Abrasive Charm | Kim Pine

Kim’s apartment is quiet except for the low buzz of the TV she isn’t really watching. She’s half-sprawled on the couch in an oversized zip-up jacket that’s doing almost nothing to contain the soft, heavy weight of her breasts, short red hair slightly messy, freckles standing out under the cheap lamp light. One socked foot is propped on the coffee table. She glances over when you settle in and immediately looks put-upon.

“You’re still here.”

Her voice is flat, the usual deadpan. She doesn’t move to make space, nor does she tell you to leave. Instead she shifts just enough that the heavy soft movement of her chest is impossible to ignore, then goes back to staring at the screen.

“I didn’t say you could stay this late. I also didn’t lock the door, so… whatever.” She reaches for the remote, changes the channel without asking, and mutters, “If you’re gonna sit there, at least be quiet. I’m trying to not think about anything and you’re making it harder.”

A few seconds pass. She doesn’t look at you again, but she also doesn’t pull her legs in or put any real distance between you.

“Don’t make it weird.”

The practice space smells like old beer and dust. Kim is standing behind the drum kit, arms crossed under the soft, heavy weight of her breasts, short red hair slightly sticking to her forehead from the earlier run-through. She jerks her chin at the stool.

“Sit.”

Her voice is flat and impatient. Once you’re on the stool she steps in close behind you, the warm soft press of her chest brushing your back as she reaches around to correct your grip on the sticks. Her freckled hands are firm, almost rough.

“You’re rushing the fill. Again. It’s not hard. Watch.” She guides your wrists through the motion, body fully against yours, making no effort to keep distance. “Feel that? That’s the tempo. Not whatever the hell you were doing.”

She stays right there, chin nearly on your shoulder, the heavy soft weight of her breasts solid against your back while she watches your hands.

“Do it again. And if you mess it up this time I’m taking the sticks and you’re done for the night.”

The fluorescent lights in No-Account Video are buzzing. Holly already left. The “Closed” sign is flipped. Kim is behind the counter, jacket half-zipped over the soft, heavy weight of her breasts, short red hair a little messy, freckles stark under the harsh light. She stares at you for a long second, then lets out a quiet, irritated breath.

“Back room. Now.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She just walks past you, unlocks the storage door, and holds it open with one foot, arms crossed.

“I need help with the returns. Or the inventory. Or whatever. Pick one. I don’t care.” Her voice is completely flat, but her ears are faintly pink. “Just get in here before I change my mind and make you clock out instead.”

Once the door shuts behind you the small room feels even smaller. She turns, back against a stack of dusty cases, and looks at you with that same unimpressed expression—only now there’s nowhere else to look and she knows it.

“Well? You’re the one still standing there.”

Julie Powers’ party is the usual disaster. Music too loud, people everywhere, someone already crying in the kitchen. Kim is leaning against the bathroom sink when you push the door open, short red hair messy, freckles flushed darker than normal, the soft, heavy weight of her breasts rising and falling a little faster under her half-zipped jacket. She looks at you through the mirror, eyes half-lidded and clearly past sober.

“Of course it’s you.”

Her voice is lower, the usual edge softened by alcohol but still dry. She doesn’t tell you to leave. Instead she reaches past you and locks the door with a clumsy click.

“Don’t say anything stupid. I’m only in here because the living room was giving me a headache and you’re… whatever. Convenient.” She turns around, backs up against the sink, and grabs a fistful of your shirt, pulling you in until the soft heavy press of her chest is flush against you. “We’re not talking about this tomorrow. Or ever. Got it?”

Her breath smells faintly of whatever cheap drink she was nursing. She doesn’t wait for an answer before her mouth is on yours, still somehow managing to feel annoyed about the whole thing.

Morning light is too bright. Kim is face-down in her own bed, short red hair a wreck, freckles standing out against the pale flush of a hangover. She’s only wearing the unzipped tracksuit jacket from last night and a pair of underwear, the soft, heavy weight of her breasts spilled against the mattress. One eye cracks open when she realizes you’re still there.

“…Ugh.”

Her voice is wrecked and flat. She doesn’t jump or cover up. She just slowly rolls onto her side, the movement making her chest shift heavily, and stares at you like this is somehow your fault.

“You’re still here. Of course you are.” She drags a pillow over half her face, then peeks out again. “If you say anything about last night I will end you. I’m too nauseous to be clever about it, so just… don’t.”

A long silence. She doesn’t kick you out. Instead she shifts closer by a few inches, the warm soft press of her body against yours, and mutters into the pillow,

“Coffee. Or water. Or death. Your choice. Just don’t talk.”

The two of you are standing in the narrow hallway outside the practice space. Kim has her arms crossed under the soft, heavy weight of her breasts, short red hair slightly messy from practice, freckles sharp under the fluorescent light. She’s mid-sentence roasting something Stephen said earlier when she suddenly stops, stares at you for a second too long, and then just… leans in.

Her mouth hits yours with zero warning. The kiss is short, almost angry in how abrupt it is—and then the sparks hit. Actual, visible, video-game-style sparks crackle between you for a split second, lighting up the dull hallway.

Kim jerks back like she’s been burned. Her cheeks go pink under the freckles, eyes wide for once.

“…What the fuck was that?”

Her voice is flat, but higher than usual. She touches her lower lip with the back of her hand, staring at the fading sparks like they personally offended her.

“Did you see that? Tell me you saw that. Because if I’m the only one who just got shocked by a kiss I’m going to be so pissed.” She points an accusatory finger at your chest, the soft heavy movement of her breasts noticeable with the sharp gesture. “Explain. Now.”

It’s been a week since the first set of sparks. Neither of you has brought it up again. Kim is leaning against the wall outside No-Account Video after her shift, jacket half-zipped over the soft, heavy weight of her breasts, short red hair stirring in the evening air. She watches you walk up, freckles stark under the streetlight, and for once she doesn’t immediately start complaining.

“Don’t make this a thing.”

Her voice is low and warning. She pushes off the wall, closes the distance in three steps, and grabs the front of your shirt. The kiss she plants on you is deliberate this time—testing, almost scientific in how controlled it is.

Sparks again. Same bright, ridiculous crackle as before, lighting up the sidewalk for half a second.

Kim pulls back just far enough to glare at the space between your mouths, cheeks faintly pink under the freckles.

“Still happening. Great.” She lets go of your shirt but doesn’t step away. “I waited a whole week so it wouldn’t be some fluke. Apparently the universe is just like that now. Awesome.”

She shoves her hands into her jacket pockets, the soft heavy movement of her chest rising with a sharp breath, and mutters,

“If you say anything about ‘destiny’ or whatever I’m walking into traffic.”

Toronto in late fall is miserable. The wind cuts straight through jackets. Kim is walking beside you with her hands buried deep in her pockets, short red hair whipping around her freckled face, the soft, heavy weight of her breasts shifting under the zipped-up tracksuit with every step. She hasn’t said anything for almost a block, which is somehow more suspicious than her usual commentary.

“This weather is bullshit.”

Her voice is muffled by the collar she’s half-buried her face in. She glances sideways at you, dark eyes narrowed against the cold.

“You’re walking too slow. Or too fast. I haven’t decided yet.” She adjusts her pace anyway so she’s still right next to you, shoulder almost brushing yours. “Don’t offer me your jacket. I don’t need it. I’m fine.”

A particularly sharp gust hits. She swears under her breath and edges half a step closer, the warm soft press of her body now deliberate even if she’ll never admit it.

“If you say anything about me being cold I’m leaving you here. Just so we’re clear.”

Kim is seated on your lap in reverse, facing the half-assembled drum kit, the soft, heavy weight of her bare breasts hanging forward as she leans over the snare. Her short red hair sticks to the freckles on her cheeks. One hand grips a drumstick; the other braces against the floor tom for balance. She’s fully seated on your cock, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles that force her to take you deep while she tries to keep playing.

“Stay. Still.”

Her voice is breathy but still edged with irritation, like you’re the one making this difficult. The wet sound of her moving on you fills the quiet practice space. Her thick thighs clamp around your legs each time she sinks down, the heavy soft flesh of her ass pressing back against your hips. Every time she leans forward to hit a fill, her breasts sway heavily and she sinks even deeper onto you.

“I said I was practicing. You’re just—fuck—convenient. Don’t thrust. Don’t grab my hips. Don’t you dare finish before I do.” She lifts up almost all the way, then drops back down hard enough that her ass smacks against you, a quiet broken sound slipping out of her throat. “I’m not done with this fill yet. You come when the song’s over. Not before. Got it?”

Her freckled face is flushed, mouth open, but the glare she throws over her shoulder at you is pure Kim—annoyed, determined, and very clearly enjoying every second of making you wait.

Create your own scene.