#other than some vague snippets
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boarloved-art · 1 month ago
Note
With the last post you made about the ghost girls I'm sorry but you're now legally obligated to tell us their names
(As for baby ghost girl, she could be both ghost communal daughter and wangxian daughter why not lol let's be crazy the more the better.)
wow so true!!! it does, in fact, take a village, or in this case 4 lesbian ghosts and 2 gay men!
ok!!!! their names!!!!
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half skull -> liu xinyu (which ive also discovered like 2 days ago is the name of a figure skater😭 sorry for stealing ur name girl), her gf doesnt have a name yet
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sword -> Nie SiYu! (which sounds. so cutesy. i love when strong serious characters get cutesy names i cant lie)
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eyeball -> zhou chenxing!
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scar -> yang linhua!
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jupiterpilgrim · 3 months ago
Text
Right Here
Karina x male reader
word count: 20k
commissioned fic
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You’re slouched against a flimsy folding table in the corner of the set, a half-empty coffee cup dangling from your hand, the bitter dregs gone cold ages ago. It’s day three of this chaotic shoot for Aespa’s big comeback, and as a runner—a glorified errand boy, really—you’ve been hauling gear, fetching water bottles, and dodging the AD’s barked orders like it’s some kind of Olympic sport. The soundstage is a mess of cables, lights, bodies buzzing around, and there's that distinct smell in the air, that weird mix of sweat, makeup, and overpriced perfume that clings to every MV set. You’re beat, your sneakers scuffed to hell, but then you glance up from your phone, mid-scroll through some dumb meme, and there she is—Karina. Holy shit. You’ve seen her in passing over the last couple days, sure, but this is the first time you’ve really seen her, and it’s like someone cranked the brightness on the world up to eleven.
She’s standing maybe ten feet away, under a halo of softbox lights, chatting with a stylist who’s fussing with the hem of her skirt. Her top’s this shimmery thing, all silver and plunging neckline, catching the light every time she shifts. Her hair’s dark, sleek, falling over one shoulder like she just stepped out of some high-budget shampoo ad. And her face—fuck, her pretty doll face. Big eyes that glint even from here, lips glossy enough you can’t help but wonder what they taste like. She’s unreal, the kind of stunning that makes you question if you’re awake or just hallucinating from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. You try to play it cool, sip your coffee like you’re not staring, but your eyes keep dragging back to her like she’s got some gravitational pull.
She catches you looking. Not in a subtle way either—her head tilts, those eyes lock onto yours across the room, and your stomach does a quick flip like you just missed a step going downstairs. You freeze, coffee halfway to your mouth, and she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t frown, doesn’t smirk, just holds your gaze for a beat longer than feels safe. Then the stylist says something, and she laughs—bright, loud, this sound that cuts through the hum of the set like it’s meant just for you.
She turns back to the conversation, but you’re still stuck there, heart thumping a little too hard, wondering if you imagined it. You shake it off, set the cup down, and busy yourself with untangling a spare HDMI cable nobody asked for. Gotta look useful, right? Can’t just stand there gawking like some creep.
A couple hours later, you’re hauling a crate of water bottles toward the green room when you nearly crash into her. She’s coming around the corner, phone in one hand, a half-eaten protein bar in the other, and you both do that awkward sidestep dance before she just stops and laughs again. “Whoa, careful there,” she says. Up close, she’s even worse—better, whatever. Her pale skin’s flawless, glowing under the shitty fluorescent lights. You mumble an apology, something about being in a rush, and she waves it off, popping the last bite of her bar into her mouth. “You’re the runner guy, right? I’ve seen you sprinting around. You’re fast.”
You nod, shifting the crate in your arms, trying not to drop it like an idiot. “Yeah, uh, that’s me. Just keeping the machine running.” You’re aiming for casual, but your voice comes out tighter than you’d like. She smiles, and it’s not one of those polite idol smiles—well, you’re almost sure of that. “And thanks for that. This whole thing would fall apart without you guys, trust me. We’re all dying out there.” She gestures vaguely toward the set, and you notice her nails—painted black, chipped a little at the edges.
You shrug, playing it down. “Just doing my job. You’re the one killing it, though. That choreo looks brutal.” It’s not a lie—you’ve caught snippets of the rehearsal between runs, and the way she moves is hypnotic, all power and precision wrapped in that effortless cool. She groans, rolling her eyes. “God, don’t remind me. My legs are screaming, and we’ve still got, what, ten more takes? I’m excited, though. This comeback’s gonna be huge.” There’s this fire in her voice, tired as she sounds, and it’s infectious. You grin despite yourself. “Yeah? Well, it’s looking dope already. You guys are crushing it.”
She studies you for a second, head cocked, like she’s sizing you up. “Thanks… what’s your name, anyway?” You tell her, and she repeats it, slow, like she’s testing it out. “Cool. I’m Karina, but you probably knew that.” She laughs again, softer this time, and you’re hit with how normal this feels—like she’s not Karina from Aespa, just a girl who’s tired and chatty and maybe a little flirty. You chat for a minute longer, nothing deep, just quick back-and-forth about the shoot, the coffee sucking, her joking about needing a nap mid-take. Then a PA’s voice crackles through your earpiece, barking about some lens needing to move ASAP, and you wince. “Shit, duty calls. Good luck out there.”
Karina nods, stepping back. “You too, runner boy. Don’t trip over anything.” She winks—fucking winks—and heads off, leaving you standing there with the crate, a dumb grin creeping onto your face. Later, as you’re dodging through the set again, you spot her by the monitors, going over a take with the director. She glances your way, just for a second, and there’s that look again—quick, sharp, like a secret. You’re not imagining it this time. By the end of the day, your phone’s buzzing in your pocket. Unknown number. The text just says: “Hey, it’s Karina. You free for coffee that doesn’t suck sometime?” You stare at it, brain blanking for a solid ten seconds before you save her number, thumbs hovering over the screen. “Yeah, definitely. Name the time.” You hit send, and the rest of the shoot fades into noise—because holy shit, Karina just gave you her number.
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You’re pacing outside a little charming coffee shop she picked, the kind of place you’d walk past a hundred times and never notice. It’s a Sunday afternoon, gray clouds smudging the sky, and you’re early—way too early—because the last thing you want is to roll up late and look like a dick. Your hands are shoved deep in the pockets of your jeans, and you’re trying to play it cool, but your stomach’s doing somersaults, and your brain’s stuck on a loop: this can’t be real. Karina—fucking Karina—texted me to hang out. You still half-expect this to be some prank, like maybe one of the other crew guys snagged your phone and set this up to mess with you. But the texts were real. Her number’s saved under “K” in your contacts, and every time you glance at it, your pulse jacks up like you’re about to sprint across the set again.
You check your phone for the tenth time in five minutes—2:47. She said 3:00, but you’ve been here since 2:30, scuffing your sneakers against the cracked sidewalk, eyeballing every car that rolls by like it might be her. You’re a nervous wreck, palms sweaty, and you keep wiping them on your thighs like that’s gonna fix anything. Then you spot her. She’s stepping out of a black SUV across the street, hood up, sunglasses perched on her nose, but there’s no mistaking that walk—confident, smooth, like she owns the damn pavement. She’s in baggy sweats and a cropped tee, sneakers so white they practically glow, and somehow she makes it look effortless, like she just rolled out of bed and still belongs on a billboard. Your throat goes dry, and you straighten up, praying you don’t trip over your own feet.
She spots you, pulls the sunglasses down just enough to peek over them, and grins—fuck, that grin. It’s wide and easy, like she’s not the same girl who’s got millions of fans losing their minds online. “Hey, runner boy,” she calls, jogging across the street, dodging a bike courier with a flick of her head. “You’re early. Nervous or just obsessed with me already?” You laugh, a little too loud, and scrub a hand through the back of your neck. “Uh, maybe both? Still kinda feels like I’m dreaming this shit.” She smirks, pulling the hood down now, her hair spilling out in dark waves. “Well, pinch yourself, ‘cause I’m real. C’mon, let’s get inside before someone spots me and I’ve gotta sign napkins again.”
The coffee shop’s tiny—you could miss it if you blinked, but it's got this super cozy vibe. Worn wooden tables, mismatched comfy chairs, and shelves crammed with books. It smells like espresso and cinnamon, and there’s some lo-fi playlist humming through a speaker in the corner. It's the kind of place where the barista knows your order after like, two visits. Basically, it's perfect if you want to escape the chaos and just chill. After each of you order your drinks, you follow her to a table near the back, tucked by a window streaked with old rain marks. She slides into the seat across from you, peeling off the sunglasses and tossing them onto the table like they’re nothing special. Up close, she’s still unreal—those eyes, sharp and bright, zeroing in on you like you’re the only thing in the room. But she’s chill, slouching back in her chair, one leg kicked up on the rung of the stool next to her. “Okay, you probably already know that my name is Yu Jimin. But you can call me Rina, if you want, I particularly like being called that,” she says, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Karina’s for the stage and, like, interviews. Feels weird hearing it off-set.”
“Rina’s still kinda tied to Karina, though, isn’t it?” you say, tilting your head. “Like, it’s a nickname for your stage name. Doesn’t it ever feel weird, people calling you that all the time?” She pauses, straw hovering mid-air, and gives you this look—like she’s actually thinking about it, not just brushing you off. Then she shrugs, “Honestly? Not really. I’ve been Karina for so damn long now—years, dude—that it’s just… me. Like, if someone yells ‘Jimin’ across the room, I’d probably look around like, ‘Who the hell are they talking to?’ It’s weird as fuck to hear my real name sometimes. Feels like it belongs to someone else, you know?”
“Makes sense. Least it’s a pretty name, though. Yu Jimin’s got a nice ring to it.” She snorts, rolling her eyes, but there’s this tiny flush on her cheeks that she can’t hide. “Oh, smooth, runner boy. Real smooth. But thanks, I guess. Could’ve been worse—imagine if I got stuck with something lame.” Then she leans forward, elbows on the table, that glint in her eye turning playful. “You know who’s got it rough, though? Ningning. Her stage name’s a mess for fans. Like, do you go with Ningning, Ning, or full-on Ning Yizhuo? I bet fanfic writers are out there sweating, trying to figure out what to type without sounding dumb.”
You crack up, picturing it—some poor writer hunched over their laptop, agonizing over whether “Ning” sounds too short or “Ning Yizhuo” kills the vibe. “Oh, shit, you’re right. Ningning’s got that mysterious edge, but it’s a mouthful when you’re tryna make it normal in a story. ‘Karina’ just flows—short, punchy, hot. You lucked out.” She cackles, slapping the table hard enough that her glasses slide an inch on the table. “Exactly! I mean, I’m not saying I’m the fanfic queen or anything, but Karina’s got that main-character energy. Poor Ning’s out here like, ‘Am I a nickname or a government ID?’ It’s brutal.”
You’re both laughing now, and it’s so easy, like you’re not sitting across from a literal idol who’s got half the world obsessed with her.
"Well, I’m still just me, I guess. No stage name yet.” She smiles, and it’s like a hit of dopamine straight to your brain. “Yet? What, you planning to ditch the runner gig and take over the world?” You shrug, grinning despite the nerves still buzzing under your skin. “Maybe. Gotta start somewhere, right?” The barista calls out something garbled, and she hops up to grab the drinks—some iced thing with too much sugar for her, black coffee for you. When she’s back, she slides yours over, and you’re hyper-aware of her fingers brushing the table near yours. “So,” she says, sipping through her straw, “Aren't you curious to know how I got your number?”
“Yeah, I was gonna ask you that. Figured maybe you snagged it from the call sheet or something.” She leans forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands, and there’s this glint in her eye like she’s about to drop a bomb. “Okay, don’t freak out, but I kinda asked one of the PAs for it. The tall one with the clipboard who’s always yelling? She’s chill, though, didn’t even blink. Just said, ‘Oh, the runner? Sure.’” You blink, processing that. “Wait, you asked for my number? Like, on purpose?” She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks pink up a little, and it’s the first time she doesn’t seem totally in control. “Duh. You think I just randomly text crew guys for fun? You seemed… I dunno, cool. Normal. Not like the usual set weirdos.”
You’re floored. Karina—Rina—went out of her way to track you down, and now she’s sitting here, sipping her drink, calling you cool like it’s nothing. Your brain’s scrambling to keep up, but you lean back, try to match her vibe. “Well, damn. Guess I owe the PA a beer or something. And here I thought you just liked my water bottle delivery skills.” She snorts, covering her mouth with her hand, and it’s so fucking cute you almost forget how to breathe. “Those too. But nah, I just… wanted to talk more. You’re interesting. Spill—what’s your deal? Like, what’s the runner life about, and what’s next?”
It’s the way she asks—genuine, not just small talk—that throws you. She’s not asking to be polite; she actually wants to know. So you start talking, fumbling at first, but then it flows. You tell her how you stumbled into the gig—fresh out of school, no clue what to do, just needed cash and a friend hooked you up. It’s grunt work, sure, but you’re good at it, and lately you’ve been paying attention, watching the directors, the DPs, how they move, how they talk. “I wanna direct someday,” you admit, stirring your coffee even though it’s already mixed. “Not, like, right now—I’m not delusional—but I’m soaking it all up. Figure if I stick around long enough, I’ll learn something worth a damn. And... well, I like to film things, when I was a kid I used to record these home documentaries about my family's routine, and in high school I used to film me and my friends doing some crazy adventure. It's all amateur stuff, but I feel like I can do something good if I put my mind to it.” She nods, eyes locked on you, and it’s not pity or boredom—she’s into it. “That’s dope,” she says. “Takes balls to start at the bottom and aim up. Most people just wanna skip the hard shit.”
You shrug, but her words stick. “Yeah, well, I’m not in a rush. Just trying to not fuck it up.” Then you flip it back. “What about you? What’s it like being… you? Like, the whole idol thing—cameras, fans, the girls. Lay it on me.” She leans back, twirling her straw, and for a second you think she’s gonna dodge it, but then she dives in. “It’s wild,” she says, voice dropping like she’s letting you in on a secret. “Like, amazing—don’t get me wrong, I love it—but it’s a lot. We live together, me and the girls, in this dorm that’s nice but kinda feels like a fancy cage sometimes. You’re never really alone, y’know? Someone’s always there—Giselle stealing my snacks, Ningning blasting music, Winter leaving her socks everywhere. It’s home, though. They’re my people.”
You laugh, picturing it—the chaos, the mess, the sisterhood. “Sounds like a sitcom. What about the rest? The schedules, the fame shit?” She sighs, but it’s not heavy—just real. “The routine’s insane. Practice ‘til your legs give out, then recording, then promo, then more practice. You’re dead tired, but you can’t stop ‘cause the fans are waiting, and the company’s breathing down your neck. And the celebrity part? It’s cool ‘til it’s not. Like, I can’t grab a burger without someone snapping a pic and saying I’m too fat or too thin or whatever. But the highs—like performing, hearing the crowd scream your name? That’s the drug. Keeps you going.”
You’re hanging on every word, and she’s got this way of telling it—raw, funny, no bullshit—that makes you forget she’s a superstar. You crack a joke about her burger struggles—“What, no secret McDonald’s runs in disguise?”—and she cackles, loud enough that the barista glances over. “Oh, I’ve tried,” she says, wiping her eyes. “Sunglasses, hat, the whole deal. Still got caught. Now I just send a manager and live vicariously.” You’re both laughing now, and it’s easy, natural, like you’ve known her forever. Her smile’s wide, teeth flashing, and it’s addictive—every time it fades, you wanna say something dumb just to bring it back.
You ask about the comeback, how she’s holding up with the stress, and she shrugs, but her eyes light up. “It’s brutal, but I’m pumped. This one’s different—edgier, y’know? I think it’s gonna fuck people up in a good way.” You tell her about catching the rehearsals, how she owned it, and she blushes—actually blushes—muttering a “thanks” that’s so quiet you almost miss it. The conversation keeps rolling—her asking about your favorite shoots, you asking what she does to unwind (turns out she’s a Netflix binge fiend)—and hours slip by without you noticing. The coffee’s long gone, the shop’s emptying out, but you don’t care. She’s got your head spinning, and you’re pretty sure you’d stay here ‘til midnight if she let you.
She glances at her phone eventually, wincing. “Shit, I’ve got practice in an hour. Gotta bounce soon.” Your heart sinks, but you play it off. “Yeah, no worries. Don’t wanna keep you from blowing minds out there.” She smiles again, softer this time, and stands, stretching a little. “This was fun,” she says, grabbing her sunglasses. “Let’s do it again. You’re not bad company, runner boy.” You grin, standing too. “You’re not so bad yourself, Rina.” She lingers for a second, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back up, and you’re this close to saying something stupid when she winks. “Text me. I’ll need more of your stories to survive this week.” Then she’s gone, slipping out the door, and you’re left there, dazed, her laugh still echoing in your head like the best kind of high.
That coffee shop hangout was the spark that lit everything up between you and Yu Jimin—Rina, as she’s become to you. It’s been a couple months now, and you’re still wrapping your head around how this even happened, how she happened. You’re not just some runner schlepping gear anymore; you’re the guy she’s texting at 2 a.m. about some random Netflix show she’s obsessed with or a dumb joke she heard from Ningning that she can’t stop cackling about. Your phone’s a constant buzz in your pocket—“u up?” or “this shoot is killing me, save me with something funny”—and every time her name pops up, you get that stupid little jolt in your chest like you’re a teenager with a crush. You fire back with memes or stories about the set, like the time the AD tripped over a light stand and blamed you like you’re the one who planted it there. She always responds quick, little laughing emojis or a “god, you’re such a dork,” and it’s become this daily rhythm that keeps you sane amidst the grind.
On set, though, you’re both pros at playing it cool. The Aespa comeback shoot’s in full swing, all blinding lights and thumping bass, and you’re darting around as usual—grabbing cables, hauling monitors, dodging the choreographer’s frantic waves. Rina’s out there in the thick of it, hair whipping as she nails take after take, her focus razor-sharp. You keep your distance, sticking to your corner, but it’s impossible not to lock eyes sometimes. She’ll glance over mid-break, wiping sweat off her forehead, and shoot you this tiny, crooked smile—like a secret only you’re in on. You’ll nod back, casual as hell, but your pulse kicks up a notch every time. The other crew guys don’t notice; they’re too busy griping about the schedule or sneaking smokes out back. But those little moments? They’re yours and hers, tucked away from the chaos.
Off-set, it’s a whole different game. You’ve started hanging out more, sneaking off to quiet spots—her place sometimes, when the girls are out, or yours, a cramped apartment with mismatched furniture and a fridge that’s mostly beer and takeout containers. It’s easy with her, effortless. You’ll sprawl on her couch, her legs thrown over yours, scrolling through your phone while she rants about how Giselle keeps stealing her hoodies or how Winter’s obsessed with reorganizing their kitchen at 3 a.m. You’ll tease her—“Sounds like you’re living in a zoo, Rina”—and she’ll shove you with her foot, laughing that laugh that makes your stomach flip. Hours vanish like that, her head resting on your shoulder by the end of it, her breathing soft and steady. She’s comfortable with you, she says it all the time—“You’re like my safe spot, y’know?”—and damn if that doesn’t hit you right in the chest.
Then there’s this one night—a Friday, after a brutal week where you’ve both been run ragged. You’re at her place, some low-key spot she picked because the dorm was too chaotic with the girls around. It’s just the two of you, a couple bottles of soju, and a playlist she threw together humming through her Bluetooth speaker. You’re both buzzed, the kind of loose where everything’s funny and the room’s spinning just enough to blur the edges. She’s in this oversized tee, hair messy, barefoot, pouring another shot with this goofy grin. “Okay, okay, your turn,” she says, shoving the bottle at you. “Tell me something dumb you did as a kid.” You groan, tipping the shot back, the burn sliding down your throat. “Fine. Uh, I tried to impress this girl in fifth grade by jumping off a slide. Landed flat on my face, chipped a tooth. She laughed at me for, like, a solid month.” Rina cackles, nearly spilling her drink, and you’re laughing too.
The night rolls on like that—shots, stories, her giggling at your terrible dance moves when she drags you up to sway to some slow song. You’re both sloppy, bumping into each other, and the flirting’s not even subtle anymore. She’s leaning into you, shoulder brushing yours, eyes flicking to your mouth when she thinks you won’t notice. You catch her staring once, twice, and the third time you hold her gaze, letting it linger. Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away, and fuck, the air’s thick now, electric. You’re sprawled on the floor, backs against the couch, and she’s close—closer than she needs to be—her knee knocking against yours. “You’re fun, y’know that?” she says, voice soft, a little slurred. “Like, stupid fun. I like it.” You grin, head lolling to the side to look at her. “Yeah? You’re not so bad yourself, superstar.”
She snorts, shoving you lightly. “Shut up. I’m serious, though. You make shit feel… normal. Not all crazy and fake like it usually is.” Her eyes are glassy, but there’s this raw honesty in them that sobers you up just enough. You nudge her back, softer. “Good. ‘Cause I’m having a blast with you. Like, all the time. Even when you’re not around, I’m just—fuck, I’m thinking about you, Rina. It’s kinda pathetic.” You laugh, but it’s nervous, like you just laid your cards out and you’re waiting for her to fold. She doesn’t. She goes quiet, staring at you, and then that smile creeps back—slow, real, lighting up her whole face. “You’re sweet,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Really sweet.”
You’re both just sitting there, the music looping in the background, and you can’t stop looking at her lips—pink, parted, glistening from the soju. She catches you, and her breath hitches, just for a second. You shift, turning toward her, and she mirrors you, her hand brushing yours on the floor. It’s like slow motion—her leaning in, you meeting her halfway, and then her lips are on yours. It’s quick, soft, a little clumsy from the alcohol, but it feels like it lasts forever. Her mouth’s warm, tastes like peach soju and something sweeter, and your brain short-circuits, every nerve lighting up at once. She pulls back first, just an inch, eyes wide like she’s surprised herself, but then she’s smiling again, and you’re grinning too, both of you breathless and buzzed and a little stunned.
No one’s around—no managers, no girls, no crew. It’s just you and her in this bubble, the world locked out. She rests her forehead against yours, giggling soft. “That was… nice,” she whispers, and you nod, still dazed. “Yeah. Really fucking nice.” She laughs again, and you’re hooked—on her, on this, on whatever the hell you just stepped into. You don’t say it out loud, but you know this is it, the shift. The moment you stop being just some guy she texts and start being something more. She grabs your hand, laces her fingers through yours, and flops back against the couch, pulling you with her. “Don’t get weird about it, okay?” she says, but she’s still smiling, still holding on. “Promise I won’t,” you say, and you mean it. You’re not sure what’s next, but right now, with her sprawled beside you, her thumb rubbing lazy circles on your knuckles, you don’t care.
Aespa’s comeback drops like a bomb, and suddenly Rina’s everywhere—on billboards, music shows, TikTok challenges blowing up your feed. You knew it was coming, but watching it unfold still blows your mind. She’s out there killing it, all fierce energy and flawless moves, while you’re back to the grind, no longer tied to her set. When her schedule ramped up and your runner gig on her shoot wrapped, you braced yourself for the fade-out. You’d seen it before—people get busy, life pulls them away, and whatever you had starts feeling like a fever dream. You almost convinced yourself this was it, that you and Rina were just a sweet, fleeting thing, a story you’d tell years from now over beers with the guys. “Yeah, I dated Karina from Aespa for a minute, wild, right?” But then your phone buzzes, and it’s her—“u alive? promo’s insane, save me”—and that sinking feeling in your gut? Gone. She doesn’t let it die.
She’s texting you more now, not less. Little snippets of her day—“just ate my weight in ramen, send help” or a blurry selfie mid-rehearsal, her hair damp with sweat, captioned “glamorous, huh?” She sends you pics of random shit too: a dog she saw outside the studio, a neon sign that says “Love Me” she thought was funny, a half-eaten dessert with “wish u were here to finish this” scrawled under it. You’re firing back just as fast—dumb memes, a shot of your burnt toast with “chef life”, whatever keeps her laughing.
Then the calls start. Late ones, when she’s holed up in some hotel room, voice soft and frayed. “God, I’m so tired,” she’ll say, sheets rustling as she shifts. “This bed’s huge, feels weird without you stealing the covers.” You laugh, sprawled on your own couch, the TV muted in the background. “Miss you too, Rina. Like, a lot.” Her hum on the other end is quiet, warm, and it settles deep in your chest.
While she’s out there conquering the world, you’re not just sitting still. You’ve leveled up—landed a gig on a music video for some rookie group, not as a runner this time but as a PA, a step closer to the action. You’re lugging tripods instead of water crates, actually talking to the director instead of dodging him. Nights, you’re hunched over your laptop, chipping away at an audiovisual course online—camera angles, editing software, the works. You tell Rina about it over a call one night. “It’s for Itzy—kinda chaotic, but I’m learning shit. And the course, man, I’m actually getting it.” She’s quiet for a sec, then, “That’s so fucking cool. You’re gonna be directing my videos someday, watch.” You laugh it off—“Yeah, right, I’ll just yell ‘more charisma!’ at you”—but she’s serious. “I’m proud of you,” she says, and it’s not just words. You can hear it in her tone, and it lights you up more than you’d admit.
Weeks grind by like that—her on the road, you hustling on your own path—until she finally gets a breather. A rare gap in her schedule, and what does she do? Texts you at 8 a.m.: “i’m free tonight. your place? miss u too much, it’s stupid.” Your heart does a dumb little flip, and you’re already scrambling to make your shitty apartment look less like a disaster zone. You shove takeout boxes into the trash, kick a pile of laundry into the closet, and pray the old couch doesn’t smell too much like beer. You’re not fancy—no candles or rose petals or whatever—but you order her favorite fried chicken, crack open a couple cold ones, and queue up some chill playlist she’d like. It’s low-key, but it’s you, and that’s always been enough for her.
The buzzer goes off at 7:32, and you’re at the door before it even stops ringing. You swing it open, and there she is—Rina, in the flesh, and holy shit, you’re not ready. She’s casual, just a black hoodie and ripped jeans, hair loose and a little messy, but she’s sexy in this effortless way that knocks the wind out of you. The hoodie’s unzipped enough to show a sliver of a red bralette underneath, and those jeans hug her legs like they were custom-made. She’s got this tired-but-happy glow, eyes lighting up when she sees you, and a lopsided grin that’s all trouble. “Hey, stranger,” she says, voice husky from travel or maybe just her, and she’s already stepping in, kicking off her sneakers by the door.
You barely get a “hey” out before she’s on you—not a hug, but this full-body collision, arms wrapping around your neck, her face buried in your shoulder. She smells like vanilla and something sharper, maybe the lingering edge of plane air, and you just hold her back, grinning like an idiot into her hair. “Missed you,” she mumbles against your shirt, and it’s muffled but real. “Missed you more,” you say, pulling back to look at her, and fuck, she’s gorgeous—cheeks flushed, eyes a little glassy from jet lag or maybe just the sight of you. She laughs, soft, and shoves your chest. “Liar. You’ve been too busy being Mr. Big Shot PA to think about me.”
You roll your eyes, tugging her toward the couch. “Yeah, ‘cause hauling tripods is so glamorous. C’mon, sit. Chicken’s hot, beer’s cold—your kinda night.” She flops down, legs tucked under her, and grabs a drumstick from the box on the coffee table. “God, you’re a saint,” she says through a mouthful, eyes fluttering shut like it’s the best thing she’s tasted in weeks. You settle next to her, close enough that your knees bump, and crack a beer, handing her one. “So, how’s the superstar life? Still signing napkins?” She snorts, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Worse. Some dude asked me to sign his forehead in Osaka. Forehead! I’m like, ‘Bro, don't do this to yourself.’”
You laugh, picturing it, and she leans into you, shoulder pressing against yours. “Tell me about your gig,” she says, sipping her beer, eyes on you now, bright and curious. So you do—rambling about the Itzy shoot, how the director’s a hardass but knows his stuff, how you almost dropped a lens worth more than your rent. She’s nodding, asking little follow-ups—“Wait, you’re operating cameras now?”—and it’s not fake interest. She’s into it, grinning when you tell her about the audiovisual course, how you’re messing with edits in your spare time. “Send me something,” she says, nudging you. “I wanna see your shit. Bet it’s good.” You shrug, playing it cool—“It’s just practice stuff”—but her enthusiasm sticks with you, warm and real.
The night unwinds slow and easy—chicken bones pile up, beer cans stack on the table, and you’re both looser, laughing louder. She’s sprawled against you now, head on your shoulder, one hand resting on your thigh, casual but not. She’s telling you about some hotel disaster—Giselle flooding the bathroom trying to dye her hair—and you’re cracking up, her giggles mixing with yours until you’re both just a mess of noise. Then it quiets down, the playlist looping something soft, and she shifts, looking up at you. Her eyes are softer now, lingering on your face, and you feel that pull again, the one from that drunken night months ago. “I really missed this,” she says, voice low, almost shy. “You. Us. It’s so… easy.”
You swallow, throat tight, and set your beer down. “Yeah. Me too. Like, all the time. You’re kinda stuck in my head, Rina.” She smiles at that—slow, gorgeous, the kind that makes your pulse stutter. Her hand slides up your chest, fingers curling into your shirt, and you’re hyper-aware of every inch of her—her warmth, her breath fanning against your jaw. You glance at her lips, glossy and pink, and when you look back up, she’s watching you, waiting. It’s all the cue you need. You lean in, slow, giving her time to pull back, but she doesn’t—she meets you halfway, lips brushing yours soft at first, then deeper. It’s not rushed, not sloppy like that first kiss. It’s warm, deliberate, her hand tightening in your shirt as she presses closer.
She tastes like beer and a hint of the strawberry gloss she must’ve put on earlier, and it’s dizzying, the way she moves with you—smooth, confident, like she’s been waiting for this as long as you have. Your hands find her waist, slipping under the hoodie, and her skin’s hot against your palms, soft as you slide up to her ribs. She makes this little sound, half-sigh, half-moan, and it’s enough to send your brain into overdrive. You pull back just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, and she’s smiling again, eyes half-lidded. “Been wanting to do that for weeks,” she murmurs, and you laugh, shaky. “Same. You’re killing me, y’know?”
She doesn’t answer, But her lips crash back into yours, and it’s like a dam breaking—weeks of pent-up tension spilling out in one messy, hungry kiss. You’re both past the slow buildup now; it’s all heat and want, her tongue sliding against yours. Her hand’s fisted in your shirt, pulling you closer, and you’ve got one palm splayed against the small of her back, the other gripping her hip under that hoodie. Her skin’s scorching, smooth as silk, and every little shift of her body against yours sends a jolt straight down your spine. She’s pressed up tight, chest flush against you, and you can feel her heartbeat hammering through the thin fabric, matching the wild thud of your own.
But she needs more, straddling your lap, and doesn’t break the kiss—not even close. Her thighs squeeze your hips, firm and warm, and the weight of her feels so fucking right, like she’s meant to be there. Her hoodie’s riding up, exposing a strip of pale stomach, and your hands are everywhere—sliding up her sides, brushing the edge of that red bralette you glimpsed earlier. She gasps into your mouth when your thumbs graze the underside of her breasts, soft and full, and the sound’s so hot it’s criminal. “Fuck,” you mutter against her lips, and she grins, wicked and breathless, pulling back just enough to peel the hoodie off in one fluid motion.
There she is—hair tousled, cheeks flushed, that bralette clinging to her like a second skin, lacy and barely containing her. Her breasts are bigger than you’d imagined, pale and perfect, spilling slightly over the fabric, and you’re staring like an idiot until she grabs your jaw, tilting your face back up to hers. “Eyes up here, perv,” she teases, but her voice is shaky, needy, and she’s already yanking your shirt up over your head. You help her, tossing it somewhere—fuck if you care where—and then she’s on you again, skin to skin, her chest pressed against yours. It’s electric, the heat of her, the softness, and you groan into her neck as she shifts in your lap, grinding down just enough to make you twitch in your jeans.
“Rina,” you rasp, hands roaming her back, fingers digging into her hips. “You’re gonna kill me.” She laughs, and nips at your earlobe. “Good way to go, though, right?” Her hands are in your hair, tugging just hard enough to sting, and she’s kissing you again, messy and deep, hips rocking against you. You can feel her through the denim—warmth, pressure, the faintest hint of dampness—and it’s torture, the best kind. You slide a hand down to her ass, squeezing through those tight jeans, and she moans, soft but real, breaking the kiss to catch her breath.
“Bed,” she says, more a demand than a suggestion, and she’s already climbing off you, grabbing your hand to pull you up. You follow her, half-stumbling, drunk on her and the buzz still lingering from the beer. Your apartment’s small, the bedroom just a few steps away, and she’s kicking the door open like she’s done it a hundred times. The room’s a mess—unmade bed, clothes strewn over a chair—but she doesn’t care, and neither do you. She turns to you, eyes dark and heavy, and steps back until her calves hit the mattress. “C’mere,” she murmurs, hooking a finger in your belt loop, tugging you close.
You’re on her in a second, hands framing her face, kissing her like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do. She tastes so good, feels even better, and when she falls back onto the bed, you’re right there with her, bracing yourself over her on your forearms. Her legs part, and you slot between them, jeans rough against her thighs. She arches up, pressing her chest into you, and you can’t resist—your mouth trails down her jaw, her neck, sucking lightly at the spot where her pulse jumps. She squirms, a little whimper slipping out, and you grin against her skin. “Sensitive?” you tease, and she swats your shoulder, breathless. “Shut up and keep going.”
You do. Kissing lower, you nudge the strap of her bralette down her shoulder, then the other, and she lifts her back just enough for you to unhook it. It falls away, and fuck—she’s stunning. Big, pale breasts, nipples pink and peaked, and you’re frozen for a beat, just taking her in. She catches you staring again, smirks, and grabs your head, guiding you down. “Don’t just look,” she mutters, and you don’t need to be told twice. Your lips close around one nipple, warm and soft, and she gasps, back bowing as you suck gently, tongue flicking over her. Your hand finds her other breast, kneading, thumb brushing the tip, and she’s writhing under you, little moans filling the room.
“God, you’re good at that,” she pants, fingers tight in your hair, and you hum against her, the vibration making her squirm harder. You switch, giving her other breast the same attention, and she’s tugging at your jeans now, impatient. “Off,” she says, voice wrecked, and you pull back, kneeling up to undo the button, the zipper. She’s shimmying out of her own jeans at the same time, kicking them off with a grunt, leaving her in just a pair of red panties—simple, cotton, but so fucking hot on her. You shed your jeans, boxers still on, and she’s already reaching for you, pulling you back down.
You settle between her legs again, and this time there’s less between you—just thin fabric and too much want. She rolls her hips up, grinding against your cock through your boxers, and you both groan at the friction. “Fuck, Rina,” you breathe, rutting back against her, and she’s clutching your shoulders, nails biting in. “I want you,” she says, straight-up, no games, and it’s like a match to gasoline. You kiss her hard, sloppy, all teeth and tongue, and your hand slips down, tugging her panties to the side. She’s wet—so wet—and your fingers slide through her, slick and warm, making her hiss and buck against you.
“I'll get a condom from the drawer,” you mutter, half to yourself, and she nods, frantic. You lean over, fumbling one-handed until you find a foil packet tucked between a lighter and some random receipts. You rip it open with your teeth—classy, sure, but you’re too wound up to care—and roll it on quick, hands shaking a little. She watches you, legs spread, chest heaving, and when you’re done, she pulls you back down, kissing you like she’s starving.
You line up, nudging against her entrance, and pause, looking at her. “You sure?” you ask. She nods, eyes locked on yours, soft and fierce at once. “Yeah. Fuck me.” It’s all the green light you need.
You shift, hands braced on either side of her, and nudge the tip of your cock against her entrance, just enough to feel her heat, her slickness. She’s tight already, even before you’re inside, the lips of her pussy pink and swollen, hugging you as you press forward slow—real slow—letting her adjust, letting yourself feel every goddamn inch. She gasps, sharp and quick, head tipping back into the pillow, and you freeze for a second, watching her face—flushed cheeks, fluttering lashes, the way her mouth opens in this perfect little “o.” “You okay?” you murmur, because you need her to be good—you need this to be good for her. She nods, fast, hands grabbing at your biceps. “Yeah, just—go, please.”
You push in deeper, and holy fuck, her pussy’s like a vice—tight, wet, and so hot it’s dizzying. The walls are slick, pulsing around you as you sink in, inch by torturous inch, and it’s like she’s swallowing you whole. You can see it in her too—the way her stomach tenses, the faint sheen of sweat on her collarbone, the way her thighs tremble where they’re hooked around your waist. You bottom out, hips flush against hers, and she lets out this low, broken moan that hits you square in the chest. “Fuck,” you breathe, forehead dropping to hers, and she’s panting, “I know, right?” You’re buried in her, every nerve on fire, and it’s overwhelming—the squeeze, the heat, the way she fits you like she was made for it.
You stay there a beat, letting her breathe, letting yourself feel her—really feel her. Her pussy’s pink and perfect up close, folds glistening with arousal, and you can’t help but shift your hips just a little, testing. She whimpers, soft, and her hands slide up to your shoulders, nails digging in. “Move,” she says, half-demand, half-plea, and you do—pulling out slow, watching her eyes flutter shut, then thrusting back in, harder this time. She jolts under you, a little “ah” slipping out, and you grin, feral, because fuck, that sound’s addictive. You start a rhythm—slow pulls, deep thrusts—and it’s intense, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room, mingling with her gasps and your low groans.
Her breasts bounce with every thrust, big and pale, catching the dim light from the streetlamp outside your window, and you can’t resist—you lean down, mouth closing over one nipple, sucking hard. She arches into you, moaning louder, and you feel her pussy clench tighter, a hot, wet grip that makes you curse against her skin. “Shit, Rina,” you mutter, tongue flicking over the peak, tasting salt and her, and your hand finds her other breast, cupping it, squeezing. It’s soft, heavy in your palm, and you roll the nipple between your fingers, pinching just enough to make her squirm. She’s sensitive—every tug, every lick pulls a reaction, her hips bucking up to meet yours, driving you deeper.
“God, you’re—fuck,” she gasps, voice hitching as you thrust harder, keeping her nipple between your teeth, teasing it with quick, sharp flicks. Her pussy’s soaking now, slick dripping down where you’re joined, and it’s tight, so fucking tight, like she’s trying to pull you in and keep you there. You shift your angle, hitching her leg higher over your hip, and hit deeper—some spot inside her that makes her cry out, loud and raw, her whole body shuddering. “There?” you ask, breathless, and she nods, frantic, “Yeah, there, don’t—don’t stop.”
You don’t. You pound into her, steady and hard, the bed creaking under you, headboard smacking the wall in a rhythm that’d piss off your neighbors if you gave a shit. Your mouth’s still on her breast, sucking, licking, and you can feel her tightening, her walls fluttering around your cock like she’s close already. “You feel so good,” you growl against her, letting her nipple slip free, red and wet from your tongue, and move to the other one. You bite down lightly, and she keens—a high, desperate sound that shoots straight to your dick. Your hand’s working her too—kneading the soft flesh, thumb circling her nipple, then pinching, rolling it until she’s thrashing under you, head tossing on the pillow.
“Fuck, yes,” she’s chanting, voice wrecked, “keep—keep doing that.” Her pussy’s a furnace, wet and pulsing, and every thrust feels like you’re sinking deeper into her, the friction building, electric. You can hear it—the slick, obscene sound of her taking you, the way she’s drenched around you—and it’s driving you wild. You slide a hand down her stomach, feeling her muscles jump, and press your thumb against her clit, just a light circle, testing. She bucks hard, a choked “oh” ripping from her throat, and you grin against her breast, sucking harder as you rub her clit in time with your thrusts.
Her breasts are bouncing faster now, jiggling with every slam of your hips, and you’re obsessed—watching them, feeling them, the way they fill your hand when you grab, the way her nipples harden more under your tongue. You pull back for a second, just to look—her chest heaving, pale skin flushed pink, your spit shining on her tits. “You’re fucking gorgeous,” you say, voice low, and she moans, eyes half-lidded, reaching for you. “C’mere,” she pants, pulling you back down, and you kiss her, messy and deep, tasting her groans as you fuck her harder.
Her pussy’s tight—impossibly tight—clamping down every time you hit that spot, and it’s wet, so wet you can feel it on your thighs, hear it every time you drive in. You experiment, slowing down, dragging your cock out almost all the way—letting her feel every ridge, every vein—then slamming back in, and she’s loud now, no holding back. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she’s gasping, hands clawing at your back, leaving red lines you’ll feel tomorrow. You keep playing with her tits—one hand pinching, twisting, the other massaging—and she’s losing it, body arching, hips grinding up to meet you like she can’t get enough.
“Harder,” she begs, voice trembling, and you oblige—thrusting deep, relentless, the bed shaking under you. Her breasts bounce wildly, and you catch one in your mouth again, sucking hard, teeth grazing, and she’s whimpering, “Yes, like that, oh god.” Her pussy’s squeezing you so tight it’s almost painful, pink and slick and perfect, and you can feel her slick coating you, dripping down to where your balls slap against her.
You pull back, kneeling between her legs, and grab her hips, yanking her up to meet you. The angle’s brutal, letting you go deeper, and she’s crying out with every thrust, hands fisting the sheets. Her tits are swaying, hypnotic, and you reach forward, cupping one, thumb flicking the nipple as you fuck her—hard, steady, watching her fall apart. “Look at you,” you rasp, “taking me so fucking well.” She moans, loud and shameless, and her pussy clenches again, a hot, wet pulse that nearly sends you over.
“Don’t stop,” she’s pleading, “I’m—I’m so close.” You can feel it—her walls tightening, her breath hitching—and you speed up, slamming into her, rubbing her clit faster. Her breasts jiggle harder, and you pinch her nipple, twisting just enough to push her over. She comes with a scream—sharp, desperate—body locking up, shuddering as her pussy spasms around you, wet and tight and fucking unreal. You keep going, riding her through it, mouth on her tit again, sucking hard as she shakes and gasps, “Oh god, oh god.”
You’re close too—her orgasm pulling you in, the way she’s still clenching, slick and hot—and you feel it building, fast and fierce. “Rina,” you grunt, “where—?” She’s still trembling, but she grabs your hips, panting, “My chest.” You nod, thrusting a few more times—deep, hard, feeling her pussy grip you—then pull out, ripping the condom off. She’s watching, eyes wide, as you stroke yourself once, twice, and then you’re cumming, thick and hot, spilling across her big, pale breasts. It’s messy, streaking over her nipples, dripping down her sternum, and she’s breathing hard, a dazed smile tugging at her lips as you finish.
You collapse beside her, both of you wrecked, sweaty and spent. Her chest’s rising and falling, your cum glistening on her skin, and she reaches for your hand, lacing her fingers with yours. “Holy shit,” she whispers, voice hoarse, and you laugh, shaky. “Yeah. Holy shit.” She turns her head, grinning at you, and it’s soft, romantic even, amidst the mess. “We’re so doing that again,” she says, and you nod, already hooked—on her, on this, on everything you’ve just started.
And just like that, you and Karina—Rina—are a thing. A real, official, holy-shit-we’re-dating thing. It happens a week after that mind-blowing night, when you’re both still riding the high of it, sprawled on your couch with takeout containers scattered around. You’re nervous as hell, picking at the last dumpling in the box, when you blurt it out: “So, uh, wanna be my girlfriend? Like, for real?” She’s mid-sip of her beer, and she freezes, eyes wide like you just asked her to rob a bank. Then she laughs—this bright, unguarded sound—and sets the can down, leaning over to kiss you, all soft and slow, tasting like hops and her. “Yeah, dumbass,” she says against your lips, “I’d love to.” And that’s it—sealed, done, you’re hers and she’s yours.
It’s incredible, she’s incredible, and you two fit together in this weird, perfect way that’s hard to put into words. She’s fire and chaos, all sharp edges and wild energy, but with you, she’s soft too—vulnerable in a way she doesn’t show the world. You’re her anchor, the guy who doesn’t flinch when her life gets messy, and she’s your spark, lighting up the dull corners of your days. You get her sarcasm, her late-night rants about the industry, the way she’ll blast music and dance around your tiny kitchen in her socks. She loves how you don’t give a shit about her fame, how you’ll call her out when she’s being dramatic or just sit there, listening, when she needs to vent. It’s easy, natural—like you’ve been doing this forever.
But dating an idol? That’s the flip side, the part nobody warns you about. Her schedule’s a nightmare—promo runs, overseas trips, rehearsals that stretch past midnight. You can’t just grab dinner somewhere cute; every outing’s a mission. She’s half-disguised all the time—hoodies pulled low, sunglasses even when it’s cloudy, a mask if she’s feeling extra paranoid. You’ve got to dodge fans, paparazzi, random weirdos with cameras, so your dates are sneaky—late-night drives to nowhere, takeout in your apartment, or crashing at her dorm when the girls are out. It’s a secret, this little world you’ve built, and it’s stressful as hell sometimes—waiting for her to text back when she’s stuck in a 14-hour shoot, knowing she’s halfway across the globe some weeks, FaceTiming you from a hotel room. But then she’ll call, voice all scratchy and tired, saying, “Miss you, babe,” and it’s worth it—every second of the chaos.
While she’s out there slaying it, you’re not just sitting around. Life’s moving for you too. One of your buddies, the lanky bass player with a man-bun and a vape habit, joins this indie rock band—some scrappy outfit called “Neon Howl.” They’re rough around the edges, all reverb and angst, but their sound’s got legs—think early Arctic Monkeys vibes with a dash of lo-fi grit. You’ve jammed with him since high school, so when he texts you one night—“Dude, we’re blowing up a little, need a video for our single. You in?”—you don’t even hesitate. “Fuck yeah,” you reply, because it’s him, because you dig their music, and because it’s a shot at something real, something you can sink your teeth into.
Problem is, you’re broke as shit—no fancy gear, no pro lighting kits, just your beat-up iPhone 14 and a dream. You make it work, though. You hit up a thrift store for some cheap lamps, snag a couple clip-on LED panels from Amazon with your meager savings, and borrow a foggy mirror from your neighbor for that artsy vibe. The song’s called “Static Veins,” a moody banger about chasing highs you can’t keep, and you’ve got this vision—gritty, handheld shots, neon streaks cutting through shadows, the band half-lost in a haze. You spend weeks on it, filming in the vocalist's garage, an abandoned lot by the train tracks, anywhere you can guerilla-shoot without permits. The band’s all in—your friend plucking his bass with this intense, zoned-out look, the singer, belting into a busted mic stand, drummer pounding away like he’s possessed. You’re running around, barefoot half the time, yelling, “Tilt your head back—yeah, like that!” or “Okay, jump, fuck up the frame!”
Editing’s the real beast. You’re holed up in your room, living off instant ramen and Red Bull, your laptop wheezing as you cut clips in some cracked version of Premiere you “borrowed” online. You play with filters, tweak the color grade ‘til it’s all bruised purples and electric blues, sync the cuts to the bassline so it hits like a punch. It’s scrappy, raw, but it’s got soul—every frame feels alive, restless, like the song itself. When you finally show the band, they lose their shit. Your friend slapping your back, going, “Bro, this is dope as fuck,” and the vocalist already posting stills on their Insta, hyping the drop. They upload it to YouTube, TikTok, wherever it’ll stick, and then—boom. It catches.
Not, like, viral-overnight fame, but a slow burn that picks up steam. TikTok kids start stitching it, layering their own dances or just vibing in car loops, the song’s hook—“veins full of static, can’t feel the fall”—sticking in heads. The view count ticks up—10k, 50k, then 100k—and comments roll in: “this vid is fire,” “who shot this? need more.” Neon Howl’s buzzing, gigs start popping up, and your friend’s texting you nonstop—“Dude, we owe you, this is our break.” You’re stoked, not just for them, but for you—proof you’ve got something, a spark you can build on.
You can’t wait to tell Rina. She’s in Japan when you call, some press junket—her voice crackles through the phone, sleepy but warm. “Hey, you,” she says, and you hear her shift, probably curling up in some hotel bed. “Miss me?” You grin, pacing your tiny room. “Always. But yo, I’ve got news—remember that video I was messing with for my friend’s band? It’s popping off. Like, TikTok’s eating it up.” She perks up—you can hear it, the rustle of sheets, her sitting up. “No way! The iPhone one? Babe, that’s so fucking cool—tell me everything.” So you do—rambling about the shoot, the edits, how the band freaked, how it’s actually getting traction. She’s quiet for a sec, then, “I’m so proud of you. Seriously. You made that out of nothing, and it’s killing it. You’re amazing.”
Her words hit deep, warming you from the inside out. “Thanks, Rina,” you say, softer, “means a lot coming from you.” She laughs, light and teasing. “Oh, come on, don’t get all mushy on me now.” But then her tone shifts, quieter, “I wish I was there. I’d kiss you stupid to celebrate.” You feel that ache—the distance—and flop onto your bed, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah, me too. When you back?” She sighs. “Three days. Feels like forever.” You nod, even though she can’t see it. “It does. But you’ve got me all lovesick over here, so hurry up.”
She giggles, and it’s the best sound in the world. “Lovesick, huh? You’re such a sap.” You smirk, rolling onto your side. “Only for you.” She goes quiet again, then, “Good. Stay that way. ‘Cause I’m kinda crazy about you too.” It’s not the first time she’s said it, but it still knocks the air out of you, makes your heart do this dumb little flip. “Same,” you mutter, and you both just breathe for a sec, letting it sink in. She’s half a world away, swamped with her idol life, but she’s here—on the line, in your corner, proud as hell. And you’re in love with her, full stop—distance, secrets, all of it be damned.
Tonight’s a big fucking deal, and you’re still wrapping your head around it. Two reasons to pop off, and both feel like they’re punching way above your weight. First, you just got tapped to co-direct a MV—your first real swing at the helm, even if it’s alongside someone else. It’s been a wild ride getting here, a year and change since that scrappy iPhone shoot for your friend’s band, Neon Howl. That first video was a fluke that stuck, a grainy little banger that somehow caught fire. You didn’t stop there—kept at it, shooting another for them, then another, each one a step up. You abandoned your phone for a secondhand DSLR, snagged some budget lights off eBay, even scored a gimbal from a guy on Craigslist who swore it “fell off a truck.” Every job, you got sharper—framing shots tighter, cutting cleaner, trusting your gut more than the textbooks from that audiovisual course you’re still chipping away at. It’s weird how natural it feels, like you’ve got a knack for this shit, studies or not. Neon Howl’s been climbing too—gigs at bigger venues, a small but rabid fanbase—and your name’s starting to float around the indie scene like you’re somebody.
Then this K-pop gig drops in your lap. A label’s debuting a new group—some sleek, edgy four-piece called VYX—and word gets around that Neon Howl’s gritty vibe might match their sound. The singer from Neon Howl pitches your name to a contact she’s got, and next thing you know, you’re on a Zoom call with a producer who’s throwing around terms like “visual synergy” and “debut aesthetic.” They pair you with a main director—the same guy you shadowed back when you were a PA on Itzy’s set. You remember him barking orders, chain-smoking between takes, but holy shit, the dude’s a genius—every shot he called was gold. You’d hovered near him then, soaking it up, and now you’re working with him? Co-directing? It’s unreal—half mentorship, half networking goldmine, and all chance to prove you’ve got the chops.
The second reason tonight’s lit? Rina’s coming over. Your girl, your Karina, fresh off a packed schedule and a flight from god-knows-where, insisted on crashing your place to celebrate. You haven’t seen her in weeks—texts and late-night calls only do so much—and when she heard about the gig, she blew up your phone with “BABE WHAT THE FUCK THAT’S HUGE” and a string of fire emojis. She’s been hyping you up nonstop, and knowing she’s hauling ass to be here tonight has your chest all warm and tight. You’re buzzing—half from the career high, half from the thought of her walking through your door.
You’re tidying up your apartment, which is still a glorified shoebox—peeling paint, a couch with a spring that jabs your ass, a kitchen counter barely big enough for a cutting board. You’ve shoved the laundry pile into a closet, wiped down the coffee table, and lit a cheap cedar candle to mask the faint beer-and-ramen funk. It’s not fancy, but it’s home, and Rina’s never cared about the mess anyway. You’re mid-sweep of some random crumbs when the buzzer goes off, and your heart does a dumb little skip. You hit the intercom—“Yeah?”—and her voice crackles through, “Let me up, director boy, I’ve got shit to show you.” You buzz her in, grinning like an idiot, and crack the door to wait.
She rounds the corner from the stairwell, and—fuck, she’s radiant. Doesn’t matter that she’s probably jet-lagged to hell; she looks like she stepped out of a magazine spread. Hair’s loose, dark waves spilling over a leather jacket she’s got unzipped just enough to show a sliver of a white crop top underneath. Black jeans, ripped at the knees, hug her legs like they’re painted on, and she’s got these scuffed-up Docs that somehow make her look tougher and hotter at the same time. She’s hauling a cake box—pink and white, tied with a bow—and her grin’s all teeth, bright and a little mischievous. “Special delivery,” she says, holding it up like a trophy, and you’re just standing there, staring, because how is she yours?
“Get in here,” you say, stepping aside, and she breezes past, kicking off her boots by the door without breaking stride. “You didn’t bake that, right?” you tease, shutting the door as she sets it on the counter. She spins, mock-offended, hand on her chest. “Excuse you, I could’ve. I’m a woman of many talents.” You snort, stepping closer. “Yeah, like burning down my kitchen? I’ve seen you with a toaster, Rina.” She laughs—loud, unguarded—and swats your arm. “Fuck off, I bought it, okay? But it’s good—chocolate hazelnut, fancy as shit. We’re celebrating you, Mr. Big Shot Co-Director.”
You pull her in then, hands on her waist, and she melts against you, all warm and solid, her arms looping around your neck. “Missed you,” you mutter, breathing her in—vanilla, leather, a hint of plane air clinging to her. She squeezes back, tight. “Missed you more. Been dying to see you since you told me. Co-directing a K-pop MV? That’s insane, babe.” You pull back just enough to look at her, and her eyes are sparkling—proud, excited, like she’s more stoked about this than you are. “Yeah,” you say, still half-dazed she’s here, “it’s wild. The director is a legend—worked with him on Itzy’s shoot back in the day. Now I’m, like, his right hand? Shit’s surreal.”
She drags you to the couch, cake box in tow, and flops down, patting the spot next to her. “Tell me everything—how’d it happen, what’s the group like, all of it.” You sit, pulling her legs over your lap like always, and launch in—how Neon Howl’s buzz got you noticed, how the label reached out, how VYX’s sound is this dark, synthy vibe that fits your style. “They’re rookies, but hungry as fuck,” you say, hands tracing absent circles on her calf. “The main director got the reins, but he’s letting me call shots—camera angles, mood boards, even some edit input. It’s a lot, but it’s… fuck, it’s fun.” She’s nodding, hanging on every word, and when you finish, she leans over, kissing you quick but firm. “You’re killing it,” she says, voice low, “and I’m not even surprised. You’ve got this.”
You grin, tugging her closer. “Thanks, Rina. Means a lot, you hyping me up like this.” She smirks, poking your chest. “Someone’s gotta keep your ego in check.” Then she’s up, grabbing the cake box, and you’re trailing her to the kitchen, where she plops it on the counter and starts digging for plates. “Found this at some bougie bakery near the dorm,” she says, slicing into it with a butter knife because you don’t own anything fancier. The cake’s rich—dark chocolate layered with hazelnut cream, glossy and ridiculous—and she hands you a sloppy piece on a chipped plate. “To your first co-direct,” she toasts, clinking her fork against yours, and you both dig in, leaning against the counter, crumbs falling everywhere.
“Fuck, this is good,” you mumble through a mouthful, and she laughs, smearing a bit of frosting on your nose. “You’re a mess,” she says, but her eyes are soft, warm, and you grab her wrist, pulling her in for another kiss—this one slower, deeper, chocolate lingering on her tongue. She hums against you, hands sliding under your shirt, and you’re half-tempted to ditch the cake and carry her to bed, but she breaks away, grinning. “Later,” she promises, “we’ve got celebrating to do first.”
You end up back on the couch, plates balanced on your knees, some random Netflix comedy flickering in the background—neither of you are really watching. She’s got her head on your shoulder, legs tangled with yours, and you’re talking about everything and nothing. She tells you about her last trip—some whirlwind press tour in Seoul, Tokyo, Taipei—how she barely slept, how Giselle pranked Winter with a fake spider and nearly got punched. You tell her about the MV shoot—how VYX’s leader kept cracking dad jokes between takes, how the main director chain-smoked through a lighting setup debate. “He’s intense,” you say, “but chill too—kept asking my input like I wasn’t just some indie kid with a camera.”
Rina’s fingers lace with yours, sticky from the cake. “You’re not just some indie kid anymore,” she says, serious now. “You’re doing this—really doing it. I’m so fucking proud, you don’t even know.” Her voice is firm, and it hits you hard—how much she believes in you, how she’s here, halfway across the world, just to say that. You squeeze her hand, throat tight. “Love you,” you mutter, almost shy, and she smiles—this slow, radiant thing that lights up the whole damn room. “Love you too, dummy.”
The night stretches out—cake finished, plates stacked on the coffee table, the movie looping into something neither of you care about. She’s curled into you now, hoodie half-off one shoulder, and you’re tracing the line of her collarbone, talking about the future—her comeback prep, your next gig, how you’ll make it work with her insane life and yours starting to take off. It’s not perfect—there’s the distance, the secrecy, the grind—but with her here, warm and real, it feels like you can handle anything.
Two years, and your life’s flipped upside down in the best way possible. That co-directing gig with VYX was the spark—after that MV dropped, shit just exploded. The video racked up millions of views, the group’s debut single shot up charts, and suddenly your phone’s blowing up with emails from people who’d never given you the time of day before. Next thing you know, you’re offered a solo directing gig for a huge group—think Red Velvet-level fame—and you pour everything into it. Late nights, endless revisions, arguing with producers over lens choices, but it pays off. The MV’s a hit—sleek, moody, all your signature gritty vibes—and your name’s on everyone’s radar. You could’ve stopped there, ridden that wave, but nah, you’re not built like that. When VYX’s label floats the idea of a documentary, you jump on it. Those girls—Jiwoo, Hana, Soo-ah, and Minji—aren’t just clients anymore; they’re friends after that first shoot. You’ve seen them at their rawest, laughing over takeout, crying after brutal rehearsals, and you wanna show that to the world.
The doc’s your baby—months of trailing them through studios, dorms, tour buses, capturing the chaos and the quiet. It’s not some polished PR fluff; it’s real—sweaty practice rooms, late-night meltdowns, the way Jiwoo doodles on her lyric sheets, how Minji’s voice cracks when she talks about missing home. You weave in the creative process too—grainy iPhone clips of them brainstorming choreo, arguing over melodies, mixed with your own shots of their debut MV set. Netflix picks it up, slaps a premiere date on it, and now here you are—standing on a red carpet at some swanky LA venue, lights flashing, your name on a poster like you’re somebody. You’re in a black blazer, hair styled for once instead of under a cap, and you’re trying not to trip over your own feet while a reporter from some entertainment site shoves a mic in your face.
“So, what can we expect from VYX: Unfiltered?” she asks, all bright teeth and practiced enthusiasm. You shift, scratching the back of your neck, still not used to this spotlight shit. “Uh, it’s real as hell,” you say, keeping it loose. “No sugarcoating—just the girls, how they grind, what they go through. You’ll see the highs, the lows, the messy stuff. Like, there’s this one bit where Soo-ah’s yelling at a mic stand ‘cause it won’t stay up—funniest shit I’ve ever filmed. But it’s deep too—Hana talking about why she almost quit, Jiwoo’s whole thing about finding her voice. It’s their story, y’know? I just held the camera.”
The reporter nods, scribbling on her tablet, then pivots. “Your career’s taken off so fast—two years ago, you were co-directing an MV, now you’ve got a Netflix doc and a string of hits. How’d you get here? Where’d this talent come from?” You laugh, a little sheepish, ‘cause it still feels weird to talk about yourself like this. “Man, I don’t know—guess I’ve always been into this stuff? When I was a kid, like 11 or 12, I’d grab my mom’s old camcorder and make these dumb ‘documentaries’—my dog chewing up the couch, my cousin’s awful karaoke, me narrating like it was some Nat Geo special. Kept at it, started messing with editing software, and it just… clicked. That VYX MV opened doors, but I’ve been hustling since those home-video days. Feels less like ‘suddenly arriving’ and more like I’ve been clawing my way up, y’know?”
She’s eating it up, tapping away, then throws you a curveball. “You’ve worked with some big names already—who’s on your dream list for a music video? Any groups you’re dying to direct?” You don’t even hesitate. “Oh, tons—Stray Kids, their energy’s insane, I’d love to do something chaotic with them. Seventeen too, they’ve got that cinematic vibe. And, uh—” you pause, grinning a little, “Aespa. They’re killing it, right? I’d kill to work with them, try something dark and trippy. Their whole concept’s dope.” The reporter smirks, probably sensing there’s more to that answer, but she lets it slide, wrapping up with a “Can’t wait to see what’s next!” before moving on to the next talking head.
You’re relieved to step off the carpet, ducking into the venue—a sleek theater with velvet seats and a bar that’s way too expensive for your taste. The premiere’s a blur—VYX shows up, all glammed up, hugging you like you’re family; the doc plays to a packed house, laughs and gasps in all the right places; people clap you on the back, saying shit like “game-changer” and “raw as fuck.” It’s a high, no doubt, but there’s this gnawing ache under it all. Rina. Your Karina. You wanted her here—imagined her in some killer dress, arm looped through yours, cracking jokes about how you clean up nice. But she’s not. Aespa’s in the thick of another comeback, breaking records left and right—streams, awards, you name it—and your schedules haven’t lined up for weeks. Months, almost. You miss her so bad it’s physical, like a knot in your chest.
Later, you’re scrolling X at the afterparty—some rooftop spot with too-loud music and free whiskey—when you see it. A fan account’s posted a clip of your interview, zeroed in on that Aespa bit. “He said AESPA! Imagine him directing for the girls—insane collab potential!” It’s blowing up—retweets, heart-eyes emojis—and then your phone buzzes. It’s her. A screenshot of the clip, followed by: "Dark and trippy, huh? You tryna impress me, director boy?” Your heart jumps, a stupid grin spreading as you type back, “Always. You see the whole thing?” She replies quick: “Yeah—proud of u. Wish I was there. Miss u like crazy.” You sink back in your chair, the party fading to noise around you. “Miss u more. Been too long, Rina.” She sends a heart, then, “We’ll figure it out soon. Promise.” But “soon” feels vague, and that knot tightens.
You sip your drink, staring at the LA skyline, all glitter and smog. It’s been a hell of a ride—after VYX, you directed that big MV solo, then another, each one stacking cred. The documentary’s your crown jewel so far—Netflix execs are already sniffing around for more, and VYX’s fans are calling you “the fifth member” online, which is wild. You’re tight with the girls now; Jiwoo’s texting you memes about the premiere, Soo-ah’s begging for a sequel. But success doesn’t hit the same without Rina to share it. You’ve barely talked—snatched calls between her rehearsals and your edits, texts that taper off when one of you crashes out. Last time you saw her was a rushed weekend in Seoul, three months back—stolen kisses in her dorm, laughing over burnt toast, then her rushing off to a flight. Now, you’re both soaring, her with Aespa’s insane trajectory, you with this, but the gap’s growing, and it’s eating at you.
You wander to a quieter corner of the roof, leaning on the railing. The premiere’s a win, no question—your career’s meteoric, a rocket from that first Neon Howl vid to this. But you’re worried—about her, about you two. She’s your rock, the one who gets it, who’d be here calling you a “Netflix sellout” with that smirk you love. You pull up a pic on your phone—her in your apartment, sprawled on your couch, mid-laugh, cake frosting on her chin from that co-directing night. It’s a punch to the gut, how much you need her here. You fire off one more text: “Wish u were here to see this shit live. Love u.” She doesn’t reply right away—probably asleep, time zones screwing you again—and you pocket the phone, forcing a smile as Jiwoo drags you back to the party. It’s your night, but it’s hollow without your girl by your side.
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It’s been a rough stretch, no lie. The last few months with Rina felt like walking on a tightrope—both of you stretched thin, juggling her skyrocketing fame with Aespa and your own career blowing up. Those late-night calls started getting tense. “I hate this,” she’d said once, muffled like she was hiding in a bathroom somewhere, “always sneaking around, stuck in the same four walls. I just wanna be with you, y’know? Out in the open.” You felt it too—the distance, not just physical but emotional, the way you couldn’t grab her hand in public or post a dumb selfie without sparking a shitstorm. It sucked, and she was pissed, and you were too, but neither of you knew how to fix it with your lives pulling you in opposite directions. So you threw out an idea—fuck it, let’s get away. Somewhere far, somewhere nobody knows you. Bali. When you pitched it, her face lit up over FaceTime like you’d just handed her the moon. “Yes, oh my god, yes,” she’d said, practically bouncing, “let’s do it. I need this so bad.”
Getting there’s a mission, though. You book the flights, a cushy hotel, the works—your Netflix money’s finally good for something—and she’s paranoid about being spotted. On the plane, she’s incognito as hell: big sunglasses, a bucket hat pulled low, a black mask covering half her face, even her hoodie’s hood up like she’s auditioning for a spy flick. You’re next to her in a plain cap and hoodie, keeping it low-key, and she’s gripping your hand under the blanket. “If anyone sees me, I’m fucked,” she whispers, half-laughing, and you squeeze back. “We’re good, Rina. Just a couple of nobodies on a plane.” She snorts, leaning her head on your shoulder, and for the first time in weeks, you feel her relax.
Bali hits you hard—humid air, turquoise water, palm trees swaying like they’re too chill to stand straight. The hotel’s a vibe: open-air lobby, infinity pool spilling into the horizon, your room with a balcony overlooking the ocean. Rina ditches the disguise the second you’re checked in, peeling off the hat and mask, shaking out her hair like she’s shedding a skin. “Fuck, I’m free,” she says, spinning in the room, barefoot on the cool tile, and you’re just watching her, grinning like an idiot because she’s happy—really happy—and it’s contagious as hell. First few days, you’re all about playing tourist. No schedules, no cameras, just you and her and a rented scooter that you’re half-sure you’ll crash. She’s in these floral dresses—flowy, bright, all pinks and yellows and blues, hugging her in just the right places, the kind of thing that makes her look like she stepped out of a postcard. You can’t stop staring, and she knows it, throwing you these sly little smirks when she catches you.
You hit up the classics—Uluwatu Temple first, perched on those cliffs with the waves crashing below. She’s snapping pics of the monkeys swinging around, laughing when one tries to snag her sunglasses. “Little bastard,” she mutters, but she’s grinning, leaning into you as you snap a selfie—her cheek pressed to yours, the ocean a blurry roar behind you. You can’t post it anywhere, not with her fans or your growing rep in the industry, but it’s yours, locked in your phone like a secret treasure. Next day’s Tanah Lot, that temple sitting pretty on its rock in the sea. She’s barefoot again, skirt hiked up as she wades into the shallow water, splashing you when you lag behind. “C’mon, slowpoke!” she yells, and you chase her, both of you soaked and cackling like kids, the salt stinging your eyes.
The beach days are where it really sinks in—how much you needed this, how much she did. You’re at Seminyak, sprawled on a couple of lounge chairs under a striped umbrella, the sand white-hot under your feet. She’s in a bikini top and one of those sarong things tied loose around her hips, floral dress swapped for something that shows off her tan lines and the way the sun’s kissed her shoulders. You’re shirtless, board shorts dripping from a dip in the waves, and she’s got her sunglasses perched on her nose, sipping some fruity drink with a tiny umbrella in it. “This is the life,” she says, stretching out, toes wiggling in the sand. “No managers, no scripts—just us and this dope-ass view.” You nod, sipping your own beer, ice-cold and sweating in your hand. “Fuck yeah. Been too long since we just… chilled.”
You grab your phone—not for work, not for some edit, but to snap her. She’s mid-laugh, head tipped back, drink sloshing as she swats at you. “Stop, I look dumb!” she protests, but she’s posing anyway—hand on her hip, chin tilted, giving you that million-watt smile that’s all hers. You take a dozen—her lounging, her splashing in the surf, her chasing a stray beach ball some kid lost. She snags your phone after, flipping through, and insists on getting you—shirtless and squinting against the sun, pretending to flex like a tool. “Gotta keep these for the scrapbook,” she says, and you both know there’s no scrapbook, just a hidden folder you’ll scroll through when you’re missing each other.
One afternoon, you’re at this hidden spot, Pantai Pandawa, a stretch of beach tucked between cliffs, less crowded, more raw. The water’s so clear you can see fish darting under the surface, and the sand’s soft, sticking to your legs as you wrestle her into the waves. She’s shrieking, “You asshole!” as you dunk her, but she’s laughing, hair plastered to her face, saltwater dripping from her lashes. You pull her up, arms around her waist, and she’s still giggling, clinging to you as the waves lap at your thighs. “You’re such a dick,” she says, but her eyes are soft, locked on yours, and you kiss her, slow, salty, the kind of kiss that says everything you’ve been too busy to say. She melts into it, hands on your chest, and for a minute, it’s just you two, the ocean, and nothing else mattering.
Back at the hotel, you’re sprawled on the balcony that night, the air warm and sticky, a faint breeze carrying the smell of frangipani. She’s in your lap, legs draped over the armrest, a beer in her hand and one of those dresses on—blue this time, thin straps slipping off her shoulders. You’re nursing your own drink, some local rum thing that burns good, and you’re just talking—about the last few months, the fights, the wins. “I hated how it felt,” she admits, voice quiet, “like we were drifting. I’d see your shit online—VYX stuff, the Netflix buzz—and I’d be so fucking proud, but pissed too, ‘cause I couldn’t be there.” You nod, running a hand up her back. “Same. Every time you’d drop a teaser or win some award, I’d be cheering from my couch, but it killed me I couldn’t tell anyone you’re mine.”
She sets her beer down, shifts to straddle you, hands on your shoulders. “We’re here now,” she says, firm, like she’s staking a claim. “No work, no bullshit—just us.” You pull her closer, kissing her neck, tasting the salt still on her skin. “Yeah,” you murmur, “just us.” The stress—the missed calls, the weeks apart, the secrecy—it’s gone, melted away under the Bali sun. You’re laughing again, her stealing sips of your rum, you tickling her ‘til she’s squirming and swearing at you. It’s light, free, the way it’s supposed to be. The pics pile up—her silhouetted against a sunset, you mid-sandcastle fail, both of you grinning over skewers of grilled fish at a night market. Private moments, locked away from the world, but they’re everything. For the first time in forever, you’re not worried—just happy as hell with your girl.
The hot tub’s steaming, bubbling softly around you, and the Bali night air’s got that perfect mix of warm and breezy, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from somewhere nearby. You’re sunk into the water up to your chest, arms draped along the edge, feeling the ache of the day—swimming, chasing Rina through the waves, eating half your weight in satay—melt away. She’s across from you, looking like a goddamn vision in this black bikini that’s doing work—all sleek lines and barely-there straps, hugging her curves just right. The water’s beading on her skin, catching the dim glow of the hotel’s ambient lights, and her hair’s wet, slicked back, a few strands clinging to her neck. She’s sipping some fruity cocktail she insisted on ordering—bright pink with a little umbrella—and every time she moves, the water ripples, lapping against her collarbone, making you a little dizzy. You’re both loose, buzzed from the day and the drinks, and it’s quiet out here—just the two of you, the hum of the jets, and the distant crash of the ocean.
“Today was fucking perfect,” you say, tipping your head back against the tub’s edge, letting the heat soak into your bones. “Like, I don’t think it gets better than this—beach all day, food’s unreal, and you in that dress earlier? Shit, I’m still recovering.” She grins, kicking her foot lightly against your shin under the water. “Yeah, these last few days have been clutch. I haven’t felt this chill in forever—no schedules, no one yelling at me to fix my face. Just us, vibing.” She sets her drink on the ledge, leaning forward a little, and the water shifts, giving you a front-row view of how that bikini top’s barely holding on. “I posted some pics today, by the way—those ones from the temple and the beach. They’re blowing up already, all my fans are losing their shit over the views.”
You smirk, fishing your phone from the dry spot on the ledge to pull up her Instagram. “Lemme see—oh, damn, these are fire. That sunset shot with you in the sarong? Unreal.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, proud. “Please, you’re the one snapping half of ‘em. You’ve got an eye, babe—I’m just the hot subject. Those candids you took of me at the market? I’m obsessed—way better than the pro stuff I usually get.” You laugh, tossing the phone back. “What can I say? I’ve got the best muse. Makes it easy.”
The flirting’s light, easy, the kind that’s been flowing all trip—little jabs, lingering looks, her brushing your arm when she laughs. You’re talking about the monkey that almost jacked her sunglasses yesterday, how she screeched like a banshee, and she’s splashing you, calling you a dick for not saving her. “I was busy laughing my ass off,” you say, wiping water from your face, and she sticks her tongue out, all playful and cute. It’s perfect—quiet, no one around, just you and her in this little bubble. Until your phone buzzes again, loud and insistent against the tub’s edge. You glance at it, ready to swipe it away, but Rina catches your eye, narrowing hers. “Ignore it,” she says, voice firm, pout already forming. “You promised—no distractions. We’re off the grid, remember?”
You hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen. “Yeah, you’re right, but—something’s telling me to check it. Swear it’ll be quick, like two seconds.” She huffs, crossing her arms, which only pushes her chest up more in that bikini, and fuck, it’s distracting as hell. “Fine,” she mutters, “but I’m timing you. Hurry up.” You flash her an apologetic grin, snagging the phone, and answer it—some korean number you don’t recognize. “Yo, who’s this?” you say, keeping it casual, expecting some spam call or a wrong number.
It’s not. It’s a producer from SM, voice crisp and straight to the point. “Hey, man, been trying to reach you—big news. We want you for Aespa’s next MV. Full creative control, your vision, no co-director. It’s yours if you’re in.” Your brain short-circuits for a second—Aespa? Her Aespa? You’re sitting there, water dripping off your elbow, staring at Rina while this dude keeps talking numbers, timelines, how they’ve been watching your VYX doc and the solo MVs, how your style’s “exactly what we need.” She’s pouting still, lips pursed, arms crossed tighter now, and you’re trying to process this bomb while she’s glaring like you just kicked a puppy. “Uh, yeah, that’s—shit, that’s huge,” you stammer into the phone, eyes locked on her, and she tilts her head, curious now despite the attitude.
The guy’s pushing for a verbal yes—says your schedule’s filling up fast since the Netflix drop, and they wanna lock you in before someone else snags you. “We’ll email the details tonight—contract, budget, all that. You’re our guy, just say the word.” You’re reeling, but you manage a “Yeah, I’m in—send it over,” and he’s stoked, promising you’ll hear from him tomorrow before hanging up. You drop the phone, still processing, and Rina’s staring, one eyebrow up, pout softening into something else—intrigue, maybe impatience. “Okay, what the hell was that?” she asks, shifting closer, water sloshing as she leans in. “You look like you just won the lottery or got hit by a truck—spill.”
You blink, then laugh, this wild, giddy sound that bursts out of you. “That—that was SM. They want me to direct Aespa’s next MV. Solo. Full control. Your MV, Rina.” Her eyes go wide, jaw dropping, and for a second she just stares, processing it like you are. Then she squeals—loud, unfiltered, splashing water everywhere as she lunges at you, wrapping her arms around your neck. “No fucking way!” she yells, laughing against your shoulder, and you’re holding her tight, both of you half-soaked and grinning like maniacs. “Babe, that’s insane—are you serious? You and me, working together? That’s, like—holy shit, it’s a dream!”
She pulls back, hands on your face, eyes sparkling with this mix of pride and disbelief. “I can’t believe it. You’re gonna direct us? My man’s out here running the game!” You nod, still buzzing, adrenaline pumping. “Yeah, they said it’s mine—my vision, all that. Been watching my stuff, said it fits you guys perfect. I’m freaking out—I mean, I talked about Aespa in that interview months ago, and now it’s real.” She’s beaming, practically vibrating, and hugs you again, water splashing over the tub’s edge. “You deserve this so fucking much,” she says, voice softer now, “I’ve seen you grind for this. And now we get to do it together? I’m losing my mind.”
You laugh, pulling her closer, her legs straddling you now in the water, and you’re both just soaking in it—literal and figurative. “I wouldn’t be here without you, Rina,” you say, dead serious, hands on her hips. “All those nights you were hyping me up, pushing me—none of this happens without that.” She smirks, brushing wet hair off your forehead. “Damn right, I’m the real MVP. But you—you’re the genius behind the lens. This is your win.” You kiss her then, deep and slow, tasting the cocktail on her lips, the heat of the tub and her body making your head spin. She hums into it, fingers tangling in your hair, and it’s perfect—until she pulls back, eyes glinting with something mischievous.
“We gotta celebrate,” she says, tone dropping low, suggestive, and you raise a brow, already feeling the shift. “Oh yeah? What you got in mind, superstar?” She grins, slow and wicked, sliding off you and standing up, water cascading off her like some goddess rising from the sea. That bikini’s clinging to her, droplets catching the light, and she knows exactly what she’s doing when she steps out, grabbing a towel but not wrapping it around herself—just holding it loose, teasing. “I had a surprise planned anyway,” she says, voice all honey and trouble, “and now’s the perfect fucking time. C’mon—upstairs.”
You’re out of the tub in a heartbeat, dripping all over the deck as you grab your phone and her drink, following her like a dog on a leash. She’s swaying her hips as she climbs the outdoor stairs to your room, that floral dress vibe long gone, replaced by this raw, sexy energy that’s got your pulse hammering. The hotel’s quiet, just the hum of crickets and the rustle of palms, and it feels like you’re stealing a moment from the universe—no one around, no interruptions, just her leading you to whatever she’s got cooking. You hit the room, a big open space with a king bed, sheer curtains fluttering by the balcony, and she tosses the towel aside, spinning to face you, all wet hair and sly smiles. “Lock the door,” she says, and you don’t need to be told twice—this night’s about to go from great to unforgettable, and you’re both all in.
“Now close your eyes,” she says, like she’s about to pull the best prank of your life. You raise a brow, smirking, but she just steps closer, poking your chest with a finger. “I’m serious, babe—shut ‘em. Trust me.” You shrug, playing along—how can you say no to her when she’s got that look?—and let your eyelids drop, plunging you into darkness. “No peeking,” she warns, and you hear the grin in her tone, the rustle of her moving away.
The sounds start quick—fabric sliding, a zipper’s faint whine, her bare feet padding on the hardwood. She’s giggling, this soft, giddy little sound that’s got your pulse kicking up because you know she’s up to something. There’s a shuffle, a muffled “shit” as she stubs her toe on something—probably the chair by the dresser—and you bite back a laugh, keeping your eyes screwed shut. “You good over there?” you call, and she huffs, “Yeah, yeah, just—gimme a sec, perfection takes time.” Your mind’s racing, trying to piece together what she’s doing from the clink of a hanger, the snap of elastic. She’s rushing, fumbling a little, and it’s cute as hell—Karina, the poised idol, tripping over herself to surprise you. Then it goes quiet, just her breathing, and your hands flex on your knees, itching to see.
“Alright—open ‘em,” she says, and there’s this edge to her voice, excited and a little nervous. You blink your eyes open, adjusting to the light, and—fuck. There she is, standing a few feet away, and your jaw drops, brain short-circuiting. She’s swapped the bikini for lingerie that’s straight-up lethal—black lace, all sheer and delicate, clinging to her like a second skin. The bra’s pushing her breasts up, the fabric stretched tight over them, her nipples just barely teasing through the pattern, and those fishnet tights? They’re ripped in all the right places, hugging her thick thighs, leading your eyes down to her bare feet, toes curling against the floor. Her hair’s still wet, dripping onto her shoulders, and she’s got this shy-but-smug grin, like she knows she’s just wrecked you.
“Holy shit, Rina,” you manage, voice rough as you stand, already half-hard and not even hiding it. You step toward her, hands itching to touch, and she’s watching you, eyes flicking over your reaction. “You’re fucking gorgeous—how am I supposed to handle this?” She laughs, this bright, bubbly sound, and then she’s on you—jumping into your arms, legs wrapping around your waist, and you catch her instinctively, hands flying to her ass to hold her up. She’s warm, solid, the lace scratchy against your palms, and you’re kissing her before you can think, lips crashing into hers. Your fingers tangle in her damp hair, tugging just enough to make her gasp into your mouth.
You stumble toward the bed, her weight shifting in your arms, and she’s grinding down a little, teasing, her breath hot against your jaw as you kiss her deeper—messy, all tongue and need. You hit the edge of the mattress and sit, her still in your lap, straddling you, and she pulls back for a second, panting, eyes dark and locked on yours. “Surprise,” she whispers, smirking, and you groan, hands roaming now—up her back, over the curve of her hips, feeling how thick she is, how every inch of her feels like a goddamn gift. The lace is rough under your fingertips, a contrast to her soft skin, and you’re obsessed, tracing where the fishnets dig into her thighs, where the bra cuts into her chest.
“Been planning this, huh?” you say, and she nods, biting her lip. “Since the hot tub—wanted to celebrate you right.” Your hands slide to her breasts, cupping them through the fabric, thumbs brushing where her nipples press against the lace, and she shivers, this tiny, needy sound slipping out. You’re rock-hard now, straining against your shorts, and she feels it—shifts her hips deliberately, rubbing against you until you hiss. “Fuck, Rina—you’re killing me.” She grins, wicked, and slides off your lap, dropping to her knees between your legs like it’s nothing.
You lean back on your elbows, watching her, heart pounding as she hooks her fingers into your shorts and yanks them down with your boxers in one go. They hit the floor somewhere across the room—she doesn’t care, and neither do you—your cock springing free, hard and aching, and she’s staring, eyes wide like she’s seeing it for the first time. “Goddamn,” she murmurs, almost to herself, and wraps her hand around you, slow and light, stroking just enough to make your head tip back. It’s electric—her touch, the way her fingers curl, cool from the water still clinging to her, and you groan, “Fuck, that’s good.” She’s kneeling there, all lace and fishnets, lips parted, and keeps her eyes on you—big, brown, full of heat—like she’s daring you to lose it right then.
“Love you like this,” she says, voice soft but sure, and it hits you hard—how much you love her too, how this isn’t just some fling. Her hand moves faster, grip tightening, and she’s leaning in, breath ghosting over you, making you twitch. “Rina—” you start, but she’s already sliding her thumb over the tip, smearing precum, and you’re gripping the sheets, trying not to buck up into her hand. She smirks, knowing exactly what she’s doing, and pumps you slow—deliberate, delicious—watching your face, drinking in every sound you make. “You’re so fucking hot like this,” she says, and it’s raw, real, the way she’s all in for you.
She doesn’t dive right in—no, Rina’s too much of a tease for that. She starts with a flick of her tongue, just the tip, brushing over the head of your cock where you’re already leaking, and it’s like a jolt straight up your spine. You hiss, hips twitching up on instinct, and she giggles—soft, bubbly, like she’s playing with her favorite toy. “Chill, babe,” she murmurs, voice low and sultry, “I’ve got you.” Then she flattens her tongue, dragging it slow and wet up the underside, tracing every vein, every ridge, like she’s mapping you out. It’s torture—delicious, mind-numbing torture—and you’re gripping the sheets, knuckles white, trying not to buck into her mouth.
Her hand’s still working the base, fingers curled tight, pumping you in this lazy rhythm while her mouth gets busy. She wraps her lips around the tip, sucking just enough to make your head spin, and the wet heat of her is unreal—soft, slick, pulling you in. She pops off for a sec, smirking, spit glistening on her lips, and mutters, “Fuck, you taste good,” before going back in, deeper this time. Her tongue swirls around you, sloppy and hot, and she hollows her cheeks, that suction hitting just right. You groan, loud and ragged, head tipping back against the bedframe, and she hums against you—vibrations shooting through your cock, making your toes curl.
She takes you deeper, lips stretching around you, and you feel the back of her throat, tight and warm, squeezing you as she gags just a little. “Shit, Rina,” you gasp, one hand flying to her hair, tangling in those wet strands, and she moans around you, the sound muffled but needy. She pulls back slow, dragging her tongue along you again, leaving you slick and aching, then dives back down, bobbing her head now—up and down, steady and relentless.
The room’s spinning, the wet schlick of her mouth mixing with your panting, her little whimpers every time she chokes herself on you. She’s drooling now—spit dripping down your shaft, pooling at the base—and she uses it, sliding her hand up to meet her lips, stroking you in sync with every suck. It’s filthy, obscene, the way she’s slurping you down, eyes watering but never breaking contact, like she’s daring you to lose it. You’re close—too close—and she knows it, feels the way you’re tensing, throbbing against her tongue. “Fuck, I’m gonna—” you start, voice wrecked, but she just speeds up, sucking harder, tongue flicking wild over the tip.
She’s relentless—lips tight, cheeks hollowed, hand twisting just under her mouth—and you’re a goner, hips jerking, groaning her name like a prayer. But she doesn’t let you finish—not yet. She pulls off with a wet pop, gasping for air, spit trailing from her mouth to your cock, leaving you glistening, hard as steel, and so fucking ready it hurts. Her chest’s heaving, breasts spilling out of that lace bra, nipples pressing against the fabric, and she wipes her lips with the back of her hand, grinning up at you like she’s won something. “Not yet, babe,” she says, voice hoarse but playful, “got more for you.”
You’re dazed, cock twitching in the air, wet and heavy from her mouth, and she’s kneeling there—black lace, fishnets, all sex and mischief—watching you like she’s plotting the next move. Your hand’s still in her hair, loose now, and you tug gently, trying to catch your breath. “You’re insane,” you manage, and she laughs, soft and wicked, crawling up just enough to hover over you. “You love it,” she shoots back, and yeah, you do—fuck, you really do.
“Ready for round two, babe?” she says, voice raspy and dripping with intent, and before you can even nod, she’s reaching back, unhooking that bra with a flick of her fingers.
It falls away, and fuck—you never get tired of seeing them. Her tits are perfect, bouncing free, full and soft, swaying a little as she shifts. She catches your stare, smirking wider, and leans forward, letting them hover just above your cock, still glistening from her spit. “Been dying to do this,” she mutters, grabbing her breasts in her hands, squeezing them together, and you’re already groaning, hips twitching up because you know what’s coming. She slides your cock between them—slow, deliberate—her skin hot and smooth against you, the wet mess she left making it slippery right off the bat. You fit right in there, snug between her tits, and she presses them tighter, trapping you in this soft, warm vise that’s got your head spinning.
“Fuck, Rina,” you breathe, watching her work—her shoulders rolling as she starts moving, sliding you up and down between her breasts. It’s filthy, the way they jiggle with every bounce, the way your cock glides so easy with all that spit and precum slicking her up. She’s grinning now, and leans her chin down, letting a fat drop of spit fall right onto the tip of your cock as it peeks out from her cleavage. “You like that, huh?” she teases, voice low and dirty, “watching your sweet little Rina turn into a nasty girl for you?” You groan, loud and helpless, because yeah, you love this side of her—the way she flips from soft and giggly to this, all cocky and filthy, owning you with every word.
She shifts her grip, pressing her tits even tighter, and starts bouncing them faster—up, down, the friction building, her skin flushing pink from the effort. “Goddamn, you’re so hard,” she says, eyes flicking down to where your cock’s nestled, the head popping out with every thrust, big and leaking. “Bet you’ve been dreaming about this—fucking my tits ‘til you blow, huh? You’re such a perv for me.” Her words hit like a punch, and you can’t help it—your hips jerk up, pushing deeper into that perfect, plush valley, and she laughs, low and wicked. “Yeah, that’s it—fuck ‘em like you mean it.”
She’s leaning in now, her breath hot against your chest, lips brushing your skin as she keeps going. “You love these big tits, don’t you? Been staring at ‘em all trip, waiting to slide that fat cock right here. Bet you’re gonna make a fucking mess of me—gonna cum so hard I’ll be dripping with you.” It’s driving you wild, the way she’s egging you on, every filthy syllable making your balls tighten. You’re thrusting up now, matching her rhythm, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room, and she’s moaning like she’s the one getting off—soft little “mmhs” every time your cock hits the top of her cleavage.
She tilts her head back, letting her hair fall wild, and catches the tip of your cock with her tongue on an upstroke—just a flick, enough to make you curse and buck harder. “Shit, Rina, you’re gonna kill me,” you rasp, voice all wrecked, and she smirks, slowing down just to fuck with you, dragging her tits along you so slow you feel every inch of her. “Not yet,” she says, “I’m making you cum so many times tonight, babe—this is just the start. Gonna drain you ‘til you’re begging me to stop.” The promise—the threat—has your head falling back, a groan ripping out of you because fuck, that’s all you want right now, her taking you apart over and over.
Her pace picks up again, fast and sloppy, and she’s relentless—kneading her breasts around you, pushing them together so tight it’s almost too much. The fishnets are scratching your thighs, rough against your skin, and it’s this perfect mix of soft and hard—her tits, her attitude, the way she’s talking shit. “Look at you,” she purrs, “fucking my tits like some horny teenager—gonna blow already, aren’t you? Can’t even hold it in for me.” You’re panting, sweat beading on your forehead, and she’s right—you’re close, teetering on that edge, every bounce of her chest pulling you further in. “Do it,” she whispers, voice dropping an octave, “cum all over me—make me a fucking mess.”
That’s it—you’re gone. Your hands fly to her shoulders, gripping hard, and your hips snap up one last time, burying your cock deep between her tits as you cum, hard and wild. The first spurt’s a shock—it shoots up, high and fast, catching her off guard, hitting her chin and dripping onto her lips. She yelps, half-laughing, “Oh, fuck!” but doesn’t stop, keeps sliding you through her cleavage as you unload—thick, hot ropes of cum painting her chest, streaking across her pale skin, pooling in the hollow of her throat. It’s a mess, a goddamn masterpiece—white splattered over black lace, dripping down her breasts, coating her nipples, sliding into the crevice where she’s still pressing tight around you.
You’re shaking, groaning her name—“Rina, fuck”—as she milks you dry, slowing her movements but not letting go, letting the last few spurts dribble out, smearing her even more. She’s grinning, triumphant, licking that stray drop off her lip like it’s a trophy, and you’re just staring, wrecked and breathless, at the sight of her—cum-soaked, flushed, that naughty glint in her eye brighter than ever. “Holy shit,” you pant, collapsing back onto your elbows, and she leans forward, resting her messy tits on your thighs, looking up at you with this mix of sweet and sinful that’s pure Karina.
“Told you I’d make you cum hard,” she says, running a finger through the mess on her chest, smearing it a little like she’s proud of the artwork. “And we’re not done—gonna fuck you senseless tonight, babe. You ready for more?” You laugh, weak but game, heart still racing. “Fuck yeah, I’m ready—bring it on.” She climbs up, straddling your lap again, cum still dripping off her.
You lean in, catching her mouth with yours, and it’s slow at first—lazy kisses, all tongue and heat, tasting the mix of her fruity drink and the salt of your release. Her lips are soft, swollen from sucking you off, and she hums into it, pressing herself closer, her sticky chest brushing yours. It’s messy, intimate, the kind of kiss that says neither of you is done yet—round two’s just getting started.
Your hands roam, sliding down her back, feeling the curve of her spine under the lace, the way her ass jiggles a little when you grab it. She’s grinding down again, subtle rolls of her hips, and you’re still sensitive as hell, but it’s waking you up fast. Your fingers dip lower, sneaking under the thin strap of her panties—black, soaked, clinging to her—and you brush her pussy, already dripping wet, hot and slick against your fingertips. She gasps into your mouth, a little shudder running through her, and you can’t help it—your cock twitches, already greedy for more. “Fuck, Rina,” you murmur against her lips, voice rough, “I’m so fucking crazy to get inside that tight little pussy—you’re killing me.” She pulls back just enough to grin. “Oh, I know you are,” she says, all teasing, “but I’ve got something different for you tonight, babe. A little upgrade.”
You blink, curiosity spiking, and tilt your head. “Different? What you cooking up now?” She smirks wider, like she’s been waiting for this moment, and nods toward the corner of the room. “See that bag over there? My black one, by the dresser—go grab it.” You follow her gaze—there’s this sleek little duffel, half-zipped, tucked against the wall like it’s been hiding secrets all trip. You slide her off your lap—she flops back on the bed with a dramatic little bounce, giggling—and you stumble over, still buzzed from the high, cum drying on your thighs. “What am I looking for?” you ask, unzipping it, digging through a mess of clothes and random shit—sunglasses, a hairbrush, some crumpled receipts. “Blue lid,” she calls, propping herself up on her elbows, watching you with this eager, mischievous look. “Bottle with a blue lid—can’t miss it.”
Your hand closes around it—a small, clear bottle, cool to the touch, blue cap screwed on tight. You pull it out, squinting at the label, and your brain catches up a second late: lube. Your eyes widen, head snapping back to her, and she’s grinning sprawled out on the sheets. “Surprise number two,” she says, voice dropping low, sultry as fuck. “You’re getting my ass tonight, babe. Been wanting to give you that for a while.” Your mouth goes dry, cock jumping from half-mast to full-on throbbing in about two seconds flat. “You—holy shit, Rina, you serious?” She nods, slow and deliberate, biting her lip. “Dead serious. Now get over here—I’m not waiting all night.”
She shifts then, rolling onto her stomach, pushing up onto her knees, and—fuck—arches her back like she’s posing for some X-rated photoshoot. Her ass is up, round and perfect, still hugged by those soaked panties, and she gives it a little shake, fishnets stretching over her cheeks, teasing you with every jiggle. You’re damn near hypnotized, cock pulsing like it’s got a mind of its own, and you stumble back to the bed, bottle in hand, already imagining how she’s gonna feel. “Go slow, though,” she says over her shoulder, voice softer now, a touch of nerves sneaking in. “Start with your fingers—ease me into it, yeah? I trust you.” You nod, swallowing hard, setting the lube down for a sec so you can crawl behind her. “Promise I’ll take care of you, Rina. Gonna make this so fucking good for you.”
She’s on all fours now, ass high, head dipping low, and you hook your fingers into her panties, peeling them down slow—black fabric sticking to her wet thighs, dragging over the fishnets until they’re bunched at her knees. The sight’s unreal—her pussy’s glistening, pink and swollen from how turned on she is, but it’s that tight little asshole that’s got your full attention now, puckered and perfect, winking at you as she shifts her hips. You pop the lube cap, squirting a generous glob onto your fingers—cold, slick, smelling faintly of something clean and sharp—and drizzle some down her crack, watching it drip slow over her hole, pooling at the base of her pussy. She shivers, a little “ooh” slipping out, and you mutter, “Fuck, you’re so hot,” rubbing your hands together to warm the lube up.
You start with her ass, spreading the lube with your thumbs, massaging slow circles over that tight ring. Her skin’s shining now—glossy and slick, catching the light—and she relaxes a bit, pushing back into your touch. “Feels good already,” she murmurs, voice muffled against the sheets, and you grin, loving how she’s melting for you. You don’t stop there—slide your hands lower, rubbing the lube over her pussy too, fingers brushing her clit, slicking her folds until she’s dripping even more, a wet mess under your palms. She moans, soft and needy, and you can’t resist—keep working her ass with one hand, the other teasing her pussy, dipping just the tip of a finger inside her to feel how she clenches.
Her ass is gleaming—lube streaked over her cheeks, pooling in that tight pink hole—and you’re rock-hard again, cock bobbing between your legs, aching to dive in. She glances back, hair falling in her face, and smirks, “You’re drooling, babe—gonna finger me or just stare all night?” You laugh, pressing a kiss to her spine. “Hold your horses—I’m getting there. Just making sure you’re nice and ready.” She hums, wiggling her hips again, and you take the hint—time to start. Your fingers are slick, poised, ready to ease her into this new territory.
You start with one finger, pressing the tip against her, slow and gentle, circling that puckered ring ‘til she relaxes. “Ready, babe?” you murmur, voice low, and she nods into the pillow, a muffled “Yeah, go for it.” You push in—just the tip at first—and she tenses, a sharp little hiss escaping her, but then she softens, her body melting into it. It’s tight—fuck, it’s tight—hot and smooth, gripping your finger like a vice as you slide in deeper, knuckle by knuckle. She moans, soft and breathy, hips rocking back just a fraction, chasing the feeling.
“Goddamn, Rina,” you say, free hand gripping her ass cheek, spreading her open more so you can watch—your finger disappearing into her, slow and steady, the lube making it glide smooth. She’s trembling now, a little shiver running through her, and you can feel her loosening up, that ring of muscle giving way. You twist your finger, curling it just a bit inside her, and she gasps—a high, needy sound that’s got your cock twitching against her thigh. “Feels weird,” she mumbles, voice thick, “but good—keep going.” You do, pumping in and out, slow as hell, letting her get used to it—every slide’s a little easier, her ass opening up, slick and greedy. Your other hand drifts lower, brushing her pussy, teasing her clit with a feather-light touch, and she jolts, moaning louder, “Fuck, that’s—yeah, do that.”
She’s into it now—hips shifting, breath hitching—so you up the ante. You pull your finger out slow, watching her hole clench around nothing, then squirt more lube onto your hand, coating two fingers this time. “Two now, alright?” you say, and she nods quick, “Yeah, I can take it.” You press them in together—middle and ring finger—slow as molasses, stretching her wider. She tenses again, a little grunt slipping out, but you pause, letting her breathe, one hand rubbing circles on her lower back. “You’re doing so good, Rina,” you murmur, “so fucking hot like this.” She laughs, shaky, “Yeah? Glad you think so—feels like you’re splitting me open.” You push deeper, past the first knuckles, and she whines, ass rocking back, taking it all the way.
It’s a sight—her tight pink asshole stretched around your fingers, lube dripping down her crack, pooling on the sheets. You start moving—slow, steady thrusts, curling them inside her, feeling the heat, the way she’s clamping down then easing up. She’s panting now, little “uhs” every time you twist, and you can tell she’s getting comfy—her moans turning softer, needier, her hips chasing your hand. “More,” she gasps, voice muffled, “add another—I wanna feel it.” You grin, pulling out slow, watching her squirm, then grab the lube again, slicking up three fingers—index, middle, ring—all shiny and ready. “You sure?” you ask, teasing a little, and she shoots you a look over her shoulder, all flushed and wild. “Don’t make me beg, asshole—just do it.”
You laugh, and press all three against her—slow, so slow, stretching that tight ring wider than before. She groans, long and deep, body locking up for a sec as you push past the resistance, lube making it slick but still a fight. “Fuck,” she hisses, fists balling in the sheets, but she doesn’t pull away—leans into it, ass tilting higher. You ease in, inch by inch, feeling her stretch around you—hot, tight, unreal—and she’s trembling, breath ragged, but moaning too, this mix of pain and want that’s got you rock-hard. “You okay?” you check, pausing halfway, and she nods fast, “Yeah, just—slow, keep it slow.” You do—gliding in ‘til you’re buried deep, three fingers knuckle-deep in her ass, and she’s clenching hard, a vice grip that’s making your head spin.
You start moving—gentle pumps, curling them inside her, stretching her out—and she’s loosening up, bit by bit, her moans getting louder, freer. “Holy shit,” she gasps, “feels so full—keep going, babe.” You do, picking up the pace just a little, twisting and spreading your fingers, and she’s rocking back now, fucking herself on you, her ass shiny and slick, lube dripping down her thighs, staining the fishnets. Your other hand’s busy too—rubbing her pussy, thumb circling her clit, and she’s soaking, wet enough that you hear it, this filthy schlick every time you move. She’s loud—whining, cursing, “Fuck, that’s good—don’t stop,” and you’re lost in it, the heat of her ass, the way she’s taking you, owning this moment.
She’s ready—you can feel it. Three fingers sliding easy now, her body’s adjusted, craving more. She’s panting, ass swaying, and looks back at you, eyes dark and blown out. “I’m good,” she says, voice wrecked but steady, “you can—fuck, you can use your cock now.” You freeze for a sec, just staring—her ass stretched around your fingers, lube glistening, pussy dripping below it—and your cock throbs, aching to take her. “You sure?” you ask, one last check, and she nods, impatient, “Yeah, babe—c’mon, I want it.” You pull your fingers out slow, watching her hole clench then relax, primed and waiting, and you’re buzzing—ready to give her exactly what she’s asking for.
You don’t need a condom—not with her, not anymore—and the thought alone’s got your blood pumping. Raw. Just you and her, skin on skin, no barriers. You grip the base of your cock, slick with her spit and the lube you’ve been slathering everywhere, and line up, pressing the tip against that tight pink ring. She shivers, and you go slow—real slow—pushing in just enough to feel her start to give. “Fuck, Rina,” you groan, “you’re so goddamn tight—holy shit.” She moans loud at that, a filthy, desperate sound, and pushes her hips back, urging you deeper. “Yeah? Tell me more,” she gasps, and you can hear it—how much it turns her on, how it makes her wetter, hornier.
You ease in further, inch by inch, and it’s like sinking into a vice—hot, slick, squeezing you so hard your head’s spinning. “Tightest fucking ass I’ve ever felt,” you mutter, hands sliding to her hips, gripping the soft flesh where the fishnets dig in. “Like you’re tryna choke my dick—fuck, you’re perfect.” She whimpers, rocking back, and you feel her open up more—still snug as hell, but taking you in, her body adjusting to the stretch. “Love that,” she pants, “keep talking—makes me so fucking hot.” You smirk, thrusting a little deeper, and she yelps, fingers clawing the sheets, but she’s grinning too—loving it, begging for it.
You’re halfway in now, her ass clenching around you like it’s got a mind of its own, and you can’t help it—your hand comes down hard on her right cheek, a sharp slap that echoes in the room. Her whole body jolts, a choked “oh fuck” spilling out, and the red mark blooms fast, lube smearing under your palm. “Yeah, you like that?” you say, voice gritty, and she nods fast, hair bouncing. “God, yes—do it again.” You do—another smack, left cheek this time, harder, and she’s moaning, loud and shameless, ass jiggling from the impact. “Such a dirty little slut for me,” you growl, and she laughs, breathy and wild, “Only for you, babe.”
You grab a fistful of her hair then—long, black, tangled—and yank, pulling her head back, her spine arching even more. She gasps, neck exposed, and you lean in, kissing the curve of her shoulder, biting down just enough to make her squirm. “Fuck, you’re so tight it’s unreal,” you tell her, thrusting again—deeper, slow and steady—and she’s trembling, ass rocking back to meet you. “Can barely move—you’re squeezing me so fucking hard.” She moans louder, a little “uh-huh” that’s all needy and wrecked, and you feel her shift—spreading her knees wider, giving you more room to work.
You’re buried now—balls deep, raw, no rubber between you—and it’s insane, the heat, the grip, the way her ass feels like it’s swallowing you whole. “Jesus Christ, Rina,” you pant, pulling back just a bit then slamming back in, “this ass is fucking perfect—tight as shit, taking me so good.” She whines, pushing back harder, and you slap her again—sharp, right across the meat of her cheek—and she yelps, the sound melting into a moan. “Fuck, yes—keep doing that,” she begs, and you oblige, spanking her in rhythm with your thrusts, her skin turning pink, then red, lube and sweat making it shine.
Your hand’s still tangled in her hair, pulling tight, and she’s loving it—arching so hard her tits lift off the bed, swaying with every pump. “You’re so fucking deep,” she groans, voice shaking, “can feel you everywhere—fuck, don’t stop.” You don’t—can’t—thrusting steady now, not fast but hard, every push stretching her more, her ass hugging you so tight it’s like she’s molded for you. “Goddamn, you’re a vice,” you say, voice raw, “I can't get enough of your ass.” She laughs, breathless, “Good—want you to feel it, want you addicted.”
Her fishnets are shredded now—one knee’s ripped through, the netting bunching up around her calves—and it’s hot as hell, the way she’s all undone, all yours. You let go of her hair for a sec, both hands gripping her hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh above her ass, and you pound into her—slow, deliberate, making her feel every inch. She’s loud—moaning, cursing, “Fuck, right there—harder,” and you oblige, slamming in deep, her whole body rocking with the force. Another slap—sharp, stinging—and she cries out, ass clenching even tighter, a wet schlick every time you pull out, lube dripping down her thighs, staining the sheets.
“Love this ass,” you growl, leaning over her, chest brushing her back, kissing her neck as you thrust. “So fucking tight—gonna ruin you, Rina.” She shivers, pushing back, “Ruin me then—fucking do it.” You straighten up, one hand sliding around to her front, brushing her pussy—still soaked, clit swollen—and she jolts. You don’t linger there, though—focus back on her ass, pounding steady, feeling that insane grip, the way she’s taking you raw like it’s nothing. “You’re so fucking hot,” you say, voice all gravel, “this tight little hole’s all mine.” She moans louder, ass shaking, and you know she’s loving it—every word, every slap, every deep, slow thrust driving her wild.
You’re deep in her—her tight little asshole gripping your cock like it’s trying to milk you dry—and she’s moaning your name, voice hoarse and needy. But you’ve got an itch to switch it up, see her from a new angle, feel her take control. “C’mere,” you rasp, pulling out slow, watching her hole clench around nothing, lube dripping down her thighs. She glances back, all flushed and wrecked, and you pat your chest. “On top—wanna see you ride me.”
She grins—tired but game—and scrambles up, finally taking off the panties that were still on her knees, legs shaky as she swings one over your hips. You’re flat on your back now, head propped on a pillow, cock slick and hard against your stomach, and she straddles you, knees sinking into the mattress. Her tits bounce as she moves—still streaked with your cum from earlier, nipples pink and hard—and she grabs your shaft, lining it up with her ass. “Gonna fuck you good,” she says, breathy and bold, and sinks down—slow at first, just the tip, her face twisting with that mix of stretch and want. “Fuck, you’re big,” she whines, but she keeps going, taking you inch by inch, her tight heat swallowing you whole.
You groan, hands flying to her hips, gripping where the fishnets dig into her skin. “Shit, Rina—you’re so fucking tight like this,” you say, and she smirks, loving it, her pussy dripping onto your stomach as she bottoms out—ass flush against your thighs, your cock buried deep. She rocks once, testing, and you both moan—loud, shameless, the sound bouncing off the walls. Then she starts riding—hard, fast, no hesitation—lifting up ‘til just the head’s in, then slamming back down, her ass slapping your hips with every thrust. “Goddamn,” you grunt, thrusting up to meet her, and she screams—high and raw—head thrown back, hair whipping wild. “Yes—fuck, yes—like that!”
She’s a vision—tits bouncing, abs flexing, that black hair cascading down her back like a waterfall—and she’s loud, no filter, just pure pleasure. “You feel so fucking good,” she gasps, hands braced on your chest, nails digging in. “So deep—fuck, I can’t—” Her ass is unreal, squeezing you tight, hot and slick with lube, and you’re pounding up into her now, hard and relentless, the bed creaking like it’s gonna snap. “You love this tight ass, huh?” she teases, voice shaking but still filthy, “fucking wrecking me—don’t stop.” You slap her ass again—sharp, the sound cracking through the room—and she yelps, clenching harder, driving you wild.
“Rina—shit, you’re perfect,” you growl, pulling her down by the hips, slamming up into her so deep she’s screaming, “Oh fuck, oh fuck!” Her pussy’s leaking all over you, wet and sloppy, and you can tell she’s close—body trembling, moans turning into these broken little cries. “Cum in me,” she pants, desperate, leaning forward so her tits brush your chest, hair falling in your face. “Please, babe—fill my ass, I need it.” That’s all it takes—her begging, that tight, hot grip, the way she’s riding you like she’s claiming you—you’re right there with her, heat pooling fast.
You grab her waist, flip the script—thrusting up hard, fast, relentless—and she’s gone, screaming your name, “Yes—fuck—oh my god babe, I’m cumming!” Her ass clamps down, a vice, pulsing around you as she shatters—body shaking, hips jerking, pussy gushing wet over your stomach. It’s too much—her tightness, her screams, the way she’s breaking apart—and you lose it, slamming up one last time, burying deep as you cum. “Fuck, Rina—” you groan, voice wrecked, and you’re unloading—thick, hot spurts pumping into her ass, raw and unrestrained. She sighs, this soft, blissful sound, still rocking on you as you fill her, your cum hot and heavy inside her tight little hole.
You’re both gasping, synced up in that wild, shuddering high—her ass milking you dry, your cock pulsing with every wave. She collapses forward, chest heaving against yours, and you feel it—your load starting to leak out, warm and sticky, seeping around your shaft where you’re still buried in her. She shifts, a little whimper slipping out as more spills free, dripping down her thighs, pooling on your hips, a messy, glorious aftermath. “Fuck, that’s hot,” she mutters, voice all lazy and sated, reaching back to feel it—fingers brushing where you’re still inside, smearing your cum over her slick skin. “You made a fucking mess of me.”
You laugh, winded, hands sliding up her back, tangling in her hair. “First time in your ass and you’re already a pro—shit, Rina, you’re unreal.” She grins, slow and smug, lifting her head to kiss you—soft at first, then deeper, tasting sweat and sex on her lips. “Loved it,” she whispers against your mouth, “felt so full—fuck, we’re doing this again. Soon.” You nod, still buzzing, “Hell yeah—anytime you want, babe.” She hums, content, settling against you, her ass still warm and leaking, your cock softening but not pulling out yet—just staying there, basking in the afterglow.
You’re both quiet for a minute, just breathing, the room settling—ocean waves faint outside, the sheets a disaster beneath you. She shifts, propping herself up on your chest, and looks at you—eyes soft, that post-sex glow making her even prettier. “Love you,” she says, simple and real, and it hits you square in the chest. “Love you too,” you reply, brushing a strand of hair from her face, thumb lingering on her cheek. “So fucking much.” She smiles, small and genuine, then adds, “And I’m so stoked we’re working together—directing me, making something dope with you? It’s perfect.”
You grin, pulling her closer, kissing her forehead. “Yeah—gonna be unreal. You on screen, me behind the lens, and then shit like this after? Can’t wait.” She laughs, soft and tired, nuzzling into your neck. “Best team ever—work hard, fuck harder, right?” You chuckle, running your fingers down her spine, feeling the tacky mix of lube and cum still on her skin. “Damn right. Gonna kill it—on set and off.” She sighs, happy, and you just hold her—sticky, spent, and stupidly in love.
The MV shoot kicks off, and holy shit, it’s surreal—standing in the same room as Rina, barking directions at her and the rest of Aespa, watching them move under the lights like they’re born for this. The SM studio’s buzzing—cameras rolling, crew scrambling, the girls decked out in these futuristic, neon-drenched outfits that scream the concept: bold, glitchy, otherworldly. Rina’s in the center, all sharp angles and effortless charisma, hitting every mark you throw at her. You’re behind the monitor, calling shots—“Tilt your head a bit, Rina, yeah, perfect; Winter, step into that light”—and she catches your eye sometimes, a quick flicker of a glance, professional but charged, like you’re both in on this secret no one else can clock. The single’s a banger—synths that hit like a storm, lyrics dripping with edge—and you know it’s gonna smash charts. The vibe on set’s electric, everyone feeding off the hype, but you and her? You’re playing it cool, keeping it strictly business—well, mostly.
Outside the studio, though, shit’s getting messy. You’re running into her all the time now—SM’s hallways, the cafeteria, even the parking lot where she’s ducking into a van and you’re hopping on your car. “Hey,” she’ll say, casual but with that smirk, and you’ll nod back, “Sup,” like it’s nothing. Events too—some fashion thing here, a random showcase there—and you’re both in the same orbit, orbiting but never colliding, keeping that distance like an unspoken rule. Fans are starting to notice, though—those eagle-eyed weirdos online who live for crumbs. It starts small: Bali pics. She’d posted some Instagram shots—her in a floral dress, beach vibes, captioned with a sun emoji—and you’d dropped a couple too, just landscapes, no face, but same damn week. Coincidence, right? Except then there’s the clothes. She’s spotted in this oversized sweatshirt—gray, faded logo, suspiciously like the one you wore to a shoot last month. Then a cap—black, curved brim, the one you lost somewhere between your place and hers. The internet lights up.
Comments start popping off on X: “Yo, Karina’s rocking his hoodie—wtf is this?” “Bali pics line up too perfect, they were def together.” “Sweatshirt’s his, cap’s his, someone tell me I’m not crazy.” “SM needs to lock this down, dating rumors incoming.” Then some grainy leak drops—a blurry shot of you two at a café, her laughing, you leaning in, too close for “just friends.” Netizens go feral: “Caught in 4K, they’re fucking for sure.” “Karina’s off the market? MYs boutta riot.” “He’s hot tho, I’d ship it if it wasn’t my girl.” The clues pile up—sweatshirts, caps, Bali timestamps—and the rumors snowball, hashtags trending, fan forums dissecting every frame. You and Rina see it unfolding, texts flying between you: “They’re onto us,” she sends, with a laughing emoji. “Yeah, we’re screwed,” you shoot back, half-joking, half-panicking.
SM catches wind—of course they do—and you’re both hauled into some sterile meeting room with glass walls and stern faces. The execs are pissed but calm, like they’ve seen this shit before. “So,” one of them starts, tapping a pen, “rumors. True or not?” You and Rina exchange a look—her knee’s bouncing under the table, your hands are sweaty—and there’s no dodging it. Nowhere to run. “Yeah,” you say, voice steady but heart hammering, “it’s true.” She nods, biting her lip, “We’re together.” The room goes dead quiet, then it’s all clipped questions—how long, where, who knows—and you’re spilling it: Bali, years now, kept it quiet ‘til this. They don’t flip out—SM’s too slick for that—but you get the lecture: keep it low-key, no scandals, focus on work. You’re out of there in twenty minutes, dazed, holding her hand under the table ‘til the last second.
Back on set, it’s chaos. Word’s spread—crew whispering, some MYs online losing their shit, protest trucks rumored outside SM with LED signs screaming “Karina, why betray us?” But there’s support too—“Let her live, she’s human,” “They’re cute af, haters can choke”—and it’s a mixed bag, love and hate clashing loud. You’re calling shots through the noise—“Giselle, sharper on that turn; Ningning, hold that pose”—and Rina’s killing it, all fierce and focused, but those glances? They’re heavier now, loaded with everything you’ve just laid bare. One take, she’s in this skintight bodysuit, hair flipping, and you catch her eye mid-move—she winks, quick and subtle, and you’re grinning like an idiot behind the camera. Professional, sure, but the tension’s thick, electric, everyone feeling it.
The MV wraps—late nights, endless takes, but it’s fire. The final cut’s a neon-drenched fever dream, Aespa owning every frame, and the single drops to instant hype—streaming numbers exploding, charts bending under the weight. Boycott threats? They fizzle—fans can’t resist the bop, and the haters get drowned out. You and Rina celebrate quiet—her place, takeout sprawled on the floor, her sprawled on you, laughing about the chaos. “You fucking nailed it,” she says, kissing your jaw, “best director I’ve ever had.” You smirk, pulling her closer, “You’re the hit, babe—couldn’t have done it without you.” She’s glowing, proud, and you’re just happy as hell to see her shine.
Tour kicks off, and you’re there—traveling when you can, sneaking into shows. Tokyo’s first—Rina on stage, lights blazing, that bodysuit again, and she’s a goddamn force, voice cutting through the arena, moves sharp enough to slice air. You’re in the wings, cap low, watching her kill it, and when she spots you mid-chorus, she throws this tiny, secret smile—barely a second, but it’s yours. Backstage, she’s sweaty, buzzing, dragging you into a corner, kissing you quick and hard. “Glad you’re here,” she whispers, and you’re grinning, “Wouldn’t miss it.” You catch a few more—Seoul, LA—each one a rush, her happier every time you’re in the crowd, texting you dumb shit like “Saw u headbanging, loser” after.
You’re official now—no more hiding, but still chill about it. Low-key’s the vibe—hand-holding in private, stolen kisses off-camera, no big Insta reveal. The uproar’s settled, mostly—some fans still salty, but the love outweighs it, and SM’s cool as long as you don’t fuck up. You’re bumping into her at SM daily now—her recording, you editing—and it’s normal, easy, like you’ve slotted into each other’s lives seamless. One night, post-show, you’re at some dive bar near the venue, her in your hoodie, you in her cap, laughing over beers about the wild ride—rumors, leaks, all of it. “Brought us closer, huh?” she says, leaning into you, and you nod, arm around her. “Hell yeah—unbreakable now.” She smiles, real and soft, and you know it’s true—work, love, chaos, whatever—you’ve got her, she’s got you, and it’s all good.
After everything—the MV chaos, the rumors, the public reveal—you and Rina finally take the plunge and move in together. It’s a big step, but it feels right, like the natural next beat in your rhythm. You ditch your cramped, bachelor-pad vibes for a bigger spot—a sleek apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows, a killer view of Seoul’s skyline, and enough space to breathe. Rina’s all over the decorating, turning it into this cozy-chic haven she’s been dreaming of. She’s got an eye for it—soft rugs, funky lamps, pops of color in the cushions, framed pics of you two from Bali tucked on shelves next to her awards and your random gear. The place smells like her now—vanilla candles, fresh laundry, a hint of her perfume—and it’s home, filled with this easy, messy love that’s all yours.
When your schedules aren’t kicking your asses, domestic life with her is pure gold. Mornings start slow—you blinking awake to her sprawled next to you, sheets tangled around her legs, hair a wild nest on the pillow. She’s always the first to stir, groaning something incoherent before padding out in nothing but her panties and one of your oversized tees—usually that ratty Nirvana one you’ve had since forever. It hangs loose on her, slipping off one shoulder, and she’s sexy as hell without even trying, all sleepy eyes and bare thighs. You stumble out after her, yawning, and find her in the kitchen, humming some Aespa B-side while she fumbles with the coffee machine. “Babe, you’re gonna break it,” you tease, sliding up behind her, arms around her waist, kissing her neck ‘til she squirms and giggles. “Then you make it, genius,” she fires back, elbowing you lightly, but she leans into you anyway, warm and soft.
Cooking together’s your thing now—nothing fancy, just real. She’s chopping veggies all wrong, swearing under her breath when the knife slips, and you’re manning the stove, flipping pancakes or stir-frying whatever’s in the fridge. “You’re such a show-off,” she grumbles, flicking a pepper slice at you, and you catch it mid-air, popping it in your mouth with a grin. “Just tryna impress my girl,” you say, and she rolls her eyes but blushes, tossing you a spatula like, “Fine, you’re hired.” It’s chaos—spills, burnt edges, her laughing when you curse at the smoke alarm—but it’s perfect, plates piled high on the counter, eating side by side with your knees knocking, her stealing half your food ‘til you’re fake-wrestling her for the last bite.
Then the award nomination hits—some flashy industry thing, best music video direction, tied to the Aespa MV you poured your soul into. You’re floored, texting Rina from the studio like, “Yo, what the fuck, I’m up for an award?!” She spams you back with confetti emojis and “TOLD YOU YOU’RE THE SHIT” in all caps, already planning how to flex it to her girls. The night of the ceremony’s wild—some glitzy venue downtown, with sharp suits and champagne flutes, you in a black blazer feeling half out of place but hyped as hell. Rina’s there, front row, looking like a goddamn knockout in this deep red dress that hugs her curves, hair swept up, smirking at you from her seat like she knows something you don’t. You’re nervous—palms sweaty, leg bouncing—‘til they call your name, and the room erupts.
She’s on her feet first, clapping hard, and you’re stumbling up, still processing, when she barrels into you backstage—arms tight around your neck, squeezing you like she’s trying to fuse you together. “You fucking did it,” she whispers, voice shaky with pride, and you hug her back, spinning her once ‘cause you’re too buzzed to care who’s watching. Up at the podium, lights blinding, you grip the award—cold, heavy, real—and the words just spill out. “This is for Karina,” you say, voice cracking a little, “my rock, my push, the one who’s been there since I was scratching shit out on my phone. None of this happens without her—she’s my everything.” The crowd’s all “aww” and claps, but you’re looking at her—tears in her eyes, hand over her mouth, glowing like she’s the one who won. “Love you,” you add, live, no filter, and the room cheers louder, but all you see is her, mouthing it back, cheeks wet.
Back home, it’s quiet—special, just you two. The award’s on the counter, glinting under the kitchen lights, but you’re not even looking at it. You’re on the couch, her curled into your side, still in that red dress ‘cause neither of you bothered changing. She’s got a beer in one hand, you’ve got a whiskey, and some chill lo-fi playlist hums through the speakers. “Can’t believe you said that on stage,” she murmurs, nudging you with her knee, smirking. “What, that I love you?” you shoot back, tugging her closer. “Meant every word—world can deal with it.” She laughs, soft, resting her head on your chest, fingers tracing circles on your shirt. “They’ll get over it. We’re good.”
Living together’s seamless now—she’s stealing your hoodies daily, strutting around in them and nothing else, legs bare, hair up in a messy bun, and you’re not complaining—fuck, you’re obsessed. Mornings are coffee and kisses, nights are takeout and Netflix, her yelling at you for hogging the remote, you pinning her down ‘til she’s giggling and kissing you to shut you up. She crashes your edits sometimes, leaning over your shoulder, pointing at the screen—“Cut that faster, babe, trust me”—and she’s usually right, damn it.
That night, post-award, you’re tangled up—her legs over yours, the city twinkling outside, and it’s peaceful, perfect. “We made it,” she says, voice low, tracing your jaw with her finger. “Through all the bullshit—rumors, leaks, SM’s crap. We’re here.” You nod, kissing her knuckles, feeling the weight of it—years of hustling, loving, hiding, now just being. “Yeah, we did. You and me—unstoppable.” She smiles, real and unguarded, and you know this is it—her in your life, your home, your everything. “Love you,” she whispers, and you say it back, “Love you too,” sinking into her, the world outside fading to static. It’s you and Rina, together, no fear, no limits—just this, right here, always.
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uniquethingtastemaker · 3 months ago
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I’m about to write a series called “Dreaming of You” where the premise is when you jump into the romantic interest’s dream in Chapter 7, you’re there as their significant other.
I'm a genius. Here's who I have ideas for and I'll be nice and give u their vibes. Potential vague (changed Rook's)
Big Master Update Post Here!! A lot has changed! I have more characters, snippets, and samples of my work. Plus, more fleshed out vibes for you to look forward to! I post pretty consistently, so I anticipate it will change frequently
Riddle -- Wild. Traumatizing and sad. Traumatizing and sad pt 2. Happy and healthy resolution in the real world.
Trey -- ...Surprisingly serious. You support Trey. Parent couple.
Leona -- (got vague vibe. @solxamber is probably gonna help me lol) Angst and low self esteem with happy ending
Azul -- Secondhand embarrassment purely because this dream is the most cringe in canon. Standing up to Azul. Total acceptance.
Jade -- He likes you the best and it’s obvious.
Floyd -- He missed you and it’s sweet.
Vil -- Switcharoo with your fake. Calling him out and being disappointed. Loving resolution.
Rook -- Deep, sweet. Vulnerable, honest, authentic. A little sweet angst, but in the best way. Reminds me of Lilia's and kinda Ace's.
Idia -- Mom saw his search history and his crush. Malleus deserves death, not just a beating. Wingman and recruiter Ortho. Idia is impressive. (longer fics by nature of his role in this chapter)
Silver -- Slow burn. Protecting Silver and helping with his low self-esteem. Sweet and noble on both sides. (got vague vibes for this. subjected to change. His will be longer like Idia's because of his role)
Sebek -- Struggling with his emotions. Snapping him out of hesitation. Ace will probably verbally kicks his ass... if not multiple people ragging on him for his behavior. Probably character progress. Works out in the end (longer by nature as well)
Malleus -- Surprise, he has a dream. Ace's unique magic. Unclear about full nature of his dream. Probably soft
Let me know who you’re most excited to see out of this list so far. Maybe I’ll take your suggestions a little bit and write some of the more popular ones first. Give me a few so I have more to choose from pls. I have more fleshed out idea for some than others. I’m curious to see who people are interested in.
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willowed-wisp · 7 months ago
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apocalypse sex [ könig ]
You are in Austria when the zombie apocalypse strikes- you and a pretty blue eyed stranger called König aim to survive together
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You didn’t remember how it went down, that crashed feeling piling onto you was all that could be mustered… the excruciating pain which followed.
Left in the street to die. But you weren’t dead, if only in the days to come. The early days of the apocalypse.
Glad to be in a bed, better than the cobblestone streets you’d been dumped on. Vague snippets filtered through, light eyes furrowed with unneeded worry- arms easily cradling you. That’s when slumber betrayed you. Probably whose bed you found yourself in.
Incoherent words spilled from a masculine voice, surprisingly gentle in your ears. Yet, you couldn’t understand what the man was saying, “I don’t understand, I’m sorry…”
“I said, I’m glad you’re awake… you weren’t well.” Not feeling ‘well’ either, but able to move. Though when you did, a hand rested on your shoulder and you met his face… the same kind eyes in your hazed dream. Something so young about a face that had seen too many atrocities. “Why would someone harm British national?” He must have seen your ID, you couldn’t blame him.
You laughed the nerves away, “I was speaking to the wrong guy, apparently…” The man didn’t laugh, not even cracking a smile. You wondered if he actually could look anything but worried on the verge of tears. “I’ll be on my way… I don’t want to be a nuisance.” Everywhere ached but you’d had worse, a police officer by trade in London. That’s why when this mountain of a man blocked your way, you reached for the imaginary gun you had been specially trained to you in unforeseen situations.
“It’s not safe out there,”
“To me, it doesn’t feel safe in here…” That’s only when you noticed the static on the television huddled in the corner. Strange… you were in Vienna, there must have been service. That doomed look on his face told you as much, “How long was I asleep for?”
“A day…”
“And what’s happened in that day?” Peeking out the window, fire consumed some of the city while trash scattered the streets. Ignoring the people walking. “Rioting?”
He shook his head, “A weapon was released… infecting anyone by the bloodstream.” It clicked.
“Zombies?” You sounded much too nonchalant… that’s why you were in Vienna, investigating reports for HQ. You unfortunately rubbed people up the wrong way in Austria. “Fuck… we need to get moving…” He watched you walk across the room, out to the living area of his apartment. It was bare, lifeless as if he was never there on the frequent. “I never asked your name. I’m Y/N.”
You sat on the sofa while he loomed, “They call me ‘König’,”
“Who’s they? You’re friends?”
He looked out of the window. Hung up on one detail. “You’re taking this zombie problem too well, officer…” He was too observant for his own good.
“Who are you, ‘King’?” You were smarter than you looked… he admired that in an adversary.
Something in his eyes toyed with you, a buzz of some kind. “I’m your friend, we’re going to need each other to survive out there…”
That you agreed on.
You laughed in his face, “You really want to finish unsigned paperwork now?”
“I need to get to my work… they have things we’re going to need.”
When you arrived, it was burned to the ground. “König, we need to go.” It had all moved so fast, those first weeks. Luckily both of you able to handle yourselves, what you really needed to were guns… to no avail.
König drove most of the time, the only time he looked at peace. You hadn’t really spoke much, always having your eyes wide open for potential threats. But in the countryside, where very little people inhabited- you could exhale properly for the first time.
Especially when you found a possible refuge. Passing by a lake- you saw an island out in the clear waters and on the tuft of green in the turquoise glimmer, you spotted a cabin. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
“A decent nights sleep?” It didn’t take long to find a rowing boat on the dock your side of the lake. Both equally doing your work, loading up any supplies you had acquired on the way. Tinned food, bottles onto of bottle of water. Luckily König was a big guy… and you couldn’t stop watching him in that previous week.
He had saved your life with an axe in the grocery store, it seemed to be his preferred weapon choice. Ever since, you couldn’t stop the wondering.
The settlement looked like a holiday outlet, it was out of the way of civilisation and had its own livestock on the stretch of island behind your viewpoint on ‘mainland’. Cows, chickens… it was there. Luckily you watched your farming programmes…
König did the security sweep of the two story property himself, deeming it clear. “Still has electricity…” He marvelled.
“There’s a wind turbine out back and solar panels on the roof… these guys were ready for an apocalypse…” Head up looking at the haven you had uncovered, not paying mind… crashing into the body beside you. His hands held the back of your head and your the base of your back. In an ode to keep you upright.
He made you feel incredibly small, “Gotta be careful, kleine dame…” You almost blushed at his handsome smile, eyes shining down on you.
That night you sat by the fire, in the cozy cabin. Having eaten soup beforehand… life couldn’t be too bad like that. Huddled under a blanket, too preoccupied staring at the warm lit visage of the man who had saved your life more than once. Before he peered back in you, a lopsided grin on his lips
“Doors locked?” You asked before heading to bed… a nice comfortable bed instead of the inside of that crappy Peugeot you’d picked up along the way.
He hummed a ‘yes’ to you. All power off, all windows boarded up. “The people who lived here had an eye for security systems…” How he knew the code was beyond you but you’re pretty sure he said he’d grown up nearby and fished the lake with his grandfather. You shrugged it off.
Going downstairs you noticed the pictures hanging up, on the second floor landing. A remarkably tall boy stood with his grandparents- catching his first fish… this was König’s place…
You stepped to the room he’d settled in for the night, only to find him dripping wet from a shower. Only in a towel hung around his hips, “I’m sorry, I should’ve knocked!” Before darting out of the room… too focused on the rippled flesh of his abdomen rather than the colours of the walls. You checked on the livestock, naming each of them in your head. Getting mixed around every time they moved.
A hand grazed your hip for a split second, “This was your grandparent’s cabin, wasn’t it?” He gave a nod. “And you’re the guy with good tastes in security systems?”
He seemed trapped in his own thoughts, “I knew it was safe here, we’d have everything we needed… and yeah I’m the security guy-,” You didn’t care, hands placed on his scarred forearms- craning your neck up, kissing König. Just a small token of your growing affection. He tasted like sea salt and smelled like ginger and sandalwood. “Damn, you beat me to it…”
A hand pressed against what felt like rock but was in fact his chest, “We’ve got many more of those to come…” Not helping the purr in your voice, sultry to a fault. All completely intentional.
Though, something told you he’d have trouble initiating anything.
You were truly mistaken.
That night, nails dug as fingers wrenched in his growing out dirty blonde hair. Tongue riveted along your folds, watching him work before he flicked the sweet spots you didn’t even know existed. That had your head against the dining table, toes curling on the edge. Fingers added, corkscrewing in and out of your wet pussy had you whimpering. Only able to get part of his name out.
His hands wrapped around your ankles, propping onto his shoulders. Bending your legs so your knees were at your waist, mouth invading deeper. Kissing and marking his territory, careless moans thrown into the void. Curses tossed out, fingers teasing your bud while he devoured.
Tasting yourself on his lips, fucked out already, “This isn’t over, prächtig.” Draping your legs around his hips, holding your ass as his carried you to the bedroom you’d found him half naked.
Walls a dark grey and military decor splattered here and there. Fingers at your chin, kisses twining the two of you. A shared effort to get the t-shirt over those broad shoulders. Hot, bare flesh under your fingertips. Muttering a swear, open-mouthed adoration consuming you. Tracing along rough and ready skin, he keened away, “Sensitive? How ‘bout here?” A palm at his denim, you witnessed König melt. Caging you in under him, never breaking contact.
Thick fingers teased- delving at a slow pace - curling at that sensitive patch inside. Breathless gasps coming from you in ebbs and flows, “Be loud, schatz…”
“Still so shy, even after making me come on your tongue…” Caressing his soft cheek, eye contact broken. Clenched down only for him to pick up the slack- feeling yourself gush with a wail. Grasp on his forearm tightening, your face pitifully scrunched up. Mouth carved to an ‘o’.
König’s warmth gone as he stood, tall and domineering. Unbuckling his belt, though you could see the outline in the blue fabric before. White underwear, black elastic at the top. Subdued but in tune to your surroundings, your eyes wide. His height corresponding at the thick, lengthy outline. Scarred hand giving it a rub, looking down at the mess in between your legs… the pool on the already dark covers. “Fucking hell…” It slapped across the trail of dark hair down the lower half of his stomach. V-line encasing the well defined cock in front of you.
How was it ever going to get inside you? You hadn’t had sex in a while, and this was the thing that would prize you open. You salivated thinking about it. His weight dipped against yours, seating between your legs. “Don’t look so scared, Y/N,” A thumb against your bottom lip, claiming both once again. Laying you down, the same thumb rubbing your face. “I’m going to go slow…” Resting on his knees, you couldn’t help but touch the thickness. He huffed so sweet at whatever touch you gave him.
Lifting your hips up with one of the pillows, legs stretched to fit his hips. Cold air hitting your bare parts, his legs filled the chill. You didn’t look, as his tip sank in. A sharpness turned into pleasure as the rest of him burrowed inside of you. Hands stapled to his neck- look at every twitch in König’s features. A loud groan from him, “Scheiße…” All that more attracted to him from that angle, incoherently in a void between dizziness and suffocation. Fleshy walls swollen around his girth. “I don’t think I can control myself, schatz…”
Your mind delirious and vision like a kaleidoscope, “Give it to me…”
König struggled to move, which made his movements more erratic. Hands everywhere on him, maiming him any time he bucked. Movements not rough but pent up.
Wriggling too much, his hands clamped down on your raised hips while ploughing you. Lifting your ass off the bed, fucking into you. Slaps of skin and strained choruses of teeth gritted screams was all that could be heard. Discomfort outmatched by carnal tears… He knew when you came- each time you did. Pulsing around him, almost pushing him out. That’s why he ground so deeply. And that’s when he’s name came out in a squeal.
Before his body buckled, hilted in you. Holding your wrists down, all while you milked him dry. So right, so soft… all his from now on. This giant of a man inside of you.
What a way to spend the zombie apocalypse…
————
Thanks for reading :)
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nereidprinc3ss · 1 year ago
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andromeda | (dybmn? bonus)
a bonus vignette from spencer's POV. we find out how he really feels about reader. takes place the day before the argument at the bar.
note: this is not part six! takes place between parts four and five.
series masterlist
18+ warnings/tags: fem!reader, semi-graphic descriptions of sexual fantasies, some angst, you're not actually present, mention of alcohol, very vague discussions of murdery stuff bc he's supposed to be working, sassy spencer makes an appearance a/n: for all my angels who said they wanted a snippet of spencer's POV! i'm sorry if i'm overdoing it with this story or clogging the spencer tags, i'm just having a lot of fun! i hope you enjoy or that this may be clears some things up for you, pls lmk your thoughts:) ily!!!
Spencer is incessantly drumming the particle board table underneath his fingers.
The polymer veneer is one of his least favorite textures—he hates the grain of it and if he were to accidentally scratch the table with his nails he knows it would make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 
But of all the things he’s worried about, that ranks very low on the list. 
He’s got a lot of mental tabs open all the time—and the tabs, he can deal with. It’s when he starts trying to operate with multiple windows that he begins to struggle. His brain, while it is a very fine tuned sort of computer, only has one monitor. Unfortunately, no human (except for the ones who’ve had their brain hemispheres surgically split) is immune to the inevitable pitfalls of multitasking. By dividing his mental energy between you and his job, he’s really fucking up his job. But he also thinks he really fucked up with you on that phone call the other night and for being as logical as he is he can’t seem to make that feel unimportant—even though he’s disgusted with himself for it because there are literally people dying. 
Someone knocks on the open conference room door—he looks up, skimming his lips over his fist. 
“What’s up?” he says too quickly upon seeing Emily’s mildly concerned face peering in on him. 
Her mouth bridges into a sort of nonchalant frown and her brows kick up. 
“Just… checking in. Haven’t heard from you all morning.”
“Yeah, the, uh—the geo-profile. I’m still… I’m still working it out.”
It’s not like he’s ever been phenomenal with his syntax in a social sense, but Spencer is certainly aware he’s doing even worse than usual right now. 
“Okay. Uh… is there anything in particular stumping you, or…?”
“Nope. Just not enough information. But I’m—I’m going to keep trying.”
“Alright. Got your phone handy?”
It’s an odd question—of course he has his phone handy. He’s been doing this job longer than Emily has. How else would he communicate with the rest of the team? He bristles. 
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
Emily shakes her head. She’s always been particularly good at reading his moods.
“You’re not under attack, Reid. I was just asking.”
Just as he’s about to say, why would you assume I’m not prepared for my job, he manages to swerve away and stifle the words with his fist. Instead he looks back down at his copy of the map and nods. In reality, he truly isn’t prepared for his job today. The reason he has his phone so close, fully charged and at top volume is because he’s worried he’ll miss a call from you. 
Emily says something else, and he hums in response, and then she’s gone. 
He shouldn’t be reading into your reticence this much. It’s not like you just sit by the phone all day, eagerly awaiting a call or text from him (like he does you). You have a life. You’re busy. And even if you are intentionally dodging his texts, he can’t entirely fault you for it. Spencer knows he’s clingy. He knows he’s overbearing. It’s part of why he panicked the other night and told you the whole humiliating story about Elle. Because he can’t ever just be cool and he felt the need to explain himself. 
But the problem was, and is, that he doesn’t know how much longer he can go without saying those three words that fucked him over all those years ago.
So he’d danced around them. Applied them to someone else to try and avoid outright professing his all-consuming love for you over the phone. However you feel, Spencer has to assume he feels more. Spencer always has to assume he feels more because he usually does and it’s gotten him into trouble before. And now he’s pretty sure he was exactly right, as often is the case, because you didn’t tell him he was mistaken and you’d clammed up and you haven’t talked to him since and he’s not supposed to be reading into it this much. 
Three victims killed and dumped within a 6 mile radius of the first victim plus one victim killed and dumped 23.8 miles away. That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Fuck this guy. 
Spencer decides the problem is that he needs more caffeine. 
Or possibly, if he were a different kind of man—copious amounts of alcohol. 
So he stows his phone in a pocket and asks the first person he sees where the coffee machine is. 
“Looks like you found it earlier,” the woman says, glancing pointedly down at his mostly empty mug. A playful smirk tugs at pinkish-brownish lips. She’s pretty, he realizes distantly. But he registers it the same way he’d take note of the model of a car, or the species of a bird, or the kind of shoes someone is wearing. It doesn’t actually interest him. It’s just part of processing his environment. “I can show you to it?”
He doesn’t have the heart or energy to explain that someone else brought him his cup earlier and he’s not flirting with her. 
“If you could just point me in the right direction…?”
She laughs, short and dry, before she’s pointing down a hall. 
“Kitchenette down there and to the left.”
“Thanks,” he mutters, already walking away without sparing her a second glance. 
She’s the kind of woman he would have paid a lot more attention to before you came along. Not that he’d ever sleep with someone on the job (not since he was 25, anyway), but if he’d met her under any other circumstances he probably would have cared more about the way her pupils dilated and her eyes had widened slightly and she’d adjusted her posture and all the other small things people do when they’re attracted to someone else. 30 year old Spencer might have slept with her. 27 year old Spencer definitely would have slept with her. Current Spencer obsessively pines for a woman who is already his girlfriend and whom he has yet to sleep with at all far too much to think about other women like that. 
But god, does he think about you like that. 
His feet carry him down the dim, carpeted hallway but really it took barely a nudge and he’s thinking about you like that. At work. As he’s pouring himself coffee. 
Spencer is confident in the fact that if anyone were to look at him right now, they’d never guess he’s running clips of you in his mind like a dirty supercut. Because he’s just pouring coffee. That’s one good thing about having all those tabs open all the time. He can toggle between them quickly. He has enough going on in the background that people look at him and all they can tell is that he’s thinking hard about lots of things. Some of them just happen to be the way you look when you’re naked on his bed, skin shining and glazed eyes sleepy, parted lips higher in color than usual and catching your breath. Some of them happen to be your hair brushing his stomach before he gathers it back for you. Some of them happen to be the way your thighs feel on either side of his face, or how you stretch around his fingers, or how you might feel when you stretch around his—
He hisses as hot coffee overflows from the mug and burns his hand. 
Maybe he’s not as calm and collected as he thought. 
But on top of all the other things he’s dealing with, having been so close to actually sleeping with you the other night is really fucking with his head. Even if he tells himself he wouldn't have done it, he knows himself better than that. He's too familiar with the effect you have on his judgement.
“Found it okay?” 
Spencer looks down, surprised to see the woman from earlier sitting at her desk and watching him as he quickly passes by on his way back to the conference room. Her legs are crossed. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and a flouncy sort of blouse which seems impractical for working in an FBI field office. Maybe she notices his eye catching on her figure and misguidedly swivels her chair to give him a better look. But all he’s noticing is that it doesn’t look like yours. Now he’s picturing the curve of your hip dripping in silk after that first night at Rossi’s. How your waist and your stomach feel when he slides his hands over you. This woman—she might as well not even be here for all he’s actually seeing her. 
“Yeah. Thanks again.”
Then he’s gone. Very briefly he acknowledges that he should feel sorry for so obviously brushing her off, but he doesn’t care even close to enough. He sets the coffee down on the table and rounds to the board where one of several maps is taped. On autopilot he draws lines between dump sites because one of the background tabs had deduced, while he was busy watching you like porn, that the distance between dump sites form the beginnings of the constellation Orion with some mathematical precision that’s too exacting to be coincidental. Orion’s Belt plus the most recent victim. Betelgeuse. 
There are ten formally named stars that make up Orion. He marks all of them, but circles the transposed coordinates of Bellatrix, Saiph, Rigel and Meissa as the next most likely dump sites. Most probably it will be Orion’s head. They’re all in wooded areas. He calls Garcia. Garcia will call Emily, wherever she is. If the unsub sticks to pattern, which they always do, they have until midnight. It’s trite, really. Predictable, like people always are. Far too quickly he drinks half the cup of scalding coffee and retraces his steps through the office to find the bathroom. 
It’s empty. The fluorescent lights hum. Spencer washes his hands with cold water and presses still wet fingers to his eyes. You’re waiting for him behind the black of his lids.
At first you would whine, and he would kiss you and you’d moan into his mouth and say his name when he opened you up as far as you would go. The air would be thick and warm with sex and vanilla perfume. Afterwards he’d take care of you and buy new sheets for his bed in your favorite color even if they didn’t match the walls and there would be nothing you’d want for that he couldn’t give to you ever again. 
But. 
That’s all contingent. 
No matter how often he fantasizes about it, no matter in how much detail, and regardless of how often those details change wildly, one thing always stays the same. 
The shape of your lips, swollen from kissing, bending around five or six vowels and only two consonants (it seems odd that there are only two consonants in I love you), sometimes before you start, sometimes in the middle or right at the peak—but always there, always moving in slow motion—and always silent.
In real life, they’d be aloud. It’s why his fantasies aren’t good enough. It’s why he can’t stop fantasizing about it. That’s the only part that really matters to him. The rest varies. 
Not because having sex with you doesn’t matter—it matters so much he almost shatters his molars whenever he starts picturing it around other people. But because Spencer can’t have sex with you until you love him. 
And he worries that you can’t love him until you have sex with him. 
The last time he thought that about a person, it didn’t turn out well.
Maybe there is some magic number. Some amount of times you need to have sex with someone before they’ll love you back. 
If there is, he knows for a fact it’s more than 32.
And he also knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he cannot have loveless sex with you thirty three times while he waits to find out. 
Not again. 
But he's going to hold out as long as he possibly can until you say it because he so badly wants you to love him back. He'll let the weight of every ignored text, every reminder that you don't feel that way about him, hang from his shoulders until he collapses. And then he'll probably try to get back up.
Recycled paper towels scratch against his skin. He dries his face and hands and throws them crumpled into the trash can. 
Outside the restroom, he pulls out his phone. For safety reasons and paranoia disguised as professionalism, you’re not his lock screen. It’s a photo of the Andromeda Galaxy. Whatever distance lies between you and Spencer, it could always be greater. No matter where you are in the world, you will always be the same 2.537 million light years away from Andromeda that he is. 
It makes Orion feel much closer. You, too. 
He sends you a text—the third message in a row. 
The distance between blue bubbles feels like light years. 
I’ll be home tomorrow. I miss you. 
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nevadancitizen · 9 months ago
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-> CH. 1: SOMEWHERE (FAR, FAR) EAST OF THE MOJAVE
synopsis: you wake up in some cabin, half-frozen to death. a man named arthur finds you and decides to have mercy on you, as do his associates.
word count: 3k
ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader
notes: if anyone wants me to start a taglist just lmk <3!! also there's a PROLOGUE before this, please read it before reading this :)
THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST
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It’s cold. Above everything else, it’s fucking cold. 
You screw your eyes shut tighter, curling in on yourself. You’re vaguely aware that you’re on your side and in a fetal position. 
There’s a light, faintly, somewhere behind you. You let out a hiss that tapers off into a groan and draw your arms over your head.
“Hey!” A voice shouts. It’s growly and abrasive-sounding. There’s the sound of a revolver’s hammer cocking. “Turn around. Face me.”
You prop your forearm on the floor and push yourself up with more effort than you think would be needed. You pant softly, and your breath mists in front of your mouth. You manage to hold yourself up with both hands on the floor and turn your head to look at the man. 
He’s tall in a way that makes him look down his nose at you. His silhouette is stark against the door – there’s snow outside. You don’t remember it to be… snowing. It’s May in southern California. It doesn’t snow in May in southern California.
The man looks you over, his revolver still pointed at you. His hand is unwavering.
“I’m sorry,” you say. You don’t know why. “Is this your house?”
“No,” the man says simply. “What’re you doin’ here?”
“I’m…” You look down at your hands, the way they’re braced against the floor. “I don’t know. I think…” 
Your arms shake, then collapse. Your jaw hits the floor with a dull thud, and your eyes screw shut on instinct.
“Shit,” the man drawls under his breath. 
“W-wait! Wait,” you say quickly. “I’m not on anything. I – I’m stone-cold sober. Like Steve Austin.”
You force a laugh and manage to open your eyes to look at the man. He looks confused – maybe a little disgusted? It’s hard to tell.
“Like, the wrestler?” You say. “Stone Cold Steve Austin?”
The man lowers his revolver, just a little, so that it’s not pointed at your head, but still in your general direction. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what you’re talking about, in any capacity. Maybe he won’t shoot you if he thinks you’re insane? (Or maybe that would just give him more of an incentive to kill you.)
“Just – just ignore me,” you say. (Again, you don’t know why. You don’t want to be ignored – you’re very obviously in bad shape.) “I don’t know where I am. I remember being in California, just north of Los Angeles.”
The man scoffs and checks over his shoulder, like he’s checking he’s not being duped. He looks back at you. “California? Really?”
“Yes,” you say softly. You wrap your jacket tighter around yourself the best you can with the way that you’re laying. “South. Right near Mexico – Tijuana.”
The man tilts his head and takes a half-step closer. “You’re bleedin’.”
“I am?” You manage to move your arm and see dried brown blood on your jacket laced with redder, fresher blood. “I am.”
“I just…” You shift, curling in on yourself further. Now that he’s pointed it out, you do feel some type of dull pain in your abdomen. “I’ll be okay. Don’t call for a doctor, or an ambulance. Please don’t call an ambulance. I – I’ll get to a hospital on my own.”
The man shifts on his feet. Was it always this cold? It’s… it’s so fucking cold. And no matter how much you curl in on yourself, there’s no warmth. 
The black returns. 
There’s snippets of conversations you can pick up on over the sound of feet shuffling and the sound of wind blowing outside. One woman gives a few demands to others, while another woman announces that “Davey’s dead.”
You can feel yourself being lifted and laid on something that’s hard against your back. You groan and try to open your eyes and sit up, but can’t. 
The voices grow quieter. There’s a man making some sort of speech – you can’t make out the words. 
You know you’re wavering in and out. There’s the warmth of a man’s hand on your shoulder, and a murmuring voice, still fading in and out: “I commend you… your Creator… who formed you from the dust… angels, and all the saints…”
It takes all your strength to lift your hand and grab him – some part of him. You can barely open your eyes and can’t make out a lot. “Not… dead yet. Fucking pr…preacher.”
Black again. There’s a repetitive, stinging pain in your side. 
Awake, again. Somehow. A woman, her face worn but still beautiful, hovers over you. Her wrinkles are stark in the lantern light. 
“Hello?” You say, your voice a bit slurred.
The woman turns and calls another woman over – this one much younger than her. “Miss Jackson, get Dutch. Let him know Arthur’s friend is awake.”
Miss Jackson turns and walks off with a “Yes, Miss Grimshaw.” 
“Arthur?” You interject. “Is that the man who found me?”
Miss Grimshaw turns back to you. “Yes, Arthur’s the one who found you. I don’t know why he didn’t shoot you.”
You wait for her to say something more. She doesn’t.
“Where am I?” You try. “I remember being in California, just outside of the Mojave. But the Mojave doesn’t get snow in May.”
“That’s because you’re not in the Mojave,” Miss Grimshaw says. “We’re in the Grizzlies.”
“Th…the Grizzlies?” You echo. “Like, Appalachia?”
“Somewhere in there, yes,” she says. “You been out a few days now. Reverend read you your last rites a handful of times.”
You try to sit up, but groan and lay back down. She pushes you down as well, a scowl on her face. 
The door opens with a gust of cold wind. A man steps in, then quickly shuts the door behind him. He hurries over, rubbing his gloved hands together. 
He looks you over, then drags a nearby chair over and sits. “What’s your name, friend?”
You give him your name. 
“My name is Dutch,” Dutch says. “Dutch van der Linde. I think you know by now that you’ve caught us at an… inconvenient time. And you’ll forgive us for not trusting you right away.”
“No, I get that,” you say. “I just… I need a map or something. I need to get back home.”
Dutch beckons for Miss Grimshaw to bring over a map. He opens it and holds it out to you. 
You sit up, slowly, making sure not to do anything too sudden. When you’re upright, you take the map from him and look it over. You don’t recognize anything on the map, but one point piques your interest – the date. The year reads 1891.
“Sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but…” You point to the year. “This map seems a little out of date.”
“It’s just eight years,” Miss Grimshaw says. “Most everything is the same.”
You glance up at her, then at Dutch, then at the people around the cabin. Your fingers twitch and crumple the map a bit. 
This is a dream! I’m in a coma! Your mind shouts. I’m in a medically-induced coma because I was shot and holy hell – how the fuck did I go from 2024 to 1899?!
“Right, right,” you say instead. “Sorry. I’m just being nitpicky.”
“Where’re you from?” Dutch asks. 
“California. Near the Mojave,” you say. “Out west.”
“And you would leave all that… virgin paradise…” Dutch laughs and gestures vaguely around him. “For this?”
“I don’t know how I got here,” you say. “I’ve been saying that since I woke up. I don’t…” You shake your head.
“Well, I’m sure we can get you back to your home,” Dutch says. “We’re persevering folk. Do you recognize anything – anything at all – on that map?”
You look down at the map again. It’s all unfamiliar. “No. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, my friend,” Dutch says, reaching a hand out like it’s meant to soothe. “You’re a soul in need. I’m sure we can figure something out somehow. Can you at least tell me what your home is like?”
This is a coma, you remind yourself. I can just make something up. I’m not some person that couch-surfed for half my life. I can be whoever.
“I… it’s odd,” you say to buy yourself some time. You say the first thing that comes to mind. “There’s a few tribes that live in Zion Canyon – the Dead Horses and the Sorrows. I was a courier delivering goods to the Dead Horses. There were two men there that convinced me to stay.”
A Black man – broad, intimidating, with long, dark hair – perks up at the mention of tribes. His dark (almost black, honestly) eyes find yours, then he looks down at the floor again.
“None of it rings a bell,” Dutch says. “But, these men – what’re their names?”
It’s in that exact moment that you realize you just prattled off part of the storyline of Fallout: New Vegas. Then you realize that, if this really is 1899, no one here would know what you’re talking about. 
“Joshua Graham and Daniel,” you say. “They’re white – they work with the natives and help them trade. Joshua’s acting as the Dead Horses’ war chief and Daniel is a healer that works with the Sorrows.”
Yes. You’re totally friends with Joshua Graham and Daniel and the Dead Horses and the Sorrows. And from the way Dutch nods solemnly, you think he believes you. 
You hold out the map and he takes it back, folding it neatly. 
“I don’t have anywhere to go,” you say. “I’ve never even been this far east before.”
“Don’t worry,” Dutch says. “You can stay with us, for the time being. At least until we get to some… some town, or city. Let you rest your feet while you recover. We’re a gang of… violent criminals and degenerates, but we care. I can’t say the same for the rest of America.”
Your hand instinctively goes to your side, where you felt the stinging, repetitive pain earlier. “Right. My side doesn’t feel as bad as before. Thank you for that.”
You look around and slowly swing your feet over the side of the table. A lightning arc of pain shoots down your leg, causing you to gasp and tense. As with everything else, you force through it and stand. 
“I need to get some air,” you say. Dutch just nods. You walk (shamble, really) to the door and open it, slipping outside.
The cold is even worse out here. There’s footpaths in the snow. You stick your hands under your arms and walk one. It leads to a man standing by a fire in front of a cabin, dressed in a winter poncho with a gun in his hands. 
You hold your hands out towards the fire and rub your hands together. It doesn’t replace the warmth you had while you were inside, but it’s still something.
“What’s your name?” The man asks. He shifts the rifle in his hands, but doesn’t move to point it at you. (An improvement, if a small one.)
You give him your name. “What about you?”
“Javier,” Javier says. “Javier Escuella.”
“Where are you from?” You shift your focus to the fire. “Not trying to be rude. It’s just that there’s a few ‘Javier’s where I’m from.”
“Northern Mexico,” Javier says. “You?”
“I’m originally from the South, but I live in the Mojave. I moved to the Frontier to be closer to my sister,” you say. “So I guess we weren’t that far off from each other.”
You look up at the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow. It’s the man from way earlier – Arthur. You look back at the fire instead.
Arthur nods at Javier and spares a glance at you before entering the cabin. People are talking inside, and you catch a snippet of voices before Arthur closes the door again.
“It’s too cold to be May,” Javier says. You can tell he’s trying to be polite by making conversation. “I’m not designed for this snow.”
“I know, right?” You laugh under your breath. “Neither am I. I’d go back inside, but I don’t want to intrude. Any more than I already have, anyway.”
“It’s below freezing,” he says. “Everyone needs shelter. Come on.”
With that, Javier turns and walks into the cabin, holding the door open behind him for you. You thank him and follow him inside. 
Inside is a group of men and the overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke. You tense when they all turn to face you. Most of them are, in fact, smoking. You nod politely and tuck yourself into a corner, next to a man with a blond mustache. 
A hefty man is sitting across from the blond man, and a much younger Black man is sitting on a table next to him. Javier is by the door, and you try your best to ignore Arthur’s huge presence beside you. You can see him throw a small log into the woodstove out of the corner of your eye.
The man sort-of across from you looks at you, then returns his gaze to the man sitting beside you. “I guess folks miss them… that fell.”
“Well, when I fall, I don’t want no fuss,” the man beside you says.
“When you fall…” The young man waves his hand, which is holding a lit cigarette. “There’ll be a party.”
“A party!” The hefty man echoes, laughing. “Hah, probably.”
You feel the beginnings of a smile start to cross your face. You don’t know these people, and while they aren’t exactly doing their best to welcome you, they aren’t exactly making you feel unwelcome, either.
The man beside you holds out a bottle to you. You hesitantly take it, even though you’re confused. “I don’t want this.”
He pays you no mind and stands, looking down at the man. “That funny, huh?”
“Sure,” the man says, the remnants of laughter still in his voice.
One man strikes another, and it’s loud, absolute chaos. On instinct, your eyes snap to the door. Unblocked. An exit if needed.
Arthur and the young man are holding the hit man back, and the blond man speaks. “Maybe  I don’t feel like being laughed at by the likes of you two!”
It’s going to escalate. You can get to the door. Dutch was right – this is a gang of violent criminals and degenerates. One you want nothing to do with.
But Dutch bursts in with a gust of cold wind. As soon as he sees what’s going on, his face twists. The men dissipate from their tight proximity and distance themselves from each other.
“Stop it!” He snaps. “You fools punching each other when Colm O’Driscoll’s needin’ punching – hard! You wanna sit around, waiting for him to come find us?”
Arthur slips out of the door as Dutch continues. “All of you, we got work to do. Come on.”
The men turn and start to file out of the cabin. You can hear Arthur and Dutch talking outside. By the time you’re outside, most of the men are over by the horses or on one of them.
Dutch is talking quietly to Arthur while they’re both mounting up – you couldn’t hear them if you tried. He straightens up on his snow-white horse and shouts. “Mister Matthews, Mister Smith, Mister Pearson, would you please look after the place? There are O’Driscolls about!”
With that, he snaps the reins and his horse darts off. The rest of the men from the cabin, now all on horseback, quickly follow. 
You resign yourself to following another footpath. This one leads to a partly-sheltered, partly-dilapidated garage-type-thing with something like a kitchen inside. There’s a deer hoist against the wall, but it’s empty.
Your eyes dart to some sort of cauldron-looking pot hanging over a fire that’s mostly coals. You walk over and hold your hands out to it, trying to get warm again. 
“You’re new.”
Your head snaps up to see the broad Black man from earlier. He still has that impassive look on his face. 
“Yes, sir, that’s right,” you say. You introduce yourself. “What’s your name?”
“Charles Smith.” Charles walks and stands beside you, mirroring you and putting his hands out towards the fire. “You were talking earlier about tribes.”
“Yeah,” you say. “What about them?”
“I’ve never heard of the ones you were talking about,” he says. His voice is deep and smooth and calm. (You try your best not to latch onto that sense of calmness. You now know how quickly things can turn.)
“The Sorrows and the Dead Horses?” You rub your nose as you try to think of an excuse. “I wouldn’t expect you to. They live in Zion Canyon – in the Mojave. They’re fairly isolated, but they’re good people.”
Charles hums and his eyes return to the fire. You try to think of something to keep the conversation going.
“Who’s Colm O’Driscoll?” You ask. “I’ve heard his name a handful of times.”
“A rival gang leader,” he says. “Runs the O’Driscolls.”
“Oh. Yeah.” You scratch your cheek. “That makes sense.”
A silence settles over the two of you again. Charles must be comfortable with it. Unfortunately, you’re not. 
“Is there anything people need done?” You ask, glancing at him. “I don’t like being idle for too long.”
He looks over at the empty deer hoist. “We need food.”
“I’m no good at hunting.” You look at the fire and rub your hands together again. “Sorry.”
“You apologize a lot,” Charles says. His eyes flick to you. “You know you don’t have to do that, right?”
You bite back another apology and force a laugh. Your breath mists in front of your face. “Force of habit.”
Charles hums and his focus returns to the smoldering coals that make up the fire. A nagging thought in the back of your head tells you that you made him mad (even though he’s given literally no indication you’ve done so). 
You follow his lead and look at the fire. There’s nothing else to do in this kind of cold, anyway. 
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kelocitta · 2 months ago
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what did you think of watcher? i noticed a good few people dropped the dlc because of high expectations and how different it felt from the rest of the game. which is a shame because it gets very good but that's how rain world goes.
[Non-spoiler Answer] I liked it! I was actually one of the beta testers for it and distinctly we were all super thrilled with the overall way it 'felt' because it did actually feel like vanilla RW again. It's not 1-to-1 obviously, but it was super nice to go back to that more esoteric wandering game than what Downpour was- which was very much a very distinctly more 'normal game' experience. Its got a few quirks that need some more evening out, either due to time constraints or just being a hard thing to balance without a bigger playbase, and hopefully they will be. There's also the issue of anti-spoiler rush to finish things before everyone starts posting about it, which means people get irritated easier or frustrated when progress isn't consistent, they only want the big reveals and bits or lore and are considering the process of getting to those a blockade rather than the game. I think a lot of people just forgot what its like to play vanilla Rain World, or at least didn't remember what its like to play vanilla Rain World without a wiki open or a guiding hand. Cause if you were playing RW truly blind, c'mon, this was a game where you wandered through a couple ecosystems until you effectively climb into a plot once you get up the leg and into Five Pebbles and someone can actually talk to you and point you towards a more physical goal, and even then most players who ascended had no clue what was happening, much less why. The pearls are fun but lets be real, most of us read those on the wiki and not painstakingly delivered all of them for the bits of bite-sized region lore. Rain World has always been like that, it was why it was so much more niche prior to DP- some people grew to love that quirk but most people bounced off hard cause of it. I enjoy Downpour but it's design philosophy is miles different, and in a much more accessible and appealing way. With that said, I think it has a great story, and one that is frankly, much more obvious and at the forefront of it than base RW. People saying it doesn't have a plot are insane imo, its extremely there, minus the initial wandering the (at least the first) goal and plotline is not at all vague. I was also pleasantly surprised by some fringe things I got correct, or at least put my thumb on at some point, lmao.
[Small Spoilers about a small game design choice of the DLC, not plot]
One thing I'm surprised lots of people didn't like was actually the region cross-warp mechanic, I get why they don't like- things don't connect into each other in a sensical, worldbuild-y type way, but for me, who was someone who had a pretty big gripe with Downpour's 'Bubble Narrative' choices in how it was laid out it felt super cool to have this implication of an impossibly large, tangled world where you don't and can't know how everything is laid out. Everything in Downpour takes place in Five Pebble's immediate area. The creatures are consistent across the timelines (Not in distribution, things go extinct or change locations, but nothing distinctly new 'comes in' despite the massive world changes.) It makes the whole thing feel like a terrarium, where you can see it all despite the fact you shouldn't, that you don't have the right to know everything about the world. The fact that you aren't getting the full regions, that you really can't tell how they all connect- how much of the world is inbetween them, whether these areas are actually physically connected- its delicious to me frankly! The world is so big, so complicated, and you only ever get snippets of it. You are denied the full picture of life, its impossibly big- the world stretches out so far. Its the kind of the design that says 'hey, all those fan regions people make? Maybe those are all out there, somewhere, they fit into this grand puzzle but you'll never know where or how' I like that! The world is big and complex and unknowable again! We've seen outside the Five Pebbles bubble and were told only a scrap. I actually really like how jumbled up everything is after vanilla and downpour, I like thinking that the world map we have is full of empty spaces and unknowns in how all these places bleed into each other. I can understand why people miss the connections, or the pearls, but frankly I really like the spin they put on the exploration mechanic to spread things away from FP that isn't just 'make the bubble bigger'
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cloversnstrawberries · 6 months ago
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will you do platonic yandere alastor x teen reader for the “refusal/acceptance” prompt? like the teen reader was kidnapped by him and refused to accept him as their father but as time goes on he manipulates them into accepting him.
"refusal / acceptance" plantonic!yandere!alastor & teen!gn!reader ! !
[2024 christmas/holiday event, entry 3]
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event post ! | event masterlist !
description; When you fell to hell, you hadn't expected yourself to make it this long. 5 years wasn't very much at all to most sinners, but to the younger ones-- it was a massive milestone, you included. However, your relatively peaceful (as peaceful as it could get in hell...) existence was abruptly interrupted by your own curiosity getting the better of you.
Really, you shouldn't have poked around the house you'd basically been squatting in for the past 5 years like you were, all it could lead to was trouble, and you should've known that.
additional notes; the first part is very focused on the reader themself/the mysteriously unoccupied and very nice house they found after first falling, but i promise you alastor does show up and is very much his usual overprotective self :D
warnings; Kidnapping, vague possessiveness, overprotectiveness, imprisonment, entrapment, Reader is convinced Alastor wants to kill them, brief/vague mentions of violence, murder, torture, etc etc, Reader has trust issues (for a good reason, it is alastor we're talking about), manipulation, and if i missed any others, please let me know!!!
w/c; 5.5k (oh lord)
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You aren't sure how long you've been here, isolated with The Radio Demon in some messed-up pocket dimension(?).
In all honesty, you don't know what you did to deserve this. To catch his interest like this, and by god you don't know how the hell you've been keeping it.
Both in life and death, you knew many people like The Radio Demon-- you knew how they operated, the ins and outs of what their main goal was. For some, they prioritized wealth, and others prioritized power above all else--
You've come to the very clear conclusion that the Radio Demon prioritizes his own amusement above anything else in the world. Yes, he most definitely has a thing for power (as all Overlords do, it's practically a requirement for the position), but that's certainly not his intentions with you.
Being a younger sinner wasn't necessarily rare-- it was hard to come by them, yes, but that's because they're usually snuffed out before they could even get a look around the place.
It's a wonder you've made it this far, five years wasn't much in the eyes of Sinners like Alastor, but to you-- it was far beyond how long you'd expected yourself to make it.
The Exterminators that come down each year-- they target the younger ones, the vulnerable. On more than one occasion, people have claimed they heard Adam, the leader of the Exterminators, proclaim "Oh, I just love killing the small ones!"
Not very holy in your humble opinion, but that opinion was not asked of you; so you'd never shared it to anyone but yourself.
Dying at the hands of other sinners wasn't uncommon for the younger ones either, obviously-- which is why you were (understandably) a bit of a hermit.
This is, ironically, how you encountered and was promptly swiped up by no other but the Radio Demon himself. You never interacted with others much, but you'd still heard tales of him-- little snippets of conversations as you did your monthly grocery shopping. One of the few times you'd ever leave your little shoddy cottage on the outskirts of Pentagram City.
You were always a very curious person-- cautious, so you'd keep your curiousity to yourself. Let yourself silently mull over information, but forcing yourself from never seeking any more than you could passively pick up.
But this one time-- God, you really don't know why you did it. Perhaps you were getting bored with it all, with the monotony of your afterlife; always on edge, even in your own 'home'.
This cottage you lived in was abandoned once you found it, just a few days after you'd fallen into hell. It was close to the field you'd woken up in after dying, and you'd curled up on the cold, scratched up wooden floor and slept for the first time in Hell.
Ever since, you'd claimed the place as your own. The first few months-- scratch that, the first few years, you were always on edge, expecting its true owner to come crawling back-- and slaughter you, who by all means was a squatter, simple as that.
You didn't mess with the items much, and you stuck only to where you needed. The bathroom, the kitchen, and the living room-- where you'd set up shop, claiming it as your bedroom.
Only recently had you begun exploring the other rooms. The kitchen was simple, having an icebox and a gas stove; besides the archway was an apron hanging on a hook that read "Don't kiss the cook". You'd snickered when you first noticed it.
You never used it, you only used what you had to-- never rearranging, never touching what wasn't absolutely necessary to your survival. Forever in fear of if-- or when, the original owner returned.
A few months ago, after residing in this cottage for so long, you came to the conclusion that owner probably was never coming back. They'd most like died in an extermination-- when you'd first discovered the house, it already had a light covering of dust over all the objects.
And yet, nothing looked out of place. Nothing stolen, nothing broken. That's what put you on edge, making you certain for so long that the owner would come back and rip you to shreds.
You started small, looking and eventually locating an unassuming hall closet in search of cleaning supplies. You pulled a duster out, a wooden handle with a metal bit attaching the real feathers on the end-- it was ornate, in your eyes, because you were so used to having a duster made of synthetic fibers. It looked quite old, but that fit with the rest of the house.
You pulled it out and began dusting-- once you were done, you were surprised by how much nicer the place looked by then. You turned the feather duster back to its home in the closet, still careful about disturbing anything else.
A few days later, you took a mop and cleaned the floor of the living room and kitchen.
The next day, you cleaned and reorganized the bathroom, but didn't dare throw away anything.
Then, a week later, you finally removed those mounted heads of various cervines, stashing them in a corner of the living room. Out of sight and out of mind, no longer looming over you as you slept on the cushy sofa every night.
Your boldest move by that point-- but after that, it was like a gateway had been opened. No longer so nervous, you moved furniture around; inspected all the cabinets of the bathroom and kitchen, looked through the large oak armoire standing by the entrance.
In it, you found a few coats, an umbrella, a couple hats that hadn't been in style for decades, maybe even nearing a century-- and a few bits and bobs a like. One thing in particular caught your eye-- a coat made in beautiful earth-toned colors, with jewel-red accents as well.
You took it out, and began wearing it around your house.
In the following months, you'd branched out into a few other rooms-- no longer sleeping in the living room, you settled down in what you assume to have been a guest bedroom. It was plain, with a queen-sized mattress held up by a metal wire frame.
It was done up in blues, and it looked like it'd been rampaged through when you first entered. Slate blue covers ripped off the bed, drawers pulled from the dresser-- spilling its contents all over the floor; and a 1950s CRT TV on the floor, a hole running right through the screen and out the casing. The glass of it was still strewn about the floor.
You cleaned it up with careful hands, and took the broken TV to sit beside the mounted stag heads in the corner of the living room.
A few more changes-- you found a storage room, stacked high with neatly folded clothes; hunting gear, and various different items from a bygone eras, along with dozens and dozens of boxes-- most, if not all, were labelled in some shape or form. You placed the TV and mounts in there, not having the heart throw anything away. You'd even kept the glasses pieces, placing them in a Tupperware you'd discovered in a particularly dusty cabinet in the kitchen.
One night, you'd grown bored again-- a terrible thing to be in a place like this, something you both did and did not consider your own. But, you'd ventured into the storage room regardless; careful of the items piled high, you pulled out a random cardboard box from the top of one of the less precarious towers of stuff.
In neat, swooping cursive; it was cryptically labelled "Cherished Belongings". Against your better judgement, you pried the top open--
Inside were a few radios, far more modern than the rest of the cottage appeared to be. Deep gouges were in the side of some, but the marks didn't dig deep enough to make it unable to be used.
A stack of letters you didn't dare touch, feeling like it'd be going too far to look into the private affairs of your home's previous owner-- a couple small boxes, that once you opened revealed little knick knacks that reminded you of your great-grandmother.
She had a farmhouse out in the country, and every time you'd visit her when you were young and she was still alive, you were always so enamored by the little trinkets placed all over a wooden shelf hanging above a corner-countertop.
They were delicate, bisque porcelain and well maintained. Your grandmother had a thing for rabbits and birds, many of those trinkets being one of those two things;
In the box, wrapped oh-so delicately in bubble wrap, were three tiny bisque porcelain deers. By the looks of their make and paint job, you guessed they were from the 50s or 60s.
You set them aside, along with the other boxes like them (though, you didn't open those yet. you wanted to explore the big box in its entirety before delving into the details), and explored the box a little more.
You found a beautiful Cathedral radio, from the brand Philco-- it was at the bottom, obviously an antique model. It appeared to be a custom, made of red wood and brass accents; it was polished to perfection, obviously a treasured item to the person who lived here before you did.
You pulled it out, and then closed up the box. You didn't place it back on its tower, as there was still more you could dig through in the large box; you took your findings to the living room, and set them carefully down on the accent table near the sofa.
You opened the rest of the little boxes, and placed the little figurines all around the kitchen, a few in the living room as well. Once you were satisfied, you sat down on the couch and began fiddling with the radio.
When it buzzed to life, it was already on a station. It was playing... swing music, you think it is-- you weren't too sure, since you weren't incredibly familiar with that era of music.
You tried turning the knob, but it always managed to come back to the same exact station. A second or two of static as you moved the knob, a spark of hope-- before it was quickly dashed as you were redirected right back to the same station.
Still, some music was better than none-- you'd found yourself going stir crazy without much background noise, save for the woods outside and the occasional animal prancing around; so this find was actually quite nice, you'd thought.
Until the song ended abruptly-- you thought it might've been a technical error of some kind, interference on your end. Until, right as the song stopped midway through a word, a talking segment began.
The show host was directly addressing you. And in that moment, you knew that you were done for-- one you heard that voice, everything started to make so, so much sense.
"My oh my, it seems like we have a special listener!" He'd started out, and it felt like there was somebody watching you. Hair on the back of your neck stood immediately, skin crawling as you nearly dropped the radio in fear-- your hands having grown clammy and trembling.
Laughter, cruel and mocking-- as you fumbled with the radio "Ah ah ah, don't drop it! That is quite priceless to me, you little thief."
Your heart dropped to your stomach, and in a moment of haste, you haphazardly tossed the radio onto the sofa-- not doing it too hard, making sure not to damage it in the meanwhile-- and quickly stood, ready to get the hell out of dodge.
Something grabbed at your ankle, and you shrieked-- a shadowed, clawed hand was coming out from the ground. Its nails dug through the cheap material of your pajama pants, and you toppled over; wincing as you landed directly on your tailbone.
That was, by far, the least of your worries at that point of time.
"I apologize, loyal listeners! We'll have to go to intermission, but I assure I will be back-- a new guest in tow, if all goes accordingly!" More laughter-- cackling, before it cut to a soft, almost lulling sort of music.
It did little to calm your nerves-- in fact, it worsened them tenfold, knowing what was to come next. Who was to come next,
A wordless cry escaped you, frantically clawing at the hand around your ankle-- but it was almost... slippery, non-corporeal as well. You couldn't seem to get a grip on it, as it just--
Your fingers just moved right through it, and it tightened its death grip in warning. But you were too afraid by now, the realization that for the past five year you'd been staying in the Radio Demon's house came crashing down on you in an instant.
That's why it hadn't been ransacked already, why it had such nice things, why there was barely anything that exceeded the 1930s technology or aesthetically wise-- the mounted deer heads, the-- the everything!
You'd fallen after he took his 'sabbatical', but you still heard so much of him. In the past few years, the fear of him had died down-- but still,
You knew exactly what he meant by a 'new guest'.
In that moment, you had the stupid thought of I'm too young to die like this, which was ridiculous, because you were already dead. You were in Hell,
and yet, the truth lied in the 'like this' part of that statement. You didn't want to be tortured and eaten on air, you didn't want all of Hell (or at least a very, very large portion of it) tuning in to hear the first 'guest' The Radio Demon got on his show post-disappearance.
Stomach flipping, vision blurring from your tears, your ears rang as your heart worked overtime-- You're sure your face was red and blotchy, tears already making tracks down your cheeks.
Half-hysterical, you were saying "Please, please, please--" in such a desperate tone, directed to no one but yourself. begging yourself to just grab the hand and rip it off, to make it out of this in one piece--
You don't know why you fought so hard, and as you look back, you realize that might've been what made Alastor want to keep you (for the time being). Surely, he adored the fact that you-- teetering on the edge between child and adult, crying and begging-- fighting so hard for a life not worth living.
Really, you had nothing to fight for. No family down here, no friends or even acquaintances, nobody knew you; you were a hermit, one of the younger sinners that people assumed would be snuffed out quickly, and leave behind little to no impact.
Panic surged as you look to your right, a pool of shadows forming-- then, out came the tip of antlers. Then, fluffy ears-- a head, shoulders...
And soon enough, the shadows dissipated. Leaving behind what you assumed, what you were so sure would've been your killer.
He'd opened his mouth-- but as he looked at you, for a reason entirely unknown to you; he buffered. Looking down at you, sobbing and shaking-- lip wobbling, face red and soaked with tears.
You know you looked pathetic at that point.
Maybe that's why he did what he did, why his demeanor entirely changed as he crouched down. Antlers shrinking and the static surrounding him dying down (though never ceasing entirely) as he extended his arms your way. Like he was trying to beckon forward a scared child.
And maybe you did look like one-- but you hardly believe that he genuinely saw you as one.
You know men like Alastor, you know that they could never make room for anyone else in their hearts but themselves-- and a select few people who'd managed to worm their way into his close circle; one way or another.
You were not one of those people.
And yet, he did not harm you.
Even as an indeterminate amount of days, weeks-- maybe even months, passed; he still hasn't harmed you once. He clothes you, he gives you gifts upon gifts (nearly all of which go unopened, shoved in an ever growing pile in the very corner of your room)-- he set you up in a nice room, he feeds you; he claims that you can have all you ever wanted, as long as you ask.
You never did. It was a trap, and you knew it. He was-- was trying to lure you into trusting him. You don't know why he was doing this, maybe he got bored with every horrible act he did being a one-and-done thing.
He was fattening you up like a pig to the slaughter. Making your life all nice and cushy, only to pull the rug from under your feet and reveal what you knew all along.
No matter how many times he said something along the lines of "I won't hurt you, you're safe here, my fawn." or "I view you as my own, a child I never knew I wanted before you came along.", you knew how people like him went about life. People were stepping stones to their goals, his being entertainment; always getting the last laugh.
Once upon a time, you'd heard that his youngest 'guest' he had featured was an 11 year old-- early in his stay in Hell, right as he began to blossom into a fearful Overlord, that child had done something to upset him.
That was, allegedly, back in the mid '30s; and that after that, he never dipped lower than 19 year old. Now, you aren't entirely sure how true that could've been, either part of the claim--
But it was all you had.
You were curious, but not foolish enough to externalize that curiosity. Especially not to like Alastor.
He didn't keep you in the cottage you'd grown accustomed to-- he took you somewhere else. It looked like the cottage; all the way down to the knick-knacks you'd placed all around, right before you made the mistake of touching that radio,
It was always dark out, and when you look out the window-- it was not a forest, but a swamp-- bayou, what-have-you. It was a wetland, with fireflies buzzing around at all times,
There never was a moon, the only light outside came from what seeped out of the faux-cottage and the fireflies that were all over, but that hardly illuminated much.
You didn't leave your 'room'-- the room that looked like the one you'd claimed as your own in the real cottage. He tried coaxing you out of it a lot-- tried making you move rooms, saying he'd set up a room much more suited to your needs.
Every single time, you gave a quiet shake of your head-- that was the furthest those one-sided conversations ever got. Alastor didn't seem too pleased with it, but he laid off it. Didn't force it on you, and he'd then bring you food on a little bed-tray.
Today, you got a little too bold-- or perhaps you just wanted it over with, finally coming to terms with the only way out of here was... well, to force Alastor's hand and get him to snap-- then kill you.
It was obvious he wasn't going to let you go any other way.
You left the room for-- jesus, it must've been the first time you'd done so since the first couple days after you got stuck in this strange other-cottage. The living room didn't look very different.
Noticeably, the trinkets you'd placed before were right where you'd placed them. Not a centimeter out of place.
You tried to ignore it, and sat down on the sofa. You frowned at the Philco Cathedral radio beside you, sitting oh-so-innocently on the accent table near your head.
You glared at it, and while you knew that, realistically speaking, you were entirely to blame for getting in this situation-- not so much the radio, it was still a little cathartic to have something else to blame but yourself.
You turned around and laid on the couch, arms crossed as you pulled your legs to your chest-- back of your head resting against the arm of the couch, you closed your eyes and tried to sleep. Tried to pass time that way,
Predictably, your nerves refused to let that happen. But you retreated into your mind-- and soon enough, you heard Alastor shadow-warp in. You kept your eyes closed, tried to look as peaceful as possible. As vulnerable as you could, open and easy to atta--
A hand, a hand landed on your cheek. it was soft, caring, even. It confused you. Did he know you were awake? Was he trying to pull one over on you as well, because theres no way he'd do this if he didn't know you were witnessing it--
His hand pulled away, and you heard his footsteps pattering away; a door opening, fainter footsteps, the door closing-- and his footsteps getting closer.
Then, you felt something being thrown over you. It wasn't easy, resisting the urge to snap your eyes open-- obviously he knew you were awake, trying to trick you by being all sweet; reaching levels of deception you never thought possible before.
You realized he was trying to deceive you, because you were trying to deceive him-- and any such combination, made your head hurt if you thought about it too long.
Then, he leaned forward; you knew this because his hair brushed against your cheek in the process; both hands went to your face-- cupping your cheeks as he leaned forward and planted a little kiss on your forehead.
He began to tuck you in, and brushed some stray hair from your forehead. In a soft, almost reverent tone, he said "Sweet dreams, little fawn.", then ran his hand through your hair one last time--
Then he was gone. And nothing more came of it-- it was a little embarrassing to admit you'd really fallen asleep, so you reasoned with yourself that you hadn't. Just as you opened your eyes (which you'd totally just been resting, absolutely no sleep having found you. nope, nuh uh), you realized you hadn't been alone.
On the other side of the sofa, pressed as far against the other arm as possible-- almost like it was afraid of startling you if it got too close, was Alastor's weird Shadow creature. The same one that had restrained you that day you'd turned on the radio and spelled your own doom.
"...Hi?" You asked, trying to make yourself sound as groggy as possible (as if you needed to put any conscious effort into that in the first place); trying to sell the impression that'd you'd just been asleep, even though the Shadow probably knew otherwise (you hoped it believed that you hadn't actually fallen asleep, but you're pretty sure it did because nothing felt out of place-- obviously it hadn't attacked you while asleep).
It chirped, jolting up. It's face split in to a jagged grin(?), bright neon blue made up its mouth and eyes as it jumped from its seat and ran to the kitchen. You sat up, blanket falling into your lap; it was a nice, large quilt made up of reds and earth tones. Alastor's signature colors, and if you had to guess, he'd probably pulled it from the storage room.
You'd never been in his bedroom, but you doubt he'd sully a blanket he sleeps with by putting it on you. Even if the point of doing so was to manipulate you or whatever the hell he was playing at.
Around 30 seconds later, Alastor popped his head out of the archway leading into the kitchen. He found you rubbing your eyes with the back of your palm, just now awake enough to realize you smelled something cooking in the kitchen.
Oddly enough, he didn't speak until you pulled your hand from your eye and registered his presence. You looked up at him, eyes wide-- confused. His... his smile,
It looked so real, so genuine. It was soft, something you never thought a man like him could accomplish-- either in a genuine or otherwise manner. It reached his eyes, causing the skin around them to crinkle slightly.
And for a second, just one second, you believed that he actually did care for you.
When he spoke, he did it quietly. He sounded... different, and at first you couldn't quite place your finger on the difference.
"Mornin' fawn! Did you have a good rest?"
First off, he sounded way too... eh, cheery-- actually happy to see you, and like he actually wanted an answer to his question. And secondly, he sounded southern! With how much he talked about being from New Orleans, you should've made the connection that he had an actual accent underneath that transatlantic one; it was so jarring, hearing it gone completely like it was.
You sat in silence for a little bit, Alastor waiting for you to respond to pick up the conversation. Not rushing you, just standing there. God, if you didn't know any better, you'd say he was being patient with you!
In lieu of a verbal response, not trusting yourself to keep the bewilderment out of your voice; you gave a quick nod, and his smile grew by a fraction. He probably thinks he's caught you in his trap--
He gave you one last look, before turning around and heading back into the kitchen. You heard something boiling, and you didn't know what he was making-- it smelled good, though.
"That's good." He called from the kitchen, and it felt so terribly domestic that it had your stomach flipping. Him peacefully cooking, continuing to talk to you even as he did so.
You were beginning to feel nauseous, no longer liking this game he was playing (let's be honest, you never did-- but it was getting too real, blurring too many lines. you knew that, at some point, he would up the ante; but you really wish he hadn't),
(he's beginning to make you believe it, despite you knowing for a fact it was all a dirty trick to get your guard down.)
"I'm so happy you've started to warm up to me!" He started again, and you clenched your hands in the soft, probably expensive, quilt fabric. I'm not warming up to you, your mind supplied-- trying desperately to grasp at straws, and hide away from the fact that you were, you were starting to really believe his lies.
You suppose that it was inevitable, that being isolated with just Alastor (and his shadows, but they were extensions of him-- they didn't count much as another person) for long would get to your head.
You'd like to think that you were mature, hardened by living in Hell for 5 years beforehand-- but deep down, you knew you weren't. That little showcase you'd done when you two first met, cowering on the ground as you sobbed and shuddered and fruitlessly clawed at your restraint was more than enough to prove that.
After everything, you were still a child. You were still that scared little kid, who thinks they're so much better than all their classmates because one of your teachers said "You're so mature for your age!" as an offhanded comment.
There was some clanging and clattering coming from the kitchen, a cabinet opening and something being taken out. A pan, probably; it sounded like a large, flat metal thing. A baking sheet, actually; not just a regular pan.
What on earth was he making in there? A dangerous, curious part of you wondered. Urging you to stand up and go look, but you keep firmly rooted to you spot on the couch. You wouldn't walk right into a trap, you refused to be that unknowing fly that didn't see the spider-web right in front of their face.
You heard (what you assumed to be) the baking pan placed on the tile countertop, a drawer being pulled out, metal utensils clinking together--
"You know," He started off, a bit more rustling came from the kitchen before he continued his though. "I was starting to worry that you never would," He paused, and if you didn't know any better-- you'd say he sounded sad.
But as soon as it showed up, it was thrown right out the window-- Alastor exchanging what seemed to be genuine emotion for the upbeat, almost saccharine sweet tone he'd held moments prior.
"But, I'm so glad you decided to prove me wrong! It was torturous for me, my child refusing to so much as look my direction when not forced to..." Alastor trailed off, leaving you in relative silence-- the conversation went dead for a while, as you process his words.
When you realized what he'd called you, panic flooded you. He'd never called you that before-- or maybe he has, and you just tuned it out. He said so many things, all of which you had a very hard time believing were based in even an ounce of truth;
Maybe it was the tone that finally brought your attention to the title-- his child. You were not his child! You were some random squatter who just so happened to be a minor! You weren't a kid, and you certainly weren't his kid--!
"I'm not-" You tried to say, spine stiffening, hair on the back of your neck standing straight up at the realization. But, in true Alastor fashion, he quickly cut you off and diverted your attention-- out of the blue asking "Could you come and help, my dear? I think it's about time you start learning how to cook."
okay, rude, you thought. Alastor couldn't have known you for more than a few months; you're sure you would've realized if a year had passed (you hope you would, anyways), and never once had he asked if you could cook.
You had half a mind to try and push how far his patience could go, refuse to stand-- to follow his 'invitation' (demand) for you come help him in the kitchen.
A much more rational part of you screamed at you that no, no-- don't do that, you absolute idiot!
You wish you could say you didn't give in to him, that you stayed right where you were and tested how far he'd go with his promise of not hurting you. That would, however, be a lie.
It was almost like you were on autopilot, pulling the blanket off and making a half-assed effort to fold it before setting it on the couch. You felt a little numb as your feet seemed to move on their own, eventually leading you to the kitchen.
One hand of the edge of the entryway, you stood cautiously at the very edge between the living room's hardwood floor and the kitchen's black-and-white checkered tiles.
You're not sure how long you stood there-- not long at all, you think. Alastor turned around, offering a small, horribly soft smile and quietly beckoning you.
You took one step in, and Alastor laughed at that; he lifted his arm, gesturing to his right. Obviously, he was instructing you to come stand by his side.
It was out of fear, you told yourself-- that when you'd followed his orders, standing next to him; you didn't fight at all when he laid his arm over your shoulders, pulling you impossibly closer to him.
"Isn't this kind of impractical?" You asked, mumbling under your breath-- you were halfway between wanting Alastor to hear and not wanting him to, but of course, the former was the outcome.
Alastor's hand had settled on top of your head, absent-mindedly smoothing down your hair as his other hand whisked eggs into... something. He laughed, amused. Not entertained, not the joy he so obviously took in toying with others-
He sounded endeared.
That spelled the beginning of the end for you-- for your staunch position on the idea that Alastor was just messing with you, playing the long game and what not.
The realization of how... real he was being, with his actual accent out in the open... it opened the floodgates, and your grip started slipping on the idea that Alastor wanted to do you harm.
He was patient, more patient than you'd ever think he could be (from you'd heard previously, of course), he cares about your boundaries (somewhat, but that's way, way more than you ever thought you'd get with him), he fed you, he provided you with clothes and books-- claiming he'd give you anything if you'd just ask.
Your head felt full of cotton, ears ringing slightly-- drowning out Alastor response of "Mm, i suppose it is. But is it such a crime for a father to want to have his darling child close?"
Numbly, you shook your head, only have vaguely registered what he said. He gave a pleased hum, and went back to his cooking.
Really, he wasn't teaching you anything-- just doing his own thing while he kept you glued to his side.
You found yourself not minding it too much. You couldn't find it in yourself to care that you didn't mind it, actually.
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agentpeggycartering · 5 months ago
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Hello friends! Yesterday I said that when I hit 10,000 words in my WIP I would post a snippet from Nora Verse. The overwhelming majority of votes were for the first (still unedited) scene.
And so, without further ado, here we go.
The moment Buck woke up he knew something was off. It had to be, because there was no other reason for him to be up at, he blearily glanced at the alarm clock on Tommy's nightstand and saw 2:17 blinking back at him, 2:17 in the morning. He took stock of his body, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was that had woken him up, just that he was vaguely uncomfortable, and his back kind of hurt. He settled back into the covers, thinking maybe he could get back to sleep, when he felt it. The pain that he woken him up. It was gone again by the time he was thinking of waking Tommy up, but he felt it. He rearranged himself to the best of his ability without waking Tommy so that he was sitting up and waited to see if he felt it again. He did, and it felt a bit more intense than it had been before. He sighed to himself and got out of bed. Paced around the room a bit. No change in the discomfort. Went down the hall and tried to go to the bathroom. No change. Climbed back into the bed, rearranging the pillows again.
When he felt it for a third time he reached over to shake Tommy's shoulder. "Tommy. Tommy, wake up."
"Hmm wazzit?" Tommy said, squinting up at Buck with one eye, rubbing sleepily at the other.
"I think we need to go to the hospital. I- I think it's my appendix." Buck said
That woke Tommy up. "The hospital? Are you sure?"
"I woke up almost 40 minutes ago and the pain has only gotten worse. Nothing I do relieves it." Buck says, glancing at the clock and seeing that it's closer to 3AM than it was when he woke up.
"Okay, okay. You just- stay there, I'll go start the car." Tommy says, pressing a kiss to the side of Buck's head and extracting himself from the blankets and rolling out of bed. He grabs his jeans from the day before from where he'd left them in a pile on their bedroom floor, making quick work of pulling them up and getting them buttoned. It's but a moments work from him to swap the shirt he was sleeping in for a new one from their dresser. He's out the door a moment later and Buck follows the sound of his steps down the hall and to the front door, the sound of the lock unlocking and the jangle of keys as Tommy picks up the keys to his truck from the key bowl. Buck is distracted from any further listening as he's overcome by another wave of pain.
Tommy comes back into the bedroom with Buck's sneakers in his hand and a hoodie draped over his arm. He comes over to Buck, presses a kiss to his forehead and leaves the shoes at his feet and the hoodie on the bed next to him before he goes over to their dresser, pulling out a tshirt, sweats, and some socks.
"Let's get you into something comfy, okay Evan?" Tommy says, helping Buck out of the T-shirt he'd worn to bed, pressing a kiss to the bare skin of his shoulder before helping him pull the new shirt and the hoodie on, tenderly brushing the hair back from his forehead after he puts the hood down. Then Tommy turns his attention to the sweatpants and socks, picking Buck's bad leg up, gently pulling the first sock up and pressing a kiss to his knee before repeating the motion with the other leg, before carefully, gently pulling the sweatpants up, rubbing a comforting hand on his hip when he's done. "All set. Do you have everything you need?" Tommy asks Buck.
In response Buck reaches over to his nightstand and unplugs his phone and shoving it, charger and all, into the pocket of his hoodie . "My wallet is downstairs, right?"
"It is. I already grabbed it for you." Tommy says, patting his own pocket. He goes to retrieve his own phone from his side of the bed and then goes to help Buck up. "Come on, then, nice and easy." He says, helping Buck to slowly stand up, keeping an arm around his waist as they make their way down the hall and out of the house to Tommy's truck. Tommy helps Buck get buckled into his seat and then runs back to double check he locked the front door before he's popping into the drivers seat and pulling onto the road.
"Do you want to call anyone?" Tommy asks, only taking his eyes off the road a moment to look at Buck .
"No, it's the middle of the night, no need to panic everyone when they wouldn't even be able to visit if they admitted me right away. Maybe when we know what's going on, but not until then."
"Okay, you just rest now, okay?" Tommy says, reaching over to rub his hand soothingly up Buck's thigh for a moment. Buck hums in agreement and leans back in his seat, closing his eyes as a he does so. He's not sure how much he'll be able to rest, with the growing discomfort he's feeling, but he's going to give it his best shot.
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djarins-cyare · 7 months ago
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WIP Weekend
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In my last WIP post, I mentioned I was 18k words into my Secret Relationship fic for the Roll-A-Trope Writing Challenge, and it had turned into something much longer than I intended. Sooo, yeah, um… it’s now reached ~40k words!
I’d planned to start posting it next weekend, but my firm got audited so I lost a couple of weeks due to working overtime, and I still have three chapters left to write. So I think it’s gonna be a Christmas release now. Sorry for the wait.
But over the last few weeks, I’ve been tagged in WIP posts by @burntheedges, @papurgaatika, @almostfoxglove, @djarinmuse, and @the-mandawhor1an (thank you, my lovelies! 💚), and with my excuses comes another snippet to tide you over until I can release it…
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Please check out my last two WIP posts for additional snippets from earlier in the fic, here and here.
I’m switching it up and giving you one from Din’s POV today; the context is that she’s trying to convince him to come to a show the following night (despite Uncle Karga’s vehement disapproval of them being anywhere near each other)…
Her focus drops to her efforts on his dick as she skilfully adjusts her angle without missing a stroke, but he nudges her chin with his thumb. “Look at me, senaar’ika,” he commands through heavy breaths. When he has her attention again, he breathes, “Tion’jor neliser ni nevore gar?” Her eyes shimmer like starlight whenever he speaks Mando’a to her – like she loves to hear it, even though she doesn’t understand it. It’s why he persists in speaking to her in an almost dead language. Now, though, she answers his question with one of her own. “You gonna come, Mando? Please come….” She could be talking about right now or tomorrow night, but they’re both foregone conclusions. “Yes, fuck,” he gasps, his mouth spilling his agreement about ten seconds before his cock is due to spill his seed. The heat gathering low in his belly flares lower to engulf his balls, and the inferno of his orgasm brightens as it builds. She stokes him for all he’s worth, soft hand on silken skin, eyes still sparkling like the fuse that sizzles inside him… …and it magnifies and spreads, so fiercely thrilling that the alley falls away, and it’s just him and his senaar’ika and the silent symphony of pleasure she’s conducting… …and in an instant, a door swishes, a footstep sounds, and Din is tearing her hand from his pants, drawing his blaster, and moving his body to shield hers. The adrenaline from his impending climax converts into combat readiness, but the low growl that erupts through his vocoder is equal parts anger and anguish. “You two out here?” Yerma’s rich and golden tones dissolve his tension, leaving him with the sullen agony of an orgasm snatched away. The ache in his balls, the sting in his pride, and the regret in his heart all battle for top ranking in his pantheon of displeasure. “What’s up?” his alleyway companion calls out with enviable poise, stepping past him and around the stack of crates to stop Yerma from coming any closer. He takes the cue to hastily rearrange his underwear and zip up his pants, his erection deflating rapidly alongside his hope. This was a bad idea. As if to illustrate his thought, the Twi’lek states six concerning words. “Your uncle’s in the cafe, sweetie.”
Poor Din! 😬
Tion’jor neliser ni nevore gar? – Why can’t I say no to you?
If you don’t already know what his name for her (senaar’ika) means, I won’t spoil it because it’s vaguely plot-relevant.
If you’re interested in being tagged when I release this, please raise your hand or let me know in whatever way you prefer to communicate. You can also join my tag list if you like.
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In the interests of making new friends and being sociable, I thought I should make an effort to tag more widely in WIP posts. I know that since I only write for Din and not all of you are particularly Din girlies (gn), some of you may not be interested in my fics, but I read other Pedro boy fics sometimes (Joel, mostly), and if I’ve tagged you below, it means I think you’re a fantastic writer 💚
No pressure to do a WIP post, or if you’d like to but don’t have anything to share or you’ve already posted this week, feel free to hold onto this tag for whenever’s convenient (that’s what I do 😆) or share something non-WIP related.
@ace-turned-confused @ak-vintage @alltheirdamn @alltheotps @almostempty
@alwaysmicado @ameerawrites @arcanefox207 @aurorawritestoescape @avastrasposts
@baronessvonglitter @beardedjoel @beefrobeefcal @bitchesuntitled @bluestar22x
@cas-readsandwrites @chiriwritesstuff @chronically-ghosted @clawdee @covetyou
@din-cognito @draculasfavoritewife @firstofficerwiggles @guiltyasdave @hapan-in-exile
@itsokbbygrl @javierpena-inatacvest @jeewrites @jennaispunk @joelstummy
@justagalwhowrites @luxurychristmaspudding @mermaidgirl30 @milla-frenchy @moeswriting
@mothandpidgeon @mrsmando @murder-wife @novemberrain-writes @orcasoul
@ozarkthedog @pedgito @pedrospatch @perotovar @quinnnfabrgay-writes
@sawymredfox @schnarfer @soft-persephone @sweetpascal @thischarmingmandalorian
I’m also tagging my regular tag list since this is a snippet of an upcoming fic and a posting schedule update. Thank you all for your support 💚
@chiyo13 @harriedandharassed @leithatnight @lilac-boo @lucienofthelakes
@pigeonmama @punkygreeny @syd-djarin @wrathkitty
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ohthethingswedoforlove · 8 months ago
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Warnings: yandere character; scopophobia; a whole lot of fear/paranoia being described;
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  Yandere!Wally Darling, in which you find an old collection of VHS tapes and are able to communicate with the characters in the show. Or, at least, one of characters in the show.
  When you found those tapes out in the wild, in someone's garage sale or a dingy little shop full of dead stock of years passed, you almost felt pulled in by the colorful little world depicted on the sleeve keeping the VHS' together.
  Maybe you have some vague, blurry memories of watching the show as a child, or maybe you are simply a collector of these kinds of things. Maybe you even heard about a certain restoration project involving the likeness of this world and characters, fully aware you had just stumbled upon something very exciting.
  So you decide to pay the small price written on the paper sticker and bring it home with you. 
  It doesn't take many online searches to understand exactly how rare of a find you now have in your possession, all that has ever been recovered from the old obscure show being images and corrupted audio tracks, some merch and a puppet or two. Never full episodes, not even snippets of footage. Aren't you lucky?
  You consider sending it to the team of the restoration project, but curiosity got the better of you before that choice could fully take shape. How could you not? You just had to see it for yourself.
  When you finally arrange the means to play the first VHS out of the collection you bought, you couldn't help but notice the odd black stains covering the tape, barely noticeable beforehand as it nearly blended with the color of the plastic. You half-heartedly try to clean it, but with the persistence of the stain and your growing impatience, you end up simply shoving it inside the VCR player, giving up. 
  Marking your first mistake as you miss the way the stain quickly grew and infected the sleeve of the tapes and the hem of your shirt with the same sunken dark.
  The screen flickers and you're cheerfully greeted with what you would expect from a children's show of that era, all bright colors, silly eccentric characters and possible life lessons. Quiet and intrigued, you watch as a day in the neighbourhood plays out before you.
  Until the episode introduces you to Wally Darling himself, your supposed new best friend. He monologues a bit about the premise of the episode, always acting as if having a conversation with you, the audience, directly. That by itself didn't give you much pause, you know it's common for shows like this to treat the audience as their own character.
  But then he asks you for your name.
  You assume it's supposed to have a short quiet moment, to give the kids at home the illusion that the characters are listening and waiting for their answer, but it starts to drag out for a really long time. Longer than it should.
  Af if he was actually waiting for your answer.
  Some possibilities rush through your mind. Is the cassette faulty? It didn't show any signs of it aside from those weird stains, and the footage itself didn't appear to be tampered with, certain elements of the world behind Wally are still moving, as if that pause is indeed intentional.
  The entire time you couldn't bring yourself to tear your eyes away from the puppet, his gaze not even flinching for a second away from you.
  You finally say your name out loud, as if giving up under some sort of pressure, even if you immediately felt silly for doing it. It's not like he's going to-
  "What a wonderful name. I'm sure we'll be the best of friends. Ha. Ha. Ha."
  The rest of the episode continues to play similarly, with it going along as you'd expect, only to pause for excruciatingly long times anytime Wally would direct a question to you. Even when other characters did their own bits, their moments of quiet would last but a few seconds, not aware of when or what you might be saying to your TV.
  But not Wally. He diligently waits for your response, even as everything and everyone around him keeps moving without him and they start to question why he's just standing there. Staring. Unresponsive to the activities they're trying to involve him with.
  And his responses seem weirdly... appropriate to what you're saying. Frank didn't react to your displeased expression to being told that bugs are friends, Julie didn't actually guess your favorite game, but Wally... 
  He repeated back what you said your favorite color was, adding that it's one of his favorites, too. He only joined in on the game that Julie suggested once you agreed that you'd like to play as well. He has to make sure his friend is having fun, afterall. You find yourself wondering if the way he's constantly smiling is by the design of his puppet or if it's somehow a conscious choice.
  It's like you're transfixed, almost hypnotised by what you're watching. Fascination keeping your eyes glued to the screen, even as a part of you is practically screaming that something's wrong. You're being watched as much as you're the one watching.
  Your breaking point finally reaches at the end of the episode. Wally makes his way back to Home after the misadventures of the day, and the house greets him, in creeks and onomatopoeias, with eyes for windows that make you just as uneasy as Wally's. The door opens for him for the both of you? to enter. And it's dark. So impossibly dark, in a way that feels unnatural and alive. Like a creature patiently waiting for you to place yourself in its jaws.
  And you finally snap out of it, rushing to turn off your TV in an action so abrupt and panicked it felt like fight or flight.
  You barely sleep that night. 
  Stuck in between a state of awake and asleep, constantly being brought in and out of a dream you can't seem to fully grasp. Until you're shaken completely wake by loud noises coming from your living room. From your TV.
  It had, somehow, flickered to life as if by its own volition, replaying the tape all over from the start as a now familiar audio plays out. You stumble your way through your house in a half-wake disoriented panic, and once again coming to face... Him. 
  There he was again, Wally patiently waiting for you, the tape stuck at the segment where he would ask a question to the audience and wait. His eyes bearing into you, you stood frozen at the doorway as he stared unflinching back at you. Has your living room always looked this dark? Engulfed, consumed by it?
  Fear takes over your actions again as you fidget with the VCR, this time with the intention of ripping the tape out of it, caring little of the state it would be left in by doing so. You only started to feel some semblance of relief once you disconnected all of the TV cables and rushed to turn on the light.
  After that night, you didn't even dare watch the rest, throwing the tapes in a plastic bag you left in a corner of your room, hoping it had all been some weird dream fueled by the exhaustion and stress of your everyday life. 
  But it never left you. He never left you.
  You keep having strange dreams, dreams where you are the new resident of a bright, colorful neighbourhood. Dreams where you are so warmly welcomed by kind neighbours, new friends who would like you to join them! And him as well, always so strangely quiet compared to the others but so fixated on you.
  The thought of getting rid of the tapes consumes your mind, but you just can't bring yourself to do it. You can't. You can't.
  You can't. 
  And you watch as the dark that once only stained the tapes now grows and festers in your floor, your furniture, creating a stain seemingly deeper than the wall itself.
  You swear you start to see him as well, in the dark. You're growing oh so familiar with those eyes.
  Wally doesn't understand why you look so scared. He just wants to be your friend. You two could have so much fun in the neighbourhood, together! He's sure that the others would agree too.
  Why are you being so difficult? He knows you can hear him. See him. He can see you too.
  You just have to let him in.
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fallouthomestaedau · 4 months ago
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fallout and the "tribal" problem
I've been working on this for a while and I finally feel content enough with my thoughts to talk about it, now for reference I'm mixed first nations and Ukrainian and believe that i am at least somewhat qualified to to talk on the topic
Firstly I will break down what I'm talking about through different paragraphs, primarily based on which game the tribe originates from, and secondly, I'm not an anthropologist or historian, but simply a fan disgruntled with representation of peoples in media
I also wont be speaking on Fallout 76 as I know precious little about it, and due to its shift in gameplay and narrative elements from the rest of the games
one thing of importance though, what is a tribal, and what constitutes a tribe?
now for reference, this will be in the context of the fallout universe, as within most tribes or tribals are too broad or vague to categorize within proper definition
within the games, tribals are mentioned many times, often denoting someone who isn't from or doesn't practice the (often) majority culture of the speaker, usually these people are part of or practice a culture or tradition specific to themselves and their community, that being said, the word tribal or its plural tribals, is often used as a stand-in for "savage" or "primitive", often used insultingly, that being said this broad definition really relies on assumption and stereotypes, as there are many groups who would otherwise be classed as a tribe, such as the new Vegas brotherhood of steel, yet due to being "advanced they are classed as more than a tribe
with that in mind, the definition of tribe is quite loosely defined, a tribe could be a raider gang, a small eccentric community, a religious order or an actual unique culture. this can lead to some reinforcement of stereotypes and harmful depictions however
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fallout 1
despite its age, Fallout has precious little in the way of harmful representation of tribes, there is some discourse on whether the people of shady sand would count as a tribe, or as "tribals", mostly due to Fallout's broad categorization of what counts as a tribe. otherwise, there's not much in the game, if anything in regards to tribals or tribes, at this point the Khans are still just a raider group, though they do take notions and snippets of historic Mongolian culture and tradition in their daily life.
fallout 2
its in 2 we begin to finally see tribes and tribals, with the protagonist specifically being from one of these tribes, the arroyo tribe, specifically descended from vault dwellers, they seem to have lost a great deal of modern ideals and information, though this does make some sense, they had to focus on survival in a harsh environment, you'll teach your children how to hunt and grow crops before small motor repair in a society without motors, that being said certain tropes can be somewhat outdated, such as the tribe building the whole temple section in regards to seemingly being an entirely sedentary culture who are also tent dwelling, which ties in with how seemingly primitive the tribe is as a whole, while some knowledge being lost makes sense, what would take generations of isolation and ack of any unique discovery to really achieve, along with some of the more mystical elements, the second part however can be somewhat forgiven as psychers and other "mystical" people do exist in canon, the mysticism plays heavily into the "indigenous people have magic" type trope. even Moreso they specifically chose to give up their culture in the end to join the ncr instead
there is also mentions of the unnamed "primitive tribe", a coastal tribe with many beliefs in regards to death and spirits throughout the world, while much of their story is cut you still meet one named tribe member and several random tribals, they are however not great examples of an actual culture, having a very cartoonish depiction and belief system, along with speaking broken English but no proper explanation of a tribe specific first language, there is however some redeeming facts as they are still looked at as people, poorly represented people
least unoffensive example however are the cave dwelling cannibal tribals, the name alone is already a mash of offensive stereotypes and depictions of indigenous people, which other tribes within the game are specifically designed to resemble, they are very unintelligent, lacking proper speech, yet are also quite strong and fast, they are every depiction of which "enemy natives" have been depicted as, making the arroyo come across as the "noble savages" in place
second to last we have the vipers, referred to as raiders, a tribe and a cult, within this iteration they worshiped mutant cave dwelling snakes, sacrificing passers by to them and welcoming in the survivors, they however did develop unique traditions and a culture surrounding the snakes before being chased from new california. its heavily unclear what a proper definition of what they are would be
lastly that brings us to the new khans, while not yet a tribe, they have changed much, keeping little in regards to khan tradition with a single leader, along with his personal guard and dog, leading to less loyalty and cohesion. at this time however the khans were fractured into many raiding bands, its actually the death of Darion that unites them once again
within 2 we also begin seeing other groups such as the shi and the yakuza, who represent real world cultures but more specifically the descendants of those cultures, which i am not knowledgeable enough to talk on
fallout 3
in 3, we don't see nearly any tribals in the base game, the treeminders are often referred to as a tribe yet they are in my opinion closer to a religious order with cultural elements, the specific titles and worship of bob and Harold are two of their defining traits at a glance, and are more reminiscent to religion in place of culture, they devote their lives to a "living god" responsible for regrowing nature in a secluded oasis, in truth the group is a cult (a mostly harmless one) and not really a tribe
another halfway example is the unnamed tribe in which the merchant crow was born to, they are specifically referred to as a tribe and have unique cultural beliefs, such as revering eyebots as wind spirits and that is all we know of them. there is literally nothing else to really say about them
finally we get to the point lookout tribals, a "tribe" of people who are sent out to find a seed pod that produces a hallucinogenic gas, to which the initiate is taken back to the tribe to be lobotomized, and in said state may be left unable to care for themselves properly, or worse, dead and those who aren't left vegetative are under the control and influence of a brain in a jar feuding with a ghoul while attempting global domination via telekinesis, as they believe he has ascended his material form and is guiding them to do so as well
not even counting the swampfolk who are somewhere between local cultists to a mutated subspecies of human, there is precious little in the way of positive tribal peoples, with an actual culture, instead getting vague and sometimes offensive examples
fallout 4
plain and simple there aren't any tribes or tribals, a fact which would ordinarily leave this section mostly blank, but i have a nitpick on that fact. my ancestors were originally from the region, the Abenaki, who were allied to other local tribes, and putting modern day tribal identity issues aside, the region had many native peoples, and there could have been an attempt at a positive depiction of a tribe, yet there's nothing, nothing throughout the base game, and all the DLC's, not even an attempt. and that frustrates me somewhat, as they could've shown indigenous people surviving and keeping their culture despite everything but instead did away with anything tribal related
fallout new Vegas
the tribes in new Vegas have such a wide array of representation, from good allegory to horrible caricatures, for instance, the tribe with the longest history in the series, the great khans, who were once the new khans, who originated from the khans. they have finally developed into a unique culture with a focus on personal freedom and and individual strength and yet also a people who believe in unity and cooperation, and they have even been given compelling motives, they are a raiding culture, people who take what they cannot find or make, similar to many real world cultures, they have a history of ethnobotany, something that was enough for the followers of the apocalypse to take notice, they had tradition and honours, and their plight is somewhat reflective of the real world, their non combatants and innocents, gunned down, and the survivors left to pick up the pieces, trying to handle their trauma from the experience, and turning to the substances they sell in order to numb the pain. the great khans aren't necessarily good people, but they are displayed as a genuine people, suffering from the actions of a colonizing power, and that is some of the best representation of native history in recent history.
the boomers are a tribe dedicated to personal security, taking the belief of right to bear arms as a cultural motto, thy originate from an armory vault, and completely shun the outside world. they refer to themselves as a tribe and have unique customs that have formed from their unique lifestyle, all things considered they make a good bit of logical sense in universe and in their formation. there isn't however much more to say on their existence as a tribe.
we even meet several new California raider tribes, the remnants of the vipers, pushed into the Mojave by ncr expansion, they've lost much of their culture, turning to chems and raiding, along with the jackals, they have been reduced to cannibalistic chem addicts, and in all honesty canon fodder, which does bother me slightly less, as theyre not the sole "tribes" within the game, i personally believe there couldve been some more done to show some of their history but they do fit the niche they were designed for
Honest hearts tribes are, rough to say the least, one descended of indigenous people with a unique culture and traditions, and another descended of children who may have been going to a residential school type institution (the lore is vague) who are origionally from a country who has been under the thumb of imperious countries for centuries, such as spain and the us, and yet what little culture they get is a mixture of hodgepodge words from several languages and just oddly spoken English (something historically done to mock native languages), the tribes don't have any real leadership outside of two Mormon missionaries, the two people, who could give us an example of the culture and values are devout followers of these Mormons, one who is being shown to be following in the footsteps of his hated enemy, this being Joshua graham, who is clearly a parallel to Caesar, making a peaceful people into his warriors, to deal a blow to the man who betrayed him, or Moreso a tribe who wish to follow Caesar, not for the safety and peace of the canyon system these people inhabit, but from vengeful hatred, using religion as an excuse to commit bloody war and Daniel, who spends his days infantilizing a culture and treating them as uninformed children, going as far as to hide the death of certain tribes members who had been evacuated from the area from their families and claiming a group of adults, who survive and thrive, being incapable of making their own decisions, as well as all that nonsense, the "good endings" involve fleeing their native lands and worshiping a Mormon missionary as a god, all that being said, the tribes are far from a good depiction. the khans are a much better example of native people than the tribes implied to be actual native peoples
the sorrows, a fitting name for the tribe, originating from a group of stranded children, they are a culture of pacifists who also hunt the largest mammalian carnivores in the region and are deemed "too innocent". the main member we meet near idolizes Daniel, the resident missionary, though this is somewhat understandable as he saved her life while in labour. this presents as a moral dilemma however as we are tasked with withholding the information of her murdered husband and her traumatized children from her, for the benefit of Daniel himself. the other major tribe member we meet is the shaman, who speaks next to nothing, sends us on a "vision quest" via hallucinogens where we fight a great evil being, and receive a marker of tribal status, the tribes primary defining symbol, a Yao guai gauntlet. the whole quest has bad vibes of white saviorism's, especially as if you rush through, you may not learn any actual meanings behind it. you may not even learn that the sorrows have domesticated gecko's. there is the basis for such a unique culture but everything is left so barebones, the tribe doesn't even have actual homes, the entire tribes clothing looks identical, and they have no clear leader, social hierarchy or even defined equality or individualism. there's no sense that they are anything more than a dozen people existing in the same place while ignoring one another. and the endings they get are either to leave, to stay and maybe learn mercy or become aggressive and warlike, all based on the actions of one person, who in their "naive" "innocent"z minds taught them their first act of violence, making them crave more
the dead horses irk me, they are implied to be descended of the Navajo, but aside from language hold no real ties. failed chances to represent native people as surviving cultures theres many things that irk me, they are named for the area in which they live, but hold precious little in regards to horses as a whole, an animal that had become important in their ancestors day to day, they are hunters and foragers, keeping an eye on local environments and the animals within, but have no cultural inclination to herding, something that was their ancestors lifeline, they have a language based on Navajo but next to no cultural identifiers, instead they are shown to tattoo themselves to mark special occasions and important moments in ones life, they have coming of age ceremonies and traditional weapons, personal and cultural taboo's and that's it, its not clear what their homes are like, what their day to day is, if they're agrarian or semi nomadic, they are designed to be the "brave warriors" to the sorrows "peaceful savage" trope, and the main warriors against the "evil tribe", its all face value
the white legs, the evil tribe who don't know how to craft, to farm, to build, a tribe whose sole survival supposedly hinges on the availability of raiding and killing, who are presented as too dimwitted and are offering themselves up to Caesar on a platter, they are the stereotypical enemy tribe, they are canon fodder for the courier to valiantly kill, and either doom them to death right away, or leave them to the mercy of another tribe, either way ending in death. their whole point was to be a culture wiped from the face of the earth
the 80's are a territorial tribe who we know nothing of, outside of their location near the salt flats of salt lake city, their whole existence was to destroy the last of the white legs. there is nothing else to them
in new vegas, we hear the names of many dead tribes, the hang dogs, the twisted hairs, the twin mothers, cultures wiped out and assimilated by the legion, as well as tribes pushed to extinction via people like prospectors, and land owners, killed for the local resources. these two examples are both instances id like to talk about in greater detail in their own post
new vegas tribes, the 4 tribes of new vegas themselves, the three families of the strip, and the kings, each group shedding tribal identity to relive old world "glory", the kings, worshipping a misunderstood depiction of elvis, and living by the rules of an impersonation school, which they turned into a "gang" identity, keeping order of the rabble and the unwanted. the white glove society, the omertas and the chairmen, all under the thumb of mr house, coerced or convinced to become the three families. we know very little of their original cultures, aside from a few names, they have wholly embraced a new identity, disposing of those who would otherwise choose the old ways
there are also cultural groups, such as the new Canaanites who aren't technically a tribe but still a different culture group to the majority culture
afterthoughts:
all in all, I find fallout has so far, had such few positive examples purposefully creating a tribal group or Indigenous allegory, the sole example is the Khans and much of the historical symbolism is lost to so many under the guise of moral vs immoral and general lack of knowledge
it is disheartening, in a world so chock full of symbolism and satire and synchronicity, that there's so little reference to how truly multicultural the world really is, of the hundreds of pre-war tribes and isolated settlements with unique traditions, there's so little within the games to acknowledge any of it
the majority of the tribes we meet are or can be canon fodder for the sole fact of padding enemy numbers, instead of deepening the narrative of old-world concepts returning to harm the present
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catzz089 · 1 month ago
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*appears from thin air* snippet… pls pls pls
Sighs deeply heavily and aggressively. Come and get your munch
“No.”
“Max-”
“No. Vic I’m not changing my mind on this. I don’t know you or mum. In case you don’t recall, I was left with him when I was eight. The last time I tried to fucking speak to you, you handed the phone straight off to Jos and let him scream at me for hours and you never even bothered to check in. I’m tired of putting in effort for you two when you don’t care about me. Because if she ever fucking cared she wouldn’t have signed off full custody without a second thought.”
“It was better for you.” She argued, “With the racing and the training, you needed someone who could help you with that. It was the best option.”
“I was a punching bag,” He sneered, “I learned to cover up bruises at eight fucking years old. Do you think it ever got any better? And what about when I fucked up my wrist so badly I couldn’t race anymore? What was the reason then? Was it just too much of an inconvenience to try and get me out? Mum did nothing for me. I’m not leaving my home for her.”
Victoria was glaring now. “She was scared, Max. She was fucking terrified. We both were. Jos wasn’t a good man, what do you think he would have done to her? You were an issue Max. You got unhappy then you started taking drugs and failing every single fucking class. Mum didn’t know how to support that. And if we’d known dad wanted our phones to call you, maybe we wouldn’t have let him have them! But as it stood, a drunk, aggressive man was screaming at us from outside. We did what we could.”
“What do you think happened to me? Why do you think I became such an issue,” He spat the word out, “Nobody did anything for me. I did what I could to feel better, and I quit when it made me feel worse.” He fumed.
“Look, are you coming home or not?” She hissed.
Max didn’t need to respond.
Victoria searched his face for answers, for a yes. She wouldn’t find it.
Victoria scoffed one last time, somehow drenched in more disdain than before and stormed off without so much as a second glance.
Max watched her leave, and collapsed down onto the table once she was gone. His head knocked harshly against the hard wood, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to care even when the pain he forgot about starting ringing harshly again.
Max paid and left silently soon after.
---
Max wasn’t really sure where he was, or where he was going. His mind was moving faster than his feet and when he finally came to he was sat on the edge of the harbour, looking out across the sea.
The midnight blue waves crashed against each other sending sparks of water at his face. It was refreshing, any other night it would have been calming.
His head throbbed still, clouding the edges of his vision and threatening his balance. He wished he had some painkillers.
He curled his legs up, hugging them to his chest. The moon stared down at him; It was full and bright and overwhelming. He turned his head back down, the waves were too restless to show reflections anyway.
It was only then, when he came to the slow conclusion that no, he hadn’t brought his jacket, and yes, it was fucking freezing.
He must have looked a sight. Hunched over on the dock in a deep red waistcoat, ironed black shirt and pristine dress pants whilst gripping at his own hands in some vague attempt of grounding himself.
At least he wasn’t crying yet.
“Max?”
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llilyrose · 1 year ago
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So, you know that ISAT au I mentioned in my yass-girlboss King post??
HHHHHEEEERE WE GO .... info below keep reading!!! lots of words!!!! In Stars And Time FULL spoilers!!!!!
(Note: The Reset AU will be posted on @slowlysoluminary but i will be reblogging from my main)
There are some really interesting Siffrin-Meets-The-King-First aus that float around. I see them sometime! they're great! But I, as an adoring King fan, had to sit down and ask myself:
"So, uhh, like why?"
AND I DID SOME THINKING!!!!!
The King notices you're looping in Act 3. That's great! Not for Siffrin, but great narratively. If he notices it in that loop specifically, I feel like he would notice in other loops, too.
So, Act 5. The King notices how much of a formidable opponent siffrin is (among other things), acknowledges he's from the same country, recognizes wish craft, yadda yadda yadda.
He wants Siffrin to understand and resonate with his reasons for trapping an entire country in time, and while Siffrin is busy in his mind space fighting Mal Du Pays, the King makes a wish. AND HE LOOPS!!!!!??????
... Uhh, kind of? Not really. It resets the timeline all the way back to when the country was erased, but instead of the King having full memory, they're more like... vague snippets that hint at what he once was.
So, um! The first part of the AU is about the King's 10-year-long descent into madness. It's heavily condensed but it's there!! there's lore there!! I'm a king fan he needs a backstory.
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"His name is Lazare" HE HAD TO HAVE A NAME BEFORE HIS KING DAYS... it's heavily implied the King wasn't his original name, and my headcanon helpfully supplied that he underwent a Change inside the house during his rise to power. I think there's like, a Head Defender? And the King was Head Defender, with full access to all libraries inside the house, when he started going crazy.
At 22 he loses all his memory while travelling in Vaugarde. Nobody knows his name so he comes up with one! He meets Siffrin 4 years later and they both travel Vaugarde together.
He becomes a defender at 29 because we see firsthand how INVESTED this dude is in Vaugarde. He wants, NEEDS this country to be safe!! he has a lot of patriotism!!! He's not actively searching for what happened to him or his country, he's just accepted it and is building himself up as a person.
oh boy .. when he turns 31 he becomes Head Defender.... And when he starts reading higher-access books throughout the house documenting a disappearing country? He gets MORBIDLY curious. And... well... this fixation leads him down the rabbit hole that got him where he is today! Except, this time, with Siffrin on his side...?
Yup! Siffrin is here! They've been here the whole time! Siffrin watches a man he's grown to love and adore fall into the Deep End. And he would find the strength to be mad about what he's doing if it weren't for the fact he was super sympathetic!!! ugh!!! sympathy!!!
Siffrin agrees with the King... but not really? He agrees with his reasons but completely disagrees with the way he's going about it. The change from Lazare to King was gradual, but towards the end he treats Siffrin more like an object of study than a friend.
The King takes his cloak and hat to study the stitching, the King won't let him cut or dye his hair again because he wants (NEEDS) this still image of his culture, etc.
Siffrin pretends his behavior doesn't bother him (because the King goes full Mansplain Manipulate Malewife on him if he voices his dissent) and keeps sneaking away from the King using his hat-less/cloak-less disguise.
In doing so, he meets a wild Mirabelle! It becomes a habit to visit her and the villagers under this "disguise" (it's only convincing in the way that Clark Kent is convincing) and he's feeling that same friendship with them that he used to back when the King was Lazarus.
... Until the House gets frozen? And the king starts Freezing People In Time For Real? No warning? Siffrin is HORRIFIED, rightfully, and also super upset. Partly because Mirabelle "got frozen" (she did not get frozen) and partly because the king has TOTALLY LOST HIS MIND NOW. no trace or remnant of who he used to be. but siffrin wants to hold on.
and then Siffrin gets stuck in a time loop! Whoops! Honest mistake!
"How does he get stuck in a Time Loop if there's no party to stick with?" ok so. of course he's going to learn Wish Craft from the King, duh. The King tells him literally everything about rhe country as he discovers it (albeit, in incoherent rambles.). And he also has his own muscle memory to draw from!
In desperation, he makes a wish: Save Vaugarde/Sav the King.
"Which one of those two is it?" Idk! That's what he spends the timeloops finding out!
Oh, wait, now that I've talked about the time loops, I CAN TALK ABOUT LOOP!!! LOOP IS NEW AND DIFFERENT!!!
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^^ This was the initial ref sheet i made while brainstorming for this au (and also the sheet that birthed King In Magical Girl Poses)
"So what's loop's deal?" yeah, um, that's the thing? Loop doesn't know either!
Loop is not hiding their identity! Much like King, they domn't remember anything until afterthe Reset. They're Siffrin, yes, but not Siffrin from SASASA:AP. They're Siffrin from In Stars and Time. They're THE Siffrin that the King's wish Reset!
Thus, Loop looks very different!!!! And acts a little bit different!!! Siffrin is the only one who can see Loop, for the time being, and they follow him throughout the loops instead of staying stagnant under the Favor Tree.
They don't like the idea of not knowing who they are, or where they're from. Siffrin sympathizes with the star, initially thinking that they just... had the same thing happen to them that happened to the king? But the reason Loop follows Siffrin through the house is because they NEED to know who they used to be, and what in the Universe happened to them. Certain things trigger certain memories, and... it certainly doesn't help that the party enters the fray.
"So was the King's wish not important?" THE KING'S WISH WAS VERY IMPORTANT.
Not only did it CAUSE the reset, but it gave King the precise tools to get a timeline that fulfilled his wish (It's not the Universe's fault he lost himself and his only chance).
BUT ALSO!! ALSOOOOOOO!!!! THE KING'S WISH CORRUPTED THE WHOLE TIMELINE.
Loops are meant to reset to the day before, with no one"s memory remaining except for Siffrin's.
This loop completely Reset the timeline.
The King kept hints of his memories from the past.
The party gets dejá vū from the moment they meet to the moment they step foot in the house. They feel like something is missing.
Loop shouldn't be here. Loop should be... Loop. Loop didn't wish to be here - it's a direct violaton of his initial wish to stay with his friends, but it's a wish that technically got overwritten when the Reset happened?
Ironically, Siffrin is the only one Out Of The Loop (hehe)
,,,,,,,,,
"okay so what's the stuff IN the timeloop?" you see. you seeeeee. I've been worldbuilding so that I can figure that out. And I still don't know..... I'm setting it up with this post so I can elaborate on anything later (asks are appreciated)
"You should write/draw about this" I am! Ao3 is llilyrose but idk if I'll end up posting anything there. Of course, my tumblr is llilyrose, too....
"You stole this from user llilyrose on ISAT discord!" um, look at my url again. thx
"What if I have questions about the worldbuilding/characters/etc." send an ask, fool.... I'd really appreciate it .....
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averycutesalamander · 5 months ago
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i have extremely neutral opinions about SMAUs (social media AUs) but i just thought about what Boothill's role would be in one and im kind of losing my mind about it.
his account handle is @.silvergunshura and he literally only posts clumsy nature photos and occasional pics of his gun. a handful of videos that are just the sound of the wilds. never puts any captions or tags on his posts. extremely long unacknowledged absences with no schedule. double-digit amount of followers at an absolute maximum. absolutely no interaction with his audience. or anyone else on the platform actually. quite frankly he doesn't pay any attention to his following in the slightest. bro simply cannot be bothered. for all he cares he is sending these photos to the void and there are no other users on the platform.
and then he posts one (1) video of him at the shooting range nailing bullseyes left and right like it's nothing. barely half of his body is in frame and most of his face is covered by his hair. someone with a decent following shares it and his entire fucking profile EXPLODES because people will NOT stop talking about how hot he is and it kinda snowballs from there. people go through his entire backlog only to find ZERO other posts with his face or body in them. the best they get is little snippets of his arms. people are frothing at the fucking mouth trying to figure out who he is and nobody knows because he literally hasn't said a single word in his entire posting history. people make theory posts, which obviously gets more people invested in this new mystery. his comments are filled with people speculating about who he is and what the fuck he's doing. someone posts a massive spreadsheet detailing all of the identifiable locations in his posts, and they're literally all over the galaxy. immediately afterwards they're cancelled for some vague allegations about them being a shady intelligentsia guild member guilty of multiple human rights violations and everybody completely forgets about the spreadsheet.
Boothill posts a single blurry photo of his hand feeding a chipmunk and people lose their goddamn minds. he follows this up an hour later with a photo of the same chipmunk sitting on his shoulder that is somehow even blurrier than the last and it briefly trends on the front page. a week later he uploads a video of him playing a harmonica by a campfire, once again barely in frame, lit only by the flickering fire. people brighten the video in a desperate attempt to get a better look at his face, but there's nothing identifiable. someone posts a slightly unhinged video examining the tiniest pixels in every screencap of him that they can find, claiming that he's definitely a halovian because of some extremely blurry details, and you technically can't deny it as a possibility because there are no clear shots of where his halo or wings would be. naturally this severely divides fans, and several other theories about his species pop up over the course of a few days. many people are called morons from all sides.
the REAL drama comes when he posts a picture where he's holding what looks suspiciously like an extremely precious meteorite-formed gem that was stolen during a private IPC auction two weeks ago. this post is also notable because it's the first time he's used a caption and it's literally just "lol". naturally people quickly connects the dots and realize that he's BOOTHILL, that crazy motherfucker with the vendetta against the IPC, and why the fuck is he posting nature photos and videos of him feeding birds and shit. silvergunshura fans are instantly divided by discourse about whether or not it's ethical to be a fan. "silvergun fans dni" and "silvergun antis dni" become staples in the bios of people invested in the drama. a bunch of fans start using his substitute swears, and whether or not this is ironic is extremely debatable. the business of cyborg modifications has a moderate boom. anti-IPC sentiments have a notable increase, but now the people doing serious exposés and earnest discussion about the humanitarian crimes of the IPC that are concealed from the public are constantly called simps. there's a brief stint with a handful of Boothill copycat crimes that are all solved within the week.
people unsuccessfully try to hunt down any other potential socials to no avail, but this does spawn a massive wave of fake accounts on a million different platforms, which obviously successfully baits a ton of people. the drama gets even spicier when the moderators shut down his account. one of the mods gets doxxed by an outraged fan. even more fake accounts pop up. Boothill comes back less than a week later as @.silvercowboy244 like nothing happened. his returning post is a crooked picture of a sorta weird looking tree, and he's pointing toward the top left of the frame. the caption is just "bird?" and nobody can figure out what the FUCK that's supposed to mean, because there's no bird visible in the picture, nor is there a bird nest in the tree. conspiracy theories and decoders are immediately chomping at the bit trying to figure out if it has some kind of secret meaning.
tons of people try to use his posts to pinpoint his location for clout or the bounty money or to find him in person and beg him to let them give him head, but he never posts them exactly when they're taken, and nobody can figure out what the fuck logic he's using to pick his next destination. there's an IPC investigation. his accounts keep getting banned but he keeps coming back like a cockroach. dedicated fan archives are made to preserve all of his shitty photos. he never acknowledges any of the drama.
if you're fortunate enough to know Boothill personally and you ask him about all of that weird shit with his socials, he just shrugs and says, "yep, i keep gettin' locked out. can't remember passwords for shirt." if you ask him what he thinks of all the drama surrounding his online presence, he gives you the most bewildered expression you've ever seen on his face. "what the fork are you yappin' about?? what do you mean i got "band" ?? disk horse??? docksing???? i think you've got a few screws loose buddy" and he promptly forgets about the entire ordeal and goes back to posting blurry nature pictures like literally nothing happened.
edit: here's part two-ish lol
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yoongihan · 4 months ago
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Services Rendered (Teaser) - BC
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pairing: escort chan x femreader
genre: smut, with some plot, a lot of talking
teaser word count: 206
word count: approx 10k (who knows?)
warnings: sex work, smut (nothing in the teaser other than talking about it), older reader, chan goes by chris in this
rating: 18+/M
summary: seeking a solution to your lack of experience, you assume the process will be business-like. you're entirely wrong.
a/n: putting out a teaser so I finish this one. vaguely based on the film Good Luck to You, Leo Grande. snippet below the cut
There is no natural segue into this, but you have to know. Even if he lies to you, you have to know. “Do you have a choice? I mean, do they assign you clients who fall under certain types, or do you have a quota?”
“You want to talk about my work?”
You take a breath, setting down the bottle on the table. “No? Yes? I hope this isn’t horribly unwanted. I know it’s work for you, but I hope you–”
He shakes his head, immediately straightening up from his relaxed position, hand falling to your knee, not bare because you couldn’t see meeting him in a dress, even if that was encouraged for ‘heightened romance’ and ‘efficient disrobing’. Despite that you’re wearing a blue jumpsuit, his hand is so warm through the fabric. 
“This okay?” He nods to his hand placement. 
“You have carte blanche to touch me, Chris. I’ll tell you if I’m not okay with it.” That’s something you feel sure about at least.
His eyes widen and his smile grows. “Okay then. Same, by the way.”
There goes your confidence running out the door; that you can touch him in any way you want. 
“Back to your question. I chose you.”
--
© yoongihan 2025. please do not steal, translate, repost, or whatever. stray kids belong to themselves and all idols used in this piece are just the inspiration for characters and do not in any way reflect the actual humans. 
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