VESSEL

You can't keep coming home to this—close to midnight, front door left swinging open and every light from the entrance to the kitchen switched on. It's fucked up how you're hoping you've been robbed, or that a serial killer is waiting around the corner to put you in the dirt, but instead it's much, much worse.

Ningning, leaning against your fridge, helping herself to a glass of milk.

"You're late," you hear, followed by, "Date went well then?"

Yeah, the best possible thing you could do is ignore her, open your apartment window, and throw yourself out. Or, better yet, pick her up, and toss her instead, or fuck, get your hands around her throat and squeeze—if only you weren't certain that she'd be so happy when you did, that she’d lift an eyebrow, flash that smug grin, all delighted that you've added a new dimension to whatever doomed tangle the two of you are in, and say:

"Didn't know you had it in you."

So you just slump.

Drop your bags, your jacket on the floor—whatever, you'll get to them later. Walk past her, like if you don't acknowledge her existence you can delay the inevitable for a touch longer, stop her from digging any deeper into your brain. But if there's anything you know about Ningning—she has all the patience in the world.

Happy to keep raiding your kitchen, letting the milk sit on her lips, timing it to the exact second you slip up and look her way—then licking it clean with one swipe of her tongue.

You ache more than you'd ever willingly admit.

Not that she'd have any trouble making you.

It’s who she is: Queen of dark corners and thick fucking air that suffocates your lungs. A tiny little nightmare half your size, always one careless glance away from splitting you open like it’s nothing.

She doesn’t even need to try.

Hair a messy shawl down to her shoulders, lips a light pink hue. Traces of eyeshadow, curled lashes, chipped nail polish. She clearly had something far more important to deal with earlier—you're just another box to check off today’s to-do list.

She pushes off your fridge. It’s inhuman. She knows exactly where your eyes will go.

You can’t stop it, you’re staring straight at her tits the moment her body shifts—the tiny crop top clinging snug, doing obscene fucking things to all the soft weight underneath. And below all that, just a scrap of panties. Nothing else. Makes you complicit the second you look.

"Had fun playing hero?" The glass makes a hollow ring when she sets it aside. "Yuha's been blowing up the group chat since you left her—oh, forty minutes ago?"

You freeze when you reach your kitchen island. Lean back, and wait for her to come to you. It’s the only scrap of resistance you can still muster at this point.

"Sounded fun—going to the movies, holding hands in the dark, hugging her close when she got scared. Did you like the outfit she was wearing?"

It only takes one step.

She crowds you against the counter, hands planted on either side of your waist, caging you in. Even her smile is pissing you off. Her top’s cut low, and it hits you like a vision—this exact angle that's been burned behind your eyelids.

One thin strap still clings to that dainty shoulder. The collarbone you’ve licked and sucked and worshipped more times than you can count staring back at you.

And it’s slipping lower still, a small shift and the whole top will give—tits spilling free, nipples begging for your mouth.

She leans in, a whisper sticking against your skin that she stamps in with a kiss. "I helped pick it out for her, you know."

Your breath catches. You groan. You need to move, shove her away, tell her that this needs to end tonight; the guilt, the depravity is a mountain looming over any blackmail she hangs over your head.

But you can't do anything. Not until you have her permission.

Instead your hips twitch towards her, and your cock strains underneath your pants, hitting her belly like a trained dog.

She pushes forward, a shoulder into your sternum, backing you up as far as you can go into the countertop, and reaches down.

Her fingers skate up the inside of your thigh, and the strap of her top drifts down until she's exposed and she doesn't seem to mind at all.

No, she's flawless. Devastating. Pushes her body against yours and her tits are so full and plush and squash against your chest and you need her to fucking stop before—

She squeezes you tight, and you inhale sharp, choking on her scent.

And it fucks you up, because she smells exactly like Yuha.

"Yeah," she says, twisting her wrist, her grip, careless with how she fists your cock, your balls through your slacks. "She let me borrow her perfume as a thank you.”

Ningning leans, grinding the fragrance deeper down your throat.

“Isn't she so nice? Isn't this so nice? You get to think about her while you're with me."

She doesn't expect an answer.

But it drives you mad—she tilts her head so you can see how it clings to her; her throat, her collarbone, her tits. It’s sweet, it’s soft. It’s wrong. It makes your cock throb.

And you'd touch her, reach for her, run your hands over that smooth skin, the soft curves; take a handful of her in your palms and squeeze her right back, twist that nipple and tell her you can dole out the same amount of punishment—but Ningning drives her shoulder into you again, fists clenching around you, and pulls, and it's with deft hands and practiced fingers that your belt clinks open, the button and the zipper fall apart with it.

"Turn around."

For the first time, you manage some small protest. "Yizhuo."

She smiles at that, tricks you into thinking it’s fond. Glances low and yanks down your briefs. Frees your cock and lets it slap against her palm. Hard, throbbing, undeniable evidence of everything she does to you.

And she is—what the fuck is she to you? Your girlfriend's friend. Her senior, her pseudo-older sister.

Your client. Or, your boss.

Or just—she's the person that caught you sneaking around backstage—bored, horny, stupid.

You're the help, security—company’s hired muscle. Already neck-deep in the shit by dating Yuha; and you dug your grave and carved your own tombstone the second Ningning caught you in their dressing room—panties smothered over your face, cock in your fist, chasing a peak you couldn’t quite summit.

That was the first time you gave her everything she wanted.

She was smiling then too. Like she'd been waiting for the excuse.

She looks back up at you, fixated on your lips.

"Yizhuo?" She mocks you, and reaches up with her other hand, pressing it to your lips. You let her in, as easy as you let her into your home, let her force two fingers in until you gag, until she has you choking on her digits when they tickle the back of your throat.

She twists her fingers in your mouth, has you drooling down them, leaving them slick with your own spit.

And then she drags them out, pulls the strings of your saliva down to your cock, and runs her hand over it in one, decisive, torturous pump.