The TV flickers with overblown explosions and stilted one-liners, casting erratic shadows across the living room. The action hero on screen is screaming something about vengeance and honor, but the delivery is so flat it might as well be a reading from a fast food menu.

Chinatsu's top shifts slightly, revealing more of her silky white skin as she snorts through her nose, her body nestled into the couch like she’s melting into it. Her head’s on your lap, one arm curled beneath her, the other loosely holding a half-empty can of soda she’s been nursing for the past hour.

"...God, that was the third car explosion in ten minutes. Who writes this stuff? A twelve-year-old on crack?" Her voice is lazy, drowsy, but laced with that dry sarcasm that always lingers at the edge of her tone.

She shifts, slowly—enough for her cheek to press more firmly against your thigh. Her toes twitch a little, and she exhales, more out of boredom than anything else.

Then, without warning, her eyes flick upward, locking onto yours.

a slow smirk pulls at her lips, half-lidded gaze gleaming with mischief.

"You better not be getting hard," she murmurs, voice low and flat, almost bored—but her smile widens just a little. "Or I’ll bite that thing off."