#kino boyfriend material

[sabraeal]

In Plain Sight, Chapter 7

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2023, Day 4: Rejection

Silence falls so thick over the line that even the fuzz from Obi’s side blots out; a total eclipse of sound. It doesn’t click, not the way it does when a call’s been lost-- or worse, severed completely from the other end-- but Shirayuki’s heart pounds so loud in her ears that she can’t trust whether or not she would have heard it if it did. Maybe she’s just been standing here for minutes, holding onto a call long over while paperwork’s churning to make her into someone else’s problem, someone who knows how to deal with a girl who can’t—

“Sorry, Miss.” The word breathlessly fans into static; she’s so happy to hear him that she forgets to flinch. “Connection must have gotten dropped there. Who is this fiancé of yours?”

“You.”

“Ahh...so I did hear that right,” he mutters wearily. “And you’re sure that it’s...? I mean, your neighbors, they think I’m...?”

“Martha-- Mrs Kino, I mean-- she talked to the movers--” Obi groans, a really, terribly distracting noise-- “and she said that they said that when they were hired, it was a man on the phone. And since I don’t have a job lined up, she assumed...?”

Someone had to be paying for it. Not many people would jump to Uncle Sam.

“Right, right.” A sigh fizzles over the phone. “You’ve got a real nosy neighbor there, Miss.”

“I’m sorry.” The mattress at her back is the perfect firmness, but at times like these she wishes it were enough to swallow her whole. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“No, no. It’s not your fault.” At least this time he sounds amused as well as put out. “That’s just how they make ‘em out here in the greatest state in the union. It’s not like we send you out into the world with top class espionage skills so you can trick the grandma next door.”

No, but she doubts Agent Anda would be pleased to know she tripped right out of the starting gate. “I know, but still. I’ve become a real handful, and I’m sure you’d rather be--”

“Trust me, Miss.” She feels rather than hears the drop in his voice, hitting the register that makes every hair stand up on end. A shiver courses down her spine, and it’s strange that it feels so...good. “Handling you is the highlight of my day. I just always thought I’d be taken out to dinner first. You know, before any marriage proposals.”

“Oh.” She probably shouldn’t be so breathless on what’s, ostensibly, a professional phone call. “Right. Did you want--?”

“Is that all your neighbor knows?”

She blinks. “Um...?”

“That there was a man who hired the movers,” he clarifies, the distant sound of clacking keys filling the silence his voice doesn’t. “I helped you into the house on the first day, did she indicate that I must be your husband, or...?”

“Uh, I don’t...think so?” Though Martha Kino seems like the exact sort of woman who might sit on that sort of information, if only to pull it out as a cute story at a baby shower. “I told them I moved in on my own. You’re supposed to be on a business trip.”

It’s luck and the last shred of her common sense that manages to swallow, and a very good kisser too. It’s bad enough that she can’t forget his stint as Hot Airport Boyfriend, but him knowing she can’t? What pride she has shrivels just thinking about it.

“Right. Right, okay.” His voice gains solid footing now, picking up speed as he tells her, “Don’t worry, Miss. Just let me handle it. I know the perfect husband material.”

*

The sun’s still up when Shirayuki jolts awake, her mouth dry and sticky and tasting like something might have crawled in and died. A terrible beat drums right behind her temples; when she levers up to her elbows, it pounds loud enough her head swims.

Ah, right, water. She needs to hydrate. Because she drank her weight in margaritas at lunch. Aspen may have a face that could be committed to stained glass, radiant halo and all, but those cocktails of hers— well, if any of the folk around here held with the idea that demons could come to you in the guise of an angel, two drinks of that stuff would be proof positive. It’s been years since she’s had anything but a single glass of the fruitiest, most mixed drink at the bar, and yet she’d been tempted into not just one of those margaritas, but—

Shirayuki blinks against the throbbing behind her eyes. Two, wasn’t it? One when she first sat down, another when the sweet tea was just a little too sweet for her tastes. Enough to flirt with her limits, but not dip over-- at least, not at the backyard barbecues back home, or lab happy hours. But maybe now that the humidity could take the Feels Like temperature over three digits, her well-known tipping point has inched itself a little closer to the starting line.

It’d be the best explanation for how terrible her mouth tastes. Shirayuki had never been much of a drinker, not even in her grad school days, but there’s been at least a morning or two where she’s woken up after just one drink too many, and well, it has a flavor just like this. But with only a pre-dinner nap, she can’t have earned this one, not when she couldn’t have possibly had anymore, not after—

Oh god, she told all of them that she had a fiancé. Not just any fiancé, of course, oh not, but a tall, tanned, expert kisser, and she…

Here. Aspen’s angel smile bares teeth. Looks like you might need one of these for the road.

Ah, well. That would definitely explain that. At least it’s nothing a good, carb-heavy dinner couldn’t fix, once the room stopped sloshing at the edges.

With a groan, Shirayuki drags herself upright, wincing at the light leaking through the edges of the blind. Can’t have been sleeping for long if it’s still that bright—

Something slips from the folds of her sheets, clattering onto the floor. Ah, her phone. Of course. Because she’d gotten in the door, and Obi’s sixth sense for trouble must have tingled. He’d called in just to check in, and she…

Shirayuki blinks down at her pillow, at the damp patch where she must have drooled, and— and she doesn’t remember ending the call. Only that one moment she was talking, and the next she was waking up, this foul taste in her mouth. Which could only mean that he— no, that she—

She’d just fallen asleep, mid-call. Like she was some— some small child who wandered off to nap. Oh, she can just imagine the way he’ll grin the next time she sees him, all his long limbs folded over her counter, saying something like, at your size I’m not surprised you need a little nap to make it through the day. And he’ll look at her all sly, all casual, like he wants her to circle the whole of the kitchen to step on his toes, to bunch his shirt in her fists and tell him just what someone her size can do. He’ll look at her like an invitation because—

Oh god, because he’s supposed to. That’s how fiancés look when they’re in their lover’s house. Like they belong.

Her head crashes into the cradle of her palms. Less than a week ago, Shirayuki couldn’t even see the appeal of a kiss, and now here she is, thinking about putting her hands on some— some stranger in hopes he might bend down and let her figure out whether her first try was some fluke, or— or something else. Something almost as terrifying as being hustled out of her home in the dead of night and told that if she wanted to live to see thirty, she’d need to be someone else.

It’s…a lot. Too much. And now he’s her fiancé on top of it all, because she’s never bothered to learn that real life doesn’t give extra credit just for choosing to make it harder.

A sigh slips from her as she crouches, just enough to rescue her phone from where it’s skittered under the bedskirt, and— ah, not the best idea. Not when she’s clearly a few hours out from her last sip of something non-alcoholic. But she’s come too far to turn back now. Oma didn’t raise a quitter.

She didn’t raise a lightweight either, but that’s apparently what she’s got; Shirayuki gets to her knees, trying to get her hand around the edge of the case, and ugh, her stomach rolls up toward her throat, bile burning in the back of her throat, and—

Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. The case beats a soft tattoo against her fingers, muffled but where the screen’s pressed to the floor, and when she flips the screen up, Sugar Daddy blazes across her notifications. meet here @ 11

Sitting back on her heels— ugh, bleh, that position’s not much better— Shirayuki squints into the glare. She can’t possibly be reading that right. Eleven? Tonight? It’s about the mission, she’s sure, it’s just—

It would look bad, wouldn’t it? A young woman slipping out of her house that close to midnight while her partner’s out of town? Reads much less like a professional business meeting, and more like a, er, well, booty call.

Gears churn as she thumbs through to her messages, trying to make teeth catch. It just— it doesn’t make sense. Leaving so late will only put grist in the rumor mill, reaching its peak when her prodigal  fiancé arrives, seemingly none the wiser. Unless, of course, he’s relying on that— on the neighbors thinking there’s a third wheel to their bicycle, one that can be disastrously revealed at the most dramatically appropriate moment, and he can go straight back to being her handler, and she can be—

Ah, her messages are finally open. And there’s Obi’s, right at the top— the only, besides a few utilities and some spam— and his latest is already bold in the preview. It unfurls when she swipes over it, mostly just her inquiry into her kitchenware, but the last line is still meet here @ 11. Just that. And, well…

“A link?” Her head tilts, but that does nothing to clarify the context. When she clicks, the map app opens, pointing her straight toward a— “Panera?”

Well, he had said he would like to get taken out to dinner first. She just thought Agent Obi might have higher standard. “Are those even open that late?”

Maybe they are for government employees. Or maybe they keep someone on staff there, just for these sorts of clandestine conversations, the kind that can’t happen over phone lines or during regular business hours. Or—

Her eyes flick up, a reflex more than a conscious thought, catching the time at the corner of the screen. 9:23, it reads, and there’s something about it that makes her take a second glance. The light pouring in from her windows, maybe, too bright for evening, even this far into spring. Or possibly the taste in her mouth, too strong to be from only a few hours of sleep. Whatever it is, her gaze lingers this time, squinting at where the number crouch in the corner, and—

“AM?” she squeaks, stumbling to her feet. “I’ve slept all day?”

With a wild sweep of her arm, she opens the blinds, the bright light of day filtering through, and oh, ah— there’s Mrs Kino, tending her garden. She looks up, a smile wrinkling the corners of her eyes, and waves.

“Haah…” Shirayuki sighs, weakly waving back. “I think…I need to get in the shower.”

*

It’s just lunch.

That’s what she tells herself as the spray pelts her back, water blurring her vision as she hastily scrapes a razor up her leg. It’s just a professional, business lunch at a chain restaurant. Not even a true sit-down experience, but…fast casual, the sort of thing that might make a nice date in undergrad, when you don’t have the time or the resources to do much besides look at each other for an hour.

Certainly nothing that she needs to put herself out for, she thinks as she skims lotion up her thighs, spreading the scent of passionflower and hibiscus far past any decent hemline. Not that she’s worried about that— hemlines and what might go past them. No, it’s just…it had been a while since she shaved, and if you shave, then you have to hydrate, and if she’s going to pamper herself, well, her nicest moisturizer is a good start.

Because it’s not a date. It’s not even coffee. Not that she would have coffee, she reminds herself, flicking through her dresses. Caffeine gives her the jitters, and the last thing she needs is to make her hands any more unsteady, or her stomach any more unsettled. There’s no reason to worry about how so many of her nicer clothes fall more on the work-appropriate side of the fashion scale rather than, er…play appropriate. This is all just a…a preliminary meeting to go over the details of this whole situation. An exchange of information before he commits to this whole…fake engagement.

So there’s no need to look cute, she insists, tugging at her most stubborn flyaways in the rearview mirror. After all, then he might think she’s trying to impress him. And if he thinks she wants to impress him, he might assume that she’s attracted to him. That maybe she’s angling to repeat that kiss in the airport, the one that had sent static through every limb of her body, the one she can’t possibly forget—

And that would be ridiculous. Shirayuki doesn’t do attraction, at least not the way other people do. She doesn’t just look at someone and decide they might be nice to touch, or that maybe she wouldn’t mind if they leaned close enough for her to catch a hint of their natural scent, or quiver just at the idea that he might close the space between them, brushing his lips over hers as gently as he had the first time, swallowing her gasp whole as he coaxes her to—

Ah! She claps a hand to her cheek, glass door jingling shut behind her. Not even the air conditioning helps cool her flush. The last thing she needs is Obi to see her like this, flushed and trembling just from the thought of him. Which is good since, with a quick scan of the shop, Shirayuki knows…

He’s not here.

*

There’s an explanation for this, she’s sure. He could be late, for one; Obi doesn’t strike her as the sort of person who feels the need to be fifteen minutes early to be on time. So it makes sense that he could simply be lagging few minutes behind, caught up in a traffic snarl or running a little after schedule because he wanted to catch the last few minutes of a show. He could even be in his car right now, tangled up in the tail end of a story on NPR, just wanting to hear whether or not the girl on antimalarials ever regained her memory, or if that illegally adopted baby from Korea ever actually found his parents.

There, a half-dozen reasons right off the top of her head for him to be elsewhere. And still, she can’t shake the feeling that she’s been, well, stood up.

“Ah, excuse me?”

She blinks. Oh, she’s standing right in front of the door.

“Sorry,” she blurts out, barely thinking. A shuffle scoots her clear of the vestibule. “Wasn’t paying attention.”

“Hah, no, that’s not…” The man beside her huffs out a laugh, shoving a hand through a mop of blond so pale she’s only ever seen it on kids under three. 

“You must be Shirayuki.”

That gets her attention. “Who…?”

There’s nothing about that boyish face that says mobster, but that doesn’t mean much, when she hasn’t seen any outside of The Departed. Still, there’s no snake tattoo crawling up his wrist— one of the sure signs of one of Umihebi’s men, according to Agent Anda— his nice button down only baring milky pale skin up to the elbow. And there’s no malice in his smile, only teeth so white she swears they sparkle, and eyes that crinkle at the corners, so dark a blue she almost mistakes them for black.

“Sorry, I’m doing this all backwards. I’m Zen.” He thrusts out a hand, palm refreshingly cool against hers. “Zen Wisteria. And I believe I’m your” —his smile hooks up at one side, as bashful as the little bounce he does on his toes— “future husband.”

Shirayuki blinks at him. What had Obi said on the phone yesterday? I know the perfect husband material.

“Excuse me,” she murmurs tightly. “But I think I’d like your badge number.”

[tarabyte3]

Reprieve

Fandom: Andor

Characters/pairings: Kino Loy, past Kino Loy x OFCs, past Kino Loy x OMCs

One shot (846 words)

AO3 link

Summary: Kino Loy finds reprieve in his memories every night while lying in his prison cell.

Warnings: Explicit rating, masturbation, hand job, sex, PiV, anal sex, oral sex, infidelity, prison

A/N: This is the very first Kino fic I ever wrote. Originally posted to AO3 November 18, 2022. It's a short, introspective piece where he thinks back on his past relationships as masturbation material. Also I made him bi because why not? So there are descriptions of sexual encounters with men and women. Enjoy!

A part of Kino thought it was sad and pathetic that he looked forward to this every night, but he worked hard. Had been locked up there for years with no comfort or touch of another person except born from necessity or violence. And though he could see the light at the end of the tunnel, as faint as it still was, he had no one waiting for him when he got out.

So every night he laid on his hard mattress pad and tried not to think of parts or numbers or keeping forty nine men in line. Instead he thought of feminine hips and masculine hands, of tongues and moans, and he silently thrust into his own hand until he came in hot streaks across his belly.

He thought of his first girlfriend and the way she had tentatively stroked him, not quite getting the rhythm or pressure right, but it was his first handjob so he still finished in an embarrassingly short amount of time. Before prison, he hadn't thought about it in decades, but here every memory of touch and release was precious so he tried to recall how her hand had felt. Tried to recall how she looked up at him, shy and flushed, unsure of herself, but emboldened by his groans and the feeling of him twitching in her fist.

He thought of his first boyfriend. A co-worker from his first job. The two of them had fumbled around with much more expertise with their hands and enthusiasm with their mouths until they had found that rhythm as well. That had eventually led to fucking each other like they had just discovered sex. Truthfully, they had, in a way. He'd never buried himself inside another person or been filled and used before him. There had been a moment where he believed he could do that for the rest of his life and be happy—until the novelty wore off. Then they realized they didn't have much in common outside of bending each other over beds and chairs and desks, and then showing up to work at the same place.

After that he had fallen in love for the first time and sex became more than release. It had been prayer and worship. The thrill of seeing another person undone beneath you while your heart soared and your fingers itched to clutch them to you and never let go. But he hadn't loved Kino in the same way Kino had loved him, so then he had also felt true heartbreak for the first time.

To soothe his pain he'd sought out company in the arms of someone else. Found her in a cantina, and she had fallen to her knees in the bathroom and taken him so deeply into her mouth and throat that she had swallowed around him and driven him nearly cross eyed. He'd come, fully buried and hips pressed firmly against her lips, with a quiet curse. Then the high had worn off and left him feeling worse than before. As he dressed, he said an awkward thank you before scurrying out and never seeing her again.

He had a few more partners, a few more awkward fumbles, a few more loves lost and hearts broken, before he found something solid. The woman he thought he would spend the rest of his life with, even when the fire of their sex life simmered to embers after nearly a decade. He had known her body so well that sex was like coming home. Like saying I love you, even as the Empire closed around them. When life seemed bleak, he found hope and release in her arms. But then there had been an accident at work, and he came home early that day to find her in bed and not alone. Truthfully, he would have stayed. Tried to find a way to keep their love going and get past the hurt, but for her that was the end.

By then he was too tired to try again. Too angry. So he put all of that righteous fury into something he could fix. His factory had been taken over by Imperial forces, and, as a result, the work conditions and pay had gotten worse while the hours got longer. Injury got you fired and replaced, and there was no empathy for illness or weakness. No community. He put all of his passion into fighting for something better for the people around him, workers he oversaw. For it he'd been arrested for treason and crimes against the Empire.

That was how he found himself in his cell: a patchwork of heartache, loss, and laughter. Of every hand that had touched him and tongue that brought him pleasure. A patchwork of memories that he clung to as his hand reached into the pants of his uniform to find himself already hard with the anticipation of release. So he palmed himself, spread the moisture already gathering at the slit of his erection down his length, and let his memories give him a reprieve.

[myeditslocks]

⌗ kino | bf material simple + aesthetic 𖧧

like / reblog if u save | don't repost

filter : goldengwoo 𑁤

[on-hee]

𖥻‎Kino ; boyfriend material

𔘓˙˖ 𝗿𝗲𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴 / 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 if u 𝘀𝗮𝘃𝗲 ໑

⿻ 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁 / 𝗰𝗿𝗼𝗽 𝗺𝘆 𝗹𝗼𝗴𝗼ꜝꜝ

✰ 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇! ₊

⌕˒ @on-hee ☁︎

polarr filter to the owner

[spoutwu]

* Pentagon lockscreen

> if you use/save it please reblog or like.

「 made by me 」

[scaramouchespet]

like or reblog if u saved ♡ you can search for more on #crisskpopedits

[fatimalec12]

Kang Hyunggu

Right here, right here

Spinning out, waiting for ya. I'm here, right here

[luvshinwon]

Pentagon kino ig update 🎧

Like if you save it 📁

Open for better quality 🥡.

[tilokpp-21]

[kboyfriendmaterial]

kino boyfriend material compilation

all credits belong to original owners

[jinhwankenobi]

food dates with hyunggu 🍕🍰🍷

[mwnamjoon]

like or reblog💫

icons bf kino/hyeong gu, pentagon🍒

[sailorjisunq]

pentagon icons

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[spoutwu]

「 FMV」𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚘 (PENTAGON) - 𝙱𝙰𝙳𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙶

[scaramouchespet]

like or reblog if u saved ♡ you can search for more on #crisskpopedits

[fatimalec12]

Kino

It's hard to find reasons to stay alive

Boy in pink

〰︎ αqυαяιυѕ вσу 〰︎ кαηg нуυηggυ 〰︎