#cinta’s dialogues

[smileflowcr]

Cuántos meses le quedan, mini Seoja no deja de pedir dulces(?)

[mistress-light]

Cinta: "You look troubled"

Frey: "Oh, uh... just got a lot to think about."

Me: 💔

[mikrokosmcs]

Ps ps seoja, no te gustaría tener otro cachorro? 🥺

-  —Me  encantaría  tener  todos  los  cachorros  que  Minjun  quiera  tener,  especialmente  una  princesa  —  -no  duda  en  responder  ante  aquello,  viniendo  en  su  naturaleza  como  un  lobo  y  su  crianza  en  una  familia  enorme,  el  deseo  de  siempre  estar  rodeados  de  gente  en  la  vida  cotidiana  y  no  solo  en  las  fiestas.  -  —Pero  Minjun  es  solo  un  humano  y  tuvimos  ciertos…  problemas  con  la  idea  de  un  embarazo  múltiple.  Está  en  mi  genética  que  podemos  tener  más  de  un  cachorro  de  golpe,  lo  cual  conlleva  muchos  problemas  para  él  en  el  proceso.  Si  no  quiere  tener  más  hijos  luego  de  Haeim-ah,  lo  respeto  y  lo  apoyo  completamente.   

[colleybrifanfics]

“Canon ships are boring” - ?!!

I’ve seen this statement a couple of times, in connection with general debates about Canon vs Fanon. And I’m sure it’s often true of a lot of fics and a lot of source material.

But established Canon relationships, past present or future … boring by definition?

Not on Andor, they’re not. Not remotely. None of them.

On a really well written show, as in a really well written novel, canon relationships can be complex, nuanced, believable, intriguing, inspiring, heartbreaking, sexy, frustrating, toxic, one-sided, racked with insecurity… etc. Just like real life relationships. And so too can be the fiction they inspire.

Vel/Cinta is described by Tony Gilroy as “One of the least complicated relationships in the show.” (Variety )

One of the least complicated! !

Yet it’s so deliciously, painfully, realistically … complicated!. It’s not perfect. Of course it isn’t. That’s the point. Perhaps a fic writer doesn’t have to work hard to invent ways to make it complicated. But you don’t always have to invent; you can explore what’s there. What’s given to you. No need to reinvent the wheel.

I’m one of very few to “ship” the canon Cassian / Bix relationship. (There doesn’t even seem to be a portmanteau for it - Bixcassian probably having to do. ) I think one of the reasons is – they have often been really bad for each other. That’s fair enough – not going to argue with that ! (Though for me, that’s kind of the point .) But sometimes I’ve seen this relationship referred to dismissively as the relatively simple “teenage romance” or “exes to friends” trope. To which I would say – watch the scenes between those two again. Carefully. There’s a lot more to it than that. It’s an extremely messy relationship, but by no means a simple one. And it’s canonically not just a one-off either , as Tony Gilroy is keen to point out.

This wonderful complexity is because of the standard this show’s writing sets. So much is done through subtext. The implication of what is being thought rather than the exact words being said. The way that a single line can imply several pages worth of lesser dialogue or storytelling. The gaps between the words. The silences. Top-notch performances obviously help with that too.

Vel/Cinta epitomises this. So does Cassian/Bix. So does Mon/Perrin (and even the hints of Mon/Tay).

And we’re only just getting started with the deliciously poisonous concoction that is Dedra/Syril. Whatever that is going to start to look like in the second season, I can’t begin to guess. But I’m really enjoying the fics out there that are doing some serious speculating, keeping both characters 100% believable (in terms of recognisably their canon selves) at the same time.

Andor has given us the gift of some incredibly meaty Canon relationships to explore and play with.

⬆️. I mean… need I say more.?!

[andorshitdaily]

the increase of absolute screentime for velcinta

Mon talking to someone that's not Luthen or Chandrilan or a senator- I rewatched the show and was surprised to notice that Mon and Kleya didn't even share a single dialogue together(though they did exchange a few homosexual glances)

Bix not pining after Cassian(shudders)

Chandrila....

I do have a knee jerk rejection for poorly integrated fanservice for anything/anyone else but strangely I'm okay with seeing Hondo in anything-no worries though Gilroy won't even know that he exists

Sartha-Mothma family members worrying and caring about Vel but not being able to accept that she's 'different'

Cinta tenderly caressing Vel's cheek and Vel closing her eyes to th- oh wait this is a certainty. Ahhhhhh I can't wait

Nothing bad should happen to any female Chandrilans in this show

GAYS NOT BEING BURIED

+Happy birthday!! thank you so much for being the admin for this account

i agree wholeheartedly with everything here including a nonsense cameo by my favorite pirate Hondo Ohnaka

and thank you!! i absolutely love running this account and am so glad others enjoy it as well <3

[frostbitepandaaaaa]

🌤️ for that ask game :)

omg hiiiiiiiii static! <3

🌤️Share your favorite piece of dialogue from your WIP.

congrats. this is pretty much my fave. from Aphelion:

Vel takes his silence as defeat, and perhaps takes pity on him, too, because she sighs, softens. “Getting off world in a surreptitious way is even trickier than getting you bacta… but it can be done. As for the datapad… that shouldn’t be a problem.” She shakes her head, squints at him in clear confusion. “Why? Why do this? It seems like a lot of risk… even for you.” “Wouldn’t you do it for Cinta?” he counters without thinking. Vel gives him an incredulous look and Cassian can hear his heart pound in his ears. “So it’s like that, huh?” “No,” Cassian answers slowly, voice hoarse and low. He swallows. “But it could be.”

ask me about my WIPs!

[chipthekeeper]

Ranking Velcinta moments by how insane they make me feel, a(n overly) comprehensive list

As promised, here's my way too detailed ranking of all 18-ish of their moments. This (predictably) got obnoxiously long toward the end, so venture under the cut if you actually care and/or don't mind a lot of scrolling.

18. Valley One (Ep. 6)

I'm relatively sane about this. Except when I think about how they probably slept in that little hut the night before. Also when I think about how this is one of the very few shots in which they're both visible and (relatively) in focus.

17. "No farewells tonight." (Ep. 5)

Mostly was insane about this when the episode first came out and I was SO. FUCKING. WORRIED. that they were gonna die in the next one.

16. "What are they doing?" (Ep. 5)

Girlfriends who scowl together stay together (please Tony Gilroy I'm begging you).

15. Feeding the dray (Ep. 5)

The fact that Cinta is smiling here is what makes me most crazy. Also I just adore this flash of simple domesticity with them. Ahh, what could have been....

14. "Have you heard from Cinta?" (Ep. 7)

Vel not being able to look Kleya in the eye when she asks about Cinta makes me crazy mostly for the whole "Vel/Kleya exes" plot but of course this whole part had me jumping out of my seat on first watch.

13. "The rebellion comes first. We take what's left." (Ep. 9)

VEL FINDING STRENGTH IN CINTA'S WORDS AND USING THEM TO HELP MON WITH HER DOUBTS TOO I'M !!!!!

(went all-caps way before I thought I would, maybe this one should be higher....)

12. Into the smoke (Ep. 12)

She looks so worried when Cinta isn't where she's supposed to be and then she sprints INTO the melee while everyone else is running AWAY. I'M NOT FINE!!!!

11. At the campfire (Ep. 4)

I swear to y'all that the first time I watched this episode and saw them sitting so close I was like "oh. hey" fully intending to ship them even if that was literally all we got. And then holy fucking shit we got everything I was too afraid to ask for. So this moment always has a special place in my heart.

10. "What's she doing?" (Ep. 4)

It. Makes. Me. CRAZY. That the first time they share a scene together, they're literally always in the same frame.

CRAZY.

Like....they've been connected from the VERY beginning, even if the show revealed them being together rather slowly. Also it's everything to me that the first time we see Cinta it's Taramyn asking her what Vel is up to bringing a new guy in. Because if anyone would know, it would be her.

9. "Stay focused, Clem." (Ep. 5)

All of the territorial Vel stuff is great to me but I especially love this moment. First of all Cinta's little smirk. And also it's just so....idk it's a quiet moment of contemplation and probably anxiety but we can't not take a second to tell Clem to back off.

I'm combining this with the "you can dress yourself" bit too because that moment just makes me laugh with how Vel's always in the background watching and then immediately jumps up to give Clem the business and use his scuffle with Skeen as an excuse to mark her territory.

8. "Closet?" "Empty." (Ep. 12)

That bit of dialogue made my gay little self so happy and then they went and did the whole "that's blood" "it's not mine" thing and I'll never recover. Vel being so concerned that she won't even let Cinta keep packing, but then at the very end she's a little impressed/turned on??? 10/10 no notes. (okay I have one note and that's "you're really just going to leave me hanging like that for two years?????" but that's a different post)

7. "Get down!" (Ep. 6)

Truly one of my favorite scenes in the whole show is when Vel almost loses her shit at the top of the dam. The tension is insane, her fear is PALPABLE, and I absolutely love that it's Cinta just calling her out for stalling and then yelling at her that breaks her out of it.

But the thing that makes me feel most crazy about this scene is this:

Someone please explain to me WHY Cinta makes the jump while looking directly at Vel. EXPLAIN IT TO ME. Or else I will just continue to believe it's because part of her is scared up there too and looking at Vel is what helps her take the leap. That is a crazy thought -- I'm pretty sure she's fine -- but if it's not that then I don't get why she's even facing that way??

6. This (Ep. 8)

THE MUSIC. THE FADE. THE SORROW. I like literally can't even talk about this one. But it does make me feel a lot how obvious it is that Vel's thoughts are soooooooooo far from the fight here:

While at the same time there's not a thought in Cinta's head about her:

Breaks my fucking heart.

5. "No. She didn't tell me." (Ep. 5)

Whew. This moment. For a while I was mostly happy about this moment because it was just one more piece of evidence that they were together before that was fully confirmed.

But then my headcanon brain took over while I was writing my multichapter fic and it has been fucking me up ever since. Because I'm always going to wonder if all their drama was always going to happen the way it did or if Vel betraying Cinta's trust as a partner was some kind of breaking point.

Is that probably just me? Yes. Does it matter? Not to this ranking.

4. "She's already sharin' a blanket if that's what you're wonderin'." (Ep. 5)

I was!!! I was wonderin'!!!!! And I will forever use this phrase as a euphemism for being a lesbian.

What I would not give........to experience this line and this shot for the first time again. Or at least know what I sounded like giving a joyous shout.

3. "Tell me you'll be alright." (Ep. 6)

This is the one that I would probably sound the most insane trying to talk about out loud. It would be a lot of me like verbally keysmashing and somehow going "!!!!!!" out loud.

The hand-hold that saved my life? The EMOTION in their eyes when they look at each other??? Vel starting to go in for the goodbye kiss right in front of the hostages' salad but then just not????????

Fuck.

FUCK!!!!!!!

2. "Come away from the window." (Ep. 12)

I have to start by talking about Vel's cute little sad grin in this scene when she's like "nice to see you too" and Cinta like glares back at her. That made me feel crazy enough but then this whole scene that I want to say I can't even put into words even though I have in fact already done it.

The desperation on Vel's part is what kills me. Not that she's desperate for attention or love or whatever people always try to pin on her here (and of course it is that to some degree) but that she's desperate to keep Cinta from losing herself. She's so desperate but all she can do is ask. All she can do is hope Cinta will turn around and take a break. And she does.

BUT WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENS AFTER THAT TONY GILROY?!

I have never screamed so loud about a scene just ending.

Whatever, it gave me something to write and I enjoyed doing that.

1. "You love me because I show you what you need to see." (Ep. 8)

And here we are. The scene that has taken up space in my brain more than any other single thing since I saw it. I've been over it so many times. Watching and taking notes, staring at the gifs, studying the screencaps, trying to wrap my head around every little line and gesture and movement and emotion. I've spent hours on it, and I still find myself coming back to think about it and wondering if I've truly understood it all.

Just getting them reunited after Aldhani was such a relief (even though it was jarring at first to just see Cinta and be like "how the fuck did you get here?"). But then the conversation just knocked me on my ass.

"Haven't we been apart long enough?" YES YOU HAVE!!

"We take what's left." NOOOO TAKE IT ALL

"That's cold...even for you." Stabbing me in the face would be less painful.

And then...hearing the words "you love me" from one woman to another woman in a Star Wars show....not a book, not a comic...a show. Truly meant everything to me. I was so fucking happy to hear those words that I couldn't even process how goddamn sad the rest of it was until later. Once I did I had a stomachache for an entire week. I have one again right now.

And then it ends with the most fucking beautiful hand-hold and yet another tiny look that makes me feel crazy in and of itself (which I've done a whole post on by itself), and despite my broken heart I have hope.

If I am ever able to watch this scene and not feel seventeen emotions at once, it's over for me.

Easy number one.

[jjjwritten]

do you think fakhri would use toys on kahar?

(your fakhrixkahar got me insaaane)

oh, most definitely. these two are FREAKY. i wrote a little something which started as an oral fixation thing and got out of control. i tried not to put too much english in the dialogue so here you go:

Fakhri had always been perceptive, especially when it came to Kahar. He noticed things. The smallest tics, the weird little habits, the barely-there shifts in mood. It was part of what made him such a good boyfriend, or so he liked to claim, but it wasn’t until recently that something clicked into place. Something he couldn’t unsee once it crossed his mind.

Kahar had an oral fixation.

Not just a maybe. Not a passing observation. No. Fakhri knew it now like he knew the taste of Kahar’s spit on his tongue, intimately, undeniably, and with the kind of dawning realization that made every little past moment slot together like puzzle pieces in hindsight.

He should’ve figured it out sooner. The signs were everywhere.

There were the obvious things. Like the way Kahar loved sucking him off. Not in the casual, “I’ll do it if you ask” kind of way. No, Kahar worshipped it. He needed it. His mouth around Fakhri’s cock was a near-daily thing, as routine as brushing his teeth. Sometimes he’d drop to his knees without a word, without being asked, mouthing at Fakhri through his pants like a man starved. And he didn’t need to be fucked face-first into the mattress either, though Fakhri would gladly do it. Most of the time, Kahar just wanted to hold it in his mouth. Like it soothed him. Grounded him. Fakhri could be doing anything, reading something on his phone, watching the news, eating leftovers on the couch, and Kahar would be there, between his legs, lips stretched wide, eyes half-lidded and distant as he sucked slow and heavy.

Just like right now.

Fakhri barely glanced up from his screen, legs spread lazily over the couch cushions, one hand resting across the back of Kahar’s head. His fingers worked in idle circles into his boyfriend’s scalp, petting more than guiding, like a man idly scratching behind his favorite dog’s ears. And below him, Kahar was… blissed out. Completely in his own world. On his knees, his mouth warm and wet around Fakhri’s length, not even bobbing his head anymore. Just sitting there, swallowing softly now and then, his tongue twitching like he was content to just… hold it. To have it. Like a cigarette between his lips or a lollipop he refused to finish too fast.

And that was the other thing.

It wasn’t just Fakhri’s cock. Kahar had a history of putting anything and everything in his mouth. He’d always have a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, sometimes even unlit, just to chew on the filter. Fakhri had caught him once gnawing on the end of a pencil during a club meeting, his jaw clenching rhythmically like he was edging himself with the graphite taste. Lollipops disappeared far too quickly around him. Hard candy? Always cracked between his teeth with obscene crunches. Gum? Chomped violently until his jaw ached.

And the pens, good God, the pens. Kahar would click them obsessively before sinking them between his teeth, biting until the plastic shell bore his imprints. Sometimes he'd skim through his textbook with the pen just resting on his tongue, lips pursed, cheek hollowed like he was trying not to moan around it.

But this?

This was Fakhri’s favorite version of it. Kahar on his knees, drooling around him, looking dazed and dreamy like sucking cock was just a mindless comfort activity.

Fakhri tilted his phone slightly, glancing down. “Kahar? Cinta okay ke kat bawah tu?”

Kahar’s eyes blinked slowly. He didn’t pull off, didn’t even hum, just gave a single, small nod with Fakhri still thick and heavy in his mouth. The tip of his tongue licked around the underside lazily, like he wasn’t in a hurry. He never was. This wasn’t about climax. It was about the feeling, the weight, the taste, the act.

Fakhri smiled, lowering his phone completely now, his full attention shifting to the boy between his legs. Kahar was flushed, the corners of his eyes slightly wet, but not from gagging, he hadn’t gagged once. Fakhri had trained him well. Kahar’s mouth could take anything. It was greedy, a thing of devotion and obsession, like he was trying to imprint the shape of Fakhri into his throat permanently.

“Mmm, kau ni memang pervert, kan cinta?” Fakhri murmured, his voice thick with fondness, fingers trailing down to brush the line of Kahar’s cheekbone. “Sampai kau rela dapat ni dari makan malam.”

Kahar blinked again, his lips twitching like he wanted to smile, as much as he could with a mouthful of cock. He shifted slightly, pressing closer, lips sealing tighter like he didn’t want to let it go.

Fakhri let his head fall back with a quiet sigh, basking in the warm, wet suction, the lazy devotion. His free hand slipped further down, cupping the back of Kahar’s neck, thumb stroking the nape.

“Kau lagi suka ada something untuk kau hisap, hm?” he whispered. “Tak kisah lah apa pun, janji boleh. Hm, kalau aku letak madu atas jari aku and suh kau hisap sampai bersih, confirm kau ikut je. Entah-entah kau nak lagi.”

Kahar made a sound then, a soft, high noise that vibrated down Fakhri’s length. Fakhri’s hips twitched slightly in response, but he didn’t thrust. Not yet. He liked watching Kahar be like this, he liked seeing his bratty, loud-mouthed boyfriend all soft and pliant and eager, used to mouthing off and picking fights but now rendered completely silent, gagged by choice and love.

And Fakhri knew it was love. No one sucked cock like this unless they were in love. No one surrendered this much, for this long, without expecting something back.

Kahar didn’t just have an oral fixation, he had him. Fakhri owned every inch of his boyfriend’s mouth, every craving and hunger and addiction. And that knowledge burned warm and deep in his chest.

Maybe later, he’d pull Kahar up, kiss him slow, feed him a lollipop and watch the way he tongued it like he did Fakhri’s cock. Maybe he’d fuck him deep and sweet while Kahar moaned around a finger in his mouth just to have something to suck on.

But for now, he just let the moment stretch on, basking in the quiet, obscene devotion.

“Good boy,” Fakhri murmured, letting his head fall back again, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t stop.”

Kahar moaned low around Fakhri’s cock, the sound reverberating down the thick length resting heavy on his tongue. It wasn’t even a performative moan, not the kind meant to tease or flatter. No, this was something raw, automatic, pulled from deep in his gut. His own arousal pulsed in time with it, undeniable and distracting, and he squirmed where he knelt between Fakhri’s thighs.

His pants had grown tight, painfully so, the heat in his belly sharp and demanding. His thighs pressed together, flexing uselessly for relief as his hand crept between them, fingers fumbling with the bulge straining against the fabric. He groaned again, more desperate this time, the noise muffled and wet as his lips sealed tighter around the thick base of Fakhri’s cock. His eyelids fluttered shut, overwhelmed, dizzy with the heady taste, the smell of sweat and skin and something distinctly Fakhri.

Then, like a siren call, the awareness of being watched crept into him.

Kahar forced his eyes open, lashes heavy with lust, and looked up.

Fakhri was already watching.

Of course he was.

That calm, knowing gaze was fixed on him with a curiosity that made Kahar’s stomach twist in anticipation. Fakhri wasn’t surprised, he never was, but he did look intrigued, like he’d stumbled on some rare treasure he hadn’t yet fully unwrapped.

Kahar whimpered around him, then pushed forward until his nose buried itself into the dark, neatly trimmed curls above Fakhri’s base. His eyes didn’t leave Fakhri’s face. He tilted his head just so, mouth stretched wide, tears pricking the corners of his eyes from the depth and still, still, he didn’t pull back.

He wanted Fakhri to see him like this. See how much he could take. See how deep he’d go. See the kind of boy he was when he wanted to be good.

Fakhri’s brows lifted slightly, his lips curving into a slow, lazy smile, impressed, and more than a little pleased. One hand came up to cup Kahar’s jaw, his thumb brushing along his cheekbone before slipping down to his chin, guiding him carefully, gently back.

Kahar gasped as he let himself be pulled away, drool trailing from the corner of his lips, glossy and slick. His chest heaved, eyes half-lidded, lips kiss-swollen and red. He looked wrecked and they’d barely begun.

Fakhri’s voice was smooth and rich, soft with amusement. “Kau ni memang nak suffocate diri kau sendiri ke kau betul-betul nak aku praise kau ni, hm?”

Kahar licked his lips shamelessly, chasing the taste. “Kalau dua-dua aci tak?”

Fakhri chuckled, his other hand sliding back into Kahar’s hair, fingers curling just enough to tug. “Mmm, nasib baik kau pandai hisap, kan?”

He let go, and Kahar dove back in, not with the desperation of a man dying of thirst, but with the slow, devastating control of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. His tongue worked in tight, practiced spirals, curling along the underside, then flicking playfully at the tip before sliding back down. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking so hard it pulled a groan from deep in Fakhri’s chest.

Kahar's free hand finally slipped past the waistband of his pants. He palmed himself shamelessly now, cock throbbing in his grip, leaking from how utterly turned on he was just from this, just from serving. From making Fakhri fall apart slowly, bit by bit.

“Fuck,” Fakhri hissed, his head tipping back, hips rolling up into the warmth of Kahar’s mouth. “Mana kau belajar untuk suck dick camni, ha?”

Kahar made a pleased little hum, then pulled back just enough to whisper hoarsely, “Practice lah.”

Fakhri grinned, breath stuttering as Kahar swallowed him down again, throat flexing around the length like it belonged there. Every stroke of his tongue was deliberate, every shift of pressure carefully calibrated to draw out just the right reactions, a hiss, a groan, a twitch of the hips.

His mouth was obscene, but it was more than that. It was worship. He kissed the tip like it was sacred, nuzzled into the base like he wanted to mark it as home. His mouth wasn’t a mouth anymore, it was a furnace, a vice, a shrine.

“Holy shit, cinta,” Fakhri gasped, threading his fingers through Kahar’s hair again, holding him there but not forcing. He didn’t need to. Kahar wanted to be here. Every shiver, every moan, every breathless whine into the curve of Fakhri’s thigh made that clear.

Kahar’s eyes fluttered open again, glassy and dazed, and Fakhri nearly came from the look alone. Dark and wanting, glossy with tears and lust, filled with nothing but him.

It was the best head Fakhri had ever received, not because of technique (though God knows that the boy had technique for days), but because of the way Kahar gave himself up so entirely. Like sucking cock was the only thing grounding him to reality. Like he didn’t care about getting off, only about getting Fakhri off.

And Fakhri was close, dangerously close.

He gripped Kahar’s chin again, tilting his head back gently, guiding him off with a breathless groan. Kahar let go with a pop, tongue still trailing after the tip like he couldn’t bear to be parted. His lips were slick with spit, his chin wet, his eyes wide and hungry.

“Masuk bilik, on the bed,” Fakhri said, voice low and hoarse. “I’m not gonna waste that mouth.”

Kahar’s grin was feral.

Kahar scrambled off the floor the moment Fakhri gave the word, a mess of eager limbs and breathless anticipation. His fingers trembled with urgency as he stripped, flinging off his shirt and pants in a disheveled trail across the floor, uncaring where they landed. The second his skin hit the cool sheets, he sank down into a W-sitting position, his knees folded beneath him, thighs spread wide, spine arched in that familiar, obedient curve that he knew Fakhri loved.

His head tilted back, mouth open obscenely wide, his tongue stretched out and dripping with want. His lips were still wet from earlier, chin still glistening from spit and arousal. There was something mindlessly hungry in his eyes, glassy, desperate, utterly unashamed.

Fakhri stood in the doorway for a beat, just watching him. He clicked the door shut behind him with the finality of a man sealing off the world. The soft metallic click of the lock sounded almost too quiet for the kind of things they were about to do.

Fakhri’s pupils dilated with a sharp rush of lust, swallowing up the warm brown of his irises. His jaw twitched, chest rising with a slow breath like he was trying to steady himself. Kahar looked wrecked already and they hadn’t even begun. His slim body glowed in the low light, muscles subtly flexed from the way he posed himself, like he was made to be devoured. It was like Kahar wasn’t just asking to be used, he was begging for it, offering his throat like a gift.

And Fakhri? He was never one to ignore a present.

He licked his lips, slow and purposeful, as he stepped forward and peeled off his clothes, not bothering with the grace he usually had. Everything about his movements was raw, filled with hunger. His cock was already heavy and hard, flushed and leaking at the tip. It bobbed slightly with each step he took, and Kahar’s eyes followed it like he was watching salvation approach.

“Tengok lah kau ni, cinta,” Fakhri murmured, voice low and amused. “You love this, huh?”

Kahar’s only response was a low whimper, tongue still out, fingers digging into the mattress on either side of his thighs like he needed something to anchor him.

Fakhri didn’t waste another second.

He surged forward and grabbed Kahar by the jaw, thumb pressing into one cheek, fingers biting into the other as he tilted Kahar’s head higher. “Keep that mouth open.”

And Kahar did. Beautifully.

Fakhri shoved his cock into that waiting heat with no hesitation, the wet warmth of Kahar’s mouth enveloping him all at once. He bottomed out almost immediately, Kahar gagging slightly before adjusting his throat with practiced ease. The way Kahar took him, relaxed, obedient, and needy, was so perfect it made Fakhri groan aloud, his hips jerking forward of their own accord.

He gripped the back of Kahar’s head with one hand, the other braced on the headboard as he began to fuck his mouth in earnest, with deep, harsh strokes that made Kahar’s whole body rock. His head snapped back with each thrust, spit flying from the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin and onto his chest.

Kahar just let it happen. Moaning around the intrusion, thighs pressed tightly together as he trembled from the sheer intensity of being used. His cock was still achingly hard, untouched, pressed painfully against his stomach as Fakhri drove into his throat again and again.

“Fucking perfect,” Fakhri growled, looking down at him with a gleam in his eye. “You were made for this, weren’t you?”

Kahar let out a garbled sound, eyes fluttering, fingers curling against the sheets as Fakhri's cock repeatedly punched down his throat, his lips swollen and raw, nose pressed into Fakhri’s pelvis with each deep thrust. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t form words but he didn’t need to. His body said everything.

He was pliant. Willing. Craving it.

Fakhri slowed for a moment, just a moment, pulling back far enough to let Kahar gasp for air. The boy took in a ragged, broken inhale, spit trailing in glistening strings from his lips to Fakhri’s cock. His chest heaved, and he blinked up at Fakhri through lashes wet with tears.

And he smiled. A fucked-out, breathless grin.

Fakhri’s control snapped.

With a growl, he shoved Kahar down onto the mattress, pressing one hand between his shoulder blades to hold him there. He didn’t even flip him over, just bent him forward in the same position, forcing Kahar’s face into the sheets, then shoved his cock back into his mouth from above, angling his hips until he could fuck down into that greedy heat.

The change in angle had Kahar sobbing around him, drooling helplessly as Fakhri’s cock battered his throat. Kahar’s own hips jerked forward with every thrust, grinding into the sheets, desperate for friction.

“Dirty little thing,” Fakhri hissed, thrusts becoming erratic, rougher. “You get off on this, don’t you? Can’t even breathe but you’re dripping like a bitch in heat.”

Kahar whined, throat flexing around Fakhri’s cock. He was shaking now, muscles trembling, legs spread wide to keep from collapsing completely. His eyes rolled back, more tears spilling as he choked on every thrust, and still, still, he didn’t try to stop him. Not once.

Fakhri gripped his hair and yanked his head back just enough to see his face, spit-slicked, cheeks flushed, tears trailing down in messy wet streaks. And smiling. Still fucking smiling.

“You’re insane,” Fakhri muttered, breathless, turned on beyond reason. “And I fucking love it.”

With a guttural groan, he drove into Kahar’s mouth one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he came hard, hot, thick ropes spilling directly down Kahar’s throat. Kahar swallowed instinctively, taking all of it, even as his body twitched from the overwhelming sensation.

He stayed there for a moment, still panting, cock still twitching as it softened between Kahar’s lips. He pulled out slowly, watching with hazy eyes as Kahar let it fall free, tongue catching the last drops with a satisfied hum.

Then Kahar looked up, voice rough and low, eyes burning with desire.

“Ri, lagi?”

Just with those two words, Fakhri’s cock throbbed back to a half-chub Fakhri hadn’t even managed to answer him before Kahar’s mouth was already back on him, hungry, and worshipful, that tongue trailing along his length with the same reverence he might’ve given to something holy. His lips were swollen, chin glistening, and still he worked with focused determination, his eyes locked upward through dark lashes like he lived to see Fakhri melt under his touch.

And melt he did.

Fakhri exhaled sharply, cock twitching back to life at the sight of Kahar so eager, so ready to serve again. It was like Kahar needed to keep going, like he needed something filling his mouth, something occupying him, something to submit to.

“Insatiable,” Fakhri murmured, brushing his fingers through Kahar’s sweat-damp hair, tugging lightly just to hear the soft whine it pulled from him.

“Duduk situ diam-diam,” he said after a beat, voice suddenly firmer, laced with that familiar edge of control.

Kahar froze in place, tongue still flicking along the underside of Fakhri’s half-hard cock, like he was holding a position he’d been trained for. His knees didn’t budge from where they’d been planted on the bedsheets, and his hands came up to rest obediently on his thighs.

Fakhri disappeared into their closet, leaving the door slightly ajar. Kahar didn’t move but his mind raced. He already knew what Fakhri was going to get.

And when he heard the soft rattle of the drawer, the sound of shifting plastic and a faint electronic hum? His breath caught in his throat. A shiver ran down his spine. His mouth felt hotter, wetter, just from the anticipation.

When Fakhri came back, he was holding exactly what Kahar had imagined, the deep violet silicone glinting faintly under the light, sleek and wide and unmistakable. The dildo. Seven inches of thick, unforgiving girth with those dual motors and carefully ridged textures that always left Kahar seeing stars.

Fakhri tilted his head, watching the way Kahar’s eyes dilated, the subtle rise and fall of his chest as his body betrayed just how much he craved it.

“You remember this one?” Fakhri teased, voice like velvet and sin. “Tak payah nak mintak pun, kan?”

Kahar nodded, unable to speak, the lump in his throat replaced by the ache of anticipation.

Without another word, Fakhri pulled him up by the wrist and laid him out on the bed, knees bent, hips elevated slightly with a pillow shoved beneath him. Kahar’s hands clutched at the sheets, already trembling with need.

Fakhri knelt between his legs and got to work, slow, deliberate stretches at first, his fingers coated in lube as he prepped him with a focus that felt halfway like torture. Kahar squirmed, breath catching every time Fakhri curled his fingers just right, brushing against that spot that made his eyes flutter shut, made his mouth fall open in a silent gasp.

“You love the burn,” Fakhri whispered, leaning down to speak it directly into Kahar’s ear. “You always do.”

And Kahar, shameless and pliant, nodded with a needy whimper, legs falling further apart in invitation.

When the dildo finally pressed against him, wide and unyielding, his body arched off the mattress. That stretch, that overwhelming fullness, was immediate. It filled him in a way that had him choking on his own moan, lips parted around a breathless sound that could barely be called human.

Fakhri didn’t give him time to adjust. Not this time.

The toy slid in slow but deep, pushed snug against his prostate with practiced precision. Kahar trembled, thighs tensing around Fakhri’s waist, and his hands clawed uselessly at the sheets as the tip nudged against that bundle of nerves again and again. And then he heard it.

Click.

Fakhri turned the dial on the remote.

Kahar gasped, eyes flying open as the vibrations hit full force. It wasn’t just buzzing, it was deep, powerful, relentless. The way it throbbed inside him left him stunned, mouth working open and closed as his hips jerked without his control. His vision swam. The pleasure was instant, thick and punishing, like a flood of sensation he wasn’t ready for.

“J-jap, aku–” he choked out, voice already hoarse. “Aku takleh–”

“Yes, you can,” Fakhri said, sliding forward, grabbing Kahar by the hair again. “You’ll take it. You want this, remember?”

And before Kahar could speak again, Fakhri filled his mouth once more.

There was no lead-up this time, no slow easing in. Fakhri's cock slid between his lips and right back into his throat in one brutal, claiming stroke. Kahar’s eyes went wide, a garbled sound caught around the length invading his mouth. He was overwhelmed from the front, from the back, from every part of his body being pushed to its edge.

Fakhri’s rhythm was punishing now. He face-fucked him with force, hips slamming forward with every thrust as his cock hit the back of Kahar’s throat again and again. The bed rocked beneath them. Kahar gagged and swallowed and moaned around him, the vibrations deep inside his body making his mind go hazy with overstimulation.

He couldn’t breathe properly. Couldn’t think. And still, he took it all.

Tears streaked his face. Spit and drool coated his lips and dribbled down his chin. His thighs twitched from the constant pulsing inside him, and the fact that he still hadn’t even touched himself made it worse. Or better. He didn’t even know anymore.

All he could feel was Fakhri claiming his mouth, filling his body, pushing him toward a breaking point he hadn’t even realized he’d been aching for.

And Fakhri? He looked possessed, his face flushed, grinning, eyes blown wide with lust as he panted above him, hips driving forward with no hesitation, no mercy.

“Kau jangan berani nak pancut lagi,” Fakhri hissed, yanking back just enough to let Kahar breathe. “Not until I tell you.”

Kahar sobbed a soundless reply, his body trembling with restraint as the toy inside him buzzed against every nerve ending he had, demanding release.

But he obeyed. Of course he did.

Because when Fakhri looked at him like that, with heat, with hunger, with love buried somewhere deep behind the dominance, Kahar would do anything.

Anything at all.

It felt like forever, Fakhri switching between fucking his mouth harshly and fucking him with the vibrating dildo and without even touching his cock, Kahar sprayed cum everywhere, and Fakhri slowed to a stop, eyes narrowed as he watched Kahar soil the sheets.

It felt like the room was spinning, not from dizziness, but from the sheer intensity of everything Fakhri was doing to him.

Kahar’s body twitched with overstimulation, muscles taut, chest heaving with every breath. The sheets beneath him were a mess, soaked through with sweat, spit, and the evidence of everything he’d endured already. His thighs trembled violently as he tried to hold himself up, the dildo seated deep inside him, pulsing against his sweet spot with every relentless vibration.

Fakhri stood over him like a shadow, his presence thick with authority, heat radiating from his skin. His fingers were tangled in Kahar’s damp hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head back and force eye contact. Kahar’s lips were parted, his breath coming out in shallow gasps, his pupils wide and glassy, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, from pleasure or from the burn, even he wasn’t sure.

“Aku kata jangan pancut, kan?” Fakhri’s voice was low, dangerous, and calm in a way that made it all the more intense. Each word hit like a strike, biting into Kahar’s already raw psyche. “Tak pandai ikut arahan ke, ha?”

Kahar tried to answer, but only a weak sound escaped his throat, half a moan, half a whimper. His knees shifted uselessly against the sheets, his whole body in a delicate balance between collapse and obedience.

Fakhri’s grip in his hair tightened and he yanked Kahar’s head up further, forcing eye contact. “Tengok aku bila aku tengah bercakap. Jangan nak lari.”

Kahar's lips quivered, eyes fluttering from the stimulation still pulsing inside him. “S-sorry, Fakhri– aku– Kahar tak dapat–” Another moan broke through as the toy inside him shifted with a cruel buzz, pressing flush against his most sensitive spot. His arms gave out slightly and he nearly collapsed again.

Fakhri didn’t offer sympathy.

“Duduk tegak.”

The command cut through Kahar’s haze, sharp and demanding. Somehow, with what little strength he had left, he obeyed, using trembling hands to push himself upright, his thighs trembling from effort, from sensation, from the constant ache building deep inside him. The dildo shifted as he moved, sliding deeper. A sob slipped from his lips.

He sat on it fully. And Fakhri made sure he stayed there.

A moment later, the cold press of metal met Kahar’s skin. He gasped as the nipple clamps latched on with a cruel snap, and the chain connecting them tugged with every breath, every tremble. His whole body felt like it was wired to light, every nerve exposed, twitching. It was overwhelming. Exquisite. Unbearable.

“Ni aku nak ajar kau sikit,” Fakhri murmured as he knelt on the bed, looming closer. “That when I tell you not to cum, you don’t.” His hand came down lightly across Kahar’s cheek, not enough to hurt, but sharp enough to make him gasp and instinctively lean toward the touch, eyes hazy with need.

Kahar bit his lip, trying to stay quiet, trying to control his breathing. But the vibrations inside him were too much. Every shift, every bounce of the bed, every breath Fakhri took seemed to echo inside him through the toy. His back arched as he whimpered, his cock twitching between his legs despite the punishment.

Fakhri’s hand slid down his chest, catching the chain between the clamps and giving it a small, deliberate tug.

Kahar screamed.

The kind of scream that was more than pain. It was release. It was surrender.

It wasn’t long before the tremors began again. Kahar’s entire body tensed, his jaw trembling as he teetered on the edge again. He wasn’t even touching himself and he was going to cum.

Again.

Fakhri saw it in his eyes.

“Kau ni memang degil, kan? Memang taknak belajar langsung, kan?” His tone was mockingly sympathetic. He leaned in and whispered against Kahar’s lips. “Alright, then. Let’s see how many times it takes before you break.”

.-.

Kahar didn’t know how long he had been like this.

His thighs were shaking violently now, sweat dripping down his flushed skin, the chain between his nipples pulling with every shiver, every breath that rattled out of him. The burn between his legs had long since turned molten, his inner muscles twitching endlessly around the thick toy still pulsing deep inside him. Each vibration felt like it was cracking him open a little more.

Fakhri never looked away.

Seated with ease just in front of him, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp and calculating, Fakhri had the aura of someone who could drag Kahar to the edge of sanity and still stay perfectly composed. And that was what made it worse or better, depending on how you looked at it.

Kahar had already cum thrice since then, violently, involuntarily, hands trembling, moaning so loudly he barely recognized his own voice. But Fakhri hadn’t stopped. He hadn’t even slowed down.

"Don’t look away," Fakhri murmured, reaching up to tilt Kahar’s chin again, forcing their eyes to meet. "You cum when I say, and you stop when I say."

"T-tak boleh, Ri– aku– aku tak boleh–!" Kahar choked out, voice wrecked from moaning and panting and begging. “F-Fakhri–”

"Shh…” Fakhri placed a single finger on Kahar's lips, then dragged it down, across his jaw, over his flushed throat, and down his chest until it reached the metal chain. He gave it another sharp tug and Kahar's breath hitched, head falling back in a broken cry.

He was so sensitive. Every part of him felt overexposed, frayed raw like open wires sparking with even the lightest touch. And yet… he couldn’t stop. His cock twitched again, a pathetic sound leaving him as his hips gave another desperate grind against nothing, searching for friction, stimulation, anything.

Fakhri noticed.

"Still trying?" he said, amusement curling through his voice. "Didn’t even notice you were dry the last time, did you?"

Kahar’s lips parted, a soft whimper leaving him. He didn’t. He just knew the pressure had built so fast, his body chasing something it hadn’t been given permission for and he’d tipped right over into a dry orgasm. The feeling had been hollow, empty in the most painfully aching way.

Now, it was happening again.

Fakhri reached forward, thumb rubbing softly over the head of Kahar’s cock and that was all it took. Kahar came again, or tried to. His body seized, thighs flexing, back arching but nothing came out this time. Not even a drop. Just an intense shudder that left him gasping, mouth open wide, eyes screwed shut.

"Bagus," Fakhri whispered, leaning in to kiss just beneath his ear. "You’re starting to understand."

Kahar’s vision blurred with tears, not sadness, not even pain, but the overwhelming release of giving up. Of letting go. His breath was ragged, shoulders trembling as he leaned against Fakhri’s chest, unsure if he was allowed to rest.

But Fakhri didn’t let him collapse yet.

Instead, his hand pressed against Kahar’s stomach, easing him back until he was once again straddling the toy beneath him. Then, with a slow twist of his fingers, he increased the intensity of the vibrations.

Kahar screamed.

“No, no, Fakhri– please–!” His whole body bucked, nerves flaring white-hot. “Sumpah aku tak boleh dah–!”

"Aku tau kau boleh," Fakhri said, deadly calm, thumb rubbing slow circles against Kahar's hip. "You will. You’ll learn to love it. You already do."

His words sunk in like iron.

And Kahar… didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. He did love it. He loves the overwhelming heat, the pain that tipped into pleasure, the feeling of being undone so thoroughly, so completely, that he didn't know where he ended and where Fakhri began. It was terrifying. It was bliss.

Another dry orgasm wracked through him, this one weaker and more pitiful. His whole body shuddered violently, lips parting around a strangled moan. Nothing came. Only the aching, throbbing ghost of release.

And still, Fakhri didn’t stop.

Only when Kahar was slumped forward, tears slipping quietly down his cheeks, murmuring broken pleas into the air, did Fakhri finally reach out and switch the toy off.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Kahar collapsed into Fakhri’s arms, panting, shaking, his body utterly ruined. But Fakhri held him gently now, strong arms encircling him, voice low and quiet near his temple.

“Good boy,” he murmured, kissing his sweat-soaked hair. “You did so well.”

And Kahar melted into it, sobbing softly not from pain, but from the warm, devastating relief of surrender.

Kahar didn’t even have time to catch his breath before he was being moved again, strong hands beneath his thighs, lifting, shifting, folding him open. His muscles cried out from the exertion, his entire body a buzzing ache of overstimulation, but he didn’t fight it. Couldn’t. Not when his mind had already started floating, half-adrift and pliant in Fakhri’s grip.

The vibrator finally stilled inside him, and for a brief moment, Kahar thought he’d been given mercy.

Then he felt Fakhri’s cock press against his hole, which was already stretched wide around the girth of the toy, and he snapped back into clarity with a sharp gasp.

“R-Ri– j-jap– aku–” His voice cracked, hoarse and barely audible.

"Shh," Fakhri whispered, pressing his forehead to Kahar’s. “Sikit je lagi ni, cinta. You can take it. I know you can.”

Fakhri didn’t wait for permission.

His hips pushed forward, slow but firm, until Kahar’s body yielded. The sensation of being filled even more, the thick, live heat of Fakhri’s cock sliding in alongside the unmoving bulk of the dildo, was indescribable. The pressure was overwhelming, electric, a stretch so intense it felt like fire licking up his spine.

Kahar’s mouth dropped open in a silent moan, fingers clawing at the sheets as his back arched on instinct. It was too much, far too much, and yet the way his body clamped down betrayed him. His hole pulsed, sensitive and swollen, and his cock twitched between them with nothing left to give.

“F-Fakhri…” he sobbed, tears spilling anew, though whether it was from pain, pleasure, or just the sheer exhaustion of it all. he didn’t know.

“Good boy,” Fakhri groaned, his voice barely restrained. He pushed in fully, hips flush against Kahar’s trembling thighs. “So tight… still pulling me in. Even after all that.”

He moved slow at first, just shallow rolls of his hips, letting Kahar adjust, letting the weight of the double stretch settle in his bones. But that control didn’t last. The warmth, the tightness, the broken sounds Kahar made, all of it, stripped Fakhri of his restraint.

Soon, he was driving in with steady, snapping thrusts, each one jarring Kahar’s overstimulated body as moans turned to cries, to hiccuped whines, to incoherent pleading. Kahar’s legs wrapped weakly around Fakhri’s waist, trembling with every movement. He could barely think, barely breathe, his body giving in fully.

It didn’t take long. Fakhri came with a ragged growl, burying himself deep, and Kahar felt the heat flood him, his already bruised insides now filled with a second kind of pressure. The sensation broke something in him.

His body jerked in response, one final dry orgasm wracking through him, painful in its emptiness, in the way his muscles contracted as if trying to summon something he no longer had. It left him sobbing against Fakhri’s shoulder, too spent to even lift his arms.

And that was when Fakhri stilled.

The room, once filled with wet skin and breathy curses, fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the soft sound of Kahar crying, his cries quiet, broken, and honest.

Fakhri wrapped his arms around him, carefully easing out, slowly removing the toy and tossing it aside. Kahar whimpered at the emptiness, his body shivering from the aftershocks, but Fakhri held him closer.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, guiding Kahar onto his side, drawing the blankets up and over them. “You’re okay, cinta. I’ve got you.”

Kahar curled against him, burying his face into Fakhri’s chest, still trembling, still so raw he couldn’t form words. His body was a mess, slick with sweat and cum, thighs shaking, hole leaking warmth onto the sheets, nipples red and sore from the clamps that had been removed with gentle, practiced care.

Fakhri didn’t rush anything.

He kissed Kahar’s hair, his forehead, his damp cheek. He reached for the water bottle on the bedside table, coaxed him to sip, wiping away the tears that kept slipping down his cheeks. He whispered soft things, grounding him, anchoring him with every word.

"You did so good for me, baby,"

Kahar couldn’t stop crying.

Not from sadness, and not even from pain. His body was simply wrung out, trembling from pleasure so sharp it blurred into ache, every nerve still flickering with aftershocks, his breaths shallow and hitched, chest fluttering like wings caught in a storm.

Fakhri held him. Gently. Steadily.

He lay beside him on the crumpled, soiled sheets, not caring about the mess, only focused on the trembling boy in his arms. Kahar curled into him like something fragile, his fingers twitching and trying to cling, body still recoiling in waves.

Fakhri pressed soft kisses to his forehead, his temple, his swollen lips. “Ikut aku bernafas, cinta,” he whispered, his voice velvet, so achingly soft that it didn’t seem to belong to the same man who’d taken him so ruthlessly moments ago.

Kahar obeyed, barely, hiccuping shallow breaths in sync with Fakhri’s deeper ones.

“That’s it. You did so well. You were perfect for me.”

He reached over and grabbed a small pack of wet wipes, and without letting go of Kahar completely, began cleaning him.

It wasn’t just a practical gesture, it was worship. Every motion was slow, tender, reverent. He wiped the tear tracks from Kahar’s cheeks, the sweat from his brow, and then gently cleaned between his thighs. Kahar whimpered from the oversensitivity, his legs twitching at the contact, but Fakhri kept whispering soothing things: “I’ve got you, cinta. It’s okay. Aku ada kat sini.”

He was gentle around the angry red of Kahar’s nipples, soft around his overstimulated hole, careful not to press too hard where he knew Kahar was sore. He kissed each cleaned patch of skin, murmuring little apologies, little praises. “So beautiful like this. So good for me. I’m lucky to have you.”

And when he finished, Fakhri wrapped him in a soft towel and tucked the blanket around his shoulders while he stood and headed to the bathroom.

Kahar didn’t even try to move. His limbs felt like jelly, every part of him humming with exhaustion, with fullness, with something deep and sacred that he couldn’t name.

Then he heard it. He heard the gentle gush of running water, the rush and swirl as something was poured into it. Fizzing followed. A scent wafted in through the door a few minutes later: lavender, rich and warm and earthy, undercut with vanilla and the soft shimmer of rose. There was something else, too — sugared sweetness, like honey steeped in milk.

When Fakhri returned, Kahar opened his eyes just barely. He looked like something divine. Shirtless, pants gone, his face soft and focused, a towel draped over one shoulder. “CMeh sini, manja,” he murmured, his arms sliding under Kahar with ease.

Kahar made a soft noise, something between a whimper and a plea. His body tried to resist the motion, too raw, too tired, but Fakhri just shushed him. “Let me carry you. You’ve done enough.”

And he did.

Kahar melted into him as Fakhri princess-carried him into the bathroom, the low lights casting everything in a warm golden glow. The bath was a dream, the water a soft, shimmering shade of glittering pink, steam curling upward, scented candles flickering along the sink and shelf. The bath bomb had turned the water milky and luminescent, little petals floating atop the surface, and the sound of a quiet instrumental track hummed in the background, grounding and calm.

Fakhri settled first, easing into the bath with a soft sigh, then slowly brought Kahar down with him, careful not to jostle or submerge him too quickly.

The moment Kahar’s skin hit the water, he gasped, his body shivering from the contrast. The warmth seeped into his bones like a balm, wrapping around the bruises, the aches, the deep-seated tension. Fakhri sat behind him, chest flush to Kahar’s back, arms looping around his waist, pulling him in like a weighted blanket.

Kahar slumped.

Every muscle in his body gave out at once. His head tilted back onto Fakhri’s shoulder, eyes fluttering closed, lips parted in a soft, dreamy sigh.

“There you go,” Fakhri whispered, nuzzling into his wet hair. “Just let go. I’ve got you now.”

He held Kahar that way for a long time—one hand stroking his chest gently, the other trailing along his thigh under the water, drawing lazy, grounding shapes. Every so often, he’d kiss the side of Kahar’s face, whisper things like “Kau selamat dengan aku” or “I’m so proud of you” or “You gave me everything… and I’ll give it all back to you.”

Kahar blinked up at him after a while, eyes glossy and pink, his voice hoarse. “Aku sayang kau, Ri.”

Fakhri didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. He smiled, his smile soft, radiant, and nothing short of being real.

“Aku pun sayang kau, Kahar,” he whispered, pressing a long kiss to his temple. “Every part of you. Every tear, every moan, every time you fall apart in my arms.”

He reached for a loofah and the lavender-scented body wash, lathering it between his palms before working it over Kahar’s skin. He washed him slowly, intimately, not as something to get done, but like an offering. He cradled each limb as he bathed it, washing behind his ears, down his back, between his fingers. Kahar barely reacted, too far gone into comfort, but he sighed every time Fakhri’s fingers stroked through his hair or smoothed across his chest.

And when the bath finally started to cool, Fakhri helped him out, dried him with warm towels pulled fresh from the dryer, massaged his thighs with calming balm, and dressed him in a soft oversized shirt.

Kahar, completely pliant, let himself be tucked back into bed.

Fakhri climbed in beside him, pulling the covers over them both, holding him close as if to make up for every second of distance during the intense play before.

The room was quiet again, but this silence was different.

Sated. Soft.

Safe.

[cruelfeline]

I was doing that thing where you're imagining various character scenarios, except you're feeling particularly self-insert-y, so you've added that in there, too. And I was talking out loud, as one does, talking at characters and whatnot. Specifically thinking about the scenario from earlier, with Cuff and Frey temporarily stranded in a Labyrinth, and Frey snapping at Cuff due to his somewhat noisy, bothersome coping methods.

The dialogue that ultimately came out of my mouth was "Alfre, something may be done for a reasonable purpose; it may even be necessary. But it may still ultimately result in egregious harm. You know this."

Meaning, specifically, that imprisoning Susurrus in the Labyrinths very well may have been the only reasonable thing to do in the face of the destruction he wrought. It may have been "right." That does not mean that it didn't traumatize and torment an actual person for centuries, in a way that has lasting effects in him.

And as I was thinking about it, it occurred to me that like, the last bit of my ramblings is true for her. She does know! Because what Cinta did to her has the same sort of energy.

Yeeting her to NYC was potentially the best thing to do at the time. It very well could have saved her from the Break, even from Cinta herself. It has completely good intentions and was done in desperation and love.

But it still sucked. It still caused Frey massive trauma from childhood onwards. It still hurt her and damaged her. And it's still something that she doesn't seem fully comfortable forgiving Cinta for, even knowing why it was done.

Anyway. Where was I going with this? No where.

I just had a minor Forspoken character thought/epiphany while talking to myself, and I wanted to share it. Yes. Good.

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Can't help but to think that Cuff has a soft spot for Junoon. I have nothing really to back that up, but that video with the bridge dialogue made me think of it.

Oh, and worth sharing. The little shit even wanted to call Junoon Vambracia at some point asjasd. Also by wandering around Junoon. I was so offended and Frey too.

Gosh, I love how much there is still to discover.

I'm gonna have to run around Junoon more, I never got that dialogue either! Cuff was holding out on me while I was running around photographing everything in sight!!! XD

He does seem to have some good feelings for Junoon, yeah. It's kind of sweet, and I have so many headcanons about why. Mostly of the "being bonded to Cinta and feeling her love for Frey second hand was the first time he ever experienced positive emotions, and just being in Junoon brings those feelings back" flavor of headcanon, tbh. But he also has an eye for beauty and fashion, which Junoon was known to cultivate, so maybe that has something to do with it, too :) He's such a precious birb, I love him so much 💜

[dezykinnz]

Forspoken Rant down below 👇

Listen… as much as I love this game the writers need to get their asses beat for the shit that they did to Frey and her characterization.

This is gonna be a long one… all leave me along for any typos I’m not editing this in the slightest this is just a word vomit rant. Spoilers below I guess

One of my favorite things about Forspoken is that I’m not stuck playing grizzled white guy number 65. I can finally play a game that lets me play as a black woman. Frey she’s the main attraction, she isn’t a side character to the main hero. We play her solo. And for black woman like myself I never thought I’d see a triple A game with someone who looks like me at least not for a very loooong time.

For all the happiness this game has brought me so did the dread. And ultimately it showed me that we might never see something like it again. The ridicule and hate Forspoken has gained is truly astonishing. I don’t think I’ve seen something get nearly as much hate for simply being a mediocre game. The main component to this fire is Frey being a black woman and how one scene paused and taken out of context had the internet out with pitchforks and gasoline. Ready and gleefully shitting on anyone who enjoyed it. Make no mistake that most gamers are largely unwelcoming and hell out right racist did make me question my own position on if I was just enjoying this game because for the first time I could see myself in the protagonist. But it’s in spite of me relating to Frey that I will defend this game.

Forspoken is not a bad, no good, terrible game. It never was but it also is no masterpiece by any means. And a work that can’t be criticized just because I enjoy doesn’t mean I’m hating on it but there are background factors in my opinion that truly crippled this game.

And that’s mainly it’s story. Which I won’t be getting to much into mostly Frey as a character.

Janky gameplay will be overlooked and seem as somewhat endearing if the games story is strong and characters are well written.

Having good combat and a flashy particle system won’t. Having an empty open world where it feels like a collect-a-thon won’t. Especially if the story and its protagonist are weak. Double that if the protagonist is not one we’re creating.

All issues Forspoken suffers from.

Or rather Frey’s story and how little it seems the writers put any deeper characterization of her. Her origin are rife with stereotypes but that doesn’t necessarily make it bad. Hell take it from me someone who was in the foster care system it’s refreshing to see a character who went through similar struggles as me.

The real problems lies in how the writers made no attempt at any nuance in Frey’s story.

Like at all.

Did no one see that in the context of Cinta being white and not telling Frey who her father was or how to find him they played directly into the absent black father trope? Like did any go hmmm… maybe not a good idea. It’s like they wanted to divorce Frey from any cultural upbringing she would have had in New York City…. As a black woman. Especially one that shows her being a criminal. Even if it’s out of necessity to show how desperate she is to survive. America isn’t all sunshine and rainbows where everyone one gets along.

It feels almost cartoonish both outdated and as deep as a puddle. Like oh look at the black kids and one Latina being aggressive and how this mob guy really needs his money run away now while we show you some of the games movement mechanics. Seriously? That’s the best you got to set the tone of the game?!

And it especially shows in the dialogue because Frey doesn’t not sound like she’s from New York, hell she doesn’t even sound like an east coaster. You could have told me she was from California and it would have made more since. The writing team did not handle her with care nor were they prepared to write a character that needed to be multifaceted. I looked them up mostly writing teen tv dramas, which there’s nothing wrong with that… however coma I can tell none of them had a clue of how to write Frey because it is glaring and very obvious.

It feels like we never really get to bond with Frey and she feels strangely hollow. I can’t say other than her being snarky that there’s anything about her that stands out that is unique to her. But female protagonist being snarky for snarky sake is getting a little old for me in their characterization. We know she likes cats, and likes shoes. The shoes she’s wearing don’t even make much since if she’s a sneaker head but I digress. She gets a glimmer of hope in Olivia but that gets snatched away early on In the story for it to really have effectively changed Frey. In my eyes Oliva never died and Fret is gonna train her to be a Tanta lol.

We never learn much or get any deeper insight to what makes her tick.

It’s almost like Frey’s look came up and everyone had imagined someone else as the protagonist. Cough cough red head snarky girl. Colorblind storytelling at its finest. Which is not a good thing in this case.

Frey is told she is the only one who can save Athia and spends the game trying to get back home only to accept this duty due to her being to what equates to a magical princess. Her reasons for saving Athia are because she has too not because she wants to suddenly going from all I wanna do is go home to I’m gonna save these people I barely know and have treated me like shit.

I wish they never made her Cinta’s daughter or maybe implied it subtly something. Or maybe it just needed to be written better for the reveal.

They desperately need a black writer in the room or a sensitivity reader or something.

It’s sad and frustrating how easily her story could have been written if they just gave her to someone who actually wanted to tell this story. Because that’s another feeling I got that no one wanted to write this which is there loss

There are some genuinely interesting things about this story that simply fell by the wayside unfortunately.

I could rant until I turn purple in the face. But I say all this to say that please for the love of god do not treat your poc characters like they are white in an attempt to make them more relatable it divorces them of the culture, characterization and ultimately makes them feel empty.

Maybe I’ll make a Forspoken :ReMetamorphosis rewriting the story for fun because how often I would pause and go what if the wrote it like this instead.

Smh that’s all for now.

Ps still working on that fanart :) it’s an empty canvas now.

[mikrokosmcs]

Taeyong  con  esa  voz  grabe,  pero  con  un  tono  gentil,  siempre  lograba  que  se  sintiera  lindo,  atractivo  y  como  una  joya  en  el  mundo,  y  en  esta  ocasión  en  conjunto  con  las  mariposas  en  su  estómago,  una  risa  resuena  en  su  boca.  -  —Si  la  marca  en  el  cuello  y  que  estoy  cargando  tu  cachorro,  no  sé  que  más  pruebas  necesitas  que  soy  tuyo  —  -baja  la  vista  hasta  donde  las  manos  del  otro  lo  tocan,  colocando  una  de  las  suyas  para  comenzar  a  moverla  por  la  expansión  de  piel,  queriendo  que  lo  toque  donde  el  peso  del  bebé  era  más  prominente,  esperando  que  patee  pronto.  -  —Tengo  fe  que  heredará  tu  bella  voz  y  le  encantará  estar  sobre  un  escenario,  demostrando  que  es  una  estrella  colocada  por  el  universo  en  la  tierra  —  -a  Sakmin  le  gustaba  traer  a  las  personas  y  ser  el  centro  de  atención,  su  cachorro  esperaba  pudiese  ser  exactamente  un  cantante  y  interprete  maravilloso.  -  —¿Quieres  que  sea  un  niño  o  una  niña,  mi  amor? 

Se asegura de recordar cada alimento requerido por el contrario para enviar a un miembro de la manada en las próximas horas, todo esto sin dejar de sonreír por lo creativo que era con sus deseos y la forma que lame sus labios, provocando que se sienta tan enamorado como el día que se hicieron uno en el bosque. "No estas gordo, mi vida, sigues siendo el hombre más atractivo que he visto y mío, todo mío." Taeyong sabe porqué está más sensible que de costumbre y entiende que extrañe a su familia y el lugar donde creció hasta que iniciar su viaje por el mundo, siendo uno de esos donde sus caminos se cruzaron. "Tienes que comer bien y por dos, al parecer esta pequeña criatura es insaciable y tiene los mismo gustos que tú." la diestra se posa en el lugar donde su cachorro crece, moviéndola en círculos gentilmente. "¿Crees que le guste cantar conmigo en los espectáculos?"

[scottruemelshi]

17, 33 and 34 for the fic ask game? :)

17. What is something you recently felt proud of in your writing?

I personally enjoy very tense dialogue-heavy scenes where the power dynamic keeps changing. One word, and the ball can be in the other person’s court. I don’t know whether other people felt this way, but I hope it came across in the second chapter of Truth or Truth (The Acolyte fic)! I certainly was proud of that scene.

33. A character you want to protect.

Cinta… I feel like she herself is protective of many things, especially because of what she had to go through. So I want to protect her🥺

34. What is your favorite fic to get comments/messages on?

I would say Babylon, because I think the premise is really fun and silly, it’s good to see other people enjoying themselves as much as I did when writing it!! Also this is one of very few of my fics that have an actual happy ending😊

[chipthekeeper]

There are so many easy answers for what I appreciate about Cinta. She's a badass, she's stone cold and fearless, she's the consummate rebel. Hell, she could be on rebellion propaganda posters (not that she'd ever allow that, she's gotta be able to go undercover after all)!!

I could talk about how cool she looks when she stabs Corv or when she comes down to shoot Petigar and save Nemik's life (for a little while, at least). I could talk about her A+ death glare or about how she almost laughs in Cassian's face when he hits on her. I could talk about how she's smart and resourceful and fucking strong. I could talk about how she's just, too beautiful to be real.

But everything I appreciate most about Cinta is everything we don’t see. Or, more accurately, what we barely see. What we get little glimpses of in the out of focus shots when she thinks we can't see her. This is a character who buries her feelings so deep down that she can even convince herself she doesn't have them, that they can't hurt her or define her. And so much of her character is revealed in super subtle looks and expressions, in small bits of dialogue because, as Varada said, "this is someone who has been through so much and is suffocating on her own rage and anger...So why would she waste words, or her breath, talking about it."

Throughout the whole Aldhani arc she only says a handful of sentences, all short and to the point but not unfriendly. She's always shown being active and helpful around the camp, almost smiling at multiple points. On first watch you can be forgiven for having the impression that she's the warmer one between her and Vel (especially if you forget Skeen's line about her being "stone cold and fearless" while you're screeching about the blanket line (guilty as charged)). But everything turns on its head at the beginning of episode 6, when Skeen drops another lore bomb: her whole family was slaughtered by stormtroopers. Everything you thought about Cinta before that suddenly takes on a new meaning. You realize she's quiet and distant and cold because it hurts less to lose people when you don't know them. You realize she seems fearless because what else does one have to fear when everyone they loved has already been killed?

At the same time, though, I think she's actually someone who's very much driven by her fear, especially after the Adhani job. I think despite her intentions and her caution, she got attached to that team, and losing them all except for Vel was a reminder that getting close to people is dangerous. She's scared to lose any more, scared of how it will feel to lose Vel to the Empire too, so she tries to act cold and push her away. She tries, but I appreciate that she can't fully do it!! If she was really doing it, really pushing her away and putting up the barrier, she'd never take Vel's hand in the cafe. She'd never steal a glance at her when she's not looking. She'd never come away from the window. You can feel the conflict in her at all those points, can feel her trying to tell herself to stay focused on the fight, but ultimately she can't fully push it all down because, as people somehow just don't get, SHE REALLY REALLY LOVES HER!!! You can see it, if you're paying attention. She may love honor more, but there's no actual way to deny she loves Vel IF YOU'RE PAYING ATTENTION.

Something else I appreciate, perhaps more than anything, is that her name means love. I don't believe that was done unintentionally, and I really hope it's a sign that she's going to come around and realize that she can't run from love forever. It's literally part of her.

I appreciate Cinta because, to me, she is a cautionary tale. Because at the same time she's showing Vel what she needs to see -- that the Empire doesn't stop to catch its breath, so the struggle must always come first -- she's showing us the potential cost of living that way. Thankfully her other half is on top of that, and I'll get to that in a couple weeks.

I could keep going on and on about them together, but that's not fully in the realm of this prompt so I'll wrap it up. But I'd be remiss if I didn't end this by saying how much I appreciate Varada for playing Cinta. An actual human ray of sunshine playing a character who slips closer and closer to darkness. I love her work and I love how proud she is to be Cinta, to be an incredible example of representation and give us a canonically queer character of color in such a huge and important show. I'll forever be thankful for her, and I am so happy she's becoming the star she deserves to be.

Even after all this talking I know I'm leaving things out, so I hope many of the rest of you chime in with what you appreciate about Cinta. She's one of the most special characters that has ever been put to screen for me, no caveats, no asterisks.

Cinta Kaz. A survivor. A rebel. A lover. I'll cherish her always.

Character Appreciation Friday - Cinta Kaz

Name: Cinta Kaz Played by: Varada Sethu Appearances: Aldhani, The Axe Forgets, The Eye, Announcement, Narkina 5, One Way Out, Daughter of Ferrix, Rix Road

Happy Friday, gang! I'll keep this brief for now because I will definitely not be keeping it brief for her in my actual response (and also because if I look at this draft and that picture too long I'll actually break down in tears).

It's Cinta day. Appreciate her. She deserves it. You know the drill: reblog, comment, or ask!

Next week: Karis Nemik

[khairunnisaamci]

"Dialogue"

"ya wajar kau ditolaknya"

"kenapa begitu?"

"hai Sukab, dia itu gadis yang selama berpuluh tahun hidup memegang prinsip "aku bukan pilihan, aku tujuan" Dan kau hadir dihidupnya menawarkan cinta yang cacat sebab belum selesainya kau dengan masa lalumu itu."

"sudah. aku sudah selesai dengan itu"

"Besak bual kau, Sukab. Kalau sudah tak akan pun sudi kau simpan liontin dari Alina itu. Kubilang padamu ya, Sukab. Orang kalau benar selesai, ditancapkannya kuat-kuat di lubuk hatinya bahwa "tau tentangnya sudah tak ada artinya lagi bagiku". Tau kabar saja sudah ogah Sukaaab, apalagi yang lain, apalagi masih simpan-simpan barang kenangan lama macam kau itu."

"aku cuma simpan, bukan berarti masih cinta, Cha."

"terserah kau saja, Sukab. Yang jelas selama kau belum selesai dengan masalalumu, kau akan selalu menyakiti orang lain yang mencintaimu.

Cinta luar biasa mana yang pantas untuk orang yang jumud terjebak di lorong waktu? Tak ada.

Selama kau dari cinta lamamu yang kandas itu belum sepenuhnya beranjak yang ada akan hanya mampus kau dikoyak-koyak sepi."

-k

Jakarta, 4 (Hujan bulan) Juli 2024

[arisawati]

Explore the aspects of creativity in love, I have to fight for you by Denny Ja 32

In the world of art, creativity is a very important aspect. Creativity allows someone to give birth to fresh and original new ideas. One of the prominent works of art in terms of creativity is essay poetry "with love, I have to fight yourself" by Denny Ja 32nd. This essay poem succeeded in exploring various aspects of creativity in his interesting story. First, creativity can be seen from the characters in this essay poem. Each character has the uniqueness and privilege of each that makes the story more alive. For example, the main character in this essay poem is a writer named Cinta. Love has a rich and creative imagination, so that the idea is always fresh and attractive. In addition, there is also a secondary character who also has its own uniqueness. They all have characteristics that make the story more colorful and attractive. In addition to the creative character, the story line "with love, I have to fight yourself" also shows creativity from the author. The storyline that was built well and neatly structured made the reader not tired of following the story offered. In this essay poem, the 32nd Denny JA managed to present an interesting surprise and an unexpected twisttwist. This keeps the reader curious and wants to continue reading until the end. In addition, creativity is also reflected in the style of language used in this essay poem. The 32nd Denny JA has the ability to use beautiful and creative language. He is able to describe every detail with the right words so that the reader can clearly imagine every scene in the story. The style of language used is also varied, ranging from in -depth descriptions to emotional dialogue. This makes the reader carried away in the storyline and feel every emotion that the author wants to convey. In addition, "With love, I have to fight yourself" also shows creativity in the use of symbols and metaphors. In this essay poem, there are many symbols and metaphors used to describe the various situations and feelings of the figures. For example, the 32nd Denny JA uses flowers as a symbol to describe the beauty and fragility of life. He uses metaphors like "developing into flowers" to describe changes and character growth. In his conclusion, "With love, I have to fight yourself" Denny Ja's 32 is an interesting essay poem with various aspects of attractive creativity. Creativity can be seen from unique characteristics, interesting storylines, beautiful language styles, and the use of intelligent symbols and metaphors. This essay poem succeeded in presenting a fresh and original story, thus making the reader continue to be captivated and impressed. In this digital era, creative works of art like this are very valuable and should be appreciated. In addition to providing entertainment, creative artwork is also able to influence and inspire people. Therefore, "With love, I have to fight yourself" is a work that deserves attention and appreciation from readers and lovers of art.

Check more: Explore the aspects of creativity in "with love, I have to fight yourself" by Denny Ja 32