parable

It’s a silly rational thought, but common knowledge nonetheless: 

You are madly in love with Choi Jisu. 

Not even the strands of time could weave a better, clichè story of what’s already been set in stone; or the countless times Lia has made herself home in the throes of your hideaway from the world, every new story and encounter with it’s twist through each shared moment. 

Sure, there’s a lot of instances that you and her can recall back on, so let’s gloss over a few: 

The first time you invited her presence was for a study session. You insisted that the spaghetti tasted good until realizing that the pesto had expired by three weeks - where she had to stay over for the night unintentionally because you couldn’t even manage to get up to the bathroom. Though, one ice pack to the forehead and the magnetizing hug was more than enough for you to ignore the fact she snagged your lacrosse team hoodie as for her keepsake - hood drawn up and pooling her raven locks to the sides of her face, the hems covering her most of her hand but her fingers exposed - you can’t deny that she looked comfy. 

Among the other times, you’re just in your apartment, serenading her with your okay-but-presentable piano skills of covers from her favorite movies. (She had to make you hers when you played La La Land but it sealed the deal.) Not long after that, some of her things start to make their way into your place: the violin case, the scent of cherry blossoms spreading from room to room, and the collection of vinyls hung up in the living room. You don’t complain. There wasn’t a point in saying anything. Lia would disappear from your peripheral for a few minutes and come back with her cropped black tee and your pair of oversized sweats that cover her toes. So yeah, there’s no point in drawing up a complaint. 

It’s all in the little moments; living within these four walls - filled with memories and moments that you don’t want the rest of the world to see, her on your lap while you’re dealing with deliverables and other times where she’s bringing food for you and her to share. That’s usually how this all goes. Some of the tasks get completed, then you tab out to see what else is left to do, and Lia waltzes in terrorizing the productivity bubble. She doesn’t care because she knows what the fuck she’s doing: cocoa butter hair in messy waves, fixing the watch on her wrist, talking about her schedule for the day. Doing her wasn’t on the to-do list, but was heavily implied, considering the fact you saw her up with nothing but your sweats while making breakfast. 

Technically speaking from common knowledge: 

This isn’t the first time you’ve seen Lia in your clothes.

You could conjure up all the thoughts in your mind as to why you liked seeing her that way. 

–

If you’re being completely honest with yourself, it’s always a wonderful sight to see. 

Morning sunlight beams through the curtains as she walks past the open doorway; the highlights alone are trapped in this mixture of honey gold and coffee brown, presenting itself like a Renaissance painting coming to life. One second your vision focuses on the blurry silhouette, the next your eyes are greeted with a fever dream, blessing and inviting all the same. 

You’re pinching yourself mentally - just to check - and yes, it is most definitely not a dream. Her eyes stay on you, shifting yourself up until you’re against the headboard of your bed, soaking the image of her: perfectly colored with those dirt-colored eyes and rose-tinted cheeks, radiating so brightly that the worry of drying up your eyes comes as a second thought. 

There’s nothing new about this: just the usual lazy Saturday mornings you’ve shared with her. 

She sighs so beautifully, having no care in the world. The flutter of her eyelashes is so seamless when her arms are raised up over her head, stretching out the stiffness of those springy limbs and muscles. 

You’ve spent countless days, hours, nights even, to piece it all together in everything that revolves around Lia. From the mannerisms and tone she uses with others the readable expressions just by the small quirk of her lip or flared nostrils. Lia proudly wore her heart on her sleeve. You learned right away: a bit overwhelming was the coined phrase you proclaimed. Building each other up where others fell a little behind in: always thinking ahead, taking all of the things into consideration; and Lia was in the same headspace as you, strategizing wherever she saw fit. 

But it didn’t take much for you to conclude on the fact that confidence was a weakness. 

She was flooding in it, wherever she went. Whatever she wanted, she would get. If things didn’t go her way, she accepted it fully. She’ll happily walk past the open door held by you - not as an expectation, but as one of the many things you’d put an effort into. When you take her out for a date, she’ll show up outside your workplace and return the favor. You snuggle your face deeper into the pillows on a lazy day; because you know that she’s not far, either close by or already up to start the day. 

As if the heavens parted the clouds for you after a gloomy day riddled with darkness, you’re pretty sure the same effect is applied here. 

She’s in your hoodie (as always). However that doesn’t stop the unveiling of skin little by little the more she does these morning stretches, the fabric at the waistline lifted up to where you see her hips, cast in the cotton of her underwear. You can picture yourself thumbing away at the surface, at the ends where the threads don’t meet, cup your palms shamelessly around the plush of her ass, or even watch her slip on a pair of your pajama pants with her backside blatantly pointed towards your direction. 

Okay, she knows what she’s doing. You’ve been in this position for over three years, and you’re still finding out new things to discover. 

She clears her throat once she turns around. 

“What’s on your mind right now?”

You lean your head back when Lia starts to shuffle herself back onto the bed, hands and legs moving until she finally settles her bearings, straddling your hips. 

“Not work, obviously,” you answer, feeling her palms on your face as she tips her head, studying. “I just don’t wanna get out of bed just yet.” 

“Funny,” Lia laughs, slipping her fingers behind your neck, “I was just thinking the same thing.” 

“Pretty weird, isn’t it? It’s like we share half of a brain.” 

“Except when you were drooling over me a second ago.” 

“How could I not?” you muse, darting your eyes away, feeling your face get warmer. “If anything, you bent your ass over for me to see on purpose.” 

She tilts her head, and quirks her lips near a grin, she doesn’t need to give you an explanation. 

You’re speaking your truth for her. 

Her hips press down on your groin, curling her fingers into the ends of your hair, feeling you squirm in the slight change of pressure. “You don’t have to be shy,” voice low and gentle, “I know you, you’re enjoying this.” You see her hand pull the hem of the hoodie upwards, revealing more and more of her waist - ghosting your hands at the uncovered skin; amidst the grey, you’re fighting to urge to pierce the veil, get your palms full of skin and feel and touch up like she wants you to. 

“What do you suggest I do, hm?” You ask Lia, tone flat. “Nothing?” Playing on the backfoot in this wasn’t the ideal scenario, but you’re doing what you can to be literal and indirect, “Because I was hoping that you wouldn’t notice.” 

But you see: all of that could’ve been plausible if you didn’t sit up on the bed in the first place. 

You’re mapping out her face in the back of your mind, imagining the hands wandering all over her legs and hips and waist - admiring the bodywork and fine planes of porcelain, all within arm’s reach. 

Her breath grazes your cheek, practically turning you to stone. Some thoughts are present in your mind; you’re not sure. The only thing filling your senses was the scent of wintergreen. 

Her palm lightly presses into your cheekbone, leaning in for a kiss, but stopping herself by mere centimeters. 

Fills the space between the mouths, saying: “I was hoping that you’d do something about it.” 

Oh, she knows what the fuck she’s doing. 

Lia has kissed you like- countless times. There’s the sweet ones, the ones where you’re both smiling into each other’s faces, the ones where you think time stands still for a few moments, the kinds where you’ve got a bubble entrapping you two, and so much more. All of them have their meanings behind them, but they make you melt all the same. 

You could feel her hands roam around your body, legs pressing your hips on opposite ends; every smack and inhale is followed up with a low rumble at the throat, hands shifting up from her waist up to her chest; her forehead pressed against yours, clutching her shoulder blades, keeping her place - she has your full attention now. 

A swipe of the thumb across her nipple, then a pinch. The hoodie rucks up higher on her body. 

Her arms come into play, speeding up the process of cotton being discarded. 

Lia is your block of marble - waiting to be molded and chiseled and chipped away - crafted by yours truly where you’ll get on your knees in adoration and give your reverence as you proffer your lips and tongue all over her body. 

She’s so easy to gratify - the way that her sighs and moans mesh into one sound or another, feeling the heat rise in her body. You can tell she’s trying to hold back, murmuring in tongues. Like she’s showing but not telling: I need you baby. I need, I need, I need, I need, I need- 

It’s like you - all of you - is oxygen to her, giving her life where she would die if she didn’t have enough. It’s never enough, and you know this. In the cosmos that lie behind those melted shades of sable, glassy, and an ever-growing pit of blackness, where you could see yourself falling into them time and time again because they were only exclusive to you. A forgotten light, an eternal flame, you catch yourself face to face with it once more. 

The flush of light crimson makes its presence known across Lia’s face: a response to your touch, one that she simply can’t ignore. 

You could feel the dampness of her panties lightly settle on the bulge of your underwear, hear her breath hitch just the slightest, all the while her hips grind against yours. 

“Yeah,” she hushes, a sultry smile spread across her lips. “You prefer this over the usual caffeine.”