#ten would just do it without question

[beelzeebug]

rip rose tyler you would love chappell roan

[alongtidesoflight]

i swear my stepdad is so illogical AND stubborn it hurts

[lloydfrontera]

In my opinion, the reason the reunion scene was skipped was because the author couldn’t figure out a way to write it non-romantically and gave up after a while

honestly. i kinda agree with you nonnie.

it just. the set up to the scene is sooooo romantic. you have lloyd being absolutely devastated at the thought he's not going to see any of his loved ones ever again and that he's been dropped back into his terrible life, to the place he admitted he'd rather die than go back to,,, and then someone knocks at the door and when he opens it this is the sight that greets him:

his best friend, the person he's closest to, the one he's spent years with, the one he promised a peaceful life at his side, the one he wanted to grow old with, the one he sacrificed everything for, the one he effectively gave his life to save, the one he thought he'd never see again, standing at his door, having crossed literal dimensional barriers to get to him, a soft and teary smile on his face as he tells him "i missed you"

like. c'mon.

i'm all for platonic interpretations, i'm aroace, i love me a good best friendship as much as the next guy, but,,,, isn't this,,, like,,, really fucking romantic??? extremely so??? am i??? reading too much into it?? because it feels really, really romantic to me.

and like you say. where do you go from there. what response could lloyd give that doesn't involve throwing himself at javier and clinging to him with all of his strength. what conversation could these two have that doesn't involve them seeing how truly devoted they are to each other. what resolution does their arc together have that isn't them spending the rest of their lives together, at each other's side, like they so dearly wanted to.

but. alas. that wasn't the story bk moon wanted to tell. and that's very much his right. i just think that if he didn't want me to assume there's no in-character and narratively satisfying version of that conversation that doesn't end with them kissing he should've at least tried to give us something. and not completely skipped it lol

but that's just my opinion too :]

[maryasmorevna]

why are you, as an adult in 2024, still hung up on reylo. why are you still mocking the shippers. why do you believe yourself to be superior only because you dislike a stupid ship from a fucking space fairytale. girl (gnc) get a grip

[bittersweetresilience]

it feels cosmically unfair that i think about writing all the time want to write all the time and sit down to write all the time and i come up with two sentences at best. there should be some reward system i think

[mackthecheesy]

rip to the person in my dream last night who i was in a time loop trying to save </3 woke up before i ever could

[crossbackpoke-check]

nosy anon again making a return because i think what my brain did was read that i helped find some kind of writing and then did not fully process what the writing was?? but upon rereading i am very intrigued if you ever get the urge to share i will be all eyes/ears/senses required to enjoy things!!

I GET TO DO WIP WEDNESDAYYYYYY!!! the writing exists mostly in the form of a tag (fantastic! 'verse) and also a thirty-two page doc of snippets and planning, so the sense you will be using most is imagination:

don't think i have ever actually formally written out anything about fantastic! 'verse but! the tl;dr of it is that it's a semi-college au: joel is still a hockey player for the lv phantoms, but morgan is a college student-athlete. it's incredibly relevant to the plot that joel falls in love with morgan in the check-out line of a wegman's, lies a little bit, and ends up going back to get his degree.

most of it is just good fun about college kids growing up, but i think there's a lot of parallels between making your way through a development system where traditional "success" isn't always guaranteed (ahl -> nhl, completion of higher education -> pursuit of a career) because that development system isn't always designed for you to "succeed" or have opportunities. heavy quotation marks around success because part of that struggle is learning what you want in life and how you define success. are your dreams achievable? are they still the same dreams you always used to have? it's infinite branching universes of would you still love me if i was a worm (ahl player forever) (a college dropout) (a college graduate) (older) (realizing the fallibility of your body) (uncertain of the future) (human).

silly little snippet:

[readwritealldayallnight]

Part 2 of ‘Bird Watching’ aka hot construction worker Simon x single mom

In truth, lying was something that came second nature to Simon Riley

He’d lied to his teachers in school about where he got his bruises and burn marks from, if they bothered to ask

He’d lied to his brother while their parents argued on the other side of the wall, telling him that everything would be okay

He’d lied to his dad about where he’d been all night, telling him he was making less money at the butcher job than he really was

Whatever lie he had to give to get through the day, get through the night, get through his childhood, he would offer up without so much as batting an eye

And as he got older, he started stretching the truth for different reasons

Whatever his CO’s needed to hear from him in order to let him do his job, then he’d let them hear it, true or not

Whenever people started asking too many questions, well-equipped sarcasm became his right hand man in avoiding the truth

Lying had always come in handy for Simon, whether it was a life or death situation or goading Soap into believing an obviously fictitious story, carefully chosen words and slight exaggerations had never steered him wrong before

This one, however?

Well, as he sat in an all too colourful daycare office with murals of ducks and bunnies watching over his every move, Simon began to wonder if this was one lie he shouldn’t have told

But then again, he wasn’t telling this lie out of malice, or greed, or ill-intent… he was doing this for you

Because at the end of the day, he’d be lying to no one apart from himself if he were deny how often you popped into his head

Ever since he’d first squinted through the glaring sun and spotted you through that flimsy chain link fence, since he’d heard your voice over the rumble and roar of construction behind him, since he’d spent less than ten whole minutes talking to you, it was as though something within him had started brewing, started changing

Similar to two live wires coincidentally meeting until an inevitable spark shoots through the air, akin to a wind chime that hadn’t rang out in years suddenly beginning to sway to and fro with the promise of strong winds on the horizon, or closer yet to that moment Franklin’s key and kite were struck by lightning and history was forever changed, meeting you had stirred something loose within Simon

For too long now, Simon felt as though he were nothing more than a man stuck behind the wheel, lost in the storm on an infinite stretch of road that would never lead him towards home, no matter how many maps or compasses or tools he may have, he was on a steady cruise control headed nowhere

But since he’d met you, since he’d learned about the situation you were in, you and your sweet little baby bird just as alone as him and up against the world, since he’d made up his mind and decided he’d help you in whatever capacity you’d allow, it was almost as if the fog had cleared from his tired eyes, as though he was finally glancing up from the maps and realizing that ‘home’ could be down any stretch of road he took, if he was willing to take it

You’d stumbled into his life on an afternoon like any other, instantly making a home for yourself in the recesses of his brain by that very same evening

His eyes now were constantly glancing at the phone number now tacked onto his fridge as he went about his routine, your smile appearing behind his eyelids as he tried in vain to fall asleep at night, or the image of the soft swell of your cleavage bouncing as you’d walked away playing on a loop in his mind until he’d accept he wasn’t going to be getting any shut eye until he allowed his hands to slip beneath the blankets

His early mornings were no longer spent cursing having to be up before the sun, instead he found himself staring at the empty spot across from him at the table, wondering if you were awake too, perhaps trying to soothe a fussy baby back to sleep, or feeding her from the same swollen breasts Simon selfishly wished he could suckle from as well

Or were you still laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling as you too struggled to fall asleep? Too worried about finding your baby bird a spot somewhere before the money ran out? Stressing yourself over things that Simon wished he could fix for you? That he knew he could fix for you?

Less than 24 hours after your first conversation, Simon had hounded just about every living and breathing soul working on the construction site, determined to come up with at least some bit of information, someone to contact, something that would lead him in the right direction, but everyone seemed to be just as in the dark as he was

He wasn’t easily deterred however, nor was he lacking in imagination, when he decided he was unwilling to return to his flat that night without being at least one step closer to having a valid excuse for calling the number that called out to him each time he walked through his kitchen, and so if no one apart from Simon happened to notice that every single blueprint disappeared from the site that night, well that was just unfortunate wasn’t it?

He’d nearly missed the phone call he’d been hoping to get the next morning, preoccupied with having to change his bed sheets after having dreamt of you again all night as visions of your soft body had him feeling like a teenaged boy again, he managed to snag his phone just before the ringer ended

As expected, the site manager had been on the other line, practically beside himself as he told Simon how he’d arrived at the site and discovered that some troublesome teenagers must have snuck in during the night and done away with their building plans, asking Simon if he wouldn’t mind driving to the supervisor’s office and snagging some copies

Simon had already been halfway out the door before he’d hung up

The foreman’s office was cluttered beyond belief, disorganized chaos he sifted through carefully to find the one piece of information he needed, and there amongst the loose papers and pencils and measuring tapes, was the next piece to the puzzle he was slowly solving; the buyers contact information

The blueprints were delivered back to the site in no time, having been kept safe in the back of Simon’s truck the entire time, and a carefully concocted story about needing to run to grab supplies for the job was believed by everyone as the tall man climbed back in behind the wheel and weighed his options

He could reach out to you now, he’d been able to find you the owner’s name, along with an email and phone number to contact, the promise he’d made to you was done, his duty fulfilled

He knew he could call, and you’d be overjoyed to hear from him, that you would be eternally grateful for his help, thanking him endlessly… but that would be the end of it, wouldn’t it? His role would be fulfilled, his duty done and over with, no other valid excuses for you to keep him within your orbit, he’d just be a kind stranger who’d done you an incredibly kind favour

But as Simon pondered that choice, he wondered, why stop here?

You were alone with a newborn, stressed enough as it was, you didn’t need more work being added onto your already full plate, he may as well go the extra mile and help you out even more, right?

At least, that’s what Simon kept telling himself now, as he sat in a too small chair inside of a much too colourful office, avoiding the judgemental eyes of the painted woodland creatures staring at him, as though they knew what his intentions were, waiting for none other than the owner herself

“Hi there, sorry to have kept you waiting.” The woman says as she walks in, reaching a hand out to greet him as he stands to meet her halfway. “My assistant director says you’re here from our newest expansion? The East end location?”

“Yes ma’am, that’d be the one.” Simon offers politely, lowering himself back into the chair he hardly fits in once she rounds the desk and sits down as well. It would make sense that that was what her assistant has told her, as that was the story Simon had offered, reasoning that he had to speak with the owner about the project, not giving them much choice when he showed up to the office unannounced

“There aren’t any issues with construction so far, are there? We shouldn’t be expecting any delays?” She questions, getting straight to the point. Simon appreciates that she isn’t wasting any time with small talk, he also wants this done quick, he’s got a pretty bird waiting on him after all

“No ma’am. Everythin’s on track so far.” He replies easily, omitting the small hiccups she doesn’t need to know about. “M’afraid that’s not why I’m ‘ere today.”

“Well, what can I help you with then?” She questions, an over plucked brow raising as she tilts her head

“Had a few questions ‘bout the nursery we’re buildin’ for ya.”

“Oh, well- I believe the specifications were in the plans for-”

“Not so much ‘bout the building itself, ma’am.” He cuts her off, not unkindly, but clarifying his point. “Was more so wondering ‘bout- well, it’s a decently big plot o’ land we’re working on. How many lil’ ones are meant be in there?” He asks, trying his best to ease his way into this conversation

“Currently, plans are set to have two preschool classes, two toddlers classes, as well as an infant class. With full capacity we could have up to 88 children in the centre. Why are-”

“How many of those spots are for the babes?”

“We can have up to 10 infants at most.”

“Alrigh’, and how many o’ those spots are available?” He finally asks, cutting to the chase, ripping the bandaid off. Simon watches understanding cross her face and she lets out a small scoff, not rude, but more so like she knew she should have expected as much

“Ah, I see now.” She says with a knowing smile sent his way. “I appreciate your interest in our centre, and I understand nursery spots have been scarce in the city, but I have to be honest sir, we do have a wait list policy. There are numerous families already signed up wi-”

“It’s a little girl.” Simon cuts her off firmly this time, not wanting to entertain whatever rejection she was preparing to give him. No, he wouldn’t be leaving here without good news for you, he couldn’t do that. He ignores the painted birds mocking eyes as he steels himself as presses on. “She’s just a tiny thing. Eight weeks old, almost nine now I suppose. Her mum’s got to be back to work, hasn’t got much of a choice. There’s no family ‘round to help or nothin’. She needs this spot for her.”

The woman’s lips thin as she looks at him with understanding, with sympathy, none of the things Simon cares to see unless she’s nodding her head in agreement. He knew it might take a little push to convince whoever was behind the desk to do the right thing, to help him do right by his birdie and her baby bird, and so he’s not ashamed, nor above saying:

“I’ll make sure the job’s done early.”

At this, both her brows now shoot up, obvious intrigue now painted across her features as she blinks at him.

“Pardon?”

“I will see to it that everything is ready ahead of schedule. Personally. The sooner the place is open, the sooner you start making money, the sooner kids are in and sooner parents are happy. Everyone wins.”

Simon watches her ponders his words, gears turning in her head as she thinks it over. She could easily refute him, call him out for being out of line and send him on his way, tail tucked between his legs. But Simon knows a desperate person when he sees one, knows just what people want to hear, and so he isn’t surprised when she’s suddenly standing from her desk, crossing the room to shut the slightly ajar door, and he smiles to himself slightly, knowing he’s won.

“Now when you say ahead of schedule-”

“Could have ‘er ready by the end of the month. I’ll pull the strings, make it happen. You leave it to me and it’ll be done.” He answers easily, confidently, like there is no question in his mind he can offer up such promises and see them through to fruition. Hell, he’d build the entire goddamn thing by himself day and night if that’s what she wanted to hear, whatever would convince her

“I mean-” she says, letting out a long sigh as she leans back in her chair, opening up a drawer and rummaging through for something or another. “I can’t lie, this wouldn’t be the first time we’ve made exceptions for someone, especially one of our own builders.”

Simon nods along, pleased with the way this is going thus far, though things take an abrupt turn when she next says:

“I would still like to meet with your wife and daughter first, just to iron out the enrolment details and confirm whether this would be a good fit, but I can- I could potentially find a way to make this work.”

And Simon knows this is the moment where he’s supposed to correct her, where he’s supposed to speak up and clarify that no, you aren’t his wife and she isn’t his daughter, that she’s misunderstood him and that the two of you are strangers he met earlier this week- fuck he doesn’t even know your baby’s name yet for crying out loud- all of this could fall apart tremendously as soon as she asks even a single question that he won’t have the answer to, potentially jeopardizing this entire thing for you and her, and yet-

“Brilliant. The missus will be thrilled.”

Next chapter

Alrighty first off, apologies for the delay between posts, writers block and life in general are so ew, but we’re so back babe

All the love on the first part was so unexpected and so so appreciated!!! Y’all have me looking like this with every comment and reblog and tag-

Gonna strive to have part 3 out before the end of the weekend hopefully, don’t want to keep you all waiting so long again

- M 🫶🏻

[laceyfaeryy]

MDNI 18+

soft lover boy simon riley who is absolutely obsessed with his little bimbo birdie.

౨ৎ⠀ׄ⠀. ━ “big scary boyfriend simon riley” “guard dog simon riley” what about utterly pathetic soft lover boy simon riley who literally walks around with the biggest puppy eyes for you??

cw: age gap (legal), fluff, simon is a complete softie, oral (f) receiving, simon cums in his pants, inspired by @cinnamongrl2006

simon riley who listened just intently to your questions even if they were a little silly, not caring that he had to re explain everything ten times.

“so like, what does this do?” your perfectly manicured nails disgusting with the small knife that you found in his military bag. “use that for my missions, extra protection,” his strong arms wrapped around you as you stared at the knife like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“but like, why use knives when you have a gun?”

“sometimes i get disarmed, so i need to be prepared.”

you stared blankly, blinking at him before your gaze drifted down. “but you have two arms, so you haven’t been disarmed?” your question genuine as a low chuckle escaped his lips.

“yes luvie, i do have two arms.”

simon who will be at your feet the moment you asked for him.

“si?” your voice soft as you looked around your shared apartment, simon’s footsteps immediately picking up after hearing your voice. “what’s wrong luvie?” his tone soft before gently drifting down to your feet, where you were struggling to put on your heels. “help me?” your big doe eyes staring at him, soft smile cracking through his rugged face. without a response he lifted your foot up, gently placing your heel, making sure it was fit snuggly in. his large hand gently rubbed against your ankle, planting a kiss at your knee.

and of course he carried you in his arms after the function, your drunken giggles filling up the empty streets whilst he grinned like an idiot.

simon riley who indulged in your nightly routines, allowing you to put a face mask and a your pink fluffy head ban on with a bow.

“need to make sure you age well si, don’t want you to be all wrinkly when i’m still going to be hot and young,” you teased as you gently applied the sheet face mask on him.

simon was never one to indulge in skincare, he would often just splash water on his face and call it a day. the moment you found out you made him his own personal skincare routine, the products comically small in his hands as you explained them.

“this one helps with fine lines and wrinkles,” you rambled as you held a small shiny bottle, they all looked the same to him but he listened regardless. “you think i have wrinkles?”

simon riley who would have his whole entire camera roll dedicated to you.

“yer fuckin’ obsessed with that girl,” his captain teased as simon’s phone lit up from your spam of texts, his wallpaper a photo of you with the biggest and cheesiest grin.

“jus’ say you’re jealous cap,” simon grunted as he immediately grabbed his phone, his thick fingers moving along swiftly to respond. it was no secret in the base that simon was utterly smitten with you, responding to your calls and texts even in the most inconvenient times.

not to mention the amount of times he had to upgrade his phone simply because he had no storage left, and he couldn’t bring himself to delete the photos of you.

the distance between the two of you didn’t waved his commitment, even if he was in the base and you were back at home he would carry a little bit of you. it first started off as a small pink keychain that dangled from his vest, then a necklace with your into. he even wore a custom balaclava mask that you bought, with a pink skull instead of a black one. despite the relentless teasing from his captain and everyone else at the base he didn’t care.

simon treated having sex with you as a sacred ritual, worshipping every inch of your body as if he didn’t deserve to see you in your most vulnerable state.

“fuckin’ gorgeous luvie,” his voice soft and tended as he peppered your body with kisses, his scarred hamada soft and gentle unlike the usual violence they were used to.

he didnt care about his own pleasure, solely focusing on you, because if you felt good, so did he.

he loved worshipping you on his knees, his tongue lapping around your creamy pussy as his eyes almost rolled back from the smell of your arousal. “taste so fuckin’ good luvie, like a five star meal.” simon took his sweet time, making sure every part of your body received attention and love. his large hands gently rubbing your inner thighs to smooth your trembles as you came over and over again.

oh, and he would cum in his pants just from eating you out. his hips would shake involuntarily before spurting all over his boxers.

tag list: @happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone @other-fandoms-reblogs @goonette6969 @doubledizzy22

[hatsbuckets]

Imagine Ghost accidentally conditioning the 141...

Ghost is busy. Always. Too much paperwork, too many reports, too many logistics to handle before training. It’s 1400 before he realizes he’s skipped lunch. Again.

Not a big deal. Not the first time. Won’t be the last.

But he is hungry.

His eyes land on the bright pink bag of Valentine’s Day mini Snickers that’s been sitting, untouched, on his desk for a week. They were part of a bulk shipment to the base; some gift or something.

Not exactly lunch. But it’ll do.

He grabs the bag and heads for the training field. He’s two minutes late, not that it matters much because Soap and Gaz already have the unit ready.

"Where’s Price?" he asks, tearing open the bag as he walks up.

"Got pulled away. You’ve got this one, Sir," Gaz replies, raising a brow as Ghost lifts his mask just enough to pop a Snickers into his mouth.

Ghost doesn’t react, just grunts.

Today’s drill is a simple infiltration exercise. Hell, it's something Ghost or Price hardly have to be here for. Their presence would be more of a formality. Gaz leads the attackers. Soap leads the defenders. The teams get ten minutes to plan, to prep.

And then Ghost sounds the time up, and the groups move.

Ghost watches, leaning against a crate, chewing another Snickers, barely paying attention to one of the new guys—until the kid steps right into a trap. Ghost sees it before he does.

Blue powder erupts into his face.

Soap’s defenders descend, but the kid doesn’t go down easily. Blind, but still fighting back, holding his own until his team pulls him out.

Soap's team wins. Barely.

When it’s over, the teams regroup. Ghost is still eating Snickers.

He turns to the recruit, still dusted blue.

"What 'appened?"

"Didn’t see the wire." The kid shifts uncomfortably.

Ghost turns to the unit. "Who set it?"

One of the defenders raises a hand. Ghost considers him for a moment before reaching into the bag.

He tosses a mini-Snickers at the soldier.

The guy catches it. Looks at it. Looks at Ghost. Eats it.

Ghost turns back to the newbie. "Held your own. Tha' matters. Surprises happen. Don’t let ‘em get you again."

And that’s it. Training’s dismissed. Ghost pockets the rest of the Snickers and moves on.

...

The next day, Price is still gone. Ghost doesn’t skip lunch this time, but he still brings the Snickers bag.

They run the same drill.

Same recruit. Same route. But this time, he checks everything. Quick. Efficient. Finds the wire. Disarms it.

No blue powder today.

Gaz’s team wins.

Ghost eyes the recruit and flicks a Snickers at him. The kid catches it mid-air.

...

By the end of the week, Price is still gone. Ghost keeps the pink bag of Snickers on him during training. Like it's just another part of his kit.

One or two mini snickers get handed out every session. And nobody really notices at first. But the team starts moving differently.

They work harder. Smarter. More ruthless. More efficient. No one wants to be the guy who doesn’t get a Snickers.

Even the veterans sharpen their tactics. Gaz and Soap notice. But no one says a damn thing. If Ghost is going to give them snickers, then shut the gel up and let him give them snickers.

...

They're sent on a mission. High stakes.

They don't lose a single man. Not a single injury.

At the end of it, back on their transport home, Ghost pulls the pink danm bag from some unassuming pocket and hands out the snickers.

The men take them without question. They earned it.

But Ghost is running low. The bag nearly empty.

...

At the next training, Ghost doesn't hand out a single snickers. Not on purpose, but the bag is empty, so there's nothing left to do.

But the others notice. Gaz squints. Soap looks like a confused dog. Head tilt and all. The newbies glance at each other, shifting.

...

Two days later, Ghost swings his door open at 0600 sharp—and pauses.

Sitting just outside his door, neat as you please, is a bag of mini Snickers. Not the Valentine’s ones anymore. Just regular.

Ghost blinks. Hums. Pleasantly surprised, he picks up the bag, inspecting it briefly before stuffing it into his tac vest like it’s just another piece of gear.

He doesn’t think much of it. It’s a good snack.

At training, he does as he always does. Watches. Observes. Evaluates.

And then, without thinking, he tosses a Snickers at a recruit who clears a building faster than expected.

He snaps to attention as he catches it, eyes shining. Ghost does not question it.

The pattern continues.

And when he starts running low, Ghost finds a fresh bag of Snickers waiting for him.

Somebody—somewhere—has decided that the Snickers will not run out.

...

At training, at drills, in the field, there is a silent expectation. A new, unspoken rule. Do something exceptional? Get a Snickers.

The machine of the 141—the deadliest operators in the world—now snaps to attention at the crinkle of plastic.

They move with a ruthless kind of precision, bodies coiled, eyes sharp—waiting, anticipating.

Even Gaz and Soap are part of it now—though everyone refuses to acknowledge it outright.

But the moment Ghost hands one of his men a Snickers, he takes it.

Silently. Gratefully. Like a goddamn reward.

Ghost does not acknowledge this. Not out loud. But he keeps handing them out.

And they keep earning them.

They'd quite literally kill for a Snickers. (imagine what they'd do for an expensive piece of chocolate)

...

And then Price comes back three weeks later. He walks into the training area and pauses.

Something is off.

The unit is too sharp. Too focused. The newbies stand stock still in their group, as if waiting for something.

Gaz and Soap exchange a look. Soap refuses to meet Price’s eyes.

But he doesn't acknowledge it, until he begins unwrapping a plastic sleeve holding a new pen. The plastic is thick and loud. And half of their fucking head snaps his way. The hungry eyes of three dozen of soldiers latching on him.

Ghost, standing at the edge of the group, tears open a fresh bag of Snickers.

And now the entire fucking unit reacts. Subtle shifts in stance. Focused attention. Expectant silence.

Price squints. Frowns.

Ghost flicks a Snickers at a recruit. He earned it today.

The recruit catches it like it’s a holy offering and eats it immediately.

Price’s frown deepens. Slowly, carefully, he turns to Ghost. “The fuck did I miss?”

more

[sincerelyneo]

i’m not gonna teach your boyfriend how to fuck you | l.mk

“you are the girl that i’ve been dreaming of”

📀now playing: i’m not gonna teach your boyfriend how to dance with you by black kids

❯ summary: Asking your best friend to take your virginity because you have a crush on someone else and want experience is totally normal, right? Mark doesn’t think so. If he’s taking your virginity, it’s not for practice—it’s for him. He’s nobody’s wingman—especially not when it comes to you.

❯ pairings: mark x virgin fem!reader

❯ genre: smut, friends to lovers

❯ words: 5.6k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, corruption kink, loss of virginity, nipple play, fingering, hand jobs, praising, body worship, protected sex, back scratching, brief possessiveness, pet names, reader uses she/her pronouns, swearing, love confessions, just fluffy smut because it’s what i do best lol.

Mark swears he’s a good listener. Considering he’s been friends with Zhong Chenle for years, the world’s most dedicated yapper, he doesn’t really have a choice. He has to be a good listener. But Mark almost does a double take when he hears the words ‘my virginity’ and ‘you’ come out of your mouth.

His best friend. With the biggest, prettiest, most innocent eyes and sweet little mouth that could barely stammer through conversations about flirting—asking him about sex. No. Not just asking. Wanting him.

After nearly choking on his own spit, Mark tries to regain his composure—but fails miserably. Especially when your cheeks flush, and you start chewing on your bottom lip. It’s a crime. No, worse. It’s sin in human form. You’re sin in human form. Looking this cute, blushing like a maniac, like you didn’t just drop that question on him.

“You want me to take your virginity, Y/N?”

You cringe the second he repeats your question back to you. It sounded a lot better in your head—practical, reasonable, totally fine. But now, with his brows furrowed and that ‘are you insane?’ look on his face, you’re starting to think maybe you are insane.

But when you came up with this plan last night, none of that crossed your mind. All you knew was that Mark never says no to you. Ever. Not when you asked him to be your first kiss in middle school. Not when you made him take you to your first frat party. Not even when you guilt-tripped him into helping with your dissertation.

"Look, forget it—" you say, pushing to your feet, desperate to escape your shared living room that suddenly feels way too hot under Mark’s stare. "I totally crossed a line by asking. I’m sure I can find someone on Tinder—"

"No."

You blink. "No?"

Mark wants to curse himself for the hasty reply, but who could blame him? There’s just no way he’s letting you swipe right on some douche bag looking for a quick fuck—some guy who’ll take you to a lousy bar, probably make you pay for your own drinks, and then expect to take your virginity like it’s nothing.

It’s ridiculous. It’s not happening.

Not when you just handed him the opportunity on a silver platter.

“What I meant to say was,” Mark rubs the back of his neck, “Don’t you want to lose your virginity to someone you trust—someone you love?”

You nod without hesitation. “That’s why I asked you. There’s not a single man I trust more than you. And I love you—platonically, yeah, but it’s still love.”

Platonic. 

If Mark could rip that word out of the dictionary, set it on fire, and launch the ashes into space, he would. Anything to stop you from thinking whatever he feels towards you is platonic. Was it platonic when he kissed you when you were eleven? No. Was it platonic when he drove ten miles just for your favourite snack on your birthday? No. Was it platonic when he worked on your final thesis at the same time as his own? No.

And if he’s going to be the first one to have you, it sure as hell won’t be platonic. That’s for damn sure.

His eyes squeeze shut as he sits forward, clammy hands rubbing up and down his jeans. "Okay, so you want me, your best friend, to take your virginity? Why?"

You chew your lip. This was the part of the scenario that kept you up at night—explaining why. How the hell are you supposed to tell someone you want them to take your virginity just so you can be ready for someone else? There’s no handbook, no online forum, for this kind of thing.

So you settle for:

“It’s stupid. A dumb reason. Don’t even worry about it. Will you do it or not?”

Mark gives you a knowing look, exactly like you knew he would. He’s one of those perspective fuckers, especially when it comes to you. Normally, you love it. Right now, not so much.

“Y/N,” he draws out your name, “What happened to me being one of the most trusted men you know? Tell me.” 

You suck in a breath, trying to steady yourself. After all, it’s just Mark. Sweet, kind, nonjudgmental, Mark. 

“I have a crush on my co-worker, Xiaojun,” you blurt out. Mark just blinks, completely still, like he’s trying to process. You, on the other hand, keep rambling. “And there’s rumours that he’s amazing in bed, and he asked me out for drinks this Friday, and I just feel really…unprepared.”

Mark feels his blood pressure spike—because fuck your co-worker, fuck those rumours and fuck that little date your planning to gone on this Friday night. Look, he’s not a prude or anything. Mark knows people fuck on a first date—but not you. At least not you with some asshole making you think you need to be prepared for him.

"If that asshole makes you feel less than just because you're a virgin, Y/N, he’s not worth your time."

You narrow your eyes. "I don’t think your opinion holds any weight here, considering you don’t think any guy is worth my time."

Mark relaxes slightly and smiles at that—because it’s true. No man deserves to talk to you, touch you, kiss you—no one but him.

“Besides,” you perk up again, trying to sound more confident. “This isn’t about what Xiaojun or any other guy thinks. This is about me… being comfortable having sex with someone that isn’t myself.” You chew your lower lip. “I want to be comfortable having sex with other men.”

Mark almost growls, a caveman-like urge pounding in his chest at the thought of you wanting to be comfortable with other men. He’s changed his mind. He’d take the word platonic any day over hearing other men leave your mouth.

“Let me get this straight—you want me to teach you how to fuck, to please other men?”

Your cheeks flush, not just because the idea sounds so ridiculous when he puts it like that, but because it’s the first time you've ever heard him talk like that. Mark is always so careful, so delicate with you, keeping his foul mouth and sex life locked away. But hearing the phrase "how to fuck" leave his mouth in that deep, husky drawl,  sends a pulse right through you, straight to your clit.

You chew your lip again, hesitating. “I don’t know… I just wanna be good... at it… at sex.”

Mark’s head tilts back as he stares at the ceiling, a string of mumbled curses slipping out before his Adam’s apple starts bobbing against his throat. He pauses to think—and so do you. You can’t figure out why he’s interrogating you like this. The proposition is a lot, yes, but if you’d crossed a line and made him uncomfortable, he could’ve just said so, you wouldn’t have taken it personally. There’s no reason for him to poke and prod like this.

Just as you're about to squash this whole thing, Mark speaks again. He looks up at you from his spot on the couch, his brows furrowed like he's still deep in thought, but his eyes, dark and blown wide, pin you in place.

"I'll teach you, Y/N," he says, standing up slowly. "I'll fuck you if that's what you want and if that’s what you're asking me for," he continues, moving closer until he's right in your personal space. "But I won't fuck you just to get you ready for someone else."

"Mark—"

"No, Y/N, I’m talking," he cuts you off, his long, tantalizing finger tracing from your cheek down to your neck before he whispers, "I don’t mind teaching you how to be good at sex with me, angel, but I’m sure as fuck not teaching you how to be good at it for someone else. If I finally get to fuck you, I’m gonna teach you how to be good for me."

Your mouth parts in a soft gasp, just from his words and that innocent touch alone. Mark’s eyes track the movement, and his irises darken with something you can’t quite name—want, lust, need... you don’t know. All you know is that it’s fucking hot, and it almost makes you miss what he just said.

"Finally?" you breathe out.

The corner of Mark's mouth twitches into a smile, and a low, silky laugh slips from him. "Don't pretend like you don't know I want you." His finger slides to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re too fucking smart to be playing dumb with me, Y/N. You know you could have me on my knees if you just asked. I’d do anything if you just asked.”

You always knew you had Mark wrapped around your little finger, but you never realized it was because he wanted you the same way you’ve wanted him. Yes, you’d only asked him to help you with this plan because you know he struggles to say no to you; but a small, twisted part of you wanted Mark to be the one to take your virginity. Because he’s him—hot, lean, experienced, sweet, loyal Mark. Your Mark. 

It’s all too much. His breath is too warm on your skin, his words too heated, his proximity too hot—he’s too hot. You whimper, and you watch as his pupils soften in response.

“Y/N,” he says softly now. “I need you to use your words to tell me what you want. If you don’t want to do this anymore—because, to me, it’s more than just practice—that’s fine. But if we do... this, us, it becomes real.”

Your mind goes fuzzy. Words? He thinks you have words after just confessing that this—that you—are something he wants? Almost like he senses your hesitation, he nuzzles deeper into your neck, his lips feather-light, dusting over your skin in a way that sets your nerves alight. It’s erotic, it’s intimate, it’s so damn sexy. 

“I’m serious, Y/N.” His voice is soft, breath scorching against your skin, thumb grazing over your collarbone like he’s memorizing you. “I’ve imagined you—craved you—for years. If you want me to take your virginity, I’ll do it. Happily. But I’ll be your first and your last—not Xiaojun.”

The mention of your coworker feels irrelevant now—a distant, meaningless fantasy compared to this. The stupid office daydream you’d clung to seems laughable because the man you thought only saw you as a friend is standing right here, offering himself to you. Completely. Utterly asking to be yours. And who are you to deny him?

“I want this—”

Mark doesn’t waste another second, doesn’t let you finish your sentence—because he’s wasted too much damn time already. Too much time waiting, hoping, aching to hear you want him. Not just need him for something, but actually want him. Crave him. Desire him.

He has to kiss you. Now.

It starts slow, soft, and sweet. Both your mouths take their time exploring one another as his hand tenderly cups your face, holding you to him. But in no time at all, the heat builds, kisses stretching longer, deeper, until it’s not enough for him. Not nearly enough for you. A hum of approval slips from you the moment his tongue grazes yours, and he takes it as permission, sweeping in and taking control.

“I have fucking dreamed about this,” he pants against your lips. “About kissing you. About touching you. Tell me to stop if it’s too much, Y/N.”

Stop? He’s out of his damn mind if he thinks you want to stop. You shake your head against his lips, legs winding around his, and he takes the hint without hesitation. His hands find your waist, lifting you with ease until you’re resting around his hips. His eyes are fully dark now, black, and locked onto you. They never waver as he carries you both to his bedroom.

Mark lays you down carefully, like you’d break if he was any rougher, but his gaze tells a different story—intense, burning, desperate. You prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, and he just stares, eyes roaming every inch of you like he’s savouring the moment before he ruins you completely. 

You’ve never been this intimate with a man before. Sure, you’re no stranger to your own fingers, to vibrators, and okay—maybe you don’t mind the occasional steamy make out session at a party. But this? In his room, under his stare, is different. You’re not even naked yet, and somehow, you already feel so bare, so exposed. 

“I want to take my time with you, Y/N,” Mark murmurs, as he climbs onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs. He gently pushes you back so you’re lying flat, his body hovering over yours. “I want to savour every inch of this pretty little body of yours... and you’re going to let me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you pant, nodding at the same time, and Mark smiles, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips.

His hands slide up your legs, gliding over the fabric of your sweatpants, until they reach the hem. His eyes search yours, silently asking for confirmation, and you nod, breath catching in your throat. He tugs at your pants, so slow, so deliberate, and when they finally slip off, he lets out a low, groggy "fuck" at the sight of the pink lacy panties you’d chosen for this—for him.

You suddenly feel self-conscious, heat creeping up your chest.

"Knew I'd say yes, huh?" Mark coos, his hand tracing the band of your panties as he looks over your body, studying it because it's the first time he’s seeing you like this. Displayed for him.

You blush, squirming beneath him, overwhelmed by how new, how unfamiliar this all feels. Mark senses your discomfort and smiles softly.

"Don’t go shy on me now, pretty girl," he murmurs, "I’m losing my shit knowing you wore this with me."

His hands graze over your hip bone, fingers brushing gently, soothing as they explore the small hint of flesh you're revealing to him. The softness of his touch, of him, makes you ease up just a little.

“I wore the matching bra too,” you say on an exhaled breath.

Mark groans, his eyes closing as he takes in a slow, intentional breath of his own, nostrils flaring slightly. “Did you? Can I see, baby? Please?”

You nod, and those exploring hands of his glide up your stomach, fingers brush over your skin as he tugs the tight fabric of your tank top over your head. When it falls away, you're left in nothing but the matching set. The pink bralette, almost see-through, giving him a clear, vivid view of your pebbled nipples.

"So fucking beautiful, Y/N," he says, his voice strained, almost painfully. "Can you take it off for me?"

You smile, teasing, as your hands find the clasp at the back. "After I went through all this effort to put it on for you?"

He shakes his head with a small scoff of laughter, the sound easing your nerves a bit. That familiar banter, the playful back-and-forth, reminds you why you asked him—why you wanted him to do this in the first place. You trust him. 

“Is this the part where I learn that you’re a fucking brat?” he mutters, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“I can be, if you want me to be.”

Something flashes in his eyes—dark, predatory—and he leans in closer, his tone dropping an octave. “Take the bra off. Now, Y/N.”

And you do, the flimsy fabric slipping from your breasts and meeting the same fate as your sweats and tank. You feel so exposed, which is ridiculous considering how little modesty the bralette was offering in the first place. Still, your hands instinctively cross over your chest. 

"Hey, don’t," Mark murmurs, his hand gently reaching up to move yours, his thumb rubbing soft, soothing circles around your wrist to reassure you. "You don’t ever have to be embarrassed with me, Y/N. If you want to stop—”

"No," you interrupt. "I mean, please... I want this... I want you, Mark. I’m just nervous."

His eyes soften at your words, and he licks his lips. "Can I touch you?"

You nod, and his hands steadily, gently travel up and down your stomach, hovering around your sternum before they rest beneath your breasts. You suck in a breath as his touch lingers. "Can I touch you here?" he asks, and again, you nod. 

Mark’s hands gently cup your chest, the softness and weight of your tits filling his palms. The pad of his thumb teases over one of your nipples (pretty peaked nipples that are practically begging for his mouth) in a steady rhythm that has you arching into him. He continues, flicking over the sensitive bud until he elicits the reaction he wants: quiet, breathless whimpers and tiny darling moans from your mouth.

“You’re so damn perfect, Y/N,” he mutters, his eyes glued to your body as he tests his touches, watching in awe as your eyes flutter, roll, or widen. “So damn perfect for me.”

You moan, and his head dips to the valley between your breasts, his tongue flicking out to trail a slow, heated path up your skin. His mouth, warm and wet, captures your pebbled nipple, sucking and licking with a hunger that makes your body shiver. It’s then that you remember why Mark is perfect for this—he’s experienced. 

“Pretty fucking tits,” he groans, “I’ll fuck these one day. Promise.”

He focuses entirely on your nipples, squeezing your breasts, and you swear you're already on the verge of coming undone for him, writhing beneath him. Terrified it’ll end too soon, your hands cup his cheeks, pulling him away from your chest to capture his lips in a desperate kiss. 

His chest hovers over you, so close to you, but still hidden beneath layers of fabric. His jeans, too tight, too impeding. You want to feel him—skin to skin. It’s not fair. You’re lying here in nothing but your underwear, exposed and vulnerable, while he’s still fully dressed—his clothes a frustrating barrier that keeps you from feeling him the way you need to. You can’t stand it anymore.

Your fingers dig into his shirt, tugging at the fabric, desperate to rip it off and close the damn distance. "Mark," you breathe. "Take it off. Please."

“You want it off, huh?” He teases. 

You’re beyond patience now, body aching for him. “Yes. I do.”

Mark’s eyes darken at the desperation in your voice. He sits up slightly, pulling away from you just enough to shed his shirt, the fabric tugging over his head and revealing the toned muscles of his chest. You can’t help but watch, your eyes glued to the way his hands move, but he’s taking his damn time. Frustrated, you reach for his belt, but he stops you, his hand brushing yours as he undoes it himself. The sound of it unbuckling makes your breath hitch. 

Finally, his jeans slip down, revealing the taut curve of his thighs before he kicks them aside, leaving him in nothing but his black boxers. His bulge is prominent, straining against the tight material, and you swear you can’t take it any longer.

But before you can pounce, before you can touch him and feel him the way you want to, he’s hovering back over you, his body pinning you down, forcing your back flat against the bed.

“So eager, pretty girl,” he muses with a teasing smirk. “But you asked me to teach you, didn’t you? I’m in charge.”

He’s so controlled, so assertive, it sends a flood of need coursing through your body. His hands are back on you, gliding over your now fully exposed body. Well, not entirely exposed—his fingers toy at the edge of your panties, tracing, testing, taunting, as if waiting for your permission. And you’d give him it immediately, only he wants to ride this out, prolong it. 

His fingers move to dip just beneath the fabric, but then he stops.

“I know you said you wanted to be good at this, Y/N,” he hums. “But I want to be good for you. Tell me what you like. Tell me how to touch this pretty pussy.”

Heat floods your cheeks and pools between your legs. From the way Mark smiles, and the fact that he’s cupping you through your underwear, you know he can feel it too.

“I-um—”

“I already told you to stop being shy with me, Y/N,” he says. “Don’t think I overlooked that comment about you getting yourself off. You wanna learn, so do I. Let me be a good boy for you.”

Your eyes lock onto his, and you can see the seriousness. He wants to know what makes you tick, what works for you, what gets you off—wants to be the one to do it. His breath hitches as he studies you, chest contracting with focus. 

“I-I start with my clit,” you instruct, and his fingers follow suit, finally dipping under the fabric he’s been teasing for the last ten minutes right to the spot. You want to feel embarrassed telling him all the dirty ways you play with yourself, but you can’t. He won’t let you feel that way, because, like you said, he’s him—sweet, loyal Mark.

“Fuck, Y/N, you’re dripping for me,” he groans, voice thick with need. “Aching for me, aren’t you, baby?” You nod pathetically. “Then tell me, what do you do to your clit? Teach me.”

“I like small circles,” you whisper, your breath shaky.

“Like this?” he asks, his voice low as he carefully follows your instructions. It’s almost too careful. Too slow. You need more—so much more.

“Faster, Mark.”

His fingers speed up, the circles on your clit growing faster, the pressure he applies intensifies with each stroke. You moan, squirming beneath him, your hips shifting in desperate need for more—more of him.

"Can I try a finger, baby?" he asks, and you nod, wanting everything he has to give right now.

Mark shifts his gaze from your face down to where his hands are stuffed inside your panties. He watches as he trails his index finger up and down your slit slowly until it’s circling around your entrance before finally easing it inside. You gasp, feeling the initial stretch, and his eyes lock back onto yours, waiting for the sting to fade and the lust to take its place again. Once it does, he begins to move, his finger sliding in and out, in and out, faster and faster until your breaths come heavier. 

“Mark,” you gasp on a moan, a thrill coursing through you as he picks up the pace. 

Mark adds his thumb back to your clit, the combination of his fingers easing in and out of your drenched pussy and the attention to your sensitive nerves send waves of pleasure crashing over you. Because cumming has never felt like this—so close, so quick, so desperately needed. Mark must sense your closeness too because his lips quirk, devilish and taunting.

“You gonna cum on my fingers, pretty girl?” he asks, but it’s clearly not a question. The cocky bastard knows you are. “Or should I say finger? Think you could handle two?”

Your mind is incoherent from the pleasure, the foreign stretch of his fingers. Any thoughts you have dissolve into a haze of need, only capable of a frantic nodding at him because you want more, need more, need to cum. He eases in his middle finger, both digits slowing down as you adjust to him. Then, the world around you blurs; all that matters is the rhythm of his fingers and the growing knot forming in your stomach as his pace picks up. Each thrust pushes you closer to the edge, and you can feel the waves of your orgasms building, until it finally, deliciously, crashes over you. 

Your vision blurs, and sounds you didn't even know you could make slip from your lips. All you can hear is Mark's incoherent, muffled praise—telling you how pretty, how perfect, how good you are for him.

When you come down from your high, he’s watching you intently, his hand running through your hair as you refocus back on him with hazy eyes. You’ve never experienced an orgasm like that, and as you notice the strained bulge in his pants, a surge of eagerness wells up in you. You want to return the favour, to please him, to learn how to be good the way you asked him to twach you.

You reach for his boxers, fingers trembling as you strip them off, revealing the thick hard length of him. Your breath catches at the sight of his cock, angry and needy and desperate. Mark looks down at you with his own haze-induced eyes. 

“Please, Y/N.”

The heat radiating from him ignites a fire within you. You take a moment to admire the way he looks at you—hungry, eager. With a newfound confidence, you lean closer, your lips brushing against his skin, ready to give him the pleasure he’s so generously given you. You press soft, delicate kisses to his abdomen, watching as his stomach flexes in response.

You know you probably should suck his cock right now; that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Almost as if he can sense your hesitation, Mark’s fingers clamp around your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You don’t have to, not yet, not ever if you don’t want to,” he says softly. “But you can touch it. Touch me, Y/N, please.”

That feels more like your speed, so you wrap a firm hand around his cock, giving it a slow, steady long tug. Mark's head rolls back from where he sits on the bed. Your hands tremble with nerves, this is all so new to you, and you desperately want to please him. But before you can overthink it, Mark’s words soothe your insecurities.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, “Just like that... so fucking good, Y/N.”

He's like a fucking mind reader, because that one comment, that small ounce of reassurance, has you stroking him faster. Your hand moves in a messy rhythm, feeling the weight of his cock in your palm. 

As you continue to stroke him, you start to experiment with different techniques, trying out gentler touches and firmer grips. Mark's reactions are your guide, and you watch as his face contorts in pleasure, his eyes screwing shut as he lets out low groans. He sounds so sexy, you like it, you want more of him like this. 

You feel a sense of power, knowing that you're the one bringing him to the edge. Your strokes become more insistent, your hand moving faster as Mark's breathing quickens. You can feel his cock throbbing in your hand, the veins standing out as he gets closer.  Mark's body tenses, his muscles straining and that’s when suddenly, his eyes snap open. 

“You gotta stop, Y/N,” he growls, his voice low and husky as he pulls your hands off his length. For a moment, you almost feel scorned, but then he adds, “I want to last until I’m at least inside of you...”

You both laugh, Mark's eyes crinkling at the corners as he chuckles, and you feel a flutter in your chest. He gently lies you back on his bed, grabbing a pillow and placing it underneath your hips. As he fumbles with his nightstand, he rips open a condom and slides it along his cock. You can't help but watch, mesmerized by the sight. It’s oddly sexy. Your body responds instinctively, your hips arching upwards as if seeking him out. 

As Mark positions himself between your legs, his head dips down to kiss you. It’s sweet, like the first time, and you think you could get used to them—you want to get used to them. The feeling of his lips on yours, on your cheek, the top of your head. 

When your lips finally break apart, he holds eye contact with you, aligning himself with your pussy. He teases you, brushing against your folds, occasionally grazing your clit—his eyes watching your reaction, a smirk on his lips. Sensitive, he notes. And he has to note because there will be a time for more, a time where he’ll make you work for it. But today isn’t that day. Today is about you and him—together.

“Tap my arm if it’s too much. If you want to stop—”

“Mark,” it’s your turn to be stern now. “Please, just fuck me.”

He smirks, liking this side of you—the impatience, the newfound dirty mouth of yours. Something else to note for next time, he thinks.

Rubbing himself up and down your slit for a final time, Mark presses the head of his cock to your entrance, hips shifting forward to slowly push into you. His nostrils flare, and his teeth clench because he has to be careful, he has to be in control. He cannot—he will not—hurt you any more than he has to. 

So, slowly. Torturously slowly. Mark eases into you, inch by tantalizing inch, until his tip coaxes past the small ring of resistance. You’re so tight—so impossibly tight—that he almost regrets letting you jerk him off before hand,  because he’s already teetering on the edge of cumming from merely the first few inches. He’s waited far too long for this moment; the last thing he wants is to blow his load before he’s even begun to move.

He shifts his focus from his own pleasure to your face, keenly observing for any signs of discomfort. When he catches the slight scrunch of your nose, he leans down to kiss you, wanting to distract you from the sting of you stretching around his cock for the first time.

“You’re doing so good, pretty girl. You were made for me.”

He feels your body relax into the mattress at the praise and your hands wrap around his back, pulling him closer. It’s a silent invitation, a clear signal that you’re okay with more—that you need more.

His hips finally press flush against yours, your legs spreading wider to accommodate him, all of him. Your fingers dust up and down his spine as you get used to this, how full you feel, how complete. 

“Move, Mark,” you whisper barely above a whisper. “Please.”

And he does. He rolls his hips, pulling out of you completely before sinking back in, slow and sensual. You moan—right into his ear, because he’s buried in your neck—and he nearly loses the last thread of control he’s holding onto. Mark quickens his pace, keeping his body flush against yours—like he needs to be as close as possible. Needs to consume you the same way you’ve consumed him for years.

“Yes, Mark,” you cry, your nails raking down his back, scratching, digging, marking into his skin.

“Fuck, Y/N. You feel so good. You have no idea how fucking perfect you are.”

He reaches for your hand, prying it from his back to lace his fingers with yours, pinning them to the mattress. It’s gentle, it’s sweet—it’s so Mark. He fucks you slowly, his hands holding yours as he kisses you. Intimate, tender, and so fucking hot.

You tighten around him, and the squeeze makes something flicker in Mark’s eyes—something determined, something feral.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper between ragged breaths.

“Fuck, yes—please,” he groans. “Cum around my cock, pretty girl. I need it. I want it.”

Hearing him just as desperate, just as needy as you, sends you over the edge. Your lip trembles, your lashes flutter, and then—your second orgasm takes over you, ripping a scream of his name from your throat.

It’s the prettiest thing Mark’s ever seen, ever heard—the best thing he’s ever felt. And he swears this moment will be etched into his memory until the day he dies. He holds you close to his chest as you ride your high, feeling every desperate breath you take, swallowing every moan with wet open mouth kisses. And when he senses you’ve finally come down, he chases his own orgasm—greedy for it, for you.

He becomes ravenous for his own release, his hips pistoning faster, harder, as he drives deeper into you. His breaths come in ragged gasps, his chest contracting as his fingertips anchor your hips in place. With every thrust his cock throbs with an almost unbearable intensity until he lets out a low, guttural groan, his body shuddering with pleasure. 

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against your skin as he whispers your name, over and over again, like a mantra and he spills inside of the condom. 

The room fills with a silence, punctuated only by the sound of your mingled breaths as he comes down. Your hands are still entwined, hearts still racing, and you both can’t do anything but look at each other. Eventually, Mark leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips before pulling away. He eases out of you, removes the condom, and tosses it into the nearby trash can.

You watch him as he moves, and when he turns back to you—his gaze a mix of awe and satisfaction—you can’t help but smile.

“You know when I said I loved you platonically?” you ask, and his brows knit together. He looks like he’s about to have a full-blown panic attack, so you quickly put him at ease. “I lied. I actually just love you.”

Relief washes over his face before it melts into a smile. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Good. Because, I love you too. Always have.”

[guliexe]

━━━ONE ON ONE 18+

Nishimura Riki x Female!Reader — University AU

.ᐟwarnings/tags: study buddies to lovers, inexperienced reader, hard dom!riki, crush!riki, porn with some plot, texting, teasing, making out, praising, fingering, oral (f. receiving), choking, marking, slapping, possessive, demanding riki, spit, handjob, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, aftercare

♡ you start studying with your quiet crush, until one day, he invites you over, and you end up sobbing, ruined in his bed.

.ᐟwc: 7.4k

It wasn’t anything serious. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. You and Riki didn’t really talk. Not the way other classmates did—casual, loud, back-and-forth in lecture halls. He was… quiet. Always showing up late but somehow still getting a seat near the front. Always in dark clothes and expensive jewellery. Always watching more than speaking. He didn’t try to stand out. He didn’t raise his hand. And yet somehow, you noticed him first. Well. Maybe not “noticed”, more like kept noticing. Like your brain started analyzing him every time he walked into the room: black hoodie again, earphones in, notebook half-open but never messy. You never even thought he’d noticed you at all.

Until he did.

It was a Tuesday, and you were stuck. The professor handed out a printed exercise to be solved in pairs, but your usual friend wasn’t in class. You were halfway through trying to solve the second question alone, chewing the cap of your pen in mild panic, when you heard a voice behind you. “…You’re doing it backwards.” You looked up. He was already sitting in the empty chair beside you, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Riki. His voice was lower than you expected. He leaned over and tapped his pen against your sheet ,not correcting you, just quietly showing you. You blinked at him. “Oh. Thanks,” you managed. He didn’t reply. Just kept working beside you until the time ran out. And when the professor collected the papers, he stood up and left without saying anything else.That was it. Or… you thought that was it. Until a week later, when you were reviewing notes from the last lecture and couldn’t find a single readable thing in your handwriting. You remembered his — clean, sharp, borderline aesthetic. You didn’t know why, but you pulled up the class group chat, scrolled, found his number from a previous message, and tapped it. You weren’t even sure he’d remember who you were. You weren’t sure why you were nervous. But you texted him anyway.

You

hey riki!! do u still have the notes from class today? i zoned out halfway :(

♡

Riki

yeah

figured you would

♡

You

what’s that supposed to mean

♡

Riki

you always zone out around the halfway mark

kinda cute tbh

You stared at your screen, heat blooming in your cheeks.

You

i’m gonna take that as a compliment

♡

Riki

was one

He was so casual, unreadable, like he hadn’t just short-circuited your brain. It started with a single text from him the next day:

Riki

still need help with the lecture stuff?

library’s dead today, come by if u want

Your stomach flipped a little when you read it, mostly from surprise. You hadn’t expected him to follow up. Definitely hadn’t expected him to remember your struggle with the content. So you said yes. You found him at a tucked-away table in the back corner of the campus library, hoodie pulled over his head, one earbud in, notebook already open. He looked up once when you arrived. Didn’t smile, just nodded. You sat beside him. Close, but not close enough to touch. You opened your laptop, pulled out your notes, and tried to pretend your hands weren’t slightly shaking. For the first ten minutes, neither of you spoke. He scribbled something down. You typed a few lines. It was quiet, comfortably quiet. But there was something about being this close to him that made it so fucking hard to focus and he smelled so good. You weren’t sure why it made your mouth dry. After a while, he leaned over just a little to glance at your screen. “You copied that part wrong,” he said. You blinked. “Huh, really?” He reached out, brushing your hand by accident—or maybe not—and pointed directly at the mistake. “This line. He was talking about this, not that. You flipped them.” “Oh,” you said, staring dumbly at the highlighted section. “That makes way more sense.” He hummed. Barely a sound. Then sat back again like he hadn’t just leaned close enough for you to feel his breath on your cheek.

You tried to keep reading, but your eyes kept drifting.

To the way his fingers drummed against the edge of his notebook.

To the way he chewed on his cheek while concentrating.

To the way his sleeve slipped up just enough to show the veins in his wrist and arm.

You forced yourself to focus. Mostly.

You didn’t plan to run into him again. Not really. You were just looking for somewhere quiet, someplace your brain might actually work for once, and the upper floor had study rooms that no one ever used. It was a last resort. You walked in with your headphones already on and your brain half-fried. And then you saw him. Riki. Sitting alone in one of the back corners. Legs sprawled, earbuds in. A pen spinning between his fingers, that same black hoodie pulled halfway off one shoulder. You froze in the doorway. He looked up, and for a second, he just stared. Not surprised. Not curious. Just calm. Like he’d been expecting you. Then he jerked his chin, wordless, inviting you to sit with him. Your pulse jumped. You tried not to show it as you stepped inside. “You’re here a lot,” you said quietly, settling into the chair beside him. “Yeah,” he replied, eyes dropping back to his notebook. “Quiet’s good.” It was. Too good, maybe. Every time he shifted in his seat, every time he tapped the table or flipped a page, it felt louder than it should’ve. You tried to focus on your own material, but your eyes kept wandering. To the veins on his hands. The way he leaned back and chewed on his pen cap. The curve of his lip when he was thinking. God, you needed to get a grip. You were scribbling out notes on a problem you didn’t totally understand, squinting your eyes, when his voice came low beside you.

“You’re writing the wrong formula.” You blinked. He leaned in, arm brushing yours as he took your pen without asking and struck a line through your equation. His handwriting replaced it. Clean and annoyingly perfect. “That’s how you mess the whole thing up,” he said simply, handing your pen back. You stared at the page. “Thanks,” you said. Quiet. Maybe too quiet. He didn’t move away. Just sat there, watching the way your eyes lingered on the ink he’d left behind. Then finally, with a slight tilt of his head, “You always squint your eyes when you’re stuck?” You stiffened. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing that. You looked up, startled, and he was already looking at you. Calm. Casual. His gaze didn’t move. It felt like too much, suddenly.Too much eye contact. Too much attention. Too much heat. You forced a laugh, ducking your head. “Wow. You’re observant.” He didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away either. And for the rest of the session, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still watching you. Not obviously, not openly, but just enough to make you not being able to focus. The study session lasted just under an hour. By the end of it, your head was clearer, and your notes were neater. You were packing up your bag when he finally spoke again. “You work better in silence,” he said simply. Not a compliment. Just an observation. You paused. “Do I?” He met your eyes. “Yeah. You get distracted too easily when it’s loud.” Something about the way he said it made you wonder what else he’d noticed.

He’d asked you after the last session — just kind of offhand, like it didn’t mean anything.“It’s quieter in my dorm,” he said, packing up his notes. “You can come by next time if you want.” That was it. No expression. No explanation. You’d nodded too fast. Now you were standing outside his door, staring at the number. You knocked twice before you lost your nerve. It took a second, but he answered. His dorm was small, neat, two desks, one unmade bed, the faint smell of detergent and whatever cologne he always wore. His roommate wasn’t home. He didn’t say that part, but it was obvious. The room felt still. You stepped inside carefully, clutching your bag, suddenly hyper-aware of your outfit. You hadn’t meant to dress like this, not for him, anyway. The kinda sheer tank top was just convenient, and the skirt? You told yourself it wasn’t that short. You’d worn it a million times. But Riki’s eyes dropped for just a second before he stepped aside to let you in. And that second? It lit your whole body on fire. He didn’t say anything about it. Of course not. He just sat at his desk, motioning to the chair beside his. “Here.” You took your seat.

For the first ten minutes, it was normal. Mostly quiet. His pencil scratched lightly against his notebook. You tried to copy a few things he wrote down, but your focus was elsewhere. You could feel the heat of him beside you. His knee brushed yours once, and it sent your heart into your throat. You didn’t move. Neither did he. You thought maybe he hadn’t noticed. But then, after a long pause, he spoke. “You wore that on purpose?” His voice was low and calm. Almost lazy. Your stomach dropped. “What?” you asked, too quickly. “That skirt.” You froze, heart hammering, unsure if you were supposed to laugh or deny it or what. You weren’t even sure if he was joking. But when you glanced at him, he was still staring at your thighs, then your face, with that unreadable, maddening expression. “I didn’t mean to,” you said, breath caught. “I just… it’s hot out.” Riki’s eyes dragged over you one more time, slowly. Like he was thinking about something. Measuring it. Then he looked away. “Shame,” he muttered. It was barely audible. And he didn’t elaborate. He just turned back to his page, pen in hand, like that was the end of it.

But your whole body was lit up. Nerves everywhere. Blood rushing to your face, your throat, your fingertips. And even though you tried to keep reading, keep writing, keep breathing normally, you couldn’t stop feeling the heat of his presence beside you. Still quiet. Still unbothered. You tried to keep your hands steady, not to squirm in your seat, not to think about the way his voice had dropped on that one word—Shame—like he meant more than he said. Riki hadn’t touched you. He hadn’t even looked at you again. But it didn’t matter. Everything between you had changed. You stole a glance at him. He was focused again, or at least pretending to be. The sharp angle of his jaw, the loose way he held his pen, the little crease between his brows , it all looked the same, but you knew it wasn’t. He had noticed. And worse, you couldn’t stop wondering what else he’d noticed. “Need help?” he asked, suddenly. You blinked. “Huh?” He nodded at your page. “You’ve been staring at that question for five minutes.” You scrambled to look down, pretending like you were just distracted. “Oh— yeah. I don’t get it.” “Let me see.” He reached for your notebook, leaned in close enough for your shoulders to brush, and took it gently from your hands. Your breath caught. His thigh pressed against yours. Just slightly. He didn’t move.

He explained the answer softly, pointing as he spoke, the tip of his pen gliding over your paper. You weren’t listening. You couldn’t. Because all you could feel was how close he was. How warm he felt. How good he smelled. How careful and deep his voice was. You swallowed hard. He handed your notebook back, fingers grazing yours. “You okay?” he asked. You nodded fast. “Yeah. Just— tired.” He studied you. His eyes flicked down your face, slow, deliberate. “You always get like this when you’re tired?” You blinked. “Like what?” Riki didn’t answer right away. He slightly shifted in his seat and turned toward you. Then, in that same dead-calm voice: “Fidgety. Quiet. All flushed.” Your breath stopped. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t teasing. He looked completely composed like he was stating facts, which somehow made it worse. “I’m not—” you tried, voice weak. He cut you off. “You are.” Then silence again. The air between you was thick. Too heavy to breathe. And then, his hand moved. Slowly. He reached out and touched the side of your thigh, not high, not too far, just above your knee. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look away from your face. He just watched. Watched like he already knew what you were thinking. Your lips parted, but no words came out. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t move. And maybe that was all he needed. His touch dragged a little higher. Still slow and patient. Your chest rose with a sharp breath, and his eyes flicked down, just briefly, to your mouth, then back up. Debating.

You stared at the notebook in front of you like it might save you, but your body was already betraying you. Heat bloomed under your skin, your hands twitched in your lap. You couldn’t look at him, but you felt him. Silent. Watching you. Then, finally, his voice, low, right beside your ear. “You’re shaking. You bit the inside of your cheek. He didn’t move his hand, didn’t tease. You turned your face slightly, just enough to catch his eyes and he was already looking at you. Expression unreadable. Completely composed. Then, after a beat, his thumb dragged slightly along the inside of your thigh. Barely anything, but it lit you up. He leaned in, voice low and even, “You get like this for anyone else?” Your heart slammed in your chest. Your mouth parted, but the only sound you made was your breath hitching. He didn’t push, he just watched, already knowing the answer. You couldn’t answer him. Not with words. Not like that. So you just stared, lips parted, heart in your throat, too warm, too aware of every place his hand touched. Then, his fingers slipped slightly higher. Slow and measured. He was feeling it too, the shift in the room, the heat between you, the way your body leaned in before you even realized. He leaned closer, not fully, just enough that his shoulder brushed yours, his thigh pressed against the side of your leg.

You swore you heard the faintest breath from him like he was steadying himself. Then his hand slipped under the edge of your skirt. Bare skin. You sucked in a breath and finally looked at him. His expression hadn’t changed, but his dark eyes gave him away. There was nothing casual in that stare anymore. His fingers moved again, a little higher, then stopped just before the heat of your core. You tensed, but you didn’t pull away. “Knew you’d let me.” he said, softly. The words slammed through you like a current. Your breath hitched hard. Still, he didn’t move further. He just watched you squirm, fingers barely pressing into your thigh, letting the weight of everything unspoken hang thick between you. You weren’t sure if you were going to melt or burst. His hand moved again, slipping just a little further, fingers grazing the soft curve where your thigh met your hip. Your breath caught, shallow and quick. Riki’s breath hitched softly against your neck as he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the warmth, his steady, quiet presence like a steady flame flickering against your skin. You could feel him—so close now, that his chest brushed against your arm, his steady heartbeat like a silent drum beside you.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, loud and urgent. He stayed there, patient, watching. Then, the quietest sound, a breath, almost a sigh, right at the hollow of your neck. Your skin tingled. And then, his lips brushed your skin. A gentle ghost of a kiss that sent a shiver down your spine. You turned your head slightly, searching for more. His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable, holding yours with an intensity that made your heart leap. Without breaking eye contact, he tilted his head and pressed his lips to yours. It was soft at first, testing. But then it got deeper, firmer, as if he’d been holding back all along. Your hands twitched at his waist, unsure and desperate. The world shrank until there was only the two of you—breath mingling, heat pooling between you. He pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, voice low and steady. “Finally.” His lips pulled away from yours just long enough to catch his breath. Then, without a word, Riki’s hand slid from your thigh to your waist, gripping firmly as he pulled you up and pressed you back against the edge of the desk. The smooth wood was cool beneath your palms, but his body was hot and heavy, looming over you, shadowing your smaller frame. You could feel the weight of him, the strength in his arms holding you in place. His mouth crashed back onto yours, more demanding now, hungry and fierce. His hands roamed freely, sliding up your sides, cupping your ribs, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your tummy.

You gasped when one hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingers ghosting over bare skin, no barrier, nothing between you and him. Your back arched instinctively. His other hand found your throat, thumb brushing lightly, fingers framing your pulse. His eyes closed as he kissed you like he was starving, like he needed to devour every inch of you. Your hands tangled in his hair, desperate to hold on, to pull him closer. His mouth moved against yours with an urgent rhythm, deep, claiming. You felt every heartbeat, every breath, every touch. You were pinned but free all at once, lost in the heat of him. And even as his grip tightened just slightly at your throat, it wasn’t rough, it was possessive, controlled, making clear you belonged to him in this moment. The world outside ceased to exist. There was only the two of you, pressed close, skin on skin, heat and hunger tangled in every kiss and touch. You couldn’t keep still anymore. Your legs squeezed together, your hands gripping the edge of the desk like you’d fall apart without it. His touch was everywhere—soft palms sliding under your shirt, thumbs brushing over your bare chest, knuckles grazing places that made you gasp and twitch and whine without meaning to. You were dizzy with him. Every breath came out too fast, too shallow. He pulled back from the kiss just enough to look down at you. Your lips were parted, swollen. Your chest rising in frantic little jolts. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, gaze dragging across your face.

You whimpered. It slipped out before you could stop it—quiet, needy, helpless—and his eyes darkened instantly. He liked that. One hand splayed across your stomach, holding you still, the other slid higher, over your chest again, thumbs brushing your nipples until your head tipped back and a shaky moan slipped through your lips. You were panting now, thighs pressed together, aching. “Riki…” you breathed, barely a whisper. His hand came back up to your throat, firm but gentle, tilting your chin so you had no choice but to look up at him. You were flushed. Eyes wide, lips wet, a total mess. And he looked down at you like he’d never seen anything more perfect. “You look so fucking pretty like this,” he said lowly, like he was talking to himself more than you. You blushed, a sigh leaving your mouth, back arching into his touch. His mouth crashed onto yours, hungrily, like he needed to shut you up before you begged. His hips pressed forward, caging you completely, and you felt him, hard through his jeans, pressed against your lower stomach. You made a soft, desperate sound in your throat, and he swallowed it down. Your hands moved without thinking, tugging at his shirt, trying to get closer, trying to do something with how badly you wanted him, but he didn’t rush. He kissed you harder, messier, until your legs felt weak and your body trembled beneath him. Until all you could do was gasp and whine and let him touch and take. You weren’t thinking anymore. Just feeling. Every brush of his fingers, every scrape of teeth, every low breath against your skin. And the worst part was how badly you wanted more, how badly you needed it. How you would’ve said yes to anything he asked.

Your chest rose and fell in short, shaky breaths as he pulled away just enough to look at you again, eyes half-lidded, lips kiss-bitten. His hand slipped down from your throat, trailing slowly along your collarbone, then lower, until his palm flattened over your ribs again. His eyes dragged slowly over your body—the way your chest heaved, the way your thighs pressed together like you were trying to hold yourself in place. Then he leaned in, voice brushing against your ear, low and steady, “Look at you,” he murmured. “So worked up and I haven’t even done anything yet.” Your breath caught, eyes fluttering shut for a second, because God, he was right. His fingers skimmed just above your waistband, dragging across your lower stomach, the touch featherlight, maddening. “You want it that bad, baby?” he asked, quietly, like he already knew the answer. You let out a whimper, soft and high, nodding before you could even think. That made him smile, just barely. Almost smug. His fingers dipped under the hem of your skirt, warm and unhurried. “Let me see how bad,” he said.

His hand moved with ease, sliding beneath your skirt, soft fingertips dragging the fabric of your panties down your thighs—slow, almost teasing. He didn’t take them off, just pushed them down, exposing you enough to make you shy. The cool air hit you, and then, his fingers. Two of them, thick and warm, sliding through your soaked folds like he was testing you. Your hips bucked. He chuckled, quiet, deep in his chest. “So wet already,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Dripping.” Your face burned, but you couldn’t look away. You were panting, lips parted, eyes wide as his fingers pressed in just a little. You whined. He exhaled slowly, enjoying every second of watching you unravel. And then, without warning, he pushed his fingers in—deep, smooth, filling you so easily your head fell back with a broken moan. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his jaw tense. “You feel insane.” Your walls clenched around him, and he felt it, smirked a little when your legs twitched, when your body rocked instinctively against his hand. His other hand slid up your thigh, settling on your hip to hold you still. Then he started moving. Slow thrusts of his fingers, curling just right, his thumb dragging over your clit in lazy, perfect circles.

You were gone. Melting. Whimpering with every curl, every press, every stroke. Your thighs trembled. Your hands flew to his shoulders, fingers digging in like you needed something to hold onto. “Riki—” you gasped, voice wrecked and whiny. “Please—” He leaned in again, his breath hot against your neck. “Please what, hm?” You whimpered, hips jerking. “Need m-more,” you managed. His fingers thrust a little deeper, a little faster, his thumb pressing harder on your clit. “You’ll cum for me like this,” he said lowly, lips brushing your ear, “and then I’ll give you more.” Your body arched. The pressure built fast, tight and overwhelming, and all you could do was nod, desperate little noises spilling from your lips as your climax started to crest. You were already close, right on the edge, hips twitching, thighs shaking, the pressure unbearable. But then his hand shot up, suddenly, firmly gripping your jaw. His fingers pressed into your cheeks, tilting your head up, forcing you to look at him. “Let go,” he whispered, fingers thrusting faster now, relentless. “Be a good girl and cum.” That was it. Your entire body shattered. You came with a cry, legs clamping around his wrist, hips jerking against his hand as waves of heat and pleasure rolled through you. Your eyes barely stayed open, wide and glossy, locked onto his as you came undone right there on the desk, whining, pulsing hard around his fingers. He watched you, tight grip still on your face, other hand working you through it like he wanted to see you lose control. “Good girl,” he muttered, lips brushing yours. “Just like that.”

You were still trembling, thighs twitching from the aftershocks, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. He pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching the way you flinched from the overstimulation. His hand was slick with you, dripping, and he stared at it for a beat, eyes dark and unreadable. Then he dropped to his knees. Your breath hitched. You barely had a second to react before his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider, and his mouth was on you. A gasp tore out of your throat as his tongue dragged through your folds, slow and greedy. “Ngh—Riki!” Your hand flew to his hair, the other on the desk, fingers gripping the edge until your knuckles turned white. He moaned softly into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His hands squeezed tighter, holding your thighs apart, keeping you open for him as he lapped up every drop of your release, messy, shameless. Your head fell back. Another whine escaped your lips, high and breathless, and still—still—he kept going, tongue swirling around your clit, flicking with just enough pressure to make your eyes roll back. When he finally pulled away, your skin was hot and damp, your whole body still twitching, breath caught in your throat. He stood, and then his hand wrapped around your neck again—firm, possessive—and he yanked you into a kiss. His mouth crashed into yours, lips slick with your taste, tongue sliding against yours with no warning, no hesitation. You whimpered against him, hands reaching for his shirt, for anything to ground yourself.

He kissed you like he owned you. Like he needed to devour you. His grip on your throat tightened and you moaned into his mouth, helpless and hazy, your whole body pliant against his. And when he finally pulled back, his lips were swollen, his eyes dark, and his voice—fuck—his voice was low and raw when he spoke. “You’re mine,” he said, quiet but rough, meant for just you. “Got it?” Your heart stuttered. He’d barely said more than a few words to you since you met—always calm, unreadable, barely emoting—and now he was gripping your throat, kissing you like he wanted to ruin you, claiming you like you already belonged to him. You didn’t even hesitate. Your head nodded, small and shaky, your whole body still trembling under his touch. “I’m yours,” you whispered, breathless. It came out like a confession, sitting heavy in your chest for too long, just waiting for him to pull it out of you. Your eyes met his, wide and glossy, and the look on your face, sweet and desperate, giving him the biggest puppy eyes he’d ever seen. But you looked so pretty like that—wrecked and breathless, your lips parted, your thighs still shaking, feeling like you needed him more than air.

Riki’s jaw tightened, and something dark flickered across his expression. His grip on your face stayed firm, fingers digging just a little harder into your cheeks. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, voice rough, barely held back. “You’ll make me fucking crazy.” But he was already leaning in again, mouth finding yours in a mess of tongue and teeth, kissing you so hard your head tipped back from the force of it. You moaned into him, needy and sweet, letting him take whatever he wanted, and he did. Then suddenly, his arms wrapped around your thighs and he lifted you. You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your body still trembling from the aftermath of his touch. He carried you the short distance from the desk to his bed and laid you down gently, never breaking contact. His body hovered over yours, eyes locked on your flushed, fucked-out face. Your shirt was rucked halfway up your stomach, your lips swollen from his kisses, thighs still twitching where they wrapped around his waist. He stared at you for a long, quiet second, trying to memorize you like this. Then his hands came down, one to your thigh, pushing it open wider, the other to your ribs, sliding up your bare skin under your shirt, slow and deliberate until his palm cupped your chest. No bra. Just you, soft and warm and whimpering under his touch. “You don’t even know what you do to me,” he muttered. You bit your lip, hips shifting instinctively, seeking friction. Anything. But he didn’t give it to you, not yet. He just leaned down, mouth brushing your neck, tongue licking a slow stripe up to your jaw before he kissed you there, hot and open-mouthed, leaving a mark. Your fingers clutched at his shirt. “Riki…” He hummed lowly, like the sound of his name falling from your lips lit something in him.

His mouth found your ear, breath hot, “Tell me you want it,” he said. “Say it.” Your whole body was burning now, flushed from head to toe, your voice coming out in a shaky, helpless whisper, “I want it. I want you.” And that was all it took. He kissed you again, before his hands moved, yanking your shirt up and over your head, tossing it aside without a second glance. Then he just stared. Your bare chest rising and falling, skin flushed, nipples already hard from his teasing. His hands dragged up from your waist, until they cupped your tits, thumbs brushing over them gently, considering the way his jaw clenched like he was barely holding back. “Look at you…” he muttered, voice ragged. “Fuck.” And then he was on you. Mouth hot and desperate, he ducked his head and devoured you, lips closing around one nipple while his hand kneaded the other, tongue flicking and sucking until your back arched off the bed with a gasp. He bit,not too hard, just enough to make you squeal, and soothed it with his tongue right after, moving between your breasts like he couldn’t choose which to ruin first. You were already panting, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs rubbing together. Sloppy kisses turned into bites. He left hickies on your neck, down your collarbone, over the swell of your tits, under them, across your ribs. You could feel the bruises blooming under his mouth, red and raw, one after the other like he wanted to brand every inch of you. He kissed down, mouthing at your tummy next, dragging his teeth over the soft skin before sucking another mark right beneath your navel.

And all that while watching you. Smirk barely there, eyes half-lidded but burning, soaking in every whimper, every twist of your body, every broken moan. “No one else gets to see you like this. Only me.” he said against your skin. He leaned back just enough to yank his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside carelessly. You barely had time to look—at the lean muscles, the toned arms, the sharp lines of his waist—before his hands were back on you again, sliding under the waistband of your skirt. “Lift your hips.” he said, and you obeyed without thinking. He dragged the skirt down your thighs, watching the way you shivered beneath him. He took his time peeling it off, letting his hands skim down your legs like he was memorizing the feel of you. Then he tossed it aside and looked down at you—naked, body covered in marks, chest rising and falling fast. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, eyes roaming like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. His hands found your hips, big, warm and possessive, and then they started moving. One slid up your side, across your stomach, over your breast, the other to your jaw, fingers stroking gently before slipping between your lips. “Suck,” he said, low and commanding. Your lips parted automatically, and you wrapped them around his thumb, letting him press it down on your tongue. He watched you—watched your pretty, desperate mouth take it in, cheeks hollowing slightly as you sucked. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl.” You whimpered around his thumb, pussy pulsing, body practically buzzing from the tension. His other hand was still moving—down your ribs, over your tummy, lower, skimming just above your heat. Then he sat back a little on his knees, keeping his thumb in your mouth as he reached for his waistband.

He hooked his fingers into the edge of his sweats and slid them down just enough to reveal the outline of his cock through his boxers��thick, hard, straining against the fabric. Your breath caught, eyes flicking down before darting back up to his face. And he was already watching you. A soft smirk curved his lips as he tilted his head, thumb still resting on your tongue. “My cute girl,” he cooed. “So needy for me already… you really can’t help yourself, can you?” You hummed around his thumb, cheeks flushing even deeper, thighs pressing together as the heat pulsed harder between them. His hand drifted back to his waistband, and this time, he slipped his fingers under. You watched with wide eyes, heart pounding, breath catching in your throat when he finally pulled his cock free. So big and heavy, flushed at the tip, already leaking. The sight made your stomach flip, your mouth go dry, and you could barely look before your gaze darted away, face burning. “Aww,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “what’s wrong, baby?” You shook your head quickly, eyes flickering back up to his face, trying not to stare but completely failing. Your thighs squeezed together instinctively, your body so hot you could hardly stand it. He leaned in closer, one hand returning to your cheek, fingers stroking your flushed skin. “Shy all of a sudden?” he teased, a dark smile playing on his lips. “You were being so brave for me a second ago.” You whimpered, squirming under his gaze, his cock now resting heavy against his abs as he leaned. He took your hand and gently guided it to wrap around him. “Come on,” he whispered. “Touch me.” Your fingers curled around him, tentative and trembling, and his breath hitched like he hadn’t expected you to feel that good.

He swore under his breath, hips twitching slightly, and his head fell down. “That’s it,” he whispered, his hand covering yours, guiding your movements slow and steady. “Just like that.” You stroked him softly, your touch shy, eyes flickering between his flushed cock and his face—so close, so focused, the sight of your hand on him was driving him insane. Your hand stayed on him, guided by his, and the longer you touched him, the more confident your fingers became. You swallowed hard, heart racing at the weight of him in your palm, pulsing in your hand. His cock twitched again, and a low groan left his lips, rough and strained. “Fuck,” he muttered and leaned closer, his forehead brushing yours. His breath was warm and shaky, fingers tightening over yours. “Doing so good.” You looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted. There was something in the way he stared back, eyes hooded, jaw tight, he was barely holding himself back. He took your hand away from him gently, kissed your wrist, and pressed your arm back against the bed “Spread your legs for me.” You obeyed. Slowly, nervously. But the second your thighs parted, his gaze dropped and darkened. “God,” he said under his breath. He crawled between your legs, hands running up your thighs.

He leaned down, kissed you—soft, slow, deceptively gentle—before lining himself up, one hand wrapped firmly around his cock, slowly moving it up and down your folds, the other resting over your ribs grounding himself. “You ready f’me, baby?” he asked, voice quiet, low against your mouth. You nodded, a soft, breathy sound escaping your lips, but it wasn’t enough for him. His hand slid to your throat again, “Use your words.” “I—I want you,” you whispered, and the moment the words left your mouth, his hips pushed forward slowly. The stretch made your breath catch. His hand slid under your thigh, hitching it up. You could feel him, pressed just against your entrance, stretching you, but not moving yet, giving you time. His hand curled around your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip with surprising tenderness for someone who’s splitting you in half. You gripped the sheets beneath you, lips parting in a gasp as the pressure built inside you. Every inch filled you more than you expected, and it was overwhelming, unfamiliar, but somehow addictive. Riki’s mouth found your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly over your skin, like he was trying to distract you from the way he was sinking deeper. “You’re doing so good,” he murmured against your skin. You whimpered, your body tensing. “Breathe for me,” he said, and his voice was so calm, so steady, it soothed you even while you felt like falling apart. You let out a shaky exhale, eyes fluttering shut, and after another moment, he was fully inside.

Your eyes met his, teary and wide, and your lips trembled. “Riki—s’too much,” you admitted, voice almost shy. He smirked, “I know,” leaning down to kiss your jaw. “You’ll take it for me, won’t you?” Your stomach flipped at the words. You nodded, more sure this time. Then he pulled back just a little, before thrusting again, and your whole body shuddered at the sensation. “That’s it,” he whispered, voice ragged as he buried himself deeper. “So tight… fuck, y’feel so good.” His hips rolled into you slow, dragging against your walls, making you moan louder with each stroke. You clung to him, nails digging into his arms, breath coming in sharp little gasps as he set a rhythm. It was too much, too full, too good, and your body couldn’t keep up. Every time he moved, you clenched tighter around him. He pulled back slightly and grabbed your leg, lifting it high and pressing it over his shoulder. The angle changed everything—you cried out, high and helpless, your head tilting back against the mattress as he thrust deeper, harder, splitting you open with every roll of his hips. “Yeah,” he muttered, fingers digging into your thigh, mouth kissing it softly, as he started to lose control. “That’s it. Let me hear you.” You were loud. Whining, whimpering, trembling under his body, your hands gripping the sheets. “R-Riki—!” you sobbed his name, tears welling at the corners of your eyes as your body jolted under the force of each thrust.

And that did something to him. His hand shot to your throat again, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. You were a mess. Eyes wet, lips trembling, mouth open in breathless, broken sounds, and when the first tear slipped down your cheek, he smiled. Not sweet. Not soft. A sharp, dark twist of his mouth like he was proud of it. And then he slapped you. A clean, firm hit across your cheek—quick and shocking—and you gasped, more in disbelief than pain. Your head whipped slightly to the side, your moan caught somewhere between pleasure and stunned heat. His hand lingered there, fingers spread across your cheek, claiming you. “Fucking love seeing you cry for me.” Your stomach dropped, heat flooding your veins, and you started sobbing harder—overwhelmed, aroused, completely undone. Your hands reached up, grabbing the one that had just hit you, fingers curling around his wrist, holding it like it anchored you. You couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that your crush—the one who barely spoke, who barely looked at anyone—had slapped you, and now he was fucking you like this, praising the tears he pulled from your eyes, and you fucking liked it. You needed more.

He shifted his weight, grabbed both of your thighs, and lifted—guiding your legs up and over his shoulders in one smooth, strong movement. The change in angle made you moan loudly, the new depth dizzying, the sound leaving your lips raw and wrecked. Your hands fumbled at the sheets, knuckles white as you held on, tears spilling down your cheeks again as the pleasure pushed you past the edge of sense. “Riki—” you choked out, completely gone, “I… I can’t—” “Yes, you can,” he groaned, slamming into you harder, his hand tightening on your jaw. “You’re gonna take every fucking inch.” Your eyes rolled back, body arching, sobs turning into moans, hands gripping him like he was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. His gaze locked onto yours, dark, possessive, mouth parted slightly as he caught the sight of you all spread out and shaking for him. “Open your mouth.” You gasped, but you did—lips parting, eyes wide and waiting. He leaned over you, hips never slowing down, and with a sharp breath through his nose, he spit into your mouth. “Swallow.” You did. Without thinking. Without hesitation. And that seemed to please him. His hand came to your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear like he was calming you, and then—Slap.

A soft one. Just enough to make your breath catch, to light another spark under your skin. You whimpered and he firmly gripped your jaw, tilting your head to make sure you looked at him. “You’re fucking perfect,” he whisper softly. “You’ll do anything I say, won’t you?” Your pussy clenched around him, back arching from the bed. And still, you nodded, too far gone to form words, too desperate for him. You were gasping, moaning brokenly into the heat of his neck as he pounded into you, deep and rough, your legs high on his shoulders. His grip on your thighs was bruising, and you clung to the bedsheets, your vision blurred from tears and pleasure. Your body was stretched and aching, but it didn’t matter, not when he was murmuring filthy praise in your ear, not when every thrust perfectly hit your cervix. “You’re mine,” he whispered. “This pussy—” he snapped his hips hard, making you cry out, “—belongs to me.” You sobbed, nodding, walls fluttering around him. “Want you to cum with me,” he said roughly, teeth gritted as his rhythm got sloppy. “Let go, baby. Make a mess on my cock.” You couldn’t hold back anymore. You came hard, a cry catching in your throat as you clenched around his cock, trembling, unraveling. The moment your body gave out beneath him, he buried himself as deep as he could go and let go, filling you with a whimper, low and desperate in your ear. His cum making you feel so full, so warm inside you. “Mine,” he muttered again, softly kissing your neck.

Your breathing was still shaky when he pulled out, careful and slow. You winced a little at the sensitivity, and immediately, Riki’s expression changed. The fire in his eyes dimmed and his hand came to rest on your thigh, warm and gentle. “You okay, baby?” he asked quietly. “Yeah… just sore.” you blinked up at him. He leaned down, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Stay here.” You watched him move around his small dorm room, grabbing tissues. He cleaned you up gently, his touches surprisingly sweet and patient. When he was done, he tugged the sheets over your bare body, then slid in next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. It was quiet for a while. Your heart was still trying to calm down, and Riki just lay there, soft hand caressing your tummy. Then, out of nowhere, he spoke. “Wanna go to the movies tomorrow?” You blinked, turning your head to look at him. “What?” He glanced down at you, his face unreadable, but there was something softer around the eyes. “You heard me.” You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. After everything, after the rough, possessive way he’d claimed you, this was the last thing you expected. You buried your face in his chest, cheeks burning. “Okay,” you whispered. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Cool.”

my other works ➵ masterlist

a/n: i got a little carried away with this one yall lmao i've been so fucking obsessed with this man lately i can't stop thinking abt him please i need him so badddd :(

© guliexe

[biteyoubiteme]

black cherry flavored

ot5 txt x fem!reader

synopsis: how many ghostfaces are there again?

warnings: 🔞!!! gangbang, mentions of drinking, getting scared, fearplay? reader gets chased through house and doesnt know who it is, knifeplay (only used to cut off underwear), clit play, mean dom moments, filming during sex, slight breeding kink, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms (f!), creampie(s), marking, subspace, fingering, oral (m! rec), hair pulling!, overstim (f!rec), she/her used prob forgot some

wc: 9.2k (this one got away from me)

an: this is not proofread at all im so so so sorry forgive me sweet angel ily but I cannot believe october is over and this event has come to an end ;-; I hope you guys like this one! im a HUGE horror movie fan so I was excited to do this and hopefully it turned out well. I went with a different approach for a scream fic that was kinda based on different aspects from the movies and I hope you like it! feedback is appreciated :)) [m.list]

this is apart of my mini kinktober event check out the rest of the fics! [dumdum m.list]

"whats your favorite scary movie?"

You roll your eyes, hand coming up to cover the screen of your laptop. “Aren't you supposed to be doing your own work not pestering me about mine?” 

It was late in the night, the library dead silent besides the hum of the heater and faint typing on stiff keyboards. The door to the study space was cracked just enough to hear the elevator if it dinged, the indicator the floor would soon be closing for the cleaning staff. The clock on the wall told you it was close to one in the morning, only an hour away from the library being cleared and closed.  

“I'm avoiding the rest of my essay,” beomgyu shrugs, clicking his pen as a signal for an end to the line of questioning. “Annoying you just seemed like a better plan,” 

“Annoying all of us, I needed this done an hour ago,” yeonjun doesn't even look up from his laptop, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, lenses glossed over with the light from his screen, fingers speeding over the keys only to pause and jam the delete button. “Fuck, i lost my train of thought,” 

“It's already late, just turn it in tomorrow morning,” huening suggests, slouched back in his chair, thumbs nibbly swiveling on the joystick of his switch. “The syllabus said it was ten points off no matter how late after twelve you submit it,” 

“Don't talk to me right now, you got yours in on time. And I'm getting this done tonight whether I like it or not. I won't be able to handle looking at it tomorrow morning. the paper just won't get turned in at all if that happens,” yeonjuns back to typing furiously squinting at his laptop not noticing kais grin. 

“You should have listened to me about meeting up at nine, but nooo-” 

“Huening,” yeonjun warns. 

“I'm just saying…” 

Yeonjun picks up one of Soobin's scattered pens from the table, tossing it at Kai hitting him in the lap. And when Kai just laughs, Yeonjun picks up a few more to throw, the showering of pens making Kai yelp. 

“Shhh,” soobin doesn't even lift his head to see what's going on. He and tae had been trying to sleep for the better part of two hours, Taehyun having found success, sliding two chairs together to prop his legs up. He pulled his hat down over his eyes and hasn't said anything since closing them. Soobin only crossed his arms and laid his head down, leg bouncing showing he was still struggling to actually find it in him to sleep without his bed. 

The six of you usually booked the room on Friday nights from nine to two, blocking the time to try and catch up on work before the weekend. It was either the time you got the most work done or none at all. You're surprised it took beomgyu this long to finally turn away from his assignment at this point he's usually at the whiteboard doodling or trying to get everyone to play dirty hangman. 

It was easier to get all of you together here instead of one of your small dorms, the space hardly big enough for three people let alone six. In the library you didn't have to worry about cramming together, the fourth floors study spaces equipped with long tables and eight chairs. Out of the two libraries on campus this one didn't have many people visit often, especially not when the walk from any of the dorms was twice as long. The fourth floor was empty and quiet except for the group's laughter on nights you didn't worry about work. 

“You didn't answer that question,” beomgyu points out again, pointer finger pushing away your hand blocking the screen, “what's your favorite scary movie?” 

“I didn't answer it because I can't choose,” you confess, scrolling through the paper you're writing for class. 

“Is your homework twenty questions?” soobins voice is muffled, annoyed and sleep-ridden. 

“No-” 

beomgyu cuts you off before you could explain, brows scrunching as he reads. “Looks like it, this one is ‘what are the rules around sex’ there is no way this actually for your class,” 

“What?” this pulls soobins head up, the messy strands of his dark hair sticking up around his forehead. 

“Of course you wake up when you hear the word sex,” yeonjun quips, pursing his lips reading over his work on his screen. 

“No need to wake up you type so loud i couldn't fall asleep,” soobin says brushing his long fingers through his hair, you always noticed the later it got the grumpier he became, pouting lips and half lidded eyes always making an appearance after midnight. 

“It's for my film studies class. We’re learning about the rules of horror,” its clarification enough for soobin who nods but beomgyu lets his head tilt to the side, the vision of a question mark. 

“Rules? You can't just send a killer in, have them spill some blood, and call it a day?” 

“You could, but i'm sure it would follow a pattern, even without you realizing it,” scrolling through your work you pause on the first option. “First you have to think about the time period when the movie was filmed. Most of the popular ones ranged from the 80’s to the early 2000’s. A huge push in most cultures is the topics of sex, drugs, and money. It's the three things people try to control the most. Throw a bunch of badly behaving teens in with a psycho killer playing god and you can tell the masses how wrong something is. Like having sex,” 

“So wrong it would get you killed?” 

“Yup, in most, if not all, horror movies the people who have sex on screen or are known for sleeping around get killed off, leaving the poor virgin alive. Main characters who live to the end also don't drink, or do drugs. Rich people aren't safe, especially if you have a big empty house with lots of stairs, doors, and windows. The more for you to make the wrong decision not to exit from,” 

“Then who does live?” Kai asks, game paused in hand. 

“The girl next door lead, never her boyfriend, the camera man, unless you see him leave the group because you should never leave the group under any circumstances. But everyone else is fair game. Oh and if you say ‘i'll be right back,’ the lines a killer in and of itself,” 

“So I'd die because I like to have a good time?” yeonjun asks, fingers paused on his keys as he looks over at you. Everyone but tae is turned in your direction, listening intently. 

“Unless you're the killer, or lucky because you weren't in line of the camera when you decided it was smart enough to leave the house. It's very kill or be killed. Another rule is to never trust anyone,” 

“The list just gets longer and longer,” soobin sits back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head as he stretches, “you know i saw this one post on twitter that some people like the whole masked killer thing, gets them off,” 

“Of course you would be on twitter looking at stuff like that,” gyu fakes disappointment, shaking his head, “this is exactly why you wouldn't survive, you're a closeted perv,” 

“I don't know about closeted perv, he was openly scrolling past hentai the other day in the dorm,” yeonjun is back to typing, soobin kicking the foot of his chair. 

“Past it, i didn't pause on it,” 

“It was on your for you page! Clearly you have a habit of liking things akin to it,” 

“I don't know, I think it's kinda hot, the mask thing. or i guess more so the build up of fear, it's almost like foreplay, your pulse starts going, you get all flushed. And I did see this clip of these two guys dressed up…” this wouldn't be the first time any of you confessed to watching something that turned you on. All of you had been friends for years, growing up nothing had ever been an off limits topic. You can see the video in your head, the way they held the girl between them; how they manhandled her down onto the bed. 

“So you and soobin are both freaks,” beomgyu grins, the need to tease showing right in his eyes. 

“A threesome is not freaky,” Taehyun states, breaking his silence, hat still over his eyes, fully relaxed and laid back. If you hadn't known the sound of his voice you would have assumed he was still asleep, if he had even been asleep in the first place. 

“Agreed, anything over three is a little freaky,” soobin shrugs, bending over halfway out of his chair to pick up his fallen pens. 

“So would you? Sleep with more than two people at once?” gyu asks, the tilt back to his head, “this is the true test if you're freaky or not,” he chuckles. 

“I mean yeah… would you?” The question is directed at the room and you watch the question lay over them like fog, each of them thinking for a second, blank expressions all the way around.

Taehyun was the first to respond, shrugging his shoulders before nodding briefly, “I wouldn't let the opportunity slip by if it was offered,” It was a unanimous yes from all of them, the hummed agreement not too surprising. 

“Done!” yeonjun smashes one last key before stretching big, “finally fucking submitted, and right before we have to leave, im surprised the staff hasnt gotten around to our room yet to kick us out,”

Taehyun pulls his hat from his face, sitting up with a yawn, “good, i needed my bed two hours ago,” 

It always felt so good to sleep in on a saturday after a study session like this, you could already feel how cozy it would be to wrap up in your blanket. And even if the mattress was shit with or without the foam topper, it was better than laying out in the chairs like taehyun just was.  

All of you cleaned up the space, making sure to tuck in the chairs, pick up the discarded cups of late night bad decision coffee. Squishing in the elevator together, bags bumping into one another before you filed out; passing all the empty desks and empty aisles of books to make it out the front door. 

As soon as the outside air hits your cheeks you know it’s going to feel like a long walk back to the dorms. the boys tucking their ears into hoodies, zipping their jackets up, you and kai lived in the dorms on the opposite side of campus from the rest of them, their walk shorter by only a few minutes. 

“Okay we’re still on for dinner tomorrow right?” Kai asks the group. 

beomgyu’s jumping on the balls of his feet to try to generate some warmth. “literally just text us, I cannot think about tomorrow when i’m this cold and sleepy,”

“Yes, we’re still on, I've been craving anything other than dining hall food for the past week,” yeonjun adds, shivering as he pulls the straps of his bag closer to his chest. “We'll still meet up back here like usual,” he was walking backwards as he said it, already a few steps behind the others, “but see you guys tomorrow or should I say ‘i’ll be right back!’” he jokingly yells while the others wave goodbye. 

“don’t play jjunie, you might be next! don’t trust anyone!” He gives you a silent salute in response as you and Kai head out for your walk. 

Instinctively the two of you are shoulder to shoulder, bumping into one another every other step. Silence following each muffled step on the pavement. Sometimes the two of you didn't say anything until you split on the elevators. a quick ‘goodnight’ or ‘see you tomorrow’ thrown out as you step out on your floor, waving as the doors closed back up so he could go up one more level. Other nights it was the two of you giggling trying to keep it down as you walked under the moonlight, too late to be loud. 

You wrap your arms around yourself, shivering as the wind hits the treeline. spots of orange light from the spaced out street lights are rare, casting the two of you in darkness every time the moon is behind the clouds; every several feet the hash light is back in your path. 

“So you'd live? In a horror movie?” Kai asks, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders to his ears from the cold. The wind is hitting him right in the face, tossing his hair from his eyes where he liked to keep it. He asks it so softly, the question highlighted in the divot of his brow, nose pink, face washed in the glow from the moon. 

“I'm not really a virgin so…,” it's not an embarrassing confession but when it's this late with his eyes trained solely on you it's like a spilled glass of red wine on white sheets. Impossible to look away from. 

“You wouldn't live for knowing how people survive?” 

“The smart ones usually die from bad luck, they know to head for the car waiting in the lot but forget the keys or if the keys are still in the ignition they never check the back seat. They know if you run into the woods to escape you can hide, but how unlucky for a rusty forgotten bare trap to be waiting for your next step. or if you miss that one here's a log to trip over, only to tumble down a hill and break your neck. Call the police? You're in the one movie a phone works only for you to forget never trust anyone because the police work for the killer,” 

“So none of us make it?” It's such an open question the way he asks it, the hopeful twinge hitting the ending, twisting it into something it shouldn't be. Written right over his features the soft words unsaid, can't we? There has to be a way.

“This isn't a movie kai, we’re fine,” 

“I know, it's only a question,” he's so easily flustered when alone, second guessing everything he says, as if one slip up will make you hate him. Now he's blushing, both of you falling back into comfortable silence. You can tell he's thinking by the way he's biting at his cheek, eyes watching his feet, making sure not to miss one step. You assume it's the end of what he has to say, his silence following you all the way back to your floor. The elevator doors opened finally giving him the courage to speak up. “Do you…” 

“Hum?” you lift your arm to hold the doors open, turned to see him struggling to get the words out. 

“Do you want to come with me to my parents cabin,” he says it all in a rush, avoiding looking you in the eyes just in case you reject him. “I mean you don't have to, the guys won't be there and if it makes you uncomfortable-” he cuts himself off, hand at the back of his neck, trying to rub away his embarrassment, “forget it- forget i said anything,” 

“It's okay, I'd love to go. where is it?” 

“Um it's like two hours from campus, my parents need me to check on it just cause and i thought, why not make a weekend of it? I mean, you can finally sleep on a real mattress, not whatever was issued here,” 

A weekend away did sound good, perfect after the semester you were having. And Kai is as sweet as they come, spending time with him wouldn't be bad at all. “Sure, when are you thinking?” 

“Next week?” 

It was all so very innocent, a sweet boy asking a girl to join him on a weekend getaway. He even packed you snacks for the drive, let you pick all the music, and made sure to carry your bag in when you arrived. 

You weren't stupid enough not to realize why you were here and the other boys didn't get an invite. The whole week you thought it over, pushing around the idea of being with him. And you could tell he was tossing it around all throughout the drive, periodically blushing without saying a thing to you, hands tightening on the steering wheel; knuckles turning white from the pressure. 

Halfway through the drive you realized exactly what he meant by cabin. Not the kind sitting near the edge of a trail, but one hidden deep into the woods for perfect seclusion. Kai had a late class to make up for and the two of you didn't get started on the drive until the sun was already setting behind the trees. Every shadow thrown across the road drew longer and longer as the car kept on. 

The gravel driveway leading up to the cabin was a stretch, but when you finally broke past the winding path the gleaming two story was not very cabin like. The windows reflecting the cars headlights back at you expanded most of the first level. Wraparound porch dotted with chairs, and a swinging bench. As soon as kai killed the engine the silence stumbled in, darkness spilling over the scene as you climbed out of your seat. 

“This place is huge,” you whisper, as if anything louder would disrupt the peace of the outdoors. You held your phone's flash up in front of you, huening fumbling to put the key into the lock on the first try. Each attempt from his shaking hand failed.

“Here,” you took the key into your own hand, twisting the knob and pushing the door open. 

“Sorry,” his voice wavering as he flips on the light switch, “i'm just- you know-,” he cuts himself off not wanting any more embarrassment to follow him. 

As soon as the lights come on you can't see anything outside, the windows a reflection of the room. A tv hanging over a huge stone fireplace, welcoming couches spaced out in a semi circle around a wooden coffee table, a bar topped with dusty glasses pushed in the corner. Kai kicks off his shoes by the door, walking further in you notice the dark hallway leading deeper into the first floor, a staircase waiting right by the entrance. But kai ignores it all while walking towards the kitchen. 

“I mostly have to check the doors and windows to make sure no one broke in,” he's trying to fill the silence, rambling to kill his nerves,”one year we had someone steal the tv, we don't really leave much now just incase, so that's why it looks so empty,” 

“People actually drive all the way out here and break in? The last time i saw a turn off the road before this one was an hour ago,” 

“You never know, it's best to just check and fill out a report sooner rather than later,” in the kitchen the backdoor is made of two foggy planes of glass, only the outline of kai seen in the weavering shape. He twists the knob and to your surprise it gives way and opens, “damn one of my sisters must have forgotten to lock it last they were here,” You lean your hip against the kitchen island, taking his explanation as is. 

“They come out here to check too?”

“Rarely they mostly come with their friends but stopped when they realized there is zero phone service this far out,” 

“There isn't?” you hadn't even checked to see if your phone was working, “what if someone had broken in? You have no phone to make a call from,” 

He chuckles pointing past your shoulder, right on the end of the counter a sleek black cordless landline rests in its holder, the blinking red light showing one waiting voicemail. “Sometimes it can be spotty but for the most part its a solid line of communication,” 

Hand still on the knob of the backdoor he locks the door before walking over to the pantry, finding only a crate of dusty wine and a stack of old jiffy pop popcorn. 

“Wait, I didn't think they made these anymore,” you reach out for the thin metal handle attached to the panshapped popcorn container. Shaking it you hear the rattle of the kernels, “when i was younger i thought it was just something people had in movies,” 

“My sisters and i love the stuff, it's also easy to pop outside over the fire,” 

“So all you leave is popcorn and wine when you're not staying here?” you tap the crate of wine with your foot, his grin boyish and shy. 

“It's a good thing for us now i guess,” 

It's what leads you to sharing the bottle, passing it by the neck as he gives you a tour of the house. His lips right at the spout, nerves loosening up with each sip he takes, creaking steps leading up the second floor. “And here is my room,” 

It’s right at the end of the hall, bed neatly made with a single stuffed penguin sitting against the pillows. “You left him here all alone?” You ask, picking up the plushie, Kai's standing in front of the closet, the slatted doors making up most of the wall behind him facing the bed. 

He shrugs placing the half full wine bottle down on his dresser, “someone needed to protect my prize possession,” he falls right onto the mattress, head thrown back, hair spilling against the pillows, “i always sleep so good in this bed,” cheeks flushed from the wine, half lidded eyes watching you from under his lashes. It's an invitation you don't pass up. 

You climb in after him, feeling relaxed from drinking even if it was only a little bit, you can tell it's helped him too, his lazy smile so blissful. “I'm sure this bed is good for other things too,” you don't even care about being bold, not alone with him under you as you dip your head, nose brushing his. 

The first kiss is so soft, a brush of lips together lasting no longer than a second. Kai whines in the back of his throat, an ache for more hidden in the desperate sound. It's addicting to have someone seem so needy for your attention, his legs instinctively tangling with yours, hand at the back of your neck pulling you back down for another kiss.

The two of you fumbling to feel at each other, your hand sliding up under his shirt to touch his warm skin, his stomach flexing at the brush of your cold fingertips. His hand at your waist pulling you closer to him, needing you as close as he can get you. The kiss is sloppy in seconds, his tongue sliding against yours, noses bumping as you breath in each other.  You can feel that he's semi-hard, pressed against your thigh between his legs. 

He's a mess, whimpering when you pull away to take off your sweater, leaving you braless in a tank top. greedy hands back on you, pulling you back down on top of him, he’s grinding onto you desperately, fully hard from only kissing. 

every little noise he makes is caught in your mouth, his fingers fumbling for the button on your jeans. you have to pull away after his failed attempt, giggling as you brush his hair back, “it’s okay to take it a little bit slow huening we have all night,” you remind him, “I don’t want you cumming in your jeans when it could be in or on me,” he's looking up at you with total devotion, with an expression that lets you know he'd let you do anything if you asked. 

“Please?” and it doesn't even matter what he's begging for, you would let him do just about anything in return for looking at you like that. 

You're quick to rid yourself of your pants, falling back to the bed and letting him roll on top of you. Hands in his hair as he presses into you, one hand holding himself up while the other snakes down between you two. The soft gasp you let out eggs him on, drawing soft circles over your clothed clit like he knows exactly what to do. You twist your fingers into his hair, his lips tracing down your neck, hips back to grinding into your thigh. At first you don't notice the smell of popcorn. It's faint upstairs, wafting in through the vents, buttery and warm as kai slips his fingers into you. Your hips rolling on his hand, meeting every thrust, heel of his palm pressed to your clit. 

It isn't until the popcorn starts to burn that you say something, the tang in the air subtle as kai sucks hickeys on your sensitive skin. “Is something on fire?” 

Kai pulls away from the crook of your neck, “what the fuck?” breathing deeply to catch the scent. It's clear in the air now, hanging around like a question. “Stay here,” 

it's so unceremonious when he pulls his hand from your panties, fingers dropping onto his tongue to clear them, “i'll be right back, okay?” 

“O-okay,” you're confused more than anything, knees pulling in feeling overly exposed all of a sudden. It's silent in the house, the soundtrack of your kissing dimmed to nothing, before it's replaced with the creaking of his dissipating steps down the stairs. 

You feel a little foolish sitting in his bed, the crumpled sheets and discarded plushie a reminder that this is not normal for a hook up at all. Letting out a long breath you push out of the bed, all relaxation felt before now gone as you reach for the wine bottle on the dresser. You take a heavy swig from the bottle, needing your courage back. It felt silly to worry over burnt popcorn. 

Your stomach turns, sickening realization settling in. the two of you had only picked up the wine, neither of you even put the jiffy pop close to the stove's burners. You're quick to look for your phone, checking in the pile of your clothes on the floor, and finding nothing. Your bag was by the door downstairs, right next to the shoes, if your phone wasnt up here it was bound to be in your bag. 

You didn't say anything as you made it to the top of the stairs, not until the phone rang. Not the familiar song that came through your speakers but the deft echo of a warning siren. The kind of ringtone that was played in a movie when someone was receiving bad news, and it didn't stop, traveling up the stairs, playing once, twice, until nothing but silence. 

“Huening?” your voice wasn't as strong as you wished, faulting at the end as you took your first step down the stairs. 

No response. 

The last step creaks under your weight, the sound triggering the phone, that chilling ringtone back in the air. All the lights are on, nothing outside the windows visible as you watch your reflection walk past. You look right at the front door as you walk past, all of your things still in place, even Kai's shoes are still right where he left them. 

In the kitchen you find the ringing phone, the little screen bright green as it shows the incoming call. The skins faucet turned on, the pelting water beating down on the thin aluminum foil of the jiffy pop, hastily tossed into the basin. Thin rivulets of smoke still curling from the singed popcorn. The stove's gas burner still lit with a blue flame. 

The ringing continues as you turn everything off, feeling suddenly too cold and alone standing under the golden lights. It doesn't help that you're only dressed in your panties and tanktop, bare feet padding across the tile to pick you the phone. 

Unknown caller. Read the directory, not even the number shown underneath. You hit answer before you could think better of it. 

“Hello?” your pulse was in your ears, washing down your neck, but you're stunned to recognize the voice over the phone. 

“What's your favorite scary movie?” 

You can't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up before you respond, “kai, are you using the ghostface voice on me right now? You already had your hand down my pants no need for the theatrics,” 

You can't even pick up a trace of his real voice over the filter, the soft chuckle on the other line trickling down your spine. “You didn't answer my question, you have to have a favorite, what comes to mind?”

“So we’re quoting the movie now?” you ask, looking around the kitchen, leaning back against the countertop. “Should i go all in and start asking to make it to the sequel?” 

He chuckles, so soft and sensual, unlike his usual boisterous laugh. “Maybe…but a little birdie told me that you're not a virgin and you know what happens to those who sleep around right?” 

“Enlighten me,” you cross your arms smiling at your reflection in the window. It's a bit silly to be here roleplaying in the first place but it's not like you're against it. What gets you is that it's coming from kai of all people. So soft and sweet, giggling and shyly walking you home. But you truly never know what a persons into until you're faced first with it. 

“They don't last very long,” so smug as he says it. 

“They don't?” 

“Nope, and you have a list of things that you've already done wrong. I don't know if you truly deserve to make it to the sequel,” 

“Oh? What did I do wrong?” you smile, checking out your nails, thumb running along the bed of your cuticles as you listen. 

“Humm, let me see. First you're all alone in that big old house, did anyone ever tell you never to go into the dark and scary woods all alone?” 

“I'm not alone, i have you,” 

He ignores the last half of your statement, “Aren't you? hum, funny how i don't see the boytoy around anymore,” 

“I can't believe you planned all of this, who knew you would be so freaky? I can't say that it doesn't turn me on though,” 

“Oh? How cute that you still think I'm your little boyfriend. I mean didn't you see the signs? The door was unlocked in the back, popcorn on the stove when you didn't put it there, and now a missing boy toy. It's a shame you seem to have forgotten everything you've learned in class, or maybe it was the wine,” 

“A few sips won't make me stupid, seriously huening come out, i want to get back into your bed,” you push off the counter, walking back toward the living room until you're stopped dead in your tracks. The sound isn't coming from the phone but just up ahead around the corner.

Your laugh echoes in the empty house, followed by your own words, “it’s okay to take it a little bit slow huening, we have all night, I don’t want you cumming in your jeans when it could be in or on me,” 

You follow each line into the living room, the tv on and showing a video of only minutes ago. 

“Please?” kais weavering voice seems so loud here instead of between you two. 

You can see yourself push down your pants, watch the way the two of you fall right back into each other. Only now you're seeing it from the perspective of the closet, it's the only place you could think of that he would have placed the camera. The slats of the wood even in frame. It's like someone dropped a bucket of ice water on top of you. Standing in front of the tv as if you're Carrie from the prom and someones set up a cruel joke. 

“Cute huh?” the voice over the phone asks, that little laugh following right after, “i sure think it is. Look at the way your body reacts to his fingers, you’ll be that pretty for me won't you?” 

You feel the hair on the back of your neck rise, the house too big for this kind of game. Even just standing there now alone it felt like you were a fish in a bowl, stuck to be watched from all sides. And not from the video but from the figure standing right on the outside of the window. 

He was dressed in all black, nothing like what kai had been wearing before. And covering his face the dripping white mask of ghostface. You only catch a glimpse because the lights are on but it's enough to remind you that maybe this isn't a joke. “Are you outside?” 

“I don't know? Am i?” but as he says it you see down the hallway a dark figure step out of a doorway. 

Everything in you freezes, your heart rate plummeting, a cold sweat breaking out across your skin. You hadn't even noticed your fingers had been trembling before, not until your deathgrip on the phone starts to hurt. “Don't hang up on me,” he warns over the line, but the person down the hall doesnt even have a phone in sight, his slow prowl reminding you to move. 

You take off back towards the kitchen, the back door playing in your head as the best possible exit but as soon as you're in front of it, tugging on a door knob needs to be unlocked you see the haze reflection of two more figures waiting right against the glass. You can hear the laugh of the person on the phone even if it's not to your ear as you rush to pull open any drawer that might have something in it to protect you. But every pull leads you to find nothing at all, “what the fuck!” 

The door shakes as they try to pull it open, the glass rattling as you lift the phone back to your ear, “okay huening, that's enough, i get it, ha ha, funny, but seriously-” 

“Were you looking for a knife?” he cuts you off, voice so calm when you're falling apart. 

“What?” you're exasperated, huffing the question like it's a slap in the face. 

“I know where one is, if you want it,” 

It's then that the masked man from the hall comes into the kitchen, the steel knife in his hands glinting in the light. “You have to be fucking kidding me right now,” youre desprate to find an explanation for this. The island is between the two of you, his head tilting to the side, the open mouth of the mask mocking you as he takes slow steps around the marble. You're matching his every move, both of you circling the kitchen like two fighters waiting for the ding of a bell. 

The door rattles again, the sound making you yelp, hand pressed to your racing heart. It's the distraction you need to bolt right through the kitchens arch way and run to the front door. 

You're moving so fast you have little time to slow down, partially slamming into the door, fingers fast to twist the locks. 

As soon as it's opened you're standing face to face with another ghostface mask, his black clad outfit sticking to his figure as he towers over you, phone hovering right over the mask's gaping mouth. “Hum not out the front door i guess,” 

You try to slam the door shut but his boot clad foot moves fast catching it right before it could close completely. Spinning you run towards the stairs, the sound of their following footsteps close behind. The door to the bedroom is still wide open as you barrel through turning around and throwing the door closed and twisting the lock. 

But it's only a moment of relief when you feel a hand clasp around your mouth. Your scream is muffled from their fingers, your eyes closing as if that would fix the situation, the phone in your hand falling to the floor, “Shhh it's okay,” Kai whispers, a strong arm wrapping around your middle pulling you closer to him. 

The weight is lifted off your shoulders hearing his voice, hands wrapping around the one covering your mouth to tug it away. “What is going on?” you ask, pulling yourself away from him. your back is to the door and he steps closer backing you right up against it. 

“Didn't you say you found it kinda hot, the whole fear thing?” he asks, leaning close enough to kiss, “i wanted to make it extra special for you, and you don't mind if we all share you, right?” his knuckle lifts your chin up so you’re eye to eye, nose to nose, his normal shy smile turned devilish. “All you have to do is say no,” 

It was crazy to say yes. your heart still pounding, breathing only just starting to regulate, and yet you want him, you want them. “I-I don’t- I don’t want to say no,” 

“Then don’t,” he pushed his whole body against yours, engulfing you in his warmth, taking you for another kiss like you hadn’t left the room at all. You don't even notice him unlocking the door, not until the knob is shaking against your back. 

Kai pulls you towards the bed, the closet doors behind him open showing the empty space with a lone camera on a tripod. The red light looking back at you like a warning, you looked right down the barrel of the lens wondering if you would ever see this again, and praying that you did. Kai fit his fingers over you eyes, “don't look at it, don’t think about its there,” 

You hear a chuckle, so similar to the one over the phone, only without the filter. Now so easily recognizable as yeonjun, you can picture the way his mouth looks as he does it, his canines on display as he smirks. You don't even have to see him to know, you've known all of them so long you're sure one touch and you could guess who was who. And with both of kais hands on your eyes the brush of someone's fingers on your cheek lets you know exactly who it is. Soobins hands are the softest of the bunch and your face tilts in his direction. “Soobin?”

he lets out a huff of a laugh, “you caught me. And you know it's kind of rude not to open the back door when we come knocking,” 

“You scared me,” it's a soft confession that they all chuckle at. 

“Did we?” beomgyu teases, so much closer than you expected, the ghost of his touch going up your arm, goosebumps popping up along the trail. 

Your senses are on overdrive, pulse loud enough to be heard if one listens close enough, every little thing heightened by your fading fear and covered eyes. You feel a hand slip down your stomach stopping right before your panty line, a single finger sliding under the waistline to pull it and let it snap back against your skin. You jolt from the contact, body flush with kai’s, his hard cock pressed to your back. 

You hear rustling from the closet, and kai lets you go, letting you see yeonjun taking the camera in hand. He's adjusting the viewfinder, the others standing in a circle around you, it should be intimidating, the masks off now, looking at you like you're something to eat. It's taehyun that steps forward first, thumb reaching out to drag across your bottom lip. You open your mouth letting him press the digit flat against your tongue. 

“You’ll be good for us, won't you?” he asks, and you close your mouth sucking his finger as you nod. He smirks, “i want first,” 

It's all he says before he's pushing you down on the bed. It's so quick the air is almost knocked right out of you, your hands scrambling to find purchase on the beds duvet cover. It's almost a shame how wet you already are, the way your panties are cut away, the cold knife in taehyuns free hand only just brushing your skin. The fabric tossed around from person to person. “I did most of the work,” kai adds as you bury your face into the sheets, “she wouldn't be this prepped if i didn't start early,” 

“And that's why you have to wait,” “You didn't even get her off,” they talk over each other.  

“You guys didn't give me time!” kai tries but they ignore him when you give a sharp whine. 

Taehyun shoves his fingers right into you, your body so willing to take him in. but you hear his belt being undone with one hand, and it's a shame you cant see the way his cock looks from this angle, because as he pressed the tip right at your entrance, slick fingers helping to lude up his veiny shaft, you can tell he's going to be the perfect stretch. 

Your moan as he sinks into your warm heat is echoed by the rest of them, a choir of the perfect voices turned husky and wanting. “Holy shit,” teahyun breathes his hand pressed right to your lower back, your feet dangling right off the edge of the bed, toes only just barely touching the ground. 

“Doesn't she feel amazing?” kai asks, “fuck i bet she fits like a fucking dream,” gyu adds as he walks over to the other side of the bed climbing in to lay against the headboard. His zipper was already undone, pants low on his hips as he watched you get pounded into. 

Because tae was not holding back anymore, it felt like he had been waiting all night for this exact moment, to chase his high without question. And your pussy was so welcoming, sucking him in, practically begging for his cum. 

Yeonjun walked around the bed, zeroing the camera in on you as your legs bend, heel of your feet pushing on taes thighs. Taehyun wraps his hands in your hair, tugging your head back, extending your throat to the camera, arching your back just right, “i want to be able to watch back how you looked while i fucked you okay?” 

“Oh, look at that, huening marked up our toy already,” soobin reaches out a finger, tracing over the hickey kai had left on your skin, your eyes were wide and begging as you watched him, mouth caught open in a moan as taes thrusts turned sloppy. “Fuck, look at that mouth,” 

yeonjun bent down to catch the image. “I think someone needs to fill it,” 

Soobin didn't need to be told twice. He was tugging his cock out of his jeans, leaking precum already dotting the tip as he gave it long languid strokes. Your mouth was already watering at the sight, knowing taking him down your throat would be a task but one you wouldn't back away from. 

But taehyun was already cumming, orgasm cresting as he slammed his hips into your ass, cock twitching as he let out a deep rumbling moan. He let go of your hair, head falling forward into the duvet as he stilled inside you pressing as close as he could get, the tip of his cock hitting you just right as he spilled inside you. 

“I want next!” gyu calls out, raising his hand like he knows the answer to a question. 

“No-” soobin starts but beomgyu is already moving from his stop on the bed as taehyun pulls out, the gush of warmth leaving your cunt dripping down your thighs. Yeonjun is quick to catch the sight on film. 

“Look at that,” it sounds so endearing coming from him, a true sight to behold as you whine from the feeling of being empty. You feel like a ragdoll as soobin pulls on you, tugging you further up the bed so that you're on your hands and knees in front of him. 

“Open,” his tip is already prodding at your lips. You feel the bed dip behind you, gyu finding his place as he drags his fingers through the leaking cum traveling down your legs, he does his best to shove it right back into you, fingers dragging over your clit, circling it as soobin shoves his cock right into your mouth. 

You give a muffled yelp, tongue flattening to make it easier for him to slide in and out of. His head is rolling back, hair spilling around his ears as he moans. He twists his fingers in your hair, both hands wrapping around your head to bob you up and down on his dick like his own personal toy. You're nails dig into the sheets, the sloppy sounds of him fucking your throat taking up the most sound. 

Beomgyu keeps one hand on your clit and the other guides his cock into you, he's quick to snap his hips forward sending you forward on soobin, until you're choking for air. Moans sending vibrations up along soobins shaft. His eyes tighten, needing to pull away before he cums too quickly, face flushed red as rivulets of your saliva still connect you to him. 

The constant pressure put on your clit from beomgyus fingers has your stomach tightening in knots. Now that you're not taking soobin in beomgyu picks up his pace, the skin on skin slapping sounds melding with your whines. “I want you to cum for me, i want to be the first one to make you cum, please,” he sounds so desperate, not matching the way he drills into you, tip hitting your cervix in a mix of painful pleasure. He can feel your fluttering walls, every particularly hard thrust making your cunt react just right. And when you cum hes a blubbering mess, “fuck fuck fuck-” not expecting to cum so fast, but youre drawing it out of him, with each little sound you make. He's almost embarrassed by how long he cums for, head falling forward to rest on your shoulder blade, his dick pulsing inside you, curses turning to nonsense, the drawn out, “fuuu- ahh, ah,”  

“Look at how pretty she looks when she cums,” yeonjun smiles, bringing the camera close to catch the way you are trying to blink the spots from your vision, “soobin next? Or maybe kai? Both of them seem to have waited so long for you,” 

Kai leans back against the dresser, arms crossed as he watches you, expressionless as he follows the shape of your body. Only one of your tank tops straps are on, your breasts already spilling out from the thin fabric, soobins eyes caught on your peaked nipples as he strokes himself. But you look back over to huening, the way he's standing there like he's unaffected at all. But you know it's not true, not when he's straining in his pants, the bulge itself drives you insane. “Hyuka?” 

The shyness in your voice is what does it for him, beomgyu only just pulling out of you with a hiss. More cum dribbling out as he pushes his hair back looking at his handiwork. Yeonjun is right next to him too, getting the perfect shot. 

Taehyun languidly lounges back against the headboard, cock still hard as it rests against his stomach, hand wrapped around the base as he watches you. It distracts you enough not to see kai moving replacing gyus spot. 

Kai wraps his hand in your hair but unlike taehyun he forcefully pushes your head down into the mattress. The whole mit of his hand cups your skull, your whimper making him chuckle. His free hands traced up your side, slipping under your tank top as he feels along your skin. “You know I was thinking about this the whole walk back after our study night?” his hand dips down fingers sliding along your wetness, “i kept thinking about how perfect it would be to absolutely ruin you,” 

You're already sensitive from finishing already and kai can tell as your thighs tremble but it wont stop him from pinching your clit. Your hips push back against him, yelping as he goes on to rub circles over the bundle of nerves. “Seeing it happen- watching you get used as a little cum dump is so much better than I ever imagined,” he works your clit, building up his speed until your back is arching, nails biting into your palm as you feel your orgasm building too quickly. You're trying to rock back into his hand but the way he has you bent helps very little. Your cries heighten until he pulls it all away. 

“No huening please!” 

“Aww how cute, she's begging,” beomgyu laughs and you're whimpering in response. 

“Kai…please!” 

“You're already doing so well because i want you begging to be filled with my cum, crying from how badly you want it,” his hand goes back to your cunt, pressing into your clit rubbing at a pace that has you seeing stars, your hands scratch out for looking for anything to hold onto. Yeonjun takes your hand in his keeping the camera facing your reaction as your eyes roll back. Its in the middle of your climax that kai pushes his cock into you, finding a punishing rhythm as he fucks you into the matterss. 

“Beg for it,” he growls, hand in your hair twisting in the strands. You can feel him all the way to your throat, stretched out so good, he presses right into your gspot like he was made for you. 

“P-please- hyuka i need it- i-” you cant even get the words out anymore, the squeaking of the bed building as he increases his speed. You can hear the wet sounds of the other boys jerking off, “i want your c-cum, i need it,” 

“Louder,” yeonjun mutters in front of you, your death grip on his hand not loosening anytime soon. 

“I want it! I need your cum, please!” But Huenings is so lost chasing his own high that he drops his hand from your clit to grab your hip, his bruising hold and brutal thrusts making you cry out. 

Beomgyu reaches down under you, fingers finding just the right rhythm to send you over the edge at the same time kai cums. His faltering thrusts and throaty moans makes you feel weak. Your cunt is strangling his cock, his release pushed as deep as he could get it into you. When he pulls out you collapse onto the bed, completely used up. 

It feels never ending body too tired already when you feel soobin climb into the bed. He lays right behind your exhausted form, both of you on your sides facing yeonjun, “look who's next, do you think you could get another one out of her? I hear you're only a freak in theory and not practice,” 

But soobin doesn't take the bait, one hand sliding under you and wrapping around your chest, hand coming up to cup your breast, fingers twisting your hard nipple, and the other lifting your leg to get better access to your leaking cunt. Your thighs are so sticky soobins fingers slip on his hold, having to tighten his grip to make sure he can keep you open. He's been ready since the start, his cock aching as it prods your now puffy swollen cunt, so used you're sure you would be sore for days. 

When he sinks in your whimpers are so soft they are hardly heard. Yeonjun is kneeling on the floor, arm holding the camera resting on the bed. He captures the way soobins dick slides in with ease, no resistance now with how much slick is coming out of you. Every drag of soobins cock comes away stained in white. A ring of the combined cum circling the base, balls sticking to your skin with every thrust. 

His breathy moans are lost against your neck, pitiful little sounds before he's muttering, “im sorry, oh god- im-” 

“Don't you dare cum yet,” yeonjun warns soobin, who pauses his thrusts trying to listen but can't find it in him to restrain. Yeonjuns fingers pinch at your clit, your whole body reacting to the feeling, jolting you back to life as you cum. soobin unable to handle the pressure and is a complete mess, whimpering as he pulls you closer, hugging you as if he could merge bodies. 

It took him a while to finally pull out, a much needed break for only a few breaths before yeonjun passes the camera to taehyun to keep the filming going. You can feel the weakness all the way down to your bones, sure if you stand you could collapse to the floor, legs too weak to hold you up. But yeonjun is looking at you like you're being served on a silver platter, all done up with all the best fixings. 

“Best for last huh?” he grins climbing over you brushing under your eye to catch a single tear that's fallen from your overstimulation. “Its so fun to see you so dumb on cock, so unlike how we usually see you,” 

You hum in response as he pushes your legs open, hands at the back of your knees pushing them to your chest. When he puts them over his shoulders you whimper, reaching out to wrap your arms around his neck as he sinks into your wet heat. Bent in half you feel your toes curling, sure that if you came one more time you would be better off sleeping for the next year. “I think this is good practice, don't you?” he asks like you'll respond to him with anything other than a string of muffled whimpers. Your body is coated in a thin layer of sweat, sticking to his skin as he takes a slow pace. It's like he's apologizing, lips peppering across your cheek, down your neck. “We’ll keep you so happy, stuffed full like you deserve. Would you like that?” 

You're nodding, eyes closing as he uses you. You don't even notice the way your body is reacting, that slow rise of your next orgasm building up, “i-” you can’t think about cumming again already feeling so dumbed out. 

“Hum? Are you going to cum, pretty?” he picks up his pace, sinking his hips and hitting you right against your g spot. Your head rolls back as it washes over you, body tightening until you feel like you’ve combusted into little particles. “Oh look at that, so perfect for me, your pussy feels so good when it's squeezing me like this,” it's all he says before he’s trembling, a guttural moan taking over as he cums, you swear you can feel its warmth spreading throughout you. And when he pulls out he takes the camera back from taehyun focusing it in on the sight of all the combined release staining your folds. 

“Look at how she pushes it out,” beomgyu says, mesmerized by the way you look leaking so much cum. But it's Kai who leans down, fingers collecting anything he can before shoving all the cream right back into you. “Its almost like she wants us to fuck it right back in,” 

🏷taglist: @kissmekissykissme @bts-txt-ateez @apeachty @stwq2349 @isa942572 @tomorrowxforever r @beestvng @soobingf-blog @lovinjjong @lola-horore-553 @cypher-03 @midnight-mochii i @hueningwhy @choibeomning @soobinbunnie5 @yunjinswifee @cupidtaehyun @bamgeutsz @prince-jjae @nessaassen02 @iluvhyukaa @mrsjohnnysuh @wand3rlustm3

thank you so much to @beomiracles @prince-jjae and @thetxtdevil for beta/proofreading the first part of this fic!

[chronicdelusionistsart]

I think that "being Tim's boyfriend" is genuinely aspirational to Bernard, though, and I really want to see the payoff of the really cool misunderstanding arc set up in TD:R where he was really eager to help Tim out and Tim Didn't Know, Chat before I see him branch out.

If they had followed that trajectory to its logical conclusion, he would have gotten involved in Bat Business anyway while working with Tim, which I think would have been a good springboard for him to do things outside of Tim, too.

But fundamentally it's important to address that Bernard is depressed as hell and has really low self-esteem and that being the guy his teen idol chose is going to be sustaining him in the short term. I don't think it's possible to shortcut out of that one and maintain any kind of continuity of character because it's one of the things that *is* fleshed out and interesting about him.

There are some really cool things that you could do with a story with that in mind (Guards! Put that funny twink in a room with the Outlaws!), but they take a level of setup and payoff and attention to the characters and relationship dynamics that I just don't know if DC would be willing to take the risk and then not steamroll him and Tim's relationship for cheap soap opera drama in the process. It's a hard thing to wish for when I'm not certain they'd bring in a writer that Gets them.

Tim and Bernard are cute together, but Bernard should be fleshed out more instead of just being Tim’s boyfriend

[realcube]

AT THE SAME DAMN TIME!

hot w/ hq duos! (pt 2)

ft.. ushijima + tendou // kuroo + kenma // kageyama + sugawara // bokuto + atsumu + sakusa // matsukawa + hanamaki

tws & tags.. nsfw minors dni. threeways (mmf). fourway (mmmf). specific warnings before each.

note.. click here for part one.

★ USHIJIMA + TENDOU

tw & tags.. vaginal, praise, begging, size kink, implied sex worker ! reader

it may have taken a decade, but the oppertunity finally arises wherein ushijima is able to visit tendou in paris. that's not to say they haven't seen in each other in ten years, but due to ushijima's commitments and contracts with the schweiden adlers, he is very bound to japan even during his time-off, which is why tendou most often flies home for them to meet.

however, ushijima eventually managed to arrange a trip to france. tendou showed him around the city, and most importantly, the chocolaterie he opened. he worked for an employer for seven years before he opened up a shop of his own; his pride and joy, and it was currently performing very well, business-wise. ushijima was more than impressed by his old friend.

while planning the journey, ushijima was going to book a hotel but tendou urged him not to waste his money, stating that his penthouse has a spare room for wakatoshi to sleep in. he embraced tendou's kind offer, and hence, at the end of their first day in paris together, ushijima joined tendou as they travelled back to his apartment.

what he wasn't expecting though, was a random woman roaming around the penthouse when they arrived. tendou didn't seem jarred or disturbed by your presense, so ushijima assumed your weren't an intruder. but equally, you weren't cleaning or cooking, so you couldn't be hired help. did tendou have a girlfriend he failed to mention?

when he turned to his friend to question your occupany in his apartment, tendou explained that he gets quite lonely while in paris — far away from his family and most of his friends — so he pays someone to keep him company. and you do your job very well, keeping him warm inside and out.

ushijima is still quite confused by his friend's explanation, so tendou suggests a demonstration.

though, tendou knows yourtimid and don't like visitors or guests — and hence his nickname for you: 'moody kitty' — so it takes some convincing, but you eventually agree.

your bent over the crytsal top coffee table, with your face and tits smushed against its cool surface while ushijima and tendou, stood next to each other, take turns ploughing into from behind. your skirt has been ripped off, so your bare ass and glistening pussy are on full display to both of them.

currently tendou is balls-deep inside you, sloppily rutting into your cunt over and over, while his familiar, slender fingers rub your folds and tormet your sensitive clit. your melodious moans ring throughout the room and highly overpower his low grunts that emit from his gut with each sporadic thrust. "mph, what a pretty, pretty kitty." he muses. "you've got nothing to be shy about. wakatoshi thinks your sexy too, right?"

"yes." he replies bluntly. ushijima stands aside and strokes his cock, mesmerised by the way your perky ass bounces and your entire perfect body quivers around tendou's dick. meanwhile, tendou doesn't seem to care about the fact he's got your brain fried from his tip repeatedly bumping your cervix. he just continued to rut into you, despite how your twitching figure and squelching pussy indicate that you can't take much more.

"ngh, fuck, sa— hah, satori! too much.." you whine against the table, the beads of saliva forming at corner of your mouth, sticking to the table, "m' so close!"

usually that would be a trigger for tendou to fuck you even harder, but in this instance, it reminds him that he has a guest present and signals that it is time for you to switch handler. "mmh, sorry about this, sugar.. you know i love to see your pretty pussy cum but.." without warning, he jerks himself out and motions for ushijima to take his place. "wakatoshi's turn now, princess. ya ready?"

you gasp at the unexpected action; your entire body suddering at how the cold air floods your previously conjested pussy. the burning sensation in your abdomen momentarily dies down, but it's short-lived, as the gape is soon filled by ushijima bullying his fat cock into your soaked cunt.

thankfully, tendou's actions and foreplay has made you sufficiently wet and lubricated, otherwise there would be no way in hell he'd be able to fit that monster dick inside your tight hole. even you laid there, shocked that it was fully inside you, as you could feel the way it protrudes from your tummy and pushes against your walls.

"mmph, too big! too full.. i can't!" you mewl, clawing at the smooth glass surface of the table to cope with the deliciously agonising stretch of your cunt. while ushijima and tendou simply pass entertained smirks to each other at your sweet cries.

"yes, you can, kitty. don't be shy." tendou purrs while stroking your plump ass, almost patronisingly. "be a good girl for wakatoshi like you are with me. show him how well-bahaved you are. c'mon, he doesn't bite."

ushijima does far worse than bite. you most definitely weren't ready for the way he fucked you. it was like you were being repeatedly impladed, yet somehow it was the best thing you've ever experienced. he had your eyes rolling back in your head and your tongue shamelessly hanging out from your mouth.

meanwhile, an entirely amused tendou slithers under the glass coffee table and lays on his back. that way, when he looks up, he can fuck his fist to the sight of your obscene facial expressions as you get your guts rearranged by his friend.

a smirk flickers over his lips, "not so shy anymore, are we, princess?"

you can't even pretend to grant his question with a sarcastic response as your mind can't even begin to form a coherent thought, from the way ushijima's bulbous tip tortures your g-spot. his dick raking against your spongy walls over and over until they are woefully sore from having to swallow him again and again.

since you were already high from sex with tendou, less than a minute with ushijima's dick inside your pussy already had you begging for a sweet release, "p-please! it's too much.." you cry, steaming up the glass under you with your hot breath, " 'm, ahh!— gunna cum!"

tendou's face burns as his hand furiously tugs at his cock, your gorgeous face and tits serving as perfect jerk material — not to mention your pornographic moans and drenched noises from your poor cunt. "nuh-uh, (y/n). can't cum til you ask wakatoshi for permission." he coos, meeting your lust-clouded gaze from beneath the glass — he can tell how badly you need to finish but unfortunately he loves teasing you even more. "c'mon. be good n' ask. use your words, kitty."

stringing together an intelligble sentence felt like an impossible task, but as you squeezed your eyes shut, and tensed your cunt around wakatoshi's lethal dick — relentless slamming into your pussy, you somehow manage to choke out, "mmmph, please, ushi— hah, fuck!" you spluttered, barely completing two words before an overwhelming surge of bliss overcame you again, throwing you off. but you found it in you to persevere, "can i cum? please can i finish?" you hastily breath out your inquiry as if it were all one word. your chest pressing against the glass with each deep breath you heave while stifling your impending orgasm.

ushijima continues his rythmic pace, his dick throbbing with in the confines of your homey walls as he feels his own climax fast-approaching. ".. yeah." he grunts.

but now it is your turn to shock him. as soon as merely utters the golden word, your cunt immediately clamps down on him, as you let your fiery high blissfully roll over you and totally embody the lust brimming in your abdomen.

and due to this, you even elicit a quiet groan from ushijima as he succumbs to his own climax and fires his hearty load into your hole. it's the best he's every had; he lets his vision glaze over as he's transported elsewhere. somewhere hot and soft. as he revels in the way your convulsing cunt desperately milks him dry, as though it were trying to savour every last drop of his precious seed.

even once you're both done, and you start coming down from your high, he remains buried in your snug cunt. he can't bring himself to pull out.

while ushijima stands there panting, tendou takes a break from pleasuring himself to crawl out from under the table to stand at the opposite end of the coffee table, where your face is. "how's that? good, isn't she?" tendou chuckles at his typically stoic friend appearing to visibly fucked-out.

wakatoshi nods breathlessly.

tendou hums in agreement as he slips his fingers under your chin to prop it up, as he uses his other hand to manoeuvre his cock into your glistening lips. he gazes down at you, and smiles warmly as you obidiently accept his length into your mouth, "she's perfect."

★ KUROO + KENMA

tw & tags.. power dynamics, inappropriate workplace relations, cockwarming, meanie! kenma, degredation, slight analplay, praise, handjobs, good cop/bad cop

kuroo and kenma have important work to do. recently, bouncing ball corp and it's affiliates have signed a contact to run a major event with the japanese volleyball association, led by yours truly. hence, there was less than a week less until the event and still mass amounts of work needing done.

there were heaps of paper work in kenma's office that required filing, while kuroo had thousands of emails to respond to and marketing to clear as head of the jva promotional division. together they decided that they needed to tackle this backlog head-on and pull an all-nighter together at kenma's office in tokyo. there they could have peace and quiet to simply focus on all the duties that required their attention.

they begun work at around 9AM and kept going until 5PM. then they took a one hour dinner break before resuming the grind. however, they ran out of steam again at around midnight, despite the multiple coffees and energy drinks they had gone through.

something stronger was nessecary to keep them focussed. and thankfully kenma had just the thing.

his cute secretary usually clocked out at 5PM but kenma was weary of the fact him and kuroo were going to stay late today, so he scheduled you a night shift instead.

kuroo was skeptical at how a secretary would be able to help with their workload, but he kept his inquires to himself while kenma summoned you to the office.

you arrived around ten minutes afer he texted you, and when kuroo laid eyes on you, it was like he had been instantly awoken, but mostly below the belt. the way your white blouse clung to your alluring figure, and your skirt was inappropriately tight and he could leer over every curve of your perky ass.

"ten minutes? what the hell.." kenma chides, but with a lot less force than usual — he's too tired to spank you like he usually does.

"sorry! i fell asleep at my desk again.." you clasp your hands together and apologise profusely, "i am really sorry. i put a special ringtone for your texts too that's really loud but i still slept through it.."

"again.. do i need a shock collar or something?" he stresses, fidgeting with the pen in his hand as he slouches against his desk. "or how about a vibrator? and i can keep the controller for it."

you blush at the idea, and kuroo is also thoroughly scandalised upon hearing the way kenma talks to his assistant. surely that violates lots of workplace harassment laws, he thinks to himself. however, his view will change once he starts to understand the special nature of the relationship you have with your boss.

"kenma, be nice." he comments. but kenma just rolls his eyes.

"this is kuroo, the head of the promotional divison at the jva." he introduces you to kuroo, then does the reverse, "and this is my secretary, (y/n)." his head snaps back round to glare daggers at you, "be polite, (y/n). don't embarrass me."

you nod nervously under his piercing amber scrutiny and rush over to shake kuroo's hand. "hi, nice to meet you, sir." you splutter.

kuroo smiles up at you warmly, "nice to meet you too." he's got a strong grip but you don't let go until he does first. then, you glance back at kenma for his approval, but all you see is him motioning for you to come closer to him.

which you do, wordlessly. once you are within arms-length, he yanks you forwards and pulls your skirt up, revealing your supple ass and your black thong. "you call that underwear? that's dental floss, slut.."

he spreads your cheeks and runs his slender fingers over your cute asshole, entranced by the way it subtly quivers at his cold touch. "kenma.. stop.." you whine, and kuroo watches in dismay as this happens.

little does he know, you are completed accustomed to and accepting of kenma's perverted antics. you're just a lil' shy when it comes to ass stuff. but even then, you have a safe word with kenma and it certainly isn't 'stop'. kuroo is too horrified (and turned-on) to utter a single word. he's petrified.

kenma lets go of your ass and for moment kuroo believes he has come to his senses, until kenma commands in a low voice, "strip." then kuroo's jaw virtually falls to the floor. and he's even more shocked when you actually do it.

they both watch intently as you sensually pull your skirt down then follow it up by tugging your panties off to reveal your entire ass and pussy. you also unbutton your blouse, then undo your bra and let your tits fall out. your nipples visibly pebbled and erect due to the cold air. and finally, you slip your heels off and shuffle awkwardly in place, awaiting further instruction.

midway through your little show, kenma begins to pull his trousers down to free hardened length. when he holds it in his hand, he doesn't even need to say a word, he just gazes up at you with that risque glint in his eye and you are already trained on what to do next.

usually he'll suck your clit a bit first or play with your nipples to dampen you enough to take his cock, but he hasn't this time, hence you especially struggle to sink down on him. but being the helpful man he is, he pushes you down by the shoulders until your sat nicely on his lap and he is balls-deep inside you.

"nngh, kenma, hurts.." you stutter, your nails digging into the thick material of his shirt. your growing increasing wet by the second, your juices even dripping down his shaft, but that hardly takes away from the strain on your walls.

"of course it does.." he mutters, picking up his pen in one hand and resting the other on the small of your back. "just stay put, okay?"

at some point during that suspicious encounter, kuroo was able to put the pieces together and realised that your relationship might not be entirely professional, like he had initially thought. which was a relief; he worried he was going to have to file an urgent report to HR about his childhood best friend.

"kuroo.." kenma spoke softly, "come over."

kuroo was unsure at first, but perhaps it was due the growing tent in his pants, or maybe his lust-clouded judgement, but he gave minimal resistance before he stood up from his chair, and dragged it over to kenma's side of the desk.

he then took a seat again, but right beside you and kenma. your face was hooked over kenma's shoulder, nuzzling into his bleached hair, while kuroo admired your naked figure, tenderly tracing your exposed spine with the pads of his fingers.

despite this attention, you paid no mind to kuroo whatsoever, causing a gasp to be ripped from your throat when kenma smacks your plump ass. "(y/n), what did i say about being polite?"

you pout at his harsh words then turn to kuroo with glossy eyes, who can only dote over your adorable expression. he cups your cheek in his hands and coos, "aw, don't be so mean to the pretty girl, kenma." he directs his first comment at his friend, then the latter at you, "you're tired, sweet thing, aren't you?"

you nod at his understanding, then nuzzle into his neck instead. he chuckles at this, "yeah? we're all sleepy, huh." you quickly realise he's more buff than kenma, from the way his muscles flex against your skin as he rubs your back. also, he smells like a man; an expensive man. you don't know what cologne he's wearing but it's intoxicating and so romantic.

kuroo starts to undo his fly and pull his cock out from the parition in the fabric of his trousers, but kenma — cold stare not averting from the paperwork in front of him — is quick to warn, "careful. she's a messy slut." he accenuates his point by shifitng his spare hand from the small of your back to under your ass, where he lift you slightly to reveal the creamy ring of essence you've left at his base.

kuroo, opting to save his trousers from being soiled, pulls them down to his knees. "not a slut," kuroo correct gently, as he works on freeing his dick from his briefs, "just excited."

you nod, gaze dropping to watch kuroo rub his long, exposed shaft. his other hand toys with your nipple, playfully but firm enough that it forces your body to face him. he huffs a chuckle at the way you gawk at his impressive length, "think you can help me out too, beautiful?"

"mhm." your hand wanders over his beefy thigh before you fingers cautiously wrap around his cock. his fierce eyes are fixed to you with a glaring precion, soaking up your every move. from the way your bare tits sway as you lean forward, or how you swallow a lump in your throat formed due to kenma cock still nestled up within your walls.

once you have him fully in your grip, you begin to pump his cock gently — stroking it, more than anything. and kuroo lets out a satisfied sigh at the stimulation. however, kenma must have misinterpreted it as a sigh of frustration, as he urges you, "(y/n), go faster. why're you being so lazy today?"

kuroo shakes his head, relaxing back into his chair, and holding your face into his neck by cradling your head. "it's fine, kenma. she's doing perfect." he reassures, pressing a benign peck on your temple, smiling into your skin, "you're too harsh."

kenma rolls his eyes, not averting his feline eyes from the work afore him even once, "she's not your secretary; i know she can do better." kenma argues, in his signature monotone, on accentuated by his tired voice, "maybe you're just too nice to whores."

"awh, don't listen to kenma, sweetheart. you're not a whore." he musues, admiring the way your pretty hands tug at his dick, and how your gorgeous naked body looks sprawled out across him and kenma. he could just eat you up; starting with those cute tits. "maybe you should come back to the jva headquarters with me. i have a lot of things i could use your help with."

"stop that." kenma spits.

kuroo titters at his half-assed attempt to poach his friend's secretary, then leans forward so he can reach his laptop. the rest of the night goes on like this, with kenma's cock planted inside your pussy, and kuroo occasionally grunting under his breath while you stroke him at a very mild rate. it's awfully intimate, and although you anticipate the encounter will escelate once kuroo and kenma finish their work, unfortunately you all fall asleep before that happens. and the janitor has a nasty surprise when he walks in on you all in that position.

★ KAGEYAMA + SUGAWARA

tws & tags.. oral (m receiving) , tit jobs, rough sex, handjob, sex worker! reader, degredation, praise and general messiness

the schweiden adlers scheduled a practise match against another team in their base location, and even though kageyama didn't anyone to watch, sugawara heard about the match through the grapevine and decided to attend — since he was in the area and had the day off work — in order to surprise and show support for an old friend.

suga appears in the stands with only around thirty other people watching, since it was only a practise match. around halfway through the game, kageyama noticed his familiar face in the small crowd, and they briefly flashed each other smiles of acknowledgement.

after the match, suga approached kageyama and they caught up a little bit. talking about what they've been doing since graduation and how things have been going in their personal lives. their conversation was cut short though as kageyama was being urged to shower and change out of his jersey by his coach, and suga happily offered to walk with him to the changing room.

as they walked through the hallways of the sports centre, they continued their idle chatter. suga brought up, "being a professional volleyball must be stressful, huh?"

"eh. not really." kageyama shrugged.

"huh?! seriously?! i mean, i work at an elementary school and i'm stressed out, like, all the time. i've already started finding grey hairs!" suga explains frantically, "so, i have no idea how you cope as a volleyball player. when there's so much pressure for you to perform well at matches, in front of millions of people."

kageyama is a bit perplexed by the 'grey hairs' comment, but he glosses over that and instead replies, "i guess it is a lot of pressure sometimes. but i deal with it pretty well."

"how?" suga asks desperately, anticipating kageyama to introduce him to some sort of intricate zen technique, or a life-changing diet regime. and naturally he was extremely disappointed when tobio responds with,

"there's a janitor at home base who gives blowjobs for ¥4000."

suga simply stares with his mouth hung agape, astounded. taking bjs off some old crusty janitor was not the solution he was seeking at all. however, kageyama must've interpreted his stunned silence as curiosity, as he added, "c'mon, i'll show you." as he makes a b-line down some random hallway, which was clearly not the direction they were meant to go in for the changing rooms, and suga has no choice but to follow him as he can't navigate through this building on his own.

albeit, he makes his intentions very clear as he marches after kageyama, "i'm not going to pay some random guy for a service like that. and you shouldn't be doing that either, it's messed u—" as he drones on, kageyama halts outside a random door and knocks on it, and suga is left truly speechless when the door creaks open and stood there is you in your tight-fitting janitors outfit.

suddenly, suga was reaching into his wallet to see if he had ¥4000 on him.

after an awkward interaction (followed by a smooth monetary transaction), your kneeled down in the janitor's cupboard with suga and kageyama stood in front of you. your bare chest was exposed but you kept your pants on, unlike the two of them who were eager to jam their dicks down your pretty throat.

kageyama was as rough as usual, making full use of your hair in order to maneuver you around to his will, forcing you to deepthroat his cock when he felt like it. "just like that, fuck. keep fuckin' going." he'd heave angrily, brows furrowed together in hedonistic fury.

he loved seeing the imprint of his dick in your neck, or against your puffy cheeks. and the way your eyes would screw shut whenever you got a taste of his bitter precum that would seep onto your tongue as you sucked. "better not stop.."

sugawara was far more adept at feigning kindness. he wouldn't grip your hair the way kageyama would, no, whenevr he wanted your attention, he'd gently cup your chin and guide it so you were gazing up at him. but it was all an act really, because he was far more perverted than kageyama every was. like a wolf in sheep's clothing.

whenever you were pleasing tobio, suga would lean over and fondle your tits while you'd pump his cock. he'd tug and pinch at your hardened nipples and smirk devilishly whenever he'd get any reaction from you. and he was up for far more than bjs, he'd bend his knees slightly so his dick slid perfectly between your tits, and when you'd press your girls together, he audibly groaned at the soft sensation.

through heavy lidded eyes you met the doting hazel stare of suga, who smiles down at you, "you're so pretty.." he muses, leaning over to cup your cheek in his hand, gently grazing your burning skin with his thumb. "such soft tits. you're a dream, dear." the kindness was foreign to you, thus you smiled up at him, while he continued to drag his dick between your tits, bumping your chin occassionally.

kageyama was quick to notice that your mouth was currently unoccupied, and hence seized the oppertunity to snap your head round towards him by your hair, causing you to yelp. "go on," he urged, guiding his cock back to your closed mouth and tapping his leaky tip against your lips, "get to work. swallow it, slut." he growled, a mocking smirk playing on his features.

tobio wasn't usually so forceful with you. he was abrasive, sure, but never rude. there was something different about him today, but admittedly, you kinda enjoyed it. the sinister glint in his ocean eyes caused a canal of heat to stir in your core, and pool in your panties, as you gazed up at him and obidently accepted his length back into your adoring mouth. all while sugawara was still thrusting his dick between your plush tits.

you pushed them together even further, causing a stifled whimper to be pulled from suga. "uhh— that's perfect, angel. thank you — acht, so much." he heaves, unable to suppress a delighted grin at your adorable little face, all stuffed with kageyama's cock, and your gorgeous tits which engulf him so well. "you're too good at that.."

kageyama's cock is shoved virgously down your throat, and he basically uses your mouth as his very own fleshlight. piloting your movements with his fist balled up in your hair, as his hips rock against your sloppy mouth. "heh, you look like a fuckin' whore like this." he blabbers through gritted teeth, "shit- might be cause you are one." and you can tell by the way his grin disappated and his eyes grow watery that he's getting close to his high.

but suga beats him at the chase, as his dick twitches against your chest and before you are given any time to prepare, he unloads his seed between your tits. and being the kind woman you are, you use your hands to push them together to keep his cock wrapped up tight as he climaxes, even if that means your entire chin, neck and tits are all coated in a layer of his semen.

he's got quite a hefty load, and he only pulls away once you are thoroughly painted. his eyes were screwed shut while he came, but once he is able to pry one open and look at the sticky mess he has made of you, he can't help but snicker to himself. "acht, sorry, angel. i've made an awful mess of you, haven't i?" he hums, talking to you in a disturbingly clement tone, "don't worry, it'll be easy to clean. we are in a janitor's cupboard, there should be something that could wi—"

"don't. she looks hot like this." kageyama states bluntly. during sugawara's orgasm, kageyama mercifully reduced his pace and allowed you to slowly bob back and forth on his length and lick his shaft. but not to make it easier for you or anything, of course not; it just happened naturally as kageyama was more entertained by watching sugawara cover you with his hot cum. it was so filthy.

"hah, look like even more of a whore now. covered in cum." kageyama huffed out a chuckle and began to increase the rate at which he was thrusting his cock into your mouth, with such intensity it was such to leave your lips bruised. "bet you like that, don't you? don't you?"

"mmph!" was all you were able to respond as kageyama frantically slammed you against his cock over and over, right until his thick cum unexpectedly shot down your throat. warm and suffocating, threatening to stick to the walls of your throat if you don't swallow it all — so you do, tentatively.

meanwhile, kageyama and suga's eyes did not part from you, not once. "yeah, drink it all up." kageyama groans, stumbling in place from his euphoric high, "savour it and don't miss any. not a drop."

you choke it all down like he orders, then open your mouth to show the proof. kageyama exhales in satisfaction, while sugawara pats your head, "wow, what a good girl, eh?"

you nod, pleased with your work, and believing that the session was coming to a close, you are about to stand upright from your knelt position on the floor, until suga uses his hand on your head to push you back down. "not so fast, angel. you're not done quite yet." he sings, reaching for his wallet which he sat on one of your shelves, "there's another ¥8000 in it for you if you want to go again."

you press your lips together and furrow your brows contemplatively. it's a tricky decision, and suga can detect your hesitancy, and thus he attempts to further persuade you, "c'mon, i think you'd look so pretty covered with some more of our cum, eh?"

★ MATSUKAWA + HANAMAKI

tws & tags.. analplay, vaginal, fingering, shower sex and just general pervertedness.

what you did not realise was that becoming matsukawa's girlfriend and moving in with him and hanamaki meant you were signing up be a live-in sex doll for both of them. and they were so so mean to you.

despite still living together, you didn't quite grasp how close they were prior to moving in together. they were certainly a dynamic duo. it's like you couldn't even have sex with just matsukawa anymore, it always had to be a threeway. which you didn't mind at first because double penetration is always fun, but it often gets to a point where you are so overstimulated, you can no longer tell if the cock stuffed balls-deep into your mouth is your boyfriend's, or someone else's. and the copious amount of cum dribbling out of your ass might've been his too.

and they weren't just meanies in bed either. matsukawa had a fasination with your tits and would pinch your nipples or tug at them while you were trying to cook dinner — or when you were trying to do anything in peace, really. hanamaki was more of an ass man, but when it came to you, he was just an all-round provoker. whenever you wore a skirt he'd always try to pinch your clit or tease your pussy in any way he could. it drove you crazy but you also loved it.

and it was impossible to escape them either, since there was usually always at least one of them in the house. and they were both constantly on. you can't even watch a movie together in peace; when you are at the most climactic part, and you assume they are both super absorbed into the film, they'll both start trying to finger your holes out of nowhere.

hell, you can't shower alone any more, they need to insert themselves in there too. even if they just had a shower that same morning.

so, here you all are together, squeezed into the one shower cubicle because they can't seem to seperate themselves from you for twenty minutes. you're all nude and pressed up against each; mattsun is standing in front of you, facing you and rubbing shampoo into your hair, while hanamaki is stood behind you, his erect cock sliding betwen your plump thighs.

you smile into your boyfriend's buff chest, as he caresses shampoo into your scalp, while you work on exfoliating your arms. he chuckles at the sensation and tilts your head up so he can press a long, sensual kiss upon your lips, which you happily return.

as your lips intimately weave together, you feel one of soap hands attach itself your tit and begin fondling it. you can't help but giggle at how typical that is, but you keep kissing and allow him to continue, as he still uses his other hand to massage your scalp. "got such cute tits, baby." he groans against your lips.

"you say that all the time.." you whine, and he only laughs.

"'cos it's true." he briefly pinches your nipple, causing you to mewl, "they're perfect. you're perfect, (y/n). got the best body i've every seen." his kisses trail from the corner of your lips to your jaw, to your neck, until your head is tossed back and you're moaning as he sucks deep hickeys into your skin. now his grip on your head is just being used to keep you close.

"barf." hanamaki grunts to himself while rolling his eyes. he was originally lathering shower gel on your back, be he seems to have descended to massaging your ass cheeks.

you cry even louder as matsukawa's fingers travel from your tits to between your thighs. he toys around with your labia and aggressively rubs your clit a little to warm you up, but due to all the lubrication from the shower, he doesn't need to wait long before he is able to slip his two digits right up your pleading enterance. "nghh— issei, don't stop, please!"

"i won't, baby. this desperate cunt need me that bad, huh?" his mouth frees itself from your neck, leaving marks that will surely blossom into pigmented hickeys by the morning, and he begins to kiss you again. but this time much more feverishly, shoving his tongue into your mouth and grinding your bodies against each other as he rapidly fingers you.

your legs even part slightly to grant him more access, and he takes this as a sign to speed up. lethally thrusting into your pussy and curling his digits against your spongy, sensitive walls until your basically sobbing for mercy into the kiss. "ahh— fuck, issei. 'ts too good! faster, faster please, issei! i need you.."

"course you need me, baby." his honeyed words are hot against your earlobe, "who else is going to fuck this greedy pussy everyday, huh? tell me." naturally, one of your legs ended up hooked around his hips; not only to increase the closeness but also so he could reach your g-spot with ease. however, hanamaki interpretted that as an oppertunity for himself. you paid no mind at all when you heard him getting on his knees behind you, no, you were far too involved with the wet make-out session with your boyfriend and the way he expert finger slid feverishly in and out of your cunt.

but you had no choice but to notice his actions when you felt hanamaki's tongue worm into your tight ass. instinctually you jerked away from the kiss to gasp and writhe at the strange sensation, but matsukawa held you very still in his strong arms.

"awh, baby, what's wrong?"

it didn't take a genius to figure out what his friend was doing to you, and he couldn't help but be entertained by it. the way your little face screwed up at the intrusion yet he could tell your eyes glinted with excitement at the foreign sensation. your even bit down harshly on your bottom lip as though you were trying to prevent your tongue rolling out and giving away how much you truly liked it. so fucked out you couldn't even respond to his simple question.

"look at that face. aren't you just the cutest thing?" he swiped one of his soapy hands across your nose, leaving a trail of foam in it's wake. not that you cared, you were too overcome by the feeling of hanamaki's tongue gliding in and out of your ass, and his soft lips working expertly against your puckered hole. "feel good, baby? want more?"

you hesitated, looking up at your boyfriend with a slight grimace, and he contiued, "no point in lyin'. i can see it all over your face. you like it, dont you? you don't need to be ashamed, pretty girl. we're here to take care of you, okay?" he got increasingly closer to your face as he spoke, and at the end of his question, he locked his lips with yours. and kissed back, despite the shrieks caged at the base of your throat from how good hanamaki's mouth was making you feel. in tandem with your boyfriend's fingers still sloppily thrusting into your messy cunt.

when hanamaki eventually pulled out, you were only spared a momentarily rest, as the power of matsukawa's fingers was growing by the second. perhaps you had been given relief from the tongue inserted into your hole, but the force of matsukawa's fingering was ready to lead you to your climax at any moment. and you were moaning desperately and frantically against his lips in preparation. "issei, please, please! 'm so close, fuck me faster. please, issei."

meanwhile, hanamaki had grown painfully bored. it wasn't fair that his friend got all of you attention — and why? just because the two of you were dating? rubbish.

he thought maybe while in the shower he should focus on cleaning himself. he searched for a bar of soap, then a luffa. during which, he saw one of those luffa's attached to stick hanging from the shower caddy. the stick part was likely to aid in the luffa reaching one's back, but it gave him a bright idea.

he reached over and grabbed it. and just as your insides were ready to spill all over your boyfriend's fingers stuffed into your pussy, hanamaki jams the handle right up your tight asshole. as much of the length as he could manage in one push.

"takahiro!" you squeal, your voice echoing off the walls of the shower as you finally come undone over your boyfriend's fingers. your own fluids ejecting from your pussy mixing in with the lukewarm water already dripping all down your legs.

"takahiro?" matsukawa defensively jerks his fingers straight out of your pussy upon hearing you call his friend's name instead of his own. "who has been fucking your cunt this whole time?" he argues, completely oblivious to what is going on behind the scenes.

"you like that, (y/n)?" hanamaki muses cockily, toying with the stick a tiny bit. observing how moving it only slightly would elicit such large reactions from you. "want my dick in there too? huh?"

"what?" matsukawa snips.

★ BOKUTO + ATSUMU + SAKUSA

tws & tags.. oral (m + f receiving), anal, breeding kink, impact play, rough sex, degredation, praise, squirting. won't make sense unless you read part one.

sakusa subconsciously twitches at the delicious sight of you completely bare, bent over in front of bokuto, and your glossy lips wrapped firmly around the base of atsumu's cock.

invited into the ordeal, regularly he'd turn his nose up at something like and scornfully report the indecency to the coach, but there was just something so alluring about you in this state. that's how his legs moved on their own to carry him towards your body, specifically situating himself beside bokuto and promptly kneeling down.

as he does so, his eyes are lasered to your gorgeous, gently shivering body, all bare and exposed for them. his gaze is especially stuck to your pretty, glistening cunt, currently stuffed with bokuto's beefy cock and drooling around it.

bokuto and atsumu are both in a state of shock. they're still out of breath as they were coming down from their imminent, unfulfilled orgasms, due to sakusa's rude interuption. but they can't find it in themselves to be mad or frustrated. in fact, they briefly share a look of relief with each other, due to sakusa opting to join their little tryst instead of rebuking them for it.

however, evidently some shuffling needs to be done in order to accommodate for sakusa's desires. he's on his knees beside bokuto, clearly wanting to get a taste of your pretty pussy (thankfully before it was soiled with bokuto's cum.) so bokuto, very kindly, pulls out with a lewd squelching noise, to allow kiyoomi to shuffle over between your legs so his head aligns with your cunt.

"you okay if kiyoomi joins in, baby?" atsumu asks mockingly while stroking your hair, snickering when your reply is entirely muffled by his cock stuffed in your mouth.

"she doesn't mind, do ya?" bokuto asks rhetorically, grabbing a joyous fistful of your ass as he does so. "this pussy's wet enough for all of us, huh?"

"yeah, you're a brave girl, you can handle three guys, right?" atsumu looks down at you with a condescending smirk, as he strokes your head with his thumb, "we'll be gentle with this delicate body, promise."

"you know we take good care of ya." bokuto smiles, holding his cock which has been smeared with your fluids. not that he minds, only makes it easier for him to relocate and slip it straight into your tight ass, along with the subtle forewarning, "incoming." before he jams it right into you.

atsumu laughs as he watches you eyes screw shut and your mouth twitches around his dick. "that hurt, baby?" he teases, not expecting a response. he can read it all by the mere expression on your face. it was the most sultry agony, the congestive sensation created a infectious pleasure that pervaded your entire nude body. every inch of your exposed flesh pricked in delight at how bokuto's fat length felt in your snug ass.

"shit, she's tight.." bokuto gritted, barely leaving you with any time to adjust before he automatically began rolling his hips against your ass, "don't think you'll ever pull me out of her.." he panted with a ghost of a smile.

the pace began to pick up, in every hole. atsumu held your face in place as he always did, while he fucked into it. while bokuto marvelled in the newly discovered sensation, groaning uncontrollably while slowly thrusting into your pristine asshole — very sedate and savouring every inch of you.

the new addition, sakusa, was planted between your legs. his big hand captured your thigh to hold it in place and ensure your legs were sufficiently parted. his thumb dug into your supple skin while his other hand worked at your folds, spreading them wide so he could admire your splayed pussy for a moment. then, he buried the flat of his tongue deep against your labia, and pressed his lips against your cunt — exploring your pussy thoroughly with just his mouth, investigating every dip and lapping at each part.

he was quick to locate your sensitive nub and paid it all sorts of attention: from vibrating his tongue against it to sucking on it to kissing it tenderly. all of which caused you to whine as atsumu continued to shove his cock down your throat.

"fuck— ki— mmph, kiyoomi, what're you doing t'her?" he grunted, tossing his head back from the way your mouth reverberated around his dick. "the bitch won't shut the fuck up— mgh, that slutty mouth."

sakusa didn't answer. though you did feel him smile against your juicy cunt. this confirmation was enough to persuade him to venture further. his furious make-out session with your damp pussy was halted when he abruptly chose to dive inside your hole, swiftly shoving his tongue past your entrance and worming around in your homey walls. all while his lips still moved against your puffy folds.

since he had been teetering on the edge of an orgasm right before sakusa had entered the changing room, it wasn't long before atsumu's pumping into your mouth became sporadic, and he began to lose stamina, due to his impending climax clouding his mind and draining his energy. "ah, shit, baby. you've got me so close; so god damn close. finish me off quick and i won't make a mess all in this pretty hair, mkay?" he joked (or at least, you hoped he was joking.)

"y-yeah, me too.." and bokuto was the same, although since your clenched little asshole was basically suckling on his cock, his pace had steadily been far more relaxed, holding onto your plush ass cheeks while he leisurely dragged his cock from and into your hole, exhibiting a prolonged groan each time. "shit.. look, your ass won't let go of my cock. hah, guess i gotta cum inside. you don't mind, do ya, (y/n)?"

"nah, she's used to being our cumdump." atsumu huffed a chuckle.

"damn right she is." bokuto panted with a harsh slap on your ass, causing you to clamp down on his cock which pried a stifled whimper from him. "shit." he cursed under this breath.

the bubbling pool of hot liquid within in your stomach was also growing exponentially every passing second. you were just so full; stuffed to the brim with appendages jammed into each of your pleading, desperate holes. there was no breathing room left. bokuto's monster cock was forced so far up your ass that you were left straining to try fit him all inside, a lewd stretch of your hole each time he'd push into you. along with atsumu's length, which required you to deep-throat whenever he carelessly shoved it as deep as he could physically manage.

at the cherry on top was sakusa's expert tongue rummaging around your spongy insides as though he searching for something. and he was, and you had hell to pay when he found it; your g-spot. his merciless tongue abused that shit to an unholy degree. you were only spared a break in ten second intervals when he'd yank his tongue out of your cunt so he could kiss and lap at your wet pussy, devouring your folds and licking up your juices, but that relief was fleeting, before he would dive right back into your hole and resume his torture on that gummy, sensitive spot inside you.

you weren't sure what his agenda was. why he was so adament on making you feel extraplanar levels of ecstasy, and how he possibly got off on that, but you weren't left with much time to contemplate before you were furiously orgasming aginst his face, squirting your fluids onto the floor and into his mouth while your entire body convulsed.

bokuto and atsumu quickly followed suit. "shit, (y/n), let go— your too fuckin tight— hah—" the way your ass cleched around his cock was enough to tip him over the edge. vision filled with stars, bokuto unloaded spurts of his hot seed into your asshole, filling it all up to the brim, enough cum to peek out your puckered enterance after he pulled out. "oh, fuck.. that grip.. was insane."

meanwhile atsumu experiences a similar flurry during his finish as ropes of his sticky cum are shot down your throat. his head tips back and he grinds your face down on his dick as he finished, until the tip of your nose was brushing his base, "ah, just like that, sexy. drink it all up.. keep suckin' til i'm dry, baby. i'll tell you when to stop." he blubbered all sorts of nonsense when he was high.

by the time he removed his cock from your mouth, you were too paralysed from pleasure to even move and inch, still bent over with cum sliding down your throat, and filling up your asshole too. not to mention sakusa's lips which were still locked to your pussy, but thankfully his tongue had given your g-spot a break.

bokuto motion for atsumu to come round the back, so he lurched over. bokuto spread your cheeks and planted a big hand on the small of your back to keep you bent over, as he displayed his conquest to his friend — the sight of his cum peeking out of your puckered asshole. "so damn cute." bokuto expressed triumphantly. then he tilts his head and comments, "reminds me of a cream filled donut."

"hah, fatass."

while they were engaging in their mindless patter, sakusa had finally stopped working on your pussy and stood up straight, aiding you in doing the same. when you are upright, he snakes an arm around your lower back and pulls you close against him, gazing down at you with a hungry glint in his eyes you've never seen from him before. "while they are flaccid," his hot breath tickles your lips, while the firm tent in his pants grinds against your thigh, "do i get you all to myself?"

[jupiterpilgrim]

Right Here

Karina x male reader

word count: 20k

commissioned fic

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.

—

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.

—

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.