Don't Wanna Be Your Girl || Jensoo

May We Cum Again (Don't Wanna Cum Alone) - Oneshot

Summary: What would happen if both Jennie (The Cummander) and Jisoo (Jessa Skai) meet? Like in a world where they are both in the porn industry? Would they end up only exclusively working with each other? How would their meeting go down?

That DWBYG au of an au.

*****

The after party is in full swing by the time Jennie hoists herself onto a tall stool and signals the bartender for a drink. According to the chalkboard menu propped against the gantry, porn star martinis are half price until midnight and she barely suppresses the urge to roll her eyes.

Because, a) how original and, b) the awards organisers were clearly too cheap to stump for a free bar, which is frankly indicative of the low regard that porn aimed at a primarily queer female demographic is held in by the industry at large.

Jennie has many gripes about the systemic inequalities and rampant misogyny of the adult entertainment business and on any other occasion, she'd be boycotting the hell out of this self-congratulatory circle jerk. But right now, political axes to grind aside? She just really needs some fucking alcohol.

Anything to take the bitter edge off her loss.

She was robbed.

Nominated in three categories for Apocalicks Now, the coveted Golden Vulva was within touching distance. Hers for the taking.

Chaeyoung was convinced she had it in the bag; her publicist would've bet the proverbial farm on it. In the run up to the ceremony, she'd mounted a persuasive "for your consideration" campaign and everyone involved in the production and beyond seemed assured of Jennie's triumph.

Jennie even had a rousing acceptance speech prepared.

But, instead, here she is: empty-handed and brooding, wishing she was anywhere but this tacky nightclub adjacent to the convention centre.

With a sigh, she drains the martini. Catches the bartender's eye and mouths, "another, please" over the EDM relentlessly assaulting her eardrums.

She's deep into that second drink, taking a long, ruminative sip and trying to ignore the tension headache building behind her eyes, when someone collides with her elbow, sending the contents of the glass sloshing over the rim and onto her lap.

"—the fuck?!"

Letting out a furious growl, she leaps off the stool and dabs angrily at the spillage with a discarded cocktail napkin. But it's useless. Her bespoke tux, custom-tailored for the occasion, is ruined. Jesus, it looks like she pissed herself!

A red mist descends.

She whirls, about to hurl a snarled insult at this clumsy jackass, but when fierce brown meets deeply contrite brown, the words stall in Jennie's throat.

Her hostility is short-lived, vanishing the instant her gaze drops to a rack that could stop ten lanes of traffic. They're C cups, one marginally bigger than the other by her estimation. As an enthusiast and connoisseur, and having handled breasts of all shapes, sizes and hefts in her line of work, Jennie is an excellent judge of these things.

(Accurately guessing bra measurements is a popular party trick of hers. She's so good at it, people assume she must've worked at Victoria's Secret or in the lingerie department at Macy's. But, nope, it's just one of her innate lesbian abilities. Like an aptitude for assembling flat pack furniture and being impervious to straight white cis men's toxic bullshit.)

Whatever the case, she really wants to thank whoever picked out that figure-hugging red dress because it's doing an outstanding job of showcasing several inches of cleavage.