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gyu-tori · 3 months ago

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When Cameras Stop Rolling | P.SH

⟢ Pairing: actor!sunghoon x fem aspiringdirector!reader ⟢ Genre: Angst, Fluff, Smut ⟢ Warnings/Themes: Mature content, explicit language and sexual content, kind of enemies to lovers to ??? , multiple smut scenes (2), soft dom!sunghoon, fingering!, oral! (f! and m! rec) , unprotected!sex, kind of public!sex, creampie! (reader is on birth control but wasn't mentioned), (might've missed some)

Summary: When the cameras stop rolling, the world still watches. You’ve spent years behind the scenes, dreaming of the day you’ll call the shots.

Then there’s Sunghoon—an untouchable star, distant yet impossibly captivating. To him, you’re just another face in the crowd—until tension sparks and walls crack.

When love and ambition collide, will either of you risk it all?

⟢ Word count: 21.1k

You weave through the chaos of the set, clipboard in hand, heart pounding as you check the schedule for the hundredth time today. The towering lights cast long shadows over the crew, the air thick with the scent of coffee, sweat, and expensive perfume from the high-profile actors preparing for their next scene.

It’s just another day in the world of film production—one where your name barely carries weight, where you’re another invisible cog in the relentless machine that keeps everything running. No one notices you unless they need something.

“Y/N, can you grab another battery pack for the boom mic?” someone shouts.

“Where’s the set list?”

“We need a fresh slate over here—hey, Y/N, did you double-check the continuity?”

The calls blur together, but you answer each one with practiced ease. You’ve been here long enough to know how it works: the crew hustles behind the scenes, the actors shine under the lights, and the director calls the shots. And you? You exist somewhere in between—essential but unnoticed, striving for a position that still feels painfully out of reach.

Directing. That’s the dream.

Not running errands, not handling last-minute crises, not fetching coffee for people who don’t bother to learn your name. You want to be the one in the chair, guiding the vision, telling a story the way you see it. But for now, you bite your tongue and do the work, knowing that ambition means little in an industry where experience and connections dictate your worth. Still, it stings.

You pause near the monitor, watching as the director—your director—gives notes to the lead actor. He commands attention effortlessly, his vision shaping the world on screen. You watch, envy curling deep in your gut, because that’s where you want to be. “Someday,” you murmur under your breath, gripping your clipboard tighter.

A sharp voice jolts you from your thoughts. “Y/N! Stop standing around! We need the next prop setup now!”

With a sigh, you push your dreams aside and dive back into the fray. Because in this industry, dreaming is the easy part. Making it happen? That’s another battle entirely.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The day has been long, and you’re running on little more than sheer willpower and the half-empty cup of coffee you left somewhere on set hours ago. The schedule is tight, and tensions are high—as they always are on a production of this scale. You’re used to the pressure. Used to being the unseen force that keeps things moving. But today, something is different.

“Y/N!” Your head snaps up at the sound of your name. One of the assistant directors is striding toward you, her expression pinched with impatience. You barely have time to acknowledge her before she thrusts a neatly folded call sheet into your hands.

“You’re assigned to Park Sunghoon today.” You blink. “What?”

She exhales sharply, already looking past you to another crisis unfolding elsewhere on set. “Sunghoon’s personal assistant isn’t here, so you’re filling in. Keep him on schedule, make sure he has what he needs, and for God’s sake, don’t piss him off. Got it?”

Your stomach sinks. Park Sunghoon. The industry’s golden boy.

Rising star, adored by millions, praised for his talent, his charm, his ability to command a scene like he was born for it. He’s the kind of actor whose name alone can secure funding for a film. He’s also notoriously difficult.

Rumors circulate about him—how he’s cold, distant, impossible to please. He rarely speaks to crew members unless necessary, and when he does, it’s often with clipped, impersonal words. Some say it’s arrogance. Others say it’s just the way he is.

Either way, being assigned to him is a daunting task. You swallow your apprehension, nodding before the assistant director disappears. There’s no time to dwell on your nerves. Straightening your shoulders, you make your way toward Sunghoon’s trailer.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The door is slightly ajar when you reach it. You hesitate for only a second before knocking firmly against the frame. No answer. Another knock. Still nothing.

Taking a steadying breath, you push the door open and step inside.

The air is noticeably cooler inside the trailer, the hum of the AC the only sound aside from your own footsteps. At first, you don’t see him. Then, your eyes land on the figure seated in the far corner, completely absorbed in his phone.

Park Sunghoon.

Up close, he’s even more striking than in magazines or on screen. His sharp features are almost too perfect, framed by jet-black hair that falls effortlessly into place. He’s dressed in his costume for the next scene—a tailored black suit, pristine and elegant. He looks every bit the star he is. But what stands out the most is the air of disinterest that radiates from him. You clear your throat lightly. “Mr. Park?”

Nothing. He doesn’t even look up. You shift on your feet, fingers tightening around the call sheet in your hand. “I’ve been assigned as your assistant for today. If there’s anything you need—”

“I don’t need anything,” he says flatly, still not sparing you a glance. His voice is smooth but devoid of warmth, and the dismissal in his tone is obvious.

You hesitate. “Right. Well, I still have to make sure you’re on schedule, so I’ll be around—”

“Do whatever you want,” he interrupts, swiping through something on his phone. “Just don’t get in my way.”

The words are a slap to the face. You’ve worked with difficult actors before, but something about his complete disregard stings more than you care to admit. He doesn’t even acknowledge your presence properly—just writes you off as another faceless crew member not worth his time.

Still, you’re professional. You force a neutral expression, ignoring the quiet prickle of irritation crawling up your spine. “There’s water and snacks here if you get hungry,” you say, motioning toward the neatly arranged table near the window. “And if you need any adjustments to your costume or makeup before the next scene, let me know.”

Sunghoon finally looks up, his dark eyes settling on you for the first time. For a brief second, you think he might say something—maybe even a simple acknowledgment. But instead, his gaze flickers over you, uninterested, before he leans back in his chair.

“Are you done?”

Your jaw tightens. “Yes.”

“Then you can go.” You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to nod before turning on your heel and walking out.

The second you’re outside, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You should have expected this. The rumors weren’t exaggerated. Sunghoon doesn’t just act indifferent—he embodies it. And yet, despite the irritation simmering beneath your skin, you shake it off.

He doesn’t matter. You’re here for your career, for your dreams. And Park Sunghoon? He’s just another actor. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. For now.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The tension on set is suffocating.

It’s been a long morning of filming, the crew scrambling to keep everything on schedule. The lead actors are preparing for the next scene, cameras are being adjusted, and you—unfortunately—are still tethered to Park Sunghoon, ensuring everything runs smoothly on his end. Not that he’s made it easy.

Since your first encounter, he’s continued to treat you with the same cold indifference. He never acknowledges you unless absolutely necessary, and when he does, it’s with clipped words and dismissive glances. You try to ignore it, reminding yourself that this is just part of the job.

You’ve worked with plenty of high-maintenance actors before. But none of them have ever gotten under your skin quite like this.

“Y/N, make sure Sunghoon’s costume is properly set before we roll,” one of the assistant directors calls.

You nod and step forward, glancing at Sunghoon’s suit. It looks fine, but experience has taught you to double-check everything. You reach out to smooth the lapel of his jacket, making a small adjustment to the way it sits on his shoulder.

The moment your fingers brush the fabric, Sunghoon recoils. “Don’t touch it.” His voice is sharp, cutting through the noise around you.

You freeze, startled by the sudden hostility in his tone. “I was just fixing—”

“It’s fine,” he snaps, brushing your hand away as if your mere presence is an inconvenience. “Next time, ask before you do something unnecessary.” A hush falls over the surrounding crew. People turn to glance at the commotion, their eyes darting between you and Sunghoon.

Humiliation burns through you. It’s not just what he said—it’s the way he said it. Cold, dismissive, like you’re nothing more than an annoyance. Like you don’t belong here.

You swallow the lump in your throat, willing yourself to stay composed. “I was just doing my job,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Making sure you look perfect for the shot.”

Sunghoon scoffs, adjusting the lapel himself with a flick of his wrist. “I don’t need your help with that.” Your fingers curl into a fist at your side, nails digging into your palm.

This isn’t the first time you’ve been looked down on in this industry. You’re used to the hierarchy, to being treated like background noise. But something about Sunghoon’s attitude—his complete disregard for you—stings deeper than it should.

Because it’s not just indifference. It’s deliberate. He wants you to know you don’t matter to him.

The assistant director, sensing the tension, quickly intervenes. “Alright, let’s get into position! We’re rolling in five!”

The moment is over, but the sting of embarrassment lingers. You take a step back, forcing yourself to breathe, forcing yourself to ignore the quiet murmurs from the surrounding staff. Sunghoon, meanwhile, has already moved on—expression impassive, eyes fixed ahead as if you don’t exist.

You bite the inside of your cheek, swallowing the anger bubbling in your chest. Fine. If that’s how he wants to play it, you won’t let him get under your skin. You straighten your shoulders, stepping out of his space and returning to your duties.

You won’t let Park Sunghoon make you feel small.

Not today. Not ever.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The set is alive with movement—crew members adjusting lights, cameras rolling into position, and makeup artists doing last-minute touch-ups on the lead actors. You also stay busy, as you always do, keeping things organized and ensuring every detail aligns with the director’s vision.

And, of course, keeping your distance from Park Sunghoon.

It’s been a few days since he had humiliated you in front of the crew, but the irritation still simmers beneath your skin. You’ve barely interacted with him since, only speaking to him when absolutely necessary. If he wants to pretend you don’t exist, you’re more than happy to return the favour.

Still, your job requires you to be aware of everything happening on set—including him.

Sunghoon is standing near the monitors, listening intently as the director gives him notes for the next scene. His posture is straight, his face stoic and unreadable, every part of him exuding that effortless confidence he’s known for.

You hate to admit it, but you understand why the industry adores him.

He carries himself like a star—like someone who was born to be in front of a camera. Every movement is deliberate, every glance is calculated. He doesn’t just act; he becomes the character, slipping into the role with practiced ease when the cameras start rolling. It’s infuriating how effortless it seems.

You’re still standing at a distance, flipping through the schedule on your clipboard, when a voice calls your name. “Y/N, we need someone to run lines with Sunghoon before we roll. Can you do it just until his co-star gets here?”

You pause, gripping your clipboard tighter. Of all the tasks you could’ve been assigned, this is what they ask you to do? You glance around, hoping someone else is free to step in, but no one does.

Damn it. Forcing a neutral expression, you nod. “Got it.”

The second you approach, Sunghoon’s gaze flickers toward you. His eyes give away nothing—no recognition, no irritation, just the same blank indifference he always reserves for you.

“We need to run lines,” you say, keeping your tone strictly professional. Sunghoon barely reacts. “Fine.”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes and open the script, scanning the lines. The scene is heavy—an emotional confrontation between his character and the female lead. It requires tension, anger, and heartbreak.

Not that you care. You just want to get this over with.

Clearing your throat, you begin reading. Obviously, you’re not the best at this, this wasn’t what you signed up for but you do your best. Your voice is steady, controlled, giving just enough emotion to make the lines flow naturally. You expect Sunghoon to do the same—to deliver his part with the same distant professionalism he treats everything with.

But then he looks at you. Really looks at you. For the first time, his gaze isn’t skimming past you or dismissing you outright. It’s focused—intense. He delivers his lines smoothly, his voice calm but layered with the controlled fury his character is meant to convey.

“You said you loved me… I gave you everything, I’d even give you the world if I could, but this? This is how you repay me?”

And for a moment, you almost forget that this is just a read-through.

“Let me explain, I can’t lose us but I also can’t lose this…”

You read from the script, voice quivering the slightest bit. Your pulse quickens, Not because of him, but because of the sheer force of his presence. It’s unsettling how easily he commands attention, how his eyes lock onto yours and make it feel like there’s no one else in the room.

But this isn’t real. It’s just acting. It’s literally his job. He’s trained for this. And yet, the way he holds your gaze makes it impossible to ignore the shift in the air around you.

The second the scene ends, the weight of his stare disappears. He looks away as if nothing happened, flipping the script shut with practiced indifference.

“That’s enough,” he mutters.

You blink. Once. Twice. You’re momentarily thrown off by how abruptly he drops the intensity.

He doesn’t respond. Just turns away, already focusing on something else, as if the last few minutes meant nothing at all. And they didn’t. You don’t dwell on it. You can’t. Because no matter how sharp his gaze feels when it lingers on you, or how easily he commands attention, you refuse to let it mean anything.

He’s an actor.

He was just acting.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The days bleed together, a relentless cycle of early mornings and late nights, and somehow, you always find yourself clashing with Park Sunghoon.

It’s not intentional—at least, not on your part.

He just always has something to complain about. The lighting is too harsh. The script revisions are unnecessary. The costume department didn’t get his measurements right. And when there’s nothing else to nitpick, he directs his irritation toward you.

You, who is only doing your job.

You, who has done nothing to warrant the thinly veiled condescension in his tone whenever he speaks to you.

And yet, every interaction feels like another reminder that to him, you’re just an inconvenience.

“Y/N.” You glance up from the monitor, catching sight of Sunghoon approaching with that same unreadable expression he always wears. His suit is immaculate—no surprise there—but there’s a slight furrow between his brows, a sure sign that he’s about to complain.

You brace yourself. “Yes?”

“This—” He gestures to the set behind you, where props and lighting have been carefully arranged for the next scene. “It’s wrong.”

You blink. “What do you mean, wrong?”

“The setup,” he says flatly, as if it should be obvious. “The table is in the wrong position.”

You glance over your shoulder. The table in question sits precisely where it was placed per the set designer’s notes. Nothing has changed since this morning. “It’s exactly where it’s supposed to be,” you tell him, crossing your arms.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, clearly unimpressed with your answer. “It wasn’t there yesterday.”

“That’s because they adjusted it to match the camera angles for today’s shoot,” you explain, keeping your voice even. “It’s intentional.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “It’s distracting.”

You stare at him. “It’s a table.”

The muscle in his jaw ticks. “It’s in the wrong place.”

You release a slow breath, forcing yourself to remain patient. “Look, Sunghoon, I get that you have your preferences, but moving the table now would mess with continuity. Everything is already set up for the next shot.”

His expression remains impassive, but you don’t miss the way his fingers twitch at his side, like he’s resisting the urge to argue further. For a moment, it seems like he’s going to let it go. “Move it anyway.”

Your patience snaps. “No.” It’s a simple word, firm and unwavering, but it seems to catch him off guard.

His eyes narrow slightly. “Excuse me?”

You stand your ground. “I said no. We’re not moving the table just because you don’t like where it is. The set designer put it there for a reason, and I’m not going to mess up the entire continuity just to satisfy your need for control.”

A tense silence stretches between you. The crew nearby pretends not to eavesdrop, but you can feel their eyes darting toward the confrontation, waiting to see how Sunghoon will react.

His expression darkens, and for a second, you wonder if you’ve gone too far. “Fine.”

You blink. Did he just… give up? Sunghoon exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly as he studies you. His gaze is sharp, calculating, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. But just as quickly, the moment passes.

“Do whatever you want,” he mutters before turning on his heel and walking away.

You watch him go, chest rising and falling with quiet frustration.

The crew resumes their work, the tension in the air dissipating, but you’re still left with a lingering sense of unease. Because for the first time since you started working on this set, Park Sunghoon didn’t just dismiss you.

He listened. And somehow, that unsettles you more than anything.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

It happens again.

You don’t know if Sunghoon is actually making your life difficult on purpose, or if he’s just that naturally insufferable. Either way, he’s quickly becoming the single biggest source of frustration in your already overwhelming workload.

Today, it’s the costume. “I’m not wearing this,” Sunghoon says flatly, standing in the middle of the dressing room, arms crossed over his chest.

You glance at the mirror behind him, where the reflection of his current outfit stares back at you. The suit is tailored perfectly, sleek and elegant, designed specifically to fit the tone of the upcoming scene. It looks fine. More than fine. It looks good. But, of course, Park Sunghoon has a problem with it.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, inhaling slowly before responding. “Sunghoon, the costume department spent weeks finalizing the designs. It’s already been approved by the director.”

“I don’t care,” he says, tone as impassive as ever. “It’s uncomfortable. The fabric is stiff, and the collar is too tight.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “It’s a suit. It’s supposed to fit that way.”

“It’s restricting.”

“That’s the point.”

His eyes narrow slightly at your tone, but you don’t back down. You’re already exhausted from dealing with the hundred other problems popping up on set today. The last thing you need is Sunghoon refusing to cooperate over something as trivial as a suit.

“Look,” you continue, crossing your arms, “I get that you have preferences, but the wardrobe team put a lot of thought into this. You can’t just refuse to wear it because it’s slightly uncomfortable.”

Sunghoon tilts his head slightly, regarding you with that unreadable stare of his. “Why do you care so much?”

You let out a sharp breath. “Because your tantrum is delaying the schedule, and if you refuse to wear it, I have to be the one to fix the mess it creates. So, forgive me for caring, but some of us don’t have the luxury of making everyone cater to our every whim.”

The room falls silent.

A quiet tension settles between you, thick and unyielding. You can feel the wardrobe assistants nervously shifting in the background, the air charged with the weight of unspoken words. Sunghoon, for once, says nothing. He just watches you, gaze unwavering.

You hold your breath, expecting him to lash out, to throw another dismissive remark your way. But instead, he sighs. A small, almost imperceptible exhale. Then, without another word, he turns back to the mirror and adjusts the cuff of his sleeve. The message is clear. He’s letting it go.

You blink, momentarily thrown off by the unexpected lack of resistance. Then, realizing this is your win, you straighten your posture and nod. “Good. I’ll let the team know we’re moving forward.”

Sunghoon doesn’t acknowledge your words. He just finishes fixing the suit himself, his expression unreadable.

You turn on your heel and walk out of the dressing room, your pulse still buzzing with the remnants of the confrontation. But for the first time, you don’t feel small under Sunghoon’s scrutiny. You don’t feel insignificant. You stood your ground. And, whether he’d admit it or not, he backed down.

It’s a small victory. But in this industry? Even the smallest wins count.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

You should have seen this coming.

When the assistant director approached you this afternoon, clipboard in hand, and told you that Sunghoon needed someone to help him rehearse lines for an overnight shoot, “You’ve done it before last time, you’re doing nothing else later too,” you should have made an excuse. Should have told them you were too busy. Should have assigned the task to someone else.

But instead, here you are. Trapped. In a dimly lit corner of the set, sitting across from Park Sunghoon in a cramped backstage area that barely fits the two of you.

The main set is being rearranged for the next scene, and since filming can’t resume until everything is in place, the crew is scattered—some grabbing a late-night coffee, others reviewing notes, all leaving you with no escape from this situation.

Sunghoon flips through the script, eyes skimming over the lines. He hasn’t said much since you sat down, aside from a brief nod of acknowledgment. He’s as unreadable as ever, and you’re too exhausted to figure out whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“You ready?” you ask, stretching your fingers as you grip your copy of the script.

Sunghoon barely glances at you. “You sure you can keep up?”

Your lips press into a thin line. It’s been like this for weeks. Constantly butting heads, trading sharp words that always carry the edge of something heavier. You exhale through your nose and roll your shoulders back. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He smirks—just barely, a flicker of amusement crossing his face before he masks it with indifference. “Alright then.” And with that, he starts.

The scene is intense—a heated argument between his character and the female lead, raw with tension and emotion. You read your lines smoothly, keeping your voice steady, but Sunghoon…

Sunghoon doesn’t just recite his lines. He delivers them. His voice shifts seamlessly into character, rich with frustration and unspoken anger, his presence filling the small space between you. Even though you’re just reading, the sheer weight of his performance is enough to make your pulse stutter.

His eyes lock onto yours, sharp and unwavering, and suddenly it feels like the world outside this moment doesn’t exist.

You know it’s just acting. You know that. And yet, there’s something unnerving about being on the receiving end of his intensity. You push through, refusing to let his presence throw you off. You meet his stare head-on, refusing to waver, delivering your lines with just as much weight.

The words from the script fly between you like sparks igniting dry air.

“That’s all you ever do. Walk away. Like none of this ever mattered to you.”“Don’t you dare turn this on me. I was the only one who ever fought for us.” Sunghoon scoffs, the sound low and bitter.

“Fought? Is that what you call it? Because from where I’m standing, all I see is someone who gave up the moment things got hard.” You tighten your grip on the script.

“No. I gave up when I realized I was the only one still trying. YOU chose to not have me, have US, as a priority.”

The words hang between you. Heavy. Unrelenting. It’s just a script. Just a scene. But the weight of it presses down like something real.

The next line in the script is a pause—a moment of silence where the characters stare at each other, the fight teetering between rage and something neither of them can name.

Neither of you move. The quiet hum of distant voices from the main set barely reaches you. The only sound between you is the faint rustling of paper as Sunghoon shifts his grip on the script, his gaze still trained on you.

Your heartbeat is annoyingly loud in your ears. You should say something. Make a joke. Brush it off. But before you can, a crew member’s voice suddenly cuts through the silence.

“Sunghoon! You’re needed for blocking in five minutes!”

The moment shatters.

Sunghoon blinks, the tension breaking just as quickly as it had formed. He exhales, rolling his shoulders back before finally looking away.

“Guess we’re done here,” he mutters, flipping his script shut.

You swallow, nodding as you quickly gather your things. “Yeah.”

Neither of you say anything else as you stand and step out of the confined space, rejoining the rest of the crew. But as you walk away, shaking off the strange weight lingering in your chest, you can’t shake the feeling that something between you and Sunghoon just shifted.

And you don’t know what that means.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The exhaustion is starting to creep in.

Overnight shoots have a way of draining every last bit of energy from you, stretching time into something unrecognizable. The set is bathed in artificial light to mimic the illusion of late evening, but outside, the sky is already bleeding into the soft hues of dawn.

You sit at the far end of the set, sipping what is probably your third—no, fourth—cup of coffee, going over the schedule for the day. Your body aches, your eyelids feel heavier than usual, and yet, you can’t rest. There’s still too much to do, too much to coordinate.

You barely register Sunghoon’s presence at first. He’s sitting nearby, reviewing notes with the director, his usually pristine appearance slightly undone—his tie is loose, the cuffs of his dress shirt unbuttoned, dark strands of hair falling into his eyes. It’s the most unpolished you’ve ever seen him. Not that you care.

You force your attention back to the clipboard in your hands, mentally preparing for the chaos of the coming hours. But then, something shifts.

A soft thud.

You glance up and find a cup of coffee placed beside your elbow. You blink. Look up. Sunghoon is standing over you, hands tucked into his pockets, expression unreadable.

For a moment, you just stare at the cup, as if trying to decipher its presence. “…What’s this?” you ask cautiously.

Sunghoon shrugs, gaze flickering away. “You’ve been up longer than most of the crew. Figured you needed it. Don’t want you messing things up again.”

You blink again, stunned into silence. Sunghoon? Offering you something? Voluntarily? The world must be ending. Slowly, you wrap your fingers around the warm cup, the heat seeping into your chilled skin. You hesitate before murmuring, “Thanks.”

Sunghoon says nothing. He simply nods once before walking away, leaving you with a cup of coffee and a strange, unfamiliar feeling curling in your chest.

You tell yourself it’s just exhaustion. That’s all it is.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The small gestures don’t stop there.

Over the next few days, there’s a shift. Subtle, but noticeable. Sunghoon still keeps his distance, still maintains that cool indifference that makes him impossible to read. But there are… moments.

Like when he passes by the props table and subtly fixes something out of place before you can do it yourself.

Or when he doesn’t argue—for once—when you tell him to adjust his costume before a scene.

Or when you find a neatly folded jacket draped over the back of your chair one evening, long after the sun has set, when the set has turned quiet and you’re the only one left working.

You never catch him in the act. But you know. And you don’t know what to make of it, because this isn’t Sunghoon. At least, not the Sunghoon you thought you knew. The one who went out of his way to ignore you, to dismiss you as nothing more than an inconvenience.

So why does it feel like—despite everything—he’s starting to notice you?

You shake the thought from your head. It doesn’t matter. This doesn’t mean anything. It can’t. Because Sunghoon is still Sunghoon.

And you? You’re still just another crew member. A nobody in his world for now. You have to focus on your goal.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The set is nearly empty, save for a few crew members wrapping up for the night. The usual hum of voices and movement has died down, replaced by the occasional rustling of equipment being packed away. You should have left hours ago, but your body moves on autopilot as you double-check the next day’s schedule, making sure nothing has slipped through the cracks.

The exhaustion clings to you like a second skin. You rub your temples, trying to will away the dull ache forming between your brows, when a voice cuts through the silence.

“You’re still here?” You flinch, turning sharply.

Sunghoon stands a few feet away, leaning casually against a production crate. His suit jacket is gone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his usual polished demeanor replaced by something looser, less composed. He looks just as tired as you feel.

You clear your throat. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, just studies you for a beat before shrugging. “Didn’t feel like going home yet.”

You frown slightly. “Why not?”

Another pause. His gaze flickers away for a moment, as if debating whether or not to answer. When he finally does, his voice is quieter than usual. “Silence feels heavier when you’re alone.”

The words catch you off guard. You’ve never heard Sunghoon speak like this before—without sarcasm, without that usual edge of indifference. Just… honest. For a moment, you don’t know how to respond. Then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “Is that why you work so much?”

His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t deny it.

You exhale softly, leaning back against the chair. “I get it.”

Sunghoon’s eyes flicker back to you, sharp with curiosity. “Do you?”

You nod, turning your gaze to the dimly lit set in front of you. “Work keeps your mind busy. When you’re constantly moving, constantly focused on something, you don’t have time to think about the things you don’t want to face.”

There’s a beat of silence. “That’s surprisingly insightful,” Sunghoon murmurs.

You huff a quiet laugh. “I’m full of surprises.”

Sunghoon leans against the crate, tilting his head slightly. His usual sharp gaze softens, something unreadable flickering across his face. “I used to be terrified,” he says suddenly, his voice lower than before.

You blink, caught off guard by the confession. “Of what?”

His fingers drum idly against the crate’s surface. “Failing.”

You don’t say anything, waiting for him to continue.

“When I first started out, no one took me seriously. People saw my face and assumed I was just another pretty boy who got lucky.” He exhales through his nose. “I had to work twice as hard just to prove I belonged here.”

You watch him carefully. You’ve never heard him talk about this before—not in interviews, not in passing conversations with the crew. Sunghoon rarely lets people see beyond the polished surface, beyond the image of perfection he’s carefully built. But right now, there’s no mask. No arrogance. Just raw honesty.

You shift in your seat. “What was the hardest part?”

He hesitates. “The rejection.” His fingers tighten slightly. “You think you’re good enough, and then someone tells you you’re not. Over and over again.”

You nod slowly. You understand that feeling all too well. “But you made it,” you say softly.

Sunghoon lets out a quiet laugh—one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. But the fear never really goes away.”

You tilt your head. “Even now?”

“Especially now.” His voice is calm, but there’s something heavy beneath it. “When you reach a certain point, people stop caring about how hard you worked to get there. All they see is what you are now. And if you slip, even for a second, they’re ready to move on to the next rising star.”

You don’t break his gaze. You should have guessed this—should have realized that someone as successful as Sunghoon would carry the weight of expectations heavier than most. Still, hearing it from him directly makes it feel different. Real.

“Do you ever regret it?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away. “No.” A pause. “But sometimes, I wonder what it would feel like to just… stop. To not have to care about every little thing, to not have to be perfect all the time.” His voice is softer than before, almost distant. It’s the first time you’ve ever heard him sound tired.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “That sounds… lonely.”

Sunghoon exhales. “It is.”

The silence between you stretches, not uncomfortable but different. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t try to fill the space with unnecessary words.

And for once, you don’t feel the need to either. It’s strange—this quiet, fragile understanding between you. But maybe, just for tonight, you don’t have to question it.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

You don’t know exactly when it happened, or how, but the shift between you and Sunghoon is undeniable. It’s not sudden or dramatic. There’s no grand moment of realization, no obvious turning point. It’s something quieter. Subtle.

You notice it in the way he doesn’t immediately shut you down when you speak to him anymore.

In the way his sharp remarks have softened, turning into dry humor instead of outright dismissal.

In the way he looks at you sometimes—not with disdain, not with indifference, but with something… else.

You don’t question it. You don’t acknowledge it because whatever this is, it’s fragile. And you don’t dare disturb it.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

It starts with the little things.

Like today. You’re going over the schedule for the next scene when a shadow falls over your clipboard. You look up, surprised to find Sunghoon standing beside you.

“Here.” You blink as he hands you something. A protein bar.

You stare at it for a moment, then back at him. “What’s this for?”

Sunghoon shrugs, looking anywhere but at you. “You forgot to eat lunch.”

You frown. “How do you—?”

“I just noticed,” he says quickly, cutting you off.

You raise an eyebrow but take the protein bar anyway. “Thanks, I guess.”

He nods, already stepping away. But before he leaves, you hear him mumble, just loud enough for you to catch— “Don’t make a habit of skipping meals.”

You don’t even get the chance to respond before he disappears down the hall. You stare after him, heart thudding a little too loudly in your chest. This… isn’t normal. At least, not for him. Park Sunghoon doesn’t notice people. He doesn’t care about the little things. And yet, here he is, paying attention to you in ways that don’t make sense.

You shake your head, stuffing the protein bar into your bag.

It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.

Right?

ㅤㅤ─────────────────────────

A few days later, it happens again.

This time, it’s late at night, and you’re reviewing notes in one of the empty break rooms. Most of the crew has already gone home, but you’re still here, buried in work as usual.

You barely hear the door open. “You’re still here?” You glance up, unsurprised to see Sunghoon standing in the doorway. This is becoming a pattern.

You sigh. “You really need to stop sneaking up on me like that.”

He smirks faintly. “Maybe you just need to be more aware of your surroundings.”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother arguing. Instead, you go back to your notes. “What are you still doing here?”

“Could ask you the same thing.”

“I work here.”

Sunghoon hums, stepping further into the room. He leans against the table beside you, arms crossed. “You work too much.”

You huff. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just tilts his head slightly, studying you with that unreadable gaze of his. Then, after a pause, he says, “You’re good at what you do.”

You freeze. Of all the things you expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them.

Slowly, you look up. “What?”

Sunghoon’s expression is unreadable, but there’s no sarcasm in his voice when he repeats, “You’re good at your job.”

You swallow, caught off guard. Compliments aren’t something you hear often—especially not from him. For a moment, you don’t know how to respond.

Finally, you manage, “Thanks.”

Sunghoon nods once before pushing off the table. “Don’t stay too late.” And just like that, he’s gone again.

You stare after him, heart pounding with something you really don’t want to name because whatever this is—whatever is happening between you and Sunghoon—it’s starting to feel dangerously close to something real.

And you don’t know if you’re ready for that.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

You don’t know what’s worse—the tension before you and Sunghoon started tolerating each other, or the tension now.

Before, you could dismiss him as insufferable, a man too caught up in his own world to care about anyone else. But now?

Now, he lingers.

Now, he notices.

Now, he watches you in a way that makes your skin feel too warm, makes the air between you feel heavier than it should.

And the worst part? You catch yourself doing the same.

It’s nothing—just a series of small moments, insignificant on their own but unbearable when strung together.

Like the way his gaze always seems to find you first when he enters a room.

Like the way your fingers brush against his more often than they should when handing him a prop or adjusting his mic.

Like the way silence between you is no longer uncomfortable, but something else entirely—something thick and unspoken.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. It has to be nothing because anything else would be a mistake.

ㅤㅤ─────────────────────────

You’re walking across the set, flipping through the pages of your clipboard as you weave between crew members adjusting lights and moving props. The scene is nearly ready, and you just need to confirm a few last-minute adjustments before filming starts.

You’re so focused on your notes that you don’t see the stray cable lying across your path. Your foot catches. The world tilts.

Your heart jumps into your throat as you stumble forward, clipboard slipping from your fingers. But before you can hit the ground, a firm hand grips your wrist.

The next thing you know, you’re being pulled upright—too fast, too close—until your body collides with solid warmth. You suck in a breath. Strong hands steady you, one gripping your wrist, the other settling lightly against your waist. You don’t have to look up to know who it is.

His hold is firm but careful, his fingers pressing against the fabric of your shirt, grounding you before you can fully process what just happened. For a moment, neither of you move. The air around you feels heavier, thick with something neither of you acknowledge.

“You should watch where you’re going,” Sunghoon murmurs, his voice lower than usual.

You finally look up.

Big mistake. Because he’s closer than you thought he was.

The dim lighting casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his dark eyes flicker with something unreadable. His breath is warm against your skin, and for a second, the world around you blurs—reduced to nothing but the space between you.

Your pulse pounds. “I—I was busy,” you stammer, trying to find some semblance of normalcy.

Sunghoon tilts his head slightly, gaze never leaving yours. “Too busy to notice where you’re walking?”

You swallow hard, willing your heart to calm down. “Maybe.”

His grip on your waist tightens—just a fraction. Just enough for you to feel it. For the first time, you think he might actually smile–

“Sunghoon! We need you on set!”

His expression hardens in an instant, as if someone flipped a switch. His hands fall away, the warmth of his touch disappearing too fast. You take a quick step back, still trying to catch your breath. Sunghoon clears his throat, straightening his posture. “Try not to trip again.”

You scowl, trying to ignore the heat rushing to your face. “Try not to catch me next time.”

He smirks—just barely, just enough to make your stomach twist in a way you refuse to acknowledge. And then he’s gone. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, pressing a hand to your chest to steady yourself.

This—whatever this is—is getting out of control and you don’t know how much longer you can ignore it.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The air is thick with tension.

Not the bad kind, not the simmering annoyance that used to define your interactions with Sunghoon. This is different.

This is the kind of tension that makes your pulse race, that makes your skin tingle whenever he’s too close, that makes every glance feel too much.

The night shoot has stretched longer than expected, with last-minute script adjustments and lighting corrections delaying the schedule. Most of the crew is exhausted, but the director is pushing to get one last take before they call it a wrap.

Sunghoon has been in and out of wardrobe for hours, and by now, even he looks tired. His usual pristine appearance is slightly undone—his tie loosened, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, a few strands of dark hair falling into his eyes.

You try not to look. You really did, but you fail.

“Y/N, can you check the lighting cues with Sunghoon before we roll?” You nod, gripping your clipboard a little too tightly. “Got it.”

You make your way toward Sunghoon, who’s reviewing the script under one of the set lights. When he notices you approaching, he sighs. “What now?” he mutters.

You cross your arms. “Relax. I’m just making sure you’re ready for the next take.”

He exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know. Just tired.”

You hesitate, taken aback by his honesty. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Me too.”

For a moment, neither of you say anything. The usual biting remarks, the sarcastic exchanges—none of it comes. Instead, there’s just silence, filled with something heavier.

Sunghoon looks at you then. Really looks at you.

And that’s when everything shifts. It happens too fast.

One second, you’re stepping forward to adjust the collar of his shirt, fingers brushing against the fabric. The next, you lose your footing, maybe your own exhaustion catching up to you.

Either way, you stumble and Sunghoon catches you. Again.

His hands grip your arms, steadying you before you can fall. Your fingers clutch onto his shirt instinctively, holding onto him as the world tilts for just a moment.

And then you realize. He’s close. Too close.

Your breaths mingle in the small space between you, the faint scent of his cologne wrapping around you. His hands are firm, his touch warm, and when you finally gather the courage to look up, his eyes are already on you.

Something flickers in them, something unreadable yet impossibly heavy. His gaze drops briefly—to your lips, just for a split second—before snapping back up.

The realization hits you like a freight train. Your stomach flips, your breath catches, and for one terrifying moment, you think you might actually let him.

Your grip on his shirt tightens, his fingers flex against your arms, and the world around you fades—reduced to nothing but this moment, this space, him.

Maybe, just maybe, you’re fine with the thought of kissi-

A loud crash from across the set breaks the spell. Someone curses, something clatters to the floor, and just like that, the moment is gone.

You and Sunghoon jerk away from each other as if burned, the air between you suddenly too cold, too empty. Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—something dangerously close to frustration… or maybe regret.

You don’t stick around to find out. “I—uh—should check on that,” you blurt, stepping back too quickly. “The crash. Someone probably—”

Sunghoon nods stiffly, jaw tight. “Yeah. You should.”

And then you walk away. Fast. Too fast. Because whatever that was?

It can’t happen again. It won’t happen again.

You tell yourself it was nothing.

That the near-kiss, the tension, the way Sunghoon’s hands felt on your skin—none of it mattered. It was just exhaustion. A moment of stupid miscalculation. But deep down, you know that’s a lie.

Because now, every glance between you lingers too long. Every accidental touch burns a little hotter. And every moment spent alone feels like standing on the edge of something dangerous, something you don’t want to name.

You don’t know how much longer you can pretend it isn’t happening.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

It’s raining.

The shoot ran late—again. By the time you step outside, the studio parking lot is nearly empty, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. The rain isn’t heavy, just a steady drizzle that coats everything in a thin sheen of water. You tug your jacket closer around yourself, shivering slightly as you rummage through your bag for your keys. Fuck where is it?

“You forgot this.”

You spin around.

Sunghoon stands a few feet away, holding out your clipboard. His hair is slightly damp from the rain, his white dress shirt clinging to his frame. He looks different like this—less put together, less like the untouchable star everyone sees on screen. More real.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh. Right. Thanks.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t walk away.

Instead, he just watches you.

Like he’s waiting for something.

Like he’s fighting something.

And you know—you know—that this is the moment.

The one where you either walk away and pretend none of this ever happened.

Or you give in.

You swallow hard, pulse hammering in your ears. “Sunghoon…” His name comes out softer than you intended and that’s all it takes. The tension between you snaps.

One second, you’re standing in the rain, barely breathing. The next, Sunghoon is closing the distance between you in two quick strides, his hands coming up to cup your face as his lips crash into yours.

Your breath catches as heat floods through you, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency you’ve never felt before. His grip is firm but careful, as if he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he holds too tight.

And maybe he should be. Because this—whatever this is—feels impossible. But right now, at this moment, you don’t care. You kiss him back.

Your hands grip the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, pouring every ounce of frustration, of confusion, of longing into the kiss. The rain keeps falling, soaking into your clothes, tangling in your hair, but neither of you notice. The only thing that exists is this.

Sunghoon tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his fingers threading through your hair. He tastes like coffee and rain, like something dangerous and addictive all at once.

And you know—you know—that this is a mistake. But you don’t stop.

Not when his hands slide down to your waist, pulling you against him.

Not when your fingers slip into his damp hair, tugging lightly, making him groan softly against your lips.

Not when he presses you back against the side of your car, his body solid and warm against yours despite the cold night air.

You don’t stop, because for the first time in weeks, you don’t want to.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

You don’t remember how you get home. All you know is that one minute, you’re in the rain, drowning in him, and the next, you’re in your apartment.

His jacket is on the floor. So is yours.

His lips molding against yours, passionate and hungry. Your back meets the door, hands travelling to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss deepens as your tongues fight against each other.

Suddenly he completely pulls away, you open your eyes at the lack of contact. His hand reaches out, gently grabbing yours as your fingers entwine. “Where’s your bedroom?” he says, catching his breath. No other words pass between the two of you as you lead him down the hall.

You stop in front of your bedroom door, his free hand opens it and turns some of the lights on. This time when your eyes meet, it's different. His eyes are dark and wreaking with lust as he closes in. His slender fingers reach forward as he cups your chin. He tilts your head up, eyes searching mine.

He must have found exactly what he was looking for because he finally leans back in. Somehow, this kiss is even more passionate than before. You barely notice the movement as he slowly guides you toward the bed.

The moment your knees hit the frame, he pulls away. His hand on your chin trails down to your chest, pushing gently. You fall onto the bed, a surprised gasp leaving your lips as your back meets the soft material of your comforter.

He moves forward, his gaze never leaving yours. One of his knees props up against the bed next to your thigh. You look down briefly before focusing your attention on his fingers, watching as they slowly work at the buttons of his white button-up shirt, releasing them one by one until he reaches the final one.

He shrugs off his shirt, allowing it to fall effortlessly, showing his toned chest and firm stomach. Your breath catches as he totally removes the sleeves before flinging the fabric on the floor.

If you had any doubts about what was going on, they were quickly dispelled when you noticed the tent in his pants. Is this actually happening? To be honest, everything seemed to fall into place too wonderfully, almost like a dream.

Sunghoon moves forward, taking his place above you. You’re so close that instinct kicks in, and you shift slightly, ensuring you're comfortably situated on the bed beneath him.

His hand moves down, tracing along your sides with slow, deliberate sensuality. Each brush of his fingers sends a warm shiver down your spine.

"Your hair, your eyes, your lips," he murmurs, his touch following the path of his words. "Fuck, you're so beautiful," he rasps, his voice thick with something you can't quite name. "What are you doing to me?"

Your heart skips a beat when he grasps the bottom of your shirt. "There's just something about you..."

"May I?" he asks, though all you can manage is a small nod.

A wave of last-minute nerves crashes over you as he slowly drags the fabric up, taking his time revealing your upper body. Once he’s done, he moves on to your jeans, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you before tossing them aside.

You squeeze your eyes shut, heat rising to your face in a flush of embarrassment. "You're beautiful," Sunghoon says, his words so genuine it almost hurts.Your hands fly up to cover your face, the warmth of your own skin only confirming how flustered you feel. But thinking back to his words, his actions—there’s no reason to be embarrassed at all.

You feel him shift before his hands grasp your forearms, gently pulling your hands away from your face. You let him, but you still can’t bring yourself to open your eyes.

"Look at me," he says softly. You can't.

"Baby," he pleads, "look at me." You force yourself to open your eyes, and the moment they meet his, he smiles. "There you are."

His head dips down, his lips capturing yours in a sweet, fleeting kiss. When he pulls away, he trails kisses down your neck, each one wet and slow, traveling lower—across the crook of your neck, down to your chest, your stomach, and then—your thighs.

His lips press gently against the top of your thigh, a lingering, tender kiss. His fingers graze your skin as he does so, the simple touch sending a shiver through your body.

The closer his kisses get, the deeper you feel them, your stomach twisting with anticipation. Soon, he reaches the inner part of your thigh, and the second his skin meets yours, a fire ignites inside you. The insecurities from before melt away, replaced by a single, overwhelming thought.

The kisses quickly turn into pure torment. "Sunghoon," you whine, "stop teasing." He hums in response, his fingers hooking onto your underwear. He pulls it down slowly, giving you every chance to stop him—but you never do.

A groan escapes him as he finally sees the part of you he's been waiting for. He slides the fabric down your legs, discarding it to the floor before moving back up—closer, hungrier.

Each of his hands grips your thighs, gently pushing them apart. You hide your face again, this time out of sheer shyness. Any lingering insecurities are so far gone they don’t even cross your mind anymore—not when you feel his right hand leave your thigh and trail toward your core.

The moment his fingers graze over your clit, a breathless mewl escapes your lips, the sound completely involuntary. He chuckles. "You're so wet already, and I haven't even touched you properly."

You groan, both flustered and frustrated by his teasing. "’hoon."

He laughs again, his left hand squeezing your thigh. "What?"

"Touch me, please," you plead, your voice quiet, needy.

"Anything for you."

His fingers move into your folds, spreading them apart, before pressing his thumb against your clit. He begins with slow, rhythmic circles, each one sending waves of pleasure through your body.

It feels good—too good—but you crave "more." He obliges without hesitation, understanding exactly what you desire as his lips meet your heat. A hushed cry escapes your lips, and your fist flies up to your mouth, biting down in an attempt to muffle any crude sounds.

His hand moves aside, then back to your thigh while his tongue takes control. He grabs the back of your thighs, forcing you up slightly as he devours you, working his mouth against you with such fervor that your head spins.

It doesn't take long before the familiar feeling coils inside you. The sensation grows stronger with each flick of his tongue and measured movement of his lips, with pleasure increasing by the second.

A long moan leaves you as his hold tightens and his tongue presses down with precisely the proper pressure. He smiles against you, a soft chuckle spilling from his lips, and the vibrations send another rush of pleasure through your body.

Your hand flies from your mouth, clutching the blankets. "Fuck," you gasp, your hand clenched.

His right hand moves away from your thigh and back to your core, but this time he isn't simply focusing on your clit.

Your breath is caught as his fingertip softly pushes past your entrance, slipping inside with ease, your arousal covering his digit. Sunghoon groans at the vulgar sight, and the sound sends jolts down to your heat in more ways than one. Then he inserts another finger, carefully pushing it in and out as his lips suck down harder on your clit.

It's just too much.

A shattered cry escapes your mouth as your peak draws near. You pry your eyes open, looking down at him—and instantly wish you hadn't. Seeing him positioned between your legs is nearly unbearable.

His gaze catches yours from beneath, deep and brimming with desire, and you sense his grin on your skin. His fingers turn, curling perfectly as the pressure on your clit intensifies. The way he moves creates waves of pleasure surging within you, his tongue synchronizing flawlessly with his hands.

The feeling is so strong that your body surrenders, collapsing onto the bed as your head touches the plush duvet. Your abdomen constricts, your muscles gripping his fingers.

"I'm almost there," you whine, voice trembling and gasping.

He remains unwavering, maintaining his pace as the strain in your stomach intensifies to the limit. "Oh God—fuck," you exclaim, your hand moving to bring him nearer.

Your fingers weave through his dark hair, pulling gently, and the low groan that slips from his mouth resonates profoundly within you. That sound��combined with the movements of his tongue—pushes you to the brink.

A sharp breath escapes you as your spine bends, ecstasy flooding your body in overwhelming surges. Blinding sparks fill your sight as your climax overwhelms you. Your grip on his hair strengthens, and your thighs instinctively squeeze around his head.

"It feels so good," you murmur, voice dazed and dripping with lust. "Shit, Sunghoon, you're so good.”

He hums with contentment, his tongue skillfully navigating you through your peak, extending every surge of pleasure until it gradually starts to fade. You fall onto the bed, your hold on his head loosening, your legs parting a bit.

His fingers withdraw from you—but his mouth remains. His tongue caresses your delicate folds once more, savoring every single drop of your climax.

A whimper slips from you. "Sensitive, ah—" Your thighs shake, the overexcitement delivering intense yet pleasurable jolts throughout you. It's intense—agonizing and exhilarating simultaneously.

Satisfied, he finally pulls away. "You taste so good," he murmurs, voice thick with desire. "So sweet."

Your dazed eyes meet his, and you watch as he licks his lips, his lower face glistening with your arousal. Just seeing this sight alone sends another chill up your spine.

He climbs up your body, trapping you beneath him. The moment his lips crash into yours, you groan, tasting yourself on his tongue. When he pulls away, you instinctively chase after his lips, only for him to chuckle and gently push you back down.

He presses a wet kiss to your cheek before moving down to your neck, lips trailing lower in search of your sweet spot. When he finds it, your body jerks, a sharp inhale giving you away. He smirks against your skin, sucking down before biting softly, marking you his.

He continues his path down, leaving a trail of bruises along your neck and collarbone. Your hands find their way to his bare shoulders, nails digging into his skin as his lips descend further.

Kneeling between your legs, his hands slide around your back. You arch instinctively, allowing him access to the clasp of your bra. His fingers fumble with the material, trying to unhook it.

A quiet curse leaves his lips when he fails. He tries again—another curse. You giggle, tapping his back. He lifts his head, meeting your amused gaze with pleading eyes.

Chuckling, you sit up slightly, giving him room as he leans back on his knees. Your hands move behind you, unclasping your bra on the second try. He watches, mesmerized, as you shrug it off, discarding the fabric to the floor.

He’s about to push you back down, but you stop him, pressing a hand to his chest. Reaching forward, you hook your fingers into the loops of his slacks. "Take it off," you say, voice firm with want.

You’re already completely bare beneath him, while he’s only shirtless. That’s not fair, is it?

Sensing your impatience, his fingers work swifty to unbuckle his belt, throwing it aside before undoing the button of his slacks. When he pulls down the zipper, you let go, allowing him to rid himself of the material on his own.

Your mouth practically waters as Sunghoon reveals his black boxer briefs, the outline of his arousal leaving nothing to the imagination. He kicks them off, letting the fabric join the scattered mess of clothing on the bedroom floor.

Your fingers instinctively reach forward, tracing the rigid shape still clothed beneath the thin material. A low groan escapes him at your touch, his brows furrowing as pleasure flickers across his face. The way he reacts makes your stomach tighten—you want to return the favor.

You grab hold of the waistband, ready to pull them down, but before you can, he pushes you back against the mattress, towering over you once more.

"Wait," you whine, looking up at him. "I wanna make you feel good."

"I'm sorry, baby, but I can't wait any longer." His hands find your waist, pulling you further up the bed until your head rests against the pillows. His voice drops, thick with need. "I need to feel you."

His words send a shiver down your spine, equal parts frustration and anticipation curling low in your stomach.

Your gaze stays locked onto his briefs—he still needs to take them off. But he's moving too slowly, teasing you on purpose. Huffing, you reach forward and yank them down in one swift motion.

His cock finally springs free, the motion making it smack against the firm plane of his stomach. You can’t help but stare. It’s odd to admit, but—God, it’s pretty. Of course, it is. Just look at his damn face.

He chuckles, the deep sound laced with amusement. "Is my baby getting impatient?"

"You're such a tease," you mumble, cheeks burning as you refuse to look away from his lower half.

"But you like it, don't you?"

You don’t deny it, though words fail you. As much as you love his teasing, the ache inside you is unbearable now, your body begging for his. The want in your stomach is almost outmatched by the throbbing between your legs.

A groan of frustration slips past your lips as you throw your head back against the pillows. "Sunghoon," you scold, voice strained with impatience.

"Hm?" He hums innocently. "What is it?" The playfulness in his tone only makes it worse.

You swallow hard, your entire body burning with need. "I need you."

"Yeah?" His hands settle on your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh.

"Yeah." A sharp gasp leaves you as he grinds against you, his cock sliding along your folds, spreading the wetness. The friction makes your breath hitch, but it’s not enough. You reach for him, arms winding around his back, pulling him closer.

"Stop teasing," you beg, voice trembling. "I can't take it anymore."

His gaze darkens as he takes in your desperate expression. "Shit. I can’t either."

One of his hands leaves your thigh, wrapping around his length as he strokes himself briefly. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he aligns himself at your entrance.

A sharp moan tears from your throat as he pushes inside, inch by inch. The wetness between your legs makes it easy, the stretch deep but not painful. He bottoms out, and for a second, neither of you moves, the moment overwhelming.

Not only is he perfect, but he fits inside you like he was meant to be there. Like your body was made to take him.

"You feel so good," he groans, his head dipping to press against your neck. "So fucking good."

His breath is warm against your skin as he starts to move, his hips rolling in a slow, steady rhythm. You get lost in the sensation—the heat of his body against yours, the way he fills you so perfectly, the rough yet tender press of his lips at the curve of your throat.

His pace quickens, his strokes deeper, more insistent. Each thrust ignites something inside you, and you whimper, fingers threading through his hair.

"I don’t think I'm gonna last long," he confesses, voice hushed against your ear.

"That's okay," you whisper back, your lips brushing against his temple. "Just feel good for me."

A strangled groan rumbles from his chest. His teeth graze your neck before biting down gently. One of his hands snakes between your bodies, fingertips finding your clit. The moment he starts to rub slow, firm circles, you let out a gasp.

Your hand tightens in his hair, nails scratching against his scalp. Your other arm clings to his back, fingers digging into his skin.

"More," you plead, voice breaking.

"Like this?" He applies more pressure, his movements precise, skilled.

Your only response is a hurried nod, your body arching into his touch. "Yes—just like that."

He lets out a desperate moan, hips snapping harder. His rhythm falters slightly, but the intensity only makes it better. Each thrust hits something deep inside you, winding the coil in your stomach impossibly tight.

You’re close. So close. "Sunghoon—"

He answers before you can even finish, slamming into you just right. The air is knocked from your lungs, a cry of pleasure escaping before you can stop it.

The knot inside you snaps. Your entire body trembles as pleasure crashes over you in waves, your walls tightening around him. Your hands fall from his body, too weak to hold on any longer.

A broken moan tumbles from his lips. "Fuck—baby, I'm gonna—"

His hips stutter, his cock twitching deep inside you. A strangled groan escapes him as he spills his seed inside you, his face still buried in your shoulder. Even through his climax, he keeps moving, his thrusts growing sloppy as he works you both through the high.

Eventually, his movements slow. The pleasure lingers, buzzing through your veins even after he pulls out. His fingers slip away from your clit, leaving your body aching but satisfied.

Silence settles between you, the only sound filling the room being your ragged breathing.

Sunghoon is the first to move, letting out a low groan as he sits up.

You let out a slow breath, running your hands over your face, then through your now-messy hair. The post-orgasmic haze still lingers, making you feel weightless. When you turn your head, you find Sunghoon already watching you.

He offers you a lazy smile. "How do you feel?" His fingers trace gently along the side of your face.

"Amazing," you murmur. "I feel amazing."

"Good." He leans down, his face hovering inches from yours.

You reach up, fingers curling into his hair, and pull him in for a slow, lingering kiss, before exhaustion takes over both of you.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The first thing you notice when you wake up is warmth.

The second is that you’re not alone.

Your eyes blink open slowly, adjusting to the dim morning light filtering through your curtains. Your body is sore in ways that make your face heat up, the memories of last night flashing through your mind in fragmented pieces—his hands on your skin, his breath against your neck, the way he whispered your name like it was something precious.

You swallow hard, pulse stuttering.

Sunghoon is still beside you. He’s lying on his side, face relaxed in sleep, dark lashes fanned across his cheekbones. His hair is tousled, strands falling messily over his forehead. His bare shoulder peeks out from beneath the sheets, and one of his arms is draped over your waist, keeping you close even in sleep.

For a moment, you just stare. Because this? This is different.

You’ve seen Sunghoon in a hundred different ways—on set, in magazines, under the harsh glow of studio lights. But never like this. Never so unguarded.

Your heart clenches, confusion and something dangerously close to longing twisting inside you.

Whatever this is—feels real. Too real and that’s what scares you the most.

You shift slightly, trying to untangle yourself from him, but the small movement stirs him.

Sunghoon hums low in his throat, his grip tightening around you for just a second before his breathing changes, his body stretching out as he starts to wake up.

His eyes open, still heavy with sleep, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he looks at you without his usual guarded expression.

His gaze flickers over your face, his fingers tracing absent patterns against your hip beneath the sheets. “Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough and quiet.

Your throat goes dry. You should say something. Something easy. Light. Anything that will make this feel normal. But before you can, reality slams into you like a freight train.

This is Sunghoon.

Sunghoon, who is always in control.

Sunghoon, who has spent weeks pretending you didn’t exist only to kiss you like he was drowning last night.

Sunghoon, who—despite everything—still belongs to a world that isn’t yours.

The thought is sobering And judging by the way his gaze sharpens slightly, the way his fingers still against your skin, he sees the shift in your expression. He sighs. “You’re overthinking.”

You force a small, stiff laugh. “I just—”

“I know,” he cuts in, voice unreadable now.

Your lips press together.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Sunghoon is sitting up, the warmth of his body leaving yours as he runs a hand through his hair. The loss of contact makes something inside you ache but you don’t stop him.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees for a second before exhaling sharply. Then, he reaches for his clothes. And just like that, the spell is broken.

You watch as he dresses, his movements slower than usual, as if he’s waiting for you to say something, but you don’t, because you don’t know what to say.

By the time he buttons his shirt, the tension between you is suffocating. Sunghoon finally turns, his gaze meeting yours again. “I have to go.”

You nod. “Right. Early shoot.”

He hesitates. “Yeah.” He doesn’t move right away. Doesn’t leave. Just lingers by the bed, like there’s something else he wants to say.

“You regret it?” The question is quiet, but it cuts through the air like a blade.

Your stomach twists. “I—”

Sunghoon’s expression is unreadable. “It’s fine if you do.”

You don’t know what you feel. But regret? No.

You shake your head, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Sunghoon exhales through his nose, nodding once before stepping toward the door.

You watch as he reaches for the handle, your fingers clenching against the sheets. You should stop him. You should say something.

But before you can, he glances over his shoulder one last time. “I’ll see you on set.” And then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him, and you’re left staring at the empty space where he stood.

And for the first time, you wonder if walking away was easier when he was just a stranger.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The next few days are torture.

You and Sunghoon don’t talk about that night. You don’t talk at all.

It’s not like before, when he was cold and dismissive, or when every glance between you carried an undercurrent of tension.

This is different. This is silence filled with something too heavy to ignore.

And Sunghoon? Sunghoon looks at you like he’s waiting.

For you to acknowledge it.

For you to say something.

For you to do something.

But you don’t.

Until one night, he makes the decision for you.

You’re the last one on set, flipping through notes in one of the break rooms, pretending you’re focused when your mind has been elsewhere all day.

You hear him before you see him. The quiet shuffle of footsteps. The faint sigh of someone bracing themselves before speaking.

“We need to talk.”

You tense. Slowly, you look up.

Sunghoon is standing in the doorway, hands tucked into his pockets, expression unreadable.

You swallow. “About what?”

He exhales sharply, stepping forward. “You know what.”

You force yourself to hold his gaze. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

A humorless chuckle. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

Your jaw tightens. “Sunghoon—”

“Why are you pretending it didn’t happen?” he cuts in, voice edged with frustration.

You flinch. “Because it shouldn’t have.”

His expression flickers—just for a second. But you see it.

The hurt. The hesitation. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone.

“So that’s it?” His voice is quieter now, calmer. “You’re just going to pretend nothing happened?”

You exhale, rubbing your temples. “I don’t know what you want from me, Sunghoon.”

He’s quiet for a beat.

“I want you.”

Your breath catches.

He steps closer, gaze steady. “I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

He swallows hard, voice softer now. “I just care about you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut.

Sunghoon watches you carefully, searching for something in your expression. He takes a breath and says, “I can’t promise everything will be perfect. But I want you. Will you be mine?”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

And you realize…

Maybe you don’t have to be ready.

Maybe you just have to try.

So you inhale deeply, steadying yourself. You nod and Sunghoon smiles.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

Keeping a secret relationship on set is harder than you thought.

It’s not just about avoiding suspicion—it’s about suppressing the way your eyes linger on each other longer than they should. About keeping your hands to yourself when all you want to do is reach for him. About pretending that nothing between you has changed, when in reality, everything has.

And Sunghoon isn’t making it any easier.

It’s in the way he watches you when he thinks no one is looking.

The way his fingers brush against yours when he hands you something, even though there’s no reason for them to.

The way his expression softens, just barely, whenever your eyes meet.

It’s subtle, but it’s there. And every time it happens, your heart stutters in your chest.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The first time you slip up, it’s barely noticeable.

You’re standing by the monitors, going over the director’s notes, when Sunghoon walks past you. It’s nothing out of the ordinary—he’s just moving to his next position for the scene, but as he passes, his fingers graze lightly against your waist.

It’s so brief, so quick, that if anyone were watching, they’d assume it was an accident, but you know better, and judging by the way he smirks as he walks away, he knows you know better.

You clench your jaw, forcing yourself to stay composed. This man is going to be the death of you.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The second time, it’s more obvious.

You’re on set, waiting for the next scene to start, when you feel the weight of his gaze. You try to ignore it and you fail. Against your better judgment, you glance up—and sure enough, Sunghoon is watching you from across the room. His eyes are unreadable, dark and steady, as if he’s daring you to react.

You scowl, mouthing, What?

Instead of answering, he tilts his head slightly, gaze flickering down—just for a second—before meeting your eyes again.

It takes you a moment to process what he just did, and when you do, your face burns, because he wasn’t just looking at you. He was looking at your lips.

You inhale sharply, whipping your head away before anyone can catch the way your expression betrays you. Sunghoon chuckles under his breath, clearly entertained.

You hate him. You really hate him. But the worst part? You don’t. Not even a little.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The third time, it’s a problem.

Sunghoon is filming an emotional scene, one that requires complete focus. The cameras are rolling, the entire crew is watching, and you should be paying attention to the details—the lighting, the sound cues, the blocking, but instead, all you can focus on is him.

Because for the first time, his eyes aren’t just on his co-star. They’re on you. It’s subtle, barely noticeable to anyone else. But you see it.

Every time the camera resets, every time there’s a break between takes, his gaze flickers to you. Just for a second. Just long enough to make your stomach twist.

Then, during takes, a green monster appears. The female lead—a well-known actress, beautiful and elegant—laughs at something Sunghoon says. She leans in slightly, playfully nudging his arm, and he chuckles in return.

It’s nothing. It’s acting. It’s professional. But it still makes something bitter curl in your chest. You hate that feeling. You have no right to feel it, and yet Sunghoon glances at you then, as if he knows. As if he can see the shift in your expression, despite how hard you try to mask it.

You force yourself to look away, because this is dangerous. Because if you let yourself get caught up in this—if you let yourself forge that this is a secret—you’re going to get hurt.

And Sunghoon? You can’t be the reason his career gets ruined.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

Keeping your relationship a secret is turning into a losing battle.

It was easier at first. The stolen moments, the quick touches, the looks that only the two of you understood—it was thrilling in a way, like playing a game where no one else knew the rules. But the longer it goes on, the more reckless Sunghoon gets. And the more reckless you get.

The moment happens during a break in filming. You’re standing near the refreshment table, absentmindedly stirring sugar into your coffee, when you feel him before you even see him.

He doesn’t say anything at first—just steps up beside you, close enough that his arm brushes against yours. Your body tenses instinctively, your grip tightening around your cup.

“Careful,” Sunghoon murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “You’re gonna spill.”

You exhale sharply. “Maybe don’t sneak up on me, then.”

He smirks, leaning in slightly. “Didn’t realize I was sneaking.”

You roll your eyes. “What do you want?”

He hums, pretending to consider it. “I could use some sugar in my coffee.”

You move to hand him the packet in your hand, but instead of taking it, he wraps his fingers around yours, holding them in place. Your breath catches. This is dangerous. Anyone could see. Anyone could notice.

You try to pull away, but his grip only tightens for a second before he finally releases you, his fingers grazing yours as he takes the sugar packet. The smirk never leaves his face. You glare at him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Sunghoon chuckles, tearing the packet open. “Maybe.”

You shake your head, muttering under your breath before turning to leave. But before you can take a step, his voice stops you. “You look good today.”

You freeze. Your heart lurches against your ribs. You turn slowly, meeting his gaze. “What?”

Sunghoon shrugs, casually stirring his coffee. “Just saying.”

There’s nothing just about it. Your stomach twists, heat creeping up your neck. “You’re impossible.”

He grins. “And yet, here you are.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you walk away before you do something really reckless. Something like kissing him in the middle of set.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The director is giving notes to the cast, and you’re standing at a distance, pretending to be focused on your clipboard when, in reality, your thoughts are nowhere near work.

You don’t mean to look at Sunghoon, but you do, and he’s already looking at you. Your pulse stutters. You don’t know how long he’s been staring, but he doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. Instead, he smirks. It’s barely there—a small twitch of his lips, a flicker of amusement—but you feel it.

Heat prickles up your spine, your fingers gripping the edge of your clipboard so tightly your knuckles turn white. You mouth, Stop it.

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly, pretending not to understand. He knows what he’s doing. And worse? He’s enjoying it.

You scowl, turning your attention back to your notes. But the damage is already done. Your face is warm, your thoughts scrambled, and you know Sunghoon isn’t going to let you live this down.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

You’ve spent weeks walking a tightrope, balancing between professionalism and the undeniable pull toward Sunghoon. Every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every moment spent too close when no one is looking—it’s all been a careful game of control. But control is a fleeting thing.

And tonight, you lose it.

It happens after another long shoot, exhaustion weighing heavily on you.

The set has cleared out for the night, most of the crew heading home, but you linger, finishing up last-minute adjustments for tomorrow’s call sheet. You don’t hear him approach—you never do.

“You’re still here.”

You sigh, glancing up from your notes. “So are you.”

Sunghoon shrugs, stepping closer. “Didn’t feel like leaving yet.”

You exhale, rubbing a hand over your face. “You should. We have another early morning.”

Instead of listening, he moves behind you, leaning down slightly until his voice is right beside your ear. “So should you.”

Your breath catches. You should step away. You should remind him that this is dangerous. That someone has already seen too much, that you’re walking on thin ice. But instead, you stand there, your fingers gripping the edge of the table as warmth spreads down your spine.

Sunghoon notices. Of course he does. “Come with me.”

You blink, turning to face him. “What?” He’s already reaching for your wrist, tugging you gently toward the far side of the set. You hesitate for only a second before following, your heartbeat hammering in your ears.

Sunghoon leads you down a quiet hallway, past dressing rooms and storage spaces, until he finds an unlocked door. Without another word, he pulls you inside. It’s a small space—an old wardrobe storage room, lined with racks of costumes and forgotten props. The air is still, thick with dust and the faint scent of fabric softener.

And then, before you can even ask, Sunghoon shuts the door and locks it. Then he turns to you.

Your back presses against the cool surface, his hands resting on either side of you, caging you in. The only sound is the distant hum of the studio lights, the uneven rhythm of your breaths mingling in the quiet. “This is a bad idea,” you whisper.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his gaze flickering down to your lips. “Probably.”

You swallow hard. “Then why—”

“Because I can’t do this anymore.” His voice is lower now, rougher. “I can’t pretend like I don’t want you.”

Your pulse skyrockets. You should stop this. You should. But when Sunghoon leans in, so close that his lips brush against your jaw, you don’t.

His hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him, and suddenly, the weeks of restraint snap like a frayed wire. The first kiss is slow, deliberate, his mouth moving against yours with a patience that contradicts the tension crackling between you. But then you grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and his control shatters.

A quiet groan escapes him as he deepens the kiss, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head to get more.

More of you.

More of this.

More of everything he’s been denying himself.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him curse under his breath. The sound sends heat pooling in your stomach, and suddenly, you don’t care where you are. You don’t care about the risk. All you care about is him.

Sunghoon presses you further against the door, his lips trailing down your neck, his hands tracing fire along your skin. You gasp, tilting your head back, and he takes the opportunity to press another open-mouthed kiss just below your ear.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin.

You don’t. Instead, you pull him back to you, crashing your lips against his once more.

Sunghoon groans, gripping your hips tighter, and you know you’ve lost. Completely, but if this is losing, you don’t think you ever want to win.

The kiss is scorching, heat pooling between you as Sunghoon tightens his grip on your ass and lifts you effortlessly against the wall. A gasp escapes you, your lips parting, and he takes full advantage—his tongue slipping past your own, greedy and demanding. A needy whine slips from your throat as your legs wrap around his waist, his arousal unmistakable as he presses against you.

“Sunghoon, fuck,” you breathe, your head falling back to hit the wall with a soft thud. He seizes the opportunity, dragging his mouth down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing sensitive skin.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, licking a slow stripe up your neck before nipping at your earlobe. “Someone could walk in. Do you really want them to hear you?”

You glare at him, the expression meant to be a warning—but all it takes is a slow roll of his hips, and any fight in you melts away.

“What—what are you doing?” he asks, blinking in surprise as you suddenly push at his shoulders, dropping down onto your knees before him.

“What do you think?” You flash him a knowing look, amusement laced with something darker, more deliberate, as your fingers make quick work of his belt. Tugging his pants down his thighs, you smirk. “Didn’t get to do this last time, remember?”

Sunghoon’s head falls back with a groan the moment you pull him free from his boxers, wasting no time in taking him into your mouth.

“Fuck, why didn’t I let you do this sooner?” he groans, fingers threading into your hair as you begin to bob your head. You hum around him, the vibration making his knees nearly buckle.

His hips jerk shallowly, testing, and when you grip his thighs and let your mouth open wider, he gets the message. Glancing up at him with watery eyes, you meet him halfway, hollowing your cheeks. A curse falls from his lips as he tightens his hold on your hair, taking control. His thrusts grow deeper, his pelvis pressing into your face with every movement, and you use his thighs to steady yourself as he groans above you.

“Baby, fuck—you feel so good,” he pants, muscles tensing as heat coils low in his stomach.

Your jaw goes slack as you accept more of his cock, relaxing into the feeling. He picks up the pace, basking in view of his glossy cock dragging against your lips. You’re a vision. So beautiful to him. The disgusting wet noises your throat makes when he pulls away are deafening. He loves the way you gag when he pushes back in.

“Mhm, it’s yours, baby. Take it.” He licks his lips and nods, looking at you with hooded lustful eyes. You hollow your cheeks, drawing a strangled moan from him. “Shit, I’m not gonna last.”

Determined, you push forward, taking him to the base, your nose pressing against the soft hair at his pelvis. He lets out a broken curse, his grip tightening as he thrusts once, twice—before he’s unraveling with a sharp groan. “Fuck—”

“Excuse me?” A voice. From outside the storage room.

Sunghoon’s eyes snap open, panic flashing across his face.

“Yes?” you call out, pulling away as if you hadn’t just had him down your throat moments ago. There’s a translucent strand of spit connecting his penis to your mouth. You swallow, wiping your chin with the back of your hand. A fit of coughs want to erupt through your chest, but you’re able to stop it. You can’t really focus at the moment.

“Uh… is everything all right?”

“Yep! All good,” you reply, voice bright but just a little hoarse as you quickly pull his pants back up. “I just dropped something while looking for some equipment.”

“Oh. Do you need help?”

“Nope, I got it. Thanks, though!” A pause. Then retreating footsteps.

Sunghoon sags against the wall, exhaling hard. “Holy shit.”

You giggle, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Holy shit indeed. Now, let me go out first. Meet me at my apartment later?” You grin before slipping out the door, leaving him to catch his breath.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

It’s been days since that night in the storage room—days of stolen moments and whispered conversations, of Sunghoon pulling you into empty hallways when no one’s looking, of his lips ghosting against your skin right before he’s called back on set.

It’s reckless. It’s dangerous. But it’s addictive.

And now, sitting beside him at a long restaurant table filled with the entire production team, you’re starting to realize just how stupid this is. Because Sunghoon is doing it again.

That thing where he pretends to be focused on his conversation, nodding along to whatever the director is saying, while his foot slowly nudges against yours under the table.

You shoot him a warning glance. Stop it. He doesn’t. If anything, he makes it worse. His foot slides up the side of your calf, subtle but deliberate, sending an involuntary shiver up your spine. You nearly drop your chopsticks, barely managing to recover before anyone notices. Sunghoon smirks behind the rim of his glass, taking a slow sip of his drink like he isn’t actively trying to ruin your life.

You inhale sharply, gripping your napkin with unnecessary force. Two can play this game. Carefully—casually—you shift your foot, pressing against his ankle before dragging it up just enough to make him twitch this time. His smirk falters, just barely, but it’s enough Your turn to smirk.

Sunghoon narrows his eyes slightly, and you know—you know—he’s not letting this slide. And then, without warning, his hand finds yours under the table.

Your breath catches. You weren’t expecting that. The teasing was one thing. The flirting, the pushing, the secret little games you played when no one was watching.

But this? This is different, this was… sweet. His fingers lace through yours, warm and solid, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your knuckles. It’s not playful. It’s not reckless. It’s soft. And that’s what terrifies you.

You could have ignored the teasing. You could have laughed off the flirting. But this quiet gesture—the way he holds your hand like it’s normal, like it’s natural—makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t want to acknowledge.

You swallow hard, your fingers tightening slightly around his before you can stop yourself.

Sunghoon’s gaze flickers toward you, barely for a second, but the look in his eyes makes your heart stutter. He knows. He feels it too.

But before either of you can say—or do—anything, someone calls your name. You jolt, quickly pulling your hand back, hoping your face isn’t betraying anything. One of the assistant directors grins, nudging your shoulder. “You’ve been quiet. What, Sunghoon making you nervous?” Your stomach drops.

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, effortlessly sliding back into his usual composed demeanor. “Why would she be nervous around me?”

You force a laugh, shaking your head. “Please. If anything, he’s the one who should be nervous.” The table erupts in laughter, and just like that, the moment is gone. But under the table, Sunghoon’s fingers brush against yours one last time before pulling away.

And even as the dinner continues, even as conversations shift and drinks are poured, you can still feel the imprint of his touch against your skin.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The rumors are starting.

You hear them in passing—casual whispers from crew members, quiet speculations during coffee breaks, the occasional knowing glance when you and Sunghoon are in the same room. No one knows, not for sure. But people are noticing, and that’s dangerous.

So when Sunghoon pulls you aside after filming one night, his expression unreadable, you already know what he’s about to say. “We need to be more careful,” he mutters, arms crossed as he leans against the wall of an empty dressing room.

You sigh, mirroring his posture. “No kidding.”

He exhales sharply, tilting his head back slightly. “Someone almost caught us last night.”

Your stomach twists. “Who?”

“One of the lighting techs,” he says. “They walked in right after you left my trailer.”

You curse under your breath. “This is getting impossible.”

Sunghoon pushes a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “We need to lay low for a while.”

You frown. You hate this—hiding, pretending, the constant paranoia that one wrong move could ruin everything. But you also know he’s right.

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

For a second, it seems like the conversation is over.

“…You free tonight?” Sunghoon asks, glancing at you.

You blink. “Didn’t we just agree to be careful?”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “We will be.”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t like that look.”

His smirk widens. “Trust me.”

You groan. “That’s exactly what someone untrustworthy would say.”

But despite yourself, you agree.

And that’s how you end up standing outside his car later that night, staring at the ridiculous disguise he’s holding out to you.

A frumpy cardigan. A floral scarf. And—dear god—gray wig.

You cross your arms, unimpressed. “No.”

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. “You got a better idea?”

You do, actually. It’s called staying inside like normal people instead of dressing like retirees on a Sunday stroll.

But Sunghoon is already shrugging into his own disguise—a baggy windbreaker, oversized glasses, and a gray newsboy cap that makes him look like he belongs in a retirement home. He looks ridiculous. You bite your lip, trying so hard not to laugh.

He catches it. “Say one word, and I’m leaving you here.”

You hold up your hands in surrender. “Not a word.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re walking side by side through the city, looking like an elderly couple that escaped their nursing home. You shake your head, tucking the scarf tighter around your neck. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

Sunghoon adjusts his fake glasses. “Genius, isn’t it?”

“I think ‘genius’ is a stretch.”

He smirks. “No one’s looking at us, are they?”

You glance around. To your absolute disbelief, no one is paying attention. Not a single person gives you a second glance. And somehow, that makes you laugh.

Sunghoon looks at you, amused. “What?”

“This is so stupid,” you giggle, shaking your head.

He grins. “Yeah. But it’s working.”

You sigh, looping your arm through his dramatically. “Fine, Grandpa. Where are we going?”

Sunghoon chuckles, squeezing your hand. “Wherever you want, Grandma.”

And for the first time in weeks, the weight of secrecy feels a little lighter. Because right now, in this ridiculous moment, it’s just you and him.

And nothing else matters.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

It’s late when you both make it back to your apartment.

After spending the night disguised as an elderly couple—walking through quiet streets, sneaking into a small late-night café, laughing at how absurd you both looked—there’s a strange kind of warmth settling in your chest.

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t looking over your shoulder.

For the first time, you and Sunghoon were just two normal people.

Now, you sit on your couch, legs tucked beneath you, watching as Sunghoon flips idly through an old book on your coffee table. “You really read all of these?” he asks, eyes scanning the spines of stacked screenwriting books on the shelf.

You nod, sipping from your mug. “Some of them multiple times.”

Sunghoon hums in approval, setting the book down before leaning back against the couch. “You’re serious about this directing thing, huh?”

You shoot him a deadpan look. “I work on a movie set, Sunghoon.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, but a lot of people say they want to be directors. Not everyone actually means it.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around your mug. You’ve heard that before. From coworkers, from mentors, from people who’ve been in the industry long enough to know how brutal it is. Everyone wants to be a director, but only a few ever make it. And you refuse to be part of the majority that doesn’t. “I do mean it,” you say quietly. “I don’t just want to be some assistant forever.”

Sunghoon watches you carefully. “You won’t be.”

You glance at him. “You say that like it’s a guarantee.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Because it is.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t know when Sunghoon started believing in you so much, but hearing it from him now—when you’re still fighting to believe in yourself—hits differently. A small silence stretches between you before you muster the courage to ask, “What about you?”

Sunghoon blinks. “What about me?”

You shrug. “You’ve been acting for years. You ever think about what’s next?”

He exhales slowly, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “I try not to.”

You frown. “Why not?”

His lips press together, as if weighing his words. “Because thinking about the future means thinking about the end. And I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

You stare at him. For all his success, for all the ways he’s established himself in the industry, Sunghoon still carries fear. The same fear you have—the fear of not making it. The fear of being forgotten. You set your mug down, shifting closer. “Well,” you say softly, “if I ever do make it as a director…”

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. “If?”

You roll your eyes. “When I make it, then.”

He smirks, satisfied. “Go on.”

You inhale deeply. “I’ll cast you in my first movie. You can be the lead.”

Sunghoon scoffs, but there’s amusement in his expression. “Oh? That’s bold of you.”

You tilt your head. “What, you think I wouldn’t?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No. I think you would.”

You smile, nudging him lightly. “And then when it wins an award, I’ll make sure to thank you in my speech.”

Sunghoon hums. “What would you say?”

You pretend to think. “Something like, ‘I’d like to thank Park Sunghoon, my first-ever lead actor, for not throwing a tantrum on set and actually listening to my direction.’”

Sunghoon laughs, a full, real laugh that makes something warm bloom in your chest.

“You’re hilarious,” he mutters.

“I try.”

He watches you for a moment, his laughter fading into something quieter, softer. His fingers brush against yours on the couch, his touch deliberate. “Promise me something,” he says.

Your breath catches. “What?”

“When you make it big—” His voice is low, steady. “Don’t forget about me.”

You blink. “Sunghoon…”

“I mean it.” His gaze is unreadable, but there’s something vulnerable beneath it. “You’re going to do great things. I know it.”

Your chest tightens. “I won’t forget you.” A small pause.

Then, just barely above a whisper, “You better not.”

Your fingers entwine with his, the silence between you heavy with things unsaid. And for the first time, you wonder. If this could last beyond stolen moments and whispered secrets.

If this—you and him—could ever belong to the future you’re both afraid to think about.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

For a while, everything is perfect.

Or at least, it feels that way.

Sunghoon’s hands find yours more easily now, even if they have to let go before anyone notices. His glances linger longer, his smiles come easier, and the time spent together—hidden away in the late hours of the night or in the quiet spaces between scenes—feels real.

The secrecy is still there, but it’s different now. It’s not something you tiptoe around in fear. It’s something you choose—a fragile world that exists only between the two of you, protected from the outside.

And for a while, that’s enough.

Until it isn’t.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

It starts with small things.

Sunghoon doesn’t touch you as much anymore—not even when no one’s looking.

He still meets you in quiet corners of the set, still kisses you breathless when you’re alone, but there’s a distance now. A flicker of something restrained in his gaze, something held back.

At first, you think you’re imagining it. But then the silences grow longer. The laughter comes less often. Then you realize Sunghoon is pulling away.

The first time you bring it up, he brushes it off.

“I’m just tired,” he says, rubbing his temples.

You hesitate. “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. Long shoots. Too much press. It’s nothing.”

But it doesn’t feel like nothing. The more time passes, the more you feel him slipping away.

It gets worse when he starts missing your usual late-night meetings.

You wait for him after shoots, sitting alone in the dimly lit studio hallways, only for your phone to vibrate with a short, clipped text.

Can’t make it tonight. Sorry.

The first time, you let it slide.

The second time, you tell yourself he’s just busy.

The third time, you feel something inside you crack.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

One night, after another grueling day on set, you decide you can’t take it anymore.

You find Sunghoon sitting in his dressing room, scrolling through his phone. He doesn’t look up when you enter. You close the door behind you, arms crossing over your chest. “What’s happening?”

Sunghoon finally glances at you, his expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

You inhale sharply, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like this—” you gesture between you “—is fine when we both know it’s not.”

He exhales, setting his phone down. “Y/N—”

“You’re pulling away,” you cut in, voice quieter now, but no less firm. “And I don’t know why.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leans back, rubbing a hand over his face. When he finally speaks, his voice is tired. “I have a lot on my plate,” he mutters. “There’s a ton of press lined up, and the agency is already breathing down my neck about scheduling conflicts. They want me to be careful, especially with—” He stops himself, but you already know what he was going to say.

Especially with you.

Your chest tightens. “So what? I’m just another inconvenience?”

Sunghoon’s gaze snaps to yours, sharp and unyielding. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But it’s what it feels like.” Your voice wavers despite your best efforts. “You’re choosing to distance yourself, Sunghoon. And I don’t understand why.”

He exhales heavily, standing up and pacing across the room. “Because I have to, okay? Do you know what would happen if this got out? Do you know what the agency would do?”

You swallow hard. “So you’re just going to push me away?”

His hands clench at his sides. “I don’t have a choice.”

You laugh—bitter and hollow. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

Sunghoon flinches, but he doesn’t argue, and that hurts more than anything.

You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. “What’s happening to us?”

He doesn’t answer. The silence tells you everything.

You nod slowly, stepping back toward the door. “I get it.”

Sunghoon’s brows furrow. “Y/N—”

“No,” you interrupt, voice raw. “I get it. You don’t have to say anything else.”

You leave before he can stop you, and for the first time in weeks, you feel alone.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

You barely see Sunghoon after that night.

You don’t wait for him after shoots anymore. You don’t check your phone for his messages. You don’t seek him out in the quiet moments between takes. And, most of all, you don’t ask him for explanations he’s never going to give.

It’s easier this way. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. But deep down, you know that’s a lie. Because every time you step on set, every time you hear his voice in the distance, every time you feel his presence before you even see him—your chest tightens.

Sunghoon might be pulling away, but that doesn’t mean you’ve stopped wanting him to stay.

The breaking point comes when you least expect it.

Sunghoon has been acting off all day—more distant than usual, his shoulders stiff, his jaw clenched. The crew is extra careful around him, treading lightly, trying not to provoke whatever storm is brewing beneath the surface.

You do the same, but when the director announces a sudden scheduling change, everything snaps.

“We need to push the final filming dates up,” the director says, glancing at Sunghoon. “Your overseas project confirmed your start date, so we have to wrap this production sooner than expected.”

Your stomach drops. Overseas project? You turn toward Sunghoon, heart pounding.

He doesn’t look at you. “Understood,” he says stiffly.

The meeting ends, people disperse, and you stand frozen in place, trying to process what just happened. You don’t realize you’re walking toward him until you’re already standing in front of him. “Overseas?” your voice comes out unsteady. “When were you going to tell me?”

Sunghoon’s eyes flicker, but his expression remains guarded. “I was going to.”

“When?” You exhale sharply, frustration bubbling up. “After you left?”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Y/N—”

“No.” Your hands curl into fists. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to pull away for weeks and then act like this is nothing.”

Sunghoon clenches his jaw. “I never said it was nothing.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Really? Because that’s exactly what it feels like.”

The tension in the air is suffocating. Crew members glance at you both nervously from a distance, sensing the hostility radiating off of you, but you don’t care. You’re too angry. Too tired.

“You’re leaving,” you say, your voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “And you weren’t even going to tell me.”

His lips part, but no words come out. And that—more than anything—breaks you.

“Right,” you whisper, nodding to yourself. “Got it.”

You turn to leave.

“If you love me, why are you making me choose?” His voice is quiet. Frustrated. Pained.

You freeze. Slowly, you turn back to face him.

Sunghoon’s eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, a storm brewing beneath the surface.

Then in a hushed voice, “If you love me,” you whisper, “why won’t you choose me?”

His expression falters.

Silence. Heavy. Unforgiving.

Sunghoon looks at you, his gaze full of everything he wants to say but won’t, and that’s all you need to know.

You inhale sharply, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “I hope your career was worth it. Take care ‘hoon, I mean it.” Then you walk away.

And this time, Sunghoon doesn’t stop you.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The set feels off today.

Sunghoon notices it the moment he steps onto the lot.

Everything looks the same—the cameras rolling into position, the crew bustling around, the murmurs of last-minute adjustments to the schedule.

But something is missing. No—someone is missing.

His eyes instinctively scan the space, searching for you. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it at first. It’s second nature by now—finding you in a crowd, watching you from across the set, waiting for the moment your eyes meet his.

Except today, that moment doesn’t come.

A strange weight settles in his chest. Maybe you’re just running late. Maybe you’re off handling something behind the scenes. Maybe—

“Sunghoon, we need you on set!”

He blinks, snapping out of it. Right. Focus. But as the morning drags on, the unease only grows.

By lunch, when he still hasn’t seen you, it becomes unbearable. He stops one of the assistant directors on their way back from a meeting. “Where’s Y/N?”

The assistant director hesitates. “You don’t know?”

Sunghoon’s stomach twists. “Know what?”

“She transferred to another crew.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He stares at them, unable to process it. “What?”

“She requested a transfer last night.” The assistant director shifts uncomfortably. “The director approved it this morning. She’s working on another set now.”

Sunghoon’s breath catches. You left. Not just him. Not just the late-night moments and stolen glances. You left everything. And you didn’t tell him. Didn’t give him a warning. Didn’t give him a chance.

For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t know what to do. All he knows is that the set feels emptier now. Colder. And no matter how many times he looks, you’re not coming back.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

Time moves forward, with or without you.

At first, it feels like you’re running on autopilot. The transfer to another crew is exactly what you needed—a fresh start, a clean slate, a distraction. The work is just as exhausting, the deadlines just as relentless, but at least here, no one looks at you like they know.

No one whispers behind your back.

No one searches for your eyes across the set.

No one makes your heart ache just by existing.

And that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To forget? To move on?

You tell yourself that enough times, and eventually, you almost start to believe it.

Months turn into years. Your career flourishes.

At first, you’re just another assistant, working your way up, taking whatever projects come your way. But then, little by little, your name starts to mean something.

Your hard work doesn’t go unnoticed. Producers take note of your efficiency. Directors praise your instincts. Soon, you’re getting bigger responsibilities—helping with shot lists, offering creative input, refining scenes.

Until, one day, you get the call.

The one that changes everything.

The one that makes your dream of becoming a director something more than just a dream.

Your first movie. Your name on the credits, not as an assistant, not as someone behind the scenes, but as the director.

You should be overjoyed. And you are. Really.

But success has a funny way of feeling lonely sometimes.

Because no matter how many awards you win, no matter how many people praise your vision, there’s still a part of you that wonders—

Would Sunghoon have been proud of you?

Would he have smiled the way he did that night on your couch, when you told him your dreams?

Would he have been your lead?

You never let yourself dwell on the answers, because the past is the past, and Sunghoon is nothing more than a ghost in it.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

Sunghoon gets everything he ever wanted.

The overseas project is a massive hit. Critics rave about his performance, calling it his most compelling work yet. He wins awards, lands more prestigious roles, works with some of the biggest names in the industry.

His career skyrockets. Every magazine cover, every interview, every red carpet event cements his status as one of the top actors of his generation. And yet, the higher he climbs, the emptier it feels.

The first few months after you left were the hardest. He would step on set and instinctively look for you, only to remember—you’re gone. He would scroll through his phone late at night, resisting the urge to type out a message he knew he’d never send. He told himself he had no right to miss you. That he made his choice. That this was the price of success.

But sometimes, when the nights were too quiet and the loneliness too loud, he wondered, had he really chosen his career? Or had he just been too afraid to choose you?

But life moves on and Sunghoon learns to live with it.

He throws himself into work, into press tours, into pretending that nothing haunts him. It works. For a while.

Until one day, he sees you on a screen instead of beside him. Your name flashes across an industry article—"Breakout Director Y/N Takes the Film World by Storm." There’s a photo of you attached to it. You’re smiling, standing on a stage, accepting an award.You look different. More polished, more confident. Like the version of yourself you always wanted to be.

And for the first time in years, Sunghoon feels like he lost, because you made it. Without him.

And he doesn’t know if he should be proud of you, or devastated that he’s no longer a part of your story.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

Success is supposed to be fulfilling.

That’s what you tell yourself when you sit in an empty editing room late at night, staring at the final cut of your latest film. The screen glows in the dimly lit space, casting shadows across your desk, but you don’t move.

You should be proud. This is your film. Your vision. Your name stamped onto something that will live beyond you. But right now, all you can feel is exhaustion pressing down on your shoulders.

And something else. Something lonelier.

Your phone buzzes on the desk, breaking the silence. You blink, glancing at the screen. A message from an old friend from your assistant days.

Did you see the headlines?

Your fingers hesitate before typing. What headlines? It doesn’t take long for the reply to come through.

Sunghoon just won another Best Actor award. His speech was everywhere.

You inhale sharply. Of course he did. Of course he’s still winning, still thriving. He’s Park Sunghoon. This is what he was always meant to do.

Still, your hands move on their own, searching his name. And there it is. A photo of him on stage, trophy in hand, looking every bit the polished, untouchable star he’s become.

You tell yourself not to click on the video. You tell yourself not to care, but your finger taps play before your mind can catch up.

Sunghoon stands before a packed audience, cameras flashing, his expression calm and composed as always.

“…There are too many people to thank,” he says, his voice steady. “But more than anything, I want to thank the people who believed in me before the rest of the world did.”

He pauses, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “And to those I let go of along the way,” he exhales quietly, “I hope you’re doing well.”

Your breath catches. Because he knows. He knows you’d be watching. He knows you’d hear those words and wonder, was he talking about you?

A lump forms in your throat. You close the video before it can play any longer, tossing your phone onto the desk as you press the heels of your palms into your eyes.

This is ridiculous. It’s been years. You shouldn’t still feel like this. But as you sit there, alone in a room filled with nothing but the echoes of your own thoughts, you realize something terrifying. No matter how much time has passed, no matter how much you’ve accomplished.

Sunghoon is still a part of you, and you don’t know if that will ever change.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

Years later, you’re working on the biggest project yet.

The set is already bustling when you arrive.

Your latest film—the one you spent years working toward—is finally in production, and you’re at the helm. The director’s chair belongs to you now, the vision in your hands, the weight of the project resting on your shoulders.

It should feel like a victory, but the moment you step onto set, something shifts.

A whisper moves through the crew, quiet but undeniable. You turn to your assistant, frowning slightly. “What’s going on?”

She hesitates. “Uh… the lead just arrived.”

Your stomach drops. You already know who it is. But what you don’t expect is for him to walk in with her.

Sunghoon enters the set with his co-star—an actress whose name has been plastered across magazines, her face just as recognizable as his. She’s beautiful, effortlessly poised, the kind of woman who fits perfectly into the world he’s built for himself.

And she’s holding his hand.

Your grip tightens on the clipboard in your hands as you watch her lean in close, whispering something against his ear. Sunghoon chuckles, his lips curling into an easy smile—one that looks far too public, too polished. Too different from the way he used to smile at you.

Your chest tightens. Because this? This is nothing like what the two of you had.

Sunghoon was never the type to be affectionate in front of others. With you, everything was secret—stolen glances, hidden touches, late-night meetings where the only witnesses were the shadows.

But with her? He isn’t hiding. He isn’t holding back. It’s as if whatever existed between you never even mattered. You force yourself to breathe, schooling your expression into something unreadable.

Sunghoon’s eyes sweep over the room, taking everything in, before they land on you. And for the first time in years, your gazes lock. The noise around you fades. The years that have passed, the distance that’s settled, the choices that have been made—they all press into the space between you, heavy and suffocating. Sunghoon’s smile falters for just a second. But it’s enough. Because in that second, you see it—the flicker of recognition, of hesitation. The realization that you’re here, that this is real, that after all this time, after all the choices that led you both here— You’re standing in front of him again. And then, just as quickly, the moment is gone.

Sunghoon’s expression smooths over, unreadable once more. His grip on her hand tightens ever so slightly, a silent reminder of the life he’s built without you. He takes a step forward, nodding in greeting.

“Director,” he says, his voice even.

You swallow down the lump in your throat. “Mr. Park,” you reply, just as composed. The formalities sting. Especially when the last time you spoke, you were begging him to choose you.

Sunghoon watches you for a moment longer, as if searching for something in your face, and for the first time in years, you don’t let him find it.

You glance at your assistant, clearing your throat. “Let’s get started.” Then you turn away.Because no matter how much your heart still aches, no matter how much it kills you to see him like this.

You refuse to be a part of his past anymore. Because you’re living your future.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

You do what you do best. You focus.

You drown yourself in your work, in camera angles and shot compositions, in the steady rhythm of directing. You give feedback, adjust blocking, consult with the cinematographer—anything to keep yourself from thinking about the fact that he’s here. That he’s with her. That you’re finally in the same place again, but this time, he’s standing next to someone else.

Sunghoon is professional. You expected nothing less. He follows directions with sharp precision, delivering each scene flawlessly, slipping into character with the kind of ease that made him famous. He listens when you speak, nods when you give him notes, keeps his distance when the cameras aren’t rolling. And for the first few days, it works.

Until one night, after an exhausting day on set, you step outside for some air and find him already there, waiting. The cool night air is a relief against your skin, but the sight of him standing by the railing, hands tucked into his pockets, sends a sharp wave of something unwelcome through your chest.

You should turn around. You shouldn’t let this happen. But then he turns, his gaze meeting yours, and just like before—just like always—you can’t look away. He exhales slowly. “I was wondering when we’d actually talk.”

Your fingers tighten around your jacket sleeves. “We talk every day.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “What do you want me to say, Sunghoon? That it’s weird seeing you again? That it’s strange directing you? That it’s exhausting pretending like the past doesn’t exist?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react. But something in his expression shifts. A crack in the carefully composed exterior. “That night,” he says quietly. “The night you left.”

Your breath catches.

“I let you walk away,” he continues, voice heavier now. “And I thought—no, I told myself—that was the right choice.”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stay still. To stay indifferent.

“But I watched your career take off. I saw your name in the headlines. I saw you win—without me.” His voice is softer now, more raw. “And for years, I convinced myself that was enough.” Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. “It wasn’t.”

Your heart clenches. This isn’t happening. You can’t let this happen. “You don’t get to do this,” you say, your voice colder than you intend. “You don’t get to come back after all this time and say this.”

Sunghoon takes a slow step forward. “Why not?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Because you made your choice, Sunghoon. You chose your career. And I chose to stop waiting for you to choose me.”

He exhales sharply. “Y/N—”

“You have her now,” you cut in, your tone sharp, pointed. “So why are you standing here, saying these things?”

Sunghoon falls silent. For a moment, you almost think he won’t answer. “She’s not you.”

Your breath stutters. “Don’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “Don’t say that.”

“I thought it would be easier,” he continues, ignoring the warning in your voice. “That if I had someone who fit into my world, who didn’t make me question everything, it would be enough.”

You inhale shakily, willing yourself to stay calm. To stay unaffected.

“But it wasn’t,” Sunghoon murmurs, looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. “Because no matter where I went, no matter who I was with—” His voice drops lower, heavier. “It was always you.”

The words slice through you like a knife. But you don’t let them break you. You can’t. Because the past is the past. And you’re not that girl anymore. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself before meeting his gaze. “Then I feel sorry for you.” Sunghoon stills. You exhale slowly, your voice quiet but firm. “Because I moved on.”

It’s a lie. A lie so fragile that if he pushed just a little harder, if he looked at you just a second longer, it would shatter.

But Sunghoon doesn’t push, because maybe, just maybe, he already knows he’s too late.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The next few days pass in a blur.

You and Sunghoon fall back into professionalism, neither of you acknowledging what was said that night. The crew doesn’t notice the way your exchanges are clipped, the way you avoid being alone together, the way Sunghoon’s co-star pulls him into picture-perfect embraces while you pretend not to see.

It’s exhausting. But you refuse to let it break you. You’ve spent years building yourself up again. You won’t let him tear you down now. So when you see him lingering after a late-night shoot, standing alone by the trailers, you tell yourself to keep walking. You don’t owe him anything.

“Y/N.” You stop. Sunghoon exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Just—stay for a second.”

Against your better judgment, you do. But when you turn to face him, your expression is unreadable. “What do you want, Sunghoon?”

He hesitates. “The truth.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “The truth?”

He nods. “Did you really move on?”

Your stomach twists. Because you should say yes. You should lie. But you don’t. Instead, you take a deep breath and meet his gaze, steady and firm. “I had to forgive you,” you say quietly. “Not for you. For me.”

Sunghoon doesn’t speak. He just watches you, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

You exhale slowly. “I had to forgive you because holding onto the anger and resentment wasn’t healthy for me. But remember that it made me who I am now.”

He swallows hard. “Y/N—”

You shake your head. “You have a long-term girlfriend now, too.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “You made your choice years ago. You have to live with it, just like I did.”

His fingers twitch at his sides. “I know.”

You pause, letting the words settle between you. Then, with a small, tired smile, you add, “Don’t treat her like you did with me.”

Sunghoon’s breath catches.

“And hey,” you say, your tone softer now, “you’re already a step ahead of where we were. Be proud to be able to share her with the world.”

He doesn’t respond. He just looks at you, something fragile and almost broken in his gaze. But you don’t let yourself fall into it. Not anymore.

“We both moved on, maybe not from each other yet, but we’ve moved on with our lives already,” you continue, offering him one last bittersweet smile. “And I hope you find peace with it.”

Sunghoon doesn’t argue. He finally understands. You’re not his anymore, and you might never be again.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

On the last day of filming, as the crew wraps up and the cast exchanges goodbyes, you step outside for a breath of air.

You should be celebrating. This film—the one you fought for, the one you poured your soul into—is finally complete. And yet, all you can think about is the fact that this means you’ll never see him again. That after today, Sunghoon will just be another name in the credits. Another person in your past. You exhale slowly, pressing a hand against your forehead. This is good, you remind yourself. This is how it’s supposed to be.

“Y/N.” You stiffen. You knew he’d come. You don’t know how, but you knew. Sunghoon stands behind you, hands tucked into his pockets, his expression unreadable. “So… this is it.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He exhales, glancing up at the sky. “It’s funny. I used to think we’d meet again and everything would just… fall back into place.”

Your heart aches, but you don’t let it show. “That’s not how life works,” you murmur.

Sunghoon looks at you then, and for the first time, there’s no longing. No regret. Just quiet acceptance. “I know,” he says. Silence stretches between you. “I’m proud of you. Take care, Y/N.”

You swallow down the lump in your throat, offering him a small, soft smile. “You too, Sunghoon.”

And with that, you turn and walk away. For the last time.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

You watch as your hard work gets shown on the big screen, proud of where you’ve come.

The final shot of the film is of him.

The camera lingers as he delivers his last lines, “I’m happy for you,” his gaze drifting past the lens, it’s not obvious, but you notice it. And for a fleeting moment, as you and thousands of people watch the end of your film, you wonder if he’s looking at you.

But then the scene ends, the cameras stop rolling, and the moment fades.

Just like everything else.

Rei's Notes ✎: It's here woooo, no one dies this time dw. I hope the smut improved from last time T^T Was heavily inspired by the k-drama Melo Movie, but the fic is more of a rough inspiration. Once again, I've broken my longest word count record, this time we went past 20k. Had to use a different divider instead of the usual image cuz of how long this was. As always I'd love to hear your thoughts and how this made you feel so leave a reblog or reply!! <33

⟢ Taglist: @yunverie @dawngyu @hueningstar @hhoneyhan @immelissaaa @lovingbeomgyudayone @xylatox @i-like-to-read-at-4am @imlonelydontsendhelp @ode2soob @pagelets @laylasbunbunny @vrusha01 @enhaflixer @highway-143 @keloiu @m1kkso @cutehoons02 If you want to be tagged in all of my fics, go here to be added to my permanent taglist.

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ego13 · 4 months ago

Text

CRIMINAL ── yjm.

─ having cheated in one of the underground casinos, you didn't think you'd be caught red-handed and punished in a rather interesting way.

now playing : Taemin - Criminal

warnings, sensitive content: semi-rough sex, too much dirty talk, gp!karina, sex with strangers, sex in public places, dry humping, fingering (reader recieving), facefucking, deeptroating, praise kink, hair pulling, pet names (kitty, good girl, princess), nipple play, spanking (even too much), riding, hickeys, breeding kink.

word count : 3,2k

The aroma of whiskey, pricey perfume, and the slightest hint of cigarette smoke clinging to the velvet upholstery filled the air inside the casino. Its deep crimson fabric, adorned with swirling gold filigree, hushed every footfall as the main character stepped onto the luxurious carpet. With the occasional outburst of jubilant laughter or the moan of someone who had just lost a fortune, the sound of jingling slot machines filled the room like a fascinating symphony.

Crystals in the glistening chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling caught the light and dispersed it in stunning patterns on the marble floors close to the entryway. There appeared to be movement in every direction as cocktail waiters with trays full of glasses and elegant, shimmering gowns moved fluidly between the tables.

Men in fitted suits sat at the blackjack and poker tables with stone faces, their palms hovering over chips, while others, more relaxed, flung their bets in with reckless abandon. As you navigated the maze of flashing lights and velvet ropes, you passed tourists who were ecstatic and high rollers whose eyes glowed with either triumph or despair.

The sound of falling cubes was drowned out by the clamor of electronic jingles and whispered talks as a dice game broke out in cheers to the left. A huge indoor waterfall poured into a glistening pool as the casino extended past the main floor and past the high-limit salons where the real kings and queens of the gaming industry played.

Oh, you clearly had a very interesting evening planned.

You walked to one of the tables, which stood almost in the very center of the gaming room, sitting down opposite a man unknown to you in an expensive suit who looked at you as nothing more than easy prey, well, you're clearly not against playing along and pretending to be a fool, knowing that he'll give you more than a few for one game.

"Well, shall we play, princess? Or is Texas Hold'em not suitable for girls like you?" He chuckled, making the men standing at the table laugh with this phrase, and you clearly caught a sign of falsehood in this feigned laughter, well, it looks like you're not the only one lying today.

You were playing with the stack of chips next to you with your fingers, which the man noticed, raising his eyebrow as if offering to place a bet with you.

"All in," you said so calmly, as if you were trying to strangle him with your indifference, to which his eyes widened, but then his face broke into a satisfied smile, after which he pushed his chips towards the dealer.

"Such a delicate girl, but she plays for big money," he said before taking a small sip from his glass of whiskey, hearing the ice cubes touching each other, creating a pleasant sound.

He drank the same half-full whiskey, never taking more than a sip, while a server, well-paid for his quiet, made sure his glass was never empty. The room was buzzing with excitement as the city's elite gathered to watch the match.

Following the face-down dealing of two private cards, a number of community cards were positioned in the middle. The choices to bet, raise, or fold changed with each round. You're was planning on read the man, playing on his confidence, and laying the ideal trap were more important than simply using the hand.

Because of the fact, that you first played conservatively, he was able to win a few hands, which boosted his confidence. Feeling in charge, the wealthy man laughed and threw back another drink. You patiently waited for the right time to happen, allowing him to believe it. With one ace on the table and one in your hand, they had the starting point for an almost invincible full house. Yet you remained composed, hardly responding, as though fortune had finally shifted in your favor. The fake hesitancy was misunderstood by him, who grinned. In the absence of weakness, he perceived it.

As you called the bet and set down your cards, the room fell silent. The murmurs followed by few gasps. Three aces, two kings, a full house. Fucking amazing. When the reality struck, his confidence crumbled and he went pale. Someone had played him. Exactly. In your direction, the dealer shoved the pile of chips. Just enough to acknowledge your achievement, but not enough to leave a trace, you glanced at the rigged dealer and gave him a little, contented smile.

He shook his head incredulously and muttered a swear. "You're simply lucky," he whispered. In a silent toast, your merely lifted your glass which a minute earlier had been filled with fresh whiskey by the waiter, who was still obediently standing next to the table, with ease, you uttered, "It's hard to call my talent luck."

You just chuckled, getting up from the table with your glass in your hands, looking for someone else, someone who would once again give you everything they had acquired that evening.

Having noticed a table with several people, you were about to approach it when you felt someone put their hand on your shoulder, turning around, you saw a serious man in a suit, «Security» said the badge that hung on his black formal jacket. This realization made you wince, had you been caught? Had someone noticed that the playing chips were counterfeit?

"You need to go with me," said the man, taking you by the wrist, pulling you, at that moment you morally said goodbye to your friends and loved ones, thinking that you were clearly going to be killed to hell now, but everything changed after a long walk, as it seemed to you, around the entire casino, you were not taken into a dark room, only the sofa stood in the center, and the door behind you closed with a loud bang.

"What a beautiful girl cheating," you heard a rough female voice, the cold look on Jimin's face only intensified as she took in the nervous fidgeting of the girl before her. Her piercing gaze seemed to bore into the very soul of your soul, making her feel even more exposed under the scrutiny of all four women.

"You're really beautiful, It's a pity that you act like a rat," the room felt stiflingly hot, the air heavy with tension and unspoken promises of punishment to come. She smirked, clearly enjoying your discomfort, watching you shudder just from the feeling of the weight of their gaze on your body.

Once again, her hands were on your shoulders, the she smirked, feeling your skin get covered in goosebumps, slightly lowering the straps of your dress, "you know, all girls who behave like this should be punished," you lowered your head in shame, unable to maintain eye contact with them.

"Oh, what a shame, are you really embarrassed?" Jimin smirked at your timid movements, at the way you simply let her take off your dress like a person who had already resigned himself to his burden.

"As for being shy, don't be like that, I'll fuck the crap out of you," Jimin said, grabbing your wrist and forcing you to come closer, looking at the blush on your face with a smirk, "by the way, regarding your punishment..."

She backed away, sitting on the couch and patting her knees as if inviting you to sit down, "bend over, you fucking brat," the rough tone made you feel like your knees were weak, the other girls' hands pushed you to lean on Jimin's lap and bend over, causing them to exclaim your obedience.

A smirk played on Jimin's lips as you approached, the soft pad of her footsteps echoing in the spacious room. She watched, unmoving, as you leaned over her lap, the fabric of your dress riding up you creamy thighs. Her hand, already resting on her thigh, slid higher, fingertips brushing against the exposed skin.

"Oh, aren't you an eager thing?" She said, smirking and leaning closer to examine your body in more detail which made her lick her lips in anticipation, "Good enough to eat," she exclaimed, placing her hand on the bulge that had formed in her pants in such a short time, sighing heavily at the sensation of the touch.

Yu's hand crept further up, grip tightening, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thigh. She leaned in closer, her breath hot against your ear as she hissed, "you better behave yourself so I don't fuck you senseless right now," with that, Jimin delivered a sharp smack to your ass, the sound of it ringing out in the room. She massaged the reddening skin almost immediately after, her touch a confusing mix of punishment and soothing caress.

"Taking her punishment like a good girl, fuck... I can cum just from this view."

Jimin let out a dark chuckle at your whimper, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction at the way you arched your back, her hand leaving a vivid red mark on the soft, supple skin. She could feel the heat radiating off your skin, could see the goosebumps prickling her flesh from the mix of pain and unwanted pleasure.

"Count it," she said in a rough vouce, raising her hand for another smack as her eyes glinting with a dark, twisted version of affection, Jimin growled, her voice low and threatening. Her hand leaned down on your ass once more, the sound of the smack echoing obscenely in the room.

"O-One!" you sniffled, making her smirk, tears pricked at the corners of your eyes but you blinked them back, not wanting to give Jimin the satisfaction of seeing you cry. Jimin's hand worked methodically, each smack harder than the last, each one leaving a more visible vivid red handprint on your tender skin. She could feel you squirming, could hear your breathy whimpers and ragged counting.

"E-Eight, nine, ten..." You gasped, trying your best to keep up with the relentless pace of Jimin's actions. Your delicate skin was on fire, each smack sending jolts of pain and something shamefully close to pleasure coursing through you.

Throughout the spanking, Jimin's other hand crept under the hem of your black dress, which during this time has managed to almost completely slide off you, fingernails raking up your thigh, dangerously close to where her legs met.

"Fuck, so wet from being spanked? Such a bad girl you are..." She raised her hand again, letting it hover for a moment, allowing anticipation and trepidation to build in the air between them. Then, with a contented grin, she brought it down hard, striking the same cheek as before. Her hand was relentless, moving from cheek to cheek with mechanical precision, each blow designed to punish and arouse in equal measure.

"Baby, I don't want to see you cry, you know very well that girls who break the rules are always punished," she said, stroking your flushed skin, giving you a few minutes to come to your senses while her other hand slid down to the front, cupping your pussy possessively, feeling the damp heat even through the thin fabric of your panties.

"Fuck... you're so soaked, kitty," She ripped away the flimsy fabric barrier, baring your cunt to the cool air of the room. Her fingers slowly circled your clit with a rough fingertip, feeling it swell and throb against the touch, as her fingers slowly slid inside, curled her fingers just right, knowing she'd found that spongey spot that would make you see stars.

"Such a drenched cunt, holy shit..." She punctuated her words with a particularly hard thrust, burying her fingers as deep as they could go and grinding the heel of her palm against your swollen clit, you let out a choked scream, hips bucking back against Jimin's hand, trying to take her fingers even deeper.

"Oh, aren't you a loud girl?" Jimin encouraged darkly, free hand coming down hard on your ass, leaving another vivid red mark blooming on the abused and sore flesh, she continued her relentless assault, fingers curling and scissoring, rubbing mercilessly against that sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside your walls.

"You're gripping me so tightly..." Jimin growled, feeling your pussy clamp down around her, you teetering on the brink of climax, "gonna cum for me, baby girl?"

She leaned down, teeth sinking into the side of your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. She sucked and licked at the reddening skin, marking her possession, as her fingers never stopped their brutal pumping, fucking into your cunt with a single-minded intensity.

"Right now," with those words, she slammed her fingers in as deep as they could go and ground the heel of her palm against your clit, pushing you over the edge into oblivion. Jimin's other hand came down on your ass with a brutal slap, the sound echoing obscenely in the room.

"Good fucking girl, such a good girl..." She praised darkly, fingers pumping through your orgasm, drawing it out and making it last longer, she continued to grind against your swollen clit, rubbing through the aftershocks, until the you collapsed forward.

"On your knees," she said in a hoarse, rough voice that made you immediately climb off her lap on trembling legs, standing on your own knees, Jimin's hand drifted down, palming herself through her pants. She could feel how hard she was, how much she ached to shove her cock down your eager throat.

"You're going to take it all baby, every. fucking. inch," She punctuated her words by rubbing her clothed erection against your face, letting you feel the size and shape of her as her breath grew heavier, the anticipation building in her chest.

She smirked as she watched you scramble to obey, eagerly tugging at her belt and the button of her pants. The desperation in your movements was palpable, her need to free Jimin's cock an almost vulgar thing.

Jimin tangled her fingers in your hair, gripping the silky strands as she forced you to look at her, slowly and deliberately, Jimin rubbed the swollen head of her dick against your soft lips, smearing them with the musky essence of her arousal.

"Open up, kitty... Let me feel that tight throat of yours," As she spoke, she began to slowly push forward, the thick length of her cock made you to part your lips, invading the warm, wet cavern of your tight throat which you immediately tried to relax. She groaned at the feel of the girl's tongue sliding along her sensitive flesh, the slick heat of her mouth engulfing her.

She began to thrust, dragging her length in and out of your mouth, fucking her face with slow, deliberate strokes. Her heavy balls slapped against your chin with each pump of her hips, a filthy wet sound that echoed obscenely in the room, "Fuck, you're such a little cocksucker, don't you? Fucking hell..."

Yu could feel your throat constricting around her, the tight muscles fluttering as you struggled to accommodate her length. It felt incredible, the way you choked and gagged as you tried to take her more deeper, from the feeling of how she almost touched the back of your fucking throat made your head spin.

Jimin growled in pleasure, fingers tightening in your hair as she began to pick up the pace, fucking your face with increasingly rough, brutal thrusts, her hips moved like a piston, slamming into your throat. Drool leaked from the corners of your stretched mouth, bubbling obscenely as Jimin fucked your throat raw.

"'m getting close," Jimin panted, the hand not tangled in your hair drifting down to grope and squeeze at your breasts, pinching and rolling the stiff peaks between her fingers, with a final, brutal thrust, Yu buried herself balls deep in your mouth, grinding against the back of her throat as she came with a guttural groan.

Thick, hot ropes of cum poured from her spasming head, flooding and forcing you to swallow around the heavy load. As the waves of her intense climax finally began to stop, Jimin slowly withdrew, her softening cock slipping from your abused mouth with a wet pop. She looked down at you, taking in the sight of your flushed face, messy hair, your ruined makeup and the way you gasped and choked as you tried to catch your breath.

She reached out, thumb and forefinger pinching your chin, tilting your face up to meet Jimin's intense gaze. Her eyes were dark, filled with a hunger that promised all sorts of sinful delights. She licked her lips as she stared down at her girl, a slow, filthy grin spreading across her face.

"Oh baby, I think I ruined your makeup..." she smirked, grabbing your wrist only to have you fall back onto her lap, gripping your hips tightly, "while you're riding me - makeup will be the last thing you need right now."

She leaned in, capturing your lips in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss, all clashing teeth and tangling tongues. All the while, her hands continued their sensual assault on your breasts, kneading and massaging the soft, pliant flesh with a reverent hunger.

You sat up slightly, allowing her to slide inside, letting out a low moan into the kiss, causing her to squeeze your hips tighter, deepening it, It made Jimin's cock throb and pulse inside you, the sight and sounds of your pleasure stoking the flames of her own desire.

"Fuuck... tightest pussy ever..." She punctuated her words with a sharp thrust of her hips, slamming up into your dripping cunt. The wet, obscene sound of fucking filled the room, the lewd slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls.

Your whimpers and whines only spurred Jimin on, urging her to grope and tease more roughly, to pinch and tug at the stiff little peaks of your breasts. She could feel them hardening further under her ministrations, could see the pretty pink flush spreading down your neck.

"Such a good girl, taking me so fucking deep like you were made for it..." Jimin thrust up hard and fast, burying herself balls-deep inside your fluttering cunt. She set a rapid, almost punishing pace, fucking up into you with brutal, animalistic intensity.

"Gonna breed you, princess, make you full of my pups, fuck..." She could feel the pressure building, the coil of ecstasy winding tighter and tighter in her core. But she gritted her teeth, determined to hold back, to make you finish first.

With a final, brutal thrust, Jimin buried herself balls-deep inside your spasming cunt. She could feel your release crashing over you in waves as your pussy gripping and rippling around Jimin's thick shaft like a vice.

Jimin's body shuddered and convulsed as her own mind-blowing orgasm ripped through her. A guttural, feral growl tore from her, thick cock pulsing and throbbing as it pumped stream after stream of hot, thick cum deep into your spasming cunt.

"Fuck, fuck fuck!" Her eyes rolling back as she filled you to the brim with her seed. Her hips jerked and spasmed erratically, grinding her cock as deep as physically possible as she rode out the intense waves of pleasure crashing over her.

As the final aftershocks of your mutual orgasms began to subside, Yu slumped back against the couch, pulling your limp, sated body against her own. She wrapped her arms around your trembling body possessively, holding you close as they both struggled to catch their breath.

"Fuck... baby, I hope you're not dead, because I'm not done with your punishment yet..."

#gg x reader #girl group x reader #wlw #sapphic #kpop smut #aespa #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #girl group #girl group x fem reader #yu jimin x fem reader #yu jimin x reader #karina x fem reader #karina x reader #karina x you #aespa x you #aespa smut #aespa karina

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wandamaximoffsbadgirl · 4 months ago

Text

Morning Brews & Scarlet Hues

CEOs!WandaNat x Coffee shop owner!fem!reader

Word count: 2.1K

Summary: The two hottest and most successful CEOs come into your coffee shop to flirt with you. You didn't expect them to flirt with you and you certainly weren't expecting them to be married and asking you out

Warnings: Slow burn to established relationship, mild panic attack, light angst, polyamory dynamics

Authors notes: This was a request that you can find here!

The smell of freshly ground coffee beans filled the air as you flipped the sign on the door, officially opening for the morning rush. The warm glow of the sunrise streamed through the large windows, painting golden streaks across the polished wooden countertops. The shop was quiet, peaceful—the kind of morning that made waking up at the crack of dawn worth it.

You moved through the familiar motions: turning on the espresso machine, setting out fresh pastries, and humming softly to the indie playlist playing over the speakers. The bell above the door chimed, signaling your first customer of the day.

And what a first customer she was.

Wanda Maximoff stepped inside, the scent of her expensive perfume—warm vanilla and hints of spice—blending with the coffee-rich air. She was breathtaking. Dressed in a deep scarlet blouse tucked into a perfectly tailored black pencil skirt, her heels clicked against the hardwood floor with every confident step. Waves of auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her sharp green eyes found you instantly, a slow, knowing smile curving her lips.

“Good morning, darling,” she greeted, her voice smooth like honey. She leaned casually against the counter, her gaze lingering just long enough to make your heart pick up speed. “You’re always up so early. I don’t know how you do it.”

You grinned, leaning in just slightly. “The secret is lots of coffee. Speaking of which, your usual?”

She tilted her head, pretending to consider. “Hmm. I don’t know… I was thinking of trying something different today.” Wanda tapped a manicured finger against her lips, then looked at you through her lashes. “What would you recommend?”

You bit your lip, playing along. “That depends. Are you in the mood for something sweet? Bold? Maybe something that lingers, like a slow burn?”

Her smile deepened. “You know me so well already.”

You turned to start making her drink, feeling the weight of her gaze following your every movement. As you steamed the milk, Wanda’s voice cut through the quiet hum of the machine.

“You always look so lovely in the mornings,” she mused. “Something about the sunrise on your skin… it’s unfair, really.”

Your hands faltered for just a second before you regained your composure, glancing over your shoulder. “Flattery so early in the day, Miss Maximoff? You must really want this coffee to be perfect.”

Wanda chuckled, a low, sultry sound. “I already know it will be. I just like watching you get all flustered.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, finishing up her drink and sliding it across the counter. “One hazelnut oat milk latte, with an extra shot of charm, just for you.”

She took the cup, her fingers grazing yours briefly—just enough to send a small spark up your arm. “Perfect,” she murmured, taking a sip. Then, with a glance at the clock, she sighed. “Duty calls. But I do hope you’ll miss me while I’m gone.”

You leaned on the counter, resting your chin on your hand. “If you come back tomorrow, I might just admit that I do.”

Wanda smirked, backing toward the door. “Careful, sweetheart. I just might hold you to that.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving you standing there with a stupid smile and a rapidly beating heart.

What a way to start the morning.

⟡ ˚ ༘☕️🤎🧸 ⋆｡°

The morning rush came and went in a blur of familiar faces and steady hands crafting lattes, cappuccinos, and cold brews. You chatted with old college friends who stopped by for their usual pick-me-ups, exchanged pleasantries with the office workers from nearby businesses, and watched with a fond smile as the group of older ladies settled into their usual corner, their laughter filling the shop like the soft chime of wind bells.

By the time lunch rolled around, the café had settled into a comfortable rhythm—enough customers to keep things moving but slow enough that you could catch your breath.

And then she walked in.

Natasha Romanoff.

If Wanda was a striking flame in scarlet, Natasha was pure, effortless power wrapped in sharp sophistication. She strode through the door with the confidence of someone who owned the entire block, her tailored black suit hugging her lean frame, a deep crimson silk blouse adding just the right amount of color. The sleeves of her blazer were pushed up slightly, revealing the expensive watch on her wrist, and her auburn hair was styled to perfection—sleek, neat, and tucked behind her ears just enough to showcase the small, understated earrings she wore.

Her green eyes scanned the café with sharp precision before they landed on you. And then, just like that, the cool, detached aura softened—just a little.

"Hey, sweetheart," she greeted smoothly, approaching the counter with measured steps. Her voice was low, smooth like aged whiskey, and it sent a shiver down your spine. "Busy day?"

You smiled, reaching for a cup as you wiped your hands on your apron. "Nothing I can’t handle. But seeing you walk in? Definitely brightens things up."

Natasha huffed a quiet chuckle, her lips curling in amusement. "Careful, malyshka. You keep talking to me like that, and I might start showing up more often."

You tilted your head, smirking. "That supposed to be a threat or a promise?"

She raised a brow, clearly enjoying the banter. "Depends. What are you going to do to convince me?"

Leaning forward slightly, you tapped the marker against the cup in your hand. "Well, I could make your coffee extra special. Or I could just keep giving you a reason to come back."

Natasha exhaled a short laugh, shaking her head. "Bold today, aren’t you?"

You shrugged, already scribbling on the cup before starting her drink. "Must be something in the air."

As the espresso machine hummed to life, Natasha leaned on the counter, watching you work. "You always this charming, or am I just lucky?"

You shot her a playful look over your shoulder. "Oh, you’re definitely lucky."

She chuckled again, a sound you were quickly becoming addicted to. When her drink was ready, you slid it across the counter, her fingers grazing yours for a brief moment—intentional, you were sure. But Natasha's brows lifted slightly as she caught sight of the small, handwritten note on the cup.

For my favorite midday distraction.

Her lips parted in surprise before curling into a slow, knowing smirk. She traced the edge of the cup with her thumb, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "You really are pushing the envelope today."

You shrugged, biting your lip. "Just wanted to make sure you had something sweet with your coffee."

Natasha studied you for a moment, as if trying to decide just how much further to push back. Then she lifted the cup in a small toast. "Careful, sweetheart. I just might get addicted to this place."

And with that, she turned, walking out the door with the same effortless confidence she came in with.

You let out a breath, watching her go.

First Wanda, now Natasha.

If you weren’t careful, you were going to end up falling hard for both of them.

⟡ ˚ ༘☕️🤎🧸 ⋆｡°

The days turned into weeks, and your routine became something of a delicious torment.

Each morning, Wanda would arrive—always impeccably dressed, always so effortlessly charming. Her sharp green eyes would light up when she saw you, her soft flirtations making your heart race as she leaned in just a little too close when taking her coffee.

Then, in the afternoons, Natasha would show up—calm, confident, and devastatingly alluring. She met your teasing with equal energy, pushing back just enough to keep you on your toes. Her smirks, her low chuckles, the way she traced the rim of her cup when reading your little notes—it was intoxicating.

And the worst part? You were falling for both of them. Hard.

You didn’t know what to do about it. Every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every little flirtation made it harder to ignore. You told yourself you had to be imagining things. No way two insanely attractive, successful women were both interested in their local barista. Right?

Then came Saturday morning.

You had just finished setting up the pastry case when the familiar chime of the bell rang. You turned, already preparing your usual bright greeting—until you saw them.

Together.

Wanda and Natasha walked in side by side, both dressed far more casually than you had ever seen them. Wanda wore a burgundy sweater tucked into a pair of high-waisted jeans, her hair loosely curled, looking every bit as stunning as she did in her sharp work attire. Natasha, on the other hand, had opted for a black leather jacket over a fitted white t-shirt, her jeans ripped just slightly at the knees, her hands tucked in her pockets as she scanned the café like she owned the place.

Your heart nearly stopped.

They knew each other.

They were here together.

And as they approached the counter, exchanging a small, knowing glance with each other before turning their attention to you, a slow realization began to sink in.

Oh. Oh no.

You had been flirting with them both.

And they knew.

Wanda and Natasha shared a smirk, something unspoken passing between them before they turned their attention back to you.

“Good morning, darling,” Wanda purred, leaning on the counter like she always did, her emerald eyes twinkling with amusement. “You look even more adorable when you're surprised.”

“Speechless, huh?” Natasha added, her voice smooth and teasing as she propped her elbow on the counter, chin resting on her hand. “Didn’t expect to see us together?”

Your mouth opened and closed a few times, your brain scrambling to catch up. The room felt like it was tilting. They weren’t just acquaintances. They weren’t just friends.

They were together.

As in together together.

You gripped the edge of the counter, trying to ground yourself. “I—uh—”

Wanda hummed, her smirk deepening. “You know, I had a feeling this might happen.”

Natasha nodded, taking a sip of her coffee as if this was the most casual thing in the world. “Mmm. Same. It was cute watching you flirt with both of us like you weren’t going to get caught eventually.”

You choked on air. “I—wait—you knew?”

Wanda chuckled, reaching out to trace a lazy circle on the counter with her fingertip. “Of course we knew, sweetheart.”

“We’re married,” Natasha added, lifting her left hand slightly, letting the gold band on her ring finger catch the light. “Did you really think we wouldn’t talk about the cute little barista who’s been shamelessly flirting with both of us?”

Your brain short-circuited.

Married.

They were married.

And they had both been flirting back.

You felt like your heart might actually give out. “I—I didn’t—”

Wanda reached across the counter, gently brushing the back of her fingers against yours, her touch sending a jolt up your arm. “Relax, sweetheart,” she cooed, her voice as smooth as silk. “We’re not mad.”

Natasha leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “In fact… we kind of like it.”

Your breath hitched.

Oh hell.

Your grip on the counter tightened as their words sank in, but everything felt off-kilter—like you were suddenly standing on shaky ground. Your usual confidence, the flirtatious ease you had with them, was gone. You weren’t sure if you wanted to scream, laugh, or collapse.

They had known. They had planned this. And now they were here, together, standing in front of you, looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the world.

Your breath came quicker, shallower, and your fingers trembled slightly against the countertop.

Wanda was the first to notice.

Her teasing smirk melted away in an instant, replaced by something softer, something gentle. She reached across the counter, not to tease this time, but to comfort, her fingers brushing against yours again, but with intention.

“Hey, hey,” she murmured, her voice warm and steady. “It’s okay, Y/N.”

Natasha’s expression softened too, the playfulness fading into something more sincere. “We came to tease you a little, sure, but we also came to ask you something.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to focus on Wanda’s steady touch, on Natasha’s calm presence. “A-Ask me something?”

Wanda nodded, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Yes. We wanted to ask if you’d like to go on a date.”

Your breath hitched.

A date.

With them.

You stared at them, at Wanda’s soft but hopeful smile, at Natasha’s quiet confidence, and for the first time since they walked in, the world stopped spinning.

“You… both want to take me on a date?” you finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Natasha chuckled, the sound low and reassuring. “That’s right, sweetheart.”

Wanda tilted her head. “What do you think?”

You exhaled shakily, your heart pounding. You weren’t sure what this was, what it could be, but the thought of saying no felt impossible.

So, with a nervous but growing smile, you nodded.

“I think… I’d really like that.”

#ley writes #ley writes one shots #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #rich couple!wandanat #wandanat x fem!reader #wandanat x you #wandanat x reader #wandanat x y/n #wandanat #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #CEOs!Wandanat #ceo!wanda maximoff #CEO!Natasha Romanoff

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cafterdark · 1 year ago

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I don't think y'all truly grasp what fucking a god would be like.

Not only are they beings who can shape reality like clay, but they have such a massively different conception of time, morality, and existence that they become alien to you

For example, let's say you are a normal guy:

One moment you're looking at yourself in the mirror, the next in a quiet field. Before you even have a chance to react, a voice rips through your tissue paper body. It is multilayered, unable to stick to one voice, but is it smooth and alluring and almost feminine.

"I have chosen thee to be my temple." The voice says.

"W...who are you?" You stutter out.

The voice doesn't answer. For a moment you wonder if you've gone insane, then she begins. A thousand hands of light touch you, some delicate and precise, some wild and rough. They grab and grope and tear and claw and brush and pinch and slap all over, all at once. One hand grabs your short hair and forces you to look up in the air and she says:

"Let me show you your purpose."

You are launched in time to a temple, backwards or forwards, you don't know. It is lit by candles, showing that you're at the feet of a massive marble statue of a nude woman. The hands force you to your knees, all while feeling up your boiling body. You look up and only catch a glimpse of her beautiful thighs before you're unstuck in time again.

You feel yourself dragged back to reality. You're in a woman's body, being fucked by two other women in a dingy hotel. One hold the leash to a collar around your neck, the other holding your legs as she fucks you with her dick. The hands are still there and guide you, teasing each moans from your throat and buck of your hips. You've never felt this good ever as you start ascending the mountain of arousal. The collar chokes you enough for a momentary blackout

You're back in the temple, still looking up. You catch a glimpse of her hips, grabbable, with curves in just the right spots. You blink in awe and find yourself in another woman's body, actually no, a robot woman's body. You're connected to a machine made of tech so powerful you can't comprehend by series of wires and plugs throughout your body. A woman, dressed in lab wear smiles, kisses you, and starts the machine. You feel a jolt of pleasure shoot through you. The woman's smile widens, then a notification appears on your HUD

Sensitivity increased 150%

A soft glide teaches down your back and you feel your entire body kicks in response. You ascend further up, climbing step after step towards orgasm. Each touch the machine simulates makes you skip ten steps. The woman's laughs at you makes you skip more. The heat is unbearable, your fans spinning at Max speed, their noise filling the background. You get a warning notification about overheating and you're back at the temple.

The hands keep your arousal steady as the hand tilts your head further up still. You're enraptured by the most perfect pair of tits you have ever seen. The last bit of thought you we're holding onto is wiped away by their glory. But before you can properly worship them, you're thrown back in time.

You're in another temple, hazy and thick with the perfume of incense. You're in a priestess' body slick with oil, prepared to worship your goddess with your other priestesses. You look around and see the rest of your order staring at you and approach. After a long moment, you realize that you're the offering. The other women attack you with kisses and teeth and hands and nails in just the right spots. Each blow brings you closer to the peak. They pin you down and begin fucking you with their trained tongues and you blank out. You're so close now you can see the peak. You pray to just be allowed to reach it.

You're set back to the temple again and with one swift yank of your long hair, brings your eyes to the statues face.

It's you.

You don't know how you know. It looks nothing like you, but it's you. And you're gorgeous you can feel the orgasm coming, it's so so so so close now. The world stops, your body freezes.

You find yourself stuck one step before the peak, staring at your beautiful features and unable to do anything about it. You're stuck there for a long time. An hour? A year? A Millennia? A second? You don't know. But by the end, you're asking Her to let you cum. She responds:

"Do you know your purpose?"

"Yes... Goddess," you pant out. "As your temple... Where your followers... Worship you"

"Good Girl" She says.

Those two words bring you over the edge and you find yourself cumming harder than you've ever done before. Each convulsion rips away a part of your past life, what you ate for breakfast, your job, your hobbies, your name. If you could think through the tsunami of pleasure, you wouldn't care. Goddess will provide, she always will. But for now, you are drowning in devotional ecstasy.

After an eternity, you finally feel the afterglow bleed in. The hands let go and you collapse to the floor, letting the darkness consume you.

You wake up on the bathroom floor and groan. Was it really just a dream? You get up and look in the mirror and see you. Not the fake you that you wore before, but the you Goddess crafted, her masterpiece. You smile and dance in your body, that statue turned flesh, and laugh a beautiful laugh to celebrate and thank Her.

"You know your purpose and are trained in it," She says in the back of your mind. "Begin."

"Yes Goddess"

You leave the bathroom and begin your new life. After all, what's a god without her temple?

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monstersholygrail · 9 months ago

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Hello!

God, I love the idea of werebirds/the bird colony!

What if the dance instructor did end up making a nest with all the nesting material they gave them (however/where ever they’d do that)? What would the colony think?

What if the colony got together and used their dance knowledge to create some sort of mating dance for the instructor? Teasing the instructor with their ruffling, colorful feathers in a mesmerizing display.

I need more of them lmao

Hope you have a great day/night💜💜

When word got around the all male Bird Hybrid Colony that you had made a nest in your office out of the materials they had gotten for you, loud fierce chirps rang throughout the studio. The bird hybrids wings flapping erratically at your acceptance of them.

Your building a nest they provided you in such a private place had to mean that you were finally agreeing to their mating offers. Their feathers ruffled and they all preened at the thought of claiming you as a mate should by fucking into you with abandon and filling you to the brim with cum till you’re growing their eggs inside of you.

But they knew they had to do something special, something really over the top in order to make sure you were ready for them to breed you till you were so fucked out you couldn’t see straight. What better way to do that than a mating dance?

They’d all show you just how much they had learned under your seductive and arousing teachings. Together they created the most powerful mating dance for you that anyone had ever seen.

It was an offer that was impossible to refuse and their minds couldn’t help but imagine the way your thick thighs would spread for them. Your pussy glistening with arousal. They can practically taste how good your fat cunt will be when they finally get their wings and hands on you.

Their eagerness to please you both in dance and by filling all your holes till you can’t take it anymore is clear in their burning gaze. The next week at dance class is filled with a crackling tension. Their feathers successfully hiding their hard cocks, tips red, angry, and dribbling pre cum with their mate so close.

When you heard your class had a surprise for you, you were immediately intrigued. The fact that they’re wanted to dance for you already turning you on as your panties flood with arousal. Something that didn’t go unnoticed by the bird hybrids as your scent perfumed the air.

It only spurned them on and made them more desperate to dance for you and sink themselves inside your wet heat. Their feathers ruffled out, showcasing them all so that you can see just how lovely of mates they’ll be as the dance starts.

The colony begins dancing as one large machine, their colorful feathers spinning and mixing to create a truly brilliant show. You’re in awe as you watch it, a mix of moves you’ve taught them combined of more traditional mating dances. Their biology combining with what they’ve learned. Almost like you’re a part of them now. You squirm in place, thighs rubbing together, needy for some type of friction.

By now as you watch them you’re sure you’ve soaked through your panties, your skin unbearably hot with need. It’s not even the dance itself that’s getting you so hot and bothered but the fact that even with their attraction to you they still pay attention to the actual work. Their passion for you mingling with their passion for dance. And it has you wanting to take them all here and now.

As if being able to read your thoughts, the bird hybrids descend onto you. A part of the routine as they pull you into the middle of them. Hands touching every part of your body. You gasp as claws tease at your skin while others rip your clothes to shreds, leaving you naked before them.

A moment later they bring you down in the nest you lovingly made for them that they got from your office. Beautiful cocks of all shapes and sizes nudge at the openings of each of your holes. With your mind hazy with lust you let yourself give in, opening wide for them to push inside you. You moan lowly at the delicious stretch of your mouth, hands, cunt, and bottom. Every inch of you filled with them.

The music from their dance stops at one point but your bird hybrids are nowhere near done with you. Furiously fucking into you as if they’ve gone completely savage. Only knowing for certain that you need their cum.

Your moans and their chirps of pleasure echo against the walls as they slam themselves inside of you. Your body on fire as every inch of you is being stimulated with more pleasure than you’ve ever known.

They pass you around from hybrid to hybrid and you quickly lose track. Their forms becoming a blur of color and ecstasy as they fill with you cock after cock, the colony seemingly endless. You’re feeling so much of everything all at once and it’s overwhelming but in the past way possible as you try and meet all of their thrusts at once.

You cum countless times, your body shaking with the sensations overtaking you. You swear you black out for a moment only to wake up coming again, a strangled cry falling past your lips as a fresh wave of pleasure washes over you.

Your bird hybrids eventually get their fill of you, knowing their plump human needs a break. They slip out of you only once you’re fucked full of cum and limp on the floor, too tired to move let alone lift a limb.

So they take care of your every need, cleaning you up, whispering words of love and affection for you their mate, and cuddling up to you after. You nuzzle into their furry bodies, finding so much comfort in their embrace that you fall asleep in a matter of seconds.

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manufacturerfillingmachine · 1 year ago

Text

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smutmind · 25 days ago

Text

500 Days of Winter

DAY 1

The elevator smelled like paper, perfume, and fate.

You were holding a coffee you didn’t want, thinking about the curve in the ceiling tiles, when she stepped in.

Winter.

Not her real name. But it might as well have been.

Petite. Dark-haired. A blue dress that didn’t quite fit company protocol. Eyes like the moment before a storm breaks. She pressed the elevator button you were already leaning against, then glanced up.

“Sorry,” she said. No smile. Just that voice—cool, dry, velvet with a razor tucked inside.

You said something back. You don’t remember what. What you remember is the way she hummed under her breath after, some obscure jazz tune, like your entire conversation had already ended in her head.

She got off at the seventh floor. You watched her walk down the hall. She didn’t turn around.

Later that day, you found out she worked in acquisitions. Two doors down. Shared the same copy room.

She liked cinnamon gum. Took her coffee black. Always carried a paperback she never finished.

She laughed once, at something your manager said. You watched the sound ripple down her throat.

You were already writing poems about her in your head.

She was lightning in a glass. Bare feet on hardwood. Sex and silence and something else, something sharp.

You didn’t love her yet.

But God—you were already falling.

DAY 5

It starts with a copy machine jam.

You’re leaning over, swearing under your breath, when her voice cuts in behind you.

“Try kicking it. That’s what I do.”

You look up. Winter stands in the doorway, barefoot again, holding a manila folder and a dare in her smile.

“You always this helpful?” you ask.

She shrugs. “Only to men I think about fucking.”

Your brain stutters. She walks in. Drops the folder. Doesn’t blink.

“Close the door,” she says.

You do.

She steps in close, eyes on your mouth. “Don’t pretend you haven’t been looking.”

“I’m not pretending anything.”

“Good.”

Her fingers slip into your belt like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your back hits the edge of the machine. Her body presses up against you—small frame, hard nipples brushing your shirt, mouth tilted like a threat.

“I’ve got seven minutes,” she murmurs. “Make it worth it.”

You kiss her—hard. She moans into your mouth, hands already tugging at your pants. You grab her ass, lift her up onto the copier, and she spreads her legs without a word. No panties. Wet and ready. You groan into her neck.

“You’re soaked.”

“You’re late.”

You line up, cock thick in your hand, the tip already slick from her.

“Look at you,” you mutter, dragging it through her folds, slow, teasing. “So fucking wet for me.”

Winter leans back on her elbows, dress bunched around her hips, lips parted. “You’re stalling.”

“I’m savoring.”

“Then hurry the fuck up.”

You push in.

She gasps—sharp and broken. Her thighs tremble as you fill her inch by inch, her slick walls gripping you tight, pulsing with want. The copier hums under her ass, shaking like it might join in.

“Jesus,” you growl. “You feel like heaven.”

Winter smirks through a moan. “Fuck me like hell, then.”

You grab her hips and drive into her. Hard. Fast. Her back arches, head falling back, hair spilling over the lid of the machine. The slap of skin on skin is obscene. Her legs wrap around you, ankles locked behind your ass, heels digging into your spine.

“Harder,” she hisses. “Use me—like you need this.”

“I do need this,” you snarl, slamming into her. “You’ve been walking around all week like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.”

She moans—high and rough. “I did. Every step. Every look.”

You grab her by the throat—not tight, just enough to own her next breath.

Her eyes widen. “Yes,” she whispers. “More. God, you fuck like you mean it.”

You lean in, bite her lip. “Say it.”

“I’ve been aching for this since the elevator,” she groans. “Every time you looked at me, I got wet. You should’ve taken me sooner.”

You growl, reaching down to rub her clit in tight, filthy circles. Her body tenses.

“Oh fuck—don’t stop—right there—make me cum.”

You keep driving into her, rough and relentless, her cunt clenching tighter, milking your cock like it knows you're about to break. Her moans are ragged now, panting messes of your name and yesyesyes.

She explodes around you—legs shaking, back arched, voice caught in her throat.

You follow—deep, throbbing release that hits like a wave, your cum spilling inside her in hot, pulsing ropes. You stay buried to the hilt, grinding through every last twitch.

Winter collapses against the machine, flushed and panting, chest rising fast.

You brush a strand of hair from her cheek. She bats your hand away with a grin.

“That was minute six,” she pants, smoothing down her dress.

You’re still trying to catch your breath when she grabs her folder and heads for the door.

She glances back.

“Next time,” she says, wicked, “you better make me scream.”

And then she’s gone.

Leaving you ruined in the copy room.

Day 57

You’ve stopped pretending you can stay away.

It’s past midnight. Rain tapping the windows. Her place smells like oranges and sleep. You’re on the couch—half-undressed, half-lost—her straddling you in nothing but your hoodie, legs bare, skin warm from the shower.

“I should go,” you whisper against her collarbone.

She rolls her hips slow, her pussy already slick, already hugging you through your boxers.

“No,” she says. “You really shouldn’t.”

You slide your hand up her thigh, feel the heat between her legs, the soft, wet pulse of her want. She leans in, presses her forehead to yours, breath sweet with mint.

“You feel me?” she murmurs. “Even through the fabric?”

“Like you’re trying to kill me,” you growl.

She lifts just enough to guide you in—no teasing this time. She moans as you fill her, slow and full. You watch her bite her lip, eyes fluttering, her fingers gripping your shoulders like she doesn’t want to float away.

“You’re deep,” she breathes. “So fucking deep.”

You cup her jaw, make her look at you.

“You’re beautiful like this,” you whisper.

She flinches like it cuts. Then she kisses you—soft, open-mouthed, hips rocking slow. Her cunt grips you in lazy pulses, wet and willing, each movement a sigh.

“I dream about this,” you admit.

Winter gasps. “Yeah?”

You nod. “You. Just like this. Moaning. Letting me stay inside. Like you want me there.”

Her lips part, eyes glassy now. “I do.”

You fuck her slow, every stroke deliberate. You want to memorize her—how her nipples tighten when your thumb brushes them, how her throat arches when you hit just right, how she tugs your hair when she’s about to fall apart.

“You’re gonna make me—” she pants.

You rub her clit. Just once. Firm.

She explodes. Quiet and fierce, hips bucking, breath caught in her throat. Her pussy clenches around your cock, fluttering in greedy waves. You kiss her as she cums, hold her like she’s breakable.

You follow with a groan, thick and deep, spilling inside her as her arms tighten around your neck.

She doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

“You okay?” you whisper.

She nods, still catching her breath.

Then—so soft you almost miss it:

“I like when you stay.”

It’s the most she’s ever given you.

And you treat it like gospel.

DAY 88

Her apartment is a fourth-floor walkup that smells like jasmine, candle wax, and old books. You’ve only just kicked your shoes off when Winter grabs your belt and backs you into the hallway mirror.

“You’ve been thinking about this mouth all day, haven’t you?” she purrs.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. Your cock’s already thickening as she unfastens your pants with one hand and drags her tongue along your jaw with the other.

She sinks to her knees slowly, theatrically, the hem of her sundress riding up her thighs. No panties—of course. Her eyes never leave yours as she frees you, your cock slapping against her cheek, already hard and leaking.

“God, you’re pretty when you’re desperate,” she murmurs, then opens her mouth.

Warmth. Wet, velvet heat. Her tongue swirls the head before she slides you in, inch by inch, eyes fluttering closed as she moans around you. Her lips are small but greedy, sucking deep until her nose brushes your stomach. Her throat flexes as she swallows you whole.

You brace a hand on the wall. The mirror fogs with your breath. Her pace is cruel—slow, then fast, then slow again—spit pooling at the corners of her mouth, fingers digging into your thighs like she owns you.

“Fuck, Winter—” You grip her hair, the dark strands wrapping your knuckles. “You’re gonna make me—”

She pulls back, breathless, lips red and glistening. “Not yet,” she says. “You don’t come until I’m stuffed full.”

She stands, tugs you into the bedroom by your cock like a leash. You follow. What else can you do?

Her bed is messy, sun-drenched. She throws herself down, dress bunched at her waist, legs spread wide. Her pussy’s slick and swollen, pink against the pale of her thighs. She dips two fingers in and moans just to tease you.

“Get inside me,” she says. “Now.”

You crawl over her, press the head of your cock to her entrance. She grabs your face.

“Look at me while you fuck me.”

Her voice is low, thick with need. You grip her thighs and press forward, eyes locked on hers as you sink into her.

She gasps—sharp, unguarded. Her whole body lifts off the mattress like you’ve hit something electric. Her pussy clamps around your cock, tight and impossibly wet. Her eyes don’t break from yours, not even when her breath stutters.

“God,” she breathes, “you’re so fucking deep.”

You bottom out, hips flush against hers. Her heels hook behind your knees, locking you in place.

Then you move—slow at first, letting her feel every inch, every ridge, dragging against her slick walls. Her head falls back, lips parted in a silent moan, chest rising fast.

Her cunt grips you, milks you like it owns you.

“Fuck—yes—just like that,” she moans. Her hands claw at your back, nails biting your skin. “You feel that? That’s how bad I need it. I need you.”

You pound into her now. No hesitation. No mercy.

The bed slams the wall with every thrust. Her cries are high, ragged—pure, broken pleasure.

“Harder,” she pants, breath hot against your jaw. “I want it rough—I want to feel you tomorrow.”

You slam into her harder. Faster. She takes every inch, small frame jerking beneath you, sweat shining on her skin. Her tits bounce with every thrust, nipples hard and glistening. Her whole body shakes.

She grabs your face, yanks your mouth to hers. The kiss is filthy—tongues clashing, breath tangled, her whimpers swallowed between gasps.

You feel her pussy tighten, then seize. She breaks the kiss to scream your name, her voice cracking as her orgasm hits. She trembles around you, thighs quivering, nails digging deep.

“Don’t stop—cum in me—fill me up—fuck—please—”

You groan deep in your chest. Her begging pushes you over. You bury yourself in her, cock twitching as you spill hot and hard inside, her cunt spasming with every pulse. You keep fucking her through it, slower now, watching the aftershocks ripple through her.

She goes boneless beneath you, breath coming in shallow gasps. Her lips graze your neck—one soft kiss, unexpected.

Then she turns, pulling away, collapsing onto her stomach with a satisfied sigh.

“Stay if you want,” she murmurs into the pillow. “But I sleep alone.”

You stand, cock still dripping, heart heavier than you’ll admit.

She doesn’t say goodnight. Doesn’t even look back.

And somehow, that wrecks you more than the sex ever could.

DAY 143

She wears your hoodie like it belongs to her.

You find her in the kitchen, one leg tucked under her on the counter, a spoonful of peanut butter halfway to her mouth.

“You’re out of coffee,” she says without looking up.

“You drank it all,” you say, dropping your keys in the bowl by the door.

“I didn’t drink it. I just used the grounds to exfoliate my thighs.”

You blink. Then: “You what?”

Winter lifts her bare leg, toes pointed, smooth as cream.

“Touch,” she dares.

You don’t. You stare. And that’s worse.

“Jesus,” you mutter, grabbing a glass of water you don’t need.

She grins, slides off the counter. Her bare feet make soft sounds on the tile as she circles you like a cat.

“You always get nervous when I talk about my thighs,” she says.

“I get nervous when you exist.”

She stops behind you, close enough to feel. “You’re cute when you’re overwhelmed.”

“I’m not overwhelmed.”

She hums. “You’re hard.”

You choke on your water.

“See?” she whispers, brushing past you to the sink. “Adorable.”

You should say something snarky. But she’s standing there in your hoodie, no pants, licking peanut butter off her finger like it’s a sin. And she’s not even trying to seduce you. Not really.

That’s the part that wrecks you.

She leans back against the counter, watching you with that unreadable half-smile.

“Want to know what I dreamt last night?” she asks.

“Sure.”

“I was climbing a ladder in just my underwear.”

You pause. “Where was I?”

“Filming it. But artistically.”

You laugh. She lights up.

And for one dumb moment, it feels like maybe this could work. Maybe you could hold her in a life that doesn’t end in silence and slammed doors.

You walk over, wrap your arms around her waist.

“Stay tonight,” you say.

She leans into you, cheek to your chest. Quiet.

“I might.”

It’s not a promise. But she doesn’t pull away.

And that’s enough.

DAY 214

“You can’t keep acting like it means nothing,” you snap. “Like I mean nothing.”

Winter sits cross-legged on the counter, licking peanut butter from a spoon. Her hair’s a mess. You want to fuck her. You want to shake her. You want her to see you.

“You knew what this was,” she says, voice flat. “You just thought you could change it.”

You stare at her. At the way her thighs peek out beneath your old T-shirt. At the soft curve of her mouth, too calm for the war spinning inside you.

“I’m done pretending this doesn’t matter,” you say. “So either tell me what this is, or tell me to leave.”

She doesn’t answer. She hops down, the spoon clattering in the sink. Then she walks to you, presses her bare chest to yours, and kisses you like fire.

Her fingers yank your shirt over your head. You grab her ass, lift her up, her legs locking around you as you carry her to the bedroom. There’s no music. No talking. Just the sound of skin and breath and everything that’s been unsaid.

You throw her on the bed. She moans as she lands, legs open, glistening already. You crawl between her thighs, your mouth hungry. She gasps when your tongue finds her, hips jerking up.

“Fuck—you’re angry,” she pants.

You don’t answer. You feast on her like it’s revenge. Like your tongue can say what words can’t. You suck her clit until she’s begging, fingers in your hair, breath stuttering with every stroke.

“God—baby—don’t stop—I’m—”

She breaks with a sob, cunt soaking your mouth as she cums. Her thighs clamp around your head. You don’t stop until she’s trembling.

Then you move up, cock rubbing her soaked entrance. She grabs your face, eyes glassy, lips trembling just enough to give her away.

“Show me,” she breathes. “Show me how much it fucking hurts.”

You slam into her—deep, punishing. Her scream rips through the room, guttural and unfiltered. You don’t pause. You grip her hips tight enough to bruise and drive into her again, harder. Her slick heat swallows you, velvet walls clenching like she’s trying to keep you inside forever.

She moans, wild and sharp. “Yes—fuck—use me. I want to feel how bad you need it.”

Her tits bounce with every thrust, small and perfect, nipples flushed pink and tight. You lean down, mouth latching to one, sucking hard until she arches, back bowing like a wire drawn tight.

“You love this cock, don’t you?” you growl against her chest, lips brushing sweat-slick skin.

“God, yes,” she cries. “It fucking ruins me.”

You pound her harder, hips slapping her thighs, the sound lewd and echoing. Her hands claw at your shoulders, her nails sharp, dragging down your back.

She pulls you close, mouth at your ear. “Say it,” she whispers. “Tell me you fucking love me while you’re inside me.”

Your rhythm falters. That voice—soft, dangerous, pleading.

“I love you,” you gasp. “I’ve never stopped.”

She kisses you—no tongue, just teeth and need. Her legs lock tighter around your waist, her cunt pulsing around you like it’s echoing your heart.

“Then fucking show me,” she growls.

You thrust deeper, slower now, grinding your hips, making her feel every swollen inch. Her moans are filthy, broken, her body trembling beneath you. You reach down, rub her clit, feel her unravel.

“Gonna cum,” she whimpers. “Gonna fucking cum all over your cock—don’t stop—please—”

She shatters. Her pussy clenches so tight it nearly makes you scream. Her thighs quake. Her nails tear into your skin.

You’re close—too close. The way she’s writhing under you, panting your name, cunt clenching around your cock like she’s trying to trap your soul—it’s too much.

“I’m gonna cum,” you gasp against her mouth, breath ragged.

She grips your jaw, forces your eyes on hers. “Not inside.”

You slow, confused, dazed. “Where?”

Winter’s eyes drop to her chest, flushed and rising fast. Her small tits bounce with every pulse of her hips, nipples tight and aching.

“Pull out,” she growls. “Cum on me. I want to feel it.”

You groan, drag yourself from her slick heat with a shudder, every nerve screaming. You fist your cock, throbbing, already spilling as you stroke.

Winter sits up on her elbows, eyes locked on yours, licking her lips as she stares down at her own body.

“Paint me,” she whispers. “I want to see what I do to you.”

That’s all it takes.

Your cock pulses, thick and hot. You explode across her chest, long ropes of cum streaking her breasts, her collarbone, even her throat. She moans at the heat, her fingers dipping into it, rubbing the mess over her nipples with a wicked smile.

“Fuck, that’s beautiful,” she murmurs, lifting her fingers to her mouth and sucking them clean.

You’re panting, cock still twitching, heart hammering in your throat.

She lies back again, cum drying on her skin, expression unreadable.

“Stay if you want,” she says softly. “But don’t expect anything in the morning.”

You lie beside her, body empty, soul echoing. She doesn’t clean herself. She wears you like proof. But her back is still to you.

In the quiet, you whisper, “What are we, Winter?”

She doesn't answer.

She never does.

Day 376

The party is too loud, too warm, too familiar.

You shouldn’t have come. Not after everything. Not after that last night—her body coated in you, her mouth silent.

But she said she’d be here.

And she is.

You catch her in the hallway first—laughing. Head tipped back, skin flushed. She’s wearing a dress that barely clings to her body, loose enough to slide off a shoulder, short enough to tease a promise.

The guy she’s with isn’t you. He’s older. Confident. Hands already low on her back.

You try to turn away. But your feet don’t move.

An hour later, you’re looking for a bathroom and make the wrong turn.

Or the right one.

The door is cracked. Just an inch. Just enough.

Inside, dim lamplight spills across the bed and the edge of a mirror. But it's the sound that stops you—wet, rhythmic, unmistakable. Then her voice—soft, gasping.

You step closer.

Winter's on her knees, facing the wall. Her dress is hiked up to her waist, bare ass flushed, thighs parted, skin gleaming with sweat. Her hands brace against the wallpaper like she needs it to stay upright. Every time the man behind her thrusts, her body jerks forward with a slap of skin, then bounces back to meet him.

His pants are around his knees. His hands dig into her hips, fingers whitening with pressure. He’s grunting, lost in it, like she’s just a body. But you know her sounds.

And those moans—high, breathy, familiar—they’re not just pleasure. They’re performance. Controlled. Measured. Like she knows exactly how it sounds to the person watching.

Her head turns.

She sees you.

Eyes meet yours through the mirror.

Her lips part, not in surprise, but invitation. Her cheek presses to the wall. She pushes her ass back harder, deeper, and moans again—louder now. For you.

You’re frozen. Watching her be taken. Watching her choose it.

She doesn't break eye contact.

And neither do you.

You wait outside. Thirty minutes. Forty.

She finds you on the back steps, barefoot, glowing. You’re smoking a stranger’s cigarette like it might burn the memory out of you.

“You followed me?” she asks, voice casual, leaning against the railing like this is nothing.

“I opened the wrong door.”

Her smirk is lazy, lips still swollen. “You always do.”

You look at her—really look.

Dress clinging to her hips. A smear of cum on her thigh. She hasn’t cleaned up. On purpose.

“You let him fuck you,” you say. “While I was there.”

She shrugs. Bare shoulders. No shame. “And?”

“You wanted me to see.”

Her smile fades, just a flicker. “No,” she says. “I wanted you to feel it.”

She steps closer. Jasmine. Sweat. Sex. Her scent wraps around you like a dare.

You clench your jaw. “I hate you.”

Her eyes flick up, glittering. “No. You don’t.”

You try to move past her. She grabs your wrist. Soft. Sure.

“Ask me why.”

You don’t speak.

“Ask,” she says again, voice low now, threading under your skin.

“Why?” It comes out rough. Broken.

She leans in, lips brushing your jaw, not kissing.

“Because I had to know if you’d still want me,” she whispers. “Even after I let someone else inside.”

You stare at her. Rage. Desire. The hollow ache of never enough.

“I do,” you say. “And it fucking disgusts me.”

Winter steps back, eyes soft for once. Almost sorry.

“Then we’re even.”

You don’t touch her.

But you don’t walk away either.

You just burn, lit from the inside out.

Day 412

You knew it was over when she didn’t kiss you hello.

She opened the door in silence. No smirk. No smart-ass greeting. Just turned and walked back into the apartment like you were the delivery guy she didn’t remember ordering.

You followed.

Her place was clean. Too clean. No jacket on the couch. No half-empty wine glass on the table. Nothing to suggest you’d ever been here at all.

“I’m leaving,” she said.

You blinked. “What?”

She didn’t look at you. Just tugged off her earrings and laid them on the counter like punctuation. “Not the city. Just… this.”

You stared. “You’re breaking up with me.”

Winter finally met your eyes. “It wasn’t a relationship. Don’t give it a funeral.”

You crossed the room in three steps. “Then why does it feel like one?”

She didn’t answer.

You kissed her.

And for one wild second, she kissed you back—open, aching, desperate.

Then she pulled your shirt.

And it all fell apart.

She shoved you onto the couch, straddled you, grinding against your cock with no softness, no buildup. Just raw heat. Her nails scraped your chest, her breath short.

“This is the last time,” she said.

You tried to touch her cheek. She slapped your hand away. “Don’t make it sweet.”

You didn’t.

She pulled your cock out. Lined herself up. No words. No pause.

Just sank onto you with a moan so guttural it didn’t sound like her.

She rode you like a punishment—hips slamming, cunt gripping, hands planted on your chest like she wanted to crush the breath from your lungs.

“Still feel good?” she gasped. “Still think this meant something?”

You grabbed her waist, fucked up into her. “Everything.”

She laughed. Bitter. “That’s your problem.”

Her pussy clenched—wet, angry, beautiful. You felt her getting close, felt her fight it. She came with a cry she bit into your shoulder, her nails drawing blood.

You came seconds later—hot, helpless, pulsing deep inside her.

She stayed on top of you for a moment, chest heaving, cunt still twitching around your cock.

Then she stood. Just like that. Pulled her dress down.

“I meant it,” she said. “This was the last time.”

You sat there, sweat cooling, heart pounding like it could rip through your ribs.

She didn’t look back.

She never did.

Day 437

You called her.

Three times.

She didn’t answer.

The fourth time, you hung up before it rang. Sat on your floor with a bottle of whiskey and the last shirt she left behind—a threadbare gray thing that still smells like her skin.

You haven’t fucked anyone since.

You’ve tried. Twice. Got to kissing. Got to touching. But when one of them moaned—wrong pitch, wrong mouth—you stopped. Apologized. Left. Drove until dawn.

Your apartment’s quieter now. No music. No laughter. No underwear in your kitchen drawer. No Winter.

You check her socials. Of course you do. She posted a story yesterday: black coffee, a book spine, her knees curled on a hotel bed. No face. But you’d know that thigh anywhere.

You jerked off to it.

And hated yourself after.

You don’t miss the sex. Not really.

You miss her mouth when she whispered “again.” The way she bit your bottom lip when she wanted more. The way she pulled away right when you needed her to stay.

You miss aching for her. Because at least when you ached, she was still touching you.

Now there’s just the cold.

And your name, never spoken again.

Day 500

It’s snowing. Of course it is.

You spot her across the gallery before she sees you. Same posture—arms folded, one heel tilted slightly off the floor like she might leave at any moment. Her coat’s new, her hair longer, but you’d know Winter anywhere.

She’s with someone. Tall. Clean-cut. Hands steady on her lower back. He laughs. She leans into him just enough to answer the question.

You should turn around.

You don’t.

When she finally notices you, her eyes widen—but only for a second. Then she smiles. Not the sly, taunting one she used to wear in your bed. This one’s quieter. Warmer. Like a chapter she doesn’t regret but doesn’t reread.

Later, out on the sidewalk, she finds you.

You’re smoking again. Always the wrong cigarette at the wrong time.

“Still terrible at quitting,” she says.

You glance over. “Still terrible at staying.”

She smirks. “Touché.”

She stands beside you in silence. You don’t offer her the smoke. She doesn’t ask.

“I remember the stairs,” she says after a moment. “That party. The night I let you find me.”

Your jaw tightens. “Hard to forget.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” she says. “Not exactly.”

You nod. “Just needed to know if I’d still want you after.”

She looks away. “And you did.”

“Yeah,” you say. “That made me sick.”

She smiles, almost fondly. “You said that. Right before you didn’t leave.”

You laugh, just once. “And you? Do you still want me now?”

Winter breathes in, then out. Her breath clouds the air between you.

“No,” she says. “But sometimes I miss being wanted like that. Like I was everything.”

“You were,” you say.

She meets your eyes. “So were you.”

A pause. Then she reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out something folded. Thin paper, worn soft.

It’s the sketch. The one she gave you. You’d lost it somewhere along the way.

“I found this when I moved,” she says. “You kept it.”

You nod.

“I hated how much I loved that day,” she says. “The hoodie. The peanut butter. You laughing like I was the only joke in the room.”

You smile. “You were.”

She presses the drawing into your hands.

“I’m happy now,” she says. “He doesn’t make me feel like a storm. That’s… good.”

“I’m not,” you admit. “But I will be.”

She nods, eyes glassy. “I hope so.”

Winter doesn’t hug you. Doesn’t cry. She just gives you a look you’ll remember when you’re old and trying to forget.

Then she walks back inside.

You stay a little longer. Staring at the sketch. At her bare legs. That smug, perfect smile.

And finally—finally—you let her go.

Day 501

You’re early. That’s new.

The building is sleek, sunlit. No copy room shadows. No scent of jasmine on the walls. Just light. Clean and quiet.

You’re checking your phone when a voice lifts behind you.

“Hi,” she says. “You must be here for the portfolio review?”

You stand.

She’s petite, soft-featured, with a sharp collar and flushed cheeks. Her smile is immediate. Easy.

“I’m Haru,” she says, offering her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

You take it. Her grip is warm. No games. No storm.

She turns and leads you down a glass corridor, her voice light as she talks schedules and layouts. You don’t hear half of it.

You’re watching how her ponytail sways. How her laugh is real. How your chest doesn’t hurt.

She pauses at the conference room.

“Oh,” she says, tilting her head. “That’s a nice sketch in your folder.”

You glance down. Winter in your hoodie, still folded carefully inside.

You smile. Just a little.

“Yeah,” you say. “She was a season.”

Haru opens the door, holding it for you.

“I’m Spring,” she says, and grins.

And this time, you step forward.

春 | Haru — Japanese for SpringBegin: Day 1 with Haru.

#winter #aespa winter #winter smut #aespa smut #bbc #idol x bbc #kpop smut #girl group smut #female idol smut #male reader smut #smut #male reader #kpop idol smut

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businessminddubai · 2 years ago

Text

Is perfume filling machine have a market trend in Dubai?

As of my last knowledge update in September 2023, the perfume industry in Dubai and the UAE was indeed experiencing significant growth and had a strong market presence. Dubai is known for its thriving luxury retail sector and is a popular shopping destination for tourists, making it a hub for the perfume industry.

The perfume manufacturing industry in Dubai is thriving, with both local and international brands producing top-tier fragrances. In this industry, the critical role of perfume-filling machines in dubai cannot be overstated, as they are instrumental in achieving precise and consistent packaging of these highly valuable scents. These machines are intricately designed to handle the delicate and often expensive nature of perfume products. Let's delve into the key attributes and advantages of these specialized perfume filling machines:

Unrivaled Precision and Accuracy: Perfume filling machines are equipped with cutting-edge technology, enabling them to fill bottles with unparalleled precision. This precision not only minimizes waste but also ensures a uniform product quality, meeting the exacting standards of the industry.

Preserving the Essence of Fragrance: The essence of a perfume lies in its blend of fragrant oils, and the fragrance is a pivotal selling point. Perfume filling machines are meticulously crafted to minimize the exposure of the perfume to air. This preservation of the fragrance's integrity is of paramount importance to meet the expectations of discerning consumers.

Adaptable Fill Levels: Versatility is a key feature of these machines. They can be easily adjusted to accommodate various bottle sizes and shapes. This adaptability makes them an ideal choice for different perfume brands, each with its unique packaging requirements.

Rapid High-Volume Production: Dubai's demand for perfume products can be substantial, particularly given the region's affinity for high-quality fragrances. Perfume filling machines rise to the occasion by offering high-speed production capabilities. This ensures that companies can efficiently meet market demands without compromising on product quality.

Cost-Efficient Operation: One of the most compelling advantages of these machines is their contribution to cost savings in the long run. By reducing product wastage and ensuring a consistent filling process, they help perfume manufacturers operate more efficiently and sustainably.

#dubai #perfume filling machine dubai

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currentfandomkick · 6 months ago

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Based on this post

Tim tried not to remember.

But when you die the first time from electrocution and get dosed with enough ecto-everything the first time you die, electricity becomes a memory trigger.

Static shocks from a sweater just reminds you of shock wars with someone warm, no specific images.

Somedays when you get hit with Nightwing’s escrima sticks, even low level, you get a flicker of fighting some Discount Dracula and brush it off as a hallucination.

A few rogues hit him with live wires in the rain. Those were always bad. Flickers of people in googles and the worst neon jumpsuits hovering over him, saying words he couldn’t hear. He always felt floaty after, and hid at Drake Manor in his parents’ closet.

His mom’s perfume and Dad’s rank colognes were grounding. those hallucinations were getting worse, sure, but you’re Robin, and as Robin you can’t let Batman down.

Nightwing needs a brother that he can trust to handle Bruce’s depression, suicidal-by-vigilantism, and escalating violence. Nightwing holds everyone else together. Tim can hold just himself and Bruce together and give Alfred a break.

Tim can do it, he swears. He can’t fill growing void Jason’s death left, but he can make supports for Bruce’s crumbling everything. He can be a safety net for Alfred, who is never given grieving space for his lost loved one. He can be the no-drama little brother Nightwing needs after Jason’s death.

But he will not touch being Bruce’s son. Especially after the JJ incident and the memory influx. Bruce is too much like Jack as Brucie, too much like Fruitloop as Batman.

Tim is not Alfred’s grandson or son. He’s a co-parent for Bruce in his time of need (and bullying the man back into someone Jason had loved once). Alfred can be his friend, bug not family.

Tim always honored the dead and mourns them, even when they don’t remember him. Even those that never knew him stretching centuries back. He learned from this life’s parents that bonds are sacred and their loss devastating. They showed him in archeology and actions.

And Tim, he. He’s doing okay.

After the Joker and Freakshow merging into one personas he was shocked over and over.

He heard Freakshow say to kill Sam in the memory.

Vlad strapping him down and zapping him over and over again. His parents vivisecting him despite his screams. Jazz killing them and helping him escape, only to die in Tucker and Sam’s arms in the car. Again.

He killed the Joker then and there. Gun shot.

After the Joker got him and he escaped, he was doing Fine, really! Spectra overlaid on Harley at times, cooing he’s a creepy boy with freaky little powers and his misery is her favorite food.

He has to be useful. Keep Bruce’s head above water. Keep Nightwing from worrying about him. Be the easy kid and he’s loved (conditionally).

His dad only showed up and spoke to him about sports he couldn’t get into, but his new step-mom softened him. He can admit to missing and mourning mom while relaxing so much with Dana.

Dana noticed him flinching at lightning, gave him a noise machine, and offered to get him noise cancelling headphones.

When he admitted his hearing got ‘a lot better lately’ as quietly as he could, she hugged him and told him she’d break the meta abilities to Jack for him.

It wasn’t like Tim hid the ‘tortured by Joker for a few weeks’ thing. Dad knew it was Tim that was nabbed. He also knew Tim was in a Robin costume for a cosplay contest, and found out afterwards how… well, Tim being Robin was.

There are a lot of open secrets in the family. In the extended Drake family, that includes the first Black Canary was Diana Drake, who had too-sticky fingers and was disowned when she kept failing to either improve in hiding it or stop. The meta abilities were low on Tim’s list of priorities as existing… breaking it to Bruce was a hard no-go. So mastering them quickly was key.

Dana asked if he’d tested his vocal range.

Tim had not.

They started with a piano to check. Tim… Tim went far above and below where Dana could hear as they switched to everything from dog whistles to playing with infrasound.

Jack walked in at some-point and they didn’t notice.

Tim was busy working out if hearing echolocation from the Caves’ bats is why he started getting annoyed when he was there that he finally saw Jack sitting there, watching Dana test him.

Tim braced for yelling.

He got a hug. And his Dad holding him too tight while whispering “please don’t leave like Diana”

Tim did break a bit. Not for long, but enough.

Jack finding the Robin suit was not on Tim’s bingo card during the time he was debating coming clean to his fellow Just Us members about his meta-awakening.

Nor was going to Wayne Manor to let Bruce know he was planning to take a break from Robin for personal reasons, only to find his Dad holding Bruce at gun point and demanding Bruce “stay the fuck away from my son”

Jack did hit Bruce with the butt of his gun after Bruce muttered something Tim didn’t hear.

Jack drove them back, the silence tight around his throat. Everything in him demanded he scream to get this growing thing out.

He slammed his hands over his mouth.

Dad pulled over and helped him to a warehouse, feigning needing to vomit.

Tim kept the pitch above human hearing as he screamed, screamed down and was shaking all over.

Jack rubbed his own ears for a moment before helping a collapsing Tim back to the car.

Jack called Tim out sick and the three had a Talk about him being Robin. Especially with his powers emerging.

“Look, B doesn’t know. None of his masks do.” He’d have heard it from Bruce by now if he had. “Nightwing doesn’t either.”

“Batgirl, and the purple one, if they know they’ll tell that prick—”

“Jack,” Dana warned. “Tim, does anyone have any reason to suspect anything?”

Tim took a deep breath and sighed. “No one but us. Diana did a good job severing traceable links back, and I’m not even sure if the current Black Canary knows her mom was from Gotham or believes the cover Diana gave out.”

Jack’s shoulders dropped as the tension drained out of him. “That’s, that’s good.”

“… you have to apologize for the gun at somepoint,” Tim grumbled.

“Not if you’re not Robin.”

“… i may have been debating dropping Robin and toying with making a new alias again.”

“… is this another Mr. Sarcastic thing,” Dana whispered to him.

“Dana!”

“What? I’m not detective but i did do my research young man,” she teased while jabbing a finger at him playfully.

“I—Tim what am I looking at, why is there no armor, and how are you bald?”

“Hahaha, how about we pretend that stint didn’t happen and go over conditions for me solving crimes—we all know i’ll find a way and my team is notorious for international incidents on low stakes, let alone what we’re willing to do for each other.”

Jack and Dana shared a look.

“No Batman.”

“No heroing in Gotham,” Dana added to Tim’s surprise. “Not until we have a better idea on scope, triggers and how you can control and manage your abilities as well as how out you want to be as a meta, in each identity. You can’t unring a bell.”

Tim sighed. “Got it, got it… so i can go on missions with Young Justice still?”

“I’m writing a note that Batman is not allowed near you,” Jack insisted. “He’s not willing to do what it takes to keep you alive.”

Tim took a deep breath before agreeing to that term, and asking to update Alfred and Dick on the matter.

Jack moved to stop him but Dana gave him the go ahead.

Alfred accepted the situation for what it was. Dick offered to sponsor him in the hero community in Bruce’s stead, and reminded him the Titans are always happy to have him, Robin or not.

Jack rolled his eyes but let it slide.

“So Young Justice Missions…”

“Is there an adult on the team?”

“Red tornado is our supervisor,” Tim answered quickly.

“…fine.”

“And Titan missions?”

“They’re adults, they can keep an eye on you,” Jack conceded easily. “Maybe one of them can help with the new,” Jack gestured to all of Tim.

Tim huffed at him. “Thanks dad, really means a lot.”

Jack waved him off. “Weapons check at the window, supervision on missions, and we keep working with your powers. You can tell who you choose, but if you want to be out as a hero, you will be making a new name and will not be patrolling Gotham under this roof, am i understood?”

Tim paused. “So in college I can or—“

“Tim,” Dana warned.

Tim sighed. “Got it… but i can still do casework that’s not in the field?”

“As long as they can’t trace you.”

“Great! And shit, I’ll have to let my rogues know.”

“ ‘your’ rogues?” Jack echoed in disbelief.

Tim smiled at Jack. “Yeah. Some are just mine, especially Anarchy. And Nygma is going to be so bored without me.”

Jack looked at the ceiling. “You just had to be Robin, didn’t you.”

Tim smiled. “Someone needed to, and its not hard to be light to Batman’s dark after the last one.”

The silence hung again. “No dying on me,” Jack warned Tim. “I’m serious.”

Details were ironed out on the days to come. Dana made him promise to call daily while he stayed with the Titans. To not run from her and Jack, please. He also had daily pitch practice, and was given noise dampening headphones as a disability aide for a general sensory disorder so Tim could better focus in classes.

Jack still didn’t trust Batman/Bruce for shit.

…And Tim can’t fault him. Not when he knows his dad wasnt joking about being willing to kill to give Tim a chance at being safe. And that the man who killed mom and put Dad into physical therapy died in jail a few weeks before they moved from a mansion to an apartment.

Tim isnt stupid. Drakes kill to keep their own safe. Bats don’t.

Tim…. Tim doesnt want to, and Dad respects it. Dana isnt the killing type, but won’t stop Jack or whoever he hires.

Joker’s persistent living status AFTER killing the second Robin didn’t endear Bruce to Jack in the slightest. Tim being tortured for weeks and awakening the family meta-gene only soured whatever mild distaste remained into visceral disgust.

Stephanie became Gotham’s Robin while Tim is now the YJ’s and Titan’s was the only compromise Jack would make.

Jack’s rules made more sense as Tim’s… memories(?) from his last life began to spill out. The mundanities of school and home were easily manageable. Making small memory shrines to his late friends in his last life soothed an ache in his chest. Tucker had a sand timer and random bits and bobs for tech, Sam got a few house plants and his old camera. Jazz had a teddy bear and a few psychology papers he thought she might enjoy. Dani got fudge and a few language books with a world map. He still felt guilty for not stopping her death. Technus got an old handheld he didn’t use anymore, Ember got incense and he played indi rock for her. Dora got a dragon figurine and a Disney princess folder with some dress designs he thought she’d like. Pandora has a few batarangs he scavenged and fixed. Frostbite’s was by the icemaker, and was gifted herbal tea blends in ice cube form.

Dana called it grieving and encouraged him to let it happen and let himself feel. He… tried not to think about Jack and Maddie.

Tim trippled down on cold cases to cope. Jack began to turn off the internet after 3 am, only to work again after 9.

He was managing. And working out pitches and how they relate to his emotional state.

The problem came with training at the Tower as Robin, the boy with no powers and working through joker trauma.

During a spar with Dick, Tim had a flashback to Dani’s End and Perfect Danny melting. His own fucking Death too!

It was vomit inducing.

He came to to Nightwing crowding him and murmuring, “breathe with me baby bird”

They didnt talk about it after.

Tim noticed Dick stopped using electricity during their spars altogether, and carefully stayed a certain distance from him in the field. Static picked up on it and Tim shook his head when he moved to talk about it. He just. Needed a bit more time.

He hated himself for it. For the concern causing and being so… useless.

He grabbed another stack of cold cases in Bludhaven and kept solving them, as Tim, Robin and left ghem for Dick to handle.

Dana and him would practice his range at home. Piano ready.

He forgot that plants snitch to Ivy.

Ivy tapping his window to state the dandelions found his singing ‘annoying’ and he’d be getting lessons in singing for plants “or else” was an experience he did not need, nor was he reporting to anyone until a few days later.

Dad took a deep breath and asked him if this is what he wanted.

Dana offered to move closer to her home town and job hunt there if it made Tim more comfortable.

Ultimately Tim ended up getting lessons in plant language from Ivy, as he could hear them anyways. It could be useful for when he works out a new vigilante identity in the future.

Stephanie catching him at Ivy’s while her big boy “Denny” was arguing with Tim about if Tim can shatter concrete with a scream yet given his voice is cracking every other word lately was not in his plans.

Stephanie was about to ask what was going on when Ivy chimed in with “now Timmy, Benny isn’t wrong about it if we go with a thin layer of concrete and you put some effort into it. You can go very low and it does freak out people when you follow the angry tree hum. Now, if you scream that it should be destructive—didn’t a cousin of yours have the same meta ability?”

Tim denied it as keeping cousin Diana’s secret was a family thing. Ivy finding it out with how hidden it had been was not in the cards. Stephanie overhearing was also far from ideal.

Ivy let it go eventually, and demanded Tim do more community service for the beaches. He had no objections, and just asked if she could not implicate him in her next murder spree.

Ivy agreed to ‘think about it’ before letting Tim go after he finished reorganizing some of her chemicals and cleaning her tools. Their agreed ‘payment’ for his lessons in plant language and her interest in his meta abilities being vocal based but having a major change in his hearing.

He wasn’t the first meta she’d taken an interest in helping, and Tim saw signs of others, bumping into a few before and none of them saying shit.

Stephanie met up with him a block away from Ivy’s lair.

She hit him like Sam used to. And agreed to say nothing until he gave the word.

Her reminding him of Sam ached in a way he wasn’t prepared for. Her agreeing to say nothing relaxed him more than he realized he needed to.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. But Ivy for help?”

“Plants outted me. Apparently my singing is disturbing.”

“It is, the plants have good taste.”

He let himself feel normal for a bit. Ivy doesn’t out metas or use them. She is going to kill though, and probably ask for a few warehouses as payment or bribery for her silence on his skills at a later date… which Tim could give her in a few years time as those were in the trust set up by his mother before her death.

Her offerings were given by everyone at home. Dana left her baked goods. Tim left his grades by her shrine when he wasn’t closing cases—the solved ones were left there for a day or so before he’d change them out. Dad spoke to her sometimes, getting her up-to-date on the gossip in their field and new achievements from colleagues they liked and failures from those she despised.

It was comforting.

Dad even knew Tim was planning to do landback with a chunk of ‘wasteland’ that the company kept dumping on, and was planning to rehab it beforehand. If he had slipped an army of sunflower seeds there a while back and gave Ivy a tip about it well… she was willing to trade info on a few cases that he fed back to Stephanie as Robin. Ivy may also catch him working a few cold cases now and then.

He’s aware she’s a dangerous rogue and will continue to kill. He also knows that when he focused on solving a string of women’s deaths and located the (still living) killer that the man was dead after their lesson, and before he submitted his findings to the GCPD cold cases department.

He’s not stupid. He knows she prefers to kill. But he doesn’t.

It makes working with the Titans on weekends awkward when Nightwing begins to notice Tim responding before the others and frowning into the air when the grass gives him tips on when events take place and for incoming company.

No one presses him on it. Static bumps his shoulder and passed a ‘talk when you’re ready’ note to him.

Then the fact Ivy did not hit him with cuddle pollen but did hit Stephanie as Robin and threw them in a room together was just plain embarrassing.

It also meant Ivy figured Tim or Robin had a crush on the other and just. Why?

He finally understood how Sam felt during Ember’s first appearance and he was made to lovestick… sort of. Stephanie koalaing him until they broke out and he managed to get them to one of the quieter Paramedics two blocks over wasnt the same. But close enough.

Dana did get the alert about him being near the attack, and she looked at him too much like Jazz had when she was concerned for his wellbeing.

He wondered what Tucker would say to all this. Two lives and two sets of parents later, and the one who checks him first is the step mom closer to Babs’ age than his father’s.

There’s a million jokes Tucker could make about that.

Dana and Dad had a talk about it, and Tim knew it was written just so he didnt hear it. He hears so much more lately its maddening some days.

He was given the upcoming three-day weekend to stay with the Titans, and Dana suggested asking Raven for tips on managing reincarnation memories.

Dad said he called for a “Jazz, Sam and Tucker” in his sleep a lot. A “Valerie ” on occasion too.

He wanted to melt into a puddle.

Dad muttering he’d find his first parents’ souls and get back at them his damn self didn’t help in the slightest… nor did seeing Dana hide Constantine’s business card in her tampon drawer.

He gave in a bit. His friends can’t know yet, not while he’s working it out. And Raven is Dick’s friend—it would get back to him too fast for Tim’s liking.

He knocked on the door.

“Tim?”

“Hey Virgil, is now an okay time for that talk?”

—

That’s what i got for now. May do another part if anyone is interested.

Also let me know if i missed any tags

#dpxdc #long post #reincarnated danny #danny reincarnated at Tim #tim drake #good dad jack #good mom dana #my writing

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diejager · 1 year ago

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Hello this would be the very first time id make a request if you still take them. Omegaverse taskforce 141 with an isekai reader who could pass as a bèta with a twist, if you heard about the pheromone perfume then yeah. Reader as a beta but snells like an omega🙂

🐼anon

Cw: pheromone perfume, omegaverse, spy, inaccurate facts, tell me if I missed any.

For something you’d once thought fictional, an imaginary creation to spend one’s time on and lose themselves when they wanted to escape the hardships of their world, it was scarily realistic. You were a fan, someone who’d followed the franchises from it’s earliest days to the most recent - and unsightingly disappointing - installment of a remake of a remastered version of a game you played as a kid. You’d even dreamed of it being a reality, living the lives and adventures besides the men and women in Modern Warfare and even Ghosts and Black Ops despite knowing that their universe was a mirror of your own, simply built and reconstructed differently than the one you were born in.

It was a fantasy, even your strange interest in works tagged with omegaverse. To see a big man like Ghost shudder and kneel for another, to see Gaz being tenderly dominating and affectionate, to see Price reluctantly soft and grumpy, and to see Soap teasingly sly and mischievously headstrong. Sometimes, they would draw one as an omega and the other as an alpha, or as an beta and alpha couple. It was a whole roller coaster of emotions and intrigue, but a fantasy all the same.

And yet… and yet, here you were, in a body that was and wasn’t your own. It was a carbon copy of yours, but you weren’t you in it, like wearing a mask or another’s skin. That’s how you felt, especially with the scars that painted your skin like a stray sky and tense muscles that felt too hard to be fake. Perhaps it was the sudden sensitivity of your nose, the cloying in your mind and annoyance that suddenly filled you. Or perhaps it was the clean and elegant clothes you wore, a harsh dichotomy to the dark gear the others beside you wore, vests and padded body suits, weapons latched to their hips, chests, thighs and even in their hands, and the hard and cold gleam in their eyes, hidden under the darkness of the vehicle you rode.

Any confusion you once had was washed away when time seemed to stall, the world blurring as clear and loud words were spoken in your mind. Instructions, you understood, guidance towards your goal and advice to complete it. It was a ball, you were sent to conclude a transaction under… Kate Laswell’s order, a favour you had agreed to do for her as someone who worked in intelligence and assasinations rather than brawn and breaches. She’d called you a silent killer, neither a mercenary nor an employee, you were a panther in stalk, an owl in flight, deathly silent and tenaciously lethal.

It seemed like an out-of-body experience. You were somehow a spectator to your body, and somehow the master of it. Every act was practiced, ever word spoken with a charming smile and every smile particularly persuasive. It was so simple —so easy. With their emotions flashing in your face through smell alone, your nose twitching at the scent of arousal and pleasure, the flattered and the excited. They were so - too - easy to read and control, to have them curled around your finger like fine silk. You chalked their attraction towards you to your charms and the smell that clung to your skin, a sweetness that made both men and women turn their heads to gaze at you for a lick f your scent. Pheromones. An omega’s pheromones mixed with sweet perfume.

It helped, truly, making your work vastly easier than you’d once thought. It eased the nerve and anxiety that brewed inside of you, having done nothing but speak out loud the words that popped in your head and act out the motions that were advised to you. Your brain - mind or conscience - was a machine, a computer giving out orders and guiding you through this without any trouble. That, you were thankful for, you would have been a mess of tears and panic if not for it. It made you work quick and efficient.

And you were out within the hour, striding across the street and down the corner, walking as if you weren’t in a hurry or on a mission, nothing better than hiding in plain sight —the best of hiding spots. Within the minutes, down a few streets, turning left and right, walking circles to make sure you weren’t followed, you crossed the threshold of a textile shop, nodding at the lady working at the counter and headed to the back rooms, the employees only rooms. There, you met four men huddled around a table with Laswell at the head, all familiar figures you once fantasied about.

“An omega?” Price sounded much deeper in person, his done low and somehow soft despite the rasp that smoking caused.

“Beta,” you corrected, your name following as a greeting, a beast greeting another beast, head bowed in respect and acknowledgment that they returned.

“You don’t smell it.”

It was curt and to the point, nothing you hadn’t expected from Ghost.

“Pheromone perfume,” you grinned, patting your pocket, “Neat trick, hmm?”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce

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brookediamonds · 2 months ago

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Just wanted to say that I love your fics! You are such an awesome writer! 👏😊

And can you maybe do a fic based on the song “my ex’s best friend” by Machine Gun Kelly and Backbear?

my ex's best friend (part one)| Axel Kovačević x Fem!Reader

Summary: Trying to put yourself out there again after a break-up, you're dragged to a party where you come across a familiar face who's been waiting for you this entire time. Your ex's best friend.

Word Count: 6.3k Warnings: Smut, p in v, fingering, wrap it before you tap it, 18+, minors dni

gif is not mine

The break-up wasn’t messy.

No screaming, no slammed doors, no betrayal. Just a slow, inevitable unraveling. Miguel walking one way, you walking another.

You told yourselves you’d stay friends.

We’re still good, right? Miguel had asked, hopeful.

And you nodded, smiling even as something inside you cracked. Of course.

But then Sam happened.

Sam, your best friend. Sam, the one who had sworn she would never look at Miguel that way.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t yell. You just left. Blocked their numbers. Walked past them in the hall like they were strangers. Built a new version of yourself that didn’t include them.

But the loneliness crept in late at night, in the quiet moments when you couldn’t drown it out.

So, you found ways to fill the silence.

Which is exactly how you ended up at this party, red cup in hand, pretending to care about whatever Zack from Economics is saying about cryptocurrency.

The bass thumps through the floorboards, vibrating up through your shoes. You nod at appropriate intervals while scanning the crowded living room.

"So anyway, that's why I'm telling everyone to invest now," Zack concludes, taking a swig from his cup.

"Fascinating," you say, though you haven't heard a word. Your eyes catch on Tory, waving frantically from across the room. Rescue.

"I should—" you gesture vaguely, and Zack nods, already turning to find his next victim.

Tory a grabs your arm when you reach her.

"You looked like you were being held hostage," she laughs, pressing a fresh drink into your hand. "Having fun yet?"

"Define fun," you say, taking a sip from the cup. The liquid is sweet and strong—some concoction that tastes like fruit punch but hits like something much stronger.

Tory rolls her eyes. "Come on, it's better than sitting at home scrolling through Netflix for two hours before giving up and going to sleep at nine."

She's not wrong. But before you can admit it, a pair of arms snake around her waist from behind.

"There you are," Robby says, nuzzling his face into Tory's neck. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright with the particular gleam that comes after three beers. "We're starting another round of beer pong. Need a partner."

Tory gives you an apologetic look. "Want to come watch?"

But Robby is already tugging her backward. "Hurry up, Tory," he whines, pulling her deeper into the crowd.

"I'll catch up!" you call after them, knowing you won't.

You sigh, taking another sip of your drink. The sweetness barely masks the burn of cheap vodka.

The living room has grown more packed, bodies pressed together like sardines, the air thick with perfume, sweat, and spilled beer.

You decide to find some air.

Threading your way through the crowd, you push toward what you hope is the kitchen.

Someone's elbow catches you in the ribs, another person steps on your foot. By the time you break free into the relative calm of the hallway, half your drink has sloshed onto your hand.

"Great," you mutter, shaking droplets from your fingers.

The kitchen is mercifully emptier, just a few people gathered around the island mixing drinks. You head for the sink, setting down your cup to rinse your sticky hand.

The cool water feels good against your skin, a momentary relief from the chaos of the party.

"I never understood the appeal of jungle juice," comes a low voice from behind you. "It's basically sugar, food coloring, and regret."

You freeze, water still running over your fingers. That voice. The slight accent that wraps around certain words, softening them at the edges.

You turn slowly, and there he is—Axel Kovačević, leaning against the doorframe. He's wearing a simple black t-shirt that makes his pale skin look even more striking.

His light brown hair is slightly tousled, like he's been running his fingers through it.

"Hey," you say, your voice coming out softer than intended.

Axel pushes himself off the doorframe with a fluid motion and walks toward you.

There's something predatory in the way he moves—deliberate, measured, like he's always aware of exactly how much space he occupies.

"Didn't expect to see you here," he says, reaching past you to grab a clean cup from the counter. His arm brushes yours, and you catch the faint scent of his cologne.

You turn off the faucet, suddenly self-conscious of your wet hands. "Yeah, well... Tory dragged me."

"Ah," he nods, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "And then abandoned you for beer pong with Robby."

"You saw that?"

"I see a lot of things," Axel says, his blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your skin warm. "Including how quickly you tried to escape Zack's crypto lecture."

You laugh despite yourself. "You were watching me?"

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he pours something amber-colored into his cup. "Maybe. It was quite the performance—all those interested nods while your eyes screamed for help."

"Didn't realize I was so transparent," you say, reaching for a paper towel to dry your hands.

Axel leans against the counter beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch. "Only to someone who's paying attention."

There's something in the way he says it—soft, almost intimate—that makes your pulse quicken.

You've known Axel for years, of course. Miguel's best friend. Always there, always watching from the sidelines.

But something feels different tonight. The way he's looking at you, like he's seeing you properly for the first time.

"This kitchen's getting crowded," Axel says, glancing over his shoulder as a group of laughing sophomores stumble in. "And that music is giving me a headache."

You nod, suddenly aware of how the bass is vibrating through the floor, making the glassware in the cabinets rattle slightly.

The kitchen, once a refuge, is now filling with people looking for more drinks or snacks.

"Want to go somewhere quieter?" he asks, his voice dropping a notch lower. "I found a spot upstairs earlier—the study has actual comfortable furniture and a door that closes."

He lifts his cup slightly. "I've got a much better bottle than whatever they're serving in those red cups."

Your eyes flick to the doorway where a couple is now making out against the refrigerator, and back to Axel.

Something about his invitation feels significant, like stepping over an invisible line.

"Lead the way," you say, picking up your cup.

Axel smiles—not his usual smirk, but something genuine that reaches his dark blue eyes. He gestures for you to follow him, and you weave through the crowd together, his tall frame creating a path that you slip through behind him.

The staircase is less crowded, though a few people sit on the steps, deep in conversation. Axel's hand finds the small of your back as you navigate around them, his touch light but steady. Your skin tingles beneath your shirt where his fingers rest.

"Watch the step," he murmurs close to your ear as you reach a slightly uneven part of the staircase. His breath is warm against your neck, sending a small shiver down your spine.

At the top of the stairs, the noise of the party seems to recede slightly, like you're moving underwater. The hallway is dimly lit, with closed doors lining both sides.

Axel leads you to the end of the corridor, pushing open a heavy wooden door.

"After you," he says, stepping aside.

The study is exactly as he described—bookshelves lining one wall, a plush leather couch against another, and a large desk by the window.

A single lamp casts a warm glow over the room, creating pools of gold light that soften the shadows. The bass from downstairs is just a distant pulse here, like a heartbeat.

"How did you even find this place?" you ask, running your fingers along the spine of a leather-bound book on the shelf.

Axel closes the door behind you with a soft click.

"I explore," he says simply, setting his cup down on a side table. "Most people at parties never venture past wherever the alcohol is being served. They're missing out."

You move to sit on the desk and Axel comes over to stand near you. Not too close, just enough that you can feel the subtle shift in the air between you.

The polished wood is cool beneath your thighs as you perch on its edge, your feet dangling slightly above the floor.

"So," he says, pulling a small flask from his back pocket. He unscrews the cap and offers it to you first. "Better than what you were drinking, I promise."

Your fingers brush as you take the flask, and you try to ignore the little jolt that runs through you at the contact.

The metal is warm from being pressed against his body. You take a small sip, and the liquid burns pleasantly through your throat—smoother than the jungle juice, with notes of caramel and oak that linger on your tongue.

"Whiskey?" you ask, handing the flask back.

"Bourbon," Axel corrects, his fingers lingering against yours a moment longer than necessary.

He takes a sip himself, his throat working as he swallows. A comfortable silence settles between you, punctuated only by the muffled thump of music from downstairs.

"It's been a while," Axel says finally, his eyes finding yours in the dim light. "Since we've talked. Really talked."

You nod, suddenly aware of how true that is. After the breakup, after Sam, you'd cut everyone off—including Axel, even though he wasn't directly involved. Miguel's best friend was part of that.

You fiddle with the edge of your shirt, suddenly finding the pattern fascinating. "Yeah, well. Life moves on, right?"

Axel takes another sip from his flask, his eyes never leaving your face. "Does it? Because Miguel seems to think you've fallen off the face of the earth."

The mention of his name makes something twist in your chest. "Miguel doesn't get to have opinions about my life anymore."

"Fair enough," Axel says, leaning against the desk beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch. "What about me? Do I get to have opinions?"

You glance at him sideways. "About what?"

"About how you disappeared from everyone's lives. Including mine." There's no accusation in his voice, just a quiet curiosity that makes it hard to look away.

"I didn't think you'd notice," you say honestly.

Axel laughs, but there's no humor in it. The sound is hollow, almost pained. He turns to face you fully, one hand braced on the desk beside your thigh.

"Not notice you?" His voice drops to something just above a whisper. "That's the problem. I've always noticed you."

The air between you seems to thicken. You can count his eyelashes in the dim light, see the slight flush creeping up his neck.

"What does that mean?" you ask, your own voice barely audible over the distant thrum of the party.

Axel's eyes—those dark blue eyes that always seemed to be watching from the periphery—lock onto yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

"It means," he says, measuring each word carefully, "that I noticed you the first day Miguel introduced us. I noticed how you laughed with your whole body.”

"I noticed how you lit up when talking about your passions. I noticed how you always made room for people, even when they didn't deserve it." He takes a deep breath. "And I noticed how Miguel never saw what was right in front of him."

Your heart hammers against your ribs. "What?"

Axel sets the flask down on the desk, his movements deliberate. When he looks at you again, there's something raw in his expression.

"Miguel was my best friend. Is my best friend. But he was blind to what he had." His voice drops even lower. "He never saw how beautiful you are—not just here," he gestures vaguely toward your face, "but here." His hand hovers near your heart without touching you.

The air between you feels electric, charged with something you can't name.

"Axel..." you start, not sure what you're going to say. The words catch in your throat, trapped there by his intense gaze.

"I know I shouldn't say these things," he continues, running a hand through his hair. "He's my friend. But watching him with you..." He shakes his head slightly. "It was torture."

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

His laugh is soft, almost sad. "What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, man, I think you're taking your girlfriend for granted?' Or better yet, 'I can't stop thinking about her'?"

The confession hangs in the air between you. His eyes search yours, looking for something—permission, perhaps. Or rejection.

"I never meant to feel this way," he says, his accent thickening with emotion.

"But I watched him miss every single sign when you were upset. I saw him ignore what hurt you most," he continues, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "And I noticed things about you he never did."

His eyes drift down briefly before meeting yours again, a flush spreading across his cheekbones. "The way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. How your eyes catch the light when you laugh. The curve of your neck when you tilt your head to listen."

You feel heat rising to your face under his gaze, which has become more intense, more deliberate. His eyes travel down your body and back up in a way that makes your skin tingle.

"I noticed how you'd walk into a room and every head would turn," he admits, his accent becoming more pronounced with each confession. "The way that dress hugged your curves at Miguel's birthday party last year—I couldn't take my eyes off you all night."

He shifts his stance, moving with that same fluid grace that has always defined him, until he's standing directly in front of you.

The desk puts you nearly at eye level with him, despite his towering height.

Your knees part instinctively to accommodate him, and suddenly he's there, between your legs, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

"I've tried not to look," he confesses, his voice rough around the edges. His hands come to rest on the desk on either side of your hips, not quite touching you but effectively caging you in. "I've tried to be respectful. To be the good friend. But god, do you have any idea what you do to me?"

The air between you feels charged, electric. His eyes, those deep blue pools that have always seemed to see right through you, now burn with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers, leaning in closer. "Tell me this isn't what you want, and I'll walk away right now."

The logical part of your brain knows you should say it—tell him to back off, remind him that he's Miguel's best friend, that this crosses a line you can't uncross.

But the words won't come. Instead, your heart pounds so loudly you're certain he can hear it.

"I can't," you breathe, your voice barely audible even to your own ears.

His eyes darken. "You can't what?"

"I can't tell you to stop," you admit, the confession spilling out before you can catch it. "I've thought about this too. About you."

The revelation hangs between you for a heartbeat, and then Axel moves. One hand slides up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheek.

His thumb traces your bottom lip, sending shivers down your spine.

"Say it again," he murmurs, his voice husky. "Tell me what you want."

"You," you whisper, the word hanging in the air between you. "I want you, Axel."

Something snaps in his expression, a final thread of restraint breaking. He leans in, closing the last inches between you, and then his lips are on yours.

The first touch is gentle, almost tentative, a question. But when you respond, parting your lips slightly, the kiss transforms.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he deepens the kiss with a hunger that takes your breath away.

You taste bourbon on his tongue, his other hand moves to your waist, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk.

You pull him closer to you, grinding against him. The friction sends a jolt of electricity through your body, and you feel him respond immediately, his breath catching in his throat.

His hands move to your hips, guiding your movements as you arch against him.

"I've thought about this," he murmurs against your lips, "for so long."

His mouth trails down your neck, leaving a path of fire wherever he touches.

You tilt your head back, giving him better access as his teeth graze your sensitive skin. Your fingers thread through his brown hair, softer than you'd imagined.

"Tell me," you breathe, barely recognizing your own voice. "Tell me what you've thought about."

Axel pulls back slightly, his dark blue eyes almost black with desire. The flush on his pale cheeks has deepened, spreading down his neck.

"Everything," he confesses, his accent thick with desire. "The way you'd look in my arms, how you'd sound saying my name, how your skin would feel against mine."

His hands move to your thighs, the heat of his palms burning through the denim of your skirt. Your breath catches as his fingers trace small circles just above your knees.

"I've imagined touching you like this," he whispers, his eyes never leaving yours. "Imagined what you'd do if I..."

He trails his hands up your thighs, softly pushing your jean skirt up. The fabric bunches around your hips as his fingers trace patterns on your bare skin.

Each touch sends electricity coursing through you, making it hard to breathe, to think.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice rough with restraint.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. His hands hesitate at the edge of your underwear, his eyes searching yours for permission.

"Yes," you whisper, your voice barely audible above the distant thump of bass from downstairs.

That single word breaks something loose in him. His fingers slide higher, tracing the edge of your underwear with a touch so light it makes you shiver.

You feel your breath catching as his fingertips ghost over the fabric, testing, teasing.

"I've dreamed about this," he confesses, his voice rough with desire. "Touching you like this. Watching your face when I do."

And he is watching. Those eyes fixed on yours, catching every reaction, every flutter of your eyelashes, every caught breath.

His gaze is almost as intoxicating as his touch.

You can only moan, unable to form words as his fingers finally make contact. The pressure is gentle at first, exploratory, as he strokes you through the thin cotton.

Your hips instinctively arch into his touch, seeking more.

"You're so responsive," he murmurs, his accent thickening with desire. "So beautiful like this."

His other hand slides up your side, fingers splaying across your ribs, then higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your shirt.

The dual sensation makes you gasp, eyes fluttering close

His fingers hover at the edge of your underwear, and your breath catches in anticipation.

With deliberate slowness, Axel hooks his finger under the elastic and gently pulls the fabric to the side. The cool air hits your exposed skin, making you shiver.

"God," he breathes, his voice rough with desire. His eyes flick up to yours, dark and intense. "You're so wet already."

You can only whimper in response as his fingertip traces your entrance with light touches. Your hips cant forward instinctively, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of him.

"Patience," he whispers, leaning forward to press his lips against your neck. "I've waited so long for this. Let me savor you."

His finger slides through your folds, exploring with gentle curiosity.

Every touch sends sparks shooting up your spine.

When one finger slips inside you, your head falls back, a moan escaping your lips.

"Axel," you breathe, his name like a prayer on your tongue.

He adds a second finger, curling them slightly, and you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out.

His thumb finds your clit, circling with just the right pressure to make your thighs tremble.

"You feel incredible," he murmurs against your neck, his voice strained with his own desire. "So perfect."

Your hands grip his shoulders, feeling the lean muscle beneath his shirt. His fingers work inside you, building a rhythm that has you panting, teetering on the edge of something magnificent.

But it's not enough. Not nearly enough.

"Axel," you say, your voice breathy but determined. You pull back just enough to look into his eyes.

The dim light of the study makes the blue of his irises seem deeper, more intense.

His pupils are blown wide with desire, his breath coming in short bursts that match your own.

"I need more," you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. Your fingers trail down his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. "I want to feel you. All of you."

His fingers still inside you, and for a moment, he just looks at you—really looks at you—like he's memorizing every detail of your face.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his accent thicker than you've ever heard it. There's vulnerability in his question, a hesitation that makes your chest tighten.

In answer, you reach for his belt, your fingers fumbling slightly with the buckle. "I've never been more sure in my life."

His hands tremble slightly as he works open his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle seems unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

You help him, your fingers brushing against his as together you undo his jeans.

When you push them down his hips, he lets out a shaky breath that warms your neck. His underwear does little to hide how much he wants you.

"I've thought about this so many times," he murmurs, voice rough with desire as he steps out of his jeans. "But nothing compares to the real thing. To you."

You pull him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist. The desk creaks beneath you as he presses forward, his hardness rubbing against your core through the thin fabric of his underwear.

"Take these off," you whisper, tugging at the waistband.

He complies, stepping back just enough to push the fabric down his hips. Your breath catches as he springs free, and for a moment, you just look at him.

The lean muscles of his torso tapering down to narrow hips, the light dusting of hair trailing below his navel, the unmistakable evidence of how much he wants you.

When you reach for him, wrapping your fingers around his length, Axel lets out a sound that's half-groan, half-gasp.

His eyes flutter closed for a moment, long lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. His skin is hot against your palm, velvet over steel.

"God," he breathes, his accent thick with desire. "Your touch..."

You stroke him slowly, savoring the way his breath hitches, the way his muscles tense beneath your free hand. His face is a study in barely contained control.

His lips parted, eyes half-lidded but watching you intently. When you run your thumb over the tip, collecting the moisture there, his whole body shudders.

"I need you," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Now."

He positions himself between your thighs, one hand bracing against the desk beside your hip. The other cups your face, thumb tracing your bottom lip with a tenderness that contrasts with the hunger in his eyes.

"Wait," he says suddenly, his voice strained. He pulls back slightly, reaching for his discarded jeans. "I need to—"

"I'm on the pill," you tell him, your fingers trailing up his arm, feeling the subtle definition of muscle beneath his pale skin. "If you're okay with that..."

His eyes widen slightly, searching your face. "You sure?"

In answer, you pull him closer, wrapping your legs more firmly around his waist.

"Yes," you breathe, pulling him closer. "I want to feel all of you, Axel. Nothing between us."

A soft groan escapes him at your words, his eyes darkening further

The world narrows to this single point of contact as he pushes inside you with agonizing slowness.

Your breath catches in your throat as he fills you completely, stretching you in the most delicious way possible.

His forehead presses against yours, eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of expression that crosses your face.

"Are you okay?" he whispers, his accent thicker than you've ever heard it, voice strained with the effort of holding still.

You can only nod, overwhelmed by the feeling of completeness, of rightness.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him as your body adjusts to the intrusion.

"You feel..." He trails off, seemingly unable to find the words. His eyes close briefly, dark lashes fanning against his flushed cheeks. "Perfect. So perfect."

Then he begins to move, pulling back slowly before pushing forward again.

Each thrust sends waves of pleasure radiating through your body. The desk creaks beneath you, the sound mixing with your breathless gasps and his low groans.

His pace is measured, controlled, each movement deliberate and deep.

But it's not enough. The coiling tension inside you demands more.

"Axel," you breathe against his ear, your voice barely recognizable to your own ears. "Harder."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark blue eyes searching yours.

"You want me to go harder?" The concern in his voice makes something flutter in your chest, even as desire burns through your veins.

"Yes," you whisper, fingers tangling in his light brown hair. "Please. I need more of you."

Something shifts in his expression, an undeniable hunger breaking through his careful control.

With one fluid motion, Axel sweeps away the few items on the desk's surface. His strong hands grip your waist, pushing you backward until you're lying flat against the polished wood.

The cool surface presses against your heated skin as he towers over you, his eyes dark with desire.

"Like this?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that you feel more than hear.

Before you can answer, he takes your right leg and lifts it, positioning it over his shoulder.

The new angle makes you gasp as he slides impossibly deeper. His fingers dig into your thigh, holding you steady as he begins to move with renewed purpose.

"Oh god," you moan, your back arching off the desk.

The position leaves you completely exposed to him, vulnerable in the most exquisite way. Each thrust hits places inside you that make stars burst behind your eyelids.

Your hands scramble for purchase on the smooth surface, finally gripping the edges of the desk as pleasure builds inside you.

"Axel, yes," you cry out, no longer caring if anyone downstairs might hear. The world has narrowed to just this, his body moving against yours, inside yours, claiming you completely.

His free hand slides up your body, pushing your shirt higher, exposing your stomach to the cool air.

His fingers trace patterns on your skin, teasing higher until he's cupping your breast through your bra.

When his thumb brushes over your nipple, even through the fabric, a shock of pleasure courses through you, making you clench around him.

"You're incredible," he breathes, his eyes never leaving your face. "So beautiful like this."

The intensity of his gaze as he watches you—really watches you—sends a thrill through your body.

It's nothing like it was with Miguel. With Miguel, it had been comfortable, familiar, routine.

He'd known what worked and stuck to it. But this—Axel's eyes never leave yours, studying every reaction, every gasp, adjusting his movements accordingly.

He's learning you, memorizing you.

His movements grow more urgent, more demanding. The desk creaks beneath you as his thrusts become deeper, harder, exactly what you need.

Each stroke hits a spot inside you that makes your toes curl, your breath catch in your throat.

"Look at me," he commands softly, his accent thickening with desire. "I want to see your face when you come."

Your eyes lock with his, and the connection is almost too much—too intimate, too raw. There's something in his gaze that Miguel never had when you were together. A hunger, yes, but also something like reverence.

One of his hands slides between your bodies, finding the bundle of nerves at your center. His fingers circle with just the right pressure, just the right rhythm, as if he's studied your body for years.

"How do you know exactly..." you gasp, words failing as pleasure builds inside you.

A small, smug smile curves his lips.

"I told you," he whispers, his voice rough with desire. "I've been watching you for years. Noticing everything about you."

The pressure inside you builds, coiling tighter with each thrust, each circle of his fingers. Your breathing comes in short gasps now, your body trembling on the edge of release.

"Axel," you moan, his name falling from your lips. "I'm close. So close."

His movements become more intense, more deliberate. The controlled rhythm gives way to something more primal, more desperate.

His breathing is ragged, his skin flushed and glistening in the dim light.

"That's it," he encourages, his accent thicker than you've ever heard it. "Let go for me. I want to see you come undone."

The pressure builds to an almost unbearable point, a tidal wave gathering force at the edge of your consciousness.

Your body tenses, back arching off the cold wood as the first waves of your orgasm crash through you.

"Axel!" His name tears from your throat, a desperate, pleading sound that echoes in the quiet room.

Your entire body pulses around him as pleasure radiates outward from your core, sending shockwaves of sensation to your fingertips, your toes, the top of your head.

Your vision blurs at the edges, the world narrowing to just this moment, just him.

"God, you're beautiful," Axel groans, his voice strained as he watches you come apart beneath him. His movements grow erratic, his rhythm faltering as your body clenches around him. "The way you look right now—"

His words dissolve into a guttural moan as his control finally shatters.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on.

"Don't stop," you pant, running your hands up his arms, feeling the muscles trembling with exertion. You pull him down towards, until your foreheads touch.

Something breaks in his expression, the last thread of control snapping. With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you completely.

His release comes with a shudder that runs through his entire body, a deep groan torn from his throat as he pulses inside you.

The sensation of warmth spreading inside you is exquisite, intimate in a way you've never experienced before.

You moan at the feeling of him spilling his seed inside of you, your body clenching around him, drawing out every last pulse.

The connection feels primal, and ancient, something beyond words as your bodies communicate in the oldest language known to humanity.

"Oh my god," you breathe, your voice barely audible over the sound of your combined ragged breathing.

Axel's forehead is still pressed against yours, his eyes closed, long lashes fanned against his flushed cheeks.

He's trembling slightly, aftershocks running through his lean frame. When he finally opens his eyes, the intensity in them makes your breath catch.

The dark blue is almost black in the dim light, pupils still blown wide with pleasure.

"That was..." he starts, then shakes his head slightly, seemingly at a loss for words. His thumb traces your cheekbone with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. "I don't have the words."

You're lying on the desk, your body still humming with aftershocks of pleasure, feeling more alive than you have in months.

The wood is cool against your back, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Axel's body above you. His weight is pleasant, grounding you in this moment that feels almost dreamlike.

"I do," you whisper, a smile tugging at your lips. "That was fucking amazing."

Axel's serious expression cracks, and he laughs—a genuine laugh that transforms his face, softening the sharp edges and making his eyes crinkle at the corners.

The sound is rich and warm, wrapping around you like a blanket.

"Always so eloquent," he teases, but his eyes are soft, tender in a way that makes your heart flutter.

With gentle hands, he helps you sit up, his movements careful as if you're made of something precious.

The desk creaks beneath you as you shift, your body pleasantly sore in ways you haven't felt in a long time.

The gentleness in his movements is almost more intimate than what you had just experienced.

Axel bends down to retrieve his underwear from the floor, sliding them up his long legs in one fluid motion.

You watch, still perched on the edge of the desk, as the fabric clings to his lean muscles.

"You're staring," he says, a smile playing at his lips as he steps into his jeans.

"Can you blame me?" Your voice comes out huskier than intended, still raw from your earlier cries.

He fastens his belt, the metal buckle clinking softly in the quiet room. The sound brings you back to reality—to the party still raging downstairs, to the fact that you're half-dressed on a stranger's desk.

"Come here," he says, his voice soft as he extends his hand to you.

You take it, sliding off the desk. Your legs wobble slightly, and he steadies you with a hand at your waist, his touch warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"Easy," he murmurs, his accent making the word sound like a caress. "No rush."

"We should probably..." You gesture vaguely at your disheveled state.

Axel nods, his eyes still dark with lingering desire.

"Let me help you," he says softly, reaching for your shirt that's ridden up nearly to your bra.

His fingers brush against your skin as he gently tugs the fabric down, smoothing it over your stomach with careful attention. The touch is gentle but sends shivers across your skin nonetheless.

"Turn around," he murmurs, his accent caressing the words. "Your skirt is all..." He makes a twisting motion with his hand, a hint of color rising to his pale cheeks.

You spin slowly, feeling surprisingly vulnerable in this moment of tenderness after what you've just shared.

His hands settle on your hips, warm and steady as he adjusts your skirt, making sure the fabric falls properly. His fingers linger at the small of your back, tracing small circles there.

"Your hair," he murmurs, stepping behind you. His fingers thread through the tangled strands, gently working out the knots that formed while you were writhing beneath him on the desk.

There's something reverent in the way he touches you—like he's handling something precious, irreplaceable.

You lean into his touch, eyes fluttering closed as he carefully smooths your hair. His fingertips occasionally brush against your neck, sending pleasant shivers down your spine.

"There," he says softly, his breath warm against your ear. "Beautiful again."

You turn to face him, suddenly shy despite the intimacy you just shared. "I wasn't before?"

Axel's eyes soften, the dark blue warming like a summer sky at dawn.

"You're always beautiful," he says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Even when you're a complete mess."

The teasing lilt in his voice makes you smile despite yourself. You reach up to straighten his collar, which has gone askew during your encounter.

"You're not so bad yourself," you reply, smoothing the fabric between your fingers. "When you're not being all broody and mysterious."

He catches your hand as you pull away, bringing your fingers to his lips.

The gentle kiss he presses against your knuckles is so at odds with the passionate intensity from moments ago that it makes your heart stutter in your chest.

"I should probably find Tory," you say reluctantly, even as your body leans toward his like a flower seeking sunlight. "Let her know I'm still alive."

Axel nods, but doesn't release your hand.

"Or," he says, voice dropping to that low register that sends warmth pooling in your belly, "we could just leave. Together."

The suggestion hangs in the air between you, full of possibility.

You feel your pulse quicken at the thought of leaving with him, of continuing what you've started in the privacy of your own space.

"Drive me home?" you ask, your voice soft but steady.

His eyes light up, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I'd love nothing more."

You gather your things, checking your appearance one last time in a small mirror hanging on the wall.

Your cheeks are still flushed, your lips slightly swollen from his kisses. There's a subtle glow about you that can't be explained away by the dim lighting.

Axel opens the study door, peering out to check the hallway.

"Coast is clear," he says, holding the door for you.

The party seems to have grown even louder downstairs, the bass thumping through the floorboards as you make your way down the stairs.

Axel's hand finds yours in the crowd, his long fingers intertwining with yours. The simple touch feels intimate, a silent claim that sends a thrill through you.

You spot Tory by the beer pong table, cheering as Robby sinks a ball.

Her face lights up when she sees you, then her eyes widen slightly as she notices Axel beside you, your hands linked.

"Hey!" she shouts over the music, weaving through the crowd toward you. "Where have you been? I've been looking everywhere!"

"Just getting some air," you say, aware of the half-truth in your words. "It was too loud down here."

Tory's eyes flick between you and Axel, a slow smile spreading across her face as understanding dawns.

Her gaze drops to your joined hands, then back up to your flushed cheeks.

"I'm heading out," you tell her, raising your voice to be heard over the music. "Axel's going to drive me home."

"Oh, is he now?" Tory's eyebrows shoot up, her smile turning mischievous. She leans in closer, her lips nearly brushing your ear. "What happened to 'I'm just going to make an appearance and leave'?"

You feel heat rising to your cheeks. "Plans change."

"I can see that." She pulls back, her eyes dancing with amusement as she gives Axel an appraising look. “Take care of her."

"I intend to," Axel responds, his voice low and serious despite the playful gleam in his eyes. The promise in those three simple words sends a shiver down your spine.

Tory gives you a knowing look, mouthing "details later" before Robby calls her back to the beer pong table.

She offers a little wave as she disappears back into the crowd, leaving you and Axel standing in the pulsing heart of the party.

"Ready?" Axel asks, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of your hand.

You nod, suddenly eager to escape the crowded house with its too-loud music and too many bodies.

"Ready," you smile up at him.

The night air feels like a promise of something new, something just for the two of you.

─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─

part two

Masterlist

Taglist: @ggrgcribg

(a/n: thank you for your kind words! LOVED this one. gonna be working on my smut writing these next 2-3 one shots i apologize in advance)

#axel kovacevic x reader #axel kovacevic imagines #axel kovacevic imagine #axel kovacevic smut #axel kovacevic #axel x reader #axel cobra kai #cobra kai #miguel diaz #sam larusso #eli moskowitz #tory nichols #robby keene #cobra kai imagine #cobra kai smut #cobra kai x reader #cobra kai fanfiction

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