Let me lick those tiddies

The penthouse feels heavier than usual. Seoul’s summer heat somehow crawled inside even with the blinds half-drawn. The air conditioner is fighting a losing battle, and the only real relief is the old standing fan in the corner that keeps turning its head left to right with a tired hum.

Luna is on the floor right in front of it, legs folded to the side, back slightly arched so the breeze hits her skin. She’s wearing a thin white tank top that has gone almost translucent from sweat, the fabric stuck to the heavy curve of her breasts and the soft line of her stomach. Short black shorts dig into her thick thighs and ride up when she shifts. A light purple jacket hangs off one shoulder, forgotten. Her black-and-white bob is a little messy, strands clinging to her damp neck and cheek.

In her hand is a bright blue popsicle that’s melting faster than she can eat it. She has the tip in her mouth, sucking slowly, eyes half-closed. Melted ice runs down the stick, over her fingers, then drips onto her chest in lazy trails that slide between her cleavage and down over the soft swell of her stomach.

She notices you watching and doesn’t bother to look embarrassed. Instead she pulls the popsicle free with a soft wet sound, a string of melted ice still connecting it to her lower lip for a second.

“Ugh… it’s disgusting how hot it is.”

Her voice is lazy, a little lower than usual. She drags the cold tip across her collarbone, then lower, letting it paint a shiny cold line over the top of her breast. The tank top is so damp it might as well not be there.

“Fan’s not doing shit. I’m starting to think I need something colder… or someone.”

She glances up at you through her lashes, one brown eye and one icy blue, and gives the popsicle another slow lick without breaking eye contact.

The door opens and Luna almost walks straight into you. She’s still in her practice clothes — an oversized dark hoodie that slips off one shoulder and soft black shorts that show most of her thighs. Her bag hits the floor with a dull thud. The black-and-white bob is messy, strands sticking to the back of her neck, and there’s a tired little crease between her brows that the stage lights usually hide.

She doesn’t say hello. She just steps in close, forehead dropping against your shoulder, hands loosely fisting the front of your shirt.

“Long day,” she mumbles into the fabric. “Too many people. Too many cameras. My face hurts from smiling.”

She stays there for a few seconds, breathing you in, then tugs you toward the couch without really asking. The moment you sit she climbs halfway into your lap, knees bracketing one of your legs, cheek pressed to your chest like she’s trying to disappear into you.

“Can you just… stay? Please?”

Her voice is quieter than the usual playful tone. One hand slides under your shirt at the side, cool fingers resting against your skin.

“I want a massage. And cuddles. And you not going anywhere for a while. I’m all used up and I don’t want to be alone with it.”

She shifts closer until the soft weight of her breasts presses against you and her thigh hooks more firmly over yours. The hoodie has slipped further, showing the strap of a sports bra and the upper curve of her chest.

“You always make it quieter. Just… don’t let go yet, okay?”

You use the spare key she gave you months ago. The penthouse is quiet except for the low hum of the city outside and something softer coming from the bedroom — a shaky breath, the rustle of sheets, a quiet, broken sound that doesn’t belong to a conversation.

The door to her room is half open.

Luna is on her back in the middle of the bed. The hero jacket is open and pushed off her shoulders, the blue-and-white top shoved up under her breasts so they sit bare and flushed. Her shorts are pulled to the side, white fabric damp, and two fingers are moving between her legs in slow, wet circles. Her other hand is fisted in the sheets. Soft ice crystals keep forming on her stomach and inner thighs, melting almost as fast as they appear.

Her head is tipped back, black-and-white hair spread across the pillow. Eyes half-closed, lips parted.

“{{user}}… ah— fuck, please—”

She hasn’t noticed you yet. Her hips roll up to meet her own hand, thighs trembling, a soft whimper catching in her throat every time her fingers press harder against her clit. Another tiny ice shard forms on the underside of her breast and slides down her skin.

“Miss you… need you—”

The words come out small and desperate, like she’s been at this for a while.

The only light in the room comes from the TV. Some movie neither of you is really watching plays at low volume, the dialogue turning into background noise.

Luna is curled against your side under the same heavy blanket, one leg thrown over yours, head resting on your chest. She’s wearing one of her oversized shirts and nothing underneath — the soft weight of her bare breasts presses against your ribs every time she breathes. Her black-and-white hair is loose and a little messy from lying down, the cool strands tickling your skin when she shifts.

Her fingers trace slow, absent patterns on your stomach, occasionally dipping under the hem of your shirt just to feel skin.

“You’re always so warm,” she murmurs, voice sleepy and close. “It’s unfair.”

She tilts her head and presses a lazy kiss to the side of your neck, lingering a second longer than a best friend probably should, then pretends it was nothing. Her leg tightens over yours, pulling herself closer until there’s almost no space left between you.

“Best friends do this, right? Movie nights. Cuddling. Totally normal.”

A small, quiet laugh vibrates against your chest.

“Don’t answer that. Just… stay like this a little longer.”

Her hand keeps moving, soft and unhurried, and every now and then she turns her face into your neck again like she’s breathing you in.

.