#fluorescent snippet

[sixtysixproblems]

disaster ramble about my headcanons for how the batch got their names & etc*

*this is related to a fic of mine (fluorescent mistakes/mistakesverse), tho having read it is 100% unnecessary to understand the post, and I'll likely use some of these for other fics as well.

the only HCs you (sort of) "need" to know is cody, fox, and wolffe are "triplets", and i say fuck canon and Rex is 3 years (1.5 years) younger than CC batch. bits in italics/blue are less applicable outside of the fic itself, but still make sense without the context or i give the context.

Cody (Kote) - got the name Kote pretty young, changed it to Cody tho around 16-17ish?

>Jango gave it to him, when he was 10ish..? Possibly even a little younger. Jango intended as more of a nickname for just him to use, but obv it didn’t stay that way. Was very proud of "earning it" for a long time. >Changed it to Cody later in a not-so-subtle rebellion against Jango/the Kaminoans, and partially in an attempt to choose something for himself/have a part of his identity outside of his skill as a commander. >Still uses Kote on very rare occasions with the batch and other old friends from kamino ONLY (only exceptions to use it more being Fox who gets to call him Kot'ika, Rex who get a free pass for anything/everything) >his name backstory is probably most plot relevant cause his arc deals a LOT with identity issues & such. Might even have a flashback to him snapping at Jango that "it's cody now" > The final nail in the hammer for changing it was probably Ponds getting reconditioned**, and him partially blaming Jango for it :(

Fox - before rex was around (so pre 13)

>Got called a “fox” due to him being a sneaky clever bastard, but it wasn’t a nickname until he made it one >chose it not long after cody,  probably? >this was a pretty big deal since it wasn't a) widely used by trainers, mostly other vode, and b) he made it clear it was his name. not a nickname, not a title, his name, as opposed to his designation number >I'm considering backstory that him & colt worked together to come up with the idea to bulshit the kaminoans with "it's actually more tactically useful in battle to have recognizable nicknames for the clones", which is true, but also to limit consequences for getting caught using names. >in addition to joint guilt in the creation of Ponds's name, he's also responsible for Thorn's name by repeatedly calling him a "prick" and "thorn in my ass" on kamino (tho that's it's own post lmao).

Wolffe - before rex was around (so pre 13)

>inspired by fox, but also spells it that way to spite fox (cody gave him the idea for it lol) >cody was annoyed that wolffe clearly chose it to match fox (bitey twins, lol) since they're supposed to be triplets. wolffe enjoys pissing him off but didn't want him to feel actually left out...so cody got to help with the god awful spelling. >confused some people into thinking it was pronounced "wolf-y". this is brought to you by my friend reading fluorescent before any other piece of star wars media and assuming that. >i love the potential meaning u can take from it of him being family/"pack" oriented and how that translates over to him being very loyal, protective, etc. Aka on the surface level he's this scary grumpy guy, but deep down is just a bit of a softie/just wants to keep his family safe. >but on a less serious note, i also love all the jokes i can make cough cough omegaverse

Rex - age 10-11ish

>encouraged to pick a name out by cody to help cope with being newly reconditioned/placed with the CCs as i imagine there’d be some identity issues after that :(  >perhaps nicknamed king or little prince or smth and that's where he got the rex idea. tho tbh i have no idea >abridged fluorescent lore is that he was a particularly talented/borderline defective CT, tho albiet from a "troublesome" batch. consequently he was reconditioned pretty heavily around 9-10ish, and Jango came up with the great (sarcasm) idea to use him sort of as a "test" of what CTs were actually capable of, and had him mixed into CC training. >this is how he met the batch, after not remembering his own/many details of his life pre-recon. they were supposed to train him once or twice, but predictably adopted him.

Bly - after rex arrived (and rex got his name) but not long after, so 13?

>litterally just chose a name they liked the sound of and thought fit them like a sane person. literally the only one to pick a normal name a normal way out of the whole batch. we stan >i like the hc being short for smth (like butterfly, etc) but i dont think it works for fluorescent :/ maybe in another fic. >possible them & rex worked together to find names that fit them bc i think that'd be sweet. i dont focus on their relationship much at all so maybe a little bonding, albiet in backstory only, is in order. >she's very likely gonna be trans (mtf) in fluorescent (tho it wasn't always the plan + she is not out yet (to herself or others) in the fic itself) so I'm considering implying Bly is traditionally a female/gender-neutral name in whatever star wars culture it's "from" (aka i make shit up) >considering a joke where someone asks her if she's picking a new one after she comes out and she's like "absolutely not, it was so hard the first time i refuse to do it again".

Ponds - last to get one, 14-15ish?

>went by “four” or 54 before he got his name. >Bly sometimes jokingly called him “squared”/ ”square”/ ”cubed”/etc when they were tweens cause of the two fours in his designation number + 64 is a perfect square in math. the vode assumed he'd pick one or one would eventually catch on permanently. >...and then he shoved three separate trainers in a pond, on three separate trips no less, during off-planet training (and since I'm guessing off-planet training was very rare, wtf buddy) >and the triplets went “you know what would be funny” and just. Picked it for him, and wouldn't stop calling him that, and eventually it caught on. And there was nothing he could do about it <3 >**yes, he was reconditioned at 16-17ish. Yay....Not much of a spoiler hopefully? this may somehow be related to why he was the last to "choose" (read: accept defeat) a name, despite being a outspoknen/protective ori'vod nightmare for the Kaminoans. >dw it's not too angsty. they didn't fuck with his memories much, and were trying to change his behavior to be "less inclined to rebelliousness/contempt for authority". And if you've read his arc in fluorescent, you know they failed spectacularly at making him less likely to break the rules. >tbh I think its fitting for (how I write) his character that his name was chosen by his siblings. i think he was and is "salty" about it, but not-so-secretely touched and/or proud about it.

this whole thing was very ramble-y and i'll be surprised if more than 2 people read it, lmao, but i couldn't stop myself. a lot of this is sort of "background" and may not be actually referenced in the fic itself...but who knows.

[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.

[aquasoftware]

𖦹 SMASH OR PASS? 𖦹

Snippet | “Who you foolin’, doll? Look atcha—fuckin’ ruined for me.”

FT║ Fem!Reader ✘ Toji, F.

Desc║ A harmless Smash or Pass game in the break room turns into a real experience when Toji overhears your bold declaration—and later that night, he ensures you live up to your words.

Cw║ Smut proceed w caution, minimal plot, Co-workers trope, Dom/Sub dynamics, mānhandling, s!ze k!nk, tummy bulge, overstim, degrádàt!on/praise, creamp!e, chok!ng/breath play, light impact play, scratching/b!ting, a bit of säd!sm (?), humiliation, mirror sɛx, dumbǐfīcation, cocķ drunk reader, unrealistic d size, forced eye contact, implied consent + rough sėx.

WC ➜ 2.3K ➜ ML

15 minute read. | Fic type: Oneshot.

The break room was a breeding ground for gossip or useless conversations. An extremely comfortable olive-green sofa—dubbed the equivalent of a bear’s hibernation spot—stood out in contrast to concerningly constant flickering of fluorescent lights, an indented scent of roasted black coffee tip-toeing throughout the room, soon followed by cheap air freshener, while a few faded vending machines—marked with worn-out “Out of Order!” signs for what felt like decades completed the dreary atmosphere.

Unfortunately, the only real pop of color in the otherwise dull break room was the sofa everyone was obsessed with. And when you give employees a sofa with little else to entertain them you get insanely bored, unanimous groans echoing until someone suggests starting a corny game of smash or pass starring some other co-workers.

The thing is you weren’t particularly interested at first, completely tuning them out as you scrolled through cute orange cat videos on TikTok, your phone nestled in tired hands. That was—until someone blurted out, “Smash or pass Toji Fushiguro?”

A few people had the absolute nerve to say pass without even giving any reasoning. You broke your neck turning toward them, clicking your phone off to save a little battery—suddenly caring about the game you thought was so ‘stupid.’

You couldn’t deny it—you took that personally, as if Toji had already put a ring on your finger and asked for your hand in marriage on one bent knee. Lips parted without a second thought, you jumped in to defend him, readily interrupting, “Y’all are wild for passing thee Toji Fushiguro, but more for me, I guess. Smash. In fact, I’d let him manhandle me if I had the chance!”

You practically gushed, recalling every time his pecs looked one flex away from obliterating his poor, helpless uniform. The stretch of fabric over hard muscle, the teasing glimpse of skin whenever he rolled up his sleeves—it was certainly dangerous. And those brief glances you two shared? Just a flicker of eye contact was enough to make your heart stutter and your daydream-state brain short-circuit.

Laughter erupted, loud enough to deafen poor ears, splattered across the room, along with an appalled gasp from an observant co-worker.

“Oooh, speak of the devil…” she teased, wiggling her brows and covering her mouth.

Because, unluckily for you, Toji stood tall, folded arms, leaning against the doorway that nearly was unsuitable to fit his build. Clearly amused by your bold statement, a smirk rested easily on his face, piercing green eyes locking onto yours.

“Oh really, sweetheart?” he teased, running a hand through his short, jet-black hair. His chuckle was deep enough to shake the room, sending heat pooling between your needy thighs—yet startling enough to make your heart lurch at his unexpected presence.

“Oh my god, Toji, I didn’t mean-” you struggled to breathe out, your throat going dry as you shoved your slightly sweaty palms into your pockets.

Why’d he have to come in literally on cue? you thought, stomach twisting into knots, your skin burning like a furnace.

The room watched in silence, entranced, as if they had just been left on a cliffhanger in a movie, whispers shooting amongst them left and right.

Toji pushed off the doorframe, taking a slow step inside. “Didn’t mean it, huh?” He kissed his teeth, eyes dragging over you in a way that made your skin prickle with goosebumps. “Shame, y’seemed pretty confident about that little claim a second ago.”

“Fine, fine, I said what I said.” You huffed, rolling your eyes, forcing yourself to stand your ground—even though you weren’t prepared for him to literally make you eat your words.

Because later that night, Toji had you pinned against his bedroom wall, facing him, one sore leg flung over his shoulder—completely vulnerable to his merciless speed.

Each brutal thrust knocked the breath from your lungs, the humid air filled with loud, staggering gasps. His grip was cruel, fingers digging into your hips as he kept your wobbly leg steady, smug at the way your body trembled under his touch.

The freezing surface of the wall contrasted with the intensity between the two of you, while looking in his direction at a time like this felt impossible.

Not that he let you look away—when you did focus anywhere else feeling embarrassed by how easily you let him fuck, his big rough hand grabbed your chin forcing you to look at him.

“Shit, that’s it baby, want you to look at me while you takin’ it.” He whispered, hot breath fanning all over your ear.

Your walls fluttered violently at his sinful words, your body bouncing feebly against the wall with every ram into your velvet walls. You could hardly take his strength, nothing more than a ragdoll for him to use, each filthy, deep stroke claiming you as his property.

His thrusts alone were enough to tell you—you were his little fucktoy.

Breaking eye contact for a brief second he peeked down seeing your one unsteady leg in action, borderline hissing at him for the amount of time he had you pressed against this wall.

“Mmmh, poor thing, huh?” he sneered, proud you struggled to keep up with him. “Leg already shakin’ we’ve barely even started.”

A taunting lie.

You had been at it for hours. There was no way in hell this was just the beginning. You could barely believe your ears when he had the audacity to say otherwise.

Before you could even attempt to reply, his hand shot up to your throat, thick fingers wrapping around your neck with precise control.

He squeezed just enough to leave your head spinning, your drooling cunt twitching at the way the pressure made the pleasure more intense—hypnotic, all-consuming.

And the moment you let out those choked, gasping moans, Toji grinned like a cheshire cat.

He knew he had you.

“Ohhh, fuck yeah—there it is, mhm,” Toji murmured smoothly, placing a soft kiss on your jawline—as if he wasn’t currently scrambling your guts.

Your walls clenched around his fat length, so fucking snug, your body basically begging for more.

Mouth falling open letting out whimpers that sprang off of the thin apartment walls, eyes hazy, with furrowed brows having a mind that could hardly function as your head lolled against the wall.

The only thing you could focus on? How impossibly full you felt, every thick inch of him smothering your sweet spots.

“Shit, baby, you really are dumb for my cock, huh?”

Toji’s lips curled devilishly, ego soaring at how easily he reduced you to just this—mindless, whiney, hungry slut for him.

“Aah, y-yes, yes, yes!”

“Good answer, pretty girl.” He spat, chest looming over your smaller figure.

Body grinding up into your sweaty pelvis real slow to catch you off guard a little feeling him nudging on your throbbing clit causing you to squirm.

But that little break didn’t last for long, he was right back to slamming into your sopping hole.

“Ooh, fuck—s-slow down, s’toomuch!” you pleaded, legs trembling as another sharp stroke sent a shockwave of ecstasy straight to your core.

Your stiletto nails dug into his shoulders, scratching deep, drawing thin rivulets of blood—desperate for something, anything to hold onto.

The sting only made Toji groan, a low, thirsty sound rumbling from his chest.

“Too much? Thought you wanted some manhandlin’ sweetheart.” He mocked.

His hand left your throat solely to slap your soft tits triggering a jolt reaction in your body, eyes glued at the way they jiggled every time his cock speared into you hitting so unfathomably it made your stomach bulge.

“Can’t handle me hm?”

“I can it’s just-” You tried to argue, but your voice came out weak, wrecked, breathless—like it had run out of ink from being used too much.

Toji snickered.

“Who you foolin’ doll? Look atcha, fuckin’ destroyed for me.” His voice ridiculed, one arm wrapped under your ass, lifting you effortlessly, stepping closer to the broad black-framed mirror across his room, as he used two fingers to turn your head.

Your reflection looked absolutely torn apart.

Toji’s markings were painted all over your skin, bruises and love bites that made it painfully clear you’d need to stop by a convenience store for some heavy-duty makeup before work tomorrow.

Your pretty pussy splitting open around his thick ten-inch cock, sparkling with slick.

Your mouth fell open in pure shock, infused with just a hint of awe.

Toji smirked slyly. “Didn’t even realize how fuckin’ filthy you looked, huh?” he rasped, licking a slow stripe up the side of your neck, his sharp teeth nipping at your ear—provoking a full-body shudder.

Tiny frame looking so good blended with him, quaking, mewling, accommodating his size. Struggling, you could barely handle him, and yet, he was sure he was a perfect fit for your little cunt.

Your stomach clenched at the sight, your walls grasping around him, signaling you were close again.

Toji growled at the way you crushed him.

“Ohh fuck yeah, Y/n you like watchin’ yourself get ruined?” He cooed, vibrating his voice with lust.

His thrusts got sharper, meaner, as one of your hands slid to your lower stomach, pressing against the bulge of his ten-inches.

Melting at the feeling was honestly an understatement.

“God, you’re so deep,” you hummed, your voice thick and sultry, nearly a duplicate of aged wine.

“Yeah? You feel me right there, huh?” Toji’s almond eyes parachuted down, watching how even his curved shaft outlined inside your belly. “Bet you love bein’ stuffed like a lil’ whore.”

You eagerly nodded, your breath hitching as Toji drove into you, each ruthless snap sending blasted waves through your body.

The way he fucked you—deep, unrelenting, possessive—had your mind hazy, You could already feel it building again, that overwhelming heat coiling tight in your core, ready to burst at any moment.

The instant his thick, mushroom-shaped tip slammed against your A-spot, pleasure unfurled inside you—deep, raw, and all-consuming.

Each precise, relentless thrust sent sharp thrills of euphoria rippling through your body, the pressure working up at an unbearable pace.

Your walls fluttered around his length, as the pleasure crested violently, surging through you in frenzied, pulsing waves that left you breathless.

Your entire body tensed, every muscle seizing at once as a wave of electric desire scampered over you.

Your vision blurred, unable to focus on Toji’s face anymore, the sheer intensity washing over your senses—momentarily drowning you in the mind-numbing pleasure.

A string of blaring curses rushed out of your lips, as the climax punctured through, feeling demolishing. Fingers clenching, toes curling, your body jittering with aftershocks.

The world around you faded, leaving mainly the astounding gratification, the lingering tremors that left you stunned.

“Hahhh, oh fuck—there she goes,” Toji grunted, watching your reflection convulse, loving the way your pussy clenched down on him, gripping him so tight he pulsed inside you.

You sobbed, false lashes coming loose, tears slipping down your scorching-hot cheeks.

He didn’t slow down whatsoever.

If anything, he fucked you through your orgasm, chasing his own—dragging you along for the ride.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, hypersensitive as he kept pushing deeper, hitting that same devastating spot.

Skin slapping together rained through the entire bedroom, incapable of holding any noise back due to the immense mix of exhilaration this gave you, leaving Toji room to comment on it.

“You’re so loud, princess—y’want the whole damn building to hear us?” he scoffed, not in the mood for noise complaints later.

To solve this issue?

His pink-lips crashed against yours, swallowing your cries. The kiss was messy, drool droplets forming at the side of your mouth, a futile effort to muffle the high-pitched moans spilling into his smooth lips.

He fucked you through the overwhelming overstimulation, each deep thrust making your entire body tremble.

You were already too sensitive from previous rounds, pleasure teetering on the edge of pain, but he didn’t care—if anything, the way your walls kept suffocating him only spurred him on.

His groan was low and rough when you let out a broken, high-pitched sing-song moan, the sound shooting straight to his cock.

And with the way he was still so ridiculously hard, his length bulging against your stomach, pressing against that sensitive spot over and over?

You could barely think. A strangled whine slipped from your lips, your lashes fluttering as your vision blurred, overstimulation pulling you into a hazy, delirious state.

But Toji was right there with you.

His pace turned sloppy, thrusts losing rhythm as his control started to dissolve.

He buried his face against your skin, breath hot and heavy, panting against the shell of your ear. His grip on your waist tightened, fingers pressing into your flesh like he was trying to brand himself into you.

“Shit—gonna fuckin’ fill you up, baby. That okay?” he groaned, voice strained, desperate asking for permission.

All you could do was mumble out a frail “Yes!”

“Gonna make sure you feel me in this tummy for weeks,” he murmured, exaggerating the words, but fuck—at this point, you believed him.

Your eyes rolled back, your body going rigid as another orgasm crashed into you without warning, pleasure slamming through your veins like a lightning strike. Your walls clamped down around him so tight he nearly choked on a groan, his whole body tensing at the feeling.

That was it for him.

His hands locked onto your thighs, grip bruising as he slammed into you one final time.

His teeth sank into your shoulder, muffling his deep, wrecked moan as he came—thick, hot spurts spilling deep inside you, emptying himself like he hadn’t had sex in months.

Another pulse sent another sharp jolt of pleasure through you, making your legs shake as he fucked his release deeper, hips jerking uncontrollably with every last drop.

“Fuuuuck, fuck, fuck, Y/nnnnnnn,” he sighed, voice heavy with exhaustion and bliss.

His head fell back, eyes screwed shut, his cock still twitching inside your spent, quivering walls.

His arms tightened around you, locking you in place against his chest, making sure none of it went to waste—making sure you took all of him. You shuddered in his hold, completely wrecked, all his.

That bastard just smirked, pressing lazy kisses to your cheek.

“If I knew you were fangirling like that,” he muttered, cockiness entwined his tone, “I would’ve given you an autograph sooner, sweet thing.”

➜ ML

➜ I don't usually write rough sėx so, I hope you enjoyed 😋

➜ A rb, like, or comment is highly appreciated!!

Divider creds | enchanthings-a + hyuneskkami.

[melanchoire]

THE MIDNIGHT DETOUR ──── yu jimin

── ( 🌸 ) the constant jabs and petty games with your nemesis karina reach a boiling point at a party, culminating in a bathroom encounter where heated arguments give way to an even hotter, forbidden connection you never saw coming.

pairing. dom!popular girl!karina x sub!riival!fem reader

warning(s). bitting, degradation, fingering, hate sex???, making out, thigh riding.

word count. 4,8k

the fluorescent lights of the school hallway hummed, a monotonous soundtrack to the daily drama unfolding around you. you gripped your textbooks tighter, the worn covers offering a small comfort as you navigated the crowded space. ot wasn't just the sheer volume of bodies that made it feel like a minefield; it was them. the “ae-girls” as the student body had so aptly nicknamed karina's group. they moved through the corridors like royalty, their beauty a blinding force field that seemed to repel anyone who dared to stray too close.

you'd seen it happen with other groups before, the casual cruelty of popularity. but with karina and her crew, it felt different. more personal, more... calculated. you were no stranger to loud, boisterous friend groups. your own friends were certainly a handful, their humor sometimes landing with a thud outside your inner circle. but karina's group was something else entirely. it was a finely tuned symphony of subtle jabs, barely concealed snickers, and outright antagonism.

the “ae-girls” were a constant, irritating hum in your otherwise relatively quiet existence. you knew, rationally, that cliques and social dynamics were the lifeblood of high school, but you couldn't shake the feeling that they were deliberately, maliciously, targeting you.

ever since the day you'd first bumped into karina —literally, colliding mid-hallway, sending textbooks scattering across the floor— there had been a palpable tension, a current of electricity charged with something you couldn't quite name. it wasn’t just the typical high school drama. it felt as though they were actively trying to burrow under your skin, to find that one loose thread that would unravel you entirely.

the whispers were the first thing you noticed. walking past the ae-girls, you’d catch snippets of conversation, their eyes darting in your direction, their lips twitching with suppressed laughter. it was a performance of complicity, a silent communication that excluded you, that made you feel like the butt of some private joke you could never understand.

then there was winter. her method was more physical, a jarring disruption to your daily routine. you remember the chill of that particular day; the fluorescent lights of the hallway hummed as you walked, heading to math class, minding your own business, reviewing quadratic formulas in your head. she walked with a deliberate swagger, her blonde hair swinging around her face like a halo of mischief and suddenly, a sharp, unexpected impact sent you staggering. winter, all sleek lines and effortless cool, had deliberately slammed her shoulder into yours, a calculated, almost predatory move. you flinched, the force of the blow rattling your teeth.

“watch it.” you’d muttered, more surprised than angered.

winter just smirked, a tiny, almost petulant curve of her lips. “maybe you should be more aware of your surroundings.” her voice was a low, velvety purr, that made you shiver and not in a good way. she barely glanced back as she continued walking, her laughter mingling with giselle and ningning who were on her side.

and then there were giselle and ningning, the twin guardians of silent judgment, their gazes like a brand. you’d learned to recognize their looks, the heavy scrutiny that followed you down the hallway, the air thick with unspoken criticism. it felt like being dissected under a microscope, every movement, every imperfection magnified and analyzed.

you always see them in the mornings when students enter school, clustered near the lockers, bathed in the cold light.

giselle and ningning, their dark eyes flitting over the crowd, scanning for… what? targets? you swallowed, feeling the familiar pinprick of unease as their gazes landed on you, lingered, and then, with a barely perceptible smirk, moved on. it was always like this. they never said anything, but their looks spoke volumes, dissecting you, judging you with a silent, almost telepathic precision that made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

you remember one time, you were heading to the library. your footsteps echoed on the polished floor; the heavy silence was interrupted as you noticed them, they were in the corner talking with their heads down. when you passed by they raised their heads at the same time and stared, giving you a look that would curdle milk.

“what are you staring at?” you’d asked, your voice a little sharper than you’d intended. you stopped right in front of them.

giselle and ningning exchanged a look, a silent conversation that seemed to happen before your very eyes. they said nothing, their expression unchanging, a mask of detached disapproval. then, without another word, they simply turned and walked away, leaving you feeling exposed and foolish.

but karina... she was the epicenter of it all. you saw her, leaning against the lockers, her expression unreadable. she was breathtakingly beautiful, her features sharp and elegant, framed by the dark curtain of her hair. it was an unfair level of beauty, the kind that stopped you in your tracks, that made you forget everything else for a fleeting, agonizing moment. her beauty was a weapon, you thought, sharper and more dangerous than any of the subtle jabs her friends threw your way.

and it wasn't just her looks. it was the way she carried herself, the confidence that radiated from her like a heat wave. it was her voice, low and melodic, with a subtle rasp that sent a shiver down your spine despite yourself. you hated that voice. you hated the way it could draw you in, even as it was dripping with sarcasm and disdain. you hated the way it made you feel.

she was the one who always escalated, who threw herself into the fray, whether it was a confrontation with winter’s casual cruelty or an argument about giselle and ningning's incessant staring. she wasn't just a bystander; she was an active participant, a conductor of the symphony of your discomfort. you had plenty of fights with her, both verbal and physical, though they never quite got violent.

you remembered the first time you had spoken to her. it had been over a misplaced library book, a clumsy misunderstanding that had felt utterly catastrophic at the time. you had tried, stammering and flustered, to explain the situation, but karina had interrupted, her voice cool and laced with barely concealed amusement. “you always make such a mess.” she had said, looking at you with those piercing, dark eyes. “it's almost impressive.” you had been mortified, your cheeks burning with shame and anger. it wasn't just the words, but the way she said them, with a hint of something… else. something that you couldn’t quite place but that made your stomach churn in a way that felt both awful and exhilarating.

or the time when winter bumped into you, you'd been about to yell at winter but karina was there, stepping in front of winter. but instead of offering you a kind look of concern, she followed it with a sharp glance at you, a small, almost imperceptible curve to her lips that made you wonder if she was secretly mocking you even as she appeared to defend you. “you need to watch where you're going, clumsy.” she’d said, her voice laced with a kind of mocking amusement. her gaze was intense, and you found yourself inexplicably drawn to the rich depths of her dark eyes.

“i wasn't the one who bumped into someone!” you retorted, your hands balling into fists.

karina leaned closer, her breath fanning against your cheek. “maybe if you weren't so busy daydreaming, you would have seen her coming.” she said, her tone dripping with condescension. the way she talked to you was so infuriating, but her voice... it was like a melody, a song that somehow wrapped around you and made it difficult for you to think. you could have listened to her speak for hours.

when giselle and ningning’s silent stares became unbearable, and you dared to call them out, it was karina again, her voice cutting through the tension. “leave her alone, girls. don’t waste your time on her.” and again, that look, that strange mix of disdain and something… unreadable.

it was infuriating. it was mesmerizing. and it was, you had to admit, utterly confusing. you hated the way karina's presence could disrupt your carefully constructed world, the way she could make your heart pound in your chest with a mix of anger and... something else you didn't quite understand. it wasn't just that she was beautiful, it was the way she seemed to see you, to pierce through your carefully constructed facade and to see something hidden beneath the surface.

today, as you walked past her, you kept your gaze fixed ahead, trying to pretend she wasn't there, yet you could feel her eyes on you, heavy and intense. you could feel the faint warmth rising to your cheeks, and you hated it. you hated the way she could make you feel like a teenager again, all awkward and flustered. and yet, deep down, nestled within the layers of frustration and anger, there was a different feeling stirring, a confusing flutter that felt dangerously close to... not hate.

you wanted to scream at her, to demand an explanation, to ask her why she treated you this way. but the words caught in your throat, swallowed by the strange ache that pulsated beneath your skin. you wanted to hate her. you wanted to erase her from your mind. but you knew, with a certainty that both terrified and excited you, that was impossible. because, beneath the layers of annoyance and antagonism, a strange and unnerving tension had begun to simmer, a tension that felt like a tightrope walk between loathing and something else entirely - something that felt incredibly dangerous. and incredibly, impossibly, alluring.

you wanted to hate her. but you were starting to wonder if you were already too far gone. the way those dark eyes held yours just a little too long, the way her voice wrapped around your name with a subtle rasp… it was starting to feel personal. and that, more than anything else, was terrifying.

the bass thrummed through the floor, vibrating up your legs and into your chest. it was the kind of party where the music was loud enough to drown out thought, where the air hung thick with sweat and the scent of cheap beer. around you, your friends were a cacophony of boisterous laughter and half-finished stories, their words washing over you like meaningless static. you nodded along, offered the occasional ‘yeah’ or ‘no way’ but your attention was elsewhere, a magnetic pull you couldn't quite ignore.

karina.

there she was, across the crowded living room, tucked away in a shadowed corner like a stray star. alone. it was a sight so incongruous with the image you had built of her – surrounded by her ‘ae-girls,’ her loyal pack – that it almost made you stop breathing. she was leaning against the wall, her gaze fixed on something beyond the party, a melancholic air clinging to her like the smoke from a forgotten cigarette.

a smirk played on your lips. this was it. an opportunity, maybe even an invitation, to finally cut through the layers of manufactured arrogance she wore like expensive perfume. you hadn't come here tonight expecting anything more than the usual awkward small talk and forced laughter, but the universe, in its twisted sense of humor, had presented you with this.

you excused yourself from your group, their chatter fading into the background as you navigated the sea of bodies. each step you took felt deliberate, a purposeful march towards a confrontation that you knew, deep down, you craved. when you finally reached her, the space between you felt charged, the air crackling with the unspoken history you shared.

“the queen bee without her hive. playing bad all by yourself, are you?” the words were out of your mouth before you could bite them back, a challenge laced with the bitterness you’d come to associate with her. you stood a few feet away, arms crossed, trying to look unaffected by the way her eyes snapped up and locked with yours. those eyes, you were sure, could freeze hell itself.

karina turned her head slowly, her eyes, sharp and obsidian, locking onto yours. a flicker of something – was it a surprise? – crossed her face before her usual mask of indifference slid back into place. “and you…” she drawled, her voice a low, velvety purr that sent a shiver down your spine despite your best efforts to remain stoic.

a slow, predatory smile bloomed on her face, the kind that promised trouble and the thrill of a dangerous game. “and you’re here, i see. did you forget everyone else, or were you always this obsessed with me?” her voice, the honeyed velvet you secretly adored, sent shivers down your spine, a sensation you would vehemently deny if asked.

"obsessed? please. i just thought you looked a little lonely without your little band of tormentors around to back you up.” you retorted, leaning closer, the scent of her perfume, a heady mix of sandalwood and something dangerously floral, filling your senses. “i just didn’t expect to find you all alone, stripped of your little lapdogs. It’s almost…disarming.” it was a weak jab, you knew it, but it was enough to elicit a low, throaty laugh from her.

her lips curled into a smirk, a flash of white teeth that made your stomach clench. “disarming? honey, you have no idea what kind of power i hold, with or without those girls behind me.” she took a step closer, narrowing the distance between you, the heat rolling off her body like a tangible thing.

“and sweetheart,” she purred, taking a step closer, the gap between you closing, the air crackling between you, “we’re just having a little fun here. you, on the other hand, seem a little… preoccupied.”

the heat in your cheeks had nothing to do with the stifling air. your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. “preoccupied? i’m… i'm just stating facts.”

“are you?” she whispered, moving closer, her breath ghosting over your ear, “or are you just looking for a little attention from someone who can actually handle you?”

a strange, dizzying sensation twisted in your stomach. it wasn't a question, it was a declaration, a challenge thrown down like a gauntlet. “handle me? you think you can handle me? you're all bark and no bite. without giselle's death stares, winter's shoulder bumps, and ningning's silent judgments, you're nothing.”

she didn't answer. instead, she reached out, her fingers brushing against your arm, a touch that sent a surge of electricity through your veins. “come with me.” she murmured, her voice a low command that you found yourself strangely compelled to obey.

and just like that, you were following her, weaving through the crowd, away from the music and the noise, towards the back of the house, a place you knew was usually empty, and a strange sense of dread and anticipation began to bubble inside of you.

you found yourselves in a small, dimly lit bathroom. the music was muffled here, the air thick with the scent of stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. you leaned against the cold tile wall, the back of your head thudding softly as you tried to catch your breath, and karina stepped inside; she turned and locked the door.

she didn't speak, didn’t even look at you directly for a moment. she just stood there, a few feet away, her eyes watching you like a predator sizing up its prey. you tried to hold her gaze, but the intensity was too much, and your eyes drifted to her lips, the curve of them, the hint of a smirk playing on the corners.

“so…” she drawled, her voice low and husky, “what exactly did you want from me?”

your mind was a blank slate, your carefully constructed arguments dissolving into nothingness. “i— i don't know…” you stammered, hating the way you suddenly felt, small and unsure, completely at her mercy.

karina laughed, a short, sharp sound that was more taunt than amusement. “that’s what i thought.” she moved without warning, closing the distance between you in two quick strides. her hand shot out to grab your chin, tilting your head up so that you were forced to meet her gaze. “ypu're not so tough when it comes to me, are you?”

before you could form a coherent thought, her lips were on yours, a bruising, demanding kiss that stole your breath away. it was everything you had wanted, everything you had never dared to dream of, all wrapped up in one intoxicating moment. you instinctively kissed back, your body responding to hers with a desperate need that shocked you.

her hands roamed, tracing the curve of your jaw, delving into your hair, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush against each other. you could feel every inch of her, the heat of her skin pressing against yours, the hard muscle beneath her soft curves.

“you like this, don't you?" she murmured against your lips, her voice laced with a smugness that both infuriated and aroused you. “you like that i’m the one in control. you like that i decide when to kiss you, what to do with you.” she punctuated her words with sharp little bites on your bottom lip, sending shivers of pleasure through you.

her hands began to roam, tracing the curves of your body, sending sparks of desire through your veins. she explored your waist, the curve of your hip, and the small of your back with a boldness that made you breathless. her fingers brushed the edges of your clothes, teasing and taunting you with their delicate touch.

her hands pushed at your shirt, sliding beneath the hem, her cool fingers sending jolts of electricity through you. you whimpered, a mix of protest and surrender. she chuckled, a low rumble against your ear.

her hand slid down lower, finding the waistband of your pants, her fingers teasing you, sending sparks of sensation through your core. “tell me,” she breathed into your ear. “tell me you want this.”

you wanted to deny it, to pull away, to reassert some semblance of control. but the words caught in your throat, replaced by a soft moan as her fingers found their mark, slick heat blooming between your legs. “karina please—”

“you're so easy,” she murmured against your lips, her breath hot and intoxicating. “i could do anything to you right now and you wouldn't stop me.” the words were degrading, a calculated humiliation, but instead of anger, you felt a strange thrill course through you, a sense of surrender that was both terrifying and irresistible.

you pulled back slightly, your breath coming in ragged gasps. “you’re so mean.” you whispered, your voice trembling, the truth of her words hitting home with full force.

she laughed, a low, throaty sound that reverberated through your body. “and you love it.” she said, her eyes sparkling with a dangerous glint, pulling you closer once more, the dance of dominance and submission continuing. the kiss was deeper, more passionate, her tongue exploring your mouth with a confident, practiced ease. you were lost in her, drowning in the force of her touch and the intoxicating pull of her personality, the feeling of a strange mix of fear and a longing that you never knew you possessed.

you, completely overtaken with sensation, didn't even realize how long you were in there, or how much her words both insulted and intoxicated you, but as the kiss deepened, and her hands roamed more, the reality that your friends were probably looking for you, and just the whole situation in general, slowly began to cloud the haze of lust.

she takes you out of your thoughts when her deft fingers made quick work of the button on your jeans. karina smirked as she slowly slid her hand into your unzipped jeans, teasingly tracing the lace of your panties. she rubbed your clothed slit with the heel of her palm, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm.

karina's voice was a low, urgent growl in your ear. "fuck, you're so wet already… is all this because of those stupid kisses i just gave you a few moments ago? or have you been this wet all night since you got here because your little head has been thinking about me touching you? dirty slut… getting this turned on in public. i bet you want my fingers buried inside your tight little cunt, don't you?”

karina's nimble fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your panties, teasing along your clothed slit. she rubbed slow, maddening circles over your clothed clit, applying just enough pressure to make your toes curl in your shoes. “that's why you always give attitude, isn't it? is giving dirty looks and a bitchy attitude your way of saying you want me to fuck you silly?” her other hand slid under your shirt, caressing the smooth skin of your tummy before cupping your breast, kneading the supple flesh.

“poor little thing... you must be really desperate, aren't you? karina purred, feeling the dampness seeping through the fabric. she slipped a finger under the waistband and pulled your panties aside, exposing your bare, glistening folds.

karina dragged a single fingertip along your slit, barely grazing your sensitive flesh, from your entrance up to your clit. she circled the throbbing bud with maddening slowness, not quite touching it directly.

“please—”

karina chuckled darkly at your needy plea, relishing the power she held over you. she continued her torturous teasing, now running two fingers slowly up and down your dripping slit, spreading your wetness throughout all your folds and then slipping her finger just barely inside your tight entrance, only to pull it out and circle your clit again.

“please what, baby? say it.” karina demanded, her hot breath washing over your neck. she nipped at your earlobe, tugging it between her teeth. “beg for my fingers like a good little slut.”

“please no, this is embarrassing, i—”

"but you're so wet… i can feel it dripping down your thighs. you want my fingers so badly, don't you slut?” she circled your clit once more, drawing a needy whimper from your lips before finally, mercifully, pressing down on the sensitive nub. “c’mon, baby. tell me how badly you need my fingers buried deep in this hungry cunt. i want to hear you say it.” she rasped, her voice thick with lust and dominance.

karina smirked as she felt your body tremble against hers, your breathing growing ragged. she loved reducing you to this desperate, aching mess. her finger traced maddening circles around your entrance, dipping just the tiniest bit inside before retreating, over and over.

“please, karina... please fuck me.” you gasped out, too far gone to hold back your plea. “i need your fingers so badly. i'm so fucking wet and empty... please fill me up.”

karina let out a low, wicked laugh. “mmmh, good girl. i love when you beg for it.” she purred approvingly. without warning, she plunged two fingers deep into your soaked, clenching heat, pumping them in and out at a brutal pace.

“that's it, take my fingers like the greedy little slut you are.” karina growled, her thumb grinding against your clit. her other hand shoved your bra up and out of the way, allowing her to roughly palm and squeeze your bare breast, rolling and pinching the stiff peak.

the bathroom filled with the obscene sound of your wetness, the slap of karina's palm against your pussy, and your desperate, wanton moans.

karina's fingers curled inside you, stroking your g-spot with ruthless precision as she finger-fucked you mercilessly. her thumb rubbed tight circles around your clit, the stimulation overwhelming your senses.

“fuck, baby, your cunt is gripping my fingers so tightly. i can feel you getting close.” karina rasped, her voice heavy with lust. she leaned in, biting and sucking at your neck, determined to leave her mark on your skin.

suddenly, she pulled her fingers out, leaving you empty and aching. before you could protest, she slammed you against the bathroom wall. her lips crashed against yours in a bruising, demanding kiss, her tongue invading your mouth.

karina grabbed your wrists, pinning your hands above your head as she kissed you deeply, swallowing your whimpers and moans. her knee pressed between your thighs, rubbing against your dripping, throbbing clit. she broke the kiss, both of you panting heavily.

she smirked wickedly as she felt you grinding your hips against her thigh, desperate for any friction. karina grabbed your ass, squeezing the firm cheeks as she encouraged your movements.

“that's it, ride my thigh like the needy little slut you are.” karina purred, her voice dripping with dark amusement. she could feel your wetness soaking through her jeans, staining the denim. the bathroom echoed with the obscene sound of your pussy rubbing against her thigh, your panting breaths, and karina's approving moans.

keeping your wrists pinned above you, karina leaned in to attack your neck, biting and sucking at the tender skin. she wanted to mark you, to leave you with bruises and hickies that would remind you of this moment every time you looked in the mirror.

karina roughly palmed your bare breast, rolling and pinching the stiff peak between her fingers. she tugged and plucked at your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core.

karina could feel your movements growing erratic, your desperation reaching a fever pitch as you rutted against her thigh. she could tell you were teetering on the edge, your body tensing and shaking.

“c’mon baby, cum for me.” karina purred, her voice a sinful whisper against your ear. “i want to feel you gush all over my thigh. go ahead, let go and cum like the dirty girl you are.”

to push you over the precipice, karina pinched your nipple hard, twisting it as she bit down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, breaking the skin. at the same time, she pressed her thigh harder against your clit, grinding against it with ruthless intensity.

the combination of intense sensations overwhelmed you, and you shattered, coming undone against her. your vision went white as your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing and shaking uncontrollably. karina held you tight, not letting you fall as your pussy clenched and spasmed, gushing your release onto her thigh as a scream of ecstasy ripped from your throat.

ehe continued to grind her thigh against your spasming sex, drawing out your climax and making you ride out the waves of pleasure.

when your orgasm finally began to subside, karina captured your lips in a searing, dominating kiss. she plundered your mouth, her tongue stroking and caressing every inch of you, swallowing your whimpers and moans. her hands roamed your body, squeezing and groping your curves possessively.

finally, she pulled back, leaving you gasping and boneless against the wall, your chest heaving. “mmmh, look at the mess you made, you naughty girl…” karina teased, trailing her fingers through the damp patch before bringing them to her mouth. she made a show of licking your juices off, her eyes never leaving yours. “delicious. i knew you'd taste as good as you look.”

her hand slid around your hip, squeezing the curve of your ass as she pressed closer, pinning you neatly between her body and the wall. karina's lips found your neck once more, her mouth hot and open against your skin.

karina pulled back slightly, her dark eyes glinting with mischief and unquenched desire. she glanced at her phone, a smirk playing on her lips. "shit, look at the time. i gotta jet…”

karina cursed under her breath but quickly composed herself, stepping back from you. she smirked as she glanced down at your disheveled appearance; your jeans still unbuttoned, your shirt rumpled, and your hair mussed. the satisfied flush on your cheeks was unmistakable.

“we'll definitely do this again.” she said casually, as if finger-fucking you senseless in a bathroom was an everyday occurrence for her. “but don't think this is over. i'm not done with you yet, not by a long shot."

karina leaned in close, her lips brushing yours teasingly as she whispered. “i'll find you later. maybe tonight, i'll sneak into your dorm room and finish what we started here. wear something easy to take off.” she purred, before stealing a quick, hard kiss and pulling away.

with a final wink, karina turned and sauntered out of the bathroom, leaving you dazed, aroused, and eagerly anticipating her promised nighttime visit. you knew this was only the beginning of your adventures with the infamous queen bee, karina.

[idiopath-fic-smile]

so literally eight years ago i posted a snippet of a modern retelling of Much Ado About Nothing set in a student co-op and for no particular reason, the concept is tickling my brain right now. so uh here, have this? i guess?

“So, Ursula, my dear,” said Lee, taking the seat across from her at the dinner table. “My fluffy little crumpet. My buttery brioche bun. My tangy slice of pumpernickel—”

Ursula squinted up from her Anthro reading. “Uh-oh,” she said. “You only call me bread when I’m in trouble.”

“Happened to glance at the meeting notes this morning,” Lee continued, her voice rising. “You’ve got anything you wanna explain or defend?”

Ursula flicked her highlighter from one finger to the other, determined to play it cool. “I think it’s all pretty self-explanatory. Which meeting notes, exactly, were you glancing at?” She peeked out of the corner of her eye to check how this was going down. 

Poorly. 

Lee stared at her, apparently at a loss for words, which was not a great look for the house president.

“You did this more than once.”

“I take notes every meeting, Lee,” she said, as levelly as possible given how Lee’s ‘I’m not angry, just disappointed’ Mom vibes were oozing from every pore. “It’s my job, as house secretary.”

“Is it?” said Lee tightly. “Is it your job?” She whisked opened her laptop and read aloud: 

“Benedick’s eyes blazed with passionate fury. His nostrils quivered. ‘Well,’ he said in a low growl, hair resplendent under the environmentally friendly fluorescent lights, ‘personally, I think if anything, there's not ENOUGH lentils—’ Beatrice gasped. It was so wrong, and yet…”

Ursula winced. “‘Said in a low growl’ is wordy. I should’ve just put ‘growled’.”

Lee pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ursula,” she began, “just how much of our official co-op house notes, which by the way are formally submitted each month to the Co-op Board, are written as if Benedick and Beatrice’s stupid arguments are some kind of torrid Harlequin paperback?”

“That depends.” Ursula steepled her fingers, dropping the highlighter in the process. “How much of my notes do you have access to?”

“All of them,” Lee gritted out. “Because they’re public. That’s what I’m saying.”

 “Look,” said Ursula. “I don’t think I said this when I ran, but I wanted to be house secretary in the first place because a lot of the time, taking notes is the only way I can make myself concentrate. I would literally be taking notes during the meeting anyway. It’s an ADHD thing.” 

Ursula sighed. “And pretty early on, it became clear that meetings in Messina House are basically just a Sexual Tension Thunderdome for Benedick and Beatrice. They go back and forth for pages sometimes. I can feel every electrical connection in my brain fighting to zone out. So yeah. For a while I rewrote their fights as rhymed couplets, for a very short bit of time I had Balthazar set them to sea shanties, and since last December, I’ve been transcribing very close to their actual words, with very close to their actual intentions, plus just a tiny bit of genre trimmings. If they’re gonna waste my Saturday and test my focus, I’m doing what I can to stay awake and keep my typing fingers limber. I’m up to 75 WPM, by the way.”

“December?” Lee repeated. “Ursula, it’s October. You’ve been doing this for over a semester?” A terrible wave of realization seemed to sweep over her just then, regarding the general pacing and content of a standard Harlequin. “Please tell me,” she whispered, “there is no sex in the meeting notes—”

“There’s no sex in the meeting notes,” Ursula interrupted. “Per se,” she added under her breath.

Lee’s lips were pressed together into a thin line. “One year,” she said. “I want one year where nobody drives a motorcycle down the hallway or accidentally mixes up chlorine gas during their bathroom clean, or spends almost a full calendar year slipping smut into the public record—!”

“Excuse you,” said Ursula. “Smut’s a different genre altogether. This is romance. Slow-burn, enemies to lovers.”

Lee threw up her hands, nearly knocking over her laptop. “What are you gonna do if Benedick or Beatrice sees this?” “Oh.” Ursula froze. “Uh-oh.”

“Yeah, uh-oh,” she said. “Look, clearly there’s only one thing to do.”

Ursula nodded. “Right, we have to execute a series of far-fetched shenanigans designed to turn those two fighting fish into a pair of cooing lovebirds, stat.”

“No,” said Lee. “What? No, you need to go back and rewrite all of—”

Pedro slid into the room in his socks. “Oh sweet, are we hooking up Benedick with Beatrice?”

“Hell yeah,” said Ursula. They high-fived.

Lee closed her laptop with a snap. “Ursula, what are the odds,” she said, “that you actually buckle down and rewrite all of the meeting notes to read like they were written in the genre of meeting notes?”

“Oh, like, zero,” said Ursula, as Pedro chimed in, 

“Yeah, that will not happen.”

Lee looked despairingly back and forth between Ursula and Pedro. “What do you think is the likelihood that playing love gods will like, actually, genuinely work?”

“Twenty percent,” said Ursula.

Margaret glanced up from the other end of the table, where she was gluing together a collage of every restaurant on campus that had ever given her food poisoning. It was for class, was the thing.

Art school kids, man.

“We’re tricking Benedick and Beatrice into giving themselves over to their intense chemistry?” asked Margaret.

“Thirty percent,” said Ursula, because Margaret was inscrutable much of the time but surely they would have a fighting chance with more of the Humanities on their side.

At “intense chemistry,” Lee shuddered. “That reminds me,” she said, standing and scooping up her laptop, “I need to post a sign in the basement bathroom warning people not to mix bleach with acid.”

“Are you in?” said Pedro as Lee attempted to slip out the door. “Love Gods?”

“Jesus Christ,” said Lee.

“Not a love god,” Margaret announced. She had found the sequins, and was applying them with enthusiasm. “Except in the general Peace on Earth sense, I guess.”

“I’m texting Hero,” said Ursula, digging for her phone. “She knows Beatrice better than anyone. She’ll have tips. That puts our potential success rate at 45%, easy.”

“If we’ve got Hero, we’ve got Claudia,” Pedro added. “And she’s been BFF with Benedick since freshman year.”

“This is a terrible plan,” Lee muttered. “Yeah,” said Ursula, “but you implied it yourself. If, uh, certain parties see my meeting notes, they will murder me. Do you really want a fellow co-oper’s blood on your hands?”

Just then, Benedick burst into the room, Beatrice on his heels.

“I’m sorry,” Beatrice shouted, “are you genuinely trying to argue that soybeans are the superior legume? Soybeans? Over chickpeas? Over kidney beans? Hell, over peas?”

“Soy milk,” said Benedick, counting on his fingers, “silken tofu, miso, tempeh, firm tofu—”

Beatrice took a step closer to him, eyes flashing, “I have never in my life had tempeh that tasted like anything other than an evil Cliff Bar.”

“It’s not my fault your tastebuds were installed backwards,” said Benedick. “This from the woman who still, in the year of some people’s lord 2024, thinks lattes are ‘too trendy’—”

“Espresso is a waste of coffee grounds,” said Beatrice in a low, dangerous voice.

Benedick gasped. “You take that back.”

Beatrice took a step closer. “Coldbrew has more flavor and more caffeine.”

“Coldbrew,” Benedick echoed, stepping even closer. “You’re defending that swill over a nice mocha? Get latte’s name out of your mouth.”

Benedick and Beatrice were standing almost nose to nose, breathing hard.

“You know what?” said Lee from the door. “Ursula? Fuck it, I’m in.”

Ursula whooped. Margaret reached for the glitter glue. Benedick and Beatrice visibly both ran through their mental rolodexes of coffee-related insults. 

From the entryway came the distant revving of a motorcycle engine. Borachio was no doubt doing wheelies in the foyer again, but that was a problem for house presidents, not innocent house secretaries who had done no wrong, thought Ursula as she returned to her reading and her growing mental to-do list.

[diamonddaze01]

69. "You know my name?" + chan omg im begging u or ill beat u to it and write it (lol stares at all my wips 💀)

call me by my name

Pairing: lc x f!reader | wc: 971 words prompt: "You know my name?" au: university au! | warnings: none a/n: HANEULLLLL thank u for the ask this was so cute and fun to write i hope you love it <33333

The lecture hall buzzed with the usual pre-class noise—pens tapping against desks, chairs creaking as students settled in, snippets of conversation floating from every direction. The air carried a faint hum of fluorescent lights, blending into the background chaos. You sat at your usual spot in the front row, pen poised and ready, eyes skimming the lecture notes you’d pulled up on your laptop.

Behind you, it was less preparation and more pandemonium.

“Seungkwan, what the fuck! Stop throwing shit at me!”

You didn’t have to look to know it was Soonyoung. His voice carried, loud and incredulous as always.

“That’s not throwing—it’s called handing,” Seungkwan shot back, his words dripping with mock seriousness. “Get some spatial awareness, idiot.”

The sound of a paper airplane slicing through the air followed, landing somewhere near your seat. You glanced down briefly at the crumpled attempt at aerodynamics before looking back at your notes.

“Is that supposed to be a plane or modern art?” another voice chimed in—Chan this time, laughter in his tone.

Turning your head slightly, you caught sight of the trio in their usual seats toward the back. Soonyoung had crossed his arms, glaring at the offending paper in Chan’s hand. Seungkwan was smirking triumphantly, leaning back in his chair with his arms behind his head.

“Give it here,” Chan said, snatching the airplane and inspecting it with exaggerated care. “Yeah, no. This isn’t a plane. This is, like… a bird that forgot how to fly.”

The paper flew again—this time courtesy of Chan—and barely made it past the second row before nose-diving onto the floor. The resulting laughter spread like wildfire across the room, even prompting a raised eyebrow from Professor Lee, who was just arriving.

“If the three of you could channel even half this energy into engineering,” the professor said, setting down his coffee with a thud, “you might actually pass this class.”

A round of chuckles rippled through the room as Chan held up his hands in mock surrender. “We’ll consider it!”

You shook your head, letting the familiar chaos wash over you. It had been like this all semester—Chan, Seungkwan, and Soonyoung acting as the unofficial class entertainment. Their antics had a way of filling the space, loud enough to distract but not enough to pull you from your work.

Professor Lee called the class to order, his voice steady as he launched into announcements. You settled in, fingers flying over your keyboard as you took notes.

Until he dropped the bomb.

“Alright, folks, listen up,” Professor Lee announced, raising his voice over the chatter. “Big news today—it’s time to kick off your group projects.”

Groans and murmurs spread through the room like wildfire. People immediately started swiveling in their seats, calling out to friends to lock in their groups before anyone got left behind.

You stayed put, as you always did. You’d learned from experience—being the quiet one meant waiting out the storm. Once the dust settled, you’d deal with whatever scraps of a team were left.

“The project is worth thirty percent of your grade,” Professor Lee continued, adjusting his glasses. “So choose wisely.”

“Thirty percent?” someone whispered behind you.

“Yeah, that’s fucked,” another voice muttered.

You ignored them, jotting down the project details from the board. If no one picked you, you’d just work alone—it wasn’t ideal, but you’d survive. Your eyes flicked back to your laptop, but before you could even finish writing down the assignment details, a shadow fell over your desk. You blinked up, startled, only to see Chan grinning down at you, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket.

“Uh, hi?” you said cautiously.

“Wanna be in a group with me and my friends?” He jerked his thumb toward Seungkwan and Soonyoung, who were mid-wrestle over a pencil in the back corner of the room.

Your pen froze mid-word. “You… know my name?”

Chan tilted his head like you’d just asked him if the sky was blue. “Uh, yeah? Considering you’re the one who ruins the curve every time… yes, I know your name.”

Oh.

“But also,” he continued, “you clearly know what you’re doing, and we’d be stupid not to team up with you.”

You blinked, your brain short-circuiting for a moment. “Okay.”

His grin widened, and he gestured for you to follow him.

By the time you reached Seungkwan and Soonyoung, they’d paused their argument and were now watching you with matching mischievous smirks.

“So,” Seungkwan said, leaning closer to Chan, “you actually got her to join us, huh?”

“Guess today’s my lucky day,” Chan muttered, side-eyeing him.

Soonyoung jabbed Seungkwan in the ribs, grinning like an idiot. “Told you he wouldn’t chicken out.”

“Shut up,” Chan hissed, his ears already pink.

But Seungkwan wasn’t done. “You didn’t have to use the whole ‘you ruin the curve’ thing. You could’ve just said, ‘Hey, I think you’re super smart and pretty, and I totally have a crush on you.’”

Chan’s eyes widened as if someone had just slapped him with a textbook. “What the fuck—”

“Or,” Soonyoung added, tapping his chin theatrically, “you could’ve been, like, ‘I sit two rows behind you every day because your hair smells like strawberries.’”

“I do not—”

Seungkwan gasped, fake-shocked. “Oh my God, you’ve smelled her hair?”

Chan groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I hate both of you.”

You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing, covering your mouth as the trio dissolved into chaos.

“Don’t listen to them,” Chan said quickly, turning back to you with an apologetic look. “They’re dumbasses, but I promise we’ll actually get work done. Eventually.”

You raised an eyebrow, still grinning. “As long as no one brings paper airplanes to the final presentation.”

“See?” Soonyoung crowed. “She’s funny too. You’re screwed, Chan.”

Chan didn’t answer, but the flush creeping up his neck said more than enough.

send me an ask for my drabble game!

[puckingeccedentesiast]

| Bleeding Hearts, Bleeding Scars |

a/n this one hurt, i really enjoyed writing it though. i hope you enjoy reading it just as much! i am sorry for not writing heaps, i am trying to fix that. Kudos to @cupidbedsy because i showed her a snippet and she told me it was good so i finished it.

warnings: hospitals, but not super bad. angst, angst, angst. a little bit of toxic!quinn at the end maybe??

Their sirens sounded simultaneously, one symbolic of achievement, a known sound tethered with a joyous moment of redemption or extending the winning. The other siren, widely known as well, everyone knew the wailing of this siren and parted ways for it to pass with ease, emotions crashing in a tumultuous wave behind it.

His sirens were flashing blue and green, spiralling around him beautifully. Her sirens flashed blue and red, then her everything went black.

~/> </~

Quinn Hughes had spent his life moving at an electrifying speed – on the ice, everything made sense. Every pass, every shift, every calculated risk no matter how detrimental was measured and precise. Off the ice however, life had its way of digging an edge in, causing things to hurtle out of control.

The call had come obscenely late at night, just after another hard-fought game. Quinn was exhausted, his body was bruised, but none of that mattered when his phone screen lit up with an unfamiliar number. He looked at the number but picked up regardless, he was greeted with a young feminine voice, "Good Evening, this is Maddy from the Vancouver General Hospital am I speaking with a Mr. Hughes?"

The room around him blurred, the air rushing out of his lungs before the words even registered. "Yeah.. uh- yes that's me. Mr. Hughes, well Quinn is easier but- why are you calling?"

"A miss Y/N L/N had you listed as her emergency contact, are you of any relation to her?" the attendant's voice was methodical, almost as if she'd done this thousands of times before. News flash – she had.

"Yes. Not by blood but I'm her boyfriend of four years." Quinn's brain was turning, almost as much as his stomach. The panic induced nausea along with the large pizza and cheese bites he previously consumed were doing nothing to help with his clarity.

"She was in an accident. We need you to come in immediately please."

~/> </~

He couldn't remember how he got to the hospital. He wasn't sure if he even stopped at red lights or if he simply drove on autopilot, propelled by pure fear. When he arrived, it was almost surreal. Bright fluorescent lights hummed overhead, an artificial sterility, accompanied by fuming cleaning chemicals filling the space. The waiting room smelt like antiseptic and coffee, but Quinn barely noticed.

He approached the desk slowly, a young attendant in maroon scrubs sat behind the desk, tapping away at his keyboard boredly.

"Excuse me, I got called my girlfriend was in an accident." Quinn was ninety percent sure he fumbled over half his words but that didn't matter right now, not when you were potentially hurt.

"What's her name?" The young male asked, continuing the tacky chewing of his gum.

"Y/N L/N."

"Room four, just through those doors and down the hallway, second door on your right."

Quinn wasted no time, pushing through the large wooden doors, the metal hand plates cold on his already numb hands. Quinn found the first doctor he could, who was conveniently stood outside your room, he had a thousand questions to ask. That was before that doctor looked at him, face solem and voice measured. The words were a foreign language – brain injury, severe concussion, amnesia. Quinn shook his head, almost like he was shaking off the truth, as if denying it would rewrite the narrative.

"She doesn't– she doesn't remember anything?" His voice cracked, and he hated the vulnerability that seeped into it.

The doctor hesitated, adjusting the stethoscope sitting around his neck. "It's hard to say the extent of memory loss just yet. She has retrograde amnesia, meaning she doesn't recall recent events. Long-term memories might still be intact, but we won't know until she wakes up and begins cognitive assessments."

Quinn swallowed hard, the saliva feeling like a brick sliding down his throat, his breathing was shallow, hands clammy. He had spent the past few years building a life with her – countless nights spent wrapped in whispered conversations, shared laughter, stolen longing kisses before road trips. And now? Now she might wake up and not know who he was at all.

When he was finally allowed in, his breath caught in his throat. She looked so small in the hospital bed, tubes and wires hooked up to her, surrounding her like a web. Her face was pale, a stark contrast to the deep bruising along her temple. He took a shaky step forward, then another, then another until he was close enough to reach for her hand.

"Hey," he whispered, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. The silence stretched between them, thick with uncertainty. He squeezed her hand gently. "I'm here."

For a moment he held his breath, his heart hammering as she blinked up at him in confusion.

Her lips parted, her voice hoarse when she spoke. "Who... are you?"

And just like that, the world he knew shattered beneath him.

Quinn felt the breath he had been holding escape in a sharp exhale. His grip on her hand loosened slightly, like his body had momentarily forgotten how to function.

Who are you?

The words echoed in his head, louder than any goal horn, driving sharper than any loss.

She was staring at him, waiting. There was no recognition in her eyes. No warmth. No flicker of familiarity.

Her swallowed against the lump in his throat and forced himself to speak. It's me. It's Quinn."

She blinked, her expression blank. "Quinn..." she tested the name like it was foreign, like it meant nothing. And maybe right now, to her, it didn't. His heart clenched painfully.

Before he could find the words to say something, anything, the doctor stepped forward, placing a firm but gentle hand on Quinn's shoulder. "She just woke up. It will take time for her to process things. Try not to overwhelm her."

Try not to overwhelm her?

Quinn wanted to scream, his entire world had just unravelled and he was supposed to act like it was fine.

But it wasn’t fine. Nothing about this was fine.

“I’ll step out for a few minutes,” the doctor continued, giving Quinn a knowing look. “Take it slow.”

As the door shut behind them, an uncomfortable silence settled between him and the girl who used to know everything about him. The girl who used to be his home.

Now, she was looking at him like he was a stranger.

Quinn forced himself to sit down in the chair beside her bed. His hands rested on his knees, fidgeting, like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. “You, um… you were in an accident,” he said carefully, as if the wrong words might send her slipping further away. “You hit your head pretty bad. The doctors said it might take time for everything to come back.”

She furrowed her brows slightly, as if trying to make sense of his words. “How long?”

Quinn hesitated. “They… they don’t know for sure.”

She exhaled, her shoulders slumping. “So I just… forgot?”

He could see the frustration creeping into her expression, the fear she was trying to hide. He wanted to reach for her, to hold her the way he always had, but now—now, he wasn’t sure if he even could.

“Not everything,” he tried to reassure her, though he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. “Your long-term memories might still be there. It’s just… recent ones that are missing.”

Her gaze flickered back to him, studying him. “And you’re… my boyfriend?”

Quinn let out a soft, almost bitter chuckle. “Yeah. For a while now.”

She bit her lip, looking away. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

Quinn’s chest tightened. “Don’t. You don’t have to be sorry.”

But God, he wished she remembered.

He wished she remembered the nights spent tangled in his sheets, whispering secrets neither of them had ever told anyone else. He wished she remembered the way he would pull her into his arms after a tough game, how she always knew exactly what to say to quiet his mind. He wished she remembered the road trips, the laughter, the way she used to look at him like he was her favorite thing in the world.

Instead, she was looking at him like he was nothing more than a stranger sitting beside her hospital bed.

“Can you…” she hesitated, before meeting his eyes. “Can you tell me about us?”

His throat felt dry, his heart aching in ways he didn’t know it could.

But he nodded.

Because even if she couldn’t remember their love, he would remind her.

No matter how long it took.

~/> </~

Quinn took a slow breath, steadying himself. Tell her about us. The words felt heavier than they should have, because how could he possibly condense years of love into a single conversation?

But he had to try.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I can do that.”

She watched him expectantly, waiting for him to start, waiting for him to give her pieces of a life she couldn’t remember.

“We met three years ago,” he began, his voice laced with nostalgia. “It was at a team event. You were there with a friend, and I was… well, I was awkward as hell.” A small chuckle left his lips, but she didn’t laugh—she only tilted her head slightly, listening.

“You had this ridiculous habit of calling me ‘Mr. Hockey Superstar’ because you said my name sounded too serious. I pretended to hate it, but I didn’t.” He swallowed hard, his fingers gripping his jeans. “You were smart. Funny. You made everything feel lighter, like nothing was too big or too overwhelming.

“You hated hockey at first,” he continued, a small smile playing on his lips. “You thought it was all fights and chaos. But then you started coming to my games, and suddenly, you knew more about my stats than I did.”

She let out a quiet breath. “Did I really?”

“Yeah,” Quinn nodded. “And you made it a habit of roasting me after bad games.”

Something flickered in her expression—maybe amusement, maybe a whisper of familiarity—but it disappeared just as quickly.

He pushed forward.

“You were there for every milestone. My first season, my first playoff run, every high and low.” He hesitated before adding, “And I was there for yours. Every late-night breakdown, every dream you chased, every moment you thought you weren’t good enough—I was there.”

She was silent for a long time, her fingers twitching slightly against the sheets. “It sounds… nice,” she murmured finally.

Quinn let out a soft, shaky laugh. “It was more than nice.”

She blinked at him, her brows knitting together. “I wish I could remember.”

Quinn’s chest tightened. “Me too.”

The days that followed were an excruciating mix of hope and heartache. Quinn spent every free moment by her side, trying to reintroduce her to their life together. He brought photos, videos, little things she used to love—a battered hoodie she always stole from him, her favorite snacks, even an old playlist she had made for long road trips.

Some days were better than others.

Some days, she would smile at something he said, and for a split second, he swore he saw a glimpse of the girl he loved. Other days, she would stare at him with quiet frustration, as if trying to force the memories to return, only to come up empty.

The worst days were when she looked exhausted, when her eyes were filled with something close to guilt. “I feel like I’m letting you down,” she admitted once, voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re not,” Quinn assured her immediately, but the words felt hollow. Because no matter how much he tried to be patient, no matter how much he reminded himself that this wasn’t her fault—he couldn’t deny the ache in his chest every time she failed to recognize a piece of their past.

It wasn’t fair.

He knew he wasn’t supposed to think that way, but he did. It wasn’t fair that he remembered everything while she remembered nothing.

And he was terrified—what if she never did?

A month passed. Then two.

She was healing, physically at least. The bruises had faded, the stitches were gone, and her doctors had finally cleared her to go home.

But home wasn’t the same.

She was staying in their apartment, but it didn’t feel like hers. She walked through the space carefully, like a guest, like someone trying to find their footing in a house full of strangers. Quinn tried not to let it get to him, but it did.

She didn’t wear his hoodies anymore.

She didn’t instinctively reach for his hand when they walked side by side.

She still laughed at his dry humor, still scrunched her nose when she concentrated too hard on something, still bit her lip when she was nervous—but she didn’t remember that those were all the little things that made him fall in love with her in the first place.

And then, one night, it all came to a breaking point.

“I think I should get my own place,” she said hesitantly over dinner.

Quinn froze, his grip tightening around his fork.

She bit her lip, playing with the hem of her sleeve. “I just… I feel like I’m taking up space here. I know this used to be our home, but—”

“It still is,” Quinn interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended.

She winced. “Quinn—”

“No, I get it,” he said quickly, pushing his chair back and standing up. His heart was pounding. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t keep pretending this didn’t hurt like hell. “You don’t remember me. You don’t remember us. And now you want to leave. I get it.”

She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

Quinn ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I just—” He swallowed. “I don’t know how to do this.”

For the first time since the accident, her face softened in a way that almost resembled the girl he used to know. “Me neither,” she admitted.

Quinn let out a breath, shaking his head. “I don’t want to pressure you. I don’t want to make you feel like you have to remember just for me.” He looked down. “But I miss you. I miss us. And I don’t know how to be around you when you don’t even know who I am.”

The room was quiet for a long time.

Then, slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing over his hand.

It was tentative. Small. But it was something.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered.

Quinn let out a bitter chuckle. “Too late for that.”

She frowned, her hand tightening around his. “I may not remember… but I know that I don’t like seeing you like this.”

He met her gaze, something fragile and raw settling between them.

And then, in the softest voice, she whispered, “Can we start over?”

Quinn blinked. “Start over?”

She nodded. “I may not remember how we fell in love the first time. But maybe… maybe you could help me do it again.”

Quinn’s breath caught.

And for the first time in months, something like hope flickered inside him.

He exhaled, squeezing her hand. “Yeah,” he whispered. “We can do that.”

Over the next few weeks, they did exactly that.

Quinn took her to the places that had once been theirs—a late-night drive to the spot overlooking the city skyline, the tiny coffee shop tucked away in a quiet street where they used to sit for hours, the pier where she once made him ride the Ferris wheel despite his protests.

He told her stories.

About the time she pranked him by putting salt in his coffee. About the way she would steal his hats just to annoy him. About the night he first realized he was in love with her, when she was singing off-key in the kitchen, twirling around in his hoodie like she didn’t have a care in the world.

Some memories made her laugh. Others made her tilt her head in quiet contemplation, as if trying to pull something from the depths of her mind.

And then, one night, as they sat on the couch watching a movie, something changed.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, so naturally that it caught him off guard. His heart pounded, but he didn’t move, afraid that if he did, she would pull away.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she murmured, “I don’t remember everything yet.”

Quinn swallowed. “That’s okay.”

“But I think…” She hesitated, then lifted her head to meet his gaze. “I think I’m starting to remember how it felt to love you.”

Quinn sucked in a breath, his eyes searching hers. “Yeah?”

She nodded, a small, tentative smile forming.

It wasn’t everything.

But it was something.

And maybe—just maybe—they could build something new, together.

[bradleysass]

Park - @black-brothers-microfic - wc: 572 - Starchaser + Harry

Regulus had the perfect day.

It started with sunlight slipping through the curtains, warm and golden, casting soft halos around the messy curls on James’ head. James grumbled when Regulus traced his fingers over his jawline, but eventually leaned into the touch, pressing a lazy kiss against Regulus’ wrist before rolling out of bed to get Harry.

Breakfast was a mess, as it always was when James cooked. Pancakes that were slightly burned at the edges, syrup in Harry’s hair, and a batter-splattered counter that Regulus sighed over while cleaning. But it was fun. Lighthearted. Harry, still in his pajamas, climbed into his lap and pressed sticky fingers to Regulus’ cheek, giggling as James snapped a picture with his phone.

The three of them spent the afternoon at the park, James kicking a football around with Harry while Regulus sat on the blanket, book in hand but barely reading, too distracted watching them. James was entirely too enthusiastic for a toddler’s game, flailing dramatically when Harry stole the ball and cheering so loudly when their son managed a solid kick that an older woman nearby chuckled at them fondly.

Dinner was takeaway from their favorite Thai place, Harry curled between them on the couch, barely able to keep his eyes open as James put on his favorite movie. They carried him to bed together, pressing matching kisses to his forehead before shutting off the light.

And now, in the quiet of their bedroom, Regulus felt it: contentment, true and whole. James was already asleep beside him, glasses askew where he’d clearly nodded off mid-scroll on his phone. Regulus plucked the device from his fingers and set it on the nightstand, smiling to himself as he removed James’ glasses and placed them next to the lamp.

The lamp.

It was… wrong.

Regulus frowned. It was the same lamp they’d had for years, a gift from Sirius when they moved in together. But something about it felt strange. Off-kilter. The edges too sharp, the light too dim, flickering even though it wasn’t supposed to. A sickly, unnatural glow began to seep from it, twisting the shadows in the room.

His heart pounded. The air thickened. The world around him blurred, distorted, like a reflection in rippling water. He reached out, fingers trembling, and—

His vision snapped to white.

No. No, not white—fluorescent, sterile, clinical. A sharp scent of antiseptic filled his nose, the beeping of monitors ringing in his ears. The softness of his bed was gone, replaced with stiff sheets, the weight of a blanket too heavy on his legs. His mouth felt dry. His tongue heavy.

St. Mungo’s.

His stomach lurched. He struggled to sit up, but his body felt weak, unfamiliar. The door to his room was cracked open, voices filtering in from the hallway. He caught snippets—

“Still no change?”

“…been years, but nothing. No response.”

He gasped, a sudden desperate inhale, as his mind tried to make sense of what was happening. Years? No change? No—he had been home. He had been with James and Harry. Hadn’t he?

A nurse stepped in, startled by his movement. She rushed to his side, pressing a hand to his arm. “Mr. Black?” she said gently, as if afraid he’d shatter. “Can you hear me?”

Regulus couldn’t respond. His pulse pounded in his ears. This wasn’t right. He had a life, a family. He had James. He had Harry.

Didn’t he?

Author Notes: Inspired by the lamp meme

[rockyteriyaki]

i wasn’t quite able to finish my other halloween fic in time for the deadline, so i dragged out a carcar snippet and wrote a little bit for a tumblr fic! 1.5k words, guardian angel au 🪽 @motorsport-halloween

The first place they steer him after a race is the guardian angels tent.

It’s small, made of slippy plastic tarping and held up by thin aluminum, cheap like everything in F3. Water slides off the top and pours down the sides in a clear curtain. Today, there are more guardians than usual: a dense cube of feathers packed together to avoid the worsening storm. Probably because everyone and their mother was sliding around the track just now. Perilously.

Oscar stands on his tiptoes from his spot under an awning, trying to profile the crowd before running out in the downpour. He’s seen his angel exactly one time before- when he’d gotten into a particularly nasty collision and had to retire from a race. He remembers dark wings, dark eyebrows, dark eyes. An accented voice not that much older than his own.

“That was stupid. Do not- like that, you shouldn’t. Be smarter.”

Oscar had just stood there, gaping. Hadn’t closed his mouth until his angel had sort of huffed and turned away, back to the tent. The sparkling rip in the atmosphere was starting to stitch itself up, by then, swirling plastic cones into it like a vacuum. Saved by the bell. It hadn’t been until after he’d left that Oscar realized what he’d really wanted to say was fuck off.

Now, Oscar watches the rest of the grid flock to the tent, skittering in under the rain and finding their angels. He watches them idly recount their race stories to various levels of enthusiasm, subject themselves to pat-downs and wellness checks and lectures as needed. There’s genuine affection in their touches, especially in those whose drivers lost control of their cars or locked up in the rain. Who maybe got a little bit closer to the edge. When he gets to F1, this part won’t be televised, but it’ll be more thorough and more often. Because he’ll be closer to the edge, every single race.

But Oscar was pretty damn close today and his angel isn’t here, so. Maybe not.

Halfway through the F2 season, Oscar decides he officially hates his angel.

Whenever he feels his tires start to slip, whenever he clips the barrier or botches a turn, the adrenaline that rises in his throat is partially because he thinks that maybe his angel will have felt it. That he’ll be waiting for him under the tent or in the cooldown room, this time, and his dark eyes will be filled with something other than cool indifference. Like, a shred of concern for Oscar’s life, maybe. But he’s not, and he never is, and Oscar kind of really hates him.

The next time he sees him is in a bland conference room with Mark, his legal squadron and the team principal of Alpine who’s name Oscar can never remember. His black hair catches the shitty fluorescent-looking light of his halo and Oscar almost walks right back out.

“What is this,” he whispers to Mark. It’s not a hiss. “Why is he here.”

“I have to be here. To make sure your life is not ruined,” his angel says, at full volume. Oscar dislikes him so much.

“You are so—“ Oscar starts and doesn’t finish, which is a tactic he uses when he’d like to say something rude but shouldn’t. “Wait.” He turns to Mark. “Is my life about to be ruined?”

Mark inhales, reaching for his manila folder. The Alpine people wince. His angel waggles his incredibly thick eyebrows.

Oscar doesn’t sign with Alpine. He gets a text from an unknown number that says “See you should listen to me yes?” and he thinks about doing something crazy like throwing his phone against the wall. Instead, he shoves it under his sweatshirt and lets it rest against his stomach. It goes up and down as he breathes.

The issue is that his angel doesn’t leave.

Apparently he has to stick around until the ink is dry on Oscar’s contract, now that he’s waded into this whole mess. He has a little phone-like thing, sleek and rectangular, that lights up every once in awhile with indecipherable notifications about the state of Oscar’s life, or whatever. Oscar is 99% he has it on whatever the all-seeing equivalent of “do not disturb” is. He’s the worst.

“What’s his name again?” Oscar asks, around a mouthful of eggs.

“Carlos,” Mark says.

“Carlos,” Oscar seethes.

“You’re gonna have to nut up, mate,” Mark says. He sounds tired. “It’s standard procedure.”

Oscar wants to ask if it’s standard procedure to be concussed and have the doctors at the track refuse to take you to A&E without guardian angel signoff, and for that signoff to never arrive because your angel can’t be fucked, but he doesn’t.

Carlos is never around unless it’s to steer Oscar away from people and look smug. After the seventieth awkward handshake with the shadow of Carlos looming over his shoulder like an overgrown, disapproving hawk, he pulls him into a corner.

“Can you just tell me what I’m meant to do?”

“What do you mean,” Carlos says. It would have sounded sarcastic, if he hadn’t physically flopped his head to the side as he said it. Something evil settles around Oscar’s heart.

“My fate. My destiny, God’s plan, whatever the fuck, I just—I can do it myself. Please.” It comes out a little bit more desperate than he intends, but still north of begging, so he chalks it up as a point.

“No, I cannot,” Carlos says. “This is my job. Sorry,” he adds, because Oscar has the heels of his hands pressed over his eyes.

“Okay, so what if I—I dunno, disobey you?”

“Then you are making a big mistake,” Carlos says, so solemnly. His wings twitch a little bit, rising and flexing through his shoulder blades. Oscar swallows.

“You can’t stop me.”

“I can. This is my job,” Carlos repeats. His wings flare even further. The tips of the darker feathers almost block out the light, closing Oscar into the corner.

“I’ll sign with Alpine,” Oscar challenges. He doesn’t really want to do that, but there’s some kind of rabbity panic jumping around in his chest and making him stupid. “I could. They want me.”

“They don’t.” Carlos’ eyes are blazing the same neon as his halo. He could be seeing all possible futures right now, for all Oscar knows, and yet he still sounds like a moody toddler, shooting down everything Oscar says.

“I’ll show you the contract, mate, they definitely do.” Oscar is no better than him, apparently.

Except maybe he is, because Carlos steps forward until they’re practically chest-to-chest. All Oscar can see in his periphery are reflections of halo-light and Carlos’ heaving chest, his aquiline nose. “You don’t even—“

Somewhere, an alarm starts going off.

Carlos says something in Spanish, short and sharp. His eyes are wide. He fishes his angel-phone-thing out of his jeans. It’s angry red, flashing and beeping and buzzing all at once. An instinctive panic rockets through Oscar, far away from the warm anticipatory one from a few seconds ago.

“Isn’t that,” Oscar says. Clears his throat. “Um, is that bad?”

“Shit,” Carlos says in English. He does something weird, after that: like his whole body flickering, disappearing for a few milliseconds and then popping back in. “Shit. Oscar. We just—you just made a mistake.”

His accent makes it sound more deliberate. Mees-tek. “What? No, I didn’t.”

You’re not supposed to, like, try to kill your angel, but if Carlos thinks that’s what just happened then he’s even more delusional that Oscar had thought. Actually, it had been sort of exactly the opposite. Carlos had been so close, it was like—Oscar was worried he might—forget himself, or something. Try to do something crazy. Like grab Carlos’ hair and shove his head down and feel his nose against his throat.

Carlos shows him his phone screen. The text, in some archaic angel language, unscrambles before Oscar’s eyes. IMMEDIATE INTERVENTION REQUIRED, it says, scrolling across the top. Then, in bolded lettering in the middle: This message is for CARLOS SAINZ regarding OSCAR PIASTRI. Oscar’s eyes skip around the paragraph, can’t quite take any of it in. They’re not going to let Carlos leave. The angel system—fate, destiny, whatever—registered a god-tier fuckup on Oscar’s part, and they won’t let Carlos leave until he fixes it.

“What did you do?” Carlos asks, his voice annoyingly even as his phone wails and shakes in his hand. “Oscar, what did you do? Did you really sign with Alpine? You take it back and I will be gone, I promise.”

Oscar wants to say it’s just as much Carlos’ fault as it is his, but he can’t quite get the words out around the sudden, vicious longing to have Carlos squared up against him again, ready to fight, so he can watch it all drain out of him. He wants to take him apart, enact his revenge, put him back together again better and more tolerable than he was before.

MISTAKE, Carlos’ angel-cell cries. MISTAKE.

[mysterious-moonstruck-musings]

Ask & You Shall Receive…

Summary: Tim Rockford and Neurodivergent!OFC are brought together while attempting to solve a rather puzzling murder case. As Tim and OFC work more closely with one another to find their suspect, the line between them blurs, creating a complex dynamic between the two as they both try to navigate their evolving relationship, the demands of the case, and their safety. There will be smut and given that they are solving a murder case, it will have darker themes relating to that.

Hello my lovelies,

As you know, I’ve been kicking this idea around in my ole brain for a bit. I was torn between writing it with Tim or Javi P. Well, per our discussions and your voting, the consensus is that we need both. So, with that said, Tim is up first. No ETA yet as I’m still planning, but I wanted to share an update and give you a chance to get on the tag list so you do not miss it.

I’m not yet sure if this will be a oneshot or have a few parts. We shall see, but if you’ve been with me thus far, you know how I am. I do plan for this to be written in my usual style with alternating POVs.

Our neurodivergent!OFC will be high functioning and seen as being a bit quirky and misunderstood by her coworkers. Tim, however, gets it. He knows what’s going on without being told and becomes her biggest supporter. Going so far as to ask for her to be on his high priority case after not making any headway as the body count rises. They will have a bit of an odd dynamic at first, but he puts in the effort to learn and earns her trust.

📝 Snippet:

I stood staring at the messy board, having trouble focusing because of the disorganized mess of pinned documents. There did not appear to be any rhyme or reason to it. The only thing I could think about was ripping everything down and putting it all back up in a way that made sense. When instead, I should be focused on what it all meant and how the pieces fit together.

Then I realized it didn’t make sense because they had no direction. No suspects. No real evidence that pointed to a motive. They were completely lost.

My attention was drawn to the incessant buzzing of the harsh fluorescent light above, making my left eye twitch. I glanced up at it in annoyance, now realizing it was making me anxious as I closed my eyes and rubbed at the bridge of my nose. I could feel Tim and Tony’s expectant stares, like they were waiting for me to pull the answer out of my ass based on the mess of haphazard materials they had gathered. The thought made the twitching worse.

My eyes fluttered open and were drawn to Tim, who was looking at me with furrowed brows. He scanned my face before shifting his gaze upward toward the ceiling. Without a word, he turned, flipping on the desk lamp beside him. Then moved across the room to switch on the tall floor lamp before turning the overhead fluorescents off.

“The fuck you doing?” Tony asked.

Tim gave him a pointed look, “I’m getting a headache. Deal with it.”

Tim’s gaze was back on me as my nervous system felt instant relief. His lips pursed slightly, eyes squinting as examined the subtle changes in my tense posture. There seemed to be a hint of a smile as he reached to rub at his bottom lip before turning to shuffle through the files on his desk.

Does he know?

I’m excited to explore the relationship between these two under very stressful circumstances. It’s going to be a ride. I’ve hidden some sneaky clues in the banner to give you an idea of where this is heading because you know how I love to tease. I can’t wait to hear your conspiracy theories on this one!

💜Mysty

🐦‍⬛ If you would like to be added to the tag list, drop a message in the comments.

🔎 For more context:

[sixtysixproblems]

out of context future fluorescent mistakes bits because the chapter's taking too long again

super fun and definitely not at all mayhem filled times ahead

[biolumien]

palette

hajime umemiya x graffiti artist!reader only a little snippet, but it might become bigger later, word count: 899

you were at home right here with the collection of paint markers and aerosol cans at your feet. your free hand adjusted the filtration mask on your face as you sprayed a nonsensical pattern onto the wall using a fluorescent green so bright it almost hurt your eyes. as you began to draw on the concrete wall using a black paint marker, you felt the sneaking suspicion that eyes were on you. 

that was odd. 

you did most—hell, all your graffiti work in the dark of night, hidden from sight. you’d been chased off by a few townsfolk when you were tagging signs or walls in broad daylight, which you supposed was fair. you were technically doing something utterly illegal, after all. but you kept at it at night, painting flowers and animals, or just random letters onto whatever surface you could. 

bofurin boys often covered it up—as was their right, too, you supposed, but it always irritated you when you’d come back around and find work you’d slaved on all night be covered up with a fresh layer of white paint. 

but back to the feeling that you were being watched. 

“who’s there?” you call out, pulling off your filtration mask slightly. 

“so you’re the one doin’ all those green tags!” a boisterous voice said, and you felt a sudden presence right behind you. you whirled around, dropping your black paint marker across the floor, wincing as it skittered across the alleyway. “did you know that this taiyaki place has called us every day for a week about the graffiti?” 

fuck. you did know that voice. hajime-fuckin’-umemiya, leader of the bofurin, who had essentially annexed and reformed furin high school by force. not only were they vigilante heroes of justice—they also practically were civil servants that served the community—and now their fucking leader was staring at you with a strange, open look in his eye. 

he wasn’t even dressed in his furin uniform—you think you’ve seen it a few times, the whistling long coat that he wore out on patrols with some of the other furin boys. despite it all, he somehow had that sort of aura of warm authority about him—paired with a brilliant and curious smile on his face.

“so what?” you ask defensively. 

“you do know the graffiti’s illegal, right?” umemiya questioned, raising an eyebrow as he walked over to where your marker had skittered across the floor, picking it up. “you could be put in jail for up to five years, you know!” he flipped the marker around, holding it out to you. 

“like i need someone from furin lecturing me about that,” you say, taking the marker back from him. umemiya seemed to deflate a little, almost like a sad puppy, upon your very subtle furin insult, so you hastily add a, “no offense.” 

“mm. i get it, i get it! i do. all the work i did to rehabilitate bofurin’s image doesn’t mean much when people remember how dangerous it was before,” umemiya says sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “but! i figured i’d come around the taiyaki shop at night, see if there was some repeat offender doing the graffiti, and here you are!” 

umemiya spreads his hands magnanimously, and you can see how worn and callused his hands are from years spent brawling against other students. there was no way he was going to start fighting you, right—?

“i just wanted to ask you to stop,” umemiya says. “i mean, i respect your artistic visions! i always thought it was a waste to paint over your works—i remember one time you did this bright yellow rabbit on a blue moon, very cool, by the way—and—“

huh?

“i really like your art! i was wondering, if maybe…”

you held your paint marker, watching umemiya seemingly steeling his nerves for a moment–

“do you want to come to furin and paint? there’s a lot of graffiti already, and most of the time when we patrol we never use the classrooms anyway, so if it was anonymity you were worried about, that’s covered—and plus, at night, you’d still get a lot of time to do whatever you want—”

“… you’re offering me a place at your school to just—paint?” you ask confusedly, raising an eyebrow. 

“well, yeah!” umemiya says. “i mean, it’s a waste to paint over your hard work, right? it’s different than the other tags.”

“... is it?” you ask, staring at your half-finished graffiti, joining other fresh tags on the wall. 

“well, i’m not really sure if i fully believe in the idea that art carries intention–but i’d like to think yours does! and it’s kind. and i think there’s people at furin who might appreciate it.” 

“well…”

you sigh, running a hand through your hair.

“well, okay,” you say. “but if anyone tries to start something–”

“please,” umemiya says. “we’re not animals. it’ll be great to have you.” and then he holds out his hand to shake, and you stare down at it.

are you really doing this?

umemiya’s expression is bright, warm. 

you shake his hand. 

his grip is firm, his thumb squeezing the space between your index and thumb–and you laugh with a hint of exasperation in your voice. here you were, pulled right into umemiya’s thrall–lured in by him like a sweet siren song.

“fine. see you tomorrow, then,” you mutter, your cheeks heating up.

[everlastingday]

been feeling a bit meh about my writing recently tbh hence jumping all over the place with my wips to try and find something that i don't hate 😭 but here's a little snippet of the teen jonah post-canon fic (assuming the adoption denial gets reversed, obviously).

thanks to @thisbuildinghasfeelings, @annoyingcloudearthquake, @paperstorm, and @lemonlyman-dotcom for the tags! 💜

--

As he puts his phone away, Jonah wants to roll his eyes. TK’s not a helicopter parent or anything, but sometimes he gets big feelings and Jonah doesn’t really know what to do with them. He supposes it’s allowed today, though, on the anniversary of his adoption, and the first one where he’s a legal adult. He remembers how TK sobbed the day he turned 18, and the three of them ended up in a group hug, tears spilling all over his birthday cake.

Jonah doesn’t call them “Dad”, or “Papá”, or any other iteration of the word. Not to their faces, anyway. By the time he was old enough to really understand his unconventional little family, they’d been TK and Carlos to him for so long, it would just feel weird to change that. But in his heart, and when anyone else asks about his parents, their faces are the only ones that come to mind. TK and Carlos always make sure to remind him about his other parents, the ones whose genes he inherited, but if Jonah’s being completely honest, he doesn’t remember them. The only parents he knows are TK and Carlos.

Memory is a funny thing, a catch-22. Every time you access a memory, it becomes more and more distorted and unreliable, but if you never access it all, then it eventually just fades away into nothing. Jonah has some vague memories from before he came to live with TK and Carlos – the face of a woman with the most beautiful, warm smile hovering over him, a deep voice with an accent he can’t quite place, a boarding school with an uncomfortable bed and a grey room with terrible fluorescent lights – but they’re so hazy and unclear that he sometimes thinks that maybe he just made them up. He can sense in his gut that they’re at least partially real, but he also knows they’ve been shaped by the stories that TK and Carlos told him about his early childhood. It’s hard to know what part of those memories are his, and what part of those are theirs.

--

open tag & no-pressure tagging a few people under the cut!

@heartstringsduet @whatsintheboxmh @nancys-braids @welcometololaland @reyesstrand @captain-gillian @bonheur-cafe @carlossreaders @lightningboltreader @eclectic-sassycoweyes @firstprince-history-huh @carlos-in-glasses @nisbanisba @henrygrass @emsprovisions @futures-tense

let me know if you want to be added/removed, and please feel free to tag me as well, i love seeing what everyone else is working on! 💜

[henrygrass]

Seven Sentence Sunday

Chapter 5 of The Widow's Bite is out, so here's a short snippet for Chapter 6!

Thank you for the tags @nisbanisba @carlos-in-glasses ❤️

The fluorescent light casts a glare around Carlos’ frame, his reflection staring back at him—a man on the brink, held together by his clenched jaw, the only thing preventing his cries of pain from bursting out of his throat.

He grips the porcelain tightly, hunched over the sink, where droplets of cool water trickle down from his cheeks, phantoms of his own tears.

He no longer feels his heart; it flickered out with a last pulse in the early hours of dawn—erased from reality.

In its place in his chest, there’s now a tangled mass of agony, slowly gnawing at him, ripping his flesh to hollow it out completely.

He inhales deeply, his hands hurting from the pressure he exerts on the sink as he fights with all his might.

Every breath feels like a betrayal.

He takes a last glance at the husk of a man in the mirror: the still-healing bruises on his face are a fitting reminder of who he is—a husband who failed, a father who couldn’t keep a promise.

Open tag &

@heartstringsduet @emsprovisions @alrightbuckaroo @welcometololaland

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@bonheur-cafe @theghostofashton @eclectic-sassycoweyes

@herefortarlos @strandnreyes @carlos-tk @lightningboltreader @sapphic--kiwi

@ladytessa74 @paperstorm @chicgeekgirl89 @ironheartwriter @everlastingday

@carlossreaders @pimento-playing-hopscotch @tellmegoodbye

@neversleepuntilfive @rangersoup @futures-tense @annoyingcloudearthquake

@liminalmemories21 @reyesstrand @my-beloved-lakes

(please, let me know if you want to be added or removed)

[creadigol]

iff you want could you maybe continue this? this ask is a request ofc and idk if you do continuation, so if you don't want to then it's okay!! ^_^

Hey y’all! Apologies for the long absence, but I’m back in town and have finally come up with a continuation of my Hero Domestic Violence/Abuse snippet. 

I have had many requests to continue this one so I spent a lot of time trying to make it good! 

As before, there are very heavy mentions of such topics stated above in this snippet as well as mentions of violence, emotional abuse and choking. Please be safe my darlings! I love y’all!

Part 1

Hero must have blacked out or entered into some sort of daze, because the next thing they knew Hero was sitting on an exam table in what must have been one of Villain's many bases. 

Though the room itself was no doubt a medical facility, Hero knew this by the various medical equipment and smell of antiseptic, but there was a certain ambiance about the room which did not match any hospital or medical offices Hero had been to before…and Hero had been to many. 

If Hero only ever went to one, people would catch on. So Spouse was always sure to bring Hero to a different facility every time. 

Everytime. 

God, this was a mess. 

This room wasn’t lit like typical exam rooms. Rather than harsh fluorescents of busy ER rooms the lights held a warm sunlit-type glow. Welcoming, yet still bright enough to see. Instead of the stupid grey-white walls which everyone had switched to in the early 2000’s, it was bright wood paneling. Oak of some kind, Hero guessed. It complimented the warm glow quite nicely. 

And it was warm! So warm! Villain must have had the heat up to at least 75 and Hero was basking in it! 

At home, Spouse kept the heating down to 65, due to their powers causing them to run hot. Hero didn’t mind of course, they understood, but it did cause Hero to feel cold constantly. They had never had much in the bodyfat department and there was more than one night when Hero would go and take a bath just to unclench their frozen muscles. 

Until Spouse complained about the water bill that is. 

Taking stock once more of the room they were in, Hero noticed that the main door had been left open by a crack. Not that they could have gotten up and run out, not with their side, but they wondered if Villain had done this to make them feel more comfortable. 

Speaking of Villain, they had yet to reappear. Villain and Henchman had helped Hero to a car after the rather embarrassing display on the rooftop and once they had made it to this base, deposited Hero here and left. That had been about twenty minutes ago. 

Maybe they were planning something nefarious? What if this was a kidnapping? Honestly, this was the weakest Hero had ever been in front of Villain. It would be easy, tricking them into willingly walking into a trap with the promise of medical help…Hero had been a mess after all. Supervillain wouldn’t have hesitated in killing Hero on the spot. 

But then again, Villain was not Supervillain. Hero had seen Villain display acts of humanity on several occasions. Sure, they broke the law and believed their government to be the ultimate evil, but they never went in for harming those who didn’t deserve it. 

Didn’t deserve it? God, Hero was starting to think like Villain. No one deserved to be hurt. That was Hero’s motto. 

Things really were confusing right now.

Maybe they should just go home. Surely, Spouse would understand why they didn’t answer their texts for the past few hours. An hour of yelling tops and then Spouse would see the error of their ways and apologize and try to make up for the original fight in the first place by a heated night of…

Hero stopped that train of thought. No, this had to stop. Hero had to get out of the relationship and start thinking straight again…but, then again, Spouse held all the cards. The apartment and car were in Spouse’s name, their bank account was joint, the phone plan was set up by Spouse because they could negotiate better on cellular deals…not to mention, Spouse was more powerful than Hero. Much more powerful than Hero. Even back at the Academy Hero had never won at hand to hand against them. It was what made them seem so strong and confident and…perfect at the time. 

Hero suddenly realized what they were doing and how it would not end well. There was no way Villain could hold against Spouse when it really came down to it. Spouse was constantly bragging about how if Villain had been assigned to them and not Hero, the problem would have been resolved years ago. Hero didn’t want that on their conscience. 

Perhaps they should look at the texts…just to assess the situation. Damage control. 

They picked up their phone. 

As the screen lit up a voice interrupted Hero before they could look at the no doubt anger fueled words. 

“Hero,” Villain stood in the doorway holding gauze, antiseptic, a board of some kind and an ice pack. “Sorry, had a hard time finding an ice pack that was the right size. We’ve gotta get that swelling down on your neck or else you’ll never be able to harass me with those classic witty comebacks again.” 

Though it was said jovially, Hero could sense the hardness behind the tone. Not to mention the look of hatred as Villain glanced at the phone. 

Wanting to respond, but not being able to, Hero nodded once. 

“Great!” Villain strode over and placed everything on the side table. Picking up the board, Hero saw it was a dry erase. Villain handed it to them along with a red marker. 

“Henchman uses this to put up daily reminders for everyone. They thought it would serve for you to tell us what ails you.” Villain glanced back at the door, “They wanted to come in and help, but I didn’t know if you would want that. Figured I’d ask first.” 

Hero couldn’t help the small smile. They had always liked Henchman. Like Villain, they certainly had committed their fair share of crimes and violence, but they also seemed to live by a code. Unlike Supervillain. 

If it hadn’t been for Henchman, Hero was sure they would have passed out on that rooftop and who knows who would have found them if that happened. Hero uncapped the marker. 

Henchman can come in. 

Villain smiled, “Anyone ever tell you your penmanship is crazy good? God, it’s like looking at Victorian script.” 

 They turned towards the doorway once more, “They said it’s fine Henchman!” 

In an instant Henchman was walking through the door. They must have been just waiting on the other side. 

“Hey Hero,” they said. “Hope you’re doing better.” 

Hero nodded at Henchman. 

“Good,” Henchman looked between Hero and Villain for a moment, it looked like they were debating who to talk to next. They settled on both of them. “Looks like it’s just going to be us. Doctor said they couldn’t make it until morning. Still at that conference.” 

Villain nodded as if they knew this was going to be the case and addressed Hero. 

“Anything serious? Or are you okay to wait for the Doc?” 

Hero thought for a moment. Their neck should be fine with the ice, their jaw had certainly been hit harder, but their side…

I think everything is fine, but I’m not sure about my side.  Hero wrote. They gestured to their left side as Villain and Henchman read the script. 

“Alright, let's take a look then. Shirt off.” Villain ordered. 

Hero hesitated. Oh, right. To look at their side, Villain would have to have their shirt off. And to take off their shirt was to expose the…history written across their chest, back and torso. 

Hero was shy about their body. Sure, there was the occasional scar made by Spouse, but most of them were from past fights while Hero had been off hero-ing. They knew it was an occupational hazard, but they also knew it wasn’t great to look at. God only knew the many times Spouse had commented on their unsightly appearance during their intimate times. 

Villain seemed to notice the hesitation and said, “What? It’s not like I haven’t seen it all in this line of work. You should have seen Henchman last month. Supervillain’s Henchman got ‘em pretty bad.”

Henchman nodded, “Not pretty. Gained me a few cool new scars though.” 

Cool new scars, huh? Perhaps it won’t be so bad. 

Hero took off their shirt slowly. It was difficult and painful at first, as it zipped in the back, but Henchman wordlessly walked to the other side of the bed and helped. Villain supporting Hero’s side as they undid the clasp and unzipped. 

“Want to take off the mask as well?” Henchman asked. 

Hero made a face. 

“We’ve already seen your face. Remember? Three months ago it fell off while we were grappling in the snow.” Villain smirked. 

Hero peeled the mask off. They had forgotten about that. The snow had made the normally sticky mask slide off. It was something they had never told Spouse. 

Once deprived of their shirt and mask, Villain took a step back and surveyed the damage. Hero tried not to squirm under the gaze. 

Hero expected Villain and Henchman to make disgusted noises or grunts of anger at their bruised up side and swollen jaw, along with their neck, but instead Villain looked calculating. A slight hint of irritation coming though with their twitching eyebrow. 

“Alright, I’ll have to feel those ribs. They don’t look broken, but it’s best to make sure.”

Hero nodded their permission to Villain and tried to sit straight. 

“No, no, don’t straighten up yet,” Villain flew to their side. They placed one hand on hero’s back while the other poked and prodded their ribs. 

Everytime Hero hissed or flinched, Villain apologized and would move onto another part. It was strange. This whole night was strange. Hero had never seen Villain act this way before. Sure they had their own scruples, but Villain was never…gentle. 

Henchman stood off to the side looking rather anxious as Villain examined Hero. That was another strange thing. Why did they both seem to care?

“Well, good news, they’re not broken. Bad news, I’ll still have to wrap them.” 

Henchman immediately grabbed some wrappings from the cupboard behind them and handed them to Villain. 

“So, Hero,” Villain began as they tightly wrapped their ribs. “Want to tell us how this happened? We need to know if we’re going to treat your injuries effectively.” 

Once again Hero could tell Villain was stating things conversationally for their benefit. Hero made no move for the marker board. 

“We already know who did it, all I want to know is how,” Villain continued. 

Hero thought back. It had seemed like a haze when it happened. All the adrenaline and fear. The normal evening that went from good to horrific. The slight mess up on Hero’s part, the yelling, the grabbing, the throwing…the hands. The hands on their person…the hands on their neck…

Hero felt tears slip past their eyes once more, the sadness and fear coming back. Their jaw shook with unshed sobs. 

They felt the marker and board being pressed into their hands. 

“You don’t need to push yourself. I just need to know what to check on you,” Villain’s voice was soothing and once again uncharacteristically gentle. 

Hero shook as they wrote; the script that Villain had complimented earlier suffered for it. 

It’s never been this bad. Hero wrote. 

They knew it was a cliche response, but they also needed Villain and Henchman to know that it had never gone this far before. Henchman made a noise in the back of their throat as they read the words.

“How bad?” Villain prodded. 

Before, Hero hesitated in writing. How could they word this? 

Before I could always justify it as my fault. I mess up alot. I’m not so good at relationships. 

They waited for them to read this before erasing for more room. Villain had their jaw set and Henchman’s cheeks were getting red. 

I know it’s stupid. I know it’s bad. I just wanted to pretend it away. That was easier. I’m not stupid, I know what’s happening. 

Villain nodded at the words. Hero didn’t know why they were starting out like this. There was just a part of them that needed Villain and Henchman to know that they were still competent. Despite putting themselves in this situation, they weren’t stupid. There was just so much more going on. 

“I don’t think you’re stupid Hero. I never have. I meant it when I said you’re the best this city’s ever seen,” Villain said this while not breaking eye contact or blinking. As if the stare itself would get the words into Hero’s brain.

Hero nodded with a small smile. They needed that. 

They’ve never gone so far before. The other times, I knew I would recover. But this time…Hero stopped writing again. Once again looking for words. They let Villain and Henchman read. 

“What happened this time?” Henchman asked softly. Hero couldn’t tell if the softness was for comfort or if they were so angry they couldn’t raise their voice higher. 

This time, Hero spelled, I really thought they’d kill me.

Their hands shook terribly now and they had to stop and take a breath. 

Villain looked up at the ceiling for a moment while Henchman turned around. It seemed this news really affected them. 

“How?” Villain once again looked Hero in the eyes. They didn’t even try to hide the anger now. 

I can’t remember everything. I know I was thrown into our coffee table. Spouse hit me in the face, Hero paused and let them read while gesturing to their jaw. 

Villain nodded for them to continue. 

They’ve never tried to choke me before… Hero couldn’t seem to finish that one. 

“I understand,” Villain said. “Anything else?” 

Hero thought for a moment and then shook their head. That had been the most of it. The violence itself had only lasted a couple minutes, but it had been the most painful couple minutes of their life. Not only physically, but emotionally. They had never felt so betrayed. 

“Are you going to leave them?” Henchman asked. Hero looked at them and noticed fear in their eyes. Henchman was very concerned with Hero’s answer. Villain made a gesture at Henchman, but they were undeterred. 

“Are you going to leave them?” Henchman repeated. 

Hero uncapped the marker again. 

I want to. 

“But you feel you can’t,” Villain finished the sentence for Hero. 

Hero nodded. 

It never ends well. I know I need to, but they hold all the cards. Hero shrugged sadly. 

“Who cares?” Henchman said angrily. “So they have your money or whatever? That’s not worth you!”

Hero was touched by the sentiment, but felt the need to explain. 

It’s not only that. They’re more powerful than me. More powerful than anyone really. I shouldn’t even be here. The last time someone tried to help…it was bad.

Villain felt their blood freeze, “What do you mean more powerful?” 

It was hard to think of anyone more powerful than Hero. Except themselves of course. 

“Who tried to help?” Henchman asked at the same time. 

Hero grimaced, 

Do you remember Other Hero?

“Oh god,” Henchman whispered. 

“Your Spouse did that?” Villain asked, shocked. 

Hero nodded. 

I don’t know what they will do to anyone else, or the city itself if I’m not there. I hate it, but it’s the only way I know to protect everyone. 

They looked at Hero to continue.

I knew it was bad not long after our second anniversary, but by then Spouse was too dangerous. They need to be in jail, not only for me, but for everyone else they’ve hurt. I just don’t know anyone who can take them. 

Villain made a noise, but Hero raised a hand to silence them while they wrote more. 

In a way this is my ultimate sacrifice to protect my city.

“Hero,” Villain breathed. 

Henchman looked like they had tears in their eyes, “Hero, I’m going to hug you now if that’s alright.” 

Hero looked at Henchman quizzically, but nodded. 

Henchman wrapped their arms around Hero carefully and squeezed with a force that was both powerful, yet calming. 

“You really are the best the city’s ever seen,” Henchman spoke against Hero’s hair. “All this time you’ve been living in hell and it was to protect all of us.” 

Hero released more tears. They patted Henchman awkwardly on the back. 

“They’ve always been a hugger,” Villain chuckled as they watched the scene. “If you can’t tell, Henchman has been a fan of yours for a while.”

Henchman released them with an undignified HEY at Villain. Villain shrugged and turned their attention back to Hero. 

“Hero, I don’t care what danger it might put us in. I knew this was going to be messy the moment I saw you on the roof. Anyone who can take you on is going to be a threat. I knew that and helped you anyway.” 

Hero nodded at Villain’s words. 

“But what I need to know now is who Spouse really is. I don’t think I’m far off in thinking that they’re a part of the hero agency?” 

Hero nodded, there was hesitation in their eyes.

“And they’re more powerful than the other heroes.” 

Hero looked down, but nodded again. 

“And you two went to the academy at the same time didn’t you?” 

Hero winced and nodded. 

“And came to the city at the same time.” 

Hero closed their eyes and nodded. 

“Villain, what are you getting at?” Henchman asked slowly. In their voice Hero could tell they were on the same train of thought, but didn’t want to believe it. 

“Hero,” Villain waited for Hero ‘s red rimmed eyes to look up and meet their gaze. “You’re married to Superhero aren't you?” 

Hero nodded. 

“Shit.” Henchman said. 

Hero nodded their agreement. 

There was silence while everyone processed the news, Villain and Henchman the knowledge and Hero for sharing it. Finally Villain broke it. 

“Well,” they clapped their hands together, “Here’s what we’re going to do. Tonight we do nothing.”

“Hero, tonight I want you to focus on yourself. I know you want to look at your phone, but maybe hold off until tomorrow morning, yeah?” Hero made to protest, but Villain continued. 

“Look at it like this. You said this is how you protect the city. Now I don’t doubt that, especially knowing who Spouse is; but I want you to picture it like you're on a sinking ship. Lots of people need saving, but you can’t exactly help them into the lifeboats if you yourself are still in the water.” 

Hero wrinkled their eyebrows. 

“You’ve got to climb into the lifeboat first before you can pull anyone else in.” 

Hero was taken aback. That was…that was…really good advice. 

Villain smiled, “So for tonight, leave the phone and get some rest. We can make a plan tomorrow about what to do. You’re no longer in this alone. I don’t want someone like Spouse protecting my city.” 

“You’re not alone in this anymore,” Villain reiterated. 

Hero couldn’t help the smile on their lips or the hope in their chest. They weren’t alone in this. Perhaps this time, Superhero really could be caught. Hero could stop pretending. They suddenly felt so tired.

Seeing this, Henchman helped Hero lay down and placed the thin, long ice pack on their bruised neck.  

“I’ll stay here a while, there’s an all night Friends marathon on right now,” Henchman nodded to the TV on the wall, “I always fall asleep during that show.” 

Hero knew Henchman just wanted to keep an eye on them in case their throat swelled anymore, but they appreciated the company. It had been a while since they had people around them that knew everything and still wanted to be with them. They nodded. 

“Great,” Henchman walked over to the television to get it started. Villain followed them. 

“Once they fall asleep initiate plan orange,” Villain whispered so Hero wouldn’t hear. Henchman kept flipping through channels, but Villain saw their eyes harden a moment. 

“Are you sure?” They whispered back. 

Villain nodded as they looked at the channel guide.“Yes. Tell Supervillain we have a mutual enemy,” Villain glanced back at Hero, “And the key to defeat them. Once and for all.”

[betweenstorms]

I'm so in love with Skin of thunder's Simon as aaaahhqhqjqhwh I'm blushed when I read a new chapter 'cause he's so SIMON definitely A SIMON IN LOVE

Thank you so much 🖤

It makes me so happy to hear that you love Skin of Thunder’s Simon! I really wanted to capture him well, all his rough edges, stubbornness, and that quiet, deeply felt love he doesn’t quite know what to do with. Knowing he comes across as so Simon in your eyes means everything!

And since the next chapter is dropping tomorrow, here’s a little snippet just for you:

Every head snapped in his direction, eyes wary, brows raised—everyone but yours.

You kept your eyes fixed on the table, not daring to look at him, as though afraid he might catch your gaze and hold it. Ghost could see the flush rising slowly along your neck, blooming scarlet beneath the harsh fluorescent glare. He hated it. Hated himself for putting it there, for being the reason you were there at all, feeling like some poor lamb set before a pack of wolves.

Your voice finally broke the tense silence, small but firm enough to draw attention.

“I can do it.”

His heart stilled in his chest.

Fuck, no.

Ghost’s breath left him in a rush, frustration and anger burning hotly beneath his skin. He felt a familiar helplessness clawing up from the depths—a helplessness he hadn’t felt since he was just a boy, standing in a dark hallway, watching everything he loved crumble before his eyes. He swore he’d never feel that way again, never be powerless, never let anyone else suffer while he stood by, useless.

Yet here he was, trapped, watching as you put yourself willingly in danger.

“If it’s necessary,” you clarified quietly. “I can help.”

Oh, love.

Courage suited you terribly.