#and no one really cares enough to try to help

[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.

[fushigurhoez]

𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐌𝐄𝐍 - 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐑𝐄 𝐎𝐕𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆!

ft. satoru gojo, suguru geto, toji fushiguro, ryomen sukuna

inc: allusions to multiple rounds, breeding kink, unprotected sex, irresponsible behavior, scent kink, reader is down BAD, manhandling, overstimulation, dry humping, mating press, cervix fucking? sukuna is his own warning, (degradation + dehumanization in his) true form heian era!kuna, sukuna’s stomach mouth, age gap between toji and reader bc duh (38/19+)

𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨-

Gojo couldn’t help but feel like something was different about you. No, he knew something was different about you. But he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. You seemed to be…craving his presence more than usual, and that was saying something given his own level of clingy-ness. He didn’t want to make any assumptions as to what could be going on, chalking it up to you just missing him due to the recent influx of assignments he’d been tasked with. But as you both sat on the couch partaking in your weekly tradition of movie night, it seemed like you were more interested in him than whatever was on the screen. Rom-com? Horror maybe? You wouldn’t know. You had abandoned your spot on the couch in favor of his lap, which was fine and not inherently unusual. Except your face was tucked into his neck, leaving hot kisses on his smooth skin while your legs entrapped him like a damn boa constrictor. “B-baby” he reasoned earning a simple “hm?” from you, and he swears you wrapped your legs tighter. “Can you even see the movie?” He asked and you finally pulled back, quirking a brow at him. “I don’t really care about the movie toru.” And then your lips were back on him, sucking on the spot under his ear.

“But you’ve been talking about—shit—about this movie for weeks?” His breath hitched in his throat, hands coming to rest on your waist in order to ground himself and his focus so he could try and understand you.

“I’m more interested in you right now, toru.” You grind down in his lap, clothed center pressed to the semi-hard bulge in his pajama pants and his eyes widen, the hold on your waist becoming tighter. “baby, we just had sex this morning?” And while he wasn’t complaining that you wanted him, he was confused to say the least. You were fairly inexperienced compared to him so your stamina wasn’t exactly adequate for more than one round just yet.

“I’m ovulating, satoru” you explained, picking up on his confusion. For someone with six eyes he could be oblivious at times. “I need you to fuck me again.” You whisper in his ear like it’s a secret and he doesn’t need to look to know that he’s rock hard now. Your grinding has gotten more desperate, barely stopping long enough for you to slip one of your eager hands into his pants and underneath his briefs, savoring how hot and heavy he was in your palm.

“Fuck baby, okay. Let me eat you out first, yeah?” He moved to lay you back but you stopped him, pushing him back against the couch and grabbing one of his hands, forcing it into your panties and he almost moaned at the slickness that covered his fingers.

“Don’t need it.” You rasped, pulling him out of his pants and sliding your underwear to the side, positioning his glistening tip to your wet vagina. His hands slid down and held your hips in place, stopping you from dropping down on him and you whined. You fucking whined because he wouldn’t let you sink his cock into you already.

“If you’re ovulating we should really use a condom baby” he tried to be the voice of reason but you weren’t hearing him, the only thing in your head was getting him inside you.

“Don’t want that, wanna feel you without it” you said as though it was perfectly understandable, paying no mind to the stunned look on his face.

“Satoru, please. It hurts” and just like that, all logic was lost in his mind, taking his hands off your hips and throwing them over the couch behind him lazily.

“Fine, but you’re doing all the work.”

And work you did, spearing yourself down on him in one go, ignoring the slight burn you felt as your hole stretched around him. You didn’t take any time to adjust, taking the pleasure with the pain as your arms slung themselves around his shoulders, bouncing up and down on his cock, but it wasn’t enough. You planted your feet on the couch on either side of him in a squat position, hoisting yourself up until only his tip was nestled inside you before slamming down on his dick, eliciting what just might have been the hottest fucking groan from him. His big hands flew to your ass, squeezing it and spreading you open so that he could somehow get deeper inside you.

“Oh my fucking god baby, fuck!” He grunted, crudely planting his feet on the coffee table and thrusting up into you just as you fucked down on him, meeting you in the middle. So much for making you do all the work.

𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨-

Geto sighed as he jammed the key into the lock of the apartment, soreness from his session at the gym already setting in. He locks the door behind him and sets his gym bag on the island in the kitchen, removing his headphones from around his neck and setting them down just as he feels arms wrap around his waist and a soft body pressed flush to his back. He looks over his shoulder with a gentle smile.

“Hey love.” You stand on the tips of your toes, arms tightening around him as you kiss him hello. His abs are firm under your fingers, the thin cotton T-shirt doing nothing to soften their definition. He can barely pull away from the kiss to ask you how your day was before your lips are on his again and he lets out a surprised chuckle, turning around in your embrace to snake his strong arms around your waist. Your tongue ghosts over his bottom lip and he lets you in, turning his head to the side the slot your lips closer together as you moan into his mouth, something you’re normally shy about doing. He tries to pull away again, but your lips follow his like he’s trying to take away your oxygen. You arch into his hold, breasts crushed to his hard chest. He pulls away again, nipping at your now swollen bottom lip as a warning not to follow.

“..I take it someone missed me.” He says, and it’s not a question..he can tell. You’re breathing heavier than usual, your body is still glued to his and you’re looking at him like it’d be a betrayal for him to let you go.

“mhm” you nod and that shyness he knows all too well rears its head, in the form of you hiding your face in his chest. At least that’s what he thought you were doing. He kisses the top of your head, hand caressing your back under his shirt that you had stolen.

“I know you need me, but I have to shower my love.”

“N-no!” You quickly protest, surprising him yet again when your hands grip his shirt even though he hadn’t made any efforts to leave.

“No?” He laughed and it rumbled in his chest. “I’m all sweaty though”

“like the way you smell.” You admit, and he suddenly understands why you’ve been nuzzling your nose into his chest.

“Is that so?” He teases, his hand creeping under the oversized shirt you were wearing to cup your hot cunt through your panties. The fabric was soaked and sticky with your arousal.

“Y-yes. I really like it sugu.” He hums.

“I believe you sweet girl.”

you hiss when he bunches them up in his hand, pulling on the front of your panties, the crotch of them sinking between your puffy lips, into your slit and applying pressure to your aching clit. Your hands fly to his arms, steadying yourself as you stand on the tips your toes again trying to escape the way he practically flosses your pussy with your own panties. He stares down into your eyes before he releases them and you sigh in relief, though your insatiable cunt craves for him to do it again.

“Please suguru..please.” You beg, tears burning at the edge of your lash line and he coos.

“You’re so needy, baby. What are you even asking me for?” He drives his hips forward, knocking yours back into the counter and it might have hurt had you not been so focused on the outline of his cock against you. He was so hard, you could imagine how good he would feel inside you—

“I asked you-“ he pulled his hips back suddenly, his hand pulling your panties up between your dripping slit again but harder this time, making you cry out. “—a question”

He kissed you, swallowing your sounds as he shifted your panties back n forth over your clit, the slightly rough texture of the intricate lace making your legs quiver. He shook his wrist quickly, still holding your underwear tight against your clit, showing no mercy and it almost felt like he was vibrating. He pulls away from your lips chuckling at the way your mouth opened in a wide ‘o’ nails digging into his biceps as you came, moaning his name loudly. You sob when he doesn’t stop, clawing at his wrist as a silent plea for him to stop. He finally lets go, grabbing one of your arms and manhandling you over the counter, face pressed to the cold marble before he’s tearing your panties down your legs groaning at the clear mess all over your pussy and inner thighs.

“You wanna tell me what has you this fucking worked up?” He asks, unable to resist slapping your ass. You gasp and his dick twitches in his pants at the way the fat wobbles under the palm of his hand.

“I’m ovulating..”

It was that sentence that got you bent over and fucked on the kitchen counter.

𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐟𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐨-

“Ow!” You cry, hand reaching back to pull Toji’s hand away from your ass, which was now stinging after how hard he smacked it. “Toji that hurt!”

“Quit your whinin’. Told you to stop moving.” He said indifferently, continuing what he was doing on his phone. His arms were wrapped around your waist, eyes peering over your shoulder at his phone as the two of you laid in bed.

“Sorry. I’d hate to distract you while you text your other bitches.” You mumble into his neck as you lay on his chest. He cuts his eyes at you, winding his hand back to smack your ass again and you squeal, laughing as you grab his hand midair, lacing your small fingers with his. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding!”

He glares at you for a bit longer, his gaze holding no real annoyance before he shakes his head and goes back to texting shiu. You adjust yourself in his lap, untangling your legs from his in favor of straddling him. You move your hips and toji thinks you’re just trying to get comfortable, arm tightening around your waist to keep you still. A few quiet minutes pass by before you start to rock in his lap, trying to be sneaky about it. Toji sighs in agitation, thumb hovering over his phone screen mid-text.

“Y/n”

You don’t respond, kissing his neck almost as if trying to distract him from what you were doing. He buries his hand in your hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling your head out of his neck, an unimpressed look on his face.

“What..the fuck are you doing.” He asks, truly tired. Tired of your shit.

“I’m horny.” You say shamelessly and he thinks back to the start of your relationship, when you shyly asked him to take your virginity. What had he done?

“Of course you are. I’m busy right now.” He said flatly, going back to his conversation. You groaned as though you had been wounded, face planting dramatically into the pillow his head was resting on.

“You need to get busy with this pussy.” You mutter, but with how close you were to his ear you might as well have just said it out loud.

Toji scoffs incredulously, pulling on your hair again to get you to look at him, those jade eyes you love so much piercing through you.

“The fuck did you just say?” He wanted to laugh. You had never, ever been this straightforward with him.

“You heard me.” You doubled down and he couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You had a challenging look on your face as though you were daring him to do something about the way you had just spoken to him.

“You look real proud of yourself doll, it’s cute.” He said and your face fell, making him smile fully at your defeat, canines gleaming and making you wonder what it’d be like to feel them sink into your neck, or maybe your breast..

“you’re ovulating. I told you i’m not fucking you until you’re done.”

“Excuses, excuses. If you can’t keep up with me, then just say that old man.”

You’d really gone and done it now. Toji raised his brows at you briefly before sighing and tossing his phone somewhere on the bed. He pushed you off of him harshly and you fell back onto the bed, bouncing slightly. He got off the bed, grabbing your ankles and dragging you down to the edge making you let out a surprised squeak as he reached under the shirt of his you were wearing and snatched your panties down your legs, scoffing at how wet and slimy they were in the middle. He undid the drawstring on his sweatpants, dropping them to his feet and you could feel that familiar heartbeat inside of you at the sound and sight of his cock slapping his lower abdomen. He got on the bed again, pushing your legs up to your chest and you gasped.

“T-toji, foreplay?” You asked, suddenly scared and he shook his head as he rubbed the thick head of his cock through your syrupy folds, bumping into your sensitive clit. “You don’t need it.” And then he sunk into you in one thrust, pushing your legs up even further, beside your head and you screamed at the way his cock head grazed over your gspot and then kissed your cervix, which was more sensitive due to you ovulating. Your hand pushed at his tummy, trying to put some distance between him and you and he didn’t bother moving it, just fucked you harder, faster. “Don’t fucking run from it.” He groaned, feeling himself deep inside of you and if he could somehow stuff his balls in too then he probably would.

“And don’t come crying to me when you don’t get your period next month either.”

𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚

Sukuna couldn’t take it anymore. It was uncharacteristic of him to stop a task before finishing, to neglect whatever duties that fit into his schedule as a king. But how could he focus on the construction plans for the estate when you clearly needed him? He had sensed it this morning in the way that you clung to him as he was getting out of bed, like you didn’t want him to leave. Not that that was out of the ordinary for you, he had come to accept that you were extraordinarily clingy. But your hold on him felt more needy, like you were desperate for something. Along with your displeasure with his departure, there has been a sickeningly sweet smell following him, tormenting him briefly before dispersing like it was never even there. He had brushed it off, having more pressing matters to attend to around the estate and it had been hours since then. He ceases his contemplation, standing up from the end of the table as the eyes of his servants stare at the ground, not daring to follow his movements.

“Uruame, see to it that this is done adequately. There’s something else that requires my attention.”

“Yes my lord.”

He enters his quarters, not finding you in your usual place on his throne, so he makes his way to your shared bedroom. There is no sign of you except your night attire folded on your side of the bed. He can feel the steamy drifting under the door and hears the sound of the bath turning off, so he loosens his robe revealing his tattooed chest before he sits on his side of the bed awaiting your emergence.

You open the door and sigh in relief at the feeling of cool air on your warm skin, tightening the towel around your body. You tense when you register Sukuna’s presence, deep red eyes trained on you almost suspiciously. He’s staring you down, observing you. You relax, walking towards the bed with your hand holding the top of the towel secure to your body. “Can I help you my lord.” You ask and he growls low in his throat, because you only ever call him that when you’re being a smartass. He grabs your wrist, pulling it away from your chest and he towers over you despite being sat.

“Do not play coy. You’ve some nerve playing this game with me woman.” You tilt your head at him subconsciously.

“As much as I adore trolling you kuna, I’m not sure what you mean.”

He lets go of your wrist and brings you closer to him, pulling you to stand between his legs and your hands steady themselves on his shoulders as you stand there awkwardly with his large hand on your waist. He growls again when that damn smell invades his nose again, only this time it’s stronger. He’s nosing down the side of your neck, and the smell of your shampoo is there too but it’s weak in comparison to the other scent. It’s a heady, musky type of scent with a sweetness that can only be described as alluring. So enticing that he had to abandon all his responsibilities for the day to follow it. His head moves lower, nose trailing down your chest until he reaches your towel. You try and hold his head, hands pulling on his pink hair but he doesn’t stop his descent down your body, his keen nose leading him to the spot between your thighs, where he spends most of his nights. You grip his hair tighter, trying to push him away bashfully when he inhales greedily.

“S-Sukuna! What are you—“ he switches places with you, and suddenly you’re lying back on the bed while his four arms cage you in underneath him.

“Hush, woman. Why didn’t you tell me you needed my attention this morning?”

You look away from him in embarrassment but he’s having none of it, forcefully tilting your face back to him with a single finger.

“dunno what you’re talking about.” You lie and he hums unconvinced.

“I can smell your arousal, it’s strong today.. you needed me then, and you need me now, so why are you not voicing your requirements?”

“I wasn’t about to keep you from your work just because I’m ovulating, kuna.” He doesn’t say anything, looking down at you slightly displeased.

You’re about to speak again when you feel something that you quickly recognize as his stomach tongue, hot and wet sliding up your slit, eagerly lapping up your slick. He sees the way your thoughts leave you when he puts his tongue on you, fucking it into you and licking you out, before twirling the tip of it over your sensitive clit. You can’t help but spread your legs for more and he can’t contain his excitement and curiosity about your body in this state, ripping the flimsy white towel off of your body and throwing it behind him as if it were trash.

“Explain this “ovulation” to me at once” he demands, not letting up on your weeping pussy to allow you to speak. You know it’s because he enjoys watching you struggle around your words, when you’re normally so bold without any hesitation over that mouth of yours.

“my body w-wants a baby, so it makes me—fuck! it makes me feel..” the word lingers at the tip of your tongue but the tip of Sukuna’s tongue is still twirling over your clit, working you up further.

“makes you feel horny? desperate to keep me in bed all day so I can give you both of my cocks? hm? breed you nice n full like a proper bitch?”

“Yes kunaaa, mm fuck!” His words are enough to make your eyes roll back into your head, convulsing as you cream all over the fat tongue devouring your pussy. You shake slightly, even after your orgasm and the mouth on his stomach licks the remnants of your orgasm off his lower abdomen greedily before sealing shut.

“Very well then, present yourself to me.”

Your fucked out brain has a hard time computing his words as you watch him undo his robe the rest of the way, revealing his cocks.

“w-what?” You ask and he sits up on the bed, freeing you from his weight and giving you room to move.

“If it’s a baby that your body desires that’s what i shall give. I said present yourself to me. I won’t ask again.”

You shakily move to position yourself on all fours, arms wobbling as you hold your upper body up and he laughs humorlessly.

“you’re asking me to give you my seed, and that’s the best you can do?” He presses the head of one of his dicks to your hole and it flutters at the anticipation of being stuffed.

You drop your shoulders down on the bed, back bent in a deep arch, as you wiggle your ass at him shamelessly.

“Please kuna.” You beg helplessly and you can hear how pleased he is in his tone.

“Good bitch.”

[theemporium]

hi! i’d really love if you could do this req bec ur genuinely one of my favourite writers ever on this app!!taking care of jack after his surgery, and just being there for him, helping him shower, change, just all that domesticity!! thank you !!

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

.

Watching the hit happen live whilst you were helpless in New Jersey was bad enough. 

But the following phone call that came less than an hour later was absolutely soul-crushing.

You had been there by Jack’s side last year when he had been debating whether to keep playing or take the surgery. He wanted to push through, he said it wasn’t as bad as the team were worried about. And you were there almost a month later when both Jack and the team realised how bad it had gotten, that the surgery was no longer a choice but a decision already made with an appointment booked. 

You knew how rough it had been on him, to forfeit the end of the season and leave his team scrambling for one last push to attempt a wildcard position into the playoffs. You knew how rough it had been to not even be with his team for the very end, to even be moral support through the locker room clean out. 

You knew just how hard he worked through the summer, to recover and come back even better than before. You watched and you supported him and you were so fucking proud of him. 

And all of that had been washed away in mere seconds, had forced him back to square one. 

You booked the first flight out to Colorado to be with him, not even hesitating the second you heard his shaky voice on the other phone to ask, “you’ll be waiting for me when I get out, right?” 

It felt a bit like deja-vu from last year. 

“Baby?” 

“Just coming,” you called from the kitchen of your shared apartment. 

There had been a debate on where Jack would spend the first part of his recovery. Initially, it was going to be back in Michigan with his parents. But Jack had done that last time, and he hated being away from his team. You had assured both Jim and Ellen that you would take care of him, that the spare room was open to them if they wanted to be with Jack too. 

“Miss you,” Jack replied, sounding a little pathetic and needy as he did. But it made your chest tighten anyways. 

“I was gone for two seconds,” you teased as you wandered back into the living room, painkillers in hand as his next dose time approached. 

“Too long,” Jack responded with a pout, tilting his head back so he could look up at you with a drowsy smile. “Hi.” 

“Hi, baby,” you grinned, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his forehead. “Need help sitting up?” 

“I’ve got it,” he murmured, letting out a small sigh before slowly pushing himself to sit up. His face pinched slightly, the sling awkward and the pain a dull throb he couldn’t rid himself off unless he was full of painkillers. 

“I was thinking we get chipotle for dinner tonight,” you said casually, like you hadn’t heard him sighing wistfully at an advert earlier that day. “I can order after we wash your hair.” 

When Jack didn’t respond, you turned your head to find him already staring at you with big, soft eyes. 

“What?”

“You take such good care of me,” he said in a small voice, like he was in awe of such a fact. 

“Always,” you replied, returning the soft smile as you placed the pills in his hand and handed him a glass of water too. 

“I love you,” he said easily as he took the pills from you. And it made your chest feel funny, just how heavy and emotional those three words felt when he said them these days. But you loved it, you loved the way you could hear all the underlying emotions laced between those words. 

“I love you too but that’s not gonna distract me from the fact your avoiding taking your medication,” you retorted, grinning at the small pout in his face. 

“They are trying to choke me with these pills,” Jack grumbled, eyeing the large pills with disdain. 

“You’ll survive,” you assured him, giving him a look until he finally swallowed them down. You settled down on the couch, happily letting the boy manoeuvre himself until his head was comfortably laying on your lap. “M’proud of you, you know.” 

Jack slowly blinked, fighting to keep his eyes open. “Hm?” 

“Yeah,” you murmured, your expression softening. “You’re doing so well and you’re gonna come back so much stronger, and I’m just proud of that.”

Jack could feel his cheeks heating up. “Baby—”

“I mean it,” you said. 

“I know,” Jack answered, reaching for your hand with his good hand. “Thank you. For this. For everything.” 

“Always,” you repeated, grinning down at him. 

And Jack grinned right back at you.

.

[whosmariaaa]

— part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7 !

— cw :: suggestive, murder, violence, attempted roofie

college! sukuna was not planning on giving up on you any time soon, no matter how upset you were. to put it simply, he was obsessed. checking your socials all the time, still trying to reach out every single day.

no girl had ever gotten under his skin like this. no one had ever made him feel like this. he didn’t even know he was capable of feeling like this about someone. and sukuna would be damned if he let you go now.

though it barely seemed to be working, because you weren’t falling for it. didn’t exactly stop him, as you would think, but gojo and toji decided to help him out for once.

they were in the lockers after basketball training, gojo and toji yapping about one of the cheerleaders. sukuna wasn’t listening. he was thinking about you, of course. how the hell could he not get you off his mind? did you put a spell on him or something?

then, gojo sat down next to him. “yo, sukuna. toji and i were thinking,” he started.

“shocking. didn’t think you two fucking idiots were even capable of that,” he sneered. gojo’s eye twitched, but he continued nonetheless.

“it’s kind of sad to see you still chasing y/n even after all that shit went down, and you’re kind of pathetic about it too,” gojo told him.

“kind of? you’re really fucking pathetic about it. seriously man, i’m pretty sure you’ve killed people before, and you’re all soft hearted for a girl who hasn’t shown you a speck of attention,” toji criticized.

feeling irritation rise, sukuna was about to snap back, but gojo quickly interrupted, “what toji’s trying to say, is that we want to help you. you’re our best friend for a reason,” he explained.

“why don’t you try to shit you used to pull with other girls? pretend like you don’t care, and they come running back, always works, right?” gojo added, resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

sukuna scowled, “you two know how i feel about y/n. she isn’t just a quick fuck. and how the hell would that even work when she doesn’t even look my way?”

“yeah, we get it. but you should try it. because what you’re doing right now isn’t working for shit,” toji replied, sitting down next to gojo.

when sukuna went back to his dorm, he thought about it. maybe, it could work. maybe, it’d catch your attention. maybe it’s not such a bad idea.

so, plan in action, he stopped coming to you every single day. he practically was ignoring you now. he stopped talking to you altogether. stupid as it sounds, it was starting to piss you off. you had every right to ignore him. he in fact did not. was this perhaps a little petty? sure. did you care? no.

but, much to sukuna’s dismay, you let it rest. he had gotten on your nerves enough. he was finally leaving you alone, so you might as well take peace in it.

your not-so-secret admirer was however not taking peace in it, at all.

“damn, she’s still not crawling back?” toji noted, scratching his head when he saw how infuriated sukuna was with the entire situation.

“she’s just playing hard to get,” gojo replied, “she’ll be on her knees before you know it!”

honestly, sukuna would be on his knees for you a whole lot sooner than you would be for him. gojo and toji knew that too, but they were a little afraid of their friend breaking, so they were trying to keep their hopes high.

“no, she won’t. why the fuck did i fall for such a fucking bitch?” he scoffed.

“yeah, she is kind of bitch, though—” gojo laughed.

“don’t fucking talk about her like that,” sukuna warned firmly, grabbing gojo by the collar again.

“you literally said it first—”

“shut the fuck up.”

sukuna was again pried off gojo by toji, before he actually hurt him. though his friends finally stopped being asses about the entire situation, he still felt like losing his shit.

and that feeling continued when even the week after that, you didn’t seem to be losing sleep at all over his absence, while he definitely was over yours (you were actually still feeling petty he was ignoring you now, but you didn’t show it). it was ridiculous. why was he so infatuated with you? sukuna didn’t even know himself, and yet, he couldn’t bare to let you go. he was hooked.

he needed to get his mind off things. when toji invited him to a frat party, he immediately decided to go. last time he went was weeks ago, and he wanted to take his mind off things. what better way to do that than with alcohol, weed, and girls?

when he arrived at the party, gojo gave him a few shots to ease up. and sukuna immediately had his eyes on a girl, pretty, nice body. he just needed some more alchohol and weed to soothe the weird ache in his chest when he thought of other girls. girls that aren’t you.

though, that didn’t matter now. he took a few more shots, took a few blows of toji’s blunt, and went over to the girl. they talked for a bit, he was charming, and before they knew it, the girl was in his lap, making out with him while the music blared in their ears.

when she separated for some air, sukuna looked at her with his intense red eyes, then looked around his surroundings a bit. that’s when he saw you. you were chatting with some friends, but then your gazes met. neither of you were looking away, for a good 8 seconds.

“hey, c’mon babe, we can go upstairs to a room,” the girl whispered in his ear, dragging him back to reality. a scowl appeared on his face. he wasn’t thinking about sex, and definitely not with her.

which was strange, the old sukuna would’ve flashed her his signature grin and took her upstairs without a doubt. it seems you’ve genuinely tainted his mind. for the better or worse, he didn’t know.

he pushed her off his lap. “the fuck are you talking about?” he snarled. she gasped, catching herself barely as he went on his feet. he didn’t spare her a second glance as he went over to you, which is exactly when you two locked eye contact again.

“and what do you want?” you huffed impatiently, though the intense eye contact made you slightly nervous. huh? since when did sukuna make you nervous?

“why the hell are you here?” he demanded. you rolled your eyes, “and why does that concern you?”

he took a step closer, dangerously close as he hovered over you. “don’t play fucking games with me, y/n. i’m not in the mood. let me repeat myself, why the hell are you here?”

you furrowed your eyebrows. “because it’s my friends party? what’s your problem?” you responded.

“my problem is that you’ve been ignoring me for weeks, and i’m fucking sick of it. it was just a project, and you’re such a bitch about it,” he sneered.

“i had every right to be pissed about it, and you know that too. and i didn’t want to talk to you, because you’re an ass, but apparently you’re just stupid and can’t take a hint,” you snapped back, starting to feel annoyed again.

now you didn’t care about the unbroken eye contact, or your friends staring wordlessly, because this man was a champion at getting on your nerves.

“cry me a damn river. maybe you’re just a pissy bitch that can’t handle when life doesn’t go her way,” he scoffed.

you suppressed an offended gasp, but you definitely weren’t suppressing the slap you were about to give this man again. but, just when you were about to hit his cheek, sukuna caught your wrist, in a bruising grip too.

“don’t even fucking think about it. i’m not letting you get away with shit anymore, be glad i’m not breaking your wrist,” he warned. you were silently glaring at him, and he was glaring right back.

then, he dropped your wrist and walked off. “asshole…” you mumbled under your breath. seriously, what was his problem?

safe to say, both of you spend your night at the party away from each other. sukuna making out with several different girls, even around 2AM taking another upstairs, needing to think about something else.

you, however, spend your night with your friends, drinking a few shots, but not too much to get drunk or anything. you were trying not to think of his words, but damn they kind of hurt.

your friends eventually went back to their dorms. they asked you several times if you wanted to come too, but you knew that if there wasn’t any loud music, talking and drama surrounding you, you’d probably wallow in silence, so you refused and stayed. maybe you’d find some distraction, who knows?

and as if someone heard your thoughts, next to you suddenly sat a man with blue hair and pale skin.

“you look distressed,” he commented. was it really that obvious?

“nah, it’s nothing, really,” you smiled, shrugging it off. the guy smiled back, letting the topic rest.

“uh huh, y/n right?” he asked. “people know you’re off limits, because you’re apparently sukuna’s girl. but what i saw from earlier, that’s not so true, is it?”

your smile disappeared, and you rolled your eyes. “seriously? that’s what he’s been telling people? what a loser, honestly,” you grumbled. the guy chuckled.

“so it’s not wrong for me to assume you’re single?” he questioned. your eyes shot to him. maybe he was the distraction you were desperately needing.

“huh, no, not at all. what’s your name, then?” you queried.

he rested his chin in the palm of his hand, looking at you with a charming grin. “mahito, nice to meet you, y/n,” he greeted. you smiled at him. you did recognize his name. it gave you a suspicious feeling, but it was merely fleeting, so you shrugged it off.

you two talked for like an hour or so. mahito was a nice guy, but he did give you the creeps with what he was saying from time to time. but it was probably just the alcohol in your system, so you shrugged it off.

then, he eventually went off and got drinks for the both of you. you quickly checked your phone.

“hey babe, hope ur feeling better by now, lemme know how the parties going xxx” your friends text read. you smiled at the sweet message, and quickly texted back about the tea, telling about how you met a new guy.

then, a few seconds after you send press and shut your phone off, he sat down next to you again. the two of you continued talking, and you took a few sips of your drink. but as the minutes past by, suddenly you felt like things were spinning. you felt dizzy.

your heart sank.

with quick thinking, you got on your feet and excused yourself to the bathroom with a calm smile. you were anything but calm. you couldn’t think clearly. you went into the bathroom, locking the door.

had he put something in your drink? had he drugged you? did he attempt to roofie you? you were panicking. all of your friends had gone to their dorms, and they would never make it on time. you didn’t know a soul in this party, and everyone was either drunk or stoned. what the hell were you supposed to do? and when mahito was going to inevitably notice you were gone for too long… you were starting to hyperventilate.

your head was spinning like crazy, and you felt your throat close up.

sukuna wasn’t focusing on shit right now. he had a girl on his dick, but he still felt slightly off. but he forced himself to enjoy it nonetheless. that was until his phone rang. he hung up without looking at the name. it was probably gojo or toji trying to pester him. then, his phone went off again, and again.

“who the hell is that?” she asked, breathlessly but still irritated.

he didn’t even care to reply to her. when his phone went off once more, he let out an annoyed sigh and looked at the name. it was you. he felt his irritation rise.

but he did pick up after two rings. “what the fuck do you want, y/n? if it wasn’t clear already, don’t try shit right now,” he snapped angrily.

it was silent on the other end of the line. sukuna was tempted to hang up, until he heard a little sob. he suddenly felt a rush of confusion, and maybe even concern.

“where are you?” you sniffled quietly.

“still at the party,” he replied as he sat up. the girl, just as stoned and tipsy as him, looked at him confusion.

“please help me, sukuna. i don’t know what the fuck happened, but i— i was talking with this guy, mahito or something, and i think he put something in my drink,” you stuttered out. his breath hitched slightly at the implication, and then he felt his fists clench, a wave of anger hit him.

sure, you guys were fighting, or whatever it was, but that man was still head over heels, no matter how much he wanted to push it down. and he was going to beat this guy to death for ever thinking he could touch you.

sukuna had already pushed off two other girls for you before, might as welk make it three. the girl whined drunkly, but he couldn’t care less. he pulled on his boxer and pants, and quickly threw on a shirt.

“where the fuck are you?” he asked, his tone dangerously low as he left the room, not looking back at the girl.

“bathroom d— downstairs,” you stammered. things were going fuzzy, some parts of your vision even black. you could barely keep your eyes open. “please hurry,” you cried softly.

and that tone, that panicked, helpless tone set something off in him. he was downstairs in just a few seconds, roughly shoving aside anyone in his way. no one dared to say anything, because no one had ever seen sukuna this angry before. people around fell into a tense silence, wondering what the hell happened.

as soon as he saw the bathroom door, he went to open it. and when it didn’t budge, he slammed his fist into the wooden door without a doubt, and turned the lock from the inside. his fist was covered with his blood, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

then sukuna saw you, on the floor, barely conscious. you were trembling, big tears rolling across your cheeks. it was so unlike you. you were always so fierce, and just then, he decided that he loathed seeing you cry.

he grabbed you, an arm around your waist. “it’s okay, baby, i’m here. no one’s fucking touching you,” sukuna reassured. you felt… safe in his arms, as much as you hated to admit it.

“i still fucking hate you, don’t get me wrong,” you mumbled, though your voice cracked slightly.

“uh huh, sure thing, baby,” he replied. but then, everything went black. sukuna had made it on time, but he felt a strange ache in his heart thinking about what if he hadn’t. he picked you up, weirdly gently for his doing, and went to the other side of the house, where he knew toji and gojo were at.

“yo, sukuna, we heard you finally had sex with a girl aga— is that y/n?” gojo questioned, flabbergasted. toji immediately turned his head.

“what the hell happened?” toji asked, immediately stepping over.

“some fucking idiot roofied her. take her to my car,” he ordered, putting you in toji’s arms. but gojo and toji were too slow for his liking.

“i’ll shoot both of you in the fucking head if you don’t get her out of here in two seconds,” sukuna said in a tone that told them he wasn’t playing around.

“chill out, man,” toji replied, though he was already on the move. sukuna had threatened them many times, but this was different. he was genuinely angry now, and he could get dangerous when he was.

“you’re going to kill that guy, aren’t you?” gojo asked, his usual teasing tone gone. he was dead serious. sukuna’s silence told him all he needed to know. gojo nodded and went after toji.

as soon as they were out of the frat house, he turned on his heel and approached the first person he saw.

“where’s mahito?” he asked. everyone knew the guy, everyone but apparently you. he was a real creep on campus. he’d never roofie anyone before, but honestly, no one’d put it past him.

“uh, in the bathroom. the same bathroom of which you kicked my door down, by the way, you’re paying for that—” the guy started, but sukuna’s menacing stare shut him up real quickly.

and just like he said, there mahito was. in the bathroom where you said you were going a while back, he looked around in confusion, oblivious to the storm behind him.

just when he was about to turn around, his head smashed into the stone-tiled wall three times, the white tiles now colored red.

“you fucking dumbass,” mahito heard in his ear as he was turned around, his back now slammed against the wall. a strong hand on his throat keeping him there.

“well, well, well, if it isn’t sukuna,” mahito taunted playfully, as if he didn’t have blood dripping down from his forehead. “was starting to wonder when you’d start looking for your little y/n,” he added.

“say her name again, i fucking dare you,” he snarled. mahito knew better than that.

“i’m just saying, i could’ve had a great time with her, until you had to go and ruin things,” mahito teased, flashing him a sickening smile. then a harsh left hook to his face shut him up, sending even more splatters of blood to the wall.

“let’s see if you can talk this tough when we’re outside,” sukuna replied, his tone scarily even. just like that, he dragged mahito outside, not like anyone was watching anyways because everyone went back to partying.

sukuna beat him up till he was bloody and bruised, and even then he didn’t stop. it was a gory sight, one that would’ve made anyone sick. he didn’t care, even as mahito’s face was crooked from amount of punches he had taken. mahito couldn’t even scream or beg for his life anymore, even though he was in excruciating pain. he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

he had no mercy. his hands were painted red from mahito’s blood, he punched until there was practically nothing to punch anymore. and then, nothing. he wasn’t breathing anymore, no pulse.

sukuna had indeed killed people before, he wasn’t ashamed of it. toji and gojo had done so too, none of them had been caught before. none of the other murders were necessary, just guys who pissed them off. but mahito?

he crossed a line thinking he could hurt you. no matter how much you hated him, sukuna was scarily attached to you ever since that day you called him out. so much so that he would apparently kill for you. romantic, no?

as he stared at mahito’s mangled face, he suddenly got a call from gojo. “what?” sukuna grumbled.

“y/n woke up a few minutes ago, she’s asking for you, well, more like demanding,” gojo replied. you were asking for him? that shamefully made his heart skip a beat.

“you kill the guy yet?” toji asked.

“yeah, we’re in the alleyway. can you guys clean this shit up and take him with your car? i’ll be with y/n in a second,” he proposed. they agreed, and before he knew it he was in his car with you in the passenger’s seat.

you were shaken up, confused, but you felt oddly safe. sukuna was quiet too, giving you time to process as he drived you to the dorms. you decided to not comment on his bloodied hands for your own sake.

and eventually, you found yourself in his dorm. you took a shower, and he gave you his hoodie to sleep in. he even gave you food and water.

all that frustration you felt for sukuna this past weeks, suddenly just disappeared. he had saved you, maybe even saved your life, and now he’s treating you so well.

sure, you were still upset about you failing your class, but you could finally forgive him for all that. honestly, if you told yourself a week ago that you forgave him, you wouldn’t possibly believe yourself.

and you would also never believe yourself if you said that you were now laying in sukuna’s bed, wrapped in his arms.

“how do you feel, baby?” he asked softly, a tone you’d never think he’d be able to use.

“could be better,” you murmured quietly. a silence fell over you two, it wasn’t uncomfortable. you didn’t feel uncomfortable either. who would’ve thought?

you looked up slightly at him, meeting his eyes. “thank you for all that,” you told him, smiling lightly. “i think i can perhaps, maybe forgive you now for that 49%.”

sukuna just slightly furrowed his eyebrows, before grabbing your chin and pulling you into a kiss. you leaned into it, not pushing him away.

he pulled away, looking into your eyes. “no one’s ever going to fucking hurt you again, i’m serious, you got that?” he promised.

“yeah. sounds pretty serious to me,” you replied, not being same to hide your smile. he just huffed, and kissed you again. a few hours later, you fell asleep in his arms.

now, college boyfriend! sukuna was the happiest man alive. he still dominated the basketball court, still got plenty good grades, had his best friends gojo and toji. and the one thing he will forever love most and cherish in life, you, his girl. and with that, sukuna was ready to kill and die for you, always.

──★˙🍓̟!! expectations were high for me, so i think i delivered guys!! genuinely proud of this one. this is kinda crazy since it’s the last part, and again i can simply not express how thankful i am for all of you!!!! and i HAD to eventually let sukuna do something violent for once, because it’s sukuna ofc. and no, i do absolutely not, ever ever, condone violence or murder!!!!! love sukuna to death but if he was real you wouldn’t catch me in a 100 km radius from him🥀🥀

— taglist ! @imlikeacoffeeconnoisseur @totallygyomeiswife @sukubusss @seizecherry @xlilycoco @v1x3n @go-go-gadget-autism @elizabeth-von-winken-universe @paradisestarfishh @misticsilver @whosmarjj @aquariusscollection @satorushousewife @rwirxles @anonnieghost @bitchpleaseeeeeeeeee @iminloveweveryone @poopooindamouf @phisen @ryomku @erintaro @clp-84 @mastermasterlist1p1 @katsukiseyebrows @iioveoldermen @happy2delivur @jup1tersuccubus @nxcxllxsevens @realalpacorn @kxgumi @crankyarchives @itsjustisa @junitries @kodzukensworld @desiretolive @bnbaochauuu @tomsxslvt @flwerie @bwlol7 @szuuyl @yourfavbabigirl @grignardsreagent @my-sin-my-soul-my-hell @nothankyew @yourangel04 🍓

[pineconepie]

More Ellis <3

TW: Drunk Reader, party, arguments, forced infantilization, parental yandere, vomiting

Ever since the incident, you had basically started living with Ellis more than in your own dorm.

It's not... awful, per se, just a little awkward. He's always there, helping you with your homework and giving you tips, cooking balanced meals for you, and even decorated your room to your interests. You find it a little strange how it seems like he knows more about you than you told him, but you shrug it off as a coincidence.

"Where on earth are you going to?" Ellis asks with crossed arms. "It's nearly midnight, do you realize how dangerous it is to be out at this time?"

You open your mouth to tell him its a party, but you know he'd be against it. He's against most things, you've come to find out. "I'm going to study with some friends."

"At midnight?" he repeats incredulously. "No, no way. You're staying right here."

"But they're expecting me—"

"You don't need to worry about that. Call them up and cancel your plans," he instructs you. You don't move an inch, giving him a pleading stare instead. His gaze sharpens on you. "Now, (Y/n). I'm not changing my mind on this. You're under my roof, so you'll live by my rules."

"I don't even want to live under your roof!" you exclaim. "It's been, like, a week since I got beat up, and I'm fine now! I don't need to stay here anymore."

The past few times you had mentioned going back to your dorm, he insisted it wasn't safe. The only reason you never argued was because you didn't want to risk upsetting your own professor.

Not that you think he'd start abusing his status by marking your grades low or anything, but it's just not worth the risk sometimes.

Ellis has the audacity to look offended. "So you're telling me you'd rather endanger your own life than stay here with me? The person who gives you free clothes, free food, helps you with your school work..."

"That isn't true. I appreciate all that, really, but I also think I've recovered enough to not have to rely on you every day. I can take care of myself just fine now. You aren't my dad."

Maybe it came across as slightly rude, but it's true, nonetheless. You needed to get that point across. Hopefully it makes some sort of sense in his stubborn head.

In that moment, Ellis stiffens. "Go to your room." He points at the bedroom you're occupying.

"No! I'm a grown adult who can make their own decisions, whether you agree with it or not."

"Well, maybe you need to start acting like a grown adult, then!" he scolds.

"How can I when you're the one treating me like a baby?! Every day you coddle and fuss over me like I'm made of glass, then wonder why I might be upset! Do you really blame me for trying to sneak out just to do something normal?!"

"Don't raise your voice at me. I'll give you five seconds to march to your room. I'm not kidding."

"And what? You're going to ground me like you're my dad?"

"One."

Your breath catches in your throat.

"Two."

You blink.

"Three."

You consider staying put.

"Four."

Sighing in defeat, you spin on your heel and stomp to the bedroom you've become familiar with, then slam the door shut behind you. There, you collapse onto your mattress with an aggravated noise. What's his problem?

No, you refuse to miss that party, even if it kills you.

This is the first time your friends actually invited you to something in a while. Maybe they'd actually start talking to you again. But you know that won't happen if you don't show up.

So, you wait. And wait. And wait until an hour goes by.

Peeking out the doorway to make sure he's gone, you slowly creep past Ellis's room, holding your shoes in hand. Luckily, he must already be in bed, because there's not a sound.

Your heart races with adrenaline as you step through the front door, put on your shoes, then lock the door behind you with the key he gave you. The breeze is cold and biting, but you trudge ahead.

Finally, freedom.

...

An hour passes. Ellis can't sleep, he's been trying to read, but the argument with you has been in his mind on loop.

Sighing to himself, he closes his book and heads over to your room.

"(Y/n)?" he whispers, gently rapping his knuckles against the wooden door. No answer. "Sweetie, are you awake? I'm sorry for getting upset..." No answer. He hesitates, then opens the door, just to make sure you're okay.

But when he turns on the light, no one is laying in bed.

Fury runs through him, hot and white, then fizzles out into panic and fear.

"No, no, no." He looks inside your closet, nothing. Bathroom, nothing. The whole place, absolutely nothing.

He doesn't want to think you deliberately disobeyed him, but what other choice is there? You sneaked out. Who knows what kind of danger you're putting yourself in? He doesn't want to imagine you getting beat up again... he still feels guilty for being responsible the last time, even if it is what was necessary.

That's what he tells himself, anyway.

He picks up his phone and angrily finds your contact name. You're the only person he ever really bothers texting or calling anyways, he typically hates both phone calls and texts.

The phone rings as he paces back and forth.

No answer. He grits his teeth and tries again, only for it to lead him to voicemail.

"(Y/n)... come back home, please. Or at least call me to let me know you're okay."

...

You're a few drinks in already, and so drunk you feel sick. You glance down at your phone. You have five missed calls, and several texts.

Ellis: Please come home

Ellis: It isn't safe out at these times, sweetie. I wouldn't forgive myself if anything happened to you.

Ellis: I'm sorry for snapping earlier.

Ellis: Please call me back when you can, (Y/n).

Ellis: Just let me know you're alright.

Ellis: Don't ignore me.

Ellis: If you come home now, I won't say a word about this incident. We can put it behind us, okay?

Ellis: Come home.

You almost want to text him back, tell him you're okay and you just wanted a break for one night. He's been a bit too stifling lately, it feels like he's trying to take over every aspect of your life. At first, it seemed sweet that he genuinely cared enough to help you when you needed it, but you can take care of yourself. You just don't understand why he doesn't believe that.

"Hey, (Y/n)," one of your friends say, but they don't seem very enthusiastic.

"Hey! It's been so long since we talked," you say. "You haven't been responding to my messages."

Their expression falls. "Sorry. Look, uh, this might seem a bit... sudden, but... we should stop hanging out." They clear their throat awkwardly. "It's been fun, don't get me wrong, but things are different now."

Your face scrunches up. "What? Why? Did I do something?"

"Not exactly." They rub the back of their neck. "We tried to explain to him, but he was insistent and, honestly, kinda scary—"

"What? Who?"

They click their tongue, annoyed. "Your dad. I wish you would've told someone that your dad is literally one of the professors."

"My dad?" you gawk at them. "Ellis?"

"Who else?" They shake their head. "Told us that we were all just getting in the way of your studies. And threatened our college admission and grades if we ever associated with you. Soo... yeah. We can't talk anymore. Sorry about that."

Once they finish that spiel, they hurry away and mingle with some other people. You stand alone in shock, mind reeling and thoughts fuzzy.

You drink more, just because you don't want to think about it for too long.

...

Ellis isn't stupid. He knows you were most definitely lying about the studying thing, especially considering the threats he had given to your little friends.

So of course, he assumes you went to a party. He's disappointed and beyond angry still, but his panic comes first.

It doesn't take him long to hunt down the house the party is happening in. He sees people stumbling around everywhere. How careless.

After a bit of searching for the front door, he slams the front door open and glances around. Loud music and the stench of alcohol immediately hit him in the face. People stare at him in surprise, but they seem too intoxicated to really care.

Some recognize him as a professor, and shrink back nervously. One even pulls a cigarette out of his mouth, thinking he would scold him.

He stomps further into the house, looking around frantically for any signs of you.

And lo and behold, he sees one of your friends, staring at him in shock. "You." He glares down at them. "Where is (Y/n)? Don't you dare lie to me."

"I didn't invite them!" they quickly blurt. "But... uh, I think they're in the bathroom, throwing up. They're super drunk."

Ellis huffs angrily, storming off towards the bathroom. He twists open the knob to see you, exactly as they said. Throwing up in the toilet. His eyes soften. Oh, you poor baby, he thinks. The things he does for you.

He kneels on the floor next to you and pushes your hair away from your face. Then, he reaches over and flushes the toilet once you finish emptying your stomach of whatever alcohol you consumed.

"Oh, honey." He dampens a paper towel and wipes your mouth and nose with it. "You should've stayed home where it's safe," he sighs. "But I'll take care of you. Just like always." He strokes the back of your head affectionately. "Do you think you'll vomit again?"

"I don' think so," you answer after hiccuping. He nods, stands up, then offers his hands for you. You take them and try to pull yourself up, but it proves to be difficult, especially with how much your vision swims.

"It's okay, I got you," he says, taking one of your arms and swinging it over his shoulder. Together, the two of you walk out of the bathroom. "Deep breaths, okay? There you go."

"Aww, (Y/n), is your dad taking you home?" one of the party-goers drunkenly mocks you. "Poor baby needs their dada?"

Usually Ellis is immediate to step in, giving a glare or even yelling, but he doesn't say anything. Even though you're too drunk to think, you still have enough of a mind to know why. He wants other people to think that. He likes being thought of as your parent, having you need him like a baby. That much is obvious.

Still, you're drunk and humiliated. You can't even keep track of your surroundings well enough.

"If this little party isn't wrapped up in an hour, I can promise the consequences won't be small," Ellis hisses. He specifically eyes the several students with beers in their hands, who he knows for a fact can't be legally drinking.

With that, the party dies down quickly. He gives everyone at the party a nasty glare before leaving with you still clinging onto him.

"How could you be so irresponsible?" he quietly chastises you, helping you in the front seat of his car. You stumble several times, but he's always there to steady you. Once you buckle in, he gives your arm a light squeeze. "You made me worry sick over you." He walks over to the drivers side and hops in. As soon as he does, he turns the heat on for you. You're grateful for it. He notices you shivering, too, so he takes off his sweater vest and drapes it over you like a blanket. "Here, kiddo."

"I'm sorry," you mumble. "I jus' wanted to hang out with my friends."

"They aren't your friends. They said so themselves, remember? Those ingrates don't even deserve your time. Do you know how many of them never lifted a finger to defend you when Brock and his group hurt you? Never once bothered trying to talk to you for the month you spent with me?" he snaps.

You visibly recoil.

Something about this conversation reminds you of one you had with them less than an hour ago, but you can't remember what words were exchanged.

"Yeah..." you trail off sadly.

Ellis's expression softens when he sees you upset. "Honey... its okay, though. You have me."

"That's it, though. Just you," you mutter.

He flinches as if he was physically wounded by your words. "...that's not enough?" he asks after a few seconds. "I take care of everything for you. And love you, and hold you, and make your meals..." He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. You're... you're just drunk. This is why I hate alcohol. It reeks and it causes horrible conversations like these."

Ellis focuses on driving and doesn't speak another word the entire ride back home. But his hands grip the steering wheel harder than usual.

Once the two of you arrive home, Ellis helps you to your bed. He even gets some medicine for you to help your queasy stomach and pounding headache, as well as water to cure the dryness in your mouth.

"Now, get some rest," he sternly instructs you. "Because we are going to have a long discussion tomorrow."

"W-wait..." you slur. "Please don't leave me alone."

The man blinks a couple of times, surprised. "Alright. Alright, sweetie. You want Dad to sleep here tonight?" You nod, mind too hazy to think about his words. He tuts lovingly. "Alright. Move over, then."

You scoot aside as instructed, curling up on one side of the bed. You watch tiredly as Ellis kicks off his shoes and takes his glasses off. Then, he goes to your side of the bed and crawls under the covers with you.

"There." He shifts closer and wraps his arms securely around your midsection. "That better?"

"Mhm. Thank you."

You feel warm, safe, and content being held by Ellis. You close your eyes, feeling fatigue catch up with you. His hand soothingly runs up and down your back, easing you to sleep. It makes your eyelids heavy, luring you into slumber.

You'll definitely be grounded tomorrow, but for now, he savors this sweet moment between what he believes to be father and child.

[greenevergreens]

Not enough people fear nature, and it REALLY shows, I’m not saying you can’t or shouldn’t go out and enjoy nature, I think going out and getting out of the city and really experiencing the world in a more raw form is incredibly beneficial, to both your physical and mental health. However with that said, nature isn’t a petting zoo, and it isn’t a theme park, it’s real, and it WILL kill you if you aren’t careful.

One thing I see far too often that especially pisses me off, is how many people, seemingly without fear, interact with wildlife so freely. Wild animals won’t and don’t see you as a friend, they won’t understand that you’re trying to feed them. Charity doesn’t exist in nature, if you’re holding food and a wild animal is nearby it sees you as competition to get that food. Handing that food over, will not translate over as charity. It will fight (and potentially kill) you for that food. 

Even if an interaction with a wild animal doesn’t result in you getting injured or killed, doesn’t mean it went well, since so often human food isn’t fit for (and can even kill) wild animals. 

I know you want to help, I know you want to be nice, but giving wild animals doesn’t help. Best case scenario is the animal gets sick from the food you gave it and gets lucky and doesn’t come across another person who wants to feed it. The worst case scenario isn’t that the food kills the animal, the worse case scenario is that the animal begins to associate people with food. This increases human and wild animal interactions, this also then increases chances of aggressive or deadly interactions, as well as the potential for cross species illness transfer and a potential pandemic. And sadly often when an animal has killed a person, wild or not, they have to be put down, for the safety of the surrounding community. 

The problem with interacting with, or trying to “befriend” a wild animal, is too many people think ‘herbivore = nice and peaceful’ which couldn’t be farther than the truth. Herbivore animals, are prey animals. Prey animals are CONSTANTLY on high alert for other animals that may want to make a meal out of them. You as a person are an omnivore (I don’t give a fuck what your diet is, that’s not the same as the classification of a proper diet for your species), omnivores are predator (or predator & prey) animals. 

Herbivores don’t have the luxury of just seeing you and leaving, they have to fight back or run away. If they feel they can’t run away they will fight for their life, even though you know you aren’t a danger to them, doesn’t mean they do or can know that too. A predator animal is only going to attack for a few reasons it’s hungry and sees you as food, you’re standing in the way of the food it wants, or you are getting too close to its young. So for the most part, if you stay out of the way, give them plenty of space, and make yourself seem like too much of a risk to try to eat, they’ll leave you alone. 

A Buffalo isn’t going to see you as a friend if you try to approach it, it’s going to think you’re trying to kill it, or might try to kill it no matter how nice or gentle you try to speak or approach it. It will treat you as you’d treat a random man breaking into your house, by defending itself and its family up to and including killing you.

At work there used to be a sign on a few things that would say like "if this bubbles, run for your life" and "if you hear thumping run for cover" and "bears can and will kill you" and really in general I wish the park service was more willing to say "you are not at home, you are not at disneyland, you can die here and you can die so badly your family will have to bury an empty casket because no one will risk their own life to collect your idiot corpse."

[kxsagi]

“𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐢 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟗𝟖 💔”

a/n: THESE LEAKS BRUH

FIRST, ISAGI AND RIN TIE AT #1

THEN SHIDOU BEATS BAROU FOR #3

AND NOW NAGI IS FULL ON ELIMINATED HUH????????

nagi fans i feel your pain, but trust that he will come back and maybe pull a kunigami but not turn out emo 🤞 (don’t know artist credits sorry)

when you walk into the apartment, you expect to find nagi on the couch, maybe gaming half-heartedly or mindlessly scrolling through his phone. instead, you see him sprawled out on the floor, limbs splayed like he’s been dramatically struck down in battle. 

your first thought is that he’s dead. 

your second thought is that, no, if he were actually dead, he’d at least have had the decency to collapse onto something more comfortable. 

“… seishiro?” you call hesitantly, setting your things down. 

a long, guttural groan comes from the floor. 

you squint. “you good?” 

“no.” his voice is muffled against the carpet. “i lost.” 

“yeah, i saw.” you walk over, nudging his leg with your foot. “but do you have to be on the floor about it?” 

“yes.” 

you sigh and crouch down beside him. “you know normal people mope on the couch, right?” 

“couches are for winners,” he mutters, still facedown. 

you purse your lips, fighting back a grin. “so, what, the floor is for losers?” 

he nods, just the faintest movement against the rug. “i live here now.” 

you roll your eyes, reaching out to poke his cheek. “okay, well, if you live here, you still have to eat. get up.” 

another groan, this one even more dramatic. “too much work…” 

“okay, but what if i said there was cake in the fridge?” 

silence. 

then slowly, nagi turns his head just enough to peek at you with one eye, white hair a complete disaster. 

“what kind of cake?” 

you smile sweetly. “strawberry shortcake.” 

his fingers twitch against the floor. “is it… fresh?” 

“super fresh.” 

he exhales like you’ve just given him the will to live. but then, just as quickly, he groans again. “can’t move. limbs don’t work.” 

you cross your arms. “so, what, do i have to carry you now?” 

he blinks at you. then, after a pause, nods. “yeah. carry me.” 

you stare at him. “you are literally taller than me.” 

“you’re strong,” he counters, voice sleepy, but serious. “too strong.” 

you snort. “fine. but if i pull a muscle, i’m eating your cake.” 

his eyes widen, and suddenly, he moves, slow and sluggish, but definitely not paralyzed like he claimed. before you know it, he’s reaching out, wrapping his arms around your waist, and –

flop. 

he collapses into your lap, draping himself over you like a massive, lazy cat. 

“there,” he mumbles, nuzzling into your stomach. “halfway there. now just drag me.” 

you burst out laughing. “seishiro, i swear –” 

he sighs dramatically. “just leave me here. let the floor take me.” 

you shake your head, running your fingers through his messy hair. “you big baby.” 

he hums, eyes slipping shut. “mmm. your baby.” 

your heart does a weird little flip, but you push past it. “so, does that mean you’re getting up now?” 

“… nah.” 

you sigh, but you don’t stop stroking his hair. instead, you let him sink into the warmth of your touch, fingers threading through soft white strands. 

“you know,” you murmur, “i’m really proud of you.” 

his breath hitches, just slightly, but you feel it. 

“even though i lost?” he mumbles. 

“especially because you lost,” you say. “because you fought for something. because you cared enough to try. and because you were amazing, seishiro.” 

his fingers tighten slightly in the fabric of your shirt. 

you smile. “besides, you’re still my winner.” 

he exhales, long and slow, nuzzling further into you. “… you’re so unfair.” 

“yup.” you boop his nose. “now get up before i eat your cake.” 

he groans but finally, finally, peels himself off the floor. 

as you help him up, he leans against you, arms still lazily wrapped around you, chin resting on your shoulder. 

“… can you still carry me, though?” 

you shove him playfully. “get your own cake, you menace!”

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[writtenbythemoonandstars]

The festival

Content Warning: This scene contains depictions of gun violence, a mass shooting, medical trauma, injury descriptions, character death, and emotional distress. Read with care!

In the midst of the tragic mass shooting, ER doctor Robby fights to save lives—unaware that the love of his life is among the wounded. 

1.2k words

To say Robby thought he'd ever find himself sleeping under a hot pink duvet in a room that smells like vanilla and strawberries he'd probably run a head CT for possible trauma. But here he is trying to pull the owner of said sheets back into bed as she giggles. Wearing nothing but the shirt he's missing. 

"Do you really have to go?" He asks, pushing his face into her hair, kissing across towards her chin. 

"Yes." She replies. "And you have to go save lives." Turning and kissing his lips. "I'll see you later? For Pittfest?" 

"Ah… I forgot to tell you." Robby sighs, looking apologetic as he sits up a little causing the duvet to reveal his bare chest. "Jake is taking some new girl he met at school." He kisses the pout off her lips. "Why don't you just stay home? I'll be off by seven. We can get take out… a bath…" His hands running slowly up and down her arm. She looks tempted to say yes but then sighs and shakes her head.

"I can't. I'm working it." It's her first big gig. Years of building a big enough social media rapport to get a deal for an event as big as Pittfest. "But call me whenever you have a few seconds." She smiles. One last kiss before she gets up to get dressed. 

When he knows Nick Bradley is braindead he calls but it goes to voicemail. A text follows, "Sorry. My partner flaked." with a sad face emoji following. "call later!" and a heart. 

When they lose the little girl who'd drowned trying to save her sister he gets another voicemail. No text follows this time. 

But an hour later, "so sorry babe, it's chaotic out here. I'll call you in 15." She never does. 

After he talks to Heather and she all but tells him he could have been a father years ago he sends her a text to call when she has a chance. 

This day… He's so glad it's almost over. 

Until it's not. 

He feels like the ground has been pulled out from under him when there's news of a shooter at the festival.

He calls. No answer. He calls again. Nothing.

Robby forces himself to work. He has to. Slapping yellow, pink, red… black bracelets on countless victims.

But none of them her. 

It feels like a lull in the ER which can only mean the worst in this situation when a truck pulls in to the ambulance bay. It's Jake. And Leah. "Jake." His voice loud. Sharp. He's quick to be by Jake's side. 

"Robby! Leah got shot. It's really bad-" His voice cuts off with a sob. "I've been putting pressure on it the whole time. She was talking just a minute ago-"

"That's good." He nods. Robby and a few other doctors help them out and into the ER. He tries to ask Jake if he'd seen his girl but then he's swept up in trying to save Leah and make sure Jake gets checked out. 

It's Jack Abbott that's out in the ambulance bay waiting for more people when he spots a woman walking-- limping--  with her hand pressed tightly to her shirt. Maybe if she wasn't covered in blood maybe he would have recognized who it was sooner. "You shot?" He rushes up. She walking so that's a good sign for now. Yellow bracelet. 

The woman nods. Jack gently removes her hand, it's just barely grazed though will need stitches. "Come on. I got you. You're safe." 

Robby is too busy giving CPR to Leah he doesn’t see the love of his life covered in her own blood walking right past him. Though she seems to out of it to notice he's right there either. 

Jack helps her into a chair. "I- Is Mic- Dr. R-Robby here?" He looks up at Jack. And that's when he recognizes her. His eyes widen. 

"I'll get him as soon as I'm done." Jack nods once. 

The only reply he gets is a distant look over his shoulder. 

"You're safe now." His words firm. He knows she probably can't even hear him but he knows this kind of trauma. 

"I saw him." Her voice haunting. Something he'll never forget. "He was as close as you are to me. His gun-" She chokes on her words. Jack finishes her stitches quickly. "I saw so many people-" Tears mixing with the blood on her face. 

Jack is not equipped for the emotional kind of procedures he knows only Robby can provide for her. A gentle hand on her shoulder and a sad smile before he's rushing out of the room.

Dana giving him a look, begging for his help. Leah's gone… 

"Ten other patients will die if you put all of your energy into saving this girl-" Giving his colleague and old friend the morbid speech that finally gets him to stop. "Trauma 2." His voice right in Robby's ear, cutting off the guilt filling his body. "She's okay?" 

"Define okay?" Jack tilts his head. "Just a graze to the shoulder. Already stitched up." 

"I'll talk to Jake." Dana supplies for him. 

That's all Robby needs before he's running down the hall. Shucking his PPE and gloves off. 

There's mascara running down her cheeks. The light blue glitter he'd watched her meticulously spread across her eyelids mixed with the blood all over. Her blood. 

She's sobbing as soon as she sees him. Her face tightly against his chest as the relief floods the room. She's alive. Robby tilts her face up towards him. Carefully rubbing the tears, makeup, and blood across her face. "I love you." He whispers. "I'm so sorry." 

Which only brings more tears down her face. "I was so scared." She whimpers. "He- he was right in front of me." She shakes her head. "His gun it-" Robby tugs her face back to his chest. His hug fierce. 

"Let me clean you up?" He gets a nod in response. 

Despite the chaos and more victims along with the residents and med students that need his help he needs this moment with her. A washcloth is wiped carefully across her cheeks. Revealing the bare pretty face he knows. The one that shouldn't be covered in blood. 

"Is Jake okay?" Even in her worst state she always caring about everyone else first. A kiss is pressed to her forehead. "Yeah, baby, he's okay." 

"And the girl?" A shake of his head and the sad look on his face quiets her. 

"When everything happened I- I tried to find him but I-" Robby shakes his head. "In that situation you do what you have to and you survived. That's all that matters." 

She nods. Sniffling.

"I've still gotta help-" As much as it pains him to leave her alone now he has to finish his job. "I understand," waving him off and he'll never understand what he did to deserve her. "Go up to the family room. I'll come find you after."

"Could I borrow your phone? So I can call my mom?" She asks before he leaves. 

He nods, pulling it out. "Not sure if it'll have much service but you can try. You may have better luck with the landline." He frowns. Wishing there was more he could do.

His hands are back on her face. Gently holding around the back of her neck. Pushing her hair back. "I love you." Because Robby just has to say it again. 

"I love you." The whispered response comes. 

---

Hey! It seemed like a lot of people liked the last story I wrote for Robby on here so I pumped out another. This is also unedited...

And like my last work I used she/ her pronouns and 3rd person pov but I used no names and less physical descriptions so you could imagine yourself if you wanted to.

I do have another work nearly finished that is much lighter than these last two that I can post soon as well. Hope you enjoy!

[delaware-lemme-smash]

could you write how aizawa would act around you if you were both teachers and he had a crush on yew…. & some student reactions like would they notice or tease him💔💔

Ooh, I love this idea. A little hero/teacher workplace romance~

(Side note: I think I'd also enjoy writing headcanons for romance at different Hero agencies. The dynamics would be really fun.)

Characters: Aizawa Shouta/Eraserhead

Contents: gn!reader

Aizawa Shouta/Eraserhead

Aizawa is not a man who entertains romantic feelings on a regular basis. He can count the amount of crushes he's ever had on his life on one hand. Most of which he has managed to rationalise away, or simply distance himself from until they faded.

This one, however, is a little more persistent. He works with you. He sees you almost every day. And no amount of rationalising or ignoring it is working to quell this...affection for you.

To him, it makes no logical sense. Between teaching during the day, carrying out his hero work at night, and barely catching enough sleep in between, he doesn't even have the time to catch feelings, let alone do anything about them. You would think the part of his brain that deals with self-preservation would recognise that.

But no, it decides to emphasise for him the shape of your mouth when you say his name. It makes him notice the smile you give him, no matter how dry-eyed, dishevelled, and grumpy he is when he shuffles into the teachers' lounge in the morning. It follows him into his sleeping bag and pollutes his dreams with unlikely fantasies of what it would be like to slouch home to you instead of an empty apartment in the evening.

It makes him surly and avoidant with you for a while, because that's how Aizawa copes with things. He knows it's not fair to you and it's not ✨rational✨ but he almost can't help himself.

Mic decides to stage an intervention. Perhaps it's based off his own observations, or perhaps prompted by your tentative enquiry as to why Eraserhead keeps glaring at you whenever you offer to grab him a coffee from the pot.

"Has he gone decaf or something? That would explain why he's in a bad mood."

"Something like that. I'll talk to him."

Mic might seem like the ridiculous one, but he's fully capable of pulling Aizawa's head out of his ass when he needs to. Mic bites his tongue when he realises what's going on (teasing Aiawa is so not going to help here), but he does point out that Aizawa is unintentionally being an asshole to you. And Aizawa, despite himself, does care what you think.

There's an apology coffee on your desk in the morning. No word of who it's from, but Aizawa watches you drink it from across the room, and he no longer scuttles into the supply closet when you cross paths in the halls.

Now that he can't avoid you anymore, he's getting full doses of crush radiation exposure, and things start to tip in the other direction. Instead of trying to ignore you, he finds himself gravitating toward you more and more. It's not obvious to a casual observer. Often it seems casual or accidental.

He just so happens to choose your desk to take a nap under in his sleeping bag. Or he has an extra pouch of nutritional jelly when you don't have time for lunch.

Unless you're a psychic, it's unlikely you've realised that the sleep-deprived scruffbag has a full blown crush on you. His tone is still pretty low, flat, and tired and his eyes are only ever half open, but there are the occasional...moments.

Like when he sees you walking into his classroom with a stack of books and your ankle rolls sideways after a misstep. He reaches out without thinking, his large hands wrapping around your waist to steady you.

The students (mostly Mina) notice this immediately. They watch every interaction between their mysterious teacher and everyone else with a laser-focus, going over it with a fine-toothed comb. That waist-grab? Fuel. Fire.

Speculation runs rife among the kids, who would love nothing more than to see a teacher-teacher romance. Okay, Bakugou doesn't give a shit, but the rest...!

They wouldn't dare ask Aizawa about it, but you on the other hand... You don't know why all your students are suddenly asking how long you've known Aizawa-sensei, or why they all exchange such knowing looks when you explain that you're just colleagues.

It makes you start examining your own behaviour, to see if you've been unprofessional in some way. Ironically, this introspection is what opens your eyes to how Aizawa acts around you:

He naps under your desk.

He always turns down after work drinks unless you're the one who asks.

He sometimes pours you a coffee, unasked, when he's getting one for himself, giving the excuse that you're teaching his class later and you're going to need it.

He's always subtly nearby, unobtrusive, like the way a cat will casually follow you around the house and watch what you're up to.

He shows you photos of the stray cats he meets and pets on his patrols. You know their names.

And one time, you make some unthinking, sarcastic wisecrack in response to something he's said. His mouth quirks up at the corner, and you hear a short, husky laugh.

Your stomach does something funny. The knowledge drops into your mind like a penny into a well.

Oh.

Oh.

[ariichive]

SOUL TIES

cw: fem. reader, yandere anaxa, he's an ass to reader's mom, don't wanna spoil too much, it's short and not proofread.

stay composed.

was the only thing anaxa was thinking as he sat in the comfort of your childhood home. he paid attention to every detail, from every crack on the wall to the dust resting along the old fireplace.

there was an eerie feeling, which he understood. he wasn't welcomed in this house, after all. that's never stopped him before, though.

anaxa snapped back into reality when the sobs of your mother became louder.

the reason he was here, supposedly, was to bring you back home.

"y-you'll bring her back? my p-poor foolish daughter!" the agony in her voice was almost enough to make anaxa smile, but he stayed resilient. "correct, i will do my best"

he let the words hang in the air, watching as your mother clutched the fabric of her dress, knuckles white with grief. it was almost poetic, how sorrow could twist a person into something unrecognizable.

anaxa, ever the one for displays of sympathy, placed a gloved hand on her shoulder.

in truth, your mother despised him. she knew the true nature of anaxa, the manipulation he never cared to hide. a sociopath, he remembers her calling him once upon a time.

a shame, really, he did try his hardest to get your family to like him. too bad they always tore you away from him.

now, he was the only one who could bring you back to them. anaxa smiled gently, his hand tightening on her shoulder, "i know i will bring her home."

your mother felt her blood run cold, her posture stiffening.

"because i know exactly where she is."

anaxa began to pace around the couch your mother was drowning her sorrows in, his gloved fingers trailing along its worn fabric.

"you see," he continued, voice as smooth as ever, "i never truly lost her. not in the way you think."

he glanced at your mother, watching the way her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.

"but i suppose," he mused, tilting his head slightly, "it's only fair that i return what's mine. i think it is quite time we end this silly game, mother dearest."

her breath hitched at the words, a sharp inhale swallowed by the suffocating silence of the room.

anaxa took his time, his steps slow, deliberate. he wanted her to feel every second of his presence, every ounce of control slipping from her grasp.

"you always had such a talent for making things difficult," he sighed, feigning disappointment. "all those years, all that effort, and yet... here we are again."

his fingers ghosted over the dusty bookshelf, tracing forgotten memories. a home that once rejected him now had no choice but to entertain his presence.

your mother willed herself to speak, to force out anything that could shatter the smug certainty in his voice. but fear had its grip on her throat, and anaxa—oh, he relished in that.

"what... what have you done to her?" she finally rasped, barely above a whisper.

anaxa only chuckled, low and amused, as if the answer was obvious.

"she's closer than you think." anaxa paused, a genuine, longing look on his face as he placed a hand over his covered eye.

"you never understood, did you?" his voice softened, almost tender, though the malice beneath it was unmistakable. "all these years, you spent so much time trying to pull her away from me. yet, here we are."

he turned to face her again, a slow smile creeping onto his lips.

"it’s funny, really," he continued, tilting his head. "you act as if she’s lost. as if she’s waiting to be found."

your mother’s throat tightened. "please," she forced out, the word trembling.

anaxa, faking pity, let out a sigh. "she's part of me now."

he couldn't help the maniac laugh slip out as he looked at your mother's face. both hands were now placed near her shoulders on the couch, he was leaning over her like a wild beast.

"you all spent effortless time trying to keep us away. i will say it was tedious and infuriating, but now" another laugh, a smaller one, slipped out, "we're one in the same. if you ever want to be near your precious [name] again, you have no choice but to bask in my presence."

a sob ripped through your mother, "b-be quiet you heretic!"

"that's right, mother," anaxa's voice lowered into a whisper.

"i consumed her entire soul."

randomly had this idea, might make more parts of it :) i love writing for anaxa

[7-deadly-cats]

୨୧ his shy angel ୨୧

genre: one-shot, smut, 18+ mdni

pairing: bf!rafe cameron x fem!shy!reader

cw: suggestive language & sexual content, mention of alcohol consumption (reader being tipsy), masturbation, cowgirl-position, praise kink elements, embarrassment & shyness (reader), light teasing & encouragement (rafe), visual stimulation, unprotected sex

summary: at a party, drunk and needy reader suddenly gets the desire of wanting to please herself while sitting on rafe’s cock. back at home, she brings up this idea.

word count: 3.2k

a/n: i wanted to try sth different for once (this is my first time writing smut like this lmao) and i’m incapable at writing short stuff so this is a lot longer than intended. honestly idk what else to say (help), so i hope you enjoy and lmk what you think <3

₊ ⊹୨୧⊹₊ ₊ ⊹୨୧⊹₊ ₊ ⊹୨୧⊹₊ ₊ ⊹୨୧⊹₊ ₊ ⊹୨୧⊹₊ ₊ ⊹୨୧⊹₊

“Are you sure about this?” Rafe let out an amused chuckle after you had explained it to him.

You had just gotten home from a party at Kelce’s, and the entire night, you’d been clinging to his side. Well, clinging wasn’t the right word—you’d been needy.

When you were drunk, you were a lost cause. Everything around you faded into the background—everything except Rafe. And the thought of what was underneath that perfectly fitted polo and shorts.

You could practically feel the pulse in your clit, the way your nerves tingled. Sitting next to him on the couch, having to hold yourself back from thinking about how he’d take you from behind or shove his thick cock down your throat…

Fuck, that was impossible. And Rafe knew it.

He knew exactly what was going through your head as you sat there, looking all seemingly innocent and half-asleep while he chatted with Topper.

And God, he loved to see you squirm.

You were naturally shy, and when you got this obviously needy, fuck, it took everything in him not to take you right here on the couch in front of everyone.

But that was what made it fun. Teasing you. Keeping his own self-control in check. It only took his hand resting on your thigh—too close to where you really wanted it—to have your panties soaked.

And that frustrating, unbearable need to wait had your clit throbbing, aching. You’d seriously considered locking yourself in Kelce’s bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub, and getting yourself off—because the pressure was downright excruciating.

Because ever since you’d felt Rafe’s cock inside you for the first time—fuck, you’d winced at his size—but what had come after that?

Short answer: you were addicted.

And it was so incredibly embarrassing—because before Rafe, you’d been a clueless virgin. Opening yourself up to someone like him had taken everything in you. But Rafe was a good boyfriend, he had been very patient, waiting until you were ready, and ever since then, you couldn’t think about anything else but his cock pushing inside you.

Saying that out loud, though? That was still hard sometimes. No matter how much you craved him, you were still a shy girl at heart.

You barely spoke to others unless spoken to, and just like that, you only ever initiated sex when Rafe made the first move. And because he worried that his need for you might be too overwhelming—that he might intimidate you—he tried not to push too hard.

But the pressure, the want, was still there. And instead of asking Rafe to help ease the ache, you often took care of it yourself.

And every time your fingers explored your soaked folds, all you could think about was bouncing on Rafe’s big, throbbing cock.

Fuck.

And then, sitting on Kelce’s couch, a thought hit you. An idea. Something you wanted to try.

Sober, you’d never say it out loud. But like this? Tipsy? The alcohol loosened your restraint just enough.

Still, you decided to wait until you were back at Tannyhill—because whispering it into his ear right here, while he was mid-conversation with Topper? Yeah, his reaction alone would make it obvious you were up to something. And you’d die if anyone else caught on.

So you held onto the thought until, finally, you stumbled into Rafe’s room, collapsing onto his bed with your sweet little ass pressed into the mattress.

And when you looked up at him—big, wide eyes, warm, flushed cheeks?

Fuck. That alone made him crazy.

And as much as he wanted to push his cock down your throat in that exact position, watching your eyes tear up from his size, he reminded himself—you’d been a sweet, innocent virgin just a month ago.

And he certainly didn’t want to overwhelm his shy little angel.

But then you told him your idea. Nervous. Hesitant. And fuck, that made his cock twitch in his shorts.

Still, he let out a low chuckle as if he couldn't quite believe you.

“I’m serious,” you said, suddenly uncertain, cheeks burning from the alcohol and embarrassment. “I wanna try it.”

Shit. Your tipsy state, the way you were practically begging without even realizing it… You were playing a dangerous game.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his lips. If this time, you were the one calling the shots? Fuck it. Why not?

“Alright,” he said, watching the way your eyes lit up. And that look alone? That only fueled his own need. “If it makes my baby happy.”

A few kisses and teasing touches later, you found yourself hovering over Rafe, your soaked pussy just inches above his hard cock—your body completely bare.

And even though Rafe had seen you naked dozens of times by now, you still felt so incredibly shy, so unsure.

His hands trailed slowly up your thighs, sending a shiver down your spine. “Shit, I haven’t even done anything, and you’re already this wet,” he muttered, his fingers gliding through your dripping folds. “You sure you don’t want me to take over, baby?”

A soft, unbidden sigh escaped your lips, and your cheeks burned an even deeper shade of red. You shook your head, still uncertain, your eyes wide.

Another moan slipped past your lips as his fingers ventured further, searching for your entrance.

Fuck, you wanted to give in to him—but not tonight.

Your hand wrapped around his wrist, not too tight but firm enough. Your gaze met his, and holy shit—the way you looked at him, bratty yet so innocent at the same time…

Fuck.

He wanted to flip you over, bend you in half, thrust into you from behind, tell you just how fucking perfect you were. For a second, he seriously considered it. But he was too intrigued by your sudden need to take control.

Rafe let his fingers glide over your slick folds one last time, savoring the soft little sigh that left your lips, before pulling his hand away. Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Go on then.”

Shit. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Your courage almost wavered—but the hunger in his gaze gave you the push you needed.

Your fingers wrapped around his thick shaft, and you felt his body tense, every little movement you made watched like a predator stalking its prey, just waiting for the wrong move before it pounced.

You bit your lip, guiding him to your entrance, and with a breathy sound, you sank down onto him.

Rafe let out a deep grunt as his cock slid inside you. You were already so fucking wet that his entire length went in with ease.

“Taking it all in like a good girl.”

His hands found your hips, adjusting your position just slightly. You whimpered softly when the shift sent a gentle jolt through you, his cock pressing against that perfect spot.

His eyes flickered down to your pretty tits, bouncing slightly from the movement. “You’re so fucking beautiful, baby,” he murmured, his fingers trailing up your sides, reaching the soft curves of your breasts.

He stroked the sensitive skin, sending a shiver across your body.

You smiled shyly, but now that it was actually happening—

Shit. It was so embarrassing that you’d even voiced the desire in the first place.

Rafe’s hands found your thighs again, his grip firmer this time, his voice low. “Come on, baby, there’s no need to be shy with me. I can take over if you want.”

You shook your head, painfully aware of his thick cock inside you, just waiting for you to move.

“No,” you murmured, your voice coming out smaller than you’d intended. “I… let me do it.”

Rafe leaned back into the pillow, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “Okay, baby.”

You nodded, biting your lip, probably looking as embarrassed as you felt. But the alcohol had dulled your senses, and you’d been waiting for this moment for hours—sitting next to Rafe on Kelce’s boring-ass party couch, needy, panties soaked.

And then, almost on instinct, your fingers found your outer folds.

You closed your eyes, hoping to push the embarrassment away.

Rafe’s cock twitched inside you as his eyes followed the movement of your index and middle fingers finding your clit.

Fuck. Now that you felt it yourself—you were so fucking wet. And somehow, that turned you on even more.

Slowly, you started moving, gentle circles, applying just the right amount of pressure—still so tense that your thighs clung to his hips. Your clit pulsed beneath your fingers, and your breathing grew shallower.

Mentally, you were still caught up in the fact that you were exposing yourself to Rafe in a way you never had before.

But the feeling of his thick cock stretching you, his uneven breathing, and the pleasure steadily building inside you, fueled something in you that made you forget your embarrassment.

“No, baby.” Rafe’s soft voice pulled you from your attempt to let go. “Look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, fingers pausing their movement.

Your brows furrowed slightly, uncertainty flickering in your expression. A small, breathless, “What?” was all you managed to say.

Rafe’s hands traced slow, soothing circles over your hips, but his gaze was firm. “I want you to look at me while you do it.”

Your eyes widened slightly, and instinctively, your walls clenched around him. You barely shook your head, clearly flustered. “I…”

"You’re perfect, baby. No need to hide from me." Rafe’s blue eyes bore into you, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Okay?"

The thought of keeping eye contact with him while you touched yourself—fuck, it sobered you up and made your heart race at the same time.

It gave you a thrill, something about it feeling forbidden, so revealing.

However, like a good girl, you only nodded, cheeks flushed, too afraid that speaking would make you even more self-aware.

"Good girl," he murmured, giving your thigh a gentle squeeze.

So, you kept your eyes open, holding his gaze with the kind of shame and hesitation that made you feel like a deer caught in the eyes of a wolf.

Then, your fingers slid between your folds again, finding your swollen clit. All the waiting, all the teasing—it was catching up to you.

Rafe’s gaze never wavered. "Go on, baby. You’re so fucking beautiful."

You bit your lip, embarrassed, and started moving again—slowly, carefully, too shy to let yourself fully go.

Of course, you’d already ridden his cock, let him fuck you from behind, moaned sounds you never even thought you were capable of, but this…

This was different.

It was so incredibly exposing—not just physically but as if you were baring your entire self to him.

You pushed those thoughts away and kept going, fingers pressing down a little harder.

The sensation of his thick cock inside you, the way his hungry gaze followed your every movement—it turned you on more than it should.

"Yeah, baby, keep going. No need to hold back."

And then, hearing those little praises, seeing the way he was barely holding himself back—

Fuck.

It awakened something desperate in you.

Your fingers kept circling that sensitive spot, and then, almost instinctively, your hips started to move—slowly, deliberately, rocking back and forth.

And feeling Rafe inside you sent a soft moan tumbling from your lips—only making your embarrassment worse.

His fingers dug into your hips, and he let out a primal sound. "Fuck, baby, this is so hot."

Another sigh escaped you, and your need grew—like your pussy suddenly remembered just how desperate you had been earlier, sitting next to Rafe on that couch.

Your fingers moved faster, more urgently, and seeing you in this flustered state—your wide eyes looking down at him, brows knitted together, lips swollen and parted—fuck, you looked so innocent, so shy.

Rafe wanted nothing more than to thrust up into you, to watch you bounce on his cock, to hear you whimper as his tip pressed against your inner walls—but this…

This was almost better.

Watching you pleasure yourself on his hard cock, watching you slowly push yourself toward the edge, letting go right in front of him—holy shit.

And the way you moved on him, slow and teasing, you felt so fucking good.

He made sure you knew just how beautiful you looked—how perfect, how fucking pretty you were. He praised you between his own deep groans. "Fuck, baby, don’t stop. You feel so fucking good."

Your fingers worked your clit more firmly now, needier. Little whimpering sounds slipped from your lips, and your hips moved more deliberately—up and down, chasing the feeling.

You were dripping wet, your fingers coated in your own slick, and feeling Rafe’s cock inside you, stretching you open as you gasped and held his gaze, pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

And all that previous waiting had only made the sensation between your legs even more intense—your clit swollen and pulsing, fuck, you were a whimpering mess now, bouncing on his cock.

The need for release poured into your desperate movements, your sweet little noises.

"Fuck, baby, you close?" Rafe’s fingers dug deeper into your hips, his own breathing now shallow and low.

You only nodded, another whimper slipping out, your folds so slick and wet that you had to be careful not to let your fingers slip from your clit.

One of Rafe’s hands slid from your hip down your thigh, stroking the sensitive skin as he exhaled, heavy and deep. "Do you want me to finish it for you?"

This time, you shook your head, continuing to pleasure yourself—the slick sounds of your fingers working your clit the only thing filling your mind as you chased that release.

Rafe chuckled lowly. His hand wandered back to your hip, his grip tightening as if to steady you. As much as he loved watching you touch yourself, he had reached his limit. "Then let me help you another way."

You gasped when he suddenly thrust up into you, his tip pressing against your inner walls. But fuck—it only heightened the pleasure, sent a whole new wave of sensation crashing over you.

You leaned forward slightly, giving him better leverage as his arms held you steady. "Does that feel good?"

Again, you only nodded, lips trembling from the overwhelming sensations, swollen from how hard you’d been biting down on them.

All the while, your fingers kept moving—faster, more desperate. You were so fucking close, and it showed in the messy whimpering sounds slipping from your lips, spurring Rafe on even more.

His thick, throbbing cock kept pounding into you, his breathing ragged and unsteady.

Fuck, you were driving him insane.

Your pussy was so wet, stretched around him, that you had to clench just to keep a grip on him—and that, fuck, that nearly sent him over the edge.

The way you were bent over slightly, your sweet tits practically begging to be squeezed—but his hands stayed locked on your hips, holding you in place as he thrust into your dripping pussy with a desperate rhythm.

And you—fuck, just a little more, just a little bit…

Your fingers slipped from your slick folds for a moment, and a frustrated whimper escaped you.

Needy, they found their way back to your swollen clit, and the urgency for release was unbearable.

Fuck, you couldn’t think about anything else—only Rafe’s thick cock stretching you open, the way he was looking at you, full of satisfaction, pride, and just a hint of amusement. Like he was thinking about how embarrassed you had been at first, how shy you were to even admit you wanted this—

And now you were a needy, whimpering mess, desperately trying to make yourself come.

Fuck—Rafe himself was right there. He could feel his release building, the pressure at his tip, the overwhelming need to fill your aching pussy with his cum—

But you were his sweet little angel.

He wanted to watch you fall apart on his cock first.

So, he slowed his thrusts just a little—but made them stronger, more deliberate. And that—fuck, that pulled the sweetest, most desperate little noises from you.

“Rafe…” you sighed, holding his gaze, your fingers working your clit uncontrollably, your cheeks burning with heat. Your breathing was rapid, desperate for release.

"Yeah, baby, let go. Just let yourself go."

His deep moans only fueled the primal hunger building inside you, and you stopped holding back. Letting him thrust into you while you pleasured yourself, whimpering, fuck, that, that—

Your lips parted, brows furrowed, and your eyes rolled back.

Fuckkk.

When you moaned his name again in that sweet, whimpering sound, his cock slammed against your inner walls at the same time, sending a shaking, nerve-wracking wave of pleasure through your entire body—

And you let go.

Breathless, you sank down onto his lap, your fingers moving in slow, delicate strokes to prolong every last bit of your orgasm.

And in that exact moment—when you collapsed fully onto his cock—you felt it.

The warmth of his cum spilling deep inside your pussy.

Rafe’s fingers dug into your skin, his head pressing back into the pillow as a deep groan left his lips. “Oh, fuck, baby, you’re so perfect.”

With shaking hands and a racing heart, you pulled your fingers away from your dripping pussy, reveling in the lingering waves of pleasure as you came down from your high—still wrapped around his cock.

Rafe kept his grip on your hips as he slowly sat up. A cocky smirk played on his lips when he caught the quiet sigh slipping past yours.

One hand found the side of your neck, soft and gentle, while the other caressed your flushed cheek. His thumb brushed over your swollen bottom lip, and an amused chuckle rumbled from his chest as he noticed the faint bite marks on the inside.

Even though you had been an absolute whimpering mess on his cock, you’d still tried to hold back your sounds.

Rafe leaned in, pressing a kiss to the spot, his next words filled with a protective, almost possessive urgency. "Still my shy little angel."

The hand on your cheek drifted down, fingers grazing your throat until both rested lightly at the sides of your neck, his thumbs pressing just barely against your skin.

"Don’t worry, baby," he murmured, voice low and full of promise. "Next time, I’ll make sure you’re singing my name at full volume."

₊ ⊹୨୧⊹₊ ₊ ⊹୨୧⊹₊ ₊ ⊹୨୧⊹₊ ₊ ⊹୨୧⊹₊ ₊ ⊹୨୧⊹₊ ₊ ⊹୨୧⊹₊

masterlist

[kiarst]

little late night thoughts (again):

yan!batfam x neglected!reader (again because this trope just has so much potential for crossovers and the yan!batfam ideas are rotting in my head) but this time, we're messing with voltron.

same start where mc somehow ends up in batfam's care and ends up getting neglected. They are around Tim's age in during the vld series plot so around 18-19 maybe. In order to try and prove themselves to the batfam or try to gain their attention, they run away and apply to the garrison as a medic (yes, i know that the garrison is mainly for pilots and stuff but for this au, they have a medical course). why a medic? because they aren't confident enough to fly a plane and they find that a medic is still a very important role in a team.

they end up in the same year as keith, lance and hunk. I don't know how they first interact with them, maybe mc and keith end up as partners during a collaborative activity between the pilot and medic class and they somehow? end up becoming friends or they end up becoming the medic on lance's team. I don't know but basically, mc ends up with the main group and the shenanigans of the vld plot ensue. maybe there's another lion and mc is their pilot and they slowly learn how to pilot with help from shiro, keith and/or lance (mainly shiro cuz he was one of the best pilot's in the garrison and keith cuz he was also one of the best pilots in their year). maybe they just stay in the castle and help and are the designated medic, patching everyone up and keeping an eye on everyone's vitals and stuff. mc eventually tells everyone who they really are (cuz they used their mother's maiden name to enroll), maybe because someone found out or they did it a bit after pidge's reveal cuz it's like 'oh, we're airing out secrets now?'. the members of the team from earth kinda freak out but also understand if mc doesn't elaborate further until they feel ready to. mc slowly grows as plot progresses, realizing that their feelings about the neglect are valid and that they should live for themselves and to help others, something like that while allowing themselves to be vulnerable and depend on the team cuz they were neglected for a long time and had to mostly be independent.

now for the batfam's side. On their side, again they don't notice. maybe alfred notices or they all don't notice until the news that 4 students from the garrison, an ex-student and a missing pilot have disappeared. I prefer the news one cuz it's gonna hit like a freight train once they see mc's picture flash on screen. breakdowns, arguing, regretting and lashing out ensue and they use their resources to try and locate mc, even asking some space heroes and alien connections they have for help.

I don't know how the space stuff would work. maybe the green lantern corps are aware and trying to do something but the galra are too big of a problem to take on full force. I'm leaning more towards the voltron space being far, far away from the dc space maybe (for convenience). like the dc space people have heard of it, they just think it's a legend or stories from space's past. the galra invasion of earth would be wild though with the heroes existing, kind of wonder how that will go.

also would mc have a love interest in this au? who would it be?

Thoughts?

edit: added a bit to clarify mc's age and also because I have no idea how old the cadets of the garrison are when they first enroll and are first years

[certaimromance]

ꫂ ၴႅ Dark Sense.

Aaron Hotchner x Widow!reader

Summary: Staying in touch with the victims' families was very unprofessional, and Aaron knew it, but you were different...very different.

Words: 5,6k.

Warnings & Tags: mentions of crime, violence, blood, serial killers, death, and trauma. implied intimacy but nothing explicit. angst with happy ending???. very dark. i don't know how to classify this, sorry. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Sometimes I remember that the series is a raw world, and these things pop into my mind, just like in my first post here (this story is like the sister of that one).

Anyway, my favorite part of writing Hotch is playing with his professionalism and making him kowtow to the reader, I'm soo guilty.

Aaron Hotchner was incapable of turning a blind eye to those in need. It wasn’t just in his nature to help, it was in his bones, woven into the very fabric of who he was. He would slip a few bills into the hands of the homeless on his way to work, never thinking twice about it, never stopping long enough to be thanked. He worked late because he couldn’t bear the thought of a desperate family sitting in their living room, waiting for a call that might never come. He listened when no one else did. He noticed things other people ignored. The tired shake in a mother’s hands as she clutched a picture of her missing child. The slight quiver in a father’s voice when he insisted that his son would never run away. The way a survivor flinched at an unexpected noise, lost in a memory they couldn’t outrun.

He felt it all. Carried it with him.

Aaron was the kind of man who would stand before you and protect you from whatever came, no matter the cost. He didn't hesitate because he already knew the danger. He had spent years staring into the eyes of monsters, standing in rooms filled with pain, learning firsthand how quickly the world can turn cruel and take everything from you. So when he met you, when he saw your hands clenched into fists to stop their trembling, your wedding ring dancing on your finger and how tightly you clung to it, your eyes darting to the door as if you were ready to run at the first slip, he knew.

Knew what you had survived. Knew what still haunted you. Knew that you were like him.

But more than that, he cared.

He cared about your safety, about the story behind each of your scars, both the ones that could be traced with fingertips and the ones buried too deep for anyone else to see. He cared in a way that was quiet, careful, and measured. Never forceful. Never reckless. He cared in the way he called when he had no reason to, in the way he lingered just a moment longer than necessary after saying goodbye. He didn’t see you as something to be owned or discarded. He never saw you as broken, only as someone who had survived something unspeakable.

He saved you when no one else would, when no one else even tried. Even when he shouldn’t have.

Because your case had long gone cold. Because by all accounts, you were supposed to be just another file in an old cabinet, another story time would eventually forget. There was no reason for him to keep checking in, to keep calling, to keep showing up.

But he did.

Because walking away wasn’t in his nature.

Because somehow, you had become another name, another face, another story that stayed with him long after the rest of the world moved on. You lingered in his mind late at night when the office was empty, when his tie was loosened, and the only sound was the quiet hum of the city beyond his window. You were there in the moments between cases, in the spaces where silence crept in, in the pause before he reached for another file, another life to try and piece back together.

And without meaning to, without wanting to, he fell in love with you.

It was not rational. It wasn't planned, let alone professional. But Aaron Hotchner had never been the kind of man to hesitate when something really mattered, and especially tonight, as he stood soaked to the bone, clutching a bouquet of flowers like a lifeline, he knew that seeing you again, after weeks without being able to do so, meant more than anything.

When he arrived at your house, the street was practically flooded. The rain was relentless, and the wind was even worse. Water pooled at his feet as he stepped out of the car, soaking his shoes and the bottom of his suit, but he didn't care or even think about it. He climbed the stairs two at a time, breathing fast and with a strong pulse in his ears.

His fingers tightened around the bouquet of roses, deep red like the color of longing, before she knocked on the door. Once. Twice. Again. Each tap carried a certain amount of anxiety.

And then, after a couple of moments, the door opened.

You stood there, illuminated by the soft light inside, your eyes wide with disbelief. For a moment, neither of you moved. You looked at him, his wet hair plastered to his forehead, his soaked clothes clinging to his body in a way that only emphasized the serene strength of his body. He stood in the doorway, breathless, as if he had run a marathon just to get to you. And yet he looked exactly the same: calm, determined, steadfast, even in the midst of a storm that seemed to have no end. But his eyes told a different story, revealing his fatigue.

His lips parted to speak, but words never came.

Instead, you did what you did every time he appeared. Without thinking, you threw yourself into his arms, wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, and pulled him in. His body stiffened in surprise for a split second before he wrapped you in a tight, desperate embrace, as if he couldn't get enough of you, as if he'd been holding his breath too long and could barely catch his breath. Your body collided with his with an urgency that took your breath away. The bouquet of roses fell from his hand and landed forgotten at your feet as you pressed your lips to his with a ferocity that seemed to ignite something deep inside you both.

He took a step into the house and closed the door behind him, but you clung to him without breaking the kiss. His hands went to your waist and pulled you close. The warmth of your body contrasted with the coldness of the rain-soaked world outside. Your hands tangled in his sodden hair, pulling him to you as if you were afraid that if you let go he would disappear, that he would slip through your hands like the storm. But it didn't. It was solid, it was real, it was here after more than two weeks without seeing him or having more than the occasional message.

The kiss deepened, messy and desperate, as if neither of you had ever tasted anything as sweet as the desperate need in the other. His lips moved with a gentleness that belied the urgency of the moment, as if he was savoring the feeling of being close to you after what seemed like an eternity of longing. His hands slid from your waist to your back, pulling you tighter, the weight of everything he had been carrying lifting, if only for a moment, because you were here. You, with your warmth and your presence, and your smile that always seemed to bring him peace.

When you finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, just enough to look into his eyes, the quiet between you was almost overwhelming. Your foreheads pressed together, your breaths mingling, the rain still pouring outside but somehow irrelevant now. You could hear the beating of his heart, steady and strong against your chest.

“You’re here,” you whispered, your voice trembling just slightly, as if the reality of it was still too much to comprehend.

His hand gently brushed your cheek, and he spent his time watching you, pleased by the emotion you always showed when you saw him. It didn't matter if it was a few hours, days, or weeks. You were always happy to see him, and that was more than he ever had before.

“I’m here,” he murmured, his voice low, rich with the weight of everything that had come before.

“So…are you mine for the whole night, or just for a little while?” you asked, your voice teasing despite the depth of the moment.

His smile was slow, knowing, like he had already anticipated the question. The corner of his mouth lifted just slightly, but there was a warmth in his eyes that told you everything you needed to know.

“All night,” he whispered, his hand slipping to the back of your neck, pulling you closer once more when you didn’t say anything. “You’re not going to ask why?”

“No, you’re here. That’s all that matters to me.”

After hours of maintaining his composed, unreadable expression at the office, Aaron finally allows himself to smile, really smile. He can’t help it. No matter how late he is, no matter how much weight he carries on his shoulders, you always meet him with love. A soft smile, a gentle kiss, arms that wrap around him like home. And just like that, the tension in his mind unravels, the chaos quiets. You are the one thing in his life that doesn’t demand anything from him, only that he be here, with you. And God, he loves you for it.

Later, the two of you lay sprawled across the couch, bodies tangled in the quiet warmth of the dimly lit room. The world outside ceased to exist. No ringing phones, no pressing cases, no ticking clock counting down the hours. Just this. Just you and him, breathing in the same steady rhythm.

Your fingers moved in slow, absentminded circles along his arm, tracing the contours of muscle and scar, memorizing the shape of him as if you hadn’t done it a hundred times before. Your touch was featherlight, soothing, lulling him into something dangerously close to peace. He exhaled, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, his presence solid and steady in a way that made your own heart slow to match his.

It was then that your fingers stilled, catching on something out of place. A faint smudge of color near the sleeve of his shirt, small, almost unnoticeable, but there. You frowned, eyes narrowing as you brushed your thumb over the fabric, feeling the slight texture where the stain had dried into the fibers.

A soft green, uneven at the edges, like a marker dragged hastily across the material. It wasn’t just a stray speck of lint or a shadow in the dim lighting, it was something left behind, a remnant of a moment you weren’t there for.

Your brows knitted together as curiosity flickered to life. “Is that…marker?” You murmured, tilting your head, your thumb still absently tracing over the stain as if doing so would erase it.

Aaron’s gaze shifted down, but it was brief, almost distracted. He sighed, clearly familiar with this particular problem. “Jack forgot to put his pencils away,” he replied with a hint of resignation, but there was an undercurrent of amusement in his tone, as if this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.

A smirk pulled at the corner of your lips as you raised an eyebrow. “And you decided to join him? Maybe color a little?” you teased, the light in your eyes showing that you weren’t entirely serious, but you couldn’t resist the playful jab.

He shot you a flat, unimpressed look, but there was a faint twinkle in his eyes, an amused, almost endearing reaction that made your heart skip. “I leaned on the table without realizing it was there,” he muttered, his voice laced with the smallest hint of self-awareness, though he didn’t seem all that concerned.

“Mhm.”

Instead of continuing the banter, you shifted slightly, moving just enough to be able to better examine the mark on his shirt. Your fingers continued to glide over the fabric with delicate precision, feeling the slight texture of the stain as it caught the light. The motion was almost automatic now, like second nature, as you gently explored the fabric, your focus entirely on it, all the while feeling the warmth of his skin underneath. Your gaze met his again as you noticed the faintest hint of tension in his jaw.

“Give it to me. I can wash it,” you said, your voice soft yet insistent.

He opened his mouth to protest, likely preparing to tell you it wasn’t necessary, but you didn’t give him the chance to finish. Your hands were already moving, deftly unbuttoning his shirt, each button undone with practiced ease as if you’d done this a hundred times before. The buttons slipped through your fingers, one by one, the fabric slowly parting as you worked, your gaze never leaving his.

“Take it off,” you said, your voice no longer giving room for argument. There was something in the way you said it, so matter-of-fact, like it wasn’t the first time you’d seen him in this state, so comfortable with his presence that you barely gave it a second thought.

Your hands were already at his shirt buttons, nimble fingers undoing them with an ease that betrayed the number of times you had undressed him before. Each button came undone in smooth, practiced motions as you focused intently on your task. Your movements were calm but decisive, the familiarity between you two almost palpable. You weren’t rushing, just taking your time, as if this moment, this quiet act of care, meant more than the rest of the world outside the door.

As you worked, you felt the soft warmth of his skin beneath the fabric and the faint scent of his cologne, which always seemed to linger just enough to remind you he was real. With each button you undid, the shirt fell open a little more, exposing his toned chest and the barest hint of scars, memories of battles fought and won. He didn’t say anything at first, but you could feel his body relax under your touch, as if he was allowing you to take care of him in a way that meant something, even if it was just this small act of removing his shirt.

When you finished with the buttons, you pulled the fabric away from his chest slowly, almost reverently, before folding it over in your hands.

You pushed yourself off the couch, the soft creak of the cushions signaling your departure. “There should be something in the closet for you,” you murmured, your voice low and soothing, carrying the promise of comfort. You glanced over your shoulder, offering a fleeting smile before turning your attention back to the task at hand. “One of my biggest sweaters, maybe. They should be comfortable enough.”

Aaron didn’t argue, and that silence, the unspoken understanding between you, was more than enough. It was a kind of quiet harmony that neither of you needed to vocalize.

You moved toward the hallway, the faint sound of your footsteps echoing softly in the stillness of the house. The familiar hum of the refrigerator and the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet seemed to fill the space around you as you made your way to the laundry room. There was something soothing in the routine of it, the sound of detergent splashing against fabric, the gentle scent of clean linens in the air, the calmness of the house in contrast to the chaos outside.

You grabbed the bottle of detergent, your fingers brushing over the cold plastic as you opened the cap. The scent of lavender and citrus mixed in the air, a comforting, familiar smell. You poured the detergent into the washing machine, the liquid pouring slowly into the drum with a quiet rush, followed by the fabric softener, which added a hint of sweetness to the mixture. You moved mechanically, carefully setting everything in place, but all the while, your thoughts were elsewhere, back on Aaron, back on the space between you two that always seemed to be filled with unspoken words.

And then, without thinking—without meaning to—you reached for his shirt.

It was instinct. Something deeply ingrained in you, a reflex you hadn’t even realized was so natural. You didn’t hesitate as you lifted the shirt up to your face, bringing it closer. The soft cotton still held the faintest traces of him, the warmth of his skin, the scent of his cologne that lingered just below the surface. His scent, unique and comforting, was so familiar to you that it almost felt like home.

You inhaled deeply, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment, allowing the warmth of his essence to wrap around you. It was steady, constant, like the grounding presence he always had in your life. You could taste the remnants of his day on the fabric, the tension of the office, the exhaustion from the long hours, all wrapped up in this simple piece of clothing.

Without meaning to, your lips curled into a soft, almost imperceptible smile, allowing yourself to savor the warmth that always came when you were near him. That fleeting moment of peace before you turned away, shaking off the quiet contentment like it was something fragile. You made your way back toward the living room, but the second you stepped through the doorway, everything inside you came to an abrupt, screeching halt.

Aaron’s figure was unmistakable even with his back to you, his posture relaxed as he stood near the couch, adjusting the sleeves of a sweater he had slipped on. A thick, moss-green sweater that seemed to cling to him in a way that made your chest tighten, a memory rushing forward, uninvited, like a phantom you couldn’t escape.

Your breath caught in your throat, sudden and sharp, as the sight of him in that sweater sent a wave of coldness crashing through you. It was as if ice had replaced your blood, freezing you to the spot. Your stomach dropped, like you were plummeting without a safety net, and a heavy weight pressed into your chest, making it harder to breathe.

No.

It couldn’t be.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. All you could do was stare at the figure before you, stare at that sweater, the one that had once been from someone else before things had become messy. Before everything had turned sideways.

It was a sweater you knew too well. The one that had been worn by someone else, in a life you tried not to remember. You had buried it in the back of your closet, hoping never to see it again, but here it was. And here your new life was, wearing it without a second thought.

Aaron, sensing the silence hanging heavy in the room, turned slightly. His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. He looked down at his wrist, as if noticing the way the sweater fit him, a subtle quirk to his lips as he shrugged. “I found this in the closet,” he said casually, his voice light. “It’s a bit big to be yours.”

The words, so simple, so innocent, landed like a slap in the face, pulling you deeper into the darkness of your thoughts. The world felt distant now, muted, and the room was suddenly too small. You didn’t register him taking a step closer until his hand reached out, a reflexive gesture to touch your wrist, to close the distance between you in the familiar way he always did.

It was the motion that broke you. The simple act of him reaching for you—the one thing that used to make you feel safe—only served to send a jolt of panic through your body. Without thinking, you jerked back, the movement instinctual and sharp, as if you had been burned.

The change in him was immediate. The warmth in his eyes evaporated, replaced by a flicker of concern. His whole body stiffened, and he stopped dead in his tracks, his hand still hovering in the air, suspended as if unsure of what to do next. His expression, once open and warm, now darkened with confusion and something else, something unreadable.

You swallowed, fighting the panic that rose in your chest, forcing yourself to find your voice. It came out as a whisper, barely more than a breath. “Take. That. Off.”

Your words hung in the air, cutting through the tension. There was no softness now, no playfulness or teasing. Just something sharp and brittle, like glass breaking under too much pressure. The command was not a request but a demand. Your tone, quiet as it was, carried an edge that made the room feel even more suffocating.

And then, slowly, deliberately, Aaron moved. His hands, shaking ever so slightly, grasped the sweater’s edge, and with quiet care, he lifted it over his head. The fabric slid from his body with the softest of sounds, his movements so controlled that it was clear he understood the fragility of what he was doing. He was stepping through a door that had been closed for too long, and now, the weight of it was heavy in the air, like something had cracked open.

Your lungs felt constricted as you watched him, each inhale too sharp, too shallow, like the air was being sucked out of the room. The sight of him there, the sweater in his hands, felt like a cruel joke, a memory that refused to stay buried. It shouldn’t be here. Not in this room. Not on him. Not now.

The words came quietly, but their weight was absolute, the finality of them hanging in the air like an unspoken truth that neither of you could escape. “This was his.”

The phrasing wasn’t a question but a statement, an acknowledgment of the past that you both knew too well. That sweater had once belonged to someone who wasn’t here anymore. To someone who had worn it with the same ease, the same confidence, but whose presence now existed only in the space between memories and nightmares.

Your throat tightened painfully, and for a long moment, it felt like you couldn’t speak at all. The words felt like they had to claw their way up through the rawness of your throat, but you managed. Just barely. “Where did you find it?”

Aaron let out a slow exhale, his voice rough when he finally spoke again. His hand ran through his hair in that familiar motion, but his gaze flickered briefly toward the bedroom, as though the very sight of the closet stirred something in him. “It was in the closet,” he said, his voice softening as he recalibrated. “I thought…I thought it was yours.”

You barely heard him after that, your focus narrowing entirely on the sweater, now held loosely in his hands. It wasn’t just a sweater. It was his sweater. The thick, soft fabric had once wrapped itself around a body you would never feel again. It had carried the scent of another man—the warmth of cologne, the lingering trace of late-night coffee, and the faintest hint of pages from books he would never finish reading. It had been a part of his mornings, his life, and your secondary role in it. And now, that same sweater was in Aaron’s hands, worn by a man who had never known him, never hurt you like him, yet somehow was standing here, holding the remnants of a life that no longer belonged to you.

The irony of it made your stomach churn. The bitter edge to it cut deeper than you expected.

“You shouldn’t have found that,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath, as if speaking them aloud would shatter what little control you had left.

Aaron’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his eyes darkening with a silent intensity that made the room feel even more suffocating. “You never told me you kept anything,” he said, the words softer but carrying an edge nonetheless. “I thought it was all evidence.”

A humorless laugh, harsh and bitter, slipped from your lips, and you barely recognized the sound. “Would it have mattered?”

He didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. The truth hung between you, unsaid but understood. Of course it wouldn’t have mattered.

You both knew how this story ended. How it always had. Aaron had been the one who stood before you, the lead agent on the case, the one who had delivered the words that had changed your world into new pieces. “We’re doing everything we can,” they had said. “We’ll find him. We won’t stop searching.”

But then, the time had passed, and the cold reality had set in. There were no more answers. No more leads. The case had gone cold. The search had stopped. And all that had remained were the shattered pieces of the life you had once had and the painful, bitter knowledge that it was real.

Aaron exhaled, his breath slow and measured, as if trying to steady something inside himself. The weight of the past settled between you like a ghost, an unseen force pressing against the silence, making the air feel heavier, thicker. His posture had changed—his shoulders slightly hunched, his stance less certain than before. He was trained to navigate difficult conversations, to read between the lines, but this—this—was uncharted ground.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, tinged with something heavier. Something almost apologetic.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, even though it hurt. Even though it felt like looking at him would pull you deeper into something you weren’t sure you could handle. Your voice was steady, but the edges of it were raw. “You didn’t ask.”

Something flickered in his expression. Guilt, maybe. Regret. You weren’t sure.

But it didn’t matter.

Because the truth was, none of this changed the reality you had lived with for years. It didn’t change the fact that your husband was gone. That Aaron had been the one to close the case. That he had been the one to look you in the eye and tell you the words you never wanted to hear. No new leads. No new evidence. Nothing left to find.

And now, somehow, whether by accident or some cruel twist of fate, he had reached back into the past and pulled a piece of it into the present, wrapped it around his body like it was just another sweater, unaware of the wreckage it would leave behind.

Your hands were shaking now.

You hated that.

He was still watching you, his gaze sharp, calculating but not in a cold way, in the way of someone who was trying to understand, who was weighing the right thing to say against the wrong one. But there wasn’t a right thing. Not here. Not in this moment.

“I need a minute,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath.

Aaron hesitated, his jaw tightening as he weighed his options. The part of him that was wired to protect, to stay, to make sure you were okay, fought against the part that understood you needed space. That you needed air.

“I don’t want to leave you like this,” he admitted, his voice low, careful.

You shook your head, already taking a step back. “Please.”

A beat.

And then, finally, with a slow nod, He set the sweater down. His movements were careful and deliberate. He placed it on the arm of the couch instead of the table, as if some part of him knew dropping it too carelessly would only make this worse. Then, without another word, he turned and stepped away, leaving the room.

The second he was gone, your breath hitched, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut against the sting building behind them.

You had spent years making peace with the past. Years learning to live with the silence, with the unanswered questions, with the knowledge that some things would never be really resolved. You had accepted the emptiness, the lack of closure, and the scars in your skin because what other choice had you been given?

But now, as you stared at that old, worn sweater, the last tangible piece of the man you once loved, you felt something shift inside you.

Something fragile.

Something unraveling.

Because maybe the past wasn’t done with you yet.

Aaron didn’t leave.

Not completely.

His presence still clung to the space, lingering in the air like the ghost of an unspoken truth. You could hear him in the other room: the quiet rustle of movement, the barely-there sound of his breath. He wasn’t hovering, wasn’t pressing, but he was close enough that you could feel the weight of him, steady and unmoving. Close enough that his absence wasn’t absence at all.

You needed the space. The moment to breathe. To gather the shattered pieces of yourself before facing him again.

And then, after a while, he returned.

He stepped into the room without a word, his silhouette cast long in the dim light. He didn’t demand an answer, didn’t pry, just stood there, hands in the pockets of his still soaked coat, gaze unreadable. The sweater—the damn sweater—was gone now, discarded somewhere out of sight, but its presence still lingered. You could still see it in your mind, could still feel the weight of it, heavy as the silence between you.

“I didn’t mean to blindside you.” His voice was quiet, careful. A thread of something softer wove beneath the words, regret, maybe. “That wasn’t my intention.”

You inhaled slowly, dragging air into lungs that felt too tight, too full of everything you weren’t ready to say. Exhaled even slower. Your emotions were raw, skin too thin, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze.

“I know.”

He would never mean to hurt, he wasn’t—

No. He was a good man.

Aaron shifted slightly, his stance easing, not quite casual, but open in a way that felt deliberate. Like he was offering you something, whether you wanted it or not. “If you want me to…I can look into it again.”

Your breath caught.

“I still have contacts. Still have ways of finding things other people can’t, my team can.” His voice was steady, unwavering. There was certainty in it, the kind that made it clear he wouldn’t stop unless you asked him to. “If you still want answers, I can help.”

Your fingers curled into your palms.

For years, you had chased answers. Drowned in them. You had lived inside the unknown, inside the waiting, inside the silence of a house that never felt really yours. Every silence, every shout, every blows, and every tear. Everything fell on you every time you sat with your head down, waiting for what never came.

And then, one night, the wondering had stopped.

Because you knew.

Your husband was dead.

The air in the room felt too thin, pressing against your ribs like a vice. You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “No.”

Aaron’s brows furrowed slightly. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, the words heavy on your tongue, thick with something you couldn’t name. “The case is cold. It has been for years.” Your voice was quieter now, softer, but no less certain. “I can’t…I can’t live through that again.”

His gaze held yours, searching, reading you in the way he always did, like he could pull apart every flicker of emotion, every unspoken thought, and lay them bare.

But he didn’t push. Didn’t argue. Didn’t judge you.

And after a long beat, he just nodded. “Okay.”

It should have felt like relief. Like the closing of a door that had been left open for far too long.

But it didn’t.

Because Aaron wasn’t just anyone. He wasn’t an outsider to this. He had been part of it, had been the one to stand across from you years ago and tell you that the case was over. That they had done everything they could. He had been the one to look you in the eye and say, I’m sorry.

And now, here he was.

Still offering to help. Still trying to find the truth.

A slow, unsteady breath escaped you. “I’m tired.”

His expression softened, just slightly. “I know.”

You hadn’t meant to say it, but it was the truth. You had spent so long carrying this weight alone, so long trying to hold together the pieces of something broken beyond repair. It had taken everything in you to bury it, to build something new from the wreckage of your old life.

And now, for the first time in years, someone was offering to help. Someone was offering to know. The thought of it should have terrified you. Should have sent you spiraling.

But instead, as Aaron took a step closer—slow, hesitant, but steady—you felt something else entirely.

Warmth.

Not understanding. Not yet. But warmth.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing against your cheek again, just as gentle as before. He wasn’t asking for anything. Wasn’t demanding the truth.

He was just here.

And somehow, that was enough.

You exhaled shakily, tilting your face into his palm, eyes fluttering shut. “Aaron…”

It wasn’t a question. Wasn’t a plea.

Just his name.

And somehow, it carried more weight than anything else.

His breath was warm as he spoke, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. “I’m here.”

You didn’t know who moved first. Didn’t know if it was him or you, or if it even mattered at all. But then his lips were on yours, slow and sure, careful in a way that made your chest ache. And the weight of everything else faded into the background.

For the first time in a long, long time, you let yourself forget.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to ignore the voices whispering in the back of your mind.

And the agent Aaron Hotchner didn’t hear the wind whispering, over and over again—

She did it.

[rhiannonsknife]

jackie was really sending trophy wife + housewife vibes in this last episode, I just wanted to be really rich and spoil her with extravagant things while she waits for me at home all pretty 😵‍💫😵‍💫

sick, but never sick enough to stop talking about jackie taylor.

listen!! i just know housewife!jackie loves being pampered by you!!

of course she doesn’t demand or expect it. but still, jackie appreciates everything you do for her and will show her gratitude. she’ll make you your favorite dinner after a long day, kiss you softly when you bring her something she loves, or give you a quiet thank-you after every thoughtful gesture. you know she’s genuinely touched each time, whether she acts like it’s a big deal or not.

housewife!jackie who has her own way to make you feel wanted.

after those long days, when you just want to collapse into bed, jackie’s waiting for you in the bedroom, dressed in a silky robe that falls just right, hugging her curves a little too good. “i thought maybe we could…unwind a little?” she offers, trailing her index along her side teasingly. she pulls you closer, wrapping her arms around you as she kisses you deeply. “just let me take care of you tonight” jackie murmurs against your mouth, making it impossible to resist the pull of her. you can try to take the lead, but you’re no match for the way she holds you, her body leaning into yours already.

housewife!jackie who lets you help in the kitchen.

she’s definitely the one who does the cooking (projecting here, because i’m not a good cook), but she loves it when you’re around to ‘help.’ and by help, she means she’ll get as close to you as possible while she stirs the sauce, brushing her body against yours while you stand at the counter. she lets you rest your hands on her hips, happily cooking in your company.

(eating housewife!jackie out on the kitchen counter in return???)

housewife!jackie whose love language is definitely physical touch!!

she’ll find every possible excuse to be close to you, whether it’s leaning into you when she finds you standing somewhere or draping her legs over your lap when you’re watching tv together. it’s natural for her to touch you, to pull you close, to wrap herself around you like she’s trying to make sure you’re always within arm’s reach. (also she will pull you into the laundry room for a quick kiss or nudging you toward the bedroom after a dinner date!! literally every chance she can get!!)

housewife!jackie who doesn’t mind being spoiled, but spoils you right back too.

she loves when you get a little extra for her, but just as much as she loves being pampered, she knows how to show her appreciation. she spoils you too, occasionally, with the things she does just for you. she’ll surprise you with a bubble bath after a rough day, kissing the back of your neck as you sink into the tub. with her fingers run through your hair, she murmurs: “i just want you to relax.”

jackie never lets you forget how much you mean to her, how much she appreciates the care you give her! <33

[eeksburner]

simon riley who reassures you on your body.. you’re his wife and he truly doesn’t care about your insecurities and sees them as beautiful (thick thighs, stomach pudge, hip dips, etc.)

Reassurance

Simon Riley x Wife!Reader Fluff

(Note: EEEEEK my first request!! We are so back, y'all! Thanks anon :P hope this is what you were looking for)

(TW: body image issues, some sadness before the fluff)

Not proofread

Simon Riley isn't one to be brought to his knees easily, but you just have things about you that he cannot get over. Any time you're in a bathing suit, his clothes, a comfy outfit, anything or nothing, he can't help but to think about how gorgeous you look. Throughout your relationship, you guys have both reassured each other whenever you have a day where you're feeling extra down about your appearance. Even when you feel comfortable or neutral about your body, Simon will still compliment and praise you as if you created the universe just for him (he truly thinks you did). He is never one to be stingy with his compliments.

You had been feeling really good about yourself lately, but today just wasn't going well for you. Simon had planned a special dinner date for the two of you and you had tried on the dress you bought just for the occasion. You didn't like the way the fabric stretched over your hips and heightened the appearance of your hip dips, or the way your stomach was more visible than you would've liked, or how you could see the lack of thigh gap between your legs. You were in the middle of your criticizing when Simon walked into the bedroom. Your heart immediately dropped and there was pressure behind your eyes. He was so handsome. What would people think when they saw you two together? Simon noticed your lack of greeting or mention of his outfit and asked, "You okay, love?" You took a deep breath and looked away, a soft, "Yeah. You look amazing, Si," falling from your lips. Suddenly the makeup you had on wasn't done right, the perfume you were wearing smelt sour, the shoes you picked weren't flattering on you at all, and the stone on your ring finger felt out of place.

You sat on the edge of the bed and sighed, you head falling into your hands. How could you even look at Simon when he looked so perfect in his all-black outfit and perfect body and perfect hair? You felt the bed dip beside you and soon his arms were bringing you into his lap, cradling you. "Are you feeling okay? What do you need from me?" His deep voice rumbled into your shoulder that was pressed into his chest. You finally looked up at him with glossy eyes and barely above a whisper said, "I just don't know why you're with me, Simon. You're perfect. Your body-" Before you could finish he cut you off. "Is that what this is about? Lovey, you're the most gorgeous girl anyone has laid eyes on. I swear every love song, poem, statue, and story, was made in your honor. If anybody says otherwise then they're lying. What were you thinking about when I walked in?" He put his hand under your chin and made you look up at him again, your head bowed when he was talking, and he wanted to look at your pretty eyes while you described your insecurities to him. You sighed. After being with Simon, you figured out there was no point in beating around the bush or lying or even trying to squirm away. He would never force you to talk or keep you somewhere you didn't want to be, but he was persistent and would find out anyway. You felt your face heat up with embarrassment. Admitting your insecurities to someone who looked like a god was nerve-wracking. "Um, I don't know. I just feel like my thighs are too big, my stomach isn't flat enough, and my hips are shaped weirdly. I don't think I'm pretty enough for you, Simon. You could have anyone you wanted, hell, you could have a top model in this bed tonight if you wanted." Your eyes welled at the thought of him with a better woman. It took everything you had not to hold onto his neck and let sobs wrack your body while you cried into his chest.

He hadn't interrupted this time, letting your words weigh on his mind before he responded. "Y/n, You break my heart every time you talk like that. I know you can't help it, but I just wish you saw yourself the way I see you. You say you don't know how I could be with you, but all I think about is how happy an ugly bloke like me managed to get the most divine being to exist. Your thighs, tummy, and hips are works of art that are nothing short of what only pure perfection could create. They show how womanly you are and they're so, so sexy." He had moved you to be straddling him at this point, placing soft kisses on your face, neck, shoulders, and chest. Your frown became less prominent at his sweet words and tender kisses. "You are so amazing inside and out. You take care of me and show me it's okay to love and be loved. You're the best thing that has ever happened to me. You are so sweet, understanding, smart, funny, and gorgeous. Without your hips where would my hands go when I need to ground myself? What would help fill out your clothes so nicely? Without your tummy where would all the proof of our love go? All the lovely dinners we have, all the treats we make, or buy, and enjoy together? The softness that makes me remember I don't need to be so rough and that there is still sweetness in the world? My favorite place to lay when I come home from work and need to rest would be gone without your tummy. Without your thighs what would you use to hold onto me when I pick you up and spin you around after I come back from a mission? What would you use to get you around for all of our adventures? What would I grab when I'm driving you around or sitting next to you? Every part of your body was made with flawless divinity and I will tell you every day if I have to for you to believe me." You were smiling softly now, your cheeks warm. "You always know just what to say." "It's hard not to when all I think about is how much I love you all day every day. Finish getting ready so we can go to dinner." You get off his lap and kiss his cheek before finishing up, a new opinion of yourself settling into you.

[the-silver-peahen-residence]

Ryuji sighs, putting his head in his hands, "Because you and Rin aren't full demons." He tells Yukio. "I haven't met this Ink person that Rin keeps talking about. But the more he talks about her, the more I get worried. Like how do I know that she isn't working for Satan or worse the Illuminati to get to him? She might manipulate him!"

"......."

"Besides that, I hate sorcerers. One of their own went rouge. Remember the Parade of a Hundred Demons by that curse user?! A handful of my dad's friends died fighting those damn curses that attacked Kyoto. I couldn't forgive sorcerers because they didn't do enough to help out!" He growls.

"Ryuji-"

"A freaking jujutsu terrorist attack on freaking Christmas Eve, sensei!" Ryuji said. "Could you believe that! It's like they forgot it's their own mess to begin with. Those guys are freaking dangerous and we have to clean their mess up!" Ryuji growls, crossing his arms. "So sorry if I have my doubts if they're dating demons now or hell...I wouldn't be surprised if they have demons in their ranks!"

"So you think just because were not fully blooded demons, Ink and Jinx are evil at heart wanting to cause harm because their full blooded demons? Just like the other demons?""

"Yes!...."

"........." Yukio sighed hearing this but he did remember the report when reading it. So many passed that night yet, he couldn't blame all demons since not most of them were like that.

"...I know demons are no good. Not even sorcerers can be. Their just trying to trick us to believing they are good! What if the-"

"Enough Ryuji!" Yukio said yet the other was quiet.

"Listen, I know and remember that report. We all do. I know you haven't met Ink or Jinx or others but again, not all demons are like that. Ink is not like that. True she's a headstrong type of girl but her heart is not evil."

"..And it's because you met her!?" Ryuji said.

"..Yes..but she cares about Rin. Think about it, if she was really evil, she would have used him instead. But no, she don't. She loves him. Deeply. Just like from what I heard Yuji loves Jinx who is close to Ink as a demon too....."

"......" Ryuji's arms were crossed looking down but Yukio shook his head.

"The fighting between us was long done Ryuji. We have to learn to be as one as a team. I know you hate this and I can tell from that anger you acted harshly that someone got badly hurt. Would you be alright if something happened to everyone else? What of the sorcerers? What if we were dealing with something only they know more than us?" he asked.

------ Exorcists' Dormitory - Boys Side -----

"No no, it's alright Miwa. He's just being dumb and not thinking...I don't get why he has to be so angry about this..it's not right." Rin muttered.

"But yeah, it was. Now, I'm hoping we can find a way to say sorry to them. Even to Hana for what that idiot did. I'm sure in a while he has to calm down then maybe we can get some words through him." Rin said.

------- Sorcerers' Dormitory -- Girls Side -------

"Yuria is right. That fight was a long long time ago. It don't involve with things today. Others have learned to move on from that...but not everyone." Maki had her arms crossed yet Nobara was quiet still.

"Even so like Yuria also said, it was still uncalled for. He hurt Hana! All because he had some stupid attitude because of something. What if he really did more harm. What if he..." Nobara didn't want to say it, seeing Miko grip her hoodie not wanting to think of someone killing Hana.

"....Even so...I'm hoping he finds a way to say sorry for this....or make up for it. We are all here to work together..not become enemies. Even if he sees demons as that right now. It might not be safe at the moment to tell him about Taz. Does he know she's a demon?" Maki asked.

"..I don't know..but we won't if he don't. We are not going to let him try anything to harm someone like that again." Yuria said with Maki and Miwa agreeing with her.

------ Sorcerers' Dormitory -- Boys' Side -------

"Wait..the blue what?" Yuji asked yet Megumi didn't know

"It's something long ago that happened. Everyone or some has heard of that story. Given something happened and it involved Rin's father." Kamo said with arms crossed. "I heard Rin hates talking about it but he knew it happened even so.."

".....Seems like it." Yuji said worried. "Does it involve something with his dad or something?"

"Yeah, it does. Given that night was a night many never would forget. The people, some being killed, etc. It was not a good night...the only good one was when Rin and Yukio was born...." he said seeing the others silent.

~~~~~Sorcerer's Dormitory~~~~~~

Yuji, Megumi, Panda, and Toge said nothing but they were silent not happy with what Ryuji did. He did something that was uncalled for. Even when he insulted Yuji's and Rin's girlfriends just because they were demons. It wasn't right.

They didn't even blame Rioto for being pissed off, he should be!

"Kisho's right. Even if what he did was uncalled for, we shouldn't be angry about it right now. I know things are a bit heated after what he did but we still are trying to work together with them. Ryuji just don't see that right now." Megumi sighed looking at the ground yet he was worried about Hana as well. The girls were in their own dormitories but mostly worried about Hana too.

"But he's also right about this. We just need to calm down..." Yuji said with arms crossed still. He was worried about his friends and her. He was even close to almost beating Ryuji himself since he could have hurt everyone else. Including Taz too.

"So what will happen to him?" Panda asked.

"..I heard he might be heavily punished for this. Even with attacking another student. Though, they also might call this a intermission till things cool down." Yuji said even seeing Toge nod.

"Salmon.." he mutters quietly.

"I just worry for the girls too knowing their worried as well...." Yuji mutters. Kamo also agrees with him too at this.

~~~~~With the girls~~~~~~

"I can't believe that asshole! How dare he do that! He really hurt Hana today or worse! He could have killed someone!" Nobara was not happy seeing the girls in the room being quiet. Yuria was worried about Miko who was holding Anaconda and Dennis however, she was still worried.

"Easy Nobara. Getting angry won't solve anything." Miwa said with Maki agreeing hoping to calm her girlfriend down.

"She's right Nobara. All we can do is wait for Mi-sun to heal her and she'll be alright again. "she said.

"..Tch..I rather smash that bullies head in!" Nobara said even if she was calming down. However, she saw Maki sitting by Taz to insure she was alright.

------ Exorcists' Dormitory ----

"D..do you think Hana is going to be okay? Those burns looked really bad.." Shiemi mutters worried about her new friend yet she only looks at the window.

"I'm sure she will be alright....I heard this Mi-sun doctor is treating her right now....but still....that dummy over pushed it. He didn't have to insult the others, Rin and Yuji's girlfriends, and almost caused harm to everyone else." Izumo said with arms crossed.

"..Yeah but still...." she said. "I heard Yukio sensei is not happy with him right now..given a lecture to him.." she mutters.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Their was shouting in a room but it did show a very angry Yukio along with Ryuji who was trying to argue back.

"Look! I didn't mean to misfire the fire ball sir! I just got-"

"NO! You got angry and attacked someone Ryuji! We are trying to work with the sorcerers not try to cause another war between them! I understand you hate demons but did you forget that Rin is also a demon himself!?" he said.

"..I didn't forget that! I learned to understand him and you sir but they...the two of them are dating other demons! It took me a while to get used to that even if he shouldn't be dating a demon monster!"

"..*Sighs* Ryuji. Ink and her friends are not what you think. Not everyone is like that! Most of them are friend and is willing to work together to make things right. YOU! You crossed the line with endangering someone, injuring one of the students, insulting two people that was not called for, and even trying to start fights! What is your problem!?"

"NOTHING IS WRONG! I JUST GOT ANGRY THAT WE LOST TO..TO SORCERERS! WE CAN DO BETTER THAN THIS!"

"You don't understand. Do you realize we could get sued by the sorcerers school! You hurt one of their students just because you can't control your temper! I told you time and time again your temper will get you into trouble and it did! Even insulting Ink and Jinx."

"Wait..that's their names!?"

"*Sighs* Yes. Ink and Jinx are not evil people or evil demons as you keep saying. Their two ladies I've met when I was on a mission in NYC resulting in something else. Their not what you think they are. I know that was very insulting of what you said about them which leads to another issue here Ryuji-"

"But their just demons!"

"So is Rin and you accepted that didn't you!?"

"Well, yeah of course!"

"So what's different about them!?" Yukio said slamming his hands on the table looking to Ryuji.

"........"