rainbow; tidal waves up the shore
noeul/woori. nc-17. 758 words. woori edging noeul in the shower.
Noeul likes the way Woori’s legs are folded, spread a bit as she’s kneeling on the tiles and shins just almost touching Noeul’s toes. She likes the way they intersect her own where she’s on her haunches against the wall, likes the rhombus stretched out between their bodies. Likes the way they take the space formed under hers and the way she, if she tips her pelvis forward just a little bit, almost can rest her kneecaps at the top of Woori’s thighs. She likes the way the two of them fit together, like pieces of a jigsaw; where Noeul isn’t, Woori is, clasping into her shape, like… like some fucking yin-yang symbol or something.
The yang, the white, is the male, and. Or something. And. They. Something.
Noeul coughs in a breath against Woori’s mouth. Her hips are bucking, clenching, and that’s when Woori pulls away, sitting back against her feet and letting the concentrated spray from the disassembled hose draw up over her chest. It splashes obnoxiously until she raises a hand to the faucet and quells the jet a bit.
Woori says nothing. Woori just grins. Hooks a thumb at Noeul’s chin to straighten her craned neck and fit their mouths together again, kisses her slow and tight and with one hand skimming over Noeul’s inner thighs. Opens them up another tad wider.
Noeul’s legs are starting to ache. Her feet are cold and purple with stagnant blood. She’s sweating in the saturated air, her stomach repeatedly sucks heavy twinges into itself and her entire groin feels hot and uncomfortably swollen. She has a limit, but Woori doesn’t let her go. She brings her close and close and then sits back with that little smile on her face and watches Noeul sink. Waits a bit, kisses a bit, before going at it again. Maybe twisting the faucet knob a little further than last time. Lips move to jaws and breasts when Noeul’s mouth stops responding. Over and over, rise and sink, clench and relax, a little higher every time, reaching for it, but without taking her all the way.
Noeul bites back all the curses, all the demands. Woori is adamant. Woori is merciless and absolutely fucking horrible and Noeul just wants to grab her and pin her down on the shower floor and straddle the nearest protruding extremity on her body and rub, rub hard and frantic, rub until she can finally fucking come. Everytime should be the last time, everytime should be the one time, and Noeul is so close to begging, so close to giving up - her groin is burning with impatience and this needs to happen, this needs to happen right now but then Woori pulls away again, rocks back and wets her own hair.
Woori says nothing. Woori just grins. Soaked hair hangs in thick strands around her face and her eyes are comfortably narrowed. One hand lays rested, light, at Noeul’s shoulder. Slow kisses, tight kisses, adamant merciless horrible kisses.
But maybe, in a way, it’s the best, like this. Slowly being led, slowly being risen. It lasts and lasts and for every spray of water the frustration will grow better and better and when Noeul finally hits it, when it finally cramps hot and thick inside of her, higher than ever and with some sort of panic clenching up her entire body, she will forget to breathe. She will grab on to Woori’s wrist, hold the jet still, pleads and warnings of staystaystay and she might be shaking a little and that never fails to give her what it takes, to push her off the edge. The wait and the build will make it so so much sweeter, will make it all so fucking worth it, it will unfold almost lazily and she will hold her breath to ride it out, she knows the process by heart but she still never seems to fully recall it afterwards, or before, that moment when it hits; it will hit her so hard, hit her hard enough for her to curl into herself, curl into Woori’s shoulder with a low, undignified whine and breathe as if she has never breathed before.
And maybe, in a way, it’s all about that single second before it breaks.
Woori says nothing. Woori just grins. One hand fingers the nozzle of the hose by her hip. The other reaches up towards the faucet. Twists it, maybe a little bit further than last time.
Noeul supposes she can wait another minute or two, after all.
Noeul likes the way Woori’s legs are folded, spread a bit as she’s kneeling on the tiles and shins just almost touching Noeul’s toes. She likes the way they intersect her own where she’s on her haunches against the wall, likes the rhombus stretched out between their bodies. Likes the way they take the space formed under hers and the way she, if she tips her pelvis forward just a little bit, almost can rest her kneecaps at the top of Woori’s thighs. She likes the way the two of them fit together, like pieces of a jigsaw; where Noeul isn’t, Woori is, clasping into her shape, like… like some fucking yin-yang symbol or something.
The yang, the white, is the male, and. Or something. And. They. Something.
Noeul coughs in a breath against Woori’s mouth. Her hips are bucking, clenching, and that’s when Woori pulls away, sitting back against her feet and letting the concentrated spray from the disassembled hose draw up over her chest. It splashes obnoxiously until she raises a hand to the faucet and quells the jet a bit.
Woori says nothing. Woori just grins. Hooks a thumb at Noeul’s chin to straighten her craned neck and fit their mouths together again, kisses her slow and tight and with one hand skimming over Noeul’s inner thighs. Opens them up another tad wider.
Noeul’s legs are starting to ache. Her feet are cold and purple with stagnant blood. She’s sweating in the saturated air, her stomach repeatedly sucks heavy twinges into itself and her entire groin feels hot and uncomfortably swollen. She has a limit, but Woori doesn’t let her go. She brings her close and close and then sits back with that little smile on her face and watches Noeul sink. Waits a bit, kisses a bit, before going at it again. Maybe twisting the faucet knob a little further than last time. Lips move to jaws and breasts when Noeul’s mouth stops responding. Over and over, rise and sink, clench and relax, a little higher every time, reaching for it, but without taking her all the way.
Noeul bites back all the curses, all the demands. Woori is adamant. Woori is merciless and absolutely fucking horrible and Noeul just wants to grab her and pin her down on the shower floor and straddle the nearest protruding extremity on her body and rub, rub hard and frantic, rub until she can finally fucking come. Everytime should be the last time, everytime should be the one time, and Noeul is so close to begging, so close to giving up - her groin is burning with impatience and this needs to happen, this needs to happen right now but then Woori pulls away again, rocks back and wets her own hair.
Woori says nothing. Woori just grins. Soaked hair hangs in thick strands around her face and her eyes are comfortably narrowed. One hand lays rested, light, at Noeul’s shoulder. Slow kisses, tight kisses, adamant merciless horrible kisses.
But maybe, in a way, it’s the best, like this. Slowly being led, slowly being risen. It lasts and lasts and for every spray of water the frustration will grow better and better and when Noeul finally hits it, when it finally cramps hot and thick inside of her, higher than ever and with some sort of panic clenching up her entire body, she will forget to breathe. She will grab on to Woori’s wrist, hold the jet still, pleads and warnings of staystaystay and she might be shaking a little and that never fails to give her what it takes, to push her off the edge. The wait and the build will make it so so much sweeter, will make it all so fucking worth it, it will unfold almost lazily and she will hold her breath to ride it out, she knows the process by heart but she still never seems to fully recall it afterwards, or before, that moment when it hits; it will hit her so hard, hit her hard enough for her to curl into herself, curl into Woori’s shoulder with a low, undignified whine and breathe as if she has never breathed before.
And maybe, in a way, it’s all about that single second before it breaks.
Woori says nothing. Woori just grins. One hand fingers the nozzle of the hose by her hip. The other reaches up towards the faucet. Twists it, maybe a little bit further than last time.
Noeul supposes she can wait another minute or two, after all.