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hanssamu · 10 months ago

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what the fuck

like last year’s vogue

minatozaki sana x fem!reader

synopsis: and maybe you’re just tired of the limitations of wealth, the grandeur, the opulence. maybe you’re just tired of seeing the same people day in and day out. but without that, there’s only sana — sana who smirks at you like there's a joke you’re never in on, who shows up in spaces she doesn’t belong and makes you want her.

tags: rich kids!au ; smut ; bondage ; edging ; praising ; spanking ; strapping ; sana has her middle-class shit together ; kinda friends to lovers ; friends with benefits ; and anything else i’ve missed

author’s note: money, sex, power. inspired by the wolf of wall street, which if you haven’t watched yet, can be described in three words. money, sex, power. (and drugs, so maybe not three words.) not proofread!!

you are a pretentious bitch.

the only reason sana knows you at all is because you run in nayeon’s circle, where all twenty-somethings do: haughty, bored, and with more money than they’ve ever had original ideas. she’d met you months previously with your lips a dark red and your eyelids smoky, extending a hand as if dainty, delicate. as if you’d expected sana to bring it to her mouth and leave a kiss. like you’d known her own worth and took great pleasure in marking it up.

the two of you had clasped hands. “minatozaki sana?” you’d said mildly. “nayeon talks about you... frequently.”

sana had smiled, tight, and then eyed your leather pants and boots and white crop top underneath your fuzzy grey cardigan — no doubt worth thousands of dollars — and said, “nayeon talks about you when you’re relevant to her story.”

your eyes had narrowed; the corner of your mouth curled. something had passed between you both, then; something sana understood.

nobody talked back to you like that, because nobody ever talked back to rich kids.

and you, in all your pompous, disdainful, raven-haired and golden-eyed grandeur, loved it.

sana only manages invites to very specific events, but she’s never left out of a single one meant for her: kickbacks, birthday parties, my-parents-are-out-of-town ragers; everything that doesn’t require money itself to pass.

she’s not in your circle — she’s not wealthy, doesn’t have important parents, doesn’t come from splendor and opulence — but she’s cool. she’s effortlessly cool, the kind half the kids spend inordinate amounts of money attempting to replicate. she has her own apartment, and she isn’t in a bad neighborhood. she knows exactly who she is and what she’s doing with it, and it’s the kind of self-sufficient stability everyone else admires. it’s like she doesn’t need money, like it doesn’t impress her at all — and it’s insanely, outrageously appealing.

she also restores motorcycles for a living, an occupation that gives her incredibly defined muscles and the enviable air of honest, hard work; she also knows how to ride them, a detail you’re once again forced to reckon with when sana roars up to nayeon’s on a friday night, straddling the seat of a yellow-to-orange hued 1940 indian chief. glossy, beautiful, like it’s never been touched — she’s probably put months of work into it.

jay and mark meet her at the end of the driveway, already eager and awed like five-year old boys rather than adults; she slips her helmet off her head, hops off the bike, and humors every question they lob at her with an easy grin.

you watch it all from the back gate, staring down the driveway with a red solo cup of maker’s 46 in your hand. you and sana are familiar, but nothing more; she’s nayeon’s friend. that’s something set in stone. sana probably wouldn’t show up to something nayeon wasn’t at, though she’d definitely be invited.

on this occasion, nayeon’s parents have taken her younger sister seoyoon to paris as a high-school graduation gift, leaving her with an empty house and a perfect opportunity.

you’ve been there for an hour already, on the verge of giving up — sometimes nayeon’s parties grow dull, and that’s a point where you think of dragging jay off, fucking him to relieve the boredom. it doesn’t usually work, but it’s still better than sitting at a table half-drunk with a group of twenty-three-year-olds whose only substance is composed of the drugs they snort.

until sana, at least — because the first thing sana does upon walking up the driveway is meet your eyes, let her grin unfold. she slips her round sunglasses off her face, folds them into the collar of her shirt — oh, of course, you think, leaning against the gate with your arms loosely crossed. of course, she looks incredible.

she doesn’t even try. she’s wearing a black ac/dc back in black t-shirt, loosely tucked into her dusty-red cuffed pants, and black sneakers you vaguely place as old skool vans — jay, who came from newer money, owned a few pairs. he’s thought they were cool. but they look infinitely better on her, like she could’ve stepped out of an instagram feed for street fashion, resentfully casual at five-nine with her blonde hair tumbling down her back.

“(insert affectionate pet name),” she says.

“minatozaki,” you answer in return, your usual greeting. you’re not sure where it started, and even less sure why — but you can never quite get over the sense that you’re being teased.

“i’m glad you’re here,” sana says, which isn’t part of your usual greeting, and forces a momentary pause while you consider your angle.

“are you?” you ask eventually, but your indifference is never as effective on sana as it is on everyone else.

“yeah,” sana says, and she steps forward, plucking your cup straight from her hand and knocking back a swig; it’s so unexpected you don’t have a chance to stop it, and your instinct is more of bewilderment than it is of offense. sana wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her wrist, and her smirk glitters. “i’ve been bored recently.”

she says bored like a threat, like a crime with a punishment. she doesn’t wait for a response, despite lingering for a moment before brushing by you into the yard with your bodies too close for the breath of a second and your eyes locking — your disinterest loses to your intrigue, and sana’s nothing but challenge, ominous enough for an edge.

it’s only after she’s steps ahead and jeongyeon’s calling her name that you catalog her boredom as the opportunity it is, as an offer. you’re not sure what exactly it entails, not sure you’re even interested; sure, sana’s attractive in every sense of the phrase, but she’s not worth it. that’s what you tell yourself as you retreat back into the yard, anyway.

so, it’s a coincidence that it’s sana you sit next to at the table where jeongyeon’s starting a game of king’s cup. and it just makes sense to pick sana as your partner when you draw an eight. and when there’s a waterfall, sana waits an extra ten seconds to stop drinking, knowing you’re right after her — but it doesn’t mean anything.

maybe you’ve been bored, too.

it’s a game with one motive: get everybody drunk.

sana draws a jack and makes a rule for no names, which fucks all of you over spectacularly — mark and jay just resort to slurring the word dude over and over to get attention, but as all of you are a group of people who don’t normally respond to being addressed as such, it only marginally works.

it ends when jihyo cracks the can — she’s forced to shotgun over the grass, everyone standing around her and cheering. nayeon, momo, and mina watch from the spa, all in various states of mild amusement.

except sana, who you catch slipping out the gate onto the long driveway and follow her.

“hey,” you say, and sana turns around in a brief surprise, joint hanging between her lips. she’s holding a lighter in her right hand, and a water bottle sits on the roof of nayeon’s aston martin.

she relaxes upon seeing you. “hey,” she says, continuing flicking the spark wheel. “you want a hit?”

“of that cheap shit?” you say. “i’ll pass.”

sana merely rolls her eyes, grinning. she exhales smoke as she speaks. “i buy from jay,” she says, and oh, of course she does — they smoke the same weed. “so, unless your problem is with my mouth” — she takes a step forward into your space, tilts her head down to emphasize your height difference — “i think you’re safe.”

there’s the challenge. “maybe it’s just you i have a problem with.”

but sana only laughs, and it’s clear she doesn’t buy it for a second — she takes another deep hit, stubs out the joint on a groove in the stone masonry of the house. you don’t live here, and so you don’t care. as long as the two of you are getting somewhere.

which you both seem to be, fast. “admit it,” sana says, bringing her arm to the wall over your head, drawing inwards. you only watch, masked and unreadable aside from the smirk playing about the corners of her mouth. “you think i’m hot.”

“i don’t think you have nearly enough money to be as confident as you are,” you say airily in response, bringing your cup to your mouth. but you’re losing, as much as you don’t want to admit it, as light and untethered as you keep your voice. you could slip out from underneath sana’s arm, walk back into the party, spend the rest of the night eating finger sandwiches and pretending to laugh at the boys’ bad jokes. you could, but you don’t, and you won’t.

sana’s smile burns sinister — something of a storm, both threatening and beautiful — and leans even closer, forcing you to lower your cup. she says, “you don’t care about money,” and your eyebrow twitches at an incline. “you have more money than you know what to do with. you think ninety percent of your exclusive, wealthy inner circle is full of shit.” she casually lifts her free hand as she speaks, runs her index finger along your jawline; you tilt your head on instinct, giving her access. “they do cocaine because they can afford it; you’d rather be reading some profound, philosophical musing on life— like the alchemist or siddhartha or journey to the east.” there’s that tiny hitch to every inhale, air leaking from her lungs. sana drifts almost closer to your ear, drops her voice even further, reckless and bold as she murmurs: “they wouldn’t know how to fuck you even if you wrote them an instruction manual.”

okay, so, it’s possible you’ve underestimated her. fire spreads up the brush of your veins, lights your cheeks. not embarrassed. hot.

“you’ve been bored,” you say slowly, and this is already the best proposition you’ve ever gotten.

“i’ve been bored,” sana agrees, your lips inches from each other and her smile slipping wide.

it isn’t something to talk about. sana kisses you, you allow it — her tongue sweeps hot and consuming in your mouth, her calloused fingers still soft against the inside curve of your neck — and then says, “two hours, y/l/n, and i’m taking you home.”

“you better not be all talk, minatozaki.”

“oh, i’m going to do a lot of talking, and you’re going to do exactly what i tell you to.”

she’s sobered by the time she sneaks out of the party with you hours later and you’re on your way, but you hadn’t committed quite like sana had. she only has one helmet, and she makes you wear it — safety first, she says dangerously, the double-entendre unmasked. you wrap your arms around sana’s waist, feeling the heat of her skin through her t-shirt, feel her muscles firm beneath your hands — and you think of ripping the helmet off, telling sana to fuck you on the bike, bending you over the seat. but sana revs the engine, kicks off the ground, and maybe you’ll save that request for a different day.

sana’s apartment is small by your standards, but then again, nearly everything is.

there are more pressing matters at hand. “safe word?” sana asks, breath hot against the inside of your ear; she skims her teeth over your earlobe, and purposefully, slowly exhales. your shiver is almost violent in its response, goosebumps erupting over your skin. kisses from your cheekbone to the corner of your mouth. kisses skin like it belongs to her.

“poverty.”

sana’s eyes flash in the darkness, amused at the response but deeming it unfitting for the course of the night; you know you’re in trouble before the two of you have even crossed that line. “feisty,” she comments, and her grip tightens just slightly. “what’s your real safe word, y/l/n?”

“target,” you say instead. the concept stands, but sana only smirks wider and allows it.

“i’m not into titles or roleplay,” sana says conversationally, twining strands of your hair through her fingers. “you can use my name, my last name, whatever — all that i care about,” she continues, and here’s the ground rules, “is that you’re good at doing what you’re told.”

it’s directly against your nature, but there’s a difference in the darkness. so, she says, “i think that’s something we can work on,” and mirrors sana’s smirk. good luck, you’re saying. give it a try.

you see the appreciation for your bite, even if you don’t get to feel it — sana tugs sharply on your hair, seems satisfied by the muted gasp, the way your chest heaves, tightens for a moment. “I’m not going to be rewarding you for your snark tonight,” she says, and with every word she locked herself away — or maybe she’s letting herself loose. “you’ll answer me only when i ask you to. you won’t touch me unless i say so, and even then, you can’t touch my hair. and you will not cum unless ordered to.” she senses the tensing of your body, the inherent argument and rebellion inside of you, and shifts her grip to your chin, catches it between her thumb and index. forces you to maintain eye contact. all you can comprehend from up-close is how gorgeous she is, her flawless skin, her full lips — “actually,” she finishes, “you’ll ask me permission to cum, and i’ll decide if i’ll allow it. understood?”

“yes,” you say, your voice a little too high and breathy for nonchalance.

“good.” sana gives you a kiss, the brush of lips, and she pulls on the fabric of your red shirt, tucked into your black high-waisted shorts. they’re tight, too — showing off the curve of your ass, barely covering the tops of your thighs — and lifts it overhead, careful of the long necklace of a cross around your neck. “think of this as a trial run.”

and then she tosses it on the floor like it’s nothing, examining you from top to bottom, lingering appreciatively on your breasts, your stomach, your legs. “take off your boots.”

there’s no way to do it gracefully — they’re kind of punk boots, silver spikes jutting out from the heel. sana keeps a hand on your waist, steadies you — and then smiles even broader when they’re off, distinctive and predatory. because now she’s really looking down.

“good,” she says again, and continues stripping you until you’re left only in her lingerie, trembling under sana’s gaze. sana’s taken your clothes, your height, your money — or your expression of it — left you bare. left you shivering. left you wet.

sana sweeps her hair over her shoulder, thumbs the trail of her collarbone, and she’s a strange mix of things both soft and cruel, of blades and beauty — she likes what she sees, but she also wants to ruin it.

that’s what you want, too. ruin.

“lie down,” sana says, nodding to the bed behind you. “and close your eyes.”

her bed’s comfortable; that’s the thought in the back of your mind with her eyelids shut, like an idle soothing of her nerves — but it’s replaced the minute sana crawls over you, whispers open — and now sana’s left in her own underwear, cleavage spilling out of her lace bra, her boy shorts hugging your ass — open — you think of opening a lot of things, her legs, her cunt, her ribcage—

sana’s far, far beyond stunning — she’s sexy, she’s filthy hot, abs defined and the do not cross lines of her biceps — hair up in a loose bun, eyelashes long and fine, lips pink and hungry — she captures your mouth, kisses like there’s a war she’s won and you’re standing in the aftermath — and then she falls to your jaw, your neck, your chest, maneuvers around the necklace. she takes time with her torture, unhooks your bra and slides it off your arms, rolls a nipple between her fingers before taking it in her mouth and sucking, lightly catching it between her teeth — you’re an inch away from writhing, your heart pulsing in the hollow of your throat, your breath turning into little flightless gasps—

sana loves this, you recognize immediately — she runs her hands all over your skin, like she can’t believe how tiny you are in comparison to the size of her own hands — she switches to your other breast, flicks the nipple with her tongue and takes it in — sana hadn’t told you not to moan and you allow yourself the sound, the hum breaking the silence — sana pauses for a split second, grins, continues to your sternum, your stomach—

she palms your hips, fingertips trailing the line of your underwear. brings your head down, dips between your thighs — exhales through the lace, inhales your cunt, smirks at the smell of sex, the proof that if one of you had ever been all talk, it’d been you—

presses a kiss directly over your clit, and immediately upon reflex, you shoot a hand to sana’s hair.

sana sees it coming, lifts her head, catches your wrist in her hand firmly — it almost hurts, but in the good way, the pressure of breaking boundaries — and now she’s a searing red, her lips in a hard line.

“what did i say?” she asks slowly, shifts up onto her knees again, still grasping your wrist. “answer me.”

“don’t touch your hair,” you breathe out, feeling wetness seeping through your underwear.

sana’s eyes glitter. “and what did you do?”

“touch your hair.” it’s almost a whimper.

she straightens fully, releases your arm, goes for your hips instead, tugs your body down to the middle of the bed. “get on your knees,” she commands, backing away. you do as you’re told, almost wince at the sound of sana’s feet hitting the floor. not out of fear. out of anticipation.

you watch the imprints of your own weight against the mattress, how your palms sink, fingers spread; the cross dangles from your neck, but the only judgment you value is coming from the girl behind you, now settling close to your ass with something denim clutched in her hand. sana tugs your underwear halfway down her thighs, humming at the slickness of the material — your clit throbs, swollen — you’re sure you’re glistening in the dim light, from sana’s perspective, cunt hot and aching—

“this is why i hate rich kids,” sana says cooly, slipping her belt from her jeans and looping it in half, leather warm in her hand. she drags the edge of it from the top of your spine and down, over every bump and ridge, cataloging the goosebumps breaking out across your skin. it comes to rest on the curve of your ass, a warning, a threat, an absolvement. “you’re never taught any fucking manners.”

you don’t speak, don’t break the rules with the punishment so threateningly present — sana hums behind you, pleased by your silence, and brings the belt down across your ass in a firm stroke, creates a crack of the air—

somehow, the shock of it is still more than you expect; you gasp, muscles tensing automatically, feel the wetness gush sudden between your legs — you hadn’t considered this as something you’d be into, but the stinging after, the total lack of control—

sana smacks your ass again, her other palm flat against your lower back, curving around your side and steadying you. and again. and again. and again. your body shakes with the force of it, the pain spreading like needles — you have the sheets tightly wound in your hands now, face burning with your blood, tears pricking the corners of your eyes — you’re not sure how long you can stand it, your skin must be a bright red, your elbows on the verge of giving out, and then—

sana stalls, leather just resting on the stinging flesh of your ass. “does it hurt?” she asks, running a flat hand over the marks that are undoubtedly there.

“yes,” you whisper, only able to discern your shaking in the stillness.

a pause — that in itself is a threat. “and do you like it?”

no, you want to say, but you open your mouth, and you suddenly can’t lie. it burns — your skin’s raw and on fire — it’s fucking humiliating, not listening to instructions and being punished for it — but sana’s hand dips between your legs, and her fingers come away so wet there’s no point to it anyway—

“yes,” you say, tensing against the inevitable final strike at the admission, and you’re not disappointed.

you gasp like you’re drowning afterward — your thighs shaking, arch of your spine sinking with every breath, collapsing in on herself. the belt is tossed somewhere on the floor, and then sana’s running a soothing hand over your ass, lowering you down to the bed, carefully helping you turn back over — but even in the display, you know it’s just a necessity of your roles and not an indication that you’re atoned. no, no — sana slips her own underwear off, bra already gone, and pushes you flat against the mattress — and that’s a different kind of pain, one not entirely pleasant, your position uncomfortable with your sensitive skin, but then—

sana crawls up your body and doesn’t stop, slots her knees on either side of your head, one hand gripping the headboard — and suddenly her cunt is right there, bare and glistening an inch from your mouth. sana scratches her fingertips against your scalp, cups the back of your head, curling into your hair and says, “lick.”

well, so, you’ve never really slept with a girl. and clearly, that’s been the problem this entire time.

but it’s a secret that probably won’t serve you too well under current circumstances, and so you pause, meet sana’s eyes and hope it’s enough to convey the need for an exception to be made.

you get one better — sana takes that single look at you, eyebrows raising slightly, and says, “you’ve never gone down on a girl before, huh?”

“no,” you say, voice hoarse and husky. “but i get the general idea.”

sana actually cracks a smile at that — genuine, outside of the intensity of the moment. “alternate between a flat tongue and sucking my clit,” she says. “i like to grind.”

“fuck,” you breathe out, and that’s almost pushing it, settling back to the mood. she’s so hot — she loosens her hold just slightly on your head, thigh muscles flexing under her own weight, and you start with a broad stroke up her slit; she’s sweet to the taste but there’s a tang to it, addicting and sharp, and you lift your head higher, wrap her lips around sana’s clit and suck, flick it with your tongue — sana tugs on your hair, and you flatten your tongue again, let sana grind into your mouth, feel her cum smearing across your chin, your jaw—

“fuck,” sana murmurs above you, staring directly down as she fucks your mouth. “you can touch me.”

you hadn’t realized you’d been white-knuckling the sheets, but the minute you’re given permission your hands fly to sana’s thighs, nails digging in and holding her there, giving your lips better leverage — you can’t get enough of the taste, the heady scent, want sana to cum in your mouth, want to swallow every drop—

“fuck,” sana murmurs again, throwing her head back, body trembling. “y/n—”

her stomach muscles tighten, jaw falling open, fist tightening in your hair — she releases her breath in a series of choked moans, and you only pull her closer, tongue lapping at her cunt and refusing to release — sana indulges you a few seconds longer, like she admires the tenacity, the desire, and then pulls away, leaves your jaw a mess, lips glistening.

and then she grins, lifts a finger under your chin and tilts it. “not bad,” she says. “for your first time.”

so let me have a second, you almost say, go as far as having your mouth open — but then you shift, and your ass reminds you exactly why you shouldn’t. you shut it. sana grins even further, eyes narrowing slightly. proud.

“my turn,” she says, and nudges your knees apart, finds the sheet soaked underneath you and your thighs slick. she keeps her gaze darkly amused, smile careless. you can almost feel yourself being compared, being contemplated, being judged — and sana says, “spread your cunt for me.”

maybe sana’s testing your limits, how many orders you’ll take and how long you’ll take them — if you get worse with time or better, if you crack under the pressure — but you’re too far past self-image and reflection to care. you dip your fingers down, don’t even think of touching your own clit or fucking yourself — you do exactly what sana asks and wait, regardless of how exposed you feel, how open and vulnerable and nervous.

“good,” sana says, and settles onto her stomach, arms slipping underneath your thighs. “hands under your pillow. if you touch without permission, i swear i’ll tie your wrists behind your back and edge you for the next two hours.”

you nearly sob from the idea alone — you’ve been so wet for so long, clit throbbing, cunt aching — wrapping your fists tight around the pillowcase, ribs taut through your skin, chest heaving — and sana finally lowers her mouth to your cunt.

it’s the most instantaneous relief you’ve ever felt — you arch, try to press yourself closer, hiss at the pressure on your raw skin — but sana’s tongue is there to circle her clit, to flick it, to stroke broadly, lightly suck your clit into her mouth and scrape it with her teeth. you’ve been eaten out before, but never by somebody who really knew what they were doing, and it’s an entirely different kind of euphoria.

you barely last, but you’re miraculously supposed to — “can i cum?” you exhale, and sana only laughs against your cunt.

“yes,” she says, “but i’m not going to stop.”

you shatter, that’s the equivalency, that’s the intensity of it — and sana doesn’t stop, just pushes her tongue deeper, just sucks harder, just swallows what she can taste. it’s close to too much, straddling that line — she’s holding your thighs down after twenty minutes to stop you from closing them, forcing you to multiple orgasms you don’t think you’ll be able to have, so strong you’re still nearly sobbing from the pleasure of it — and sana finally acquiesces, slows her tongue, loosens her grip. sits up, sees you writhing on the sheets, panting and frustrated, and decides you’ve had enough.

“does it hurt?” sana asks gently, the tone instantly recognizable of one signaling an end rather than a continuation. you take a moment until you nod, bottom lip tight between your teeth. sana wraps a hand around your hip bone, presses flush to your back, your ass against her hips — and you hiss, the burn amplified against sana’s warm skin. but you don’t fight it. you’ve learned your lessons.

sana drops her lips to your ear, whispers, “shh,” and dips a hand casually between your legs, nudging your thighs open; you’re somewhat resistant until you realize sana’s intention, and then your knee slowly crooks up, spreading you open.

you’re still unbelievably wet, and your entire body trembles as sana’s fingers drift over your clit, light in their pressure, careful not to overstimulate. your chest flutters unevenly with every breath and the line of your spine sinks deeper and deeper into the curve of sana’s body, almost cradled by the time sana slips two fingers into your cunt.

you keep one hand tight around the pillowcase, the other in a fist and closed over your chest. you remember sana’s no-touching rule now, want to spare yourself any further punishment; it fills sana with a vicious type of satisfaction. one night. she almost laughs — you’d been so ready to obey from the moment you’d been dragged back to sana’s apartment, there’s no way you haven’t spent copious amounts of time being disappointed by boys with no imagination.

you’re cumming all over her hand, even without actually crossing that edge yet; your bottom lip is red and swollen, cheeks flushed. you’re still somewhat on your side, head resting on sana’s upper left arm, quiet sounds starting to build in your throat — sana curls her hand, grasps your chin somewhat roughly, fingers pressing to your lips.

“suck,” she says cooly, and you nearly choke on your moan, wrapping your mouth around sana’s fingers, tongue hot and wet. she’s still fucking you with her other hand, lazy and dismissive.

and then she pulls out, cum stringing from your cunt to her fingers, and finds your clit again, rubbing small circles until she catalogs your sensitive spots — you like long, quick strokes, from sana’s fingers to her palm, leaving you room to grind. it’s dirty, messy, and exactly what sana expects from you.

“sana,” you try to say around sana’s fingers. “can— can i—”

they’re muffled and almost impossible to distinguish, but sana understands regardless, smiles. “good girl,” she says. “cum for me.”

when you cum, it’s almost violent in its silence — your whole body tightens, rolling low in your stomach, and sana slips three fingers straight back into your cunt to feel it, the way you clench and throb and tremble — you whine around the fingers in your mouth, and sana relents there, drags them from your jaw to cup your breast, thumbing a nipple. but your breath stays trapped in your lungs for what seems like an impossibly long time, releasing in short, imperfect patterns.

it takes you awhile to come down — you drift further into bonelessness against sana’s body, and then you seem to enjoy being held — not quite comforted but appreciated. it’s so fitting of your personality that it only reads as endearing, rather than superficial and pretentious.

“feel better?” sana murmurs, pressing a kiss to your hair. it’s time for her to play her parts, the soft ones — it isn’t all about the aggression, the orders. you did a good job, and you’re allowed to be taken care of for it.

“mmm.” you can’t seem to manage words in response, too content and full. you’re falling asleep, but you can’t quite give in without an invitation — it’s obvious from the way you fight against it, keep lightly adjusting your hands, licking your lips.

“if you want to,” sana starts slowly, rubbing a palm gently across your side — the red lines from sana’s short nails still stand out against your skin from when she’d raked them down to hold your thighs — “you can stay here tonight.”

you open one eye, eyebrow sinking over it as you turn your head slightly. “here?” you ask, and it doesn’t come out with the tone sana expects it to — it isn’t here? this shithole? — it’s here as in your bed, here as in with you.

“yeah,” sana says. “here.”

you adjust slightly, more onto your back without the discomfort, now meeting sana’s gaze with both eyes. the look you’re wearing remains unreadable, exploratory. there’s something internal, a war, a warning.

and then you say, “can i borrow a t-shirt? and shorts?”

“depends,” sana says, ignoring her heartbeat. she’s lucky you’re here at all, but she won’t admit that until much, much later. “Are you going to complain about it if I spent less than a hundred dollars on it?”

you harrumph, rolling your eyes. “no. but i’d prefer pure cotton, otherwise i might break out in hives.”

your gazes lock once the rotation ends. sana stares, hard. you stare back harder.

“you’re joking, right?” sana finally asks, breaking the stalemate. she’s not sure what she’ll do if you say no — either die laughing or shove your underwear in your mouth, teach you another lesson.

but your lips quirk, and sana’s chest constricts a little less. “yes,” you say, amused. “believe it or not, i do have a sense of humor.”

“oh, i believe that,” sana says and shifts off the bed. “the entire evening before we got here was a joke.” she opens her middle drawer where she keeps her sleep shirts, tosses one randomly onto the bed behind her.

“ha-ha.”

even your sarcastic laughter is endearing — sana’s got to shake herself from that road before it leads somewhere dangerous. she pulls a black tank overhead, tugs her hair loose, and turns to find you gazing strangely at the shirt.

“what?” sana asks, frowning at you. everything about the scene in front of her is unexplored territory, no automatic intuition. “it’s clean.”

“it’s... cool,” you say slowly, as though you’re confused by your own opinion. you slip your arms through the sleeves, poke your head through the collar and straighten it out, looking down. “i like it.”

it’s just a white t-shirt with a print of a skull on it, flowers blooming from its sockets. but it’s probably wildly different from anything you ever wear, and that’s definitely the only reason sana says it. “you can keep it, if you want.”

“i couldn’t,” you say primly, but the devil blinks out of your eyes. “you own so little as it is.”

sana throws her head back and laughs, delighted by your bite. “you’re lucky the moment’s over,” she says, grinning, “or you’d be back on your knees.”

sana puts on friends in the background before the two of you sleep, gives you lotion and a cold-water bottle which you wrap your mouth around greedily — sana follows the arch of your throat, the movement of every swallow, thinks about wrapping her fingers around it — and you smirk as you lower the bottle, intuitive enough to connect those dots.

“maybe next time,” you say pointedly, and you don’t even stumble over your own admission. from once to a future in so short a period of time — sana wants to say some snarky, cocky remark: “one good bare-minimum fuck and you’re mine” or “guess money couldn’t buy you a vibrator that gives you orders”.

next time. that’s a fantasy sana lets wrap her up for a little too long to count as a casual silence.

“your ego is suffocating,” you say after a moment, your gaze fixated on the television, sinking into the pillows.

“coming from you, princess, i’ll take that as a compliment.”

you shoot sana a dirty look at the pet name, but it doesn’t stop you from falling asleep with your back pressed into sana’s chest, and it certainly doesn’t stop you from waking up with your head in the crook of sana’s neck.

and it definitely doesn’t stop her from keeping sana’s shirt.

you make it exactly thirty-four hours before you succumb to the new number in your phone.

“so, you want this to be a regular thing, huh?” sana asks, frustratingly casual as she leans against the booth of the bar, feet kicked out underneath the table and crossed at the ankles.

“i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t have to.” she allows her stare to drop openly, trailing across the skin revealed by the low collar of your dress. it’s a very passively interesting observation, designed for power. like she’s allowed to look at you however she wants, whenever she wants to. “you invited me out for drinks. i’m not stupid.”

“fine,” you concede, because you’re not about to look like a fool for pride. that’s nayeon’s thing. “you were right. what you said to me at the party, before you even took me home. they don’t know.”

“but i do.” it isn’t a question.

your lip curls. “obviously.”

sana considers you, head tilted at an angle. “was any part of the other night too much for you?”

“no.” that’s a simple one to answer, and it’s make-or-break; you’re aware sana had gone easy on you. you shrug a shoulder. “i didn’t come close to my safe word, if that’s what you’re asking.”

oh, that’s the wrong thing to reveal — or very right, depending on how she’s looking at it; sana’s eyebrows are high, even though her surprise appears mild. something about the admission gets her mind racing, a mental highway on a road trip. everything spread out open and wide before her.

“are you seeing anyone else?” sana presses on, like a checklist she’s going through. “you fuck around with jay occasionally, right?”

“sometimes,” you say. “but he’s…” you stop, frowning. sana laughs at the expression alone.

“i get it,” she says, smirk nearly knocking itself out in egotism. “he’s no me.”

“arrogance doesn’t look good on you.”

“sweetheart,” sana says, reaches out and skims a finger across your wrist, “i think we both know that’s not true.”

there’s a party. there’s a lot of parties.

only now the two of you end in sana’s bed, your wrists tied behind your back and your tongue lapping desperately at sana’s cunt — you on your knees, sana pumping into you with a decently-sized-strap-on and hitting every perfect angle the boys can’t manage with their real dicks — sana, forcing you to bed until your throat is raw, holding you at an edge for over an hour — sana, using scissoring as a punishment, your cunt and inside thigh as something to grind and cum on, something to fuck and leave the next day. and it’s incredible.

you’re still punished fairly often — you can never seem to keep your sharp tongue tucked away, dropping remarks about how she’s fucking below your class, how letting sana touch you at all is an act of charity — and sana’s sinister smile stretches every time, fingers curling around your neck, flipping you onto your stomach, fisting your hair and tugging your head back as she sinks a dildo into you.

you’ve never felt so good in your life, never been so satisfied. you stay the night, and sometimes the two of you argue playfully and laugh until the sun starts to rise, even without sex. jay approaches you a few times with propositions and you pull out an endless arsenal of excuses — you use “i’m on my period” two weeks in a row, twelve days apart, and jay just whistles and nods seriously, like he understands.

you meet sana’s eyes across the yard, any yard. smile with a corner of your mouth. those are nights when sana lets things slip — lets you get away with a smart remark, a touch, an orgasm. those are the nights you look in the mirror and finally see someone you like.

nayeon interrupts you at the pool; you’re stretched out in a lawn chair in your bikini, sunglasses on and phone on silent. it’s one of the few activities where you can get away with stagnancy; it’s not that you’re lying down because the rest of your body’s too deliciously sore to do anything else, it’s that you’re tanning.

“y/n,” nayeon greets politely, dropping her purse near the chair next to you. “where did you disappear to last night?”

you think about keeping it a secret, but secrets only count as ammunition to the wealthy. moneys nothing — you’ve got tons of it. secrets can be used against you. so, you say, blithe and candid, “i’ve been fucking sana.”

you expect stunned silence, an open mouth, a wide-eyed disbelief. you expect sputtering and outrage. you expect a storm, expect it to get up and thunder straight out of the garden. what you don’t expect is nayeon to sigh like you’ve just told her something predictable and disappointing.

“of course, you have,” nayeon says, pinching the bridge of her nose with her eyes shut, as if the revelation had struck her with an instant headache. “i knew inviting sana a few weeks ago had been a bad idea. you’re exactly her type, and she said she’d been bored recently...”

“her type?” you repeat, surprised to find yourself jealous of the prospect of more, others. you’ve never been fucked like that — sana obviously knew what she was doing, but still, you like believing in a singularity between the two of you. like believing sana’s never enjoyed anyone else the way she indulges in you, in your fingers, in your mouth, in your cunt.

“beautiful, arrogant, dismissive, disinterested,” nayeon ticks off on her fingers, and then smiles brutally. “acts like nothing touches her but loves to beg to be touched.”

so, you have two options: the first, of course, is to listen to your impulses, to follow exactly what’s expected of you — curl a lip distastefully, turn up your nose, tell nayeon to get the hell out of your yard and go fuck her not-boyfriend in the missionary position for the third time this week. but you’ve realized you don’t want to do what’s expected of you unless you’re getting rewarded for it.

you roll your head back to center, too content for fake-spiteful arguments. “and how many orgasms have you faked this month, nayeon?”

“there’s no need to be so crass,” nayeon responds, falling for the bait. sometimes you’re not sure why the two of you tell each other anything at all, but then remember both of you are probably best friends or something. “it’s not as if i’m wrong.”

“no, just boring,” you say, propping up a knee. you’re playing your part perfectly, allowing your grin to develop that edge, shift to a smirk. “i think being her type is working out well for me so far.”

“for now,” nayeon says, narrowing her eyes to the hickey poking out of your bikini top. “but you’re selfish. we both know you don’t know how to share, y/n — and you aren’t going to own her, no matter how badly you’ll end up wanting to.”

that’s a hit, dead center, and it stings like one. finally, nayeon breaks through, finds your hot temper and irritation underneath the surface. “what’s that supposed to mean?” you snap, and your throat hardens uncomfortably at the reminder of sana’s t-shirt, carefully folded in a hidden corner of her dresser.

“i’ve known sana for years,” nayeon says, and now it’s about the shift of power — of knowing. “you think you’re the first person i’ve seen her ruin? she’s the best sex everyone who sleeps with her ever has. and none of them liked giving her up, either.”

“it’s just sex, nayeon, not some soulmate-affirming act that you clearly imagine it to be,” you respond, sitting up. suddenly the heat’s getting to you, your skin too warm and sticky. “she’s fucking me, and sometimes,” you emphasize deliberately for the lead-in, “i just want to fucking cum.”

you get up to leave, but you can’t be done, not when you haven’t ruined nayeon’s morning, not when you haven’t said anything that won’t take an expensive brunch to recover from. plus, you’ve left yourself the perfect doorway into the combination of intimate knowledge and brutality, and you’ll never waste that regardless of what it ruins.

“by the way,” you say, slipping your glasses up your forehead for the dramatic effect of direct eye contact, “the reason you don’t cum when mark fucks you is because you’re a lesbian. don’t take your sexual frustration out on me just because i know what i like, even if that is being tied up and choked.”

you almost consider feeling bad as you walk away, but your hips ache deliciously with every step and your skin burns, and you entirely forget to feel anything else.

the first time it happens, it’s an accident.

you’re shopping online. it’s not unusual in itself. but you start noticing clothes you wouldn’t have noticed before, start thinking about how good they’d look on someone else. someone who spends most nights fucking you absolutely senseless, and maybe deserves a thank-you once in a while.

it’s a black leather bomber jacket from golden goose with a fur collar and a brown-lined pocket on the left side, giving it casual, asymmetrical appeal — and then you’re thinking about sana, thinking about her motorcycle, thinking about how hot she’d be wearing it. and then it’s in your cart, and you’re checking out, and you don’t even blink at the total of twenty-five hundred dollars. you even pay for expedited shipping.

your parents are hosting an event, and because you’re bored of getting what you want when you want it, you invite sana.

no underwear, sana texts. understood?

yes.

you follow through — hope sana doesn’t force you to drip down yourself all night, hops you get the smallest semblance of relief — but the minute sana arrives, you throw that wish straight out the window. kick it out of the neighborhood. fling it straight into space.

sana’s dress isn’t designer, but it might as well be from how incredible she looks in it.

she’s left her long hair wild and loose, but the kind of wild that jumps from models and fashion campaigns — natural, a pseudo-effortlessness. her eyeliner’s dark, gold eyeshadow fading into a smokey eye, and her lips are a stunning burgundy that matches the color of her dress, which is a deep v-neck, short-sleeved maxi dress, though the dress itself stops at mid-thigh and only continues past in a sheer lace with a leaf-like pattern, slit up the side. there’s a thin gold lining around the waist, almost like a belt, and her heels are a beige with gold straps, putting her close to six feet.

the longer lace of the dress billows behind her as she walks. several people are staring. you’re the only one of them that matters. or, at least, you’d better be.

“(insert affectionate pet name),” sana greets, smirk destructively wicked. “thanks for the invite. shall we shake hands? you can test the firmness of my grip.”

you laugh unexpectedly; you’re very familiar with the strength of sana’s grip already, pinning your wrists to the mattress. “no, thanks,” you say, and you need to touch sana right now or you’ll die. “a hug is customary.”

“oh, is it.”

“yes.”

“well then,” sana says, and wraps her arms around you, lips just above your ear. she fingers the material of your gold dress — apparently, you’re having a similar effect on her. “you look beautiful, baby. there’s a reason i’ve always called you (insert affectionate pet name).”

it’s the first time she uses a pet name that isn’t princess or a sarcastic sweetheart — it’s uttered too affectionately, cradled in her mouth. and now you know why, knows why you’d always felt teased, out of the loop, on the wrong side of the joke — because sana had been calling you beautiful all along.

your heart thunders around your chest, the storm stronger in your body than in the sky.

“come with me,” you say, and take sana’s hand.

sana only stares at it. and stares, and stares, and stares.

“i can return it if you don’t like it,” you finally say, voice more uncertain than you’re used to. it’s hard to read sana; it always is. she’s just sitting on the corner of your bed, the leather jacket held delicately in your hands.

sana’s gaze darts to you, flicks back, can’t decide where to land. “you bought this for me?”

“yes,” you say dryly. “i’ve heard that its customary for people to sometimes give gifts to other people, as a token of appreciation.”

that’s a smart remark that gets sana to shut her mouth, fall into her defaults. she levels you with a look. “y/n,” she says flatly. “how much did you spend on this?”

“like nothing.”

at that, sana sighs heavily, still stroking her hands over the leather. “so, at least a few grand.”

“almost nothing. like i said.”

there’s an eyeroll torn between exasperation and affection, and you don’t think sana even knows which emotion won. “you can’t buy yourself out of paying for shit like that later, so watch it.”

“that’s hardly fair,” you whine, aiming for endearing over irritating. “we haven’t started officially. this doesn’t count. i’m giving you a gift.”

sana doesn’t hide her smile, but she doesn’t seem like she’s openly displaying it, either. “come here,” she says, extending a hand, and you take it. “are you wearing underwear?”

“no,” you say.

“good.” she doesn’t take advantage of that yet; only tugs you close and kisses you. “thank you.”

it feels right.

she eats you out in the bathroom during a dinner toast — you’d been so wet all night you’d been afraid of ruining your dress, left a damp spot on the fabric, but after this it’s a likely possibility — and leaves lipstick kisses peppered over the insides of her thighs. she makes you beg her to cum, even though the chance of someone overhearing is high, and you can’t stop yourself even if you want to, sana’s name falling breathily from your mouth in between “please”, “fuck”, and “god”.

“slut,” sana murmurs darkly after, kissing you until you taste yourself on sana’s tongue.

later on, your parents tell you they think sana’s a wonderful girl with her head on straight, and it’s nice of you to have friends of different backgrounds.

you’re absolutely right, you agree. i needed to expand my horizons.

you start to buy sana stuff. clothes, shoes, parts for her motorcycles. “it made me think of you”, you’ll say, and sana doesn’t protest, just regards you with a fond sort of disapproval, like she knows exactly what the truth of it is even if you don’t know yourself.

you and nayeon finally get around to your expensive apology brunch, a full two months after your original disagreement. the two of you had seen each other several times since then, but it’s never officially resolved until brunch.

“still seeing her?” nayeon asks, far more casual now that time has passed.

“she’s interesting,” is all you say, fronting the same mild disinterest you’re so accustomed to wearing. you run your fingers through your bangs, still staring at your menu like it’s the most compelling thing in the room.

“she fucks you half to death,” nayeon replies flatly, not even bothering for eye contact; such a bold-faced understatement is hardly worthy of it. “you can barely sit, y/n.”

the corner of your mouth twitches. “and what would you know about that?”

nayeon’s lips curl into a half-smirk, amused by the ease of the admission. at least she’s a girl who picks her battles. “admittedly, not a lot,” she allows. “but i am observant.”

christ, you think; rich people are all so fucking dramatic. maybe sana’s right about them. “and what have you observed?”

“well,” nayeon says, “you like her,” and somehow that isn’t at all what you expect her to say.

you drop your menu against the table, blinking. “excuse me?”

nayeon only tuts under her breath, too smart to be fooled by indignant denial. “please, y/n. it’s obvious. you’re either with her or you’re thinking about her, and that’s it.”

she’s proud of herself, you realize. proud she’s pinned something down that definitely isn’t there, proud she’s exposed you for settling low. it has that edge, the comment, not like a casual crush but a trap, a downfall. as if she’s saying, “of course that’s your type.”

you want to slap her for it.

“as i just said,” you state calmly, saving face, “she’s interesting. she isn’t like us. you’re her friend, and i know you admire her for that exact reason.”

“i do,” nayeon agrees, setting her menu down candidly. “but i don’t think about having sex with her, and i definitely don’t spend thousands of dollars buying her clothes, or parts for her motorcycles, or whatever else her heart desires.”

well, fuck.

nayeon and sana are friends. that’d been the original context of everything.

“look,” nayeon says, sensing your obvious panic. “i’m sorry for what i said. i think you’re good for her.” she pauses, presses her lips together. “actually, i think you’re good for each other.”

it’s a strange change of heart. “why?”

“she’s... calmer,” nayeon says slowly, clearly figuring out her words as she speaks them. “stable, i suppose. i always used to feel as if — as if she were searching for something and never finding it. she was so restless. some days, i swore she was on the verge of asking me to buy her a plane ticket to anywhere that wasn’t here and run away.”

“and now?” you ask, just to have the proof yourself.

“now,” nayeon says, “i think she’d rather be with you.”

(“by the way,” nayeon tells you as the two of you are walking to your cars, “you were right. i’m definitely a lesbian.”

“what made you realize?”

“well, i came when momo fucked me.”

“that’ll do it.”)

it’s a theory to test. a hypothesis.

you spend the day with sana in her workshop, asking her questions about her builds, her modifications, how each part fits into the whole. sana dutifully answers every single one, even lets her help where it’s applicable, tightening bolts and passing tools.

you meet mina there, too — mina’s younger sister — who only takes a single glance at you and says unprompted, “oh, y/n!”

“yes?” you respond, in obvious confusion.

“sana talks about you,” mina provides context. “she talks about you constantly.”

“i will crack this wrench on your skull,” sana says cheerfully. “permanent brain damage.”

“i’m just saying—”

“get out.”

she shakes her head after, tosses you a sly look, and the lack of embarrassment is startling, as if she thinks it’s mutual between them. your heart rattles in your chest, something under lock and key.

you’d loved it. you’d loved hearing proof of the possibility of being more, just as you’d loved hearing it from nayeon a couple days previously.

it isn’t quite terrifying, but it’s enough for a bad decision.

it’s another friday night, and another boring event.

you don’t invite sana. there’s a reason for that.

your proposal is anything but subtle; you eye jay up and down, his disheveled blond hair and obvious muscle, and decide he’ll do. you’ll prove your points. you take a sip of your champagne and say, “we should have sex.”

he blinks, lips curling surreptitiously. “uh,” he says, “what?”

“do you want to, or not?”

“i mean, yeah,” he says, and opens and closes his mouth without words, fumbling over himself. “i just— i wasn’t expecting you to ask. it’s been a while—”

“whatever.” you down the rest of your glass, set it on the tray of a passing server. you nod your head to the house behind you. “let’s go.”

“now?”

“now,” you say, wondering why it’s so hard for him to comprehend, or if he’s always been this stupid.

he has enough sense to follow you into the house, up the stairs, shut the door behind them — you run your hands through his hair with purpose, curl your fingers and tug; if it were sana, you’d already be spun around and bent over, underwear bunched around your knees. but he doesn’t seem to notice or care, letting you take whatever control you want, passive and pliant beneath your hands. you kiss him, and all you think about is how his mouth is too rough, how his tongue moves sloppily in your mouth. you hadn’t realized how messy boys were, how little finesse mattered to them.

you strip your own shirt overhead, and his follows — you go to the button of his jeans, work the zipper down, feel him hard through his boxers; he’s trying to do the same thing to you, but he’s clearly not sure how to match your pace, or why it’s being set in the first place. it’s not difficult for him to get hard. all you had to do was take your shirt off.

he kicks off his jeans, getting into the desperation of it even if he doesn’t know where it’s coming from - slips his boxers down, rolls a condom on - you tug your own underwear down your legs. he kneels in front of you, rough fingers rubbing your cunt — you get impatient, gesture him over you, to get it over with—

“i’m trying,” he says, bewildered by your demeanor, “but, y/n— you aren’t wet enough. i— i can’t.”

you touch yourself. he’s right. it’s like you’re the opposite of horny — like you’re mummified or something. that’s how dry you are. for a moment he just waits — he’d never force himself inside of you like this, you hate lube, and either way—

“forget it.” you shove him off of her, sit up, grab your underwear off the floor and get dressed with an increasing urgency, a frustration. “whatever. i’m leaving.”

“leaving?” he repeats, blinking owlishly. “y/n, you like, live here.”

“i don’t care.”

he pauses, examining you. he’s not the most sensitive of guys, but he isn’t really an asshole, either. he knows something’s off. “are you okay?”

unfortunately, you’re not really in the mood to reward basic decency from a man. “get off my bed,” is all you say in response, and he scrambles up as the door shuts behind you.

sana answers on the third ring. “hey, babe.”

it’s not like it’s an unusual greeting, but with the week you’ve had — nayeon’s comment, mina’s slip, your failed encounter with jay — your heart is beating against your skull, and it’s the first thing you’ve felt in days. “hey. can you pick me up?”

there’s a background clatter — something heavy and metallic; she’s probably working on one of her own projects, you realize with a pang of guilt, but sana beats you to the punch before you can take it back. “yeah,” she says, more alert. “are you okay?”

“i just want to see you.” it’s the best you can do.

a subtle pause of contemplation. “okay,” sana says, softening so noticeably that you almost cry. “i’ll meet you at the end of the block.”

sana passes the fancy, flashy cars parked outside of her house; she pulls to stop between an audi and a tesla, where you’re standing with your arms crossed over your body, waiting. she plants her feet solidly against the pavement, lifts her helmet off, and her muted concern is instantly visible; she eyes you up and down, as if checking you for signs of injury. it’s real emotion, genuine care, and it’s almost too much.

she’s wearing the leather jacket you had bought her, that’s the first thing you comprehend. despite her many protests, despite her many complaints — she’s settled snugly into it like a first skin, molded perfectly to every curve. your mouth feels thick and heavy with paint, your head full of roses.

“what the hell happened to you?” sana asks bluntly, but you only grab the second helmet and slip onto the bike behind her without giving her an answer. it’s infinitely easier than straddling jay has ever been, and you’re eased just by the closeness, the smell of the leather and jasmine of sana’s hair.

“i don’t want to be here,” is all you say in response, wrapping your arms around sana’s waist.

“okay,” sana says, and it’s enough.

sana gets you inside the apartment, tosses her keys on the entryway table, and leads you to where she’s most comfortable. the bed’s there, unmade and inviting, but you recognize the sheets as fresh. you think that says something. that she knows.

“what d’you want, baby?” sana murmurs, captures your mouth in a kiss. she curls her fingers through your hair, brushing it away from your cheek and behind your ear, meets your stare too directly and openly when she pulls away. not a challenge, but a question. “because i can fuck you, if that’s what you’re here for. i can punish you like you’ve done something bad. did you do something bad, y/n?”

“no,” you say, but you’re shuddering, drawing closer. you think of jay, think of his mouth on yours, think of the harsh angles of his muscles and how wrong he felt on top of you. your body rolls hot, every inch aflame. you can’t lie to sana. “i don’t know. yes.”

but that’s the thing about sana — “no”, “maybe”, “yes” isn’t an answer, only a guidance, and she seems to know what you want better than you know it yourself.

“what’d you do, baby?” she asks softly, slips her hand down the front of your jeans, lightly touches you over your underwear, and your breath hitches.

“i tried to— tried to fuck jay,” you whisper, and — not unprecedented in its entirety, just this scenario — wrap your arms around sana’s neck, rest your foreheads together. “but i— he— it just... didn’t work. it— i couldn’t.”

sana’s touch slows, becomes a feather-brush against the fabric over your clit. she has her eyes open, brow slightly furrowed, and then she leans in, catches your lips with her own — kisses you, tender and concerned. she’s not you, doesn’t have a possessive streak, doesn’t run at the first spark of jealousy.

“you couldn’t?” she repeats, removes her hand, cups your jaw instead.

“i don’t want him,” you confess honestly, shocked to find yourself trembling in sana’s arms. “it’s like— like i don’t want anyone anymore. anyone but you. and i— i knew this was just sex, i know you’re not— not mine, but i—”

sana brings a finger to your lips, silences you gently; you can’t tell if it’s a game or if it’s you both, can’t tell if it’s lust or if it’s love, but then sana drops her arm, murmurs, “i can be yours.” her eyes dart to your mouth and back. “but that makes you mine, too.”

her tongue slides briefly over her bottom lip, nerves of admission. your heart lifts out of fog, find your blood. you whisper, “okay.”

sana starts to unbutton your white blouse, every movement careful and precise. it’s not that it’s slower than you’re used to, but it’s softer; she slips her hands underneath the fabric, drags it over your shoulders and off. your black jeans follow the same arc, boots kicked off, and sana slides her fingers down the front of your underwear.

“sorry,” you unstick your voice from your throat, still deep in your own head and simultaneously so far out of it. “i might not be— i want it, even if I’m not—”

half of sana’s mouth slips up at a corner, understanding the collision of your thoughts. “baby,” she whispers against your lips, “you’re dripping.”

and as if to prove her point, the fingers ghosting over her clit dip lower, slip straight into you, and fuck, sana isn’t wrong, isn’t exaggerating — you’re so wet you can hear sana fucking her, slow and passive and deliberate, a gentleness present that you’ve never felt previously. and then sana removes her hand, sucks her own fingers into her mouth, eyelashes fluttering — her lips are pink and shiny when she removes them; you watch her cheeks hollow, want to die on the sharp curve of her cheekbones — pushes you lightly back against the mattress, tugs your underwear off, shifts down between your legs, spreads your thighs apart.

she wipes her fingers against her bedspread, and then she pulls at the hair tie around her wrist, loops her hair into a loose bun before settling on her stomach. you’re already trembling — it’s like the first time all over again, like you’re waiting on your knees for sana to bring a belt to your ass, only you’re bare on your back with sana’s mouth hovering over your cunt and a soft, meticulous tongue.

sana looks up at you, meets your eyes, too tender to pretend to be anything else. “you can touch my hair,” she murmurs, and you almost cum from that allowance alone.

she licks the length of your cunt, tongue pressing briefly inside of you before she parts her lips over your clit, almost like she’s kissing it. sana’s never eaten you out like this before — there’s no power dynamic at play, no edging, no game — she wants you to feel good, wants you to cum into her mouth and all over her bed.

she builds into it attentively, sucks on your clit and scrapes it gently with her teeth, and then settles back into long, broad strokes. her arms are situated around your thighs, holding her open, accessible, and you can’t stop watching her — she keeps her eyelids shut, reveling in the taste, like she’d swallow all of you if she could. it’s so erotic, so sensual in its simplicity, that after you release a tiny moan in your throat, your hands finally — finally — find the top of her head, curling into her hair.

sana only smiles, murmurs hot against your cunt, “good girl.”

i want to touch you, you say after breaking every rule. but tonight’s different, and even sana can tell. please, you say, and sana allows it.

you end up grinding against sana’s thigh, three fingers buried inside of her, sana canting her hips with every stroke, chasing the pressure of your palm against her clit. sana clenches down on your fingers so hard it almost hurts until you finally slide them out, soaking and circling sana’s clit instead, your own cum smearing up sana’s thigh.

sana moans your name as she cums, and in your daze you only experience the sound as an alarm, a trigger — you hit the edge, pressing yourself even harder into sana’s thigh, your own orgasm hitting suddenly. and then pause, just as sana does.

“did you just cum?” sana asks delicately, but she leaves room for a hint of warning in case you’re in the mood for that particular game.

you are. you are. you are. “yes,” you whisper, face still content in the crook of sana’s neck. “punish me.”

there’s no calling what it’ll be — it changes based on sana’s whims, the situation, what the two of you have done leading up to the offense. tonight, you’re on your knees with you face pressed flat into the sheets, hands bound behind your back and resting against your lower spine, and sana’s pounding into her with a strap-on — it’s one the two of you had bought for the aesthetic, less access to sana herself but comfortable, similarly cut to boy shorts, silky and hot — your hair’s wrapped in sana’s hand, your head jerking with every thrust — she purposely avoids your g-spot until she hears your moans shifting from breathy to agitated, the pleasure too good without being enough, and then she spreads your knees even further, angles your hips—

“cum,” sana orders, fingertips digging sharply into your hips.

blood pounds in your ears, in your neck, in your clit — you cum so powerfully she almost forces sana out a little, but sana doesn’t let up, keeps her pace and fucks you just as hard through your orgasm. doesn’t stop. doesn’t stop through the second, or the third, and your cunt is so raw you can’t believe you’ll ever cum again.

you do, but you don’t remember it.

you wake up hours later, groggily blinking your eyes open, and shift a fraction of an inch before realizing the dildo’s still inside of you, and sana’s asleep, buried in you to the hilt.

you cum almost immediately at the realization alone, clit throbbing, chest expanding and fracturing — you gasp; sana’s fingers tighten around your wrist, smile spreading against the back of your neck — and she pumps her hips slowly as you convulse.

“yeah,” she says after, finally slipping out, and the emptiness leaves you panting and ruined. “that’s what i was waiting for.”

you can’t really move in the morning; sana holds you up in the shower as she massages shampoo into your hair, legs trembling under her weight.

“i think we’ll take it easy for a few days,” sana says, clearly delighted with her work.

“fuck you.”

“we can talk about that as an alternative.”

you wind up curled on sana’s couch afterward, mug of tea in your hand with the tv open to netflix. sana’s shuffling around in the kitchen, more inclined to coffee. you hear the drip, drip into the pot, and then sana appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

so, you ask her, “can i stay here for the weekend?”

sana observes you for a moment; there’s no risk of her saying no, but there’s something else. “sure,” she says, and the other shoe drops. “if you tell me what you’re really doing here.”

it’s an out, it’s a plea, it’s a bargain — it’s not strange of her to ask. you’ve got an entire mansion to share with only two other people, and instead of losing yourself in its rooms, lounging by its pool, you’re hiding out in sana’s tiny apartment.

i love you, that’s what you should say in response. i love you, that’s what sana had meant when she asked. it’s not quite the time.

instead, you look away — focus on the coffee ring staining the wooden table, something familiar and worn and signaling presence, life. it’d drive your mother crazy. you say, “i’m just so fucking bored of it all.” it isn’t the whole truth, but it isn’t a lie, either. “i don’t want to sit there quietly and be polite and listen to people who think they’re important try to convince other people of their importance. i don’t want to drink red wine and talk about wall street and act like i’m above it all. i’m not. i’m not.” you say the last note with a wavering finality, daring to meet sana’s eyes.

you find her sympathetic, softer. sana says gently, “are you trying to convince me, or yourself?”

the sting of tears comes as a surprise; it’s not a reaction you predict from yourself at the question. but it’s always something deeper. you say, “i wasn’t the nicest to you.”

“we were having fun,” sana shrugs off, unaffected. “i wasn’t the nicest to you, either.”

“yeah, but i liked it.”

“so, did i.” she gets a smile out of you at that. “look — being a pretentious, wealthy asshole is kind of in your blood, y/n. i don’t think we’re ever going to work the literary snobbish side out of you, or how you frown every time you see pleather.” you grimace at the word itself, entirely proving sana’s point, and sana fights back a laugh. “but i know what else is there, too. i know everything beyond that. i know that you secretly love extra-salty mcdonald’s french fries, and you wear my ten-dollar t-shirt to sleep almost every night you’re home. i know your favorite movies are actually titanic and notting hill, and you only say it’s casablanca to get people off your back. and i know you want to do more with your life, and it frustrates you that you’ve been so confined to your lifestyle that you don’t know what more is.”

it’s all completely accurate, and it’s the revelation of the details sana’s kept about you — stored away and filed, labeled as fragile, important — that finally bursts the words into a river. “i love you,” you confess, like you’ll pour and not stop. you’ve never known the feeling, how it consumes and creates and crucifies.

“i know that, too,” sana replies, rolling her eyes harmlessly, and you’re surprised to find you smiling. “spending money is your love language, baby. you haven’t been very subtle about it.”

you’re always blindsided by people who know her feelings before she does. “what?”

“y/n,” sana says patiently, “you’ve spent about ten thousand dollars on me in the past month alone. and i know it wasn’t a thank-you for the many orgasms. it’s because you were thinking about me.”

you reach for one of sana’s couch pillows, bring it to your chest, and bury your face in it without a word, absolutely mortified. sana’s laughter echoes out, and you raise it again, halfway between a glare and a bargain. “what the fuck is a love language?”

“how you express your affection or whatever,” sana says, setting her mug on the coffee table and squeezing in next to you. too close. “there’s like, five i think. and yours is definitely gift-giving.”

“fuck.” it’s not really an argument, and sana seems entertained by the crumbling of walls, one arm resting over the back of the couch as she turns to face you. you ask, “so, what’s yours?”

“isn’t it obvious?”

“maybe if i knew what the others were,” you point out. “now who’s pretentious?”

sana’s eyes flash, slip to the hint of red. she smiles with her teeth and says, “acts of service and physical touch are mine. they go pretty hand-in-hand, don’t you think?”

you think of all the time sana’s spent learning every inch of your skin, not like worship but like sacrament — leaving fingerprint-bruises that ache deliciously to the touch, dusting your mouth like birthing constellations, rising oceans — touching you after with hands softer than the brown of her eyes, tracing your veins, charting course — your spine blends into a canyon — there’s been a journey here, there’s been an atonement — sana leans in, covers your mouth with her own, kisses you too tenderly for your mind to keep up with.

it all falls away, goes blissfully blank. maybe that’d been the sign all along.

“i love you,” sana murmurs over her lips, eyelids still shut, and bumps your foreheads together. “even if you are a pretentious bitch whose ringtone is river flows in you.”

“i love you,” you say in response, smiling, your palm cupping her cheek, “even if you are an arrogant asshole who thinks arrested development is the greatest sitcom of all time.”

“you just hate it because they’re basically you.”

“shut up.”

in the end, you’ve got enough money to run you both away, as long as the two of you are together.

“anywhere you want,” you say, tangled up with her in bed.

“you know,” sana says with a smile, brushing her thumb across your bottom lip, “i’m actually happy right where i am.”

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