#trying to be better at painting from imagination..

[palesweetsdeer]

What’s left if all is gone?

A writing suggestion by @ziggy-at-home about Copia being hurt that his ghouls have a new Papa. Had to make it a little Copiaether because I love them dearly. Read this and other fun shit on Ao3

————

The office is cold. Copia is cold too. He’s freezing in his new suit, muscles strained and tense from the effort not to shiver every five seconds. 

He’s been sitting on the couch for the better part of an hour now, staring up at the ceiling with a blank gaze. At first he was counting the thorns on a painted rose’s stem but now he’s just looking without actually seeing anything. 

Vaguely he’s aware that his neck will be stiff, once he decides to move. He shudders at the thought. His entire body will be stiff and achy, won’t it? 

He thinks about how easy ghouls have it. They will never experience the hardships of growing older. Speaking of ghouls… he feels his lips pull back into a grimace, face contorting. 

Ghouls. He’d had his own ghouls. Had summoned them, had trained them, had had fun with them. Had slept with them, even. And now they were gone. Not in the literal sense, of course but still… It felt different. Like he had lost them. 

When V came along, they all immediately bonded with him. By now Copia was aware that it was because of the man’s half ghoul DNA, but still. It had felt… too fast. Like they had just moved on from him without ever looking back. 

Was this what the other papas had felt too, when they resigned and had their place taken by their brothers? 

Copia blinks and finds himself really glad that Terzo died before he could witness his beloved Omega be subjected to someone else’s reign. Which didn’t happen anyway, since Omega stepped down right after his boyfriend’s death. Copia had been relieved. It would have been more than awkward to try and play Papa in front of a ghoul that most likely resented him. 

His thoughts then bounce over to Aether. Aether who had been so sweet and welcoming and who’d always done his best to make Copia feel like he belonged, even when he was still Cardinal and trying to figure everything out. 

He sighs. 

Him and Aether hadn’t been too different from Terzo and Omega, he figures. Although he never would have dared to beg the ghoul to impregnate him on stage. That was fucked, even for Terzo. Copia grimaces and shudders. 

He’d been close with his ghouls. With all of them, no exception. He’d loved them like family and he still did. For someone who hated change as much as Copia did it felt horrible to imagine that his ‘family’ had just moved on to someone new. How could they? How could he let them? 

He rubs at his face with his hands and whines lowly. 

It had all been perfect until Imperator died and V showed up. He’d had the stage, he’d had his fame and he’d had his ghouls. And then the new guy came and suddenly he had all those things. Didn’t even have to work for them, they were gifted to him. 

Now, Copia had gotten over his petty hatred for his twin a while ago, but still… He felt his gut twist at the thought of his ghouls latching onto a new Papa and forgetting all about him in the process. 

“Oh, Sathanas help me”, he murmurs, staring up at the ceiling with wet eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what my purpose is, now that everything I was good at has been taken from me. Everything I loved and had passion for… Forgive me for not being able to fulfill my new role.” 

He feels like crying. Call him a crybaby but Copia had always been emotional. Had always taken everything just a tad too seriously, had always been too affected by the things happening around him. 

He remembers when he was a kid and cried because Terzo didn’t want to play dolls with him. Which was absolutely understandable, given Terzo was 18 and Copia had just turned five. He’d had better and more important things to do back then but to Copia it had felt like the biggest betrayal. 

He feels a tear run down his cheek and quickly wipes it away as he hears a knock on the door. 

He sits up and pulls his jacket back into place, clearing his throat. 

“Yes”, he hums as his voice cracks and stands up. “Yes, come in.” 

The door creaks open and he’s met with a pair of concerned, golden eyes, cross shaped pupils staring right at him. Speak of the devil… 

Aether flicks his tail and enters the office, closing the door behind him silently. They stare at each other for a moment and Copia can tell that the ghoul knows exactly what he’s feeling. He always did. Be it the magic of his Quintessence or just genuine care, he always knew. 

Aether tilts his head and coos softly, as if in question. Copia just nods silently and it takes about three seconds for the ghoul to march through the office and wrap him into a tight hug which he reciprocates. 

Hugging Aether always feels like something inside him is healing. He’s big and there’s enough of him to comfortably envelope Copia and give him a sense of security he lacks in his everyday life. He grips the ghoul’s shoulders and buries his face against his thick neck as Aether leans down to accommodate to his height. 

They’re both quiet for a while and Aether rocks him from side to side in his tight bear hug. 

“I could smell that something was wrong all the way to the infirmary”, the ghoul murmurs eventually, a large hand coming up to run over Copia’s hair. “You wanna tell me what’s going on, C?” 

Copia sighs and wipes at his eye with the palm of his hand. 

“I’m lonely”, he admits, avoiding eye contact by staring at the way Aether’s cross earrings dangle in front of him. “I feel like… like my ghouls just moved on without me. Like they don’t even need me anymore, now that they have V.”

Aether hums, still rubbing his head and now also his back.

”Mhm… do you feel jealous of your brother?” 

Copia sighs and shakes his head, leaning into the touch. 

“No, not jealous. I’m just… sad. Sad and miserable. I don’t hate him for taking them, I hate myself for letting them go.” 

“But you haven’t.” 

Copia blinks and now he does look up to meet Aether’s gaze. 

“Huh?” 

Aether smiles a little and tilts his head, looking down at him. 

“If you feel this strongly about them, then you haven’t let them go. There’s no need to hate yourself over something you didn’t even do.” 

Copia snarls. 

“You know what I mean.” 

“I don’t. And neither do you, apparently.” 

One thing he’s always equally hated and loved about Aether was the way he could see right through everybody’s bullshit even if they couldn’t themself. He was always the one calling everyone out because he just… saw. And he understood. And he wanted to help everyone else understand too. Aether was an angel in the body of a demon, Copia was convinced. 

He sighs and rubs at his face. He’s started growing his moustache back and the slight stubble tickles his fingers when he brushes over it. 

“Okay. But I still feel lonely. I feel like.. they left me.” 

Aether hums and nudges his nose against Copia’s temple in a reassuring, affectionate manner. 

“Have you talked to any of them about it?” 

“No. I was afraid they wouldn’t want anything to do with me.” 

At that, Aether looks at him like he’s the dumbest idiot he’s ever encountered. 

“Are you fucking serious?” 

Copia grimaces and squirms uncomfortably. 

“Yeah.” 

“You’re afraid they don’t like you anymore but you don’t go and check? You just assume?” 

Copia nods and lowers his gaze again. Now that it’s being put into words, he can understand how fucking stupid he’s being. It’s almost embarrassing. 

Aether sighs and steps back from the hug to grasp his hand tightly and start leading him towards the door. 

“Hach… Come. We’ll check together.” 

“I’m not five.” 

“You sure?” 

The words sting but in a way Copia needs them to. He knows he needs to get his shit together and although his stomach clenches and he feels like he wants to throw up at the thought of having to confront his former ghouls, he follows Aether willingly as they march through the long corridors and hallways of the Ministry, down to the cellars and the ghoul den. 

The closer they get to the den, the warmer the air gets and Copia feels like his muscles are finally thawing and relaxing again. Like he’s slowly but surely finding himself again, even though he hasn’t even spoken to anybody yet. 

They stop in front of the gate and Aether lays his hands against the seal, murmuring the opening command. They watch the entrance glide open and Copia feels his knees go weak as he’s tugged inside. Aether opens his mouth and lets out a shrill, chirping call into the depths of the den, letting the swarm know he’s brought company. 

“Copia’s ghouls into the common area!”, he commands and guides Copia to sit on one of the large couches, seating himself right next to him so his large body is covering one side. 

Copia taps his foot on the ground nervously and clasps his hands in his lap. 

“This is stupid.” 

“You’re stupid.” 

He sends Aether a glare that is met with a low chuckle.

Swiss is the first to emerge from the sleeping area, locs hanging over his eyes. It’s rare to see him without his gold hairpieces but apparently he just woke up. He squints and then starts to wag his tail as he recognises Copia, bolting over to jump over the back of the couch and plop down next to them. 

“Hi, Papa! You haven’t been down here for a while, I thought ya’d forgotten ‘bout us”, he grins and rubs his cheek over Copia’s once in a familiar greeting. 

Copia immediately feels warm inside. 

“No, of course I haven’t. I’m just-“ 

“LOOKIE HERE!” 

Copia flinches and turns to look over at Dewdrop, Rain and Aurora marching towards them from the kitchen, Mountain, Cumulus and Cirrus in tow. Sunshine joins them as well, looking rather confused as to why she was summoned. Once she spots Copia though, she smiles and the wings under her eyes flutter happily. 

“Where you been, C? We miss you”, Dewdrop announces and lets himself fall into a loveseat across from the couch. 

Phantom peeks his head out from around a corner and shuffles over to sit on the floor between Swiss’ thighs, the multi ghoul immediately wrapping his tail around his neck. Mountain and the ghoulettes occupy a second couch and Rain comes to stand behind Dewdrop, leaning his torso on the loveseat’s backrest. All of them stare at him expectantly and Copia feels his leg start to bounce again. 

“I was… I was so busy, trying to accommodate to my new job and everything”, he starts and clears his throat. “And I’m sure you’ve been busy too. With the new Papa and the new lineup and the tour you have to prepare for…” 

Phantom snorts and curls his tail around his own thigh. 

“We’ve been more than just busy. I can’t even feel my fingers from practicing so much”, he whines and holds up his hands for Copia to inspect. 

He smiles and grabs the quint’s hands, rubbing his knuckles with his own fingers which earns him a happy purr. 

“Aw, poor bug has to learn a few chords”, Swiss teases, flicking his tassel against Phantom’s cheek. “I have to take care of like five instruments at once!” 

Phantom hisses and bites into the hair of the multi’s tail, tugging at the coarse hair. Cumulus chuckles and tilts her head, bright eyes focusing on Copia again. 

“You seem very tense”, she notes and her gaze flicks to Aether. Having to be escorted by Aether is never a good sign, everybody knows that. “Is something bothering you?” 

Copia sighs and nods, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, the other still busy with massaging Phantom’s knuckles. 

“I’m just being insecure.” 

“Really?”, Cumulus frowns. “About what?” 

He can see the way every ghoul in the room perks up, interested in his distress. They care, he realises. They still care. 

It should have been obvious but getting a confirmation like this… it feels so much better than just assuming. Sue him, not only was Copia a crybaby he was also an attention-whore. 

“You guys.” 

“Fuck’s that mean?”, Swiss asks, frowning as he accidentally kicks at Phantom’s horn, the quin letting out a loud yowl at the attack. 

Copia leans down and rubs at the horn to soothe the sting. 

“I was… I felt lonely. I thought you all had left me or that you… didn’t care anymore. Because of V”, he sighs and leans back. 

They all sit in silence for a moment until Cirrus speaks up. 

“No offence, luv… but that’s fucking stupid”, she says, staring at him with a deadpan expression. 

He hums. 

“Yes, I eh… I realised that too. Sorry.” 

Aether hums gently and leans down, rubbing his cheek against Copia’s forehead soothingly. Swiss moves to press his side up against his, purring lowly in his throat. 

“Y’know, if ya had told us sooner, I would’ve immediately fucked that dumb thought outta yer pretty brain, C.” 

Copia smiles and knocks his head against the ghoul’s singular horn. 

“Thank you.”

”I can still do it, if ya want me t-“ 

“No, Swiss! Bad”, Rain hisses, walking over to bat at the multi’s head like a cat disciplining its kit. 

Swiss whines and growls, swinging back with his hand and the two ghouls start hitting and hissing at each other in a playful but still plenty rough manner. 

Copia watches and feels his lips twitch up into a smile. It feels familiar, to sit there and watch his people interact so easily. He feels home again, for the first time since Imperator’s death. 

“You shouldn’t think stupid shit like that, Papa”, Phantom says, tugging his hand from Copia’s grasp and looking up at him. 

He rips Swiss’ tail from his throat and moves to now sit next to Copia’s legs instead as the multi ghoul’s fight with Rain escalates and the two tumble to the floor in a hissing, yowling lump of limbs and claws. 

“You don’t have to call me that anymore, bug”, Copia murmurs, sinking his hand into the quint’s hair and rubbing it gently. 

Phantom purrs and closes his eyes, leaning into the touch. 

“I know. But you’re the one who summoned me. You’re the first Papa I got to know so I’ll absolutely fucking call you what I like”, he murmurs and wags his tail a little. 

Copia hums and smiles, looking up as Mountain speaks up. 

“Have we done something to make you feel this way, Copia?”, the large ghoul asks, his long legs resting over Aurora’s lap. 

The former Papa shakes his head vehemently and sighs. 

“No, no no! Of course not. It was never your fault just… me thinking stupid shit. Like Phantom said.” 

“But do you still… think that?”, Aurora tilts her head, all three eyes narrowed in confusion and also mild concern it seems. 

Copia smiles at her and shakes his head once more. It makes his heart clench, seeing his lovely ghouls in distress. 

“No, no, cara. How could I? With you all here…”

He looks up when he feels Aether’s chest start to vibrate against his shoulder, the large ghoul purring gently, his deep sounds mixing with Phantom’s higher ones. 

“That’s right. We’re not leaving you. Nobody is. As long as you’re not leaving us either. Okay?”, Aether nudges his nose against Copia’s temple, pressing a soft kiss to the skin. “The swarm is here for you, no matter if you’re Papa or Frater. We were there for Primo, Secondo and Terzo as well, while they were Papas and afterwards. Before as well. And we will be there for Perpetua too, once he resigns. It’s literally what ghouls are there for, C. We don’t leave, we change and adapt. But we never, ever, EVER leave.” 

The rest of the present ghouls chirp and rumble in confirmation and Phantom purrs a little louder. Swiss and Rain momentarily stop their fighting to look up, Swiss climbing back up on the couch’s armrest, looking disheveled and pretty beat up for someone who was ‘play fighting’ with a swarm mate. 

“Yah! We’d never fuckin’ leave ya behind just ‘cause you ain’t Papa anymore. I know, I’d still fuck ya, no matter if you’re out of the band or not.” 

Copia hums gently. 

“Yes, thank you, Swiss. That’s reassuring.” 

The multi ghoul shows him a thumbs up and is then dragged back onto the floor by the horn, where Rain continues beating the living shit out of him. In a playful manner, of course. Copia hopes so at least. 

“Hmm”, Aether hums, rubbing his fingers over the back of Copia’s neck. “You’re gonna stay with us tonight. And tomorrow, you’ll feel all better. I’m sure. You wanna sleep in the cuddle pile, C?” 

“If you’ll have me.” 

Cirrus gets up and claps her hands together, feathers puffing up. 

“Everybody get their blankets and pillows ready, we’re occupying the big nest tonight. RAIN! Let Swiss go, he’s had enough.” 

Cumulus and Aurora immediately get up and bolt off to get their belongings. Mountain stands as well and Phantom scrambles to his feet to take the best place on the mattress. Swiss emerges from the ground, looking even more fucked up than before. Rain doesn’t seem as beaten, barely any scratches and his hair is still in a neat ponytail. 

“She’s right. C’me on, gazelle boy, we’re getting a good spot”, the water ghoul murmurs, grabs Swiss by the collar and drags him towards the sleeping area. 

Aether gently takes Copia’s hand and guides him, tail swishing to curl around his waist. They move into the sleeping hall and Copia snorts in amusement as he sees five mattresses being pushed together in the middle, Phantom already curled up between Swiss and Rain, both older ghouls squeezing the quint between their chests. A warm, gentle feeling blooms in his chest and he waves in the direction of the back of the cave where bright eyes track his every movements. The water ghouls must have curled up back there, slit pupils following him as he’s moved to sit down on the mattress. 

“Thank you, Aeth.” 

“No problem. Where do you want to sleep?” 

Copia moves to lay down in the middle of the nest, his side pressing against Swiss’ back. The warmth seeps into his bones immediately and he sighs, his body relaxing. He lets his eyes fall shut as Aether moves to lay on his other side, just like he had back on the couch. The mattress dips and shifts as more bodies are added to the cuddle pile, each of the ghouls pressing and squeezing together to fit on the wide space they created. Copia hums when he feels warmth blanketing him and wraps his arms around Cirrus who’d laid down atop him. As soon as they’re all settled, loud, gentle purrs begin to fill the air, an aura of contentment washing over the small group. 

Copia feels tired again, but not from exhaustion anymore. Now he feels comfortable and mushy, all soft on the inside like a cake with a molten core. It’s easy to relax and to let his thoughts drift, surrounded by warm bodies and gentle sounds. 

He feels better. So much better. 

He’s not alone anymore. He still hates his current job and the way he won’t ever get to perform again, but he’s not alone. 

“Thank you”, he murmurs and feels a gentle nudge on his temple in response. 

“Sleep, C. We’re here. We’ll be here when you wake up too.” 

Copia barely registers the murmured words, already dozing off. 

He sleeps deep and soundly, the entire night. And when he wakes in the morning, he can say without a doubt, that he hadn’t felt as well rested and regenerated in weeks.  

——

[twinkskeletons]

two of them

[skitskatdacat63]

“Amore et Timore” - King Fernando I “El Animoso”

[david-watts]

I love adding my leftover paint into my sketchbook it's so much fun and it adds texture which I find I like considering how differently I feel like I have been approaching art recently. and also it helps if I want to add markers to something because it hides the bleed-through, although I don't use my markers as much because of the aforementioned change in approach. however the problem is if I'm just going to glob paint down I need to do so when I don't intend on using the sketchbook because I just shot myself in the foot and I have to wait for it to dry

[poisonouspastels]

@beegswaz genuinely i think my favorite tags on any of my work ever. i fucking love when people talk abt my characters like this

[nanamisgirly]

imagine nerd!Choso, you both are in the same degree. he didn't really noticed you at first but, for some unknown reasons, he kept bumping into you— wether in the hallway or you'd be few rows in front of him during lectures. And just like that, he developed an obsession toward you. and might god forgive him, but he couldn't help jerking off his cock at the thought of his length disappearing between your lips, eyes flickering up at him with a teasing glint. he was kind of sad you didn't even know he existed :/

but how lucky! in one of your lesson, the teacher assigned a partnered project. and fortunately, the duo were made with a randomized system!! Choso did not think twice, with some quick manipulation on his computer, he paired himself…with you! almost too easy

on your side tho, you had never heard the name Choso before. So when you reached out to set up a time for the project, you didn't expect much of it. But now…sitting across from him…his wide figure looming over the table, inked arms straining against the ridiculous tightness of his shirt…that was another story. How hadn't you noticed such a pretty face?? sharp eyes lined with kohl, two messy buns with some rebellious strands framing his beautiful features, and perfect dark purple painted nails tapping against the table. ‘am i blind or sum?’ you wondered. 

nerd!Choso was originally awkward with social interaction but more so when it came to you. He clears his throat "I- uh," he started, voice trembling "f-for the work, would you like t-t- to…" his cheeks flushed an adorable pink as you stared at him, giving him time to formule his thoughts ‘such a cute boy’ you mused.

"we can do it at my home!" he suddenly blurted out, words rushed, as if the poor man hadn’t said it now, he never would have :( "i- i mean, t-the assignment! o-of course..." he was so embarrassed of himself, his hands nervously cupping his warm milk chocolate "if— if you want to.." his eyes darted anywhere but yours, unable to hold your gaze. not when you were looking so intently, like you were seeing right through him. because what if you had some superpowers, the kind to read his horny thoughts, the kind to know exactly how many times he fucked his fist to the image of your pretty mouth stuffed full of his aching cock. catastrophe!!!!

nerd!Choso was blushing furiously, messier, stuttering over his words more than usual when you were unconditionally giving your best to give the man a gooood ride. “p-p-please” he whined, voice breaking. You leaned in, your breath warm against his ear “tell me, my pretty shy boy…what are you begging for, hmm? use your words, pretty". 

choso's hands gripped your thighs like a lifeline, fingers digging into your skin. “y-you— mngh, it's— it's too good. i can't last— i— please,” he choked out, eyes glossy as you slammed your hips down harder. His happy trail rubbed against your clit with every grind. the friction giving you as much pleasure as him.

“preeetty boy," you cooed, trying to maintain your composure despite having his fat dick stretching you enough to see stars. “is this what you've been thinking about the whole year? me riding you? or even better,” your mouth went for his neck, licking softly, contrasting with the pulsing grip of your cunt, milking his cock. "touching yourself to the thought of my glossy lips wrapped around your pathetically big dick ?" your voice was so sensual "tell me, tell me and i'll give you what you want” that man was moaning, the sluttiest moans escaping his throat. in response, your walls clenched harder, trying to suck him in even deeper at this point. “i— i was— i mean, i- fuckfuckfuck" choso were sure he lost the ability to form a simple sentence, his head falling back as he felt his tip kissing your cervix. but he tried his best to continue "i— i was…pumping my— my cock at the- mngh, thought o-of you..t-takin' me…d-d-deep,” poor boy was losing his mind. You've never seen a man being that pussy drunk, so openly lost into you, that was addicting.

your fingers trailed over his inked pecs, moving along the curves of his tattoos making their way to his nipples, and you pinched. not too rough to hurt but enough to send jolts of pleasure through his body. “look at this good boy," you sighed, feeling choso throbbing inside you. "earned the right to cum inside me… would you like that?”. 

you loved teasing him. he was a total whimpering, fucked out mess beneath you. ‘so cute’

nerd!Choso was as sure as the sky is blue that you had superpowers, somehow. and you both sure as well scored a beautiful A on the assignment.

(*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

[jewishvitya]

A pro-Palestine Jew on tiktok asked those of us who were raised pro-Israel, what got us to change our minds on Palestine. I made a video to answer (with my voice, not my face), and a few people watched it and found some value in it. I'm putting this here too. I communicate through text better than voice.

So I feel repetitive for saying this at this point, but I grew up in the West Bank settlements. I wrote this post to give an example of the extent to which Palestinians are dehumanized there.

Where I live now, I meet Palestinians in day to day life. Israeli Arab citizens living their lives. In the West Bank, it was nothing like that. Over there, I only saw them through the electric fence, and the hostility between us and Palestinians was tangible.

When you're a child being brought into the situation, you don't experience the context, you don't experience the history, you don't know why they're hostile to you. You just feel "these people hate me, they don't want me to exist." And that bubble was my reality. So when I was taught in school that everything we did was in self defense, that our military is special and uniquely ethical because it's the only defensive military in the world - that made sense to me. It slotted neatly into the reality I knew.

One of the first things to burst the bubble for me was when I spoke to an old Israeli man and he was talking about his trauma from battle. I don't remember what he said, but it hit me wrong. It conflicted with the history as I understood it. So I was a bit desperate to make it make sense again, and I said, "But everything we did was in self defense, right?"

He kinda looked at me, couldn't understand at all why I was upset, and he went, "We destroyed whole villages. Of course we did. It was war, that's what you do."

And that casual "of course" stuck with me. I had to look into it more.

I couldn't look at more accurate history, and not at accounts by Palestinians, I was too primed against these sources to trust them. The community I grew up in had an anti-intellectual element to it where scholars weren't trusted about things like this.

So what really solidified this for me, was seeing Palestinian culture.

Because part of the story that Israel tells us to justify everything, is that Palestinians are not a distinct group of people, they're just Arabs. They belong to the nations around us. They insist on being here because they want to deny us a homeland. The Palestinian identity exists to hurt us. This, because the idea of displacing them and taking over their lands doesn't sound like stealing, if this was never theirs and they're only pretending because they want to deprive us.

But then foods, dances, clothing, embroidery, the Palestinian dialect. These things are history. They don't pop into existence just because you hate Jews and they're trying to move here. How gorgeous is the Palestinian thobe? How stunning is tatreez in general? And when I saw specific patterns belonging to different regions of Palestine?

All of these painted for me a rich shared life of a group of people, and countered the narrative that the Palestininian identity was fabricated to hurt us. It taught me that, whatever we call them, whatever they call themselves, they have a history in this land, they have a right to it, they have a connection to it that we can't override with our own.

I started having conversations with leftist friends. Confronting the fact that the borders of the occupied territories are arbitrary and every Israeli city was taken from them. In one of those conversations, I was encouraged to rethink how I imagine peace.

This also goes back to schooling. Because they drilled into us, we're the ones who want peace, they're the ones who keep fighting, they're just so dedicated to death and killing and they won't leave us alone.

In high school, we had a stadium event with a speaker who was telling us about a person who defected from Hamas, converted to Christianity and became a Shin Bet agent. Pretty sure you can read this in the book "Son of Hamas." A lot of my friends read the book, I didn't read it, I only know what I was told in that lecture. I guess they couldn't risk us missing out on the indoctrination if we chose not to read it.

One of the things they told us was how he thought, we've been fighting with them for so long, Israelis must have a culture around the glorification of violence. And he looked for that in music. He looked for songs about war. And for a while he just couldn't find any, but when he did, he translated it more fully, and he found out the song was about an end to wars. And this, according to the story as I was told it, was one of the things that convinced him. If you know know the current trending Israeli "war anthem," you know this flimsy reasoning doesn't work.

Back then, my friend encouraged me to think more critically about how we as Israelis envision peace, as the absence of resistance. And how self-centered it is. They can be suffering under our occupation, but as long as it doesn't reach us, that's called peace. So of course we want it and they don't.

Unless we're willing to work to change the situation entirely, our calls for peace are just "please stop fighting back against the harm we cause you."

In this video, Shlomo Yitzchak shares how he changed his mind. His story is much more interesting than mine, and he's much more eloquent telling it. He mentions how he was taught to fear Palestinians. An automatic thought, "If I go with you, you'll kill me." I was taught this too. I was taught that, if I'm in a taxi, I should be looking at the driver's name. And if that name is Arab, I should watch the road and the route he's taking, to be prepared in case he wants to take me somewhere to kill me. Just a random person trying to work. For years it stayed a habit, I'd automatically look at the driver's name. Even after knowing that I want to align myself with liberation, justice, and equality. It was a process of unlearning.

On October, not long after the current escalation of violence, I had to take a taxi again. A Jewish driver stopped and told me he'll take me, "so an Arab doesn't get you." Israeli Jews are so comfortable saying things like this to each other. My neighbors discussed a Palestinian employee, with one saying "We should tell him not to come anymore, that we want to hire a Jew." The second answered, "No, he'll say it's discrimination," like it would be so ridiculous of him. And the first just shrugged, "So we don't have to tell him why." They didn't go through with it, but they were so casual about this conversation.

In the Torah, we're told to treat those who are foreign to us well, because we know what it's like to be the foreigner. Fighting back against oppression is the natural human thing to do. We know it because we lived it. And as soon as I looked at things from this angle, it wasn't really a choice of what to support.

[cursedcola]

Prompt: YOU ARE LIKE PAPA!!!! Aka. I'm seeing a trend. The boys are all literal carbon copies of their mommas (or one parent) at this point - so how do they feel having a child that’s THEIR spitting image? In which your genes didn’t even try. Physically...and personality. Masterlist: LinkedUP Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: House-Wardens Format: Headcannons+ imagine (Yes, I know I said I wouldn't be doing bullets anymore...but one more? It's mixed. Can't just cold turkey a gal) A/N: Do I want to make this a series?...I do not know. Maybe? It's really hard to write without the kids having names - and I'm just here like...can I use the names I want? I already made them up in a past post. Would that ruin the experience for people? I mean - it's my stuff and I can do what I want but hmmm.... Warning(?): For this to be, MC's the one who popped the kid out and has reproductive ability to house spawn. Kiddos are biological. Talk of pregnancy and general child-rearing. Use of mother and she/her pronouns to make my life a bit easier.

Riddle couldn't care if his child looked like him down to the last freckle on is butt. What mattered most in that delivery room was that the child came out healthy with no complications. He's the father that doesn't shy away from asking the doctor + midwives questions - perhaps too many, since you nearly toss him out of the delivery room for causing unneeded distress.

In all honesty? Had he studied medicine like his mother pushed - Riddle would've been the one delivering his own child. He copes with stress through control - so imagine THAT scenario.

After birth, he cares much more for the child's skills and manners rather than their appearance. Do they wash their hands before every meal? Say their please and thank you? Do they trust him enough to state their opinions - respectfully, not a potty mouth.

Riddle can and will make them lick a bar of soap if they utter a curse word before the age of 15.

How's their academic drive? Are they social? It's very important that they get along well with others from an early age. He wants them to have many friends.

He's so focused on their personality - aiming to raise a happy, confident, healthy child - that Riddle takes compliments on their physical attributes with a grain of salt until his hard work all those years child-rearing amass into... well, a second less intense version of himself.

He's adamant to ensure the child's homelife is better than what he had growing up. In a way, he misses much while worrying about other things. 10/10 an anxious father, but very doting despite being strict.

"Must I paint a heart on my cheek every day? Why not a crown, or something more fitting us? Like a rose?" his daughter huffed, yet went to paint a large red heart over her cheekbone regardless.

Just like her father, she'd received her invitation to Night Raven. The girl was expecting it, her certainty fueled by perfect grades and a strong aptitude for magic. She did not lack confidence.

Just like her father, she was assured to land in Heartslabyul. Already prepping her cheek-mark before the mirror made any verdict.

Just like her father, she aimed for the position of Housewarden before setting a single foot on campus.

Yet unlike her father, she held no issues in speaking her grievances. She bemoaned about packing, groveled at her mother's feet for her favorite biscuits before living off cafeteria meals, and surely had no reservations stealing Riddle's best fountain pen for her studies.

She keenly resembled a certain ginger that still calls the Rosehearts' household every day despite getting blue-screened by the answering machine.

That’s the last time Riddle allows you to chose the godfather of his child. Ace is an insufferable influence without that power to toss around.

Riddle sighed, plucking the brush from her fingers and pinning her V-shaped bangs back to examine her uniform. He flattens her lapels and redoes her necktie.

His necktie. Gods he’s raised a little thief.

For a moment, as he loops the tie-knot, he's a young boy calling the girl's mother over each morning to straighten her uniform. It's nostalgic, especially with how his daughter squirms under his appraisal.

Definetly her mother’s daughter, he thinks.

It is then that Riddle sees himself through her wide eyes - they're the same greyish blue that were hardened on his first day. His daughter's are much kinder, he notes. She'll easily find companions to eat her meals with.

Her cheeks are full with sweetness- his were too, but by genetic design rather than an extra treat here and there. To this day his baby-face lingers.

Her cheeks were 100% rounded with uncle Trey's spoiling. Not that Riddle could deny her when he'd eat just as much sweets while toiling over papers in his office. He remembers the familiar patter of feet slipping in, tiny hands pushing a cookie on his desk and coating it with crumbs.

He'd scold her to bring a plate next time, but take a break from work to enjoy the moment. Strict yet not domineering. A child that shares should be encouraged, at least that's what one of his many parenting manuals said.

She shared his button nose and tiny stature. Except she loved wearing matching Mary-Janes with her mother, while he wouldn't be caught without a heel at that age. She inherited his height but not his insecurity. Thank goodness.

Perhaps all those comments about his genetics weren't solely in regard to her magical prowess or ambitions. "....Father? Hellloooo?" she side-stepped to grab her bags, just as he reached to flatten her hair for the fifth time. His heart mellowed enough to not scold her impropriety.

"Ah - " Riddle coughed into his fist, " - apologies, little rose. I just never realized how much you look like -"

"You?” She cut in, “Yeah, psssssh. Mother says it at least once a day. About time you listened."

Riddle snorted, pinching between his brows. Yes, of course it was said. Although only now was he beginning to believe it.

"In appearances, yes. Yet your manners are as deplorable as ever."

Leona hopes his children are nothing like him. Which is impossible, since beastmen carry dominant traits when pitted against humans. He's not surprised in the slightest when his child has two little cub-ears atop their head, or that tiny chord barely passing as a tail. A ready snack he threatens to bite off when they misbehave.

At the very least, he hoped for your eyes. His piercing citrine was attractive, no doubt about that. He's not displeased to have them peer up at him from a bassinette each morning. Yet it is your eyes that carry a softness that this palace needs for him to get through his day.

Hey. At least there's no question of paternity. The joke falls flat with the midwives though. 'course it does.

Multiple times, by the way. For someone who claims to dislike loud children, Leona's genes are intent to sire three spitting images of himself.

In every which way - from their squeaky yawns after a mid-day siesta, to the magic flowing in their veins.

"Papa! Look what I learned how to do!"

Leona barely had time to look up from his endless pile of paperwork. The damn thing was near endless, and he'd missed three scheduled siestas just trying to get through the civil dispute filings. His brother spared no mercy in delegating the less 'enthusing' tasks to his 'smart, wise, people-smart' - pah - little brother.

He hated the sea of menial administrative filings.

His eldest daughter was well aware - she hated her homework just as much.

"A stampede's on it's way! Better freeze up before it's too late!"

Which is why she chose that moment to turn her beloved papa's woes to stone. Literally.

The moment her little fingers touched papyrus, the entire stack turned into solid rock. As did the blood in Leona's veins. Sparkly citrine eyes looked at him expectantly. Somewhere in the palace the lioness' tutor was undoubtly scouring to find her, take her back to magic theory, maybe try to cover this up from the other servants.

"You - OI! I needed those - urk, what else have you turned to stone?" he drops the pen in his hand and tries to move the now frozen stack into a drawer.

"Dammit Ki'faji...Where are your tutors? This is exactly why I told your mom combined lessons with Cheka would be a hassle," Leona grumbles and kicks from his desk, quick to check the hall outside. The kid was a bad influence - rambunctious as a twerp and even more riled up as a preteen.

Upon seeing no servants, guards, or even Cheka running up after his cousin - Leona's both relieved and angered.

Angered that his daughter was left alone. She probably escaped to avoid classwork, which he did too at that age but she deserved better. A proper education outside of solitude. One where she could hopefully grow up optimistic about this country and the people inside of it.

Relieved that no servant witnessed her Unique magic. They wouldn't understand. He can't bear the thought of them speaking of her like they did him.

Except it would be inevitable.

Then angered again, because in his hurry her little tail tucked between her legs. She hugged the side of his work desk with her hands fisted at the hem of her tunic. Her lips set in a scared pout, looking up at him past that untamed mane in her eyes. Worried.

"Papa...did I do something wrong?"

He wonders if this is what his father felt like. Being confronted with your own child, knowing that by cruel fate they'd have to face hardships and hatred for something out of their control.

Suffocating. His own throat felt full of sand. The leather on his hands too tight. She looked so much like him. Acted like him. That much Leona never once contested. Ki-Faji bemoaned to the skies that it was like time never passed, and he was stuck in a loop teaching the same unruly child.

It was funny, until it wasn't. "Nah, kiddo. Nothin' like that," he tried to keep his usual drawl. Unclench his fists. Forget about when he first slipped gloves on, "ya gotta warn me before a shock like that. So you finally got your magic tamed down, huh? Good job."

He shut the door and it set closed with a load thud. Leona might have an idea of what his father felt, but right now? She came first.

Ensuring she felt wanted, strong, and damn right accomplished - came first. Everything else later.

So with just a few strides, he swept her up over his shoulder and out from under that desk. She giggled and squawked about turning 'him' to stone if he made her go back to classes.

And Leona made no promises, but set her on the edge of his desk with 'threats' of turning her sweets to sand if she didn't at least try.

"With Unique Magic like that, you'll out-class your cousin before he even catches wind," and a bit of rivalry never hurt to keep the bloodline strong too.

Which judging by his daughter's immediate squirming to go and turn the first-prince to stone? She inherited Leona's competitive streak as well.

Unions between Merfolk and Humans are rare. Roughly 1/100 and that is giving benefit of the doubt. There were too many boundaries and complications. Prejudice born from history, the need for transfiguration, differing lifespans and culture.

One strong deterrent, perhaps the most impactful, is childrearing. The genetic output - while not impossible - is exceedingly unpredictable. Each species of merfolk reproduces differently, and their genetic dominance when put against a human's gene (especially if the mother is human) can cause complications. Capricious complications.

And as we all know - Azul is not fond of chance. Were his child to be born on land, yet have gills? Their lungs are so small, so new, they wouldn't make it to water in time. The same could be if they were born underwater and needed air.

One thing he is certain of, is that Octopi carry strong genetics. Literally. Should the child inherit his strength its kicks could do much more to your stomach than be a tickle to fawn over.

His mother wanted grandchildren, as did his great-grandmother did great grandchildren. Truth be told he wouldn't be opposed to raise one to leave his legacy to. Yet the Ashengrotto genes were strong with each descendent, so much that when he discovered you were with child? He couldn't be happy. Not truly - because too much was at risk and out of his control.

He prayed, which is not something Azul ever does, that the child would take after you. At each stage of development you were monitored down to the last detail, looking for any complications. Even the slightest hint of a tentacle or incompatibility.

Luckily, the child formed feet. Its first kick scared the hell out of him, but at most left you sore. Yet he wasn't able to relax. Not until you were taken care of in the best hospital on land, with a literal aquarium set up next to the bed just in case.

A medical marvel. That's what this child was.

Not a miracle. Not a blessing.

A medical marvel, and the most beautifully unpredictable thing that has ever happened to Azul in his entire life.

There was no clear picture of how his son might look at birth. He waited with bated breath, mentally running through every text he could find on mer-human unions. Banking on all the preparations He arranged and trying not to bite through his nails from the anxiety. The success rate was too low, but you insisted.

And he was most fortunate, because had you not then he wouldn't be holding the most cherished prize of his life.

The baby didn't cry, yet neither did he according to his mother. He was pale, no gills in sight but the wispy swirls of light gray on his head showed Azul's genes wouldn't rescind everything.

It was hidden from view for now, but there were signs of mixed blood on his son's skin. Plentiful black dots spotted his entire body, too dark to be freckles yet too light to be like Azul's outer skin in his mer-form. Time would only tell if Azul's genes really did overtake all, and if his son would look at the world with wet purple eyes.

Yet what struck Azul the most wasn't these obvious traits, ones he predicted at the very start of your pregnancy after endless nights of research.

It was that right below his son's lip, in the same spot as his father, was a small mole. That truly was by chance with no genetic influence.

He thumbed the little speck, marveling at something so small yet he didn't realize he wanted until it was there.

"You weren't lying, huh? Those are some strong genetics you carry."

Azul balked, just barely stopping himself from whipping around too quick. He turned to scold you for not sleeping, worry ebbing at him all over again.

Yet you rest your head against his shoulder, cheek pressed into his ruffled button down to sink against him. His heart still spun like it did as a teenager.

"Look at his little head of hair," you laughed, and he mutely did just that, "if he gets glasses, then I think my bloodline's finished. Might as well say you did mitosis"

That got him to scoff.

"Hardly," he said dismissively, but his lips pulled to smile regardless, "I don't recall giving him feet. That's all your doing."

"Well excuse me for not having eight legs."

"You are excused," he snickered, "Truly, he would be so much more productive with them."

Azul didn't mean that. Well, partially. Yes his son would get much more done with four sets of arms but with other costs.

You hadn't pressed, and he was grateful.

Kalim wants a large family. Not only because it is expected of him as the eldest Asim, but also because he is a family man. He adores his siblings and does his absolute best to give them all attention despite their large quantity.

He's the most doting husband, and is even more attentive as a parent. One thing he will do differently from his father is keeping his family 'small'. Four children minimum, six children maximum. Monogamous as well. As much as he loves all his siblings, the unspoken tensions are too much to endure. Kalim's also a one-spouse kind of guy, and the thought of sharing - while normal for someone of his status - is not for him. No amount of suggestion or pressure will change that. It is bad enough that his children will be subject to worries about their uncles, aunties, and cousins possibly harboring ill-will. Kalim is set on ensuring that they are part of a true family, one without such tensions, and that he can give them all the love they deserve.

Perhaps he feels guilt as the eldest. He received the most attention from his father as the heir, but he has siblings who barely know anything about their father aside from how he looks. He has step-mothers he has met only in formality, and as time went on there were strains between his siblings that he couldn't ignore. Not after taking his official seat.

Kalim will not be the same as his father. Regardless for his respect and love for the man - No matter what the future does to him, no matter if he lives a long life or one cut short. Kalim will make sure his spouse and children are cared for. He loves them more than anything on the planet.

Should he have a family, and the situation demand it? He'd give up his spot as heir in a heartbeat and move far out into the dunes with nothing but the clothes on his back. All for them to be happy and safe. That's the kind of dad he is.

"Baba?"

Kalim resisted the urge to giggle. His eldest son hated when Kalim acted too childlike, and he was already pushing the boy's patience. He was just past thirteen, his fourteenth birthday already planned for a week-long celebration in just a half-month. It would be the biggest banquet the Scaldings Sands had see since Kalim's wedding. His son would soon start officially training as the next head Asim, just like Kalim did at that age.

Yet it was never too early to celebrate one of the best days of Kalim's life. Which is exactly why Kalim hovered outside the boy's window at an hour long past their family's 'bedtime'. The carpet under his feet familiar as ever, as was his son's exhausted disapproval (we wonder which attendant he inherited 'that' look from).

"Come on! Let's go for a carpet ride. Just you and me tonight," Kalim gently pat the space next to him, his smile adamant, "we don't even have to tell your mother."

His son deadpanned. Even Kalim grimaced at that one.

"Okay! If we get caught, I'll take the hit for both of us. Please? It's such a lovely night out. Perfect for a flight~"

Normally it would be the son begging his father to sneak out, not the other way around. Yet Kalim's eldest was much more mature than he was at that age. Despite being his physical copy, those ruby reds never sparkled with excitement like his father's. They were aways fully concentrated - be it on his studies, his charity, or whomever captured his attention. There came a point when a rumor surfaced that he couldn't possibly be Kalims, yet they didn't reach far thanks to the physical resemblance.

The 'only' resemblance. Since the kid hadn't cracked a laugh since he was in diapers.

Something Kalim learned to accept, but never gave up trying.

His son observed from his bed, the boy's nose wrinkled with thought. No doubt wondering if he should tattle to his mom. He was a doting momma's boy, at least he had that in common with his father.

"Fine," he sighed heavily, and rolled out of bed like it was torture.

Kalim waited, holding the curtain open eagerly until his boy hopped the ledge and sat cross-legged on the carpet's far edge.

Then they were off. High above the city where no one would see. Kalim bobbed his head happily, pointing out buildings as if his son hadn't memorized the entire map of their homeland at the ripe age of five.

"Oh! And there's the restaurant I took your mother on our first date. She loves their Kanafeh -"

"Baba, I know. We have it for breakfast twice every week."

Kalim guided the carpet towards lower ground without a response - keeping air, sassy teenagers, and his messy turban from whacking him in the face.

Only two of those three succeeded.

"Why are we even out here? Shouldn't you worry more about your responsibilities? What if mother wakes to an empty bed, did you consider the consequences? Her worries?"

There came those older thoughts out of such a young mouth. Kalim couldn't help but slump inwards, although his smile still hung on. "You're turning fourteen soon," life will change, "Don't you want to enjoy life a bit more before starting your studies? Baba will understand, you know." he said, and perhaps that was not what his son expected to hear. The boy puffed up. His tanned skin rouging with lost composure.

"I'm not like you. Being al Asim means something to me. Maybe you'd understand if you were a proper sultan who took his job and family seriously! Rather than sneaking off in the night for merry rides on a flying carpet!"

Under the moonlight, his son's perfectly primmed white hair bounced in the wind. Even in sleep he managed to keep his appearance tidy. There were times it was like Kailm was looking in warped a mirror. Those rare moments when he caught the boy lapse, usually with his younger siblings or cousins. When he looked softer, his garnet eyes full of kindness rather than the contempt held in them right now.

Except in these moments too - he still saw a mirror. Just one he wished to avoid.

He too disliked his father's way of doing things, to a certain extent. That his own son felt similar wasn't a surprise. It did not lessen the sting regardless.

"Tifli..." Kalim started, and his son faltered at the endearment, "think what you want, but there is nothing that means more to me than our family."

And even if his son wouldn't admit to it - Kalim knew he saw the mirror too. Just because Kalim disliked his father's choices, didn't mean he did not love him.

He reached for his son without a second thought, pulling the boy down to roughly rub his cheek over his head.

and just like that, Kalim was back to being happy and his son back to groaning complaints - albeit less agitated, to Kalim's delight - and pretending he was much more mature than he was deep down. Kalim's opposite yet perfect little replica.

"Ahahaha!!! Look at you! Just wait until the council has to fight against that fire! I can't wait to bring you with me! "

"AGH LET ME GO!!! WHY DID I EVEN AGREE TO THIS?!"

Papa Vil - now that's one unexpected title to tack onto his Resume. Contrary to what everyone might believe of a superstar leading a life on the go, Vil is proud to be a father. His own raised him while juggling his goals, why should Vil's career deny him the joys of fatherhood?

No. When Vil's daughter is born, he is more than prepared to balance family and work. He locked in when taking a spouse, and is never one to be unprepared.

When you were pregnant, he announced a hiatus in his career just as you entered the third trimester. He can afford it. The public loves a family man. He has money money, and wasn't going to risk missing the birth of his first child while travelling.

Also. Supportive husband to the maximum. Considering you were carrying his child, the bare minimum he could do was be readily available as you go through the roughest stage. That baby had a college fund made and filled before she was even born.

Not that he'd just let her mooch - no child of his would grow up without ambition and practiced life skills. He was not 'aiming' to create a replica or enforce his standards...but she wouldn't lack drive. No Schoenheit - not even you - is going to go through life quietly.

His hiatus was meant to extend until she turned one. Old enough to enjoy life on the road, for you to recover, and give 3-5 years for him to work until she started school. Unlike him at that age, she wouldn't be chartered around as much for his work. Nope.

He already had it planned. She'd be enrolled in a private academy, you'd work as you liked in a good neighborhood, and he wouldn't take any contracts outside of the Shaftlands until she was a teenager. Balance. She would have every opportunity, proper support, and hopefully independence to grow outside of his shadow.

The last thing Vil wanted was for her to be influenced by his career - well, other than admiring his films and being that perfect little face to single out int the audience while at a talk-show or photoshoot.

Speaking of Schoenheit genetics and their blossoming careers - heavens above, he fell in love the moment she first opened her eyes. There were few curly blond ringlets that grew out at super speed as the months past, and she inherited his lavender eyes. Although on a baby they were more rounded, doe-like, and would most definitely take his sharp edge as she grew. Every time he booped her little nose, the little giggle that came was almost melodic.

Such a well behaved baby made a cameo in one of his largest projects to date. He took the role of an unruly ostracized duke, where the special effects makeup made him both enchanting yet horribly frightening to young children. His character gained his redemption through raising an orphan, and Vil's little girl was the only baby they could find who wouldn't cry when seeing her father act so heinous.

"Vil, everyone here is itching to know, is it true that the baby we see in 'Redemption of our Finest ' is your own daughter? There are rumors and speculations from those on set yet we'd love confirmation."

Vil shifts in his chair. The many cameras at all angles did little to deter his focus from the interview in progress. It was one of many, and the talk-host across from him looked very eager to get the first scoop on his latest hit success. He smiled to the camera with his eyes, pretending to be in thought for a moment. The questions were all pre-approved, after all.

"Your assumption and the rumors are all correct," he started, crossing his legs and folding his hands together in them, "unfortunately we struggled to find a child that would not cry when faced with my appearance. Poor little things - it is a struggle to rear child actors. Especially babies."

The reporter blinked, somehow still shocked despite knowing the already.

"And you're saying that your daughter is a cut above the rest?" they asked, and he tutted inwardly. The phrasing was poor, as always with these reporters.

"Yes," he gave them a moment's victory, "and no."

He didn't wait for further inquiry.

"My daughter is remarkable - she is my greatest production, a work of perfection alongside my beloved spouse. Yet this film is rated PG-13, and includes scenes not fit for young eyes. Babies act on instincts alone, and for the majority of this film my appearance was...ah, I so rarely say this, but I was unsightly."

His tone carried warning for them not to twist his words, and the message was received as they gestured for those behind the scenes to alter the backdrop.

"We could even argue your acting ability is that good! To make such a beautiful face and poised demeanor come off as cold." they said, and with the click of a button the screen behind them changed.

On it came a picture of an old, tattered bassinette left on the front stoop of a castle. The picture flicked to show inside, and in it was Vil's precious little girl. Special effects added some dirt on her cheeks, and they wrapped her in a tattered blanket for the scene. Yet despite their efforts to make the child look abandoned, Schoenheit genetics demanded the world see such an adorable baby for all she is.

The audience awed at the picture, even without a cue card. Vil himself took on a genuine lift to his practiced smile when seeing her.

"And just look at her folks! Such an adorable little baby! Can you really expect anything less from THE Vil Schoenheit and Eric Venue's heritage. An actor before she can even count! Your wife's genes didn't even try here, did they Vil?"

The crowd appears insatiable as the host scrolls through a series of photos. Some taken from the film, others from photoshoots and the occasional candid photo snuck by paparazzi. He knew better than to try and hide his family, but said nothing as they all made assumptions.

After all - he was beautiful, and his daughter was undoubtedly the most beloved baby in all of Twisted Wonderland. It was only natural and who was he to turn his nose when faced with one of the few facts these reporters have gotten right.

Although, he wasn't entirely content He laughed into his palm, unable to resist the chance and made direct eye-contact with one of the cameras. Knowing full well that you were watching somewhere back stage, lips likely puckered from being disrespected and just waiting for him to come sneak your family out before the public was dismissed.

"I'm afraid there is nothing to argue there. My genes are perfection, not to mention competitive," he smirked seductively at the camera, propping his chin in the palm of his hand, "but I'm not opposed if my wife would like a rematch for a chance to win the next battle."

And with that - he simultaneously spiked his popularity rating and soft-launched what would likely be a second replica coming to life soon.

Maybe.

If you didn't kill him for that stunt first.

Prodigies spawn prodigies. At least in this case.

Idia never pictured himself as a family man. Hells he never thought anyone would even look at him with anything other than disgust (minus that one ghost lady. He doesn’t like to talk about it) let alone marry him. Needless to say that he cannot decide if you are an idiot or if he has plot armor - because those are the only two reasons you could possibly ever agree to give up your entire life and move to STYX just to be with him.

**see Marriage series for settling THAT can of worms

Yet you do, and now he’s got not only his little brother but a whole ass spouse. He’s on cloud nine. Life cannot be letting him have such good luck. The RNG is rigged

Until he learns that you’re with child - and it all goes boom. Literally. Since not only does his daughter inherit his curse, his fiery flames that never tame themselves, and his spiked teeth that nip his lips way too many times for comfort -

She inherits his genius.

Raising a child in a contained base is a living nightmare.

Raising a child with a need to infiltrate the laboratories and experiment is hell. At least he kept to his room when tinkering as a kid. Idia’s daughter has his brains and your craftiness for going around undetected…and your habit of initiating dramatic events. Needless to say that she does NOT keep to your family’s apartment, does NOT submit to any security (he regrets teaching her how to decode the base padlocks), and very much enjoys making STYX ‘lively’….haha…yeah

No one has ever met such a happy Shroud. Excluding Ortho. He was a sweet type of happy. You spawned a menace.

But let’s not derail. Even if he didn’t want her per-say - Idia loves his daughter. His gut twisted seeing the Shroud curse start taking hold over such a tiny body. She was just a toddler and already burning through enough blot to tie her to this place. He knew the feeling of those youthful amber eyes looking at him for guidance. She looked so much like Ortho as a toddler, and as a child began to resemble him more with longer flames.

It was a constant battle every day. Balancing his work while also trying to do better - because his attitude sucked. He knew his attitude sucked. You warned him about using self-deprecative language and for the most part he did learn to reign it in.

Except old habits die hard, and deep down he still struggles to like himself. Seeing his daughter follow in his footsteps burns brutally, since she has all this potential and just like him she’ end up working for the family business without a choice. All because of these stupid flames and these stupid teeth and these stupid genetics and this STUPID curse -

“MAMAAAAAAAA!!!! DADDY’S BEING A BIG MEANIE AGAIN!!!”

Her shrill high-pitched cry carried throughout the apartment. Idia had just enough time to swipe the alarm system off before it processed. He wishes he could regret putting a system to detect and alert if she was distressed when alone here - but couldn’t. Even now. Since this was totally 100% his fault.

Dammit this kid has lungs of steel.

“Nonononononono - No Mama! No! Shhh shh shh shh!” He grapppled at her little shoulders with clammy hands, “Look! Look I’m not sad, see??? We have pretty hair! Super cool hair! Please please please stop crying -“

And then she did.

The tonal whiplash. The way this tiny manipulator just ceased all her tears, mouth clamping shut with an audible click. A literal child pulling out a handkerchief from her pocket to pat her eyes dry - like some twisted 60yr old swindler at a poker game who’s been training for this moment for decades.

He should have known.

Honestly. Idia can’t even bring himself to be mad. The amount of gaslighting it took to get this kid off his Ninswendo last week already put his best tricks to use.

He is the one who created this monster.

Just like her dad - his little girl was hyper aware of people. Including him, and picked up all his weaknesses. She knew damn well that he genuinely had reason to fear only two people - her momma and her grandmother. Both of which lecture him about being a good model. She knew that system was put in place, and to be good when no one was around to watch her. Not that she ever stayed quiet in their home with S.T.Y.X labs to infiltrate.

He just never thought the day would come, when her demon like tendencies would be used for something like this.

“Your her father, not her friend” his mother said.

“It’s bad enough you turned me into a living photocopier - don’t you dare get lenient with her at this age” you warned.

“That child scares me” he thought, and you agreed. Awful. Awful parents. You both mean it in the most loving way possible.

“Hwee hee hee! I’m glad you think so, daddy,” she grinned up at him all sweet-like, with those pointy little chompers ready to stake their claim. She snapped her teeth at him like a piranha, “hehe~ Mommy says our teeth are cool too. The pointies make eating steak easier - oh! Oh! Can we please have steak for dinner tonight? Please?? Pleaseeeeee?”

Something told him that should he say no, those distress detectors would be set off before he could catch them.

“U-uh…yeah, kiddo. Sure thing. Just go play and I’ll put an order in.”

He tried desperately to hide the quiver in his voice, but knew he failed. She skipped off to her bedroom much too happily - even if father’s were supposed to want their kids to be happy, that was too much - and whatever work remained for the evening didn’t seem important

As Idia slid up to one of the house control panels to check for instant-card delivery, he wondered how this became his life, and if this is how his parents felt having a prodigal spawn of the under-hells for a son.

No. He wasn’t that bad….was he? Did he even want to know at this point?

Boom

“DADDY!!! MY EXPERIMENT BLEW UP AND IS LEAKING RED GUNK!”

No. No. He really did not want to know. For the sake of whatever relationship he had with his parents.

He wants as many children as possible. The definition of that one clip of of the kid who wanted 100 children, so that they'd all have to be his friend. Not that Malleus would force his children to be his friends - well, it would be a plus surely - but he does want a large family to live his life beside.

He finds comfort in solitude, but comfort's close companion is loneliness. He wishes to never be partnered with that feeling. There was opposition. Union between the Briar Prince and a human? Unheard of. Not to mention the life-span difference. Not just between himself and you, but also for his children. Half-fae live long, but not as long as full-blooded fae. In time he will still come out alone, but he hopes to have many memories. Much love and warmth to take with him.

Yet this isn't meant to be sad - no, let us focus on the absolute joy he felt when his first child was born. A boy, his magic exceedingly strong despite his lineage. Even the elders were surprised at the magical prowess this child held. It was almost as if Malleus' nightly wishes for his child to be well, to be loved, to be healthy - taking every precaution to ensure you were well cared for during pregnancy, speaking blessings to your stomach in the dead of night - it all just manifested and out came the world's most perfect child.

A Draconia who would grow up with both parents. He'd be protected, nurtured, loved, and never ever alone. Some might call the King overbearing, making sure his spouse had a desk in his office and attending his meetings with a bright yellow baby sling over his chest. It definitely stood out against his royal attire but Malleus didn't mind.

In magic - there was also physical appearance. Being half-human, the child physically aged quicker than Malleus did in his youth. Yet he still retained the Draconia genes, with two curled scaly horns poking out above his forehead. He had no tail at birth, but around puberty many little scales began to poke their way through at his temple, back, wrists, and neck. No one predicted this since the Draconias have never reproduced with humans, but you tried to calm him with poorly convoluted jokes about ' fancy dragon acne'.

Yet according to Lilia, the boy looked like a near carbon-copy of Malleus once he sprouted up. His hair may have been kept shorter, slicked back, and he may carry himself entirely different from his father. Yet the look in his slitted-emerald eyes was exactly the same. His aura was the same.

And Malleus hadn't any idea how to handle that observation. Surely it was meant as a compliment. In the moment, he laughed and took it as one. Who wouldn't be prideful to see themselves in their child? Especially one so accomplished, growing into his scales with pride and eagerly stepping into his role as prince.

Except Malleus wouldn't, because the thought of his child sharing the feelings he had at that age? It unsettled him greatly. Perhaps one of his worst nightmares as a doting father.

“Father?”

Three sharp knocks echoed in Malleus’ study. He needn’t look up from his book, since the door opened with a thud without waiting for his approval.

Not that he minded - no, quite the contrary. He felt excitement building up at the first knock after all. There was only one person who it could be.

No one would dare impose on the Briar King during his downtime.

None had permission for such rudeness.

No one except his dear family, of course. Although as much as he wished for them to cling to his side and be a welcome reprise from his duties - Malleus was rarely afforded such a gift. His eldest son in particular conducted himself more as a knight or distant consultant than a loving son. Perhaps that came from leaving him in Sebek’s care - as much as his knight was ecstatic to become the first prince’s personal guard, his constant reverence to the elder briar ways likely left an impact on an impressionable child. Instead of bedtime stories, the little Draconia likely fell asleep to Sebek's long-winded lectures on the daily.

Back when he was a starry-eyed toddler, of course. Now the boy wouldn't dare let his guard down enough to sleep, even if his safety was guaranteed. Somehow despite Malleus taking every last precaution to rear a tranquil child, he raised a stickler instead.

“Hm? You look troubled, my son” Malleus met his eldest’s rare lack of decorum with amusement. He didn’t bother to hide a fanged smirk from him.

His son, who seemed to bristle in the doorway when under Malleus’ eye, clearly struggled to contain himself into the proper prince he was trying to be.

“Because I am troubled, father” he grit out, hands flexing at his sides. Sharp black fingernails pricking at his palms.

“Oh? And what seems to be the problem? You so rarely come to me with such matters” - to anyone who didn’t know the king, the sentence read as a bitter slight.

Yet it was merely a father sulking for his son’s attention, in his own prideful way.

“That’s precisely the issue,” his son huffed, “with all held respect, you cannot just drop in on my classes whenever you feel like it! It’s disruptive!”

Malleus merely turned the page in his book, “and whose fault is it that I had to resort to such measures?”

His question met a guilty conscience, and so he continued.

“What else am I to do? My child no longer behaves as my blood. He writes home giving stale reports as if he is one of my soldiers and bids his precious family far too few visits,” Malleus looks up from his ‘reading,’ and gestures to the uniform his son wears, “What else am I to do to see my precious son, other than visit his school? I was a student there once. Your headmaster wouldn’t dare to deny my entry.”

“Father - I understand your anger with my negligence but that is not an excuse for disrupting my classmates -“

“They looked quite please with my presence. I even supplemented material for your lecture -“

“They were scared beyond their wits! - And what of mother?! Surely she was against doing something so drastic! Think of our image! The King of Briar Valley cannot just casually drop his responsibilities whenever he so pleases.”

The boy’s composure finally cracked - and even for a half-blood, his power easily contorted the world around them if left unteathered.

Crackles of electricity buzzed across the study, flickering through a lit desk-lamp. As did the temperature lessen some degrees. Rather than be miffed by his son’s explosion, Malleus laughed in the face of it.

So this is how he must have looked during his moments of impulsivity. Hah.

“You’d be foolish to assume she didn’t try and come along. I thought to spare you her ire, as a mercy.”

At that, the lamp ceased it’s flickering to beam a steady light once again. The teen’s cheeks flushed a shameful color, so rare for one who prides himself more than any of his siblings.

"That was not necessary," he softened almost instantly. Even if she nearly committed the same 'crime' as Malleus, it seems favorites were at play.

"You know with certainty that it was."

A Draconia through and through. What was the term Lilia used? “Momma’s boy”? Considering that none disrespect the Queen - the King included - as her ire could strike the most sore spots of their family after all.

The boy pulled at his collar, out of arguments and simmered to displeasure rather than anger. He muttered an apology for losing his temper, and Malleus found himself wishing for the argument to continue just a bit longer.

After all, these were the times he felt most like a father, a husband, part of a family - rather than a king. He misses the early days when he was only the first three, before the council and other influences pushed his children to focus on responsibilities and their lineage.

“I’m sorry for not writing home…or visiting…I hadn’t thought it would trouble you. I simply - I thought it best to place distance between us.”

“Distance?” Malleus balked, “Distance from your family?”

He couldn’t understand why his child would want distance.

How could the boy he worked so hard to instill belonging within, whom he raised from egg to man, whom he would give up everything for - possibly say such a harrowing thing.

His own blood. His heart and soul. To spew such things in the face of ancestors who were bound to loneliness.

Whatever explanation for his manners didn’t matter so long as he was happy, but to intentionally want to be away from all Malleus thought worthwhile in life?

Never-mind. Malleus wanted the argument to cease. Indefinitely. And to tie himself to this desk for a decade or more.

“Yes, Father. Otherwise it is too difficult-“ he hesitated to continue, but one look at his father- whatever expression he might hold that couldn’t be contained despite his efforts - seemed to be the last push, “- being away. From my family. Leaving. I do not like it, but it is my duty. Coming home, hearing from you, mother, even the care packages I receive from grandfather! I can’t eat them but somehow just smelling the burnt food makes me falter! How can you expect me to preform up to our family’s standards, if I am homesick all the time!?”

It was the first time since he was a boy, clinging to Malleus’ legs, begging his parents not to leave him with his babysitters, that his son cried so openly. Malleus nearly gave in each time it happened too.

The pressure of royal duties, of perfection, on his shoulders was the same as those who came before him. Yet Malleus found himself more relieved than anything, even if his child might never recover his pride.

It was also the first time in many years that Malleus hugged his son, careful to avoid his growing blunted horns, and wasn’t pushed away.

“You are already doing more than enough. Loving your family is nothing to be ashamed of, and it is one of my greatest regrets that you thought otherwise for a single moment.”

[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.

[rafesangelita]

♡ sucking off bsf!rafe while no one’s home..

warnings: handjob, oral (m. receiving), praise

rafe knew as soon as you welcomed him inside your house in nothing but a baby tee and sleep shorts that didn’t do so much as to cover the globes of your ass, he was going to be fighting with himself to keep his attention zeroed in elsewhere. after telling him to go ahead and sit down in the living room, rafe blinked away from the sight of your hips swaying as you walked into the kitchen and came out with a bowl of popcorn. “hey, uhm— where are your parents at?” he swallowed thickly, settling into the cushions as you walked over and pressed play on the tv.

“oh, they’re out on a date tonight, they won’t be home anytime soon.” rafe’s fists clenched at his sides when you rested your head in his lap, your backside now on full display as your face was only mere centimeters away from his clothed cock. “great..” he trailed off, trying his best to just let the sound of the movie tune out any unwanted thoughts inside his head right now. he couldn’t risk getting hard in his shorts and having his hard-on just there in your face, but with your hand also resting on his thigh, he was slowly but surely approaching the line of no return.

inching your hand closer to where you wanted to feel him, you moved your head slightly, biting your lip enticingly when you felt him poking your cheek. sparing his lap a quick glance, you rubbed your thighs together once you saw the tent that had formed there. rafe knew you caught him when you lifted your eyes towards his face, the guilt already seeping through his features. “i’m so sorry, i swear i tried my best not to react—” he stopped talking when you palmed him through his shorts, your fingers working to finally get him in your hands. “w-wait, are you sure?” he stopped you, his heart beating in his ears.

without a word, you reached up for his hand and placed it on your ass, flashing him a smile before you averted your eyes to his length. you moaned when you finally felt him give in, his palm groping your flesh as you licked a long stripe up the underside of his cock. he hissed, watching you intently as you gripped him at the base and started stroking him in your fist, your lips wrapping around his sticky tip. “fuck, that feels good.” he sighed, moving your hair out of the way so he could get a clear view of your pretty face. “god, you look so good like this, ‘just taking it like a fuckin’ champ..”

swirling your tongue around his head, you pulled away with a pop!, a string of saliva still connecting you two together. “i’ve wanted to do this for so long.” you confessed, making him curse under his breath as he marveled at the sight of your messy chin. “are you serious?” he groaned, “i wish you would’ve told me sooner, we could’ve done this a long time ago.” rafe ran his thumb over your bottom lip, watching it pop back into place before you pressed a small kiss to his digit. “i guess we’ll just have to make up for lost time, then.” you lowered your head again, this time taking him all the way down your throat.

rubbing your clit through your panties, rafe touched you while he fucked your mouth, the sound of his low groans and your muffled moans filling the space of your living room. it wasn’t long before he was doubling over, his fingers threading through your hair and tugging at your roots as he held you in place to take his load. you didn’t feel the hot ropes paint the inside of your mouth until he gasped, a string of curses rumbling from his chest as he filled you up until you had a mix of spit and cum dribbling down your chin. “holy shit,” rafe pulled you off of him, “that was better than what i imagined.”

thank you nonnie for celebrating with me ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

[fandom]

Top 24 of 2024

Well, well, well, look what we have here. If it isn’t 52 weeks’ worth of data drawn from the exemplary original posts you’ve been producing day in, day out, combined with the likes, reblogs, and search data—all of it weighed, ranked, and presented here for your viewing pleasure. In news that will come as a shock to no one at all, 2024 was the year of Artists on Tumblr. But quite right, too, as just a cursory scroll through the fanart, illustrations, digital pieces, paintings, textiles, and more will attest. It’s a goldmine. But this ain’t just any goldmine, this is your goldmine, and we’ve got abundant gratitude for the wonderful work you’ve shared this last year. 

Dungeon Meshi won hearts and minds with its cozy feel, its cookery, its cast of eclectic, likable characters, and a delightfully off-center vibe. Farcille made for the sapphic love story we didn’t know we needed—and the inspiration for endless, exquisite fanart. There was much appreciation for season one, and excitement abounds for season two. But there were endings as well as beginnings, sadly, as the much-loved Jujutsu Kaisen brought six years of sublime storytelling to a close with Chapter 271. Good faced Evil, a nephew faced an uncle, and some really liked it, and others really did not. Discourse ensued, as discourse is wont to do. 

Television! And lots of it! 2024 was the year in which animation ruled supreme with an embarrassment of riches to plunder. Gravity Falls and The Book of Bill became your fall fixations and simply refused to stop trending for seemingly an age (a Good Thing). Bill Cipher and Stanford Pines both made the Top 24 in their own right as you shipped them to high hell, with Billford coming top of Ships for 2024. Speaking of Hell, Hazbin Hotel was the new kid on the block. And, after a five-year wait, the new kid charmed—it was filthier, funnier, raunchier, and more heartfelt than you could have hoped for. 

When it comes to hope, the times continue to be challenging, and the news can threaten to overwhelm. 2024 was no different. But you all painted the dash every color of the rainbow, stood loud and proud, and supported your ever-growing community online and offline in the struggle for LGBTQIA+ rights. While folks continue to voice their distress and concern for the ongoing crisis in Palestine, they also fight the good fight with activism and fundraising efforts across the dash. These may be dark days, but you all work tirelessly for the greater good as only you know how.

Looking after oneself is vital in these trying times, and you’ve all done just that in your own inimitable fashion. Cats still rule Tumblr as bears still poop in woods, and everyone has taken essential time to peruse the dashboard’s plethora of cat GIFs, cat art, boopin’ cats, cats of yore, and so on. You’re keeping things similarly wholesome with some more Tumblr mainstays: cottagecore, and its sister aesthetic, naturecore, imagine a simpler, greener, and quieter time. A time where the breeze billows softly through the long grass and gently turns the blades of the windmill; a time where we, too, might poop in woods.

The only thing more important than looking after oneself is treating oneself, and what better way to do that than gaming? Baldur’s Gate 3 made a most impressive leap from #21 last year to #7 in 2024, as the need for sexy monsters and beautiful beasties becomes ever more imperative with each passing year. Pokémon may have dropped a little from five to 11, but these games and shows still hold a dear place in your hearts—as demonstrated by your bountiful and beautiful fanart.

Here are the 24 most-mentioned things on Tumblr in 2024.

Artists on Tumblr

Palestine

Dungeon Meshi

Gravity Falls

Hazbin Hotel

Baldur's Gate 3

Cats of Tumblr

Jujutsu Kaisen

The Batman Universe

Pokémon

One Piece

Good Omens

Marcille Donato | Dungeon Meshi

Laios Touden | Dungeon Meshi

Cottagecore

Hermitcraft

LGBTQIA+

Bill Cipher | Gravity Falls

Naturecore

Doctor Who

Percy Jackson

Falin Touden | Dungeon Meshi

Stanford Pines | Gravity Falls

Jason Todd | the DC universe

Feeling inspired? Want to create a dedicated place to discuss the things you love with the other people who love them? Create a Community here on Tumblr to do just that.

[cowboybeepboop]

Oblivious

“Dammit woman, can’t you see how much I want you?”

Pairing: Tyler Owens x fem! Reader 

Genre: smut, romantic and fluffy

Word count: 5.8k

Summary: Shy and painfully oblivious reader and Tyler who is head over heels for her, desperate for any shred of attention. 

Warnings: Slow burn, Tyler being obsessed with reader riding him, lots of unprotected sex, sex in the show, p in v sex, riding him in his truck.

a/n: I don't really have much to say about this one tbh. But as always, I hope you enjoy and let me know if you have any requests!

As Boone’s younger sister you’ve obviously met Tyler countless times before, although you’ve always been a little too shy when it comes to him almost as if you’re trying to keep your distance from him. But you practically *begged* your brother to take you along this tornado season even if it meant being cramped in a car with Tyler for countless hours on end. 

You’ve been trying to make it as a photographer and capturing a storm is a beautiful opportunity. You keep your attention trained on everything but him, desperate to keep your infatuation with him a secret. 

Tyler has become restless when it comes to you, ever since he’s met you he has been overly flirtatious and yet you seem immune to his advances. While on the road he figured he would finally have his opportunity to make a move on you, but you’re still not budging. 

As you sit in the backseat of his truck his eyes are constantly shifting from you and the road, Boone shoots him a knowing grin. His shoulder brushes Tyler as he warns him to keep his eyes on the road. 

Tyler glances at you one more time, taking in your beauty before returning his eyes to the road, gripping the steering wheel tighter and giving a quick side eye to Boone.

He was a fairly impatient guy and the fact that a beautiful girl was sitting in the seat behind him and he hadn’t gotten her to look at him twice is beginning to frustrate him. You flip through the pictures you took earlier, gaze trained on the camera, oblivious to his gaze. 

“Hey,” Boone waves his hand in front of your face, catching your attention. 

“Yeah? What's up?” you look up at him, a soft smile playing on your lips. Tyler’s body tenses when he hears you speak. A simple and basic sentence but it sounds absolutely angelic coming from you. His eyes glanced up into the rear view mirror, watching your soft smile.

He didn’t know why he cared so much about getting your attention but he did. He just wanted to hear you speak again, the sound of your voice already making his heart beat a little faster.

“Wanna trade seats with me?” he smirks in Tylers direction. “You can get a better view of the sky up front.” you nod in response, a soft tinge of pink painting your cheeks at the thought of sitting next to Tyler. 

Tyler’s ears perked up at Boone’s words. He couldn’t help but smile a little at the thought of having you sitting right next to him. He could already imagine the look on your face as you gushed over the beauty of a fresh storm in the distance.

“Good idea.” He replied, his eyes once again locking with Boone’s in the mirror. He could tell his friend was up to something but at the moment Tyler couldn’t care less. He pulls over at the gas station so he can get more fuel and so you can switch seats. 

You settle down in the passenger seat as Tyler fills up his tank, camera equipment set on the floor next to your feet. “Boone?” you glance back at your brother. “Are you up to something?” 

Boone turns to look at you from the backseat, a smirk plastered on his face. “Me? Up to something?” He chuckled and ran a hand through his messy brown hair, knowing full well what he was doing.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He teased. He leaned back in his seat again, pretending to be engrossed in his phone.

You chew on your bottom lip, silently cursing yourself for the drunk confession where you told him how you felt about his best friend. Your crush on Tyler has kept you more reserved and silent this whole trip because everytime he talks to you it sends a shiver down your spine. 

Tyler hops back in the driver's seat, starting the ignition. Tyler notices the conflicted look on your face as he buckles his seatbelt. He raises an eyebrow at you, curious about what you were thinking about so intently.

As he starts the engine again, he steals a quick glance at you, his eyes roving over your form. He couldn’t help it, you were just so damn pretty.

“Everything alright?” He asks in a soft tone, trying not to be overly flirty just yet.

“Mhm.” you glance out the window, reaching for your camera to flip through your pictures once again. Tyler’s eyes remain on you as he begins to drive. There’s a brief silence in the car, broken only by the sound of Boone’s music playing softly through the speakers.

Finally, Tyler breaks the silence with a question. “Can I see the pictures you’ve taken so far? I’m curious.”

“You're driving.” you brush him off almost effortlessly, eyes still glued to the device. Tyler bites his tongue, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He couldn’t tell if you were completely ignoring him on purpose or if you were too obsessed with your camera.

“You can just pass it to me, ya’ know doll.” He says, trying to hide the slight annoyance in his tone. You shake your head, setting the camera in your lap, words caught in your throat at the pet name. 

“I.. I can show you later.” you murmur, eyes wandering out the window. His lips curled into a smirk as he saw your reaction to the nickname. He knew he was getting close to his desired goal of unraveling you.

He let out a sigh as you once again dismissed him. “Later, huh?” He glanced over his shoulder to look at Boone, who looked amused by the interaction.

As the day comes to an end, Tyler stops in front of the motel. You both watch as Boone quickly exits the truck, leaving the two of you alone in the cab. Tyler watches as Boone leaves the car, a smirk on his face when he realizes his friend purposely left the two of you alone.

He turns back, eyes locking onto you again. The atmosphere in the car suddenly felt heavy, the silence almost deafening.

“You never showed me those pictures, doll.” His voice was low and a hint of mockery laced his tone.

“Oh, right.” your hands tremble slightly as you lean to him, showing him the camera. “I got a few good shots..” He leaned in closer as you held the camera up for him to see. A flicker of excitement shone in his eyes as he looked through the pictures sending a rush of desire down your spine.

“These are pretty good.” He said, and he was being honest. Not that he knew much about photography, but the photos looked great to him. 

His eyes flicker down to your lips for a second, watching you take your full bottom lip between your teeth in a manner that’s more tempting than you realize.

He tears his gaze away from your lips and back to the camera, making it very apparent that he was trying to stay focused on the pictures.

As he continues to try to flirt with you, you feel your heart sinking into your stomach. It feels like he’s unknowingly teasing you, leaning into your fantasy of him wanting you the way you want him. 

“You’re..” you trail off, eyes falling to your lap. “Tyler stop messing with me please, you’re starting to hurt my feelings” you *knew* he was just being friendly but he was giving you false hope. His frown deepens as you say that and his eyes widen in surprise. 

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. You really thought that he was just messing around with you, that he didn’t have actual feelings for you.

“Dammit woman, can’t you see how much I want you?” his hand cups your cheek, bringing your face to his. 

He moves your face gently, using his thumb to tilt you up towards him. He can’t help but notice how soft your skin is under his touch and he almost sighs at just how right you feel in his hands.

His voice comes out as a gentle whisper, his eyes searching your face. “What do I have to do to make you understand?” You notice the desperation in his eyes, finally realizing that he's *always* been trying to flirt with you.

“Oh,” you practically gasp out the word, reaching out to pull him to you by the collar of his shirt, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. 

He nearly groans at the sensation of your lips against his. The feeling he had been so desperate for was finally becoming a reality. He responds to your gentle kiss immediately, his hands finding their way to your hips and pulling you so you’re almost in his lap. 

His lips move hungrily against yours, needing you to understand just how truly desperate he was for you. He deepens the kiss, wanting to taste more of you. He feels like a starving man trying to get as much as he can. You move to straddle his hips, hands going to his shoulders as you settle on him. 

He groans at your change in position, his hands immediately moving to your hips to keep you in place. He had to bite back another moan as you settled down onto his lap, the feeling of you being so close to him was almost too much to handle, his hips shifting up against yours.

“Doll..” He pants out against your lips. “Finally starting to understand now?” you nod, leaning in for another kiss intoxicated by his taste. He eagerly returns it, his tongue running against your bottom lip, searching for entrance. 

He wanted more, needed more.

He pulled you tighter against him, his hands gripping your hips almost possessively. He could feel himself growing hard with you sitting on his lap, he had to force himself not to moan at the feeling.

He nipped your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth as he spoke. “You have no idea how much I’ve dreamed of this.” you moan, hands sliding down his chest as you look at him dazed. 

He lets out a low, guttural growl at the sound of your moan, the noise was like music to his ears. Hearing you make those sounds for him was the best thing he had ever experienced.

He couldn’t get enough of you.

He leaned forward, attaching his lips to the soft skin of your neck, sucking and biting gently. He wanted to leave his mark, wanted anyone to know that you were his. You moan again at the feeling of him leaving soft hickeys on your neck, head leaning back to give him better access. 

“Tyler,” you whine his name, hips moving against his in desperation to feel more of him. He growls again, the sound low and guttural as he feels your hips grinding down against him. It was all too much.

His hands move from your hips to your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh between his fingers. He can’t help it as his hips roll up, desperate to feel you against him.

His teeth graze over your neck, leaving a trail of dark marks as he sucks gently. “Doll.. you’re torturing me.” His voice is a low, desperate moan against your neck. Your hands move to his belt, pulling it away, working to free him from his jeans. 

“Ty, I want you..” your eyes are darkened with desire as you kiss his lips hungrily. 

He nearly moans at the feeling of your fingers on his belt. Hearing you call him ‘Ty’ in that desperate tone was driving him crazy.

He can’t help himself as his fingers dig into the soft skin of your thighs, his grip almost bruising. He knew he was going to leave marks but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Say it again..” His voice is a low rumble against your lips, hips moving to press up against you. He was coming undone under your desperate touch. 

“Ty, please..” You slip out of your panties, your skirt bunched up at your hips as you pull his jeans down. He moans again at the sound of you begging in that desperate, needy tone that he loves. 

He could barely focus through the fog of lust and desire as he watched you move. “God-“ His hips bucked up involuntarily against you as he groaned out your name, “-you need to stop doing this to me.”

You slide his erection out of his boxers, thumb sliding over his tip, spreading his precum around. ”What am I doing?” you feign innocence, loving the way he's just as desperate as you are. He could barely speak, your soft thumb against him had him writhing in pleasure. The feeling of you wrapped around him was almost too much.

He groans out a curse as his hips buck upwards once again. “You know exactly what you’re doing..” He manages to say in a strained tone, “Don’t act all innocent.” he groans. 

Tyler’s eyes flutter shut at the exquisite sensation of your hand wrapping around him, his breath hitching as you stroke him with a gentle, teasing touch. “Fuck, doll...” he murmurs against your ear, his voice thick with need. 

His hands tighten on your thighs, urging you closer as he feels the warmth of your body surrounding him. The way you touch him is like a sweet torment, each stroke sending jolts of pleasure through his veins. His hips buck up into your soft hand, his body begging for more. 

With a groan of pure desire, Tyler’s hands guide your hips to his, aligning himself with your slick entrance. His eyes lock onto yours, the intensity of the moment setting every nerve in his body alight. 

Slowly, oh so slowly, he lowers you onto his throbbing length, watching with rapt attention as your eyes widen and your mouth falls open in a silent gasp. The sensation of you taking him in, inch by inch, sends waves of pleasure crashing through him, and he has to fight the urge to slam you down and claim you fully. 

Instead, he lets you set the pace, savoring every moment as your warmth envelopes him. The truck's cabin feels like it's on fire, the air thick with lust as you both hover on the precipice of release. 

Each time you move down, the pressure builds, and he can feel the head of his cock stretching you, filling you up in a way he’s dreamed of for so long. His eyes never leave you, the connection between you palpable as you both begin to rock in a silent symphony of passion, the leather seats of the truck creaking in rhythm with your muffled moans and his labored breaths.

With a whimper of need, your head falls to Tyler's shoulder, your body trembling with each gentle movement. His fingers dig into your thighs, urging you on as he feels your inner walls tightening around him. Your breath is hot against his neck, silently begging him to take over. 

Tyler understands the unspoken plea, his own need burning like a wildfire within him. He takes control, his hands moving to your hips and guiding you up and down his length with a rhythm that makes you gasp. 

His kisses turn fiercer, his teeth grazing your earlobe as he whispers, "Ride me, doll. Show me how much you want this." Your nails bite into his shoulders as you obey, the pressure building with each stroke. 

The tightness in your stomach coils tighter, your moans growing louder as you chase the release that seems just out of reach. Tyler's grip on you is like steel, his hips meeting yours with a force that speaks of his own desperation. 

He can feel your body tensing, the sweet tremble of your thighs telling him you're close. "Come for me," he groans, his voice a rough command that sends you spiraling over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, making your body convulse as you cry out his name. 

He follows you, his own release hot and powerful, his hips jerking upwards as he empties himself into you. Your bodies come to a rest, hearts pounding in unison, the storm outside forgotten in the intensity of the one you've just weathered together.

As the aftershocks of your shared climax subside, you bury your face into Tyler's neck, gasping for air as the pleasure washes over you in warm, delicious waves. His hands are gentle on your skin, stroking and caressing as he holds you closer, savoring the feeling of your body against his. 

You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, a wild drumbeat echoing the passion that still thrums through your veins. The storm outside seems to have quieted, as if it too has been sated by the electricity that crackled between the two of you. 

Tyler's grip on your hips loosens slightly, but he makes no move to let you go, his arms instead wrapping around your waist to keep you nestled in his embrace. 

His breathing is ragged, matching the erratic rhythm of yours, and you can feel the warmth of his breath against your neck as he whispers, "God, I've wanted this for so long." The admission sends a shiver down your spine, making you realize that maybe, just maybe, this isn't just a fleeting moment of passion. 

Maybe there's something more here, something that could last longer than the brief, fiery lifespan of a tornado. But for now, you're content to simply exist in this moment, wrapped in the arms of the man who has held your heart hostage for far too long.

With a gentle yet firm grip, Tyler pulls you off his lap and sets you back in the passenger seat, his own breathing still ragged from the intensity of the moment. You watch, slightly dazed, as he tucks himself away, your own body still humming with the aftermath of pleasure. 

He turns to you, his eyes dark with desire, and whispers in a gruff voice, "Come back to my room with me?" The question lingers in the air, thick with unspoken promises of more passionate moments to come. 

You nod, your cheeks flushed with excitement and anticipation. Tyler's eyes never leave yours as he opens the door and helps you out, his hand firmly grasping yours. The rain patters against the pavement, mimicking the pounding of your heart as you walk towards the motel room, ready to explore the depths of your desires together.

Once inside the motel room, Tyler's hunger for you only grows stronger. He tugs you into the bathroom, his eyes never leaving yours as he impatiently strips away the layers of clothing separating your skin from his. 

Each article that falls to the floor feels like a barrier shattering, revealing more of your beauty to his eager gaze. When you're both bare, he takes a moment to drink you in, his eyes raking over every inch of your naked body. His hands come up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples, and his mouth follows the trail of kisses down your neck to your collarbone. 

You whimper under his touch, your body arching into his as he whispers sweet nothings that feel like poetry against your skin. The heat of his touch is a stark contrast to the coolness of the tiles beneath your feet, but it's a delicious sensation that makes you crave more, he pulls away quickly stripping out of his clothes. 

With the shower now a steamy cocoon of warmth, Tyler guides you inside, the hot spray cascading down your bodies, mingling with the warmth of your shared passion. He kneels before you, his eyes filled with an insatiable hunger that mirrors the way your heart races in your chest. 

His kisses begin at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, sending a fresh wave of shivers through you as he worships every inch of your body. His tongue traces a path upwards, his teeth gently grazing the soft flesh, until he reaches your stomach, where he places feather-light kisses that make you quiver with anticipation. 

He cups your breasts in his hands, his thumbs flicking over your nipples, making them peak and your breath hitch in pleasure. Then, his mouth is back on yours, the water rushing over your entwined forms as he kisses you deeply, his tongue dancing with yours. 

With a gentle yet firm push, he pins you against the tiles, the heat of the water a stark contrast to the coolness of the wall, adding another layer of sensation to the mix. His touch is demanding, his body pressing into yours, leaving no doubt about the depth of his desire. 

With a growl of need, Tyler lifts you off the floor, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. His erection presses against you, the intensity of his desire unmistakable as he pins you against the tiles. His mouth claims yours in a searing kiss that leaves you breathless, his tongue delving deep as if he can't get enough of your taste. 

The feeling of his bare skin against yours is electric, sending bolts of pleasure through your body with every touch. Your fingers dig into his hair as you kiss him back with an urgency that matches his own, your legs tightening around his hips, silently begging for more. 

His cock nudges at your entrance, the promise of what's to come making you whimper with anticipation. Tyler's eyes never leave yours as he lowers you, inch by inch, onto his thick length, the sensation of being filled by him once again sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. 

The water streams down your faces, mingling with the sweat of passion as you both gasp and moan, lost in the throes of a desire that seems to have no end. Your movements become more frantic, your hips rolling and grinding against his, the need for release building like a storm ready to break. 

Tyler’s hands grip your ass, guiding your rhythm, his own hips driving into you with a fierce need that makes you feel wanted and cherished in a way you never have before. The sound of the water and your muffled cries fill the small bathroom, a symphony of passion that seems to echo the tempest raging outside.

Tyler's grip on your ass tightens as he lifts you slightly, his hips driving into you with a fervent need to feel you come apart in his arms once more. His movements are powerful and relentless, each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back in your head and your nails dig into his shoulders. 

The water from the showerhead cascades down your bodies, creating a steamy haze that obscures the rest of the world outside of your entwined forms. His eyes never leave yours, watching the pleasure build in your gaze as your moans grow louder, your breaths coming in shorter gasps. 

He whispers filthy encouragement into your ear, his voice a gruff growl that sends shivers down your spine. You can feel the tension in his body, the strain of his muscles as he holds you up, fucking you with a passion that's as intense as the storms he chases. 

His strokes become faster, deeper, until you're riding the edge of a second orgasm, your body begging for release. And just when you think you can't take it anymore, your walls clench around him, and you scream out his name as you shatter into a million pieces, your climax sending waves of pleasure crashing through you like a tempest. 

Tyler's eyes darken as he feels your contractions around his cock, and with a final, powerful thrust, he follows you over the edge, filling you up with his hot cum, his body shaking with the force of his own release. 

The only sound in the room is the steady patter of rain against the window and the harsh beating of your hearts, a testament to the intensity of the moment that has forever changed the dynamic between you and Boone's best friend.

As your orgasm subsides, Tyler carefully pulls out of you, his eyes filled with a tenderness that takes your breath away. He holds you by the waist, keeping you steady as your legs threaten to give out beneath the weight of the passion that's just overtaken you. 

The water from the showerhead runs in rivulets down your bodies, mixing with the remnants of your shared release. He turns you around, placing you under the warm spray, and begins to wash you, his touches gentle and full of love. 

His soapy hands glide over your skin, washing away the sweat and passion as if he's trying to cleanse you of the barriers that once stood between you. He lingers on your breasts, his thumbs caressing your sensitive nipples with a tender touch that makes you shiver anew. 

His hands travel down your body, over your hips and thighs, his gentle strokes feeling like a declaration of adoration. You lean into him, letting him support your trembling body as he worships you with his hands, his eyes never leaving yours in the steamy embrace of the shower.

It's a moment of pure connection, a silent promise that this isn't just a fleeting affair but the start of something beautifully tumultuous, a gentle, loving rain that nurtures the newfound bond between you. The world outside the motel room seems to melt away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of the water and the heat of your love.

With trembling hands, you turn around to face Tyler, pressing a gentle kiss to his chest, which is heaving with the aftermath of your shared passion. His skin is warm and slick from the shower, his heart thundering beneath your lips. 

As you reach for the soap, your eyes meet his in the steamy haze, and you see the love and adoration reflected in his gaze. He kisses your forehead, a tender gesture that sends a fresh wave of warmth through your body. You begin to wash him too, your hands gliding over his defined muscles. 

Each stroke feels like a declaration of your own desire, a silent promise that you're in this together. His eyes never leave you, his own hands coming up to cup your face, holding you in place as if he's afraid you might disappear. 

The water runs over his body, washing away the soap, but the connection between you remains unbroken, as strong as the storm that brought you together. The intimacy of this moment is more potent than any kiss, more profound than any touch. 

It's a silent confession of feelings that have been simmering just beneath the surface for far too long. And as you stand there, naked and vulnerable in the warm embrace of the shower, you realize that no matter what the future holds, this night has changed everything.

The steam from the shower clings to your bodies as you both step out, the cooler air of the motel room sending a shiver down your spine. Tyler takes a towel, wrapping it around his waist before approaching you, his eyes dark with desire. 

He takes another towel and gently begins to dry your skin, his touch lingering on your curves, as if committing every inch of you to memory. His eyes never stray from yours, and the intensity of his gaze makes your heart race anew. Once you're both sufficiently dried, he takes your hand, leading you out of the bathroom and to the king-sized bed that seems to call out to you both. 

He pulls back the covers with one hand, his eyes never leaving yours, and guides you to straddle him as he lays back, the softness of the mattress giving way beneath his weight. Your legs are on either side of his hips, and you feel his erection pressing against your thigh. 

The warmth of his skin against yours sends a thrill through your body as he runs his hands up and down your thighs, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His eyes are locked onto yours, searching for any sign of hesitation, but all he sees is the same fiery need reflected in your gaze. With a soft smile, he pulls you down, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that's as gentle as it is demanding. 

The passion that burned so fiercely in the shower is now a slow, simmering heat that promises to consume you both as you begin to explore each other once again, the storm outside now a gentle reminder of the tempest you've just ridden together.

With a seductive arch of his eyebrows, Tyler silently begs you to ride him again, his thumbs brushing into your hip bones, urging you to take control. The tender touch sends a shiver of anticipation through your body, making you eager to comply. 

You lean down to kiss him, your breasts pressing against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palms. With a knowing smile, you straddle him once more, feeling his erection nudge against your folds. His eyes never leave yours as you position yourself, the connection between you palpable and intense. 

As you sink down onto him, Tyler's eyes roll back in his head, a low groan escaping his lips. Your bodies meld together as if they were made for this very moment, his thickness filling you completely. The storm outside seems to echo the passion that swells within the confines of the motel room, the thunder a testament to the power of your desire. 

The rain taps a gentle rhythm on the window, setting the pace for your lovemaking as you rock your hips against his, both of you lost in the symphony of pleasure that you've created together. Each movement sends a jolt of electricity through Tyler, his eyes never leaving yours as you set the tempo, grinding down on him with a need that matches his own. 

His hands glide up your body, caressing your breasts, his thumbs flicking over your nipples, sending sparks of pleasure to your core. Your breath hitches in your throat as his hips rise to meet yours, the friction building into an unbearable crescendo. 

With a gasp, you arch your back, pushing your breasts towards the ceiling as you take Tyler's length fully inside you. Your hips bounce with an increasing tempo, each movement sending a wave of pleasure crashing through your body. Your hair cascades down your back, sticking to your skin with the heat of the room. 

Tyler’s eyes are glued to the sight of you, his jaw clenched as he watches you ride him. He can’t believe this is happening, that you’re finally his, that you want him just as much as he’s always wanted you. His hands glide up your torso, supporting your weight as you move faster and faster, the sound of your skin slapping against his echoing in the room. 

His eyes darkened with lust as you lean back, giving him an unobstructed view of your bouncing breasts, the pink tips of your nipples peaked with desire. He can feel himself getting closer to the edge, his body tensing beneath yours. 

But he doesn’t want this to end. He wants to savor every second, every touch, every moan that escapes your lips. So he grips your hips, holding you steady, and thrusts upwards to meet you, pushing deeper, harder, driving you both closer to the precipice of ecstasy.

Your eyes roll back with each of Tyler's deep, powerful thrusts, your moans growing louder and more desperate as his thumb finds that sweet spot between your legs. He circles your clit with a gentle yet insistent pressure, expertly building the tension within you. 

Each touch feels like a spark igniting the flames of your desire, pushing you closer and closer to the brink of release. Your hips rock against his hand, matching the rhythm of his strokes, the friction driving you wild. His eyes never leave yours, watching as the pleasure overtakes you, a smug smile playing on his lips as he feels your walls tighten around him. 

The room is filled with the sounds of your passion, the storm outside seemingly in sync with your shared ecstasy. Tyler's breathing grows ragged, his own orgasm approaching as he feels you getting closer to yours. He whispers your name in a gruff voice, urging you on, his eyes filled with a fiery need that sends shivers down your spine. 

Tyler’s thumb continues to circle your clit, his eyes locked onto yours as he watches the ecstasy build in your expression. Your breath hitches, your body tightening around him, and with a final, powerful thrust, you cum hard, your muscles spasming as waves of pleasure crash through you. 

Your orgasm seems to trigger his own, and with a guttural groan, he fills you up with his warmth, his body stiffening beneath yours. The sound of the rain beating against the window is the only thing that pierces the quiet of the room, the only indication that there’s anything in the world beyond the two of you.

With your body still trembling from the intensity of your climax, you collapse onto Tyler’s chest, your heart racing in time with his. His arms wrap around you, pulling you tight against him as if he’s afraid to let go. 

His chest heaves with the effort of his own orgasm, his breaths coming in ragged gasps that mingle with the gentle patter of the rain. The warmth of his embrace feels like a blanket, comforting and secure, as the aftershocks of pleasure pulse through your body. Your forehead presses against his chest, your eyes fluttering closed as you listen to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. 

[classyrbf]

HE'S SUCH A (HOT) LOSER! — CHOSO KAMO

SYNOPSIS...nsfw and sfw headcanons about loser!choso bc I can’t get him out of my head after righting that drabble about him

INFO...loser!choso x fem!reader, socially awkward, virgin!choso, jerking off, virginity loss, sexual acts, creampie,

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

loser!choso who literally has no friends, is the epitome of socially awkward and always ends making the conversation weird when he opens his mouth

loser!choso who has never seen a woman naked in real life, he just goes on porn sites and jerks his dick until it feels like it’s about to fall off, cum painted on his toned stomach

loser!choso who has sex toys in his closet, fleshlights, pocket pussies, whatever you call them—he has at least two, one of them even vibrates

loser!choso who is (you guessed it) a total virgin, he’s never even gotten close enough to lose it, yet alone have his first kiss

loser!choso who is forced by yuji to go on a dating app and try to find a girlfriend, and he ends up matching with you

loser!choso who stays in his room, playing video games, or goes to the gym, otherwise the poor boy has no social life (like I said, he has no friends)

loser!choso who finally goes on his first date with you and he’s sweating, stumbling over his words because you’re smiling at him, grabbing his hand and making jokes all while looking like some sort of goddess. He was starting to wonder if he’s dreaming

loser!choso who is absolutely stunned when you express how cute you think he is, how nice his hair looks, and he doesn’t know how to react so he just stands there and smiles at you like a complete idiot

loser!choso who drives home after the date and he genuinely can’t wait to get home to jerk off to the thought of you, so he pulls into an empty parking and pulls his pants down right there, tip already leaking precum when he remembers the way your tits were popping out of you dress

loser!choso who thinks the date went horribly wrong until you’re texting him the next day, already planning the next time you meet up, weirdly inviting him over to your place

loser!choso who is obsessed with titties (clearly) no matter what size. He imagines himself getting a hold of pair and just grabbing them, sucking them, it turns him on so bad

loser!choso who thinks nothing of going over your house until he gets his one wish, getting a hold of your tits in his hands, and he’s star struck, just groping, squeezing and without thinking he’s sucking on them

loser!choso who ends up losing his virginity a few minutes later with you bouncing up and down on his cock, pussy gushing around him. He’s in literal heaven and can barely think, brain turned to mush

loser!choso who realizes real sex is better than porn fairly quickly, and lets just say he becomes more obsessed with you than ever cause it’s so much more intimate when you’re holding him, praising him, calling him a good boy

loser!choso who cums in your pussy so many times that night, and the aftermath leaves him stuck in the same spot on your bed while you cuddle up to him and tell him how much you like him even if you’ve only known him for two days

loser!choso who now has his first ever girlfriend, his first everything with you and he can’t wait to brag to yuji about it because you’re absolutely gorgeous

loser!choso who shows you off on his social media despite the twenty followers that he has, he just want to show off his girlfriend to whoever he can

loser!choso who gets weird stares in public from other men when he’s out with you because he knows you’re way out of his league, but just to make them jealous he grabs you and kisses you in front of them

loser!choso who doesn’t develop a sense of fashion until he meets you, going to countless stores as you pick out outfits that’ll look good on him, and he won’t lie, you’ve done a very good job because he’s gained much more confidence in himself

loser!choso who goes on and on about his special interests and you sit there smiling at him, listening intently. He’s lowkey a nerd but you love it

loser!choso who hangs with no one but you, missing you constantly and randomly showing up at your house when he feels like you’ve spent too much time apart

loser!choso who wants to learn how to pleasure you more so he looks up videos on how to eat pussy and watches all the porn he can to study their movements, but when he tells you, you just laugh and say how silly he is, showing him a hands on tutorial, instructing him on what to do and what you like

loser!choso who constantly asks if he made you cum, poor baby doesn’t want you to go around unsatisfied so he doesn’t everything in his power to make you feel good no matter what

loser!choso who is (obviously) the quiet type, so he studies what you like and what you do by watching you and when he grabs your exact fast food order without you saying anything, you’re standing there confused and he’s looking down at you like “what?”

loser!choso who has a glow up because of you, and girls that have rejected him come crawling back into his life not knowing about you, so he just hits them with the “my beautiful girl who I love very much does not like you talking to me bye” and blocks them

loser!choso who is actually very sweet despite his awkwardness, he might look stand offish in person and act weird around others, but when he’s comfortable with you hes a different person

loser!choso who gets you anything you ask for, spending countless amounts of money on you even if you don’t ask for it, he just loves you so much he wants to show his appreciation in every way whether that’s spoiling you or making you cum

[padawan-snack-packer]

Don't imagine Rex quietly fixing a younger clone’s armor after hours, muttering, "you gotta take better care of yourself, kid," while he polishes each scratch like it’s sacred.

Don't imagine Fives trying to teach shinies how to play cards, cheating outrageously so they win, whooping and hollering like they’re champions of the galaxy, and slipping a few credits into their pockets when no one's looking.

Don't imagine Cody staying up all night after a tough battle because he's personally stitching medals of bravery into the empty bunks of fallen troopers, so when they’re remembered, they’re remembered right.

Don't imagine Hardcase giving away his dessert rations to any clone who looks even remotely sad, acting like it’s a prank or a dare so no one knows he’s doing it out of love.

Don't imagine Echo re-learning how to shoot left-handed after his injury, stubbornly, painstakingly, so he can teach other injured clones that they’re not broken — just different.

Don't imagine Jesse carving tiny little messages into the walls of every base they’re stationed at. Messages like "501st were here. We fought. We lived." like he's trying to leave proof they mattered.

Don't imagine Dogma leaving tiny notes in people's lockers that just say "you’re doing good." "you’re brave." "I believe in you." — and then feeling too shy to admit it was him.

Don't imagine Wolffe pretending to be annoyed when Boost and Sinker sneak stray animals into the barracks, but secretly building a little hidden shelter for them behind the hangar.

Don't imagine Kix memorizing the medical charts of every single brother in his battalion — birthdays, allergies, old injuries — because he doesn’t trust the GAR systems to care enough (and he's 30000% right).

Don't imagine Tup tending to a tiny makeshift garden in the middle of a warzone with whatever seeds and scraps he can find, because "something’s gotta grow, sir."

Don't imagine Rex carrying every goodbye letters and notes he never got to say or give tucked in the seams of his armor or in a chest under his bed — every brother he couldn’t save, every friend he couldn’t reach — and still standing up the next morning because someone has to lead, and if not him, then who?

Don't imagine Waxer carrying around a crumpled, dirty drawing of Numa from Ryloth in a hidden pocket inside his armor, smoothing it out and smiling every time he feels like the war is eating him alive.

Don't imagine Boil pretending to grumble about it but secretly checking the drawing too, mouthing, "stay safe, little one," before every mission because part of his heart never left Ryloth.

Don't imagine Bly sketching little comic strips in the margins of his field reports to make Aayla laugh during debriefings — and still carrying the last one he never got to show her, tucked inside his chest plate.

Don't imagine Colt teaching his new ARC trainees how to properly tie a tourniquet and lecturing them seriously, but at the end quietly handing each of them a little lucky charm, like an old Republic credit or a braided cord, "for good luck, kid."

Don't imagine Appo still wearing a piece of Fives' blue paint on his armor as a "tradition" without telling anyone where it came from or why it matters so much.

Don't imagine Fox locking himself in his office after long shifts guarding Coruscant because he can’t stand seeing the brothers’ faces when they look at him like he’s a stranger now — so he sits in the dark and listens to the old 501st comms chatter recordings, just to feel something again.

Don't imagine Jesse and Kix starting a stupid prank war in the barracks where they replace each other's ration packs with terrible "mystery meat," laughing until Rex threatens to demote them — but Kix sneaks Rex a spiked caf packet later as revenge.

Don't imagine Tup painting tiny flowers on the inside of his helmet where no one can see them, tiny bursts of color against the cold plastoid — because he wants to carry beauty into battle even if no one else knows.

Don't imagine Dogma standing at the memorial wall and reading every single name out loud, even the ones he never knew, because he thinks someone should.

Don't imagine Waxer and Boil talking about "after the war" plans, like opening a repair shop on Ryloth, taking in lost kids, making sure no one else has to grow up the way they did — and laughing about it like it could actually happen.

Don't imagine Fives pulling a prank so chaotic that even Rex laughs — real, loud, helpless laughter — and Fives looking absolutely stunned before grinning like he'd just been handed the whole galaxy.

Don't imagine Rex tracing the scars on his hands sometimes without realizing, as if he’s trying to memorize every mistake, every battle, every time he almost didn’t make it — and then closing his fist around them like a promise to keep going.

Don't imagine Kix secretly saving every "thank you" note the boys have ever given him — crumpled sticky notes, bad handwriting, a piece of torn armor that just says "thanks doc" — tucked into his med kit like the most valuable supplies he owns.

[majestyeverlasting]

𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

pairing Joel Miller x Female Reader summary It’s getting harder for Joel to ignore the way he feels about you—especially on the night you try on new clothes just for him. [post-outbreak, fluff, mildly suggestive, 1k] a/n Here’s something short, sweet, and low stakes as I work on longer requests. Joel is down bad, but don't tell anyone.

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

Want is a brave, unabashed thing. There’s no ignoring it when it arises as a persistent hum beneath Joel’s skin. Like a brewing storm you can’t escape, the inevitability of the tide as it barrels towards the shore. It’d been years since he felt something rise within him so strongly, yet it insists he welcomes it back like a friend. 

Joel shifts where he sits on the foot of your bed. The sound of your shuffling continues to emit from the closet. He runs a heavy hand through his hair, then scratches the back of his neck. It’s a restlessness he doesn’t quite know what to do with as he waits for you to reappear. It doesn’t help that he can hear every sound you make on the other side of the door—hangers clacking, fabric rustling. 

With a once-dormant facet of his imagination, Joel attempts to paint a picture of the in-between. Of everything he can’t see right now—the slow glide of the clothes over your skin, the graceful way your limbs maneuver. He’s never considered himself much of an artist aside from the creations he forges with his own hands, but he’s certain that with you as his muse, his mind’s eye alone is meritable. 

The door opens, and there you are. 

It’s another sweater this time, but he swears this one fits you better than the rest. It’s a lovely shade of cream with a V-cut neckline and structure that clings to you frame enough to accentuate your shape. Joel nods before any question is asked of him, and your smile is well worth it. Flattered and shy all the same. 

“You like it?” 

“‘Course I do,” Joel insists. “C’mere. Lemme get a good look.” 

Come here. They’re words he’s getting used to rolling past his lips so freely. They’re sweet. It’s as if the ability to beckon someone like you into his proximity is a well-aged wine he’s finally allowed to indulge in. Like the wonder you are, you listen, ready to be drunken in. 

Any hesitance on your end is feigned. You don’t want to seem too eager as you pad between Joel’s spread legs. Outside, the sunlight is fleeting, but it’s enough to illuminate him and your bedroom dimly. His brow bone casts a slight shadow that makes his eyes appear even darker than they are. Another is cast beneath the curve of his jaw onto his thick neck. That intensity doesn’t transfer into his touch. His hands are cautious as they reach out to feel the fabric, as if you’ll startle or step away. But he forgets that it’s you who’d wanted him in your orbit for so long. 

“Feels real nice,” he says. “How do you like it?” He looks up into your eyes as his hands settle on your waist.

“I love it.” You cup his cheek and brush a thumb over the scruffy skin. Joel leans into your touch. “Saved the best for last.” 

“Looked gorgeous in everything.” His voice comes out thicker. 

This sliver of the evening was never about any of the clothes. It was about you wanting to share your findings with Joel and letting him into a little part of your world that he’d never sat in on before. It was all so casual that he forgot, if only for a moment, that the world hadn’t fallen apart. There’d been a pleasant tug in the wait. A small thrill whenever you stepped back through the door donned in something new. What struck him even more was that these first glances were just for him. 

“Is this your favorite too?” The smile on your lips suggests you already know the answer. 

Joel’s cheeks warm. “Yeah, I… yeah.” 

Your hand doesn’t leave his face as you say, “What about it?” 

Joel swallows the lump in his throat as his neck warms. If you’re not messing with him, he’ll be damned. You watch how he combs through his mind for an answer you already know resides in the forefront. Even though he spirals all the more, he’s grateful that your sweet laugh flows into the air before he can stammer through an answer. 

Your free hand rises to cup his other cheek, and he wishes he could look away to preserve whatever remains of his pride. But Joel helplessly looks up at you because that’s what he is these days. Helpless. Despite himself, he begins to smile too. Then you lean down to capture his lips. It’s not the type of kiss you pour into with all that you are but one that’s much lighter. So much so that it borders on playful and comes to a premature end. 

A heavy exhale escapes him as you finally let go of his face. “You like makin’ things hard for me?” His question is gruff and honest, but there’s affection in his eyes. 

You pretend to think. “What’s hard?” you ask. “You, my question, or both?” 

Joel’s stomach flips. “Real funny, ain’t ya?” 

“Scooch back, and we can find out.” 

You motion for him to move further back on the bed, and he listens, eyes stuck on you. Joel scoots until he’s in the center, biceps flexing with his effort. The mattress dips as you climb to join him, walking on your knees until you can straddle his lap. Joel's head meets the pillows when you place a hand on his chest in a silent encouragement to lie down. The rise and fall of his chest grows more pronounced. So does the tightness in his jeans.

“I like the way it fits,” Joel finally says, voice small and measured. “You got a real nice figure.” Your gaze softens as you look down at him because you can hear his sincerity, the underlying shyness. 

“Drive me crazy all the damn time. Ain’t even gotta try,” he says, hands steadying your waist as he shifts beneath you. “S’getting awful hard to pretend that ain’t the case.”

He gives you a gentle squeeze then. “Swear I don’t mean any disrespect.” 

Joel holds his breath when your fingers move to the first button of his shirt. You pop it undone before moving to the next one, then the next. He makes a small, pleased sound when you lean down to kiss the exposed skin. He’s warm and earthy. 

“The feeling’s mutual,” you murmur as you undo another button and kiss the next portion of revealed skin. “Hope this is okay…” 

“It’s more than okay,” he assures, breath catching in his throat.

-

Thanks for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. I promise I see them all. 

JOEL MASTERLIST

ALL MASTERLISTS

[fairyysoup]

easy living

pairing: eric (a quiet place: day one) x fem!reader

summary: You ran into Eric on accident. Now you're facing the end of the world together. How do you get to know someone when you can't make a sound?

tags: smut, oral (f receiving), dry humping, piv sex, silent fucking, angst, hurt/comfort, survival, discussions of trauma, slight suicidal ideation by reader, words of affirmation as a love language, stay silent or die (obviously), strangers to lovers, apocalyptic, the cheesiest ending bc it's me writing, billie holiday lyrics bc it's also me writing

a/n: here it is, the silent fucking fic i promised y'all a year ago when this movie was announced. it was supposed to be like 1-2k words of plain smut but then I got too into the theory of what one does when you can't show affection through words and I genuinely discovered a tidbit of trauma I didn't know I had while writing it so I will be talking to a therapist about it, and also I'm literally out here baring my soul lol.

i also want to thank @bigtiddythanos @raraeavesmoriendi and @maximoffwxnda for supporting me throughout this writing process <3 this fic literally would not have been finished or published without y'all

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

The rain has ended. Morose, you stare up at the ceiling, wondering when you’ll get something close to free reign with your voice again. 

Of course the world had to end while you were at fucking Whole Foods.

You’ll miss certain things. Things you always took for granted, that you never even considered made a lot of noise until now. Typing on the computer. Making stir fry. Microwaving a burrito at 3am. Lighting a match, washing your face. Taking a shower.

And other things, too, that are more obvious, like singing while making cookies. Slurping the bottom of a milkshake. You’ll never be able to have a pet bird. You’ll never be able to see another concert again, and damn it if you didn’t really want those Glastonbury tickets a month ago. But it all just seems trivial, now. You don’t see why you shouldn’t just lay here on the couch forever. 

On the other side of the coffee table there’s a gentle shuffling. Eric rouses as quietly as he can; at the very least, your apartment creates a hospitable enough environment that he isn’t startled awake. It’s so silent in the apartment that you can hear the slight shift in his intake of breath, the rustle of the pillow as he turns his head to look at you. 

You want to look at him, but you fear that you’ll end up wanting to talk. So, you say nothing. You do nothing. You stare at the white paint on the ceiling and you wonder whether it would be better to get on one of the boats headed out into the water, or to move inland, away from people, away from sound. There has to be somewhere far enough away from the city that the… creatures won’t go, right?

Eric waves his hand in your periphery, so that you have no choice but to acknowledge that you know he’s awake. You have no choice but to turn your head and look into the depths of his eyes, and feel all the pain of the last 48 hours return to you. You’d been able to talk last night, just enough, in time with the rain and the thunder– enough to learn that he has family across the world. 

You can’t imagine knowing that somewhere, across an ocean and half a world away, your parents may or may not be dead. No way to contact them, no way to know what’s become of them. You can’t even begin to fathom the fear that he’s feeling, as much as you’re despairing. 

Eric’s big eyes tell you everything. Sadness and fear, and trying to grasp at the smallest hint of normalcy he can get. He blinks at you, and mouths, You okay?

No, you’re definitely not okay. Things are not okay. Things are broken and can’t be fixed. Things will never be the same again. He knows that, as much as you know that. But you nod anyway, even though you feel your heart beat a little bit slower than usual, like it wants to just go ahead and give up already. Tears prick at your eyes, and you have to close them before you let on that you’re lying.

Eric knows you’re lying, of course. How could anyone be okay, in this kind of situation? But he waits until you open your eyes, and then he mouths, Coffee?

You let out a small sigh of relief, and a smile that’s indescribably warm crosses your face. Even though he can’t make a sound, he knows exactly what to say.

You don’t have a coffee maker that doesn’t also make a ton of noise. But through some kind of witchcraft, Eric quietly empties two k-cups into a glass measuring cup and boils a soup pot full of water on the stove, and suddenly you have hot coffee in front of you. 

On a notepad left on the counter, you write, Wish I had some tea for you. 

Eric’s lips turn up at the edges, and he takes the pen from you. You’re able to doctor your coffee for about one second before he slides the notepad back to you.

Bloody American.

Your ensuing huff of a laugh is enough to make him turn pink around the ears, and he turns to place the dirty measuring cup into the sink. He reaches for the faucet, but then thinks better of it. You’ll have to figure out how to wash the dishes later.

You both drink your coffee in silence on the couch. You never considered yourself uncomfortable with silence; you’ve lived alone, you’ve gone for weeks without uttering a word before. But it’s so difficult to be sitting next to someone– someone you feel you could really get to like– and not be able to say a word. To make a sound, laugh or cry or snort or grunt. 

You’ll never be able to know what Eric’s laugh sounds like, or listen to his favorite song with him, or watch some stupid rerun of Friends with him while ignoring your responsibilities. He’s right there next to you, he’s risked his life to save you once already, and yet he’s so far away. You’ll never get to know him in all the ways you want to. Will you ever really know him at all?

He’d created a diversion when one of the fucking things had you trapped in a corner, between a dumpster and a brick wall. He chucked a rock at a car and set off an alarm, and then ran with you down an alleyway, his arm wrapped tight around your waist. Eric looked so sad, following you like a lost puppy. He was fucking drenched, too, so you know he’d probably been through one hell of a morning. And then the rain started, and the creatures were confused and… well, you weren’t just gonna leave him, scared and alone.

You, too, were scared and alone.

Eric’s hand appears to brush away a tear that had begun to fall down your cheek, betraying your internal monologue. You look to him with puffy eyes, and he pulls his hand away, suddenly unsure of whether you’re okay with such an intimate gesture. 

Your coffee cup meets the table with a quiet tap. You’re slow to move, but you scoot towards him, his arm still outstretched towards you, his eyes wide. Eric has the prettiest eyes in the world, you think. You want to tell him so.

But you’re a little too choked up to form words, anyways. Your forehead meets Eric’s shoulder, and his arm comes around you before you can huff the first silent sob that brims up. He coos softly into your hair, so softly that you can barely hear it, but it conveys enough. It does enough. 

The world is fucked. Your life is fucked. You have tunnel vision and you can only see things getting worse from here on; the only good thing you know anymore is holding you and caressing your head so gently that it pushes your tears out for you. 

You’ll never get to see a movie in a theater, and smell the stale popcorn again. You’ll never drive down the highway with the wind in your hair. You’ll never ride a roller coaster or sing karaoke. You’ll never go to a club and have a drunken heart to heart with a stranger in a bathroom.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” You whisper, so faintly that it’s barely above a breath, your lips pressed to the shell of his ear. “To try to exist in a world where you have to pretend like you don’t exist?”

Eric pauses, holding you to him. You can see the wheels turning in his head, while he tries to figure out what to say. Then he turns his face to put his lips against your ear, the same way you’d done to him. 

“I think it’s worth it to try to survive.” His breath tickles your skin when he whispers, “So survive with me, yeah?”

You nod solemnly, your tears threatening to rise up again. “I can’t stand not talking to you.” It’s so hard to keep your voice from cracking, from rising above the merest hint of a whisper, directly to him and no one or nothing else. 

Eric takes it in stride. “You are talking to me.” He pulls back and bats his eyelashes, and you think, he oughta fucking know what that does to me. 

“Not like this,” you breathe to him, because that’s really what it is– it’s a breath. A sigh. A gust of air and nothing else, barely anything that registers on your vocal chords. Your hand on the back of his neck, pulling him close to you. His hand, tightening on the middle of your back, holding you there. “I want to talk– I want to get to know you.” 

“Well, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Eric turns his head. His forehead nudges yours at the temple, and you swear you see a flash of a smile on his face. “What do you want to know?” 

His forefinger traces up and down, up and down, a gentle pattern that keeps you grounded. You bite your lip, trying to keep from letting the sounds come out too loud. You say the first thing that comes to mind. “What’s your favorite song?”

“Easy Living. Billie Holiday.” 

“You’re kidding.” You’re blushing, hot in the cheeks. You’re imagining it; slow dancing in the kitchen with him while oldies plays on the radio. You didn’t think such an innocent question would send you spiraling like this, but it hurts worse to know that it will probably never happen.

“Absolutely not.” 

“Somehow… I can’t picture you listening to jazz.” 

“Picture it all you want,” he whispers. Eric swallows, and continues, “My granddad used to have these records, and we used to play them on Christmas. But when– when he died, the records went missing. I couldn’t find the song until a couple years ago,” he explains, and his voice cracks just slightly into a murmur. 

You both freeze. You wait for the sound of creatures coming down the hallway, busting down the walls… nothing happens. You let out a breath, and you pull his face closer to yours. His eyes flick over your face, and you put your lips against his ear. 

“You have to be so quiet. Can you do that for me?” Eric nods in your hands. “I wish we could do anything but this. I wish that we could have met in better circumstances. I wish… I wish I had known you before all of this. I think we would have had a lot of fun. But if this is the only way I can get to know you, and hear your voice now, I’ll take it.” You’re nodding as well now, like you’re trying to convince yourself of it. “I’m telling you this because I don’t know how long we have. Together, I mean. And I don’t want to waste it passing notes. Okay?” 

“Okay.” He sounds clipped. His hand fidgets on your back, and you pull away to find him misty-eyed, his brows turned up. He fishes for words that don’t come, and then he nods. “Okay.” 

Neither of you move. The atmosphere around you feels heavy, like it’s pressing in on all sides. Eric’s hand slides up your back and to your face, and you remember that you’re still holding his. You’re near sitting in his lap with how close you’ve become, and the realization of that feels like a punch to the gut.

You think you should pull away. You don’t. 

Eric’s thumb traces a gentle arc across your bottom lip. It’s so featherlight it’s barely there– his eyes are honed in on your mouth, clearly lost in thought. You’d let him stay there as long as he wants, but you want every minute you can get. “Eric–”

He closes the gap and kisses you. The way you’d said his name– or not said it, rather, you sort of mouthed it against his thumb– had done the job you wanted it to. It feels like this was the obvious conclusion to the system you’d worked out, the close proximity and your shared fears. He’s scared, he said as much last night. You’re scared, you said so just now. 

Nowhere to go, nothing else to do except be right here, living. Alive, together. Kissing Eric, and him pulling you close by the waist, so that you do swing your leg and seat yourself in his lap. And as much as you love talking, and it breaks your heart that you can’t jabber at him, there are some things you just can’t put into words. Like the way that his hand on the back of your neck lights you up inside, or that you can’t think of anything other than all the areas where his skin is touching yours, and how you suddenly wish there was way more of them.

It’s stupid how much you like him already, really. You can feel your nonexistent friends clucking their tongues and shaking their heads, saying, “One day? That’s all it takes? You find some guy at the end of the world and you fall in love in 24 hours?” And they’d be right– maybe it’s not love. Not yet, anyways. But you could see it easily becoming that. And that fact scares you even more.

Your hands find Eric’s chest and the frantic beating of his heart tells you nearly the same thing. You break the kiss, trying to quietly catch your breath without gasping like you’re half-drowning. It’s harder than you expected. 

“Been wanting to do that all morning,” Eric whispers. And just like that you’re falling again, faster this time, like he’s just melted your wings right off and sent you plummeting.

You struggle to keep from gasping aloud when he kisses your jaw, just beneath your ear. It’s the lightest touch but you swear it burns, sears your skin. 

Your hands find the back of the couch, twitchy fingers digging in to keep you steady. Your mouth finds his again, his tongue tasting of coffee, and Eric kisses you a bit harder now, a bit sloppier. 

Breaking away, you open your eyes to find his wide, starstruck, his mouth hanging open like he’s been shocked beyond belief. You didn’t honestly intend for this to happen– you wanted to talk. But somehow this seems better, more appropriate. 

How do you get your feelings across when talking isn’t really an option? When innocent attraction becomes… whatever this is? 

You press a single finger to his plush lips, signaling exactly what you mean without a word. Quiet. 

Eric purses his lips, kisses your finger without breaking eye contact. His pupils are blown out so far that the barest hint of golden brown surrounds them, glinting in the sunlight from the window. 

You lean forward, until your mouth touches his ear. “Your eyes are so fucking pretty, Eric,” you whisper to him, and your teeth latch onto his earlobe to tug gently. You can’t help it– you grind your hips down into his lap, without even thinking of doing it. “You’re so pretty.”

Eric whimpers. It’s a soft sound, hollow in the back of his throat, but it’s still too loud for the world that you’re in. You clamp your hand down over his mouth, and his breath comes out sharp and hot over your knuckles as he tries to regain composure.

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask him, whispering gently in his ear. Against you, he shakes his head no. “Want me to keep going?” Eric nods his head yes. 

He’s shaking under you, his fingertips digging into your lower back like he can’t hold onto you hard enough. At the thought, your pulse pounds, blood positively humming through your veins. 

You nuzzle his cheek, and give him the sweetest kiss you can while your hand is still clamped over his mouth insistently. “You have to be. Fucking. Silent. Do you understand?” He nods. “We can’t make a sound. Okay?” 

Eric nods again, and keeps nodding until you let him go. If the rain was still pouring like earlier, you could tell him how much you want him, too. How you don’t want to be mean, you just don’t want to get hurt. This is a bad idea, all things considered. But Eric slides his hand down and cups your ass to lift you up a bit, and the words bad and idea suddenly fucking vanish from your vocabulary.

You stand long enough to kick off your sweats, your day old panties going down with them. You hadn’t dressed to be sexy yesterday, you dressed to get groceries. You don’t necessarily want Eric to see your faded cotton underwear with the stretched out elastic and multiple frayed holes. You don’t think it would add to your sex appeal right now. 

He doesn’t notice the lack of a strip tease– he’s already taking you by the hips, not even waiting for you to shuck your t-shirt. He pulls until you’re stood in front of him, and then hooks your leg over his shoulder. 

So. Eric doesn’t need to be asked to go down on you, he just does. The gentleman. His hands are firm on your ass as he nuzzles into the patch of hair between your legs, and the precarious balancing act makes you snatch onto the back of the couch again. 

His tongue glides through the folds of your pussy slowly, methodically. You aren’t sure if he wants to take his time, or if he’s going slow so that he doesn’t make too much noise when doing it, but he latches onto your clit and sucks agonizingly softly, like he knows he should do it harder but won’t risk making you moan. 

It’s so gentle, and it builds. Pretty soon, you’re having a tough time keeping your whimpers in, even when he’s basically just teasing you, flicking his tongue over your clit with even the barest pressure. Your head has fallen back on your shoulders, your hand now clasped over your own mouth to stifle your sighs. 

Then, Eric’s hand glides up to splay across your lower back, and he sucks long and hard at your clit, and your hand squeezes murderously at the back of the couch while you ride out your orgasm on his tongue. 

Knees buckling, you collapse into Eric’s lap. He has a doe-eyed look on his face that’s way too innocent after what he just did to you. With panting breath and shaking hands, you cup his rosy cheeks in your palms, shaking your head in disbelief. 

Eric’s brows tilt in worry, like he did something wrong. He opens his mouth, but you put your fingers against his lips to silence him, and lean forward to breathe, “You’re too sweet for me, Eric.” 

He traces his fingers lightly up your spine, and turns his head. “Maybe one day I won’t have to be sweet. Maybe then I can really fuck you.” 

The sound of his whispering voice in your ear makes you shiver, your lust reaching a boiling point. The idea of him really fucking you– that this isn’t even him as normal, that he’s having to hold so much back– makes you burn hot all at once. That this isn’t something he’s planning on doing once. That there’s a ‘one day’ that he sees in the future with you in it. 

With a nod, your breath catches in your throat. You find your way to his mouth again, kissing him desperately. You can taste yourself lingering on his lips, and your hips rock forward against his again. 

Eric inhales sharply, stifling his own moan. You guess you have to take it just as slowly as he did, ease him into it. You work your hand beneath his unbuttoned fly and palm him, keeping your touch gentle against his hot skin. He shakes, his hands laid out against your spine, his eyes sparkling when he looks up at you. 

You push your forehead against his as you sink onto his cock, letting yourself adjust to his size. His breath stutters as he tries to keep quiet, small puffs of air spilling out and meeting your electrified skin. You curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, rocking your hips just barely, settling into his lap. 

This is more intimate than you can ever remember being with anyone, but right now it just feels right. Maybe it could be cathartic to fuck like a couple of animals in the face of doom, but Eric pulls your body flush against his, one strong forearm around your waist, and his nose nudges yours, and you think this is better. This is what you both need. Closeness. Sweetness. 

There isn’t a lot of movement– you can’t risk it. You and Eric seem to be in agreement on that, because as soon as you start trying to move in earnest, he just pulls you back to him, his arm around your waist and his hand petting the back of your head. 

Eric rocks his hips up into yours slowly, deeply, and it’s the depth of it and the slow sensuality that keeps you floating. Your clit catches on the patch of hair at the base of his cock each time you roll your hips with him, and you have to kiss him to keep from keening aloud. He doesn’t seem to mind it. 

You know he’s close when he tucks his face against your neck, his arm tightening around you. “Feels so fucking good,” comes his whine in your ear, and you gently shush him, your hand resting on the back of his head to keep him muffled against your shoulder. You want so badly to look at his face when he cums, but there’s that pesky issue of staying alive, and that hinges on whether or not he can keep quiet when he does. 

To his credit, he bites your shoulder and only whimpers a little bit. It’s just a squeak, but really, he could have been much louder about it, and then you would have both been in trouble. Imagine having to run for your life with your pants down. 

Ever the gentleman, he keeps you there even after he’s spent and sensitive, his hand clamped down on your thigh to prevent you from moving. His thumb finds your clit, and he lifts his head to watch you, his hooded eyes trained on your face as he brings you to the edge and over it again. He watches the way your brows tilt up, the way you struggle to keep your own eyes open, and the silent moan that threatens to break past your parted lips.

Eric claps his hand down over your mouth before it can. Your eyes fly open, your cunt clenches down around him, and he bares his teeth as you cum hard. It’s cyclical, comes in waves as he continues to stroke you through it, as he keeps his hand clamped down on your mouth to keep you quiet. 

To keep you quiet. 

Feverish and exhausted, you come down with your chest against his, Eric’s head flopped back onto the backrest of the couch. Your knees fucking hurt and you have yet to get off of him, and you sort of dread the moment when you have to. But this means your mouth is positioned right next to Eric’s ear, and you’re nothing if not a talker.

“Eric?” you whisper, and he turns his head just enough to let you know he heard you. “I’m glad that I met you when I did. Even if it’s terrible timing, I’m glad we met.”

A sweet, tired smile flits across Eric’s beautiful face. He nudges his nose against your temple. “I’m glad, too.” 

You shift off of him, and he squeezes your thigh just at the same time as he scrunches his face. He’s such a trooper about it, you kiss his cheek as you go, leaning over to grab a pair of earphones from the coffee table. 

You hand one ear bud to him, watching as confusion crosses his face. He watches you type on your phone as he tucks the bud into his ear, and you the other. 

On low volume, you listen to the soft piano and saxophone intro to an old jazz standard. Eric grins, his hand finding your cheek before he pulls you in for a kiss. 

And then, Billie Holiday’s voice plays for only you two to hear. 

Living for you is easy living, It’s easy to live when you’re in love And I’m so in love, There’s nothing in life but you.