of the universe to send her to you like this, knowing you’re the only person who can see her this way, hear the real her, touch her the way nobody else does. 

Yena’s hand tightens around your hair, and it almost hurts. She pulls you down, into her heat, and her head falls back on a soft, willing pillow divinely decreed for her and her alone. You feel the thrum of her blood in your ears as her thighs close around your head, but the scent of her lust overtakes you: it invades your senses above all else, pushing every thought out of your head that is not Choi Yena. 

It’s slow, slower than you’ve ever gone with her—so much so that you don’t even feel a single urge to dive in. Instead, your march is slow and deliberate, knowing she needs this more than you or anyone in history to ever need this at all. You can feel her heat from this close coming in waves, can feel the ripples of her thighs on your cheeks as she shivers in anticipation. And the smell, God, you could lose yourself in it. It's the one thing that's for you and you alone: the sweetness of her lust for your lips and tongue to take and take and simply take without ever having to stop. 

The moment your tongue grazes her clit, she tightens, freezes, contracts; pulls you closer with the roughness you allow her to wield. Your lips form a seal around it. and you suck carefully, just the way you know she likes it: not too harsh, in that perfect rhythm that lets you taste everything of her. You take in whiff after whiff of her musk, feeding your hunger just as you eat her out—the tip of your tongue finds the magic spots of her folds, applying just the right pressure to drive her crazy around you. 

You look up, and you try to meet her eyes. They aren’t there.

Yena’s head is thrown back, resting on the pillow and away from you. All you have of her the rhythmic pulsing of her glistening pussy against your mouth, and you lose yourself in the scent of honey and love that nobody could ever get out of her. Nobody but you. 

So you dive deeper, like if you go deep enough, you could reach in and pull the real her out. Your tongue dips in and out, rubbing her folds along the way, lapping up her slick like it’s liquid gold. You feel the jiggle of her thighs in the heels of your palm, and you squeeze. Hold her steady. Keep her still. It’s all you can do when she’s here. 

She’s grinding now, against your mouth, against your face, against your will. If you had any say in it, she’d slow down and lie still and you’d take care of her forever, make sure she never gets hurt again. You’d love her with all your heart, give her the sense of safety that this world has so diabolically kept from her. “Mmh, Yena,” you moan between her legs, between sloppy kisses that you’d keep giving her over and over for the rest of your life if you could. If she’d let you. 

“Fuck, baby, please, more,” she whimpers, pulling you deeper in, as if wanting to drown you on purpose. She’s crushing you now, squeezing the breath and the life out of you, almost as if—

You get that familiar sinking feeling. The way Yena grinds against your face, the way her fingers snake through your hair, the way she opens up only for you. This is how she’s meant to be; not wrapped in clothes that choke her, nor decorated with a disastrous rainbow of bruises, nor leaking red where loving her would hurt her more. You get that familiar sinking feeling. She’s not yours to keep, not yours to have, not yours to love. So you take what you can. 

So you take what you can. You dive deeper, stealing every drop of her lust, savoring the sweetness of her attention. It’s heaven on your tongue, more intoxicating than the sum total of the hoards of bottles of soju she’s ever brought you. Her attention is worth more than a million medkits, more than that night you didn’t sleep a wink because you felt in your bones that she’d wash up on your doorstep the following night with another bottle when you hadn’t even touched the last nineteen—the night before you stayed up and fit that fucking splint on her leg just right. You let yourself drown. If this is what it takes for her to receive your love…

She squeezes you tighter, and you let her. Nothing but the coursing of her blood fills your ears as her legs crush you between them, nothing but the honey that leaks from her core to stave off the hunger gnawing at your insides for more than just honey. There’s no way to escape her, nor do you want to be leaving this paradise. Beneath everything, your chest aches knowing that you can’t keep this up forever. You can’t keep her here, with you, away from everything. You can’t protect her or stand in between her and whatever it is that sends her limping to you like this. All you can do—all Choi Yena lets you do—is pick up the broken pieces and try to put them back together. 

So you will. 

Dive deeper still, into her core. She thrashes now, as much and as far as her body will let her. The dull thuds of her fists against the mattress, made duller by your earmuffs as her grip around you tightens even more. The frantic grind of her slick cunt against your face sends your mind into overdrive, the scent of her juices overwhelms your senses and leads you into worse and worse thoughts: holding her hand as you walk down the street to the flowershop, riding the last train home from a concert that went on for too long, leaning your head on her shoulder as she pats your hair to sleep. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—” she screams, and all at once she floods your face with her cum. Even then does she keep you still, rubbing her throbbing cunt on your mouth and wringing every last drop of pent-up pleasure out of herself using you, and you let her. You let her rub her slick all over your nose and cheeks, let her wail out everything she’s been keeping from the rest of the world, let her find her fragile solace in your apartment at half past three in the morning—because it’s the only time she’ll let you. 

Her knees fall to either side of your head. The thread has snapped, the tension is gone. 

“Unnie…”

But she’s already turned away, as cold as her bandages and gauzes allow. She takes that pillow for herself, and it takes everything of you to fight back the tear that threatens to fall once you see the generous amount of space she left for you under the blanket. 

This is all she lets you have. And by God will you take it. 

Nothing but stale honey.

The mere beginnings of mere beginnings dawn, when sunlight barely peeks over the horizons as the last round of dew forms on the grass and leaves outside. You're already up, staring at the morning about to stir, knowing you're powerless against what's to come. It twists a coil around your poor beating heart, and you wish you could do the same to her: just wrap your arms tight around her waist, keep her in your bed forever, care for and worship her like she deserves. 

But it's nothing but stale honey. The aroma of her hair right up against your face is nearly nauseating, churning your stomach in ways you'd never wish on anyone else, even him. You curse under your breath as pink starts to rise from the horizon—just five more minutes, please—but she stirs. 

And her eyes aren’t even open yet, going through the motions, shoving you away. She throws the blanket off, swings her feet over the edge of the bed. You can’t do anything to stop her. But you can try.

“Yena—”