b1a4; about her
gongchan/girl!cnu. nc-17. 1557 words. it doesn’t matter how long it takes, if it never happens. if woori doesn’t want it, chanshik doesn’t want it either.
warnings: cnu as an intersex girl
It takes time.
Chanshik never pushes. Never nudges or touches or hints. Never makes it out to be inevitable, a natural point to come to, that everybody comes to, that everybody must come to. Never nags or argues or repeats himself. He asks sometimes when they’re lying close together and are flushed and messy-headed and breathing kind of hard, once, just once, with a low voice, mouth against her shoulder or in her hair; would she want to? Is prepared for Woori to tense, tie her mouth together and turn it away from him, pull her shoulder up and jerk her head. He is prepared, and he takes it. He hooks his arm around her waist and kisses her naked shoulder, the strap of her top, lies still and quiet until she moves. Either she laughs, after a couple of minutes, laughs a short laugh that some days sound soft and genuine and some days just painful, kisses him shortly on the lips or on the nose. And then it’s good. Or she’s quiet, lies stiff and hard until suddenly shrugging him off and getting up and going into the bathroom and not coming out for a while. It’s not so good then. He wants to hug her but he’s not sure she’d like it so he doesn’t. He wants to say sorry. But she always shrugs that off.
He doesn’t even dare to show just how much he wants it because maybe that would make her feel like she should. He really doesn’t want her to feel that she should. He wants her to want it. He wants her to think about it, to dream about it, play around with it in her mind until she is entirely sure and entirely ready, until she’s longing for it, until she can’t wait any longer. If she doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want it either. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, if it never happens.
But he tries to tell her, tell her how great she is. How much he likes her body, all of it, the stuff she likes and the stuff she doesn’t like. That there’s too much stuff about it that she doesn’t like. How much he likes her mind. How much he likes her. He tries to keep his hands soft when he touches her, on her waist, her hips, her stomach. Not the breasts, not the thighs. He tries to kiss her to the best of his ability. He wants to be good. He wants to make her feel good. He pulls her on top of him and lets her set the pace, lets her make the decisions.
He sees it as progress the first time she takes her shirt off. It would be a dick-move to celebrate, or to congratulate himself, or to have any expectations. This is not about him. This is not about what he’s gonna get. But his stomach flips, tightens in a way, more at the fact that she’s doing this than at the skin coming into view before him. Her hands are not quick and not steady, but it’s her initiative, and she smiles down at him with the fabric still in her hands. Her breasts are small. Just flat mounds, barely there, not even heavy enough to hang, small flat nipples. They look soft. They’re awesome. He tells her that. She grins wider, tilts her face down. They’re awesome. But he doesn’t touch them. Not that time. This is progress.
Then again it’s not nearly as much progress as the first time she takes his shirt off. Slides her hand up under it, lets it hike up, tugs at the edge a little bit with eyes that are only a little bit insecure. She waits for permission. It sizzles in his stomach when he lets her pull it off, with how she flings it back over her shoulder so it lands on the floor, with how she puts her hand to his chest, splays it flat and warm, the nub of his nipple pressing softly into her palm. Not nearly as much progress as every time she grins and laughs and kisses him with open mouth, as when she rolls on top of him, sets the pace, takes control, makes the decisions. Not nearly as much progress as when she’s moaning into his mouth and grinding down against him, absorbed and unashamed, and swear to god if he could soften his dick so to make sure it wouldn’t bother her he would, but there’s no fucking way.
She’s not fragile. It’s not that.
She has pride. Mustn’t bruise that.
It takes time, before she takes her pants off. Her panties are black and cotton. Something small juts out at the front, stretching the fabric a bit. He doesn’t touch it. Not that time. They kiss soft kisses that night, then fall asleep.
He can’t help looking, the first time she stands naked before him. He sitting down on the edge of her bed, and it’s good because he feels a bit weak and shaky in the knees. His dick is swollen in his pants. He can feel it pulsing. Under the patch of short pubes her clit sticks out between two small lips. It’s pink, the size of his thumb maybe, but shorter and thicker.
Her hands hang by her thighs. “Is it gross.”
He looks up at her face. “No,” he says. “No, it’s awesome.”
He doesn’t know if she believes it. He doesn’t know if anything he says can make her believe it. He can’t expect that. This isn’t about him. He can’t just swoop in and fix things. That’s not how it works. He stretches out his hand. She comes closer, takes it in her own. He looks up at her face, and is honest;
“I wanna eat you out.”
She smiles a small smile. “I know.”
It takes time, but then it happens. It’s hot in the room, hot between their bodies, they’re half-naked and breathing shallowly. His mouth is on her left nipple, her head is bent back, there is a noise in her throat. He presses his hand down the front of her jeans. She takes his face in her hands then, pulls him up, looks into his eyes, makes him look into hers. She looks so entirely sure and entirely ready, like she can’t wait any longer.
“I want you to eat me out.”
She fits so well into his mouth. He feels drunk on feeling his lips around her clit, feeling how hot it is, not small but not big either, just the right size to fit his lips around. He lets his tongue play over it, sucks softly. Woori gasps above him. She’s moist and swollen and squirming, her thigh vibrates beside him, he puts his hand around it, holds it carefully. This is just what he wanted, this, being here, having his mouth on her, getting to make her feel this way. Her wanting him to make her feel this way. It is all he needs, getting to make her feel this way. He doesn’t want anything other than this.
He traces his tongue over her lips, down. Searches, explores, maps out everything that she is, memorizes the taste of her wet. He touches her with the knuckle of his finger, so not to be too pointy and startling. Presses, softly softly, until it finds her slit.
He looks up. “Can I…”
Woori doesn’t even look at him. Just nods.
It’s slick and easy to slide his finger in. Woori sighs heavily, clenches around him. It’s tight. He slips out and tries with two fingers, carefully. Woori makes a noise, but a different noise.
“No?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “No.”
He slides his middle finger in again, alone. Not too deep.
“Okay?” he asks, voice low.
Woori nods.
“Good?”
She sighs like that again, sucks air in quick and then releases slowly. “Good.”
He fucks slowly into her, listening to her noises and trying not to come. She’s tight, very tight. Just the right size for his finger. His finger just the right size for her. He could never fit into her, this space could never accommodate him. He knows that. This is hers, and hers alone. The pleasure here is just for her. And she is so sensitive; he draws his finger back, over the knuckle, and her hands fist in the sheets beside her.
He feels entirely selfish, for getting this. It makes him grin.
“Chan-ah,” she says, gasps up towards the ceiling.
Her clit twitches before him, standing right out. He takes it in his other hand, it’s still wet with his spit, it slides easily between his fingertips. Woori’s whole body twitches. Chanshik reminds himself to breathe.
“Chan-ah.”
“Yeah?” He leans up over her, presses a kiss between her breasts. Tries crooking his finger upwards, feeling how it makes her tense.
“Fucking suck me off.”
Her fingers are in his hair, tugging, her leg repeatedly pulls up, stretches out a bit, pulls up again, her toes curling beside him. He presses his lips tight around her, his tongue hard against her, sucks her till she’s stiff and hard and shaking.
His dick is aching in his pants, but he tells it to shut up. This is not about him.
i'm not an expert on intersexuality, i cannot vouch for the accuracy
of this portrayal and these descriptions. do pm me if there are any
concerns, because i do not wish to offend or harm anyone.
warnings: cnu as an intersex girl
It takes time.
Chanshik never pushes. Never nudges or touches or hints. Never makes it out to be inevitable, a natural point to come to, that everybody comes to, that everybody must come to. Never nags or argues or repeats himself. He asks sometimes when they’re lying close together and are flushed and messy-headed and breathing kind of hard, once, just once, with a low voice, mouth against her shoulder or in her hair; would she want to? Is prepared for Woori to tense, tie her mouth together and turn it away from him, pull her shoulder up and jerk her head. He is prepared, and he takes it. He hooks his arm around her waist and kisses her naked shoulder, the strap of her top, lies still and quiet until she moves. Either she laughs, after a couple of minutes, laughs a short laugh that some days sound soft and genuine and some days just painful, kisses him shortly on the lips or on the nose. And then it’s good. Or she’s quiet, lies stiff and hard until suddenly shrugging him off and getting up and going into the bathroom and not coming out for a while. It’s not so good then. He wants to hug her but he’s not sure she’d like it so he doesn’t. He wants to say sorry. But she always shrugs that off.
He doesn’t even dare to show just how much he wants it because maybe that would make her feel like she should. He really doesn’t want her to feel that she should. He wants her to want it. He wants her to think about it, to dream about it, play around with it in her mind until she is entirely sure and entirely ready, until she’s longing for it, until she can’t wait any longer. If she doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want it either. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, if it never happens.
But he tries to tell her, tell her how great she is. How much he likes her body, all of it, the stuff she likes and the stuff she doesn’t like. That there’s too much stuff about it that she doesn’t like. How much he likes her mind. How much he likes her. He tries to keep his hands soft when he touches her, on her waist, her hips, her stomach. Not the breasts, not the thighs. He tries to kiss her to the best of his ability. He wants to be good. He wants to make her feel good. He pulls her on top of him and lets her set the pace, lets her make the decisions.
He sees it as progress the first time she takes her shirt off. It would be a dick-move to celebrate, or to congratulate himself, or to have any expectations. This is not about him. This is not about what he’s gonna get. But his stomach flips, tightens in a way, more at the fact that she’s doing this than at the skin coming into view before him. Her hands are not quick and not steady, but it’s her initiative, and she smiles down at him with the fabric still in her hands. Her breasts are small. Just flat mounds, barely there, not even heavy enough to hang, small flat nipples. They look soft. They’re awesome. He tells her that. She grins wider, tilts her face down. They’re awesome. But he doesn’t touch them. Not that time. This is progress.
Then again it’s not nearly as much progress as the first time she takes his shirt off. Slides her hand up under it, lets it hike up, tugs at the edge a little bit with eyes that are only a little bit insecure. She waits for permission. It sizzles in his stomach when he lets her pull it off, with how she flings it back over her shoulder so it lands on the floor, with how she puts her hand to his chest, splays it flat and warm, the nub of his nipple pressing softly into her palm. Not nearly as much progress as every time she grins and laughs and kisses him with open mouth, as when she rolls on top of him, sets the pace, takes control, makes the decisions. Not nearly as much progress as when she’s moaning into his mouth and grinding down against him, absorbed and unashamed, and swear to god if he could soften his dick so to make sure it wouldn’t bother her he would, but there’s no fucking way.
She’s not fragile. It’s not that.
She has pride. Mustn’t bruise that.
It takes time, before she takes her pants off. Her panties are black and cotton. Something small juts out at the front, stretching the fabric a bit. He doesn’t touch it. Not that time. They kiss soft kisses that night, then fall asleep.
He can’t help looking, the first time she stands naked before him. He sitting down on the edge of her bed, and it’s good because he feels a bit weak and shaky in the knees. His dick is swollen in his pants. He can feel it pulsing. Under the patch of short pubes her clit sticks out between two small lips. It’s pink, the size of his thumb maybe, but shorter and thicker.
Her hands hang by her thighs. “Is it gross.”
He looks up at her face. “No,” he says. “No, it’s awesome.”
He doesn’t know if she believes it. He doesn’t know if anything he says can make her believe it. He can’t expect that. This isn’t about him. He can’t just swoop in and fix things. That’s not how it works. He stretches out his hand. She comes closer, takes it in her own. He looks up at her face, and is honest;
“I wanna eat you out.”
She smiles a small smile. “I know.”
It takes time, but then it happens. It’s hot in the room, hot between their bodies, they’re half-naked and breathing shallowly. His mouth is on her left nipple, her head is bent back, there is a noise in her throat. He presses his hand down the front of her jeans. She takes his face in her hands then, pulls him up, looks into his eyes, makes him look into hers. She looks so entirely sure and entirely ready, like she can’t wait any longer.
“I want you to eat me out.”
She fits so well into his mouth. He feels drunk on feeling his lips around her clit, feeling how hot it is, not small but not big either, just the right size to fit his lips around. He lets his tongue play over it, sucks softly. Woori gasps above him. She’s moist and swollen and squirming, her thigh vibrates beside him, he puts his hand around it, holds it carefully. This is just what he wanted, this, being here, having his mouth on her, getting to make her feel this way. Her wanting him to make her feel this way. It is all he needs, getting to make her feel this way. He doesn’t want anything other than this.
He traces his tongue over her lips, down. Searches, explores, maps out everything that she is, memorizes the taste of her wet. He touches her with the knuckle of his finger, so not to be too pointy and startling. Presses, softly softly, until it finds her slit.
He looks up. “Can I…”
Woori doesn’t even look at him. Just nods.
It’s slick and easy to slide his finger in. Woori sighs heavily, clenches around him. It’s tight. He slips out and tries with two fingers, carefully. Woori makes a noise, but a different noise.
“No?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “No.”
He slides his middle finger in again, alone. Not too deep.
“Okay?” he asks, voice low.
Woori nods.
“Good?”
She sighs like that again, sucks air in quick and then releases slowly. “Good.”
He fucks slowly into her, listening to her noises and trying not to come. She’s tight, very tight. Just the right size for his finger. His finger just the right size for her. He could never fit into her, this space could never accommodate him. He knows that. This is hers, and hers alone. The pleasure here is just for her. And she is so sensitive; he draws his finger back, over the knuckle, and her hands fist in the sheets beside her.
He feels entirely selfish, for getting this. It makes him grin.
“Chan-ah,” she says, gasps up towards the ceiling.
Her clit twitches before him, standing right out. He takes it in his other hand, it’s still wet with his spit, it slides easily between his fingertips. Woori’s whole body twitches. Chanshik reminds himself to breathe.
“Chan-ah.”
“Yeah?” He leans up over her, presses a kiss between her breasts. Tries crooking his finger upwards, feeling how it makes her tense.
“Fucking suck me off.”
Her fingers are in his hair, tugging, her leg repeatedly pulls up, stretches out a bit, pulls up again, her toes curling beside him. He presses his lips tight around her, his tongue hard against her, sucks her till she’s stiff and hard and shaking.
His dick is aching in his pants, but he tells it to shut up. This is not about him.
i'm not an expert on intersexuality, i cannot vouch for the accuracy
of this portrayal and these descriptions. do pm me if there are any
concerns, because i do not wish to offend or harm anyone.