#THE COSTUMES THE ACTORS THE ACTING THE EVERYTHING

[xiaobaosnoona]

Spent like 80% of this episode screaming about how pretty they were. The other 20% I cried about their overwhelming love for each other. Fangs of Fortune might actually do me in before it's over.

[walkman-cat]

in honour of it having been the great gatsby's 100th anniversary and one months since our performance's closing night, here's photos from my school's production of the great gatsby! (faces censored for privacy)

i miss it sm :')

[coridallasmultipass]

.

[monsterbisexual]

listening to this at work this morning cuz i just remembered s2 will be coming at some point n i cant wait to be not normal abt it. also i hope the score for next season goes as hard as the s1 score does cuz like dudeeeeee!!!!!

the composer + costume designer were such mvp's!!!

[lukie17]

Ordering a body pillow of them!

It was a sleepless night when you decided to doom scroll until sleep finally kicked in. Until an ad caught your attention, a deal of a costume made dakimakura. It was 50% off and you could ask for the pillow to show a fictional character, an actor or even someone you knew. Without thinking twice, you send the picture of your husband with your specifications.

You tried to keep it a secret from him, until he found out.

Xavier

He was supposed to be on a mission and not return until a few days later. While he was gone, you used the pillow and put it back into your secret spot. But this time it went wrong, Xavier being the freak he is, ended up the mission earlier than expected and wanted to pass out in the arms of his partner in life.

But what did he find? His beautiful wife hugging someone else. He did not know who it was nor he cared, he yanked the pillow out of you and his sword pressed against the "neck" of the intruder. Scared out of the sudden attack, you raised your weapon and aimed at him, carefully turning the lights.

Xavier's scowl only grew heavier as his own eyes met him. The pillow showed him in his cat butler self with the difference that his uniform was open, showing his torso and chest. The hunter's face was an enigma, and you froze, knowing too damn well that it could either go wrong or really wrong. Xavier was even jealous of himself and the pillow might trigger it even more.

To your demise, but not surprising, Xavier cut the pillow into tiny pieces. You sighed as you let him rage, trying to find the right words to ease him, maybe there could be a way where you get out of the mess without walking funny for the next few days. But the beast was on the loose.

In a second, Xavier's lips were on your own, one hand pressing you against the bed while the other one ripped his uniform apart. His kisses were a warning, he would make sure that you won't even for a pillow or him.

Zayne

Zayne discovered it by accident. He was doing some spring cleaning at your apartment when he found it. Stacked at the bag of the closet, Zayne almost froze the dakimakura when he landed his eyes on it. Not because of jealousy, but he thought that there was an intruder.

Out of curiosity he examined the pillo. He was in his doctor's coat or at least a spicy version of it. He wondered why you had ordered it and when you did it. Since the pillow smelled like you, he guessed that it was something that you used frequently. Zayne could have taken the path of hiding the pillow away, and save you the embarrassment, but you had played a lot of pranks on him lately, so he had a score to settle.

That evening you walked home tired of a long shift and just wanted to rest, but Zayne had everything planned. As soon as you opened the door, he greeted you.

"Welcome home, cheater" sipping tea from his mug "Did you have a nice day?"

You were confused. You would never dare or wanted to cheat on Zayne. In fact, he looked really calm and was he smirking? He had not a smile on his face but you could tell something was going on.

"What?"

"No need to play dumb" his head pointing to your room "I have discovered the man that is in your bed"

No sound came from you, still trying to understand what was going on. Yes, you invited friends like Xavier or Caleb to your apartment but never cheated on Zayne. Wondering what made him act like that, only to discover your body pillow in bed. You wanted to crawl in a whole, you wanted to die and get eaten by a wanderer. But Zayne had other plans.

"I think I got the messge" his arms caging you against him "I need to stop more time with my wife or else she would leave me" before you could explain yourself, Zayne devoured your lips.

Sylus

He will never, never, NEVER, let you forget what you did. You were on your knees sitting on front of him as the pillow floated infront of you while Sylus made it turn around with his evol. In the pillow, he was wearing some kind of armor that looked like a dragon. It was both endaring and weird.

You did not know what to say. Sylus, as always, had the upper hand and there was no way gettint out of it. So you decided to play your trick card: jumping into his lap hopping to distract him but he had other plans.

The red mist caught you and pushed you down until your face was against the body pillow, making sure that your face was against his face in the pillow. Then he position himself behidn you, his lips brushing against your ear.

"I never thought that you would be such a naughty kitten" you could not tell if he was mad or happy about the fact that you had a body pillow of him, and you did not want to know "Though, I do not know what it took you to buy another version of me when you have me right here"

He sponned you around so you could face him, and when you tried to look away, his evol made you look at him. He looked like a lion about to devour his prey, and for the first time in a while you were a little afraid of Sylus, in a good way.

"Cat got your tongue?" he mocked as he leaned closer "Or are you only going to talk to the pillow, kitten?"

Sylus closed the distance between you, making sure that any sound woud be trapped in his mouth. You don't know if you regret buying the pillow or not changing the address direction to other place rather that your shared home with Sylus.

Caleb

My husband , Caleb would tease you and feel so flattered at the same time. He didn't know that you had it in you, but he also had to tease you as we know. He will lift the body pillow high enough for you to not reach it, and he will se your face blusing as you try to get it back.

"What's that pipsqueack? You missed me so much that you have to get one pillow out of me" you were basically a tomate, but you could not lose.

"Who are you to talk, panty-thief!"

Caleb froze and he left the pillow hit the floor, quickly you grab it at tossed in the closet.

"You- you know?" he was now the one who was turning red "How-how? I was sure that I was careful..."

"How could I not when my old underwear kept reapearing as if it was new!" you protested, hoping that he would forget the body pillow "You pervert! Why do you think I make sure to do all the laundry?"

The body pillow was now a thing from the past for him, the lonely travels to the deepspace tunnel were only bareable because he took a piece of you with him. He never anything pervert with them, but he liked to have them close, he did not know if he could survive with them. He got in his knees, and hugged your legs, looking like a dog who was sad for being scolded.

"Pips, pleasee" he rubbed against your legs "Let me do your laundry again"

You only sighed with relief, now he would forget about the pillow and let you be. After all, you need someting to cuddle against when he went to missions for while. Though you were lucky that he had not open the pillow and found his own underweare in there. What can you say? Weirdos attract each other

[wakayrd]

you may be able to tell I'm still trying to figure out how to draw Odile- I have so much in my brain for like. community theatre au the siffrin doodles yesterday wasn't even the half of it. I'd love to talk about it more and more lol Like my local theatre I imagine all people do a little bit of everything because there's so many roles to fill and only so many hands so if you're ready for my silly ramblings look below lol

Odlie has to be a SM- I can't not picture her as one she'd be so good at it- She's really detail oriented, observant and organized. Maybe sometimes she acts too, but that's a very rare occasion. She likes the organization part of it very much. Sometimes she receives gifts from her crew which is a bit "???" to her because she's just doing what she likes to do, not realizing to others its so much more than that. The crew tries to guess what sort of job she has outside of the community theatre lol Isabeau does a little bit of everything!!!! Isabeau shows up for set construction, works backstage sometimes and recently has started going onto the stage too! He also loves to help with costumes and especially making things for historical pieces and doing the research on historical fashion. Siffrin's favourite hobby during rehearsals now is to try and get Isabeau to break character. Sometimes it works and Odlie has had to tell the both of them to cool it a little (it's all good fun though and never too disruptive- both of them do love the theatre and have respect for it!). Once Sif made a joke during a performance and Isa wasn't able to hold back the laughing that TOTALLY got picked up by the mics (and the audience heard it). The two of them got the appropriate scolding for it after from Mirabelle and Odile. I do have little ideas for Mirabelle, Bonnie and even Loop (teehee) and some more shenanigans I wanna doodle lol .... maybe even Siffrin as an actor teehee. In my head they haven't taken an acting role yet, but may in the future once he's a bit more comfortable

[incognit0slut]

Doctor Reid

PART 2 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Established Relationship Your boyfriend finally agrees to indulge in your fantasy by playing a very different kind of doctor, but on his own terms.

Content: (18+) 4k, roleplay, lingerie, finger sucking, nipple play, fingering, female oral, edging, soft!dom as per usual and him being what you guys like to call ‘a little shit’ a/n: season 12 Spencer can stay between my thighs all day every day. also, i have no knowledge on any medical terms this is just ✨vibes✨

10:34 AM

The box was heavier than you’d expected. It had been weeks since you’d ordered it—weeks of wondering if this would even get here without some awkward explanation. You’d agonized over every little detail, scrolling through pages of different costumes, wondering which stethoscope looked the most real.

And now it was finally here.

You didn’t waste a second. Your fingers worked quickly, ripping through the tape and cardboard until the contents spilled out. A crisp, folded white coat with perfectly pressed lapels and a stethoscope. And it was a real one, with cool metal tubing that felt heavy and authentic in your hand. Everything looked even better than you’d imagined.

You barely took the time to fold back the box flaps before hurrying to the next room, where your boyfriend sat comfortably on the couch, idly thumbing through a book.

“Spencer!” Your voice practically sang in excitement. “It’s here!”

He glanced up and lowered his book. "What's here?"

You grinned, bouncing on your toes as you closed the distance between you. "The doctor is officially in," you declared, holding up the white coat like a trophy, the stethoscope dangling from your other hand.

You watched as realization dawned across his face as he blinked a few times, processing the items in your hands, before letting out a soft, amused huff.

"Wow," he said slowly. "You really went all out."

"Of course I did,” you affirmed, grinning from ear to ear as you held the coat up to his chest, sizing him up as though he were already playing the part. “And it’s perfect.”

He leaned back into the couch, trying to put some distance between him and your infectious enthusiasm. “You know I’m not much of an actor.”

“Baby,” you drawled out, emphasizing the pet name with that affectionate tone you knew worked like a charm on him. It was the same sweet voice you used when you wanted something, the kind that could coax just about anything from him. “You’re not trying to win the Oscars, it’s sex. I promise you’ll like it.”

He shook his head like he was the most put-upon boyfriend in the world, letting out a mock sigh of exasperation, though the faint smile playing at the corners of his lips betrayed him. He closed his book and set it aside.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” he said at last, dragging the word out as though it physically pained him to say it. “If we do this on my own terms.”

“Your own terms? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see. And,” he reached out, pinching the collar of the coat between his fingers. “I’m not wearing that.”

You pouted. “What, you don’t want to look like a real doctor?”

“I think I can pull it off without the costume.” He flashed you a smile. “I’m technically still a doctor.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you teased, rolling your eyes. “Your multiple doctorates don’t exactly qualify you for this, Doctor Reid.”

“I thought having six degrees would be enough for anything.”

“Too bad none of them is needed now,” you shot back, poking a finger at his chest playfully. “The role I’m thinking of requires a different kind of expertise. More…” You paused, pretending to mull it over, “Hands-on. Less theoretical.”

The laugh he let out was short and incredulous, his eyebrows raising as if he couldn’t believe your persistence. “You’re never going to let this go, are you?”

You sighed dramatically. “Babyyyy.”

“You know, one of these days that tone isn’t going to work on me.”

“Oh, please, you love it,” you taunted, leaning in closer. “And don’t act like you’re not curious about this.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and you could practically see the wheels turning in his head, weighing the pros and cons, debating just how far he’d let you push him. And then there it was, that spark in his eyes. Faint but undeniable—the one that told you he was already half convinced, even if he pretended otherwise.

“Alright, fine,” he finally conceded. “I’ll play along.”

The grin you wore was at least a mile wide as you shoved the stethoscope into his hand.

1:52 PM

“Okay. I’m ready.”

Spencer looked up from his stack of papers, and as soon as he saw you standing there, dressed in nothing but lacy lingerie that clung to every curve, his mouth fell open. He blinked, trying to process the sight. Because yes, while you looked incredibly sexy, he was still baffled.

“Since when does a patient wear... that?"

You stepped closer, letting his eyes follow your every move as you shrugged with a hint of feigned innocence in your smile. "Well, I thought I'd save you some time, you know? Make it easier for your examination."

"Mm-hmm," he hummed thoughtfully, tapping a finger against his desk. "I'm not so sure this is standard procedure. I think you might be bending the rules here."

"Maybe. But I'm sure Doctor Reid can make a special exception, right?“

You shifted slightly, arching your back just enough to draw his attention. His eyes dropped to your chest, and for a moment, his breath caught in his throat as he noticed the way your nipples strained against the sheer, barely-there fabric of your lingerie. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to suppress a smile, but it broke through anyway. A slow, knowing grin spread across his face.

“Of course,” he finally replied. “I think I can be persuaded.”

With that, he leaned forward, sweeping his documents to the side in one smooth motion, before patting the now-cleared space on the desk in front of him.

“Take a seat, Miss,” he said, his voice turning low and authoritative that lit a spark of excitement inside you. “Let’s get started.”

You bit your bottom lip, fighting back a grin as the cool wood of the desk pressed against the backs of your thighs. You watched Spencer stand up and slip between your legs, his hands finding your knees and spreading them just enough to close the distance until the heat of his body was flushed against yours.

“So, tell me,” he started, his voice lowering as he fell into the role. “What seems to be the problem today?”

A flutter of nerves danced in your stomach, and suddenly you were very aware of what was happening. You’d initiated this—had begged for it, even—but it was something entirely different now that Spencer was towering over you. The confidence you’d felt earlier wavered for just a moment as his palms ran slowly up your thighs.

“I, uh,” your voice faltering slightly as his hands continued their slow journey. “I… I haven’t been feeling well.”

His fingers brushed lightly against the frills of your lingerie, teasing the lace between his fingers as he maintained eye contact. “Any symptoms I should know about? Dizziness? Shortness of breath?”

You nodded, heart pounding in your chest as his thumb traced small circles over the fabric. “All of the above.”

“I see.” His eyes flickered down to your lips. “Can you open your mouth for me?”

Slowly, you parted your lips, and the moment you did, Spencer’s hand came up to your chin. He tilted your head back gently, exposing the graceful line of your throat.

“I’m going to run a few tests now.” He paused, his thumb brushing lightly over your bottom lip. “It might feel intense, but I need you to stay relaxed and follow my instructions. Can you do that, Miss?”

You nodded as best as you could, mouth still open, and he gave you a small, approving smile.

“Stick your tongue out for me, just a little bit.”

You followed his instructions, extending your tongue just far enough to meet his touch. His eyes gleamed with focus as he brought his thumb to your mouth, pressing it lightly against your tongue.

“Hm,” he hummed, his eyes still fixed on your mouth like he was about to make a serious diagnosis. “I think I might be starting to see the problem here. But I need to check one more thing. Can you close your mouth around my finger?”

You complied, your lips wrapping around his thumb, feeling the rough pad of it pressing down on your tongue.

“Good,” he sighed, the approval in his voice like a reward in itself. “Now try giving it a gentle suck.”

You could feel the tension rising in you. Your cheeks hollowed as you did what he asked, and you couldn’t help but think back to the hesitation in his voice earlier, the way he’d claimed he wasn’t sure about this, that he wasn’t good at playing roles. You would’ve laughed if your mouth wasn’t occupied.

But you were an obedient patient, after all. You started sucking lightly, feeling the weight of his thumb resting against your tongue. There was something undeniably arousing about how he watched you, eyes heavy with focus, and that steady weight of his finger as he pretended to assess your reaction.

The first rush of arousal made itself known between your legs. You gradually increased the pressure, and before you knew it, you were bobbing your head. But just as you fell into a steady rhythm, his hand tightened on your chin to stop you.

“Just as I suspected,” he murmured after a moment, pulling his thumb away slightly to speak. “You’re suffering from an acute sensitivity.”

You swallowed, eyes wide as you played along, trying to keep your composure despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Is… is that serious?”

“I’ll need to do a further examination to understand the extent of your condition,” he mused, his eyes flickering between your face and your body as if assessing you before he straightened up slightly. “Let’s check your vitals now.”

He reached behind you, fingers brushing your lower back as he grabbed the stethoscope that had been sitting on the desk all day, the one you’d practically begged him to use. His expression turned serious, as though he were truly diagnosing you, and he leaned in close, pressing the flat side of the stethoscope against the pulse point on your neck.

“Deep breaths,” he instructed softly. You inhaled sharply, feeling the tension coil tighter in your chest as the cool metal made contact with your skin. “Your heart rate is definitely elevated.”

He moved the stethoscope lower, brushing it along your collarbone, before pressing it just above your heart. You felt the thump, thump, thump of your pulse echo through the metal.

“Definitely fast,” he noted. “We might need to find out what’s causing such a reaction.”

And before you could respond, without warning, he moved the stethoscope lower, pressing the cold metal against your nipple. You let out a soft, involuntary moan as the sensation caught you off guard.

“Ah,” he muttered, tilting his head as if he were genuinely analyzing your response, his thumb grazing the lace-covered peak around the stethoscope. “I think we’ve found one of the pressure points.”

You watched as his fingers trailed up to the edge of your lingerie, dragging his knuckles along the lace before he tugged the fabric down, letting your breast spill free. Without a word, he pressed the stethoscope directly against your bare nipple. The sudden contact made you jolt, your back arching as a quiet whimper slipped from your lips, and your nipple hardened instantly under the cold metal.

“Heightened sensitivity to stimuli.” He moved the stethoscope in small circles. “Very, very responsive.”

His eyes flickered down as he used his free hand to tug down the other side of your lingerie, exposing your other breast. You tried to keep your cool, tried to pretend like his touch wasn’t turning you inside out, but it was getting harder by the second. And God, he knew it. The way he played with your other nipple, rolling it slowly between his thumb and forefinger like he had all the time in the world, was enough to make your thoughts scatter.

You tried so hard to keep your composure, but then he gently pinched and tugged on your sensitive nub, and a soft, breathy whine escaped your lips before you could stop it. With a satisfied grin, he pulled away.

You blinked, momentarily dazed. “What—?” you breathed out. “Why did you stop?”

“Medical procedure,” he said simply, his tone so casual it almost made you forget the heat of his touch moments earlier. “It’s important to give the patient time to stabilize.”

You shot him a bewildered, almost exasperated look that said are you serious right now? But he just smiled that slow, self-assured smile of his. He was clearly enjoying this far too much.

“We’re doing this my way, remember?”

You huffed in mock annoyance. “Really? That’s how we’re playing this?”

He brushed his lips on your shoulder. “That’s how we’re playing."

5:22 PM

“Doctor Reid?”

Spencer glanced up from where he was pouring himself a cup of coffee. He raised an eyebrow, casually stirring a hefty amount of sugar, the spoon clinking softly against the mug. “Hmm?”

The coolness of the counter pressed against your back as you watched him. “I think it’s getting worse.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just let his gaze rake over you, taking note of the way the thin fabric of your lingerie clung to your skin.

“Worse, how?” he finally asked, setting his mug down.

“It’s… spreading.”

“Spreading?” He mused. “Where, exactly?”

“Everywhere.” Your fingers nervously toyed with the hem of your lingerie, lifting it just enough to show a glimpse of bare skin beneath. “I really need your help, Doctor.”

His eyes immediately zeroed in on the sliver of skin you revealed. You watched as the realization flashed across his face. The corner of his mouth twitched as though he was fighting back a satisfied smirk, and you knew then that he’d taken the bait—he had to confirm just how bare you really were.

“Come here,” he ordered softly. He stepped back from the counter just enough to make space. “If it’s spreading, I have to conduct a full-body assessment.”

You slowly made your way to him with shaky legs.

“Up,” he instructed, giving the counter a gentle pat before letting his hands settle on your hips. “Sit.”

The cool marble touched the backs of your thighs as you hoisted yourself up. Then, without warning, Spencer’s hands were on your legs. He grabbed your calves, and before you could even catch your breath, he maneuvered your knees apart, placing the palms of your feet flat onto the countertop.

His eyes dropped between your legs, and the sight of you completely bare, your pussy lips glistening under the dim light, confirmed what he’d suspected. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip as he took in every detail, the way you were flushed, open, and dripping.

“Is there a reason,” he began slowly, his voice dropping to that dangerously soft, detached tone. “Why you’re not wearing anything underneath?”

“I… I thought it might make the examination easier.”

He smiled. “How considerate.”

Then with painstaking slowness, Spencer used both thumbs to part your folds, spreading you open completely to his gaze. It was almost clinical, the way he did it, as if he were studying you like some fascinating experiment. And it was working. You could feel the heat of embarrassment rushing in your veins. God, he had you spread open like this in your kitchen counter, and all you could think was how absolutely shameless this was.

He took his time, of course. Because why wouldn’t he? Spencer Reid didn’t rush experiments. No, he would spend all the time in the world analyzing, learning, committing every detail to memory. And right now, that focus was on you. He dragged his fingertips through your arousal, spreading it leisurely over your folds like he was testing its consistency, as if that slick heat was something he could measure and quantify.

And all you could do was hold your breath.

“I have to say,” he started again, his voice low and taunting as his fingers slid back and forth slowly, grazing just over your entrance without actually dipping inside. “You’re overly lubricated. Are you always like this?”

You exhaled a long breath, trying to steady the rapid rhythm of your heart. “Y-Yes.”

Spencer's smile deepened, his gaze never leaving your face as he pressed just a bit harder, testing your reaction. “Interesting. Do you get this wet from just a little touch, or does it have to be… more?”

“J-Just a little,” you admitted, hips instinctively shifting toward his fingers.

“Mmm,” he hummed approvingly, and finally—finally—he let his finger slide just inside your entrance, only to stop right there, buried to the first knuckle. He didn’t move any further. “Is that all it takes? Or do you need more to truly feel the effects?”

“I...” You let out a whimper when his finger twitched inside you. "M-More."

“And how much more, exactly? One finger? Two?”

“Two,” you gasped, every coherent thought slipping away under his touch. “Two… Doctor.”

A satisfied smile tugged at his lips, and without another word, he obliged, slipping a second finger inside you. The stretch made you bite back a moan as you felt every inch of him dragging against your inner walls. You couldn’t help the way your cunt clenched tightly around his fingers, pulling him deeper as your slick arousal coated every thrust.

“You’re even more responsive than I thought,” he noted, adjusting his angle to brush against that sensitive spot inside you. “Your partner must enjoy this… a lot.”

He was playing his role all too well. Your fingers gripped the edge of the counter as his speed picked up. "He... He does," you breathed out. "He—he loves it."

Spencer hummed thoughtfully. "Good," he said softly, almost as if to himself. "Because this is a very special condition that requires a great deal of attention. And I'm sure that you need all the attention you can get, don't you?"

“Yes,” you sighed, nodding frantically as the pleasure built in steady waves. “I… I need it.”

"I thought so. Patients with your symptoms typically respond very well to intensive treatment."

With that, his fingers began to thrust deeper, faster, harder. The sensation of his long fingers stretching you had you moaning as you felt every drag, every inch while he continued to work you open. And just when you thought it couldn’t get any more intense, he pressed a thumb firmly against your clit.

“Oh, fuck.”

He circled your swollen nub in slow, delicious patterns, and your body clenched around his fingers. This was it. You could feel it. The way your pulse pounded in your ears, the heat pooling deep in your core, every sensation building higher and higher. You could feel that sweet, sweet edge approaching, so close you could practically taste it—

And then he stopped.

Everything. Stopped.

“Spencer!”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t rush to soothe the ache in your body. He simply slid his fingers out of you, leaving you clenching around nothing.

“Open your mouth.”

You parted your lips, and he slipped his fingers inside, letting you taste yourself. The mix of your own slick and the heat of his skin made you moan softly, your tongue swirling around his fingers

“You see, you can be very responsive,” he commented in a low, measured tone. “But I think we should take a break, rushing the treatment would only compromise the results.”

He said it like it was the most reasonable thing in the world, like he wasn’t purposefully doing this to drive you insane. You wanted to laugh, and you did. But it was a defeated, breathless sort of laugh around his fingers, because you knew the man settled between your thighs still held all the power over you.

08:56 PM

“Babe?”

He laughed softly, not even glancing up from the book he was reading. “No more Doctor?”

You ignored the amusement in his voice as you walked up to the bed where he lay sprawled out, so casually composed, flipping another page like he hadn’t spent the entire day driving you mad. You reached the edge of the mattress, shadow casting over him, and his eyes finally flicked up to meet yours.

“I wanna cum.”

Spencer’s smile widened, the kind that made your stomach flip with both excitement and irritation, and he placed the book down beside him. His hand reached out lazily to brush your thigh.

“Yeah?” he drawled, tilting his head to the side. “Does my sweet girl want to be taken care of?”

You nodded eagerly. “Please.”

“Well, I do like it when you ask nicely,” he muttered, one hand sliding up to grip your waist. “And you’ve been very patient all day.”

“I have.”

“I think you deserve it.”

“I do.”

He let out an amused laugh. “Alright, lay down on the bed.”

You didn’t hesitate. You quickly shifted, lying back against the pillows. Spencer’s hands were on you immediately, gripping your thighs and dragging you toward the edge of the mattress. The room spun for a moment when he settled onto his knees. He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, his fingers squeezing your calf as he pressed a soft, teasing kiss against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

“Comfortable?”

You nodded, and just as the breath left your lungs, his fingers brushed against the slick, wet folds of your pussy. He traced the outline of your lips gently, gathering the moisture that had been building all day.

“Poor baby,” he cooed sympathetically, his breath ghosting over your wetness. And just when you thought you couldn’t take another moment of teasing, he pressed his tongue flat against you and licked a long strip from your entrance to your clit.

A desperate whine escaped your lips. “Please…”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. He licked another long, languid strip to your clit, swirling his tongue around it before flattening it again, dragging slowly just to savor the way you trembled beneath him. One of his hands gripped your thigh firmly, keeping your leg steady over his shoulder, while the other slid underneath, lifting your hips closer to his mouth.

And when he finally wrapped his lips around your clit again, pulling it into his mouth with a gentle suck, a choked moan tore from your throat.

“Spencer,” you whimpered. “Oh god…”

The vibration of his low groan reverberated through you. His fingers gripped your thighs tightly, holding you open and pinned beneath him. You weren’t sure what was more overwhelming. The sensation of his tongue flicking rapidly over your clit or the wet, obscene sounds of him slurping against your soaked folds. Either way, it was driving you wild, pushing you closer and closer to that edge where everything blurred and all you could do was feel.

And then his tongue shifted, dipping lower to probe your entrance. He pushed inside, exploring, seeking, like he was determined to reach every possible inch of you. And damn it, it felt like he could. Each thrust and twist of his tongue sent a surge of delicious heat through your body, and you couldn’t help the way your thighs trembled against his shoulders, squeezing him tighter.

You could barely breathe as the tension coiled tighter, so fucking tight you thought you might snap. And he knew it—he could feel it, the way your walls clenched around his tongue, the way your thighs trembled against his shoulders. And still, he didn’t let up, thrusting his tongue into you deeper, faster, while his nose rubbed insistently against your clit.

He kept going, over and over, tasting you like you were the only thing that could satisfy his hunger. It was too much and yet not enough, and soon you couldn’t stop the desperate chant of his name spilling from your lips. You weren’t even sure what you were pleading for anymore—more? mercy?—all you knew was that you on the brink of falling apart.

One last stroke was enough to shatter you completely.

It was almost embarrassing how quickly you came, but with the way he was working you over, you didn’t stand a chance. The moment you felt yourself tip over, everything broke—your body tensed, your back arched sharply off the bed, and a loud moan tore from your lips. It was like your body had a mind of its own, hips grinding desperately against his mouth as if seeking every last bit of friction you could steal.

And when you finally came down, you were a breathless, panting mess. Spencer gave your clit one final, teasing suck, before he pulled back. He crawled up your body, hands sliding up your sides to push your lingerie higher. Gentle, warm kisses tickled your stomach as he threw you a smug look that only he could pull off.

“How was that,” he murmured, pausing to kiss just beneath your ribs. “For your little fantasy?”

Mind-blowing. Intense. Better than I imagined.

“Well,” you managed to say, fingers tangling into his hair. “If that’s how you plan on treating me, Doctor, I might just have to get sick more often.”

Spencer’s lips curved into a knowing smirk against your skin, and he nipped gently at your side.

“I think it’s best for you to do a regular check-up, then,” he teased, letting his lips ghost over your skin as he crawled further up, settling his body over yours. “Doctor’s orders.”

You couldn’t stop the soft, breathless laugh that escaped your lips as you pulled him in for a kiss, tasting yourself on his mouth.

You’d be more than happy to comply.

[happy74827]

Real Life Fairytale

[Robby Keene x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: You tried so hard not to be that girl, but the more you were around him, the more you were convinced clichés could be a good thing.

WC: 712

Category: Fluff, First Kiss

Since Cobra Kai coming back later this month, here’s some fluff with the Marty Mcfly of karate.

『••✎••』

It was a typical cliché, and as much as you hated it, there was something that still pulled at you. Something that pulled you right into the arms of none other than Robby Keene.

Your relationship had been rocky at best; it had started out with him pickpocketing your purse and the two of you becoming friends because, at the time, you believed he was simply returning what you lost.

Of course, when your friendship officially became a friendship, he told you the truth and apologized. LaRusso had offered him a job, and everything he did suddenly became about changing his life and earning his place. He wanted to prove to his father that he was more than just some punk-ass kid from the wrong side of the tracks.

So, how did that bring you to where you are now? How did a guy like Robby Keene, dressed up in Marty McFly attire, become the center of your universe?

The Halloween Bash, of course.

Originally, the entire group of friends, the past feud between Robby and Miguel, had long been forgotten, so they decided to do one big group costume. Demetri thought it would be a good idea to go with the Power Rangers, which was fine, except for the fact that Eli was the only one who actually wanted to be a Ranger. Everyone else was either not impressed or completely clueless about who they were.

In the end, the group split off into their own individual costumes, and that's how you ended up with your favorite movie being used as the basis for your outfits.

It took a lot of convincing on your part. I mean, the dude looked practically identical to the real actor; he was the obvious choice. Throw a Walkman on him, and boom, the costume is perfect.

He blamed it on the hair, which it technically was. Ever since he ditched Dora's cut with Diego, he just became that geeky kid who freaked at the word 'chicken.'

And in all honesty, you truly believed he hated that word, too. Eli said it to bait him once, and he did not go down easily.

It only took you an hour to convince him, but after a while, he relented, and the costume was finalized.

So, obviously, when the two of you walked in with swag that only the 80s could pull off, you stayed for about an hour before Robby got bored and decided ice cream was the cure.

Now, the two of you were sitting on the steps of an apartment building, eating a gallon of ice cream and talking.

You swear, you didn't mean for it to happen, but the way he looked at you with those soft, blue eyes and the smile that could make a nun blush, you found yourself leaning closer.

"I had fun," he spoke quietly, his words dancing over your lips. "Even if I do look ridiculous."

You giggled. "Well, isn't that why we have Halloween? To look ridiculous?"

He shrugged and leaned closer, his eyes searching yours.

"You don't look ridiculous, though," you continued. "I think you look pretty good in a life preserver."

He grinned. "Yeah?"

It was something about the way he said that. The way you could hear the smile in his voice, but most of all, the way he looked at you when he said it. Like he was looking for permission to continue with what was already happening.

So, you answered by leaning in, connecting your lips with his, and giving him all the permission he needed.

His hands instantly flew to your hips, tugging you closer, and you found your own hands wrapping around his neck, deepening the kiss.

It was perfect, just like the movies. You regretted dressing up as Doc Brown, though. Not only was the radiation suit itchy, but you were acting like Jennifer Parker, and you didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Still, with the white hair off and his headphones finding their home around his neck, you figured maybe you'd force him to keep that part of the costume because, the way he was looking at you, you didn't want it to end.

You were sure it wouldn't, not any time soon.

[sukioyakio]

Drabble

Coolbfsukuna x losergfreader

Sukuna had his fair share of relationships, boring,Toxic, submissive, obsessive, and the list goes on. But your the one who broke his 3-6 mouths dating streaks.And at times he even wonders what is better,you talking or his little brother talking. He even ponders how the hell that you out of everyone got into his heart and claimed him.

But if he could give you a title for anything,it would be a fucking loser, and the biggest talker.

He was sitting down in the comfort of his bedroom;The luxury and pleasure one should feel when in their bedroom but not for him as he groans out loud.Clicking against his tongue.

While the sun shines it bright yellow shimmers through the windows. And right now,you were doing some damn acting shit;with a literal D.I.Y costume for whatever fuck shit show you had on the Tv in his our room with the muisc loud enough that he’s wouldn’t be surprised if the neighbor’s knock on the door.

“And WHAT YOUR name is!!” You voice out with a stupid pose.Walking with a blue coat and one of your yellow trousers And a pair of white sweatpants. Bopping your head down as you follow the beat. Remember the next line like it muscle memory.

“Alexander Hamilton!” You singed along with the people on the screen and posing like the guy in the middle. Sukuna can’t even say anything but watch your little live show.

Sukuna watched you goof around, dancing around the room like an absolute idiot. He just sat there with a dumbfounded expression, watching you sing along to the cheesy songs, trying to match the actors on the screen.

"You having fun there, dumbass?" He asks sarcastically., raising an eyebrow as he watches your 'performance'. Merely his gesture showing his boredom.

Your back jerk at his voice even if the volume is loud you could find that voice anywhere;your face look at him with surprised expression,that quickly becomes red after you realize your bf wasnt on his headphones or in the leaving room trying to get his own silence.

But instead watched your impressions of hamlition the musical.

Before shyly nodding at his response face flush with a perfect shade of red and going right back to singing along with the crew.

Your playful movements were a bit stiff at first because of the embarrassment running through your vains but went back to it when it came to the song ‘Aaron bur,sir’.

sukuna Huff out silently a laugh;at your reaction towards his question. God,Your one hell of loser.

Sukuna lips lift up in a amused smirk, You always did those shy reactions right after doing something so geeky especially when your around him.He didnt need to get his little brother to ask if youve been in a relationship before him because he clearly saw that he your was first one.

He observed intently, leaning back further into the headrest of the bed, his eyes fixated solely on you.

He found the way you blushed and tried to play it off amusing, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

‘adorable’ a voice ringed in his mind.

As you continued singing along, he let out another huff’s of laughter . "You sure are something else," he muttered, shaking his head in amusement.

——

He could go on a walk with you and your ass would be careful to tell him everything that you and yuji did your day out.

Your presence completely overshadowed his aesthetic but he could clearly seeing that you lack fashion sense much more then relationship experience.

“And then We went on a walk and saw this beetle” You say with a eager look in your eyes. Your hair a completely mess, but he’s proud that you don't give a flying fuck about people.And how much more your glasses made you look like a greek.

Sukuna listened intently, or at least tried to listen to your endless chattering about what you and his fuck ass little brother did. But his attention was mainly on how adorably excited you were to talk about such mundane things. His face nonchalantly glanced at your as times,with a neutral expression.

"Uh yuh," he muttered, his voice stern.A hint of interest in his voice.His hands in his pockets as he felt your hand clenching onto his black coat.As he lead you and him through the busy streets of Tokyo. He was getting slightly annoyed with how virgin like you are. ”But i cant believe that that lunchable ripoff would actually ruin there-“ you voice,with a cheerful smile rambling through your soft lips. Sukuna just scoff out, But it didnt weigh no malice. Your hands still wraps it grip onto his coat instead of just holding his hand but he wasn’t gonna sound pathetic.

Eyes watched him, with eyes of curiosity or Attentive Spirits. Either there eyes drooling at his frame which that what his high school days would get off to.

But he was getting slightly irritated by the stares that were heading your direction. Giving you a disgusted look’s, and whispers of what he knew wasn’t any better than their expression.

He silently clenched his jaw, already annoyed by the stares and remarks, but you were completely oblivious to all of it. You just continued talking, blissfully unaware of the attention you both were receiving. ”Oh!My god i forgot to tell you that his best friend got some mess up crap too. . .” You faced at him with a lazy smile, the sun shining at your horrifying messing hair, giving it a clear glaze to look at.A face he could stare at for hours but he wouldnt admit that to you.

Even when you smile at him like that.He completely ignores the fact about these citizens stares.

Crossing the streets, your hand slips out of grasp of his coat.. He immediately takes your palm into his grasps.Keeping your presence close to him.Letting his hand soak into your warmth palms.He was at first hesitant to continue forward; this man wasn’t used to doing all the yearning. And boy just from that moment you shut up;having his stern face lift up with a genuine smirk. Becuase out of anything that get you to be quiet are simply actions it make him feel a bit arrogant.

But then again you’re probably have a bright redness flushed at your cheeks. But not a two minutes later he could hear your mutters. were you even trying to lower your voice??

“Omg,omg,omg his hand,his hand completely engulfed my hand. God his hand warm.” You whispered loudly;cheeks flashed with a warm red. Still holding onto his hand .

Rolling his eyes into the back of his skull,he looked annoyed but his ears showed another thing.His lips tug a smirk he tried to not give in.

"Oh my god, shut up," He muttered under his breath, annoyed with your lack of volume control but it held no heat to it. "You're too loud, ya know? People could hear you."

He glanced at you, a mixture of coldness and amusement in his eyes. "And stop gushing like a little schoolgirl about my hand. It's just a hand, for crying out loud."

You face completely turns into a tomato. As you reject his taunt. As now the you both were now inside the gates of the park.

“Well !it not just any hand! It yours and you mean a lot to me. . . Also doesnt that mean im in love with your cells since it makes up your existence an-“

You were quickly shut up by his other arm squeezing your palm cheeks together making you look like a duck.As you were now face close to your hot boyfriend.His body bending down,to your height. His red orbs staring at you; cologne mixing up with your way of breathing. His perfectly shaped faces with tattoos that just make him look so good.

Loud gulp comes from you.As your glasses fogged up with how much your breathing.Yea . . so you realize that staring contest weren’t much of your strong suit.

"Stupid.." he muttered, his grip still tight on your cheeks. "You always manage to leave me speechless."

He leaned forward, his nose almost touching yours, his expression filled with a mix of annoyance and amusement. "One of these days, I'm gonna have to find a way to shut you up for good." His voice low raspy voice. And then his soft lips kisses your lips,always leaving you feeling like gonna faint out of pure bliss.His tongue taking the lead,as you horribly try to follow.

At least this was his favorite way of shutting you up.

Hope you like it

Please leave a comment,i like reading yall comments. And a reblog is always welcome.

part two

mutuals list - @ukininayu @scoobysnakz @ciggrx @mononijikayu @lynxslokley

Made by @sukioyakio 2025

Edit - Here my Masterlist

[maiamore]

STAR-STRUCK

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Rating: 18+ | W/C: 5k

Summary: You’re a fresh-faced production assistant for known action star Joel Miller. He’s not quite what you expected–but neither are you.

Tags: actor!joel x production assist reader, action film set, no use of y/n, rough/dom Joel, use of the word ‘kid’, mirror sex, rough sex, unprotected pinv, mentions of injuries & violence, Joel does his own stunts, public sex, bdj (big-dicked-Joel), Joel is not nice in this fic, more untagged read at your own discretion A/N: oof this a long one. also! i swear i've seen something similar relating to the mandalorian reference. if anyone knows the fic, pleaaaase let me know

READER’S TATT/PIERCINGS-SPO | MASTERLIST

This wasn’t what you’d imagined your life to look like. 

For the majority of your adult life, you’d clung to a glittering, idealistic vision of your future. You’d blame it on those countless movie marathons with your dad–the late nights, the worn-out couch and the satisfying click of the DVD player setting the stage for your ambitions. You’d dreamed of being a part of the magic. The glitz, the glamour, the art of it all. 

Directors like Ridley Scott, Martin Scorsese, John McTiernan captured your adolescent heart, fanning the flames of your Hollywood dreams.

You knew coming into this that it was going to be far from easy. God knows you’d paid your dues living in NYC after having moved from your small town–sharing a tiny shoebox of an apartment with three others, taking multiple part-time gigs, hustling to finally land a Production Assistant (PA) role.

And now here you were. Accommodations comped, flown to Atlanta for the shoot of some action movie you weren’t even allowed to know the title of thanks to the NDA you’d signed.

It was suspenseful, sure, but not in the sexy, thrilling way you’d imagined. More like in the “what fresh hell did I sign up for” sort of way.

“So you’ll be handling scheduling, coordinating, and helping the stylists. And making sure his overall well-being is met.”

You shuffled behind Jonah, the PA you were supposedly replacing. It was nearly overwhelming. Already built streets, custom housings, all wrapped up in a larger than life sound stage. Everyone was in their own world, working on their own tasks.

Normal people might have felt small and unseen. But you? You were still star-struck. You could be a part of something so much bigger than you, and that thought excited you. 

“7am every morning. You’ll need to be on standby to help Joel with everything he needs. So here’s the schedule.” 

More papers were being shoved to you, your arms slowly vanishing beneath an ever-growing stack. You scanned it, eyes twitching in dread. 

Every fifteen damned minutes had its own designation. Was this a movie or a military operation?

“Right! Got that. So…who exactly am I…” You squint at the bolded text on freshly printed paper, still warm to touch. “Wiping sweat at 16:45…for?”

Jonah halts mid-strut, turning back to you like you’d just insulted his entire bloodline. “What…do you mean? You don’t know who you’re working for?”

“I do.” You shoot back defensively. “Well–okay. No. Not really. I was given an NDA, so I’m–”

“It was a yes or no question, hun.”

Suddenly, you were grateful to J-hole leaving. Not so much of replacing his long ass list of endless tasks, though. 

He stops before the stylist’s station, gesturing to a cluttered board, displaying headshots and costume references for your apparent “boss.” As you step closer, your breath catches in your throat.

No way. No fucking way. 

“Joel fucking Miller?”

Your fingers, almost acting on their own, plucked one of the profile shots from the board. Joel’s broad frame was practically sculpted.  His Special Forces uniform taut over his muscles, probably for the character he was playing. Another close-up featured his face smudged with faux grime and fake injuries, his expression hardened and grim. 

And then…there were the less clothed test shots. Your gaze betrayed you, dipping to the dark trail of neatly trimmed curls disappearing beneath his belt.

Your head snapped up so fast it was a miracle you didn’t pull a muscle, as though the sheer force of willpower could exorcise the horny demon possessing you.

Jonah grins at your obvious surprise. Sighing dreamily at the profile shots of him, side views and costume shots.“Yep. Now. It isn’t going to be a problem with you now is it? We had to fire the old girl cuz’ she attempted to–nevermind. Don’t wanna get into that. It was a whole debacle. You can look it up in the files under the Miller versus Nancy lawsuit.”

You glanced at Jonah, confusion knitting your brow before returning the photo to the desk. Honestly? You probably wouldn’t have blamed this Nancy. Joel had been the blueprint for your sexual awakening. 

As fucked as it was. Considering he was closer in age to your dad than your own.

Watching him star in films by the greats back in high school had left you fantasizing, his smoldering intensity seared into your brain. God. You were going to need the entire night to mentally prepare for this.

“You tellin’ that story again?” The voice behind you sent a shiver up your spine–it was the kind of voice that wrapped around you like a thick yarned blanket on a cold night. And the kind of voice you fantasized about when you were grinding against your pillow.

You froze, every damned nerve on high alert. Turning slowly.

Joel Miller stands there. Resurrected from the photos itself.

He was dressed like he’d just walked off a lazy Sunday pickup game. Grey athletic shorts that hung low on his hips, revealing sturdy, hairy legs that somehow made him seem even more rugged. A black t-shirt clung to his frame, dampened at the collar with sweat. Navy cap sitting snug on his head.  

You couldn’t stop yourself from shamelessly dragging your eyes from the damp curls peeking out at the nape of his neck to his thighs. 

He scratches his stubbled jaw, his eyes sweeping the room before landing on you. They paused, and you realized–a little too late–that he’d caught you gawking.

Joel nudges his head towards you. “This her?”

Jonah nods, handing Joel a call sheet. “All new and sparkly.”

He looks you over–not in a predatory way, but like he was cataloging every detail. Dark and steady. And it lands on your shirt. For a split second his brows lifted, just barely.

“You watch that one?” 

Your brain stutters and you look down, realizing you’d stupidly worn your Mandalorian graphic tee. His face–or well, Din Djarin's helmeted face, was plastered across your chest along with the iconic Star Wars logo.

“Oh! Um. yeah,” you stammer, tugging the hem of the cotton as if the ink would magically disappear. 

Great. You meet the man you had dozens of posters of and you were stuttering like a fucking idiot.

“Big fan. Of the show. And, um, the movies. And, you know, your–” Joel holds up a palm, silencing your rambling. “Right.” He sounded amused, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “...‘preciate it.”

Joel never liked change. It was ironic, given his line of work. An actor, in its nature, had him slipping into new roles and personas on a constant basis. But no matter how many characters he played, he'd preferred the familiarity of a constant crew. 

So the news that Jonah was leaving and that his replacement was a fresh out of film school rookie had Joel grumbling for days.

Then he saw you.

Maybe it was the way you looked at him, like you were seconds away from fainting. Or maybe it was the shirt. That damn shirt.

You clearly hadn’t gotten the memo about dressing for long hours on set. Instead of the usual hoodie and less than glamorous foam sneakers combo, you were rocking a cropped baby tee stretched taut across your chest. 

His gaze dipped, almost involuntarily, taking in the rest of you. The way your bootcut jeans sat low and snug on your hips—to the bunch of keys and a juicy grape chapstick hung on a carabiner attached to your belt loop. 

When you shifted nervously, the movement sent a glint of light flickering from your stomach. A silver charm, shaped like a star, dangled from your belly button. He caught himself mid-thought, forcing his eyes back to your face, but the damage was done.

You weren’t as innocent as you looked. He’d figured out that much. 

Your fuck-ups hadn’t gotten you fired. Not yet, at least. Somehow, you were still here. Holding onto your job by a thread.

It still felt surreal, working for Joel Miller. You’d spent years watching this man on screen. All his works & press interviews. It seemed pretty fucking unreal to think that you now had his name saved to your phone like no big deal.

Given you weren’t able to tell anyone about it, though the purple vibrator that sat in your bedside drawer was pretty much the only thing that knew his name by now.

In the weeks that followed, you’d fallen into a rhythm with him. There were rules–unspoken ones. You didn’t ask too many questions, didn’t hover too close, and didn’t take it personally when he barked orders or dismissed you with a grunt. Joel wasn’t an easy man to work for.

What was even worse, was that in Joel's eyes, you were probably the least sexual entity to have ever existed. It stung, especially when you considered how much of your mind he occupied.

“Give me a…second. Dunno how these things work.”

You’d shifted uncomfortably, dropping to your knees to Joel’s horror. You sat on your thighs with a huff. Attempting to gather the hem of Joel’s pants to tuck into the army garters.

 “Christ. You don’t hafta…” Joel’s throat tightened as he fought the sudden, unwelcome heat pooling low in his gut.

“Huh?”

It was distracting, the sight of you so close. On your fuckin’ knees no less. Joel tugs around his belt. He snaps his fingers to catch your attention and you look up at him, with wide eyes. 

His thumbs twisting around the two metal hooks of the thin garter until it connects. “Just hook em’ together, kid.” 

You nodded at his words. Finally managing to neatly tuck it into his boots. 

Though from his vantage point, something else catches his eye–a small mark etched into your skin. Black ink at the nape of your neck, a star, delicate like the charm that hung from your belly button. 

“Ya got a thing for stars?” 

You blinked a few times before the words finally registered. Was he really starting a conversation when you were on the ground like this? You notice the slight nudge of his head towards your left. 

Instinctively, you cupped around the back of your neck. “Oh..yeah. I mean…it’s pretty and all.” You had to admit, Joel’s childlike curiosity over the ink on your body all of a sudden caught you off guard. 

He raises a brow at your admission. “What’s the point of puttin’ it at a place you can’t see. Seems pretty pointless.” 

“Didn’t put it there for me to see.” You say with a shrug. 

Joel’s jaw ticks when he realises the insinuation behind your words. He drags his hand down his face, opting to finally keep his mouth shut when the images conjured in his mind couldn’t be held back anymore. 

You didn’t quite notice his distress till you looked up after the lengthy silence that settled. 

The imperceptible twitch in his crotch area catches your attention. Your lips parted to stifle a gasp of surprise. 

Was he— “Jus’ get the hell up, kid.”

The respectable thing to do was to go on about his job. It was humiliating enough that you’d caught him in a painfully embarrassing position. 

But Joel Miller learned two new things about himself.

First, he didn’t quite mind the soft, lingering scent of strawberries and vanilla you seemed to carry. A quiet, comforting sweetness that seemed to cling to the air whenever you were near.

The second? Well, the second was far more troublesome. 

The thoughts that plagued him at night when he was fucking his fist, or someone else for that matter. It didn’t help that he was aware of such vivid and intimate details of you. It fucked with his head how desperately he wanted to draw pleasure out of you and stain that pretty little dainty star you had on your belly with ropes of his cum. 

The culmination of it all was taxing. But somehow? He managed to keep those thoughts at bay.

When the director finally called cut for the day, Joel stepped off set, muscles aching and shirt damp with sweat. He scans the area out of habit. 

Jonah would’ve been there by now–towel, water & phone in hand, ready for the usual barrage of calls and texts he needed to deal with.

Instead, it was you. 

Joel exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face as the realization hit him again. Right. Jonah was gone.

“You don’t have to look like the world’s ended, Joel.” 

He doesn’t answer you, not at first. 

“It’s not like I’m going to tell people that you—“

Joel seats himself in his chair loudly. A silent warning for you to not go there. He lets out a long, drawn out exhale. Folding his arms tightly. “Kid. Don’t know whatcha think you saw–”

That again. Kid. Was that how he saw you? You had half the mind to admit what the idea of it did to you—the idea that he might’ve gotten hard at the thought of you. 

“Hate that I even have to ask.” You begin, not letting him finish his thought. “You realize I’m not.” You were dabbing a little harder now, tossing out the used makeup wipes in the trash beside you. 

“Y’are when I’ve got a decade over ya.” He says simply. Wincing at your harsh gestures. “Don’t need the complications.” He pushes your hand away, his deep brown eyes stayed locked on you, searching, warning. 

“Leave well enough alone, got that?”

The following weeks on set proved to be grueling, even by Joel’s standards. His reputation preceded him. A stubborn, self-reliant actor who insisted on doing his own stunts. For the studio, it was a nightmare. Higher insurance premiums, a ballooning budget, and his manager losing sleep over the what-ifs. 

For Joel, it was just how he’d always worked.

But his body wasn’t what it used to be. He could feel the aftermath of his aching limbs with every roll, leap, and landing. By the end of each day, he was a drained man.

The tension on set that evening was suffocating, the kind that made every sound sharper, every movement feel urgent. 

Joel’s stunt wasn’t supposed to go wrong. It rarely did. But today was different. 

You’d seen the way his jaw tightened with every take, the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face. Monitoring him from the sidelines when the cameras were still rolling. 

Then it happened.

A sickening crunch, the unmistakable sound of something gone wrong. Joel hit the ground hard, and the set erupted in chaos. The director’s voice echoed through the sound stage, “Cut! Jesus. Check on Joel. Now!” as the crew scrambled toward him.

You froze, the towel and water bottle in your hands suddenly feeling useless. Your feet moved on instinct, but the crowd around Joel was essentially a wall. Blocking you out. 

You couldn’t get through.

“Back off. M’fine.” Joel’s voice cuts through the commotion, frustration dripping from every word. He swatted away helping hands, gaze darting through the crowd. His face twisted in anger, not from pain but from the lack of order.

“Where the hell is she?” he grumbled. 

You hesitated, your stomach knotting. His eyes finally locked onto you, and his expression darkened. “You. Get over here.”

The weight of his command pulled you forward, even as your gut screamed to stay back, letting someone more qualified deal with it.  You shuffled behind him as you’d maneuvered out of the crowd and back into his trailer. Eyes widening at the sight of blood seeping through a tear in his shirt.

“Joel, I–…shouldn’t we call–”

“Don’t need someone else,” he interrupted, his tone biting but strained. “Just. I’ll tell ya what to do. Kits in the left drawer.”

“Okay,” you murmured, trying to keep your voice steady, wracking your brain for memories of those first aid videos you’d seen on YouTube. Film school did not prep you for this. 

As you grabbed the first aid kit, you watched Joel slump against the trailer walls. You stood there, awkwardly, watching the scarlet blossom against his abdomen.

He looks at you for a moment before exhaling. “Y’know, you can ask n’ not jus’ stand there like a mute, darlin’.”

The witty remark dies in your throat when he yanks his shirt off. Effectively shutting your brain down entirely. You stare down at his body in its’ full glory. Damp with sweat and streaked with dirt. Blood smeared in jagged trails down his arm to his abdomen, mingling with grime from the fall. Joel pulls out the antiseptic wipes from the first aid kit, handing it to you.

“Shit, Joel. That looks fucking bad.” You hissed out, as though you were the one with a darkened gash on your midriff when you attempted to wipe the first streak off.

“Why…” Fuck. Your voice was cracking. “Why didn’t you just let someone else help you?”

He huffed, his dark eyes flicking to yours for a moment in amusement before looking away. “Ain’t worth makin’ a scene over somethin’ small.”

“This isn’t small, Joel,” you protested, frowning as you uncovered a deeper gash on his side. “You should’ve let the medics handle it.”

“Don’t need all that fuss.” His tone was clipped, defensive. “Been doin’ my own stunts for years. Ain’t stoppin’ now ‘cause of a scratch.”

“This isn’t a scratch.”

Joel’s gaze flicked to yours again, a flash of something unreadable in his expression. “Look, I get it, alright? But I don’t need everyone actin’ like I’m fallin’ apart. I’m fine.”

He knew deep down that his ego was far too big to admit that he actually needed help. 

“Stubborn,” you murmured under your breath, shaking your head as you pressed a clean pad against the wound.

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.”

Joel’s patience was paper thin, but he bit back whatever comment was forming on his tongue. “Enough of that. Just…tie it up” He sighs, strained, handing you a roll.

You nodded, fumbling with the bandage as your heart pounded in your ears. The wound was deeper than you’d thought now that it was clean, and the sight of it made your stomach churn.

“C’mon, darlin’. Ain’t got all day.”

You secured the bandage, tying it off with a bunny-eared bow before sitting back on your heels. Fingertips drumming on your knees, seemingly proud of yourself. 

Joel glanced down, his brows furrowing as he took in your work. “What the hell is that?”

“What?” you say defensively. “You told me to tie it.”

“Looks like ya wrapped a damn present,” he muttered. 

“Fine, I’ll redo it–”

“Don’t bother.” He caught your hands before you could move, holding them in place. “It’ll hold.”

The silence that followed proved to further intensify the air between the two of you. His grip on your wrist was firm but not harsh, his eyes locked on yours. You didn’t dare to move. 

The curve of his nose grazed your cheeks, the faintest touch sent a shiver down your spine, but he had enough sense to move away. 

You however, didn’t think, didn’t hesitate when you leaned in, capturing his lips in a quick, tentative kiss.

It seemed to have caught the both of you off guard.

Joel froze, the kiss barely lasting a second before he pulls back, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he’d tell you off.

But instead, he leans forward. Kissing you harder, deeper. A palm slips to the back of your neck to anchor you in place.

With nowhere else to put your hands, you placed them on his thighs, gripping them tightly.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was desperate. His lips moved against yours with an urgency that made your head spin. His other hand gripped your waist, drags you closer until your knees pressed against the side of his hips.

But just as quickly as it started, Joel stops. He pulls back with a bated breath. His hands slip from where he held your neck. “Shit,” he mutters, his jaw clenching as he looks away. “Shit.”

You blinked, your heart racing as you tried to catch up. Trying not to let the disappointment show in your voice. “Joel–”

“Stop. I shouldn’t have.” The curtness in his tone startled you. But you frowned. Trailing behind him as he gets up. 

“Well you did.” You blocked his path towards the door of his trailer. Eyes filled with a burning persistence of him once again denying you. 

“Don’t push it, kid.”

You’d practically stepped up to him confrontationally. “—Or better yet, you gonna tell me that I imagined it?”

“You can’t do all of that and then just back off.”

It frustrated you to no end when he stonewalled you like this. Like you were some irrational kid who couldn’t read between the lines.

When Joel finally does speak, he merely says your name. With a finality you couldn’t quite refute. You bite the inside of your cheeks. Feeling humiliated at being shot down when you’d thrown yourself onto someone like this.

“Fucking coward.”

This time, you didn’t mumble. 

Joel visibly grimaces at that. You feel his hand grip painfully around your wrist, stopping you from leaving the trailer.

You let out a choked gasp when his hands shoot out to grip around your throat before you could even react. Forcing you backwards at every step. Instinctively, you grab around his wrists to loosen his grip. 

“Hey!” 

He leans down to your level, lips grazing against your ears in a deep whisper. “Fuckin’ coward, huh?”  You'd pushed all the right buttons. He'd held back for so damned long and he didn't have it in him to hold back. Not after you'd run your mouth.

You let out a shaky exhale. Teeth grit painfully. You should’ve felt scared. Horrified, really. But the tenderness in his hold makes you feel conflicted about what you should’ve felt. 

Joel’s grip held you firm. Tipping your head up. “Y’want me to fuck you that bad?”

A soft whimper leaves your lips when his back presses against you. The hardness rubbed up against your core. You shudder at the sensation, nodding weakly. 

His rough palms circle around your waist, turning you over the dressing table until your pelvis sat flush against it. The grip around your throat swiftly turns to a vice grip around your jaw. 

He tugs at your jaw. “Words, sweetheart.”

“Ugh—yes.…need you..tofuckme.” You manage through gritted teeth. It irked you to say it, but you had a feeling he wouldn’t have let up.

Joel tugs you to look up into your own reflection. Your gaze immediately sours, attempting to look away. 

“C’mon now. S’a pretty sight.” He tuts. His other palm drags the fabric of your top up harshly, pulling it up along with your bra. Your tits spilling at the notion. A gasp slips from your lips. 

“Joel!” Your palms tightens into fists on the table at the obscene sight. 

So much for someone who didn’t want to give in.

It doesn’t faze Joel, merely letting out a low whistle. Kneading them in his palms. “Perfect fuckin’ tits.”

He presses a kiss down the sides of your neck. Twisting around your nipples till they hardened between his fingers. You let out a pathetic whine at the sensation. Holding his arms firmly, you squirm as he nips your shoulder. 

“Could you just—“ Your protests don't stop him in the slightest. Nudging your head a little to give him room. He takes it as a sign to bite down on your neck, bruising you with hickeys all over. 

Joel seems to catch your nervous flickers towards the doors. He shifts your hair over one side of your shoulder. Thumbing over the ink on the nape of your neck. You hear the sound of the zipper, briefly catching sight of him shucking his pants down. He winces slightly at the dull pain shooting across his abdomen, but the desperation of needing you was far greater than the pain.

Somehow, the idea of not being able to see it made it so much worse. And as though he reads your mind, he presses his jaw against the side of your head. “Relax.” The tenderness in his tone through the roughness does manage to soothe your nerves. You nod slowly.

Your hips jolt as the cold air hits your body when Joel dips a finger under the waistband of your sweats. He teasingly brushes his fingers lightly against your skin before swiftly tugging them down to your thighs along with the flimsy cotton panties you had on. “A little warning would help.” You bite back, finally losing patience at his tactless gestures. 

Joel meets your gaze through the mirror. A lopsided smirk quirking up his lips. “Right. My bad.” You could feel the disingenuity in his tone before he taps the length of his cock against your lower back. The gesture almost mocking.

A shudder runs down your spine. He was big, unlike anything you’ve experienced before. 

He hikes your hip backwards and flush against him. Your palms instinctively clutches around the edge of the table. Joel takes his time, sliding his hard cock between the softness of your thighs. The sensation nearly sends you doubling over. Watching the weeping tip poke through in the reflection, slightly smearing his precum on your clit.

You squeeze your legs together subconsciously, earning a wince from him. He was certain he could come just from fucking your thighs like this. The pace he took now bordered on torturous. Teasing you with everything but giving you nothing. 

You took it upon yourself to stretch your hands between your thighs in an attempt to notch him in you. You were aching. Badly.

Joel lets out a grunt of disapproval, yanking your wrist to pin it behind your back. Leaving you to steady your body weight onto your other hand. “Eager little thing. Daddy ain’t ever teachya patience?”

His snark burned in your cheeks. It was a futile effort. He could see every single expression you were making from your reflection and he fucking thrived on it. Joel takes a hold of his cock, lining it up against your soaked cunt, he slowly drags your slick over his length. You were soaking him before he even started.

Your head dips, clinging onto the fleeting pleasure every time the tip of his cock bumped against your clit. 

“Joel–please just fuck me...”

So he does.

Before you could even catch your breath, he snaps his hips into you. “Deep breath f’me, sweetheart.” If not for his grip around your wrist, you would’ve probably face planted into the dresser. 

The sting from the intrusion of his thickness had your cunt tightening with every move he makes, squeezing the absolute life out of his dick.

Your hair falls in front of your face as he mercilessly fucks you. You swore you could feel him almost grazing the entrance of your cervix. “T-Too..too fucking...big.”

Joel tips his head at the sight of your pussy swallowing his cock, probably only halfway. He doesn’t say anything yet. Only humming at your whines. “I know baby.”

You look down shakily at where the both of you were connected, the lines between pain and pleasure blurring to the point you hadn’t registered the tears prickling the corner of your eyes. “Hurts…”

Joel seems to feel a tinge of empathy at the way you were struggling to take him, hiccuping through your whines. His gaze flickers to the way your pretty little face scrunched up, doing your fucking best like the good girl you were. A slight groan leaves his lips involuntarily.

All rationality be fucked.

His hand grips around your throat, forcing you to look up at the mirror. 

As humiliating as it was, you couldn’t help but feel increasingly turned on at the sight of his cock fucked into your dripping pussy in squelches. “See that? Takin’ me so ’fuckin’ well.” He sighs into your shoulder. 

The praise has you lifting your hips higher, on your tippy toes–forcing a deeper arch at your hips. With how slick your thighs were, you weren’t even sure yourself if you did come.

Nothing but the sounds of his pelvis snapping into your ass in rhythmic, hard slaps. He buries his head in the crook of your shoulder. And you hear him audibly grunt this time. Thrusting into you at a punishing pace. 

Joel could feel the all familiar tightening in his sack, he knew he was close. The sheer suction your soft, slick walls were providing him was nothing he’d ever felt before. He lets go of your throat, both palms gripped around your hips, painful enough to leave a mark. The table rattles under your combined weights and Joel’s frantic thrusts, products rolling and clattering onto the ground. He noses your cheeks, stubble rubbing against your pulse point. “Perfect fuckin’ pussy…” 

You offer a slight whimper at his words, meeting the intensity his thrusts weakly. You both still at the shuffle of footsteps approaching the trailer.

 The sharp knocks against the trailer door has the both of you whipping your head towards it. 

“Everything okay?”

Your heartbeat thuds in your ears loudly. The door wasn’t locked.

Joel doesn't answer, simply looking at you. Your expression twists in frustration. Mouthing the words ‘me?’. There wasn't time to deliberate. Your lips parts to speak, barely able to form coherent words. “Y..yeah. A-All good.” 

“Right…productions cutting it close. So if Joel’s oookaaay…”

You cursed internally at how persistent whoever behind the doors was. But you nearly see white when Joel fully slams into you. Deeper than before. You couldn’t control the sharp cry that leaves your lips, but it is soon muffled by Joel’s rough palms covering your mouth.

“M’fine. Give us ten.”

Your tears pool around his hand. Gripping onto his wrists when he continues to pound into you at a faster intensity. You were whining by the time the crewmate finally left. Joel pulls you against his chest. Audibly groaning into your ears now. “Fuck. M’close.” 

You nodded dumbly, not even sure just what at anymore. Shaky hands clinging onto him like a lifeline. With a final rut, his hips stutter, ropes of his cum painting the insides of your walls.

He held it there for a couple of seconds before pulling out. All messy and soaked with your arousal.

You let out a strained exhale at the feeling of loss as your pussy convulses around nothing, pearlescent liquid dripping from your reddened cunt. 

Joel sighs wantonly at the sight. With the state of you, he was briefly worried that he might’ve gone too hard. And then he sees it. Your smaller, manicured hands, pushing more of his dripping come into your folds. Yeah. Joel was fucked.

[j-jinxee]

[ ⟡​ ] — KEEP QUIET,,

NSFW under the cut! ⊹ Nijiro x Reader

[warnings — quickie, p in v, unprotected, swearing, cumming inside, semi public]

-,' syn – Nijiro needs an outlet for his adrenaline. Shooting fight scenes as Kazutora and then having to wait for others to shoot theirs, it's throwing him off more than usual tonight.

[AN] no cuz guys, Nijiro literally never shows his arms. Like bro is always wearing long sleeves, jackets, or yk just baggy shirts in general. So this 40 second clip of him (where he's literally just in his own little world on the TR set) WEARING A SINGLET like I can't deal fr, I feel like a Victorian man seeing a woman's ankles for the first time, like it's driving me up the wall.

─────

"mm-ngh! Niji, fuck" your small whines were quickly silenced by Nijiro's hand covering your mouth. He had previously swept you away from the set, you weren't acting in the Tokyo Revengers movie but since your boyfriend was, you watched from behind the camera with the rest of the crew. It was so cool seeing your boyfriend in his element, you usually weren't allowed to be with the crew since you don't actually work for them, but the TR production was pretty laid back and let you stay to watch. Which is what you were doing, until about 5 minutes ago.

Nijiro was frustrated with the way they were filming. Usually they'd film a single characters scenes all at once, so they wouldn't have their actors coming on and off constantly, but for some reason they changed it for tonight. The night where Nijiro had to film his biggest fight scene.

It was really pissing him off, the way he'd get fully committed to the character, and then be told to go off and take 5 because they needed to shoot someone else. Why would they change the formula? It was perfect the way it was, now the production will suffer.

And above all else, Nijiro was told to take 5 right when his adrenaline would reach its peak. Naturally, he needed an outlet, a way to keep his energy up. Luckily, his favourite thing to put his energy into was standing right infront of him.

"keep quiet f'me baby.." he whispered, gently covering your mouth with his hand. The only lighting in the bathroom being from the dim street lamps outside, increasing the secretive atmosphere. You were pinned against the bathroom wall as Niji buried himself in your cunt, practically imprinting his shape into your walls. Your eyes travelled down to his arms, fuck. You mentally thank the costume team for finally getting Nijiro to wear a singlet, he never wore shirts that showed off his arms, so you made sure to remember this session over the rest. His sweat gleamed in the faint warm light, decorating his neck and collarbones, your eyes fixated on his fake neck tattoo. Fuck, you'd have to convince him to cosplay or something after this, the sight mixed with the pleasure he gave you was making your head spin.

His arms and shoulders flexed with each thrust as he held you up by your thighs, fucking into you like this was the last time he'd ever get. It took everything in you not to scream out his name, along with a nicely crafted string of cuss words, letting everyone hear how good he fucks you. Small whimpers were the most you could let out, not wanting Niji to get punished for having a quickie mid set.

"You're so good f'me... fuck baby" His voice was intoxicating, his touch made you feel ways you've never felt before. Your arms rested over his shoulders, not that they needed to — his strong hold kept you up with no issue. You were sure that if he fucked you any harder, you'd end up bringing down the wall you were currently pinned up against. He felt the need to groan louder, feeling it build — his mouth soon found your neck, sucking on your sweet spots, only bringing you closer to the edge.

You felt Nijiro's hips stutter, followed by his teeth digging into your skin a little harder than before.

"m-mmh cum, cum with me baby" His hot breath laced your jawline as he rutted into you faster than ever. Feeling that familiar knot in your stomach about to snap, you couldn't stay silent anymore.

"mmh- cumming.. cummingcummingcummi- ahh!" You cried into his neck. Shortly met with the feeling of your walls being painted by Niji's hot white seed, filling you up, keeping you warm. You could swear you saw heaven for a second, his touch made you drunk, reaching a state of euphoria you could never get anywhere else.

His arms gently let you back down, still keeping you steady with your bodies pressed together as you could barely stand. Whispering sweet praises in your ear as his hand went down to fuck his cum back into you, not letting any leak out. You smiled weakly as his words laced your eardrums, almost forgetting he was in the middle of his job.

"Nijiro! Wherever you are, you're back on in two." The director shouted.

"Fuck, 'm sorry baby. I'll take care of you when we're home ok? I love you" He said, getting his pants back on at the speed of light. Not bothering to wash his hands, but instead resorting to licking your combined juices off his fingers, and with a quick kiss to your cheek, he was gone.

You knew he'd keep his word, now all you'd have to do was wait till you got home to recieve his aftercare.

can't wait.

[wileycap]

So, uh, Netflix Avatar, huh? Yeah. I guess I'll make a really long post about it because ATLA brainrot has is a cornerstone of my personality at this point.

So.

It's okay. B, maybe a C+.

That's it.

Now for the spoilers:

The biggest issue with the Netflix version is the pacing. Scenes come out of nowhere and many of the episodes are disjointed. Example: Aang escaping from Zuko's ship. We see him getting the key and going "aha!", and in the next scene he's in Zuko's room. And then he just runs out, no fun acrobatics or fights, and immediately they go to the Southern Air Temple where he sees Gyatso's corpse, goes into the Avatar state, and then sees Gyatso being really cheesy, comes out of it, and resolves that conflict. Nothing seems to lead into anything. The characters don't get to breathe.

The show's worst mistake (aside from Iroh fucking murdering Zhao) is its' first one: they start in the past. Instead of immediately introducing us to our main characters and dropping us into a world where we have a perfect dynamic where Aang doesn't know the current state of the world and Katara and Sokka don't know about the past, thus allowing for seamless and organic worldbuilding and exposition, they just... tell us. "Hey, this is what happened, ok, time for Aang!" There's no mystery, no intrigue, just a stream of information being shoved down the audience's throats and then onto the next set piece.

The visuals are for the most part great, but like with most Netflix productions, they just don't have great art direction. It feels like a video game cinematic, where everything is meant to be Maximum Cool - and none of the environments get to breathe. It's like they have tight indoor sets (with some great set design) and then they have a bunch of trailer shots. It's oozing with a kind of very superficial love.

Netflix still doesn't know how to do lighting, and with how disjointed the scenes are, the locations end up feeling like a parade of sets rather than actual cities or forests or temples. As for the costumes, Netflix still doesn't know how to do costumes that look like they're meant to be actually worn, so many of the characters seem weirdly uncomfortable, like they're afraid of creasing their pristine costumes.

The acting is decent to good, for the most part. I can't tell if the weaker moments come down to the actors or the direction and editing, but if I had to guess, I'd say the latter. Iroh and Katara are the weakest, Sokka is the most consistent, Zuko hits the mark most of the time, and Aang is okay. I liked Suki (though... she was weirdly horny? Like?) but Yue just fell kind of flat.

The tight fight choreography of the original is replaced with a bunch of spinny moves and Marvel fighting, though there are some moments of good choreography, like the Agni Kai between Ozai and Zuko (there's a million things I could say about how bad it was thematically, but this post is overly long already.) There's an actually hilarious moment in the first episode when Zuko is shooting down Aang, and he does jazz hands to charge up his attack.

Then there's the characters. Everybody feels very static - Zuko especially gets to have very little agency. A great example of that is the scene in which Iroh tells Lieutenant Jee the story of Zuko's scar.

In the original, it's a very intimate affair, and he doesn't lead the crew into any conclusions. Here, Iroh straight up tells the crew "you are the 41st, he saved your lives" and then the crew shows Zuko some love. A nice moment, but it feels unearned, when contrasted with the perfection of The Storm. In The Storm, Zuko's words and actions directly contradict each other, and Iroh's story gives the crew (and the audience) context as to why, which makes Zuko a compelling character. We get to piece it out along with them. Here - Iroh just flat out says it. He just says it, multiple times, to hammer in the point that hey, Zuko is Good Actually.

And then there's Iroh. You remember the kindly but powerful man who you can see gently nudging Zuko to his own conclusions? No, he's a pretty insecure dude who just tells Zuko that his daddy doesn't love him a lot and then he kills Zhao. Yeah. Iroh just plain kills Zhao dead. Why?

Iroh's characterization also makes Zuko come off as dumb - not just clueless and deluded, no, actually stupid. He constantly gets told that Iroh loves him and his dad doesn't, and he doesn't have any good answers for that, so he just... keeps on keeping on, I guess? This version of Zuko isn't conflicted and willfully ignorant like the OG, he's just... kind of stupid. He's not very compelling.

In the original, Zuko is well aware of Azula's status as the golden child. It motivates him - he twists it around to mean that he, through constant struggle, can become even stronger than her, than anyone. Here, Zhao tells him that "no, ur dad likes her better tee hee" and it's presented as some kind of a revelation. And then Iroh kills Zhao. I'm sorry I keep bringing that up, but it's just such an unforgiveable thematic fuckup that I have to. In the original, Zhao falls victim to his hubris, and Zuko gets to demonstrate his underlying compassion and nobility when he offers his hand to Zhao. Then we get some ambiguity in Zhao: does he refuse Zuko's hand because of his pride, or is it his final honorable action to not drag Zuko down with him? A mix of both? It's a great ending to his character. Here, he tries to backstab Zuko and then Iroh, who just sort of stood off to the side for five minutes, goes "oh well, it's murderin' time :)"

They mess with the worldbuilding in ways that didn't really need to be messed with. The Ice Moon "brings the spirit world and the mortal world closer together"? Give me a break. That's something you made up, as opposed to the millenia of cultural relevance that the Solstice has. That's bad, guys. You replaced something real with something you just hastily made up. There's a lot of that. We DID NOT need any backstory for Koh, for one. And Katara and Sokka certainly didn't need to be captured by Koh. I could go on and on, but again, this post is already way too long.

It's, um, very disappointing. A lot of telling and not very much showing, and I feel like all of the characters just... sort of end up in the same place they started out in. I feel like we don't see any of the characters grow: they're just told over and over again how they need to grow and what they need to do.

To sum it up: Netflix Avatar is a mile wide, but an inch deep.

[movingmusically]

Hello! I saw this prompt years ago but have never seen anyone actually write it. I think you'd be perfect for it! Austin and co-star (reader, obv) have a sex scene together that they're filming. It is so intimate and spicy that reader actually (accidentally) has an orgasm. No one knows except her and Austin. The film crew are oblivious. They just think the acting was phenomenal. She's super embarrassed and tries to avoid him after. But eventually, they have to talk about it, right? I'll let you decide how to end it. The only thing I ask is that Austin is a sweetie (cause we know he would be) and that it doesn't have a sad ending. Hope you will write this! If not, i understand. Thank you!

Word Count: 8.2k

Masterlist

Unspoken - Part 1

You hadn’t known what to expect, exactly.

Austin had been friendly over Zoom, warm and low-key, but it was hard to tell what someone would be like in person—especially on a set like this. Small crew, no distractions, nowhere to hide behind glossy production. If it didn’t work between you, the whole thing would fall flat.

But it did.

From the read-through onwards, it had felt easy. Not instant chemistry—a quiet kind of comfort. The kind of working rhythm that didn’t need effort. He asked good questions, knew his lines without showing off, made quiet jokes when the room got too still. He was generous without making a show of it.

You got used to him fast.

By the end of the first week, it was already normal—splitting snacks, borrowing chargers, leaning your heads together over the sides of marked-up scripts. The film demanded closeness, and you slipped into it like it had always been there. Long takes, low lighting, scenes built on shared silences. Half your scenes were filmed with your knees touching.

It wasn’t flirty. You never caught him looking at you the way actors sometimes look when they forget where the cameras are. It wasn’t that.

He was just kind.

And that made it easy to match him.

You’d sit beside each other in makeup, legs stretched out, talking about nothing. Pass each other notes when the blocking didn’t make sense. Trade bad coffee on the days where breakfast had been skipped.

It helped that the film itself moved slowly. Years of friendship, worn soft around the edges, turning into something else. It was about trust. About timing. About all the ways people stop themselves from saying what they really mean.

And maybe that was why it worked so well between you.

You weren’t trying too hard.

You didn’t have to.

So when the call sheet landed in your inbox that Friday and Scene 87 was there—INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT—you tapped the attachment open, noted the time, flagged your sides, and closed it again.

You’d known about the intimacy scene from the start. It had been in the script, flagged clearly, nothing ambiguous about it. You’d spoken to your agent. Met with the intimacy coordinator, Lizzy. It had all been handled. Tidy. Professional.

You hadn’t thought about it in weeks.

The first rehearsal was set for late morning.

No cameras. No costumes. Just you, Austin, and Lizzy on one of the quiet rehearsal stages—black tape marking out the bed frame, a couple of chairs off to the side, printouts and notes and breath mints on the foldout table in the corner.

You’d dressed for comfort—oversized hoodie, joggers you could move in. Something low-effort. Unremarkable. You were early. Austin arrived a couple of minutes later, T-shirt soft and familiar, hair still damp like he’d only just rolled out of a shower and straight into daylight.

He gave you a smile.

“Hey,” he said. “You sleep?”

“Define sleep.”

He nudged your elbow with his. “You’ll be great.”

Lizzy talked you through everything. No acting yet. No emotion. Just spacing. Breath. Weight distribution. A choreography of intention.

This hand here. Pause. Step across. Sit. Press of the hips. Shift weight. Hold. Reset.

It was fine.

Fine in the way things are when you’re concentrating hard enough that your body doesn’t have time to interpret what’s happening. Every moment had a cue. Every touch was mapped. There was no room for awkwardness when there were angles to hit, timing to remember, direction to follow.

Austin was calm beside you. Clear. Always asking before he touched you. Always quiet when he did. “Here okay?” “This side?” “Let me know if anything’s off.”

It made it easier to breathe.

And then—somewhere in the second hour—your body slid into position over his, knees bracketing his thighs, hands placed exactly where Lizzy had marked, and your eyes met at the top of the next beat.

It didn’t last long.

Half a second, maybe less. Long enough for something to catch low in your throat.

It wasn’t his expression—it was the stillness. The weight of being seen from that close, that carefully. Like you were both holding a match between your teeth and trying not to breathe too hard.

Then Lizzy reset the moment. Adjusted the timing. Moved you on.

You exhaled. Stepped back. Pulled your hoodie on.

Your skin felt warmer than it had when you arrived.

You didn’t wake up thinking about the scene.

You had errands to run before your call time, and a voice note from your sister about some family drama you didn’t want to get dragged into. You had other things on your mind.

But your body remembered.

Not the shape of the scene, exactly. More the feeling of being in it with him—close and quiet and not entirely sure where your breath was supposed to land. You’d shaken it off last night, told yourself it was nothing, but something had settled low in your stomach and hadn’t moved since.

The second rehearsal was longer. Slower.

You got there five minutes early again. Austin was already inside this time, barefoot, stretching in that loose, lazy way that somehow made him look like he belonged there more than anyone else. He glanced up as you walked in.

“Morning,” he said, soft and a little rough around the edges.

You dropped your bag by the wall. “How’s the caffeine situation?”

He smiled. “Better than yesterday. Tastes like actual coffee.”

Lizzy appeared a moment later, warm as ever. “Alright, team. Let’s pick up where we left off.”

This session was about layering. You’d done the bones of it—now came the rhythm. More eye contact. Partial dialogue. Transitions between physical beats. Still clothed. Still private. But closer.

You moved through the choreography again, syncing your breath to his, feeling his hand find its place at the small of your back like it had always been meant to rest there. The movements were slow, deliberate. Lizzy’s voice floated in from the edge of the room, guiding but never interrupting.

“Let the hesitation sit. Don’t rush past it. You don’t know if you’re allowed to want this yet. That’s where the tension lives.”

You nodded. You did know that. You’d read it. Felt it. But when you looked up and found Austin’s eyes already on yours—steady, unreadable, entirely focused—it landed somewhere lower than the page.

His hand shifted slightly. Not new choreography. A gentle adjustment, thumb pressing into the curve above your hip. Your breath caught for half a second before you remembered what came next.

You hit your mark. Let him guide the movement. Said the line. All of it exactly as planned.

But it felt different now.

Not intimate exactly.

Kind of… charged.

Like your skin was paying more attention than it should.

You tried not to overthink it. You were tired. You’d had too much coffee. It was just a long week.

But when you stepped away during a break and uncapped your water bottle, your hands were shaking slightly. And when he brushed past you to grab a copy of the notes, your body tracked him before your eyes did.

It was only awareness, you told yourself. That’s all.

Still, when the rehearsal wrapped, you left without saying much. Just a wave. A quiet, “See you tomorrow.”

And when you got home, you didn’t turn the shower on right away. You stood there, in the centre of your bathroom, trying to name what you were feeling.

And failing.

By the third day, it was muscle memory.

The basic choreography had sunk in—weight, timing, the way your breathing had to shift depending on whose hand was moving where. It wasn’t second nature exactly, but it no longer required so much conscious effort. Your body knew what to do before Lizzy even called the beat.

You’d kept your hoodie on through warm-up. Stretched your arms, read through the notes again, checked your cue lines even though there weren’t many in this part of the scene. But when it came time to start, you pulled the hoodie off and folded it neatly to the side.

You were down to joggers and a sports bra now. Modesty garment already in place beneath the waistband—silicone-lined, taped down. It didn’t cover much, but it did enough. You were quietly grateful for it. That, and the way Lizzy explained everything like it was just another technical element—same as a light cue or a lens change.

She ran through the new additions with her usual steadiness.

“Austin, your hand will go under the waistband. Just placement—over the shibue. No movement. You”—she turned to you—“will roll your hips twice. That’s the entire rhythm for today.”

You nodded. “Got it.”

Austin looked over. “All good?”

“Yeah,” you said. “All good.”

You lay back, joggers soft beneath your fingers, and let your legs bend into position. Austin settled between your knees, braced one hand beside your shoulder, and waited for the mark.

On cue, his hand moved under the waistband—warm, steady, fingers spread wide enough to cover the space he needed to hit. The contact wasn’t rough, wasn’t wandering. Simply there.

You rolled your hips once.

Then again.

Not a grind. Not even a proper press. Only the motion. The suggestion. His hand stayed still.

It didn’t feel like anything, really. A moment of pressure and a reminder of how close the camera would eventually be. The modesty garment stayed where it was supposed to. That was the only thing you registered—that and the fact that your exhale felt a little too controlled when you came back down.

The scene paused.

You sat up and adjusted your waistband. The edge of the shibue tugged slightly where it had been taped, but it was fine. Not enough to worry about, but enough to feel it.

Lizzy marked the note, nodded once. “Again when you’re ready.”

You glanced at Austin. He gave the smallest nod.

You breathed out. Repositioned.

You were fine.

Just warm all over, and very glad the garment did what it promised.

You knew the choreography now.

Every beat had been mapped. You’d talked it through with Lizzy and Austin, with the director, with wardrobe. You’d written your own version of the scene in your notes—a series of bullet points, clean and factual, so it didn’t feel like anything else.

But standing on set that afternoon, barefoot on the edge of the taped-out space, it hit you that this would be the last time you ran it before the cameras were rolling. That the next time you did this, you’d both be fully undressed—just the modesty garments left between you, and not much else.

You adjusted the waistband of your joggers for the third time, even though it didn’t need it.

Austin was sitting on the edge of the bed frame, script in hand, thumb running a slow line down the margin. He looked calm. Focused. Not performing yet—allowing the moment to settle around him.

Lizzy’s voice broke the quiet.

“Alright. Today we’ll run the full scene, blocking and pacing. We’ll work in the breast contact—touch, mouth—if you’re both still comfortable. We won’t pause unless someone calls reset.”

You nodded. “Yep.”

Austin echoed it beside you. “All okay here.”

The hoodie came off before you stepped into place. You handed it to the wardrobe assistant and kept your arms folded across your chest until Lizzy gave the go.

Then you lay back on the bed. Arms at your sides. Skin already prickling from the air.

Austin climbed in carefully—one knee first, then the other. His hands moved with that same, steady confidence they always had. He kissed your shoulder first, then your collarbone. Not rushed. he eased you both into it.

Then his hand came up.

A cupped, warm press to your breast. Placed deliberately. You could feel the heat of it seeping through your chest in a way you hadn’t fully registered in the abstract.

His head lowered next.

He hovered above you—mouth angled toward your breast, close enough that you could feel his breath as it passed over your skin. He held that position while Lizzy circled behind the camera line, checking visibility, framing. You stayed still. So did he. No contact.

Only the space between.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just held the shape of it while Lizzy walked around the perimeter, watching angles, checking marks. Her voice was a background rhythm. Reassuring.

Then came the final cue.

Austin’s hand slipped under the waistband of your joggers again, warm and still over the modesty barrier. His other hand braced beside your shoulder.

You rolled your hips. Once. Then again.

You felt the pressure land the way it was meant to. Controlled. Calibrated. Friction implied, not enacted.

Then stillness.

Reset.

He pulled back carefully. Rolled off the mattress. Extended his hand without needing to ask.

“You alright?” he said, voice low, just for you.

You nodded as he helped you sit. “Yeah. You?”

He gave a small smile. “Glad it’s with you.”

You looked at him properly then. Not in character. Not through the lens of the scene. Him. Quiet. Steady. Present.

“Same,” you said.

And you meant it.

You got there early.

Not because you were nervous—more out of habit now. One last quiet moment before everything tipped into movement. The lights were set, soft and low, casting the bed in that kind of glow the DP loved. There was a stillness to it that felt almost too peaceful for what was about to happen.

You heard the door open behind you but didn’t turn right away.

Austin’s footsteps were familiar now. So was the quiet.

He came to stand beside you, hands in his pockets. Didn’t say anything for a second. He looked out at the space like you were both about to do something much simpler. Like any other scene. He was calm in that quiet, grounded way he always was right before a take.

He glanced at the bed. Then at you.

“Well,” he said, easy, “if this is the day I forget everything we rehearsed, now’s a fun time to find out.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “No pressure.”

“Nah,” he said. “We’ve got it.”

It wasn’t cocky. Just said with the kind of calm certainty that made your shoulders drop a little.

He looked at you properly then—a beat longer than necessary. Not searching. Simply present.

“We’re fine,” he said. “Feels like we’ve already done it a hundred times anyway.”

“We kind of have,” you said. “But clothed. And with a smaller audience.”

He smiled at that.

And that was enough.

When Lizzy’s voice came through the monitor—“We’re ready when you are”—he didn’t even blink. He tipped his head slightly toward the bed.

“Shall we?”

You nodded once. “Let’s go.”

And together, you stepped into the scene.

You were already on the bed when they called action.

Sitting near the edge, legs folded under you, fingers curled lightly in the hem of your t-shirt. This part of the scene didn’t ask much of you except stillness. Waiting. The kind that held its breath.

You heard the door creak softly as he entered.

The sound of him was familiar now—bare footsteps, quiet breath, that stillness he carried when the scene asked for it. You stayed still, like the script said. Eyes down. Shoulders held a little too tightly.

He stopped just inside the room.

“You left,” he said, voice low. Like it might break something if he spoke too loud.

You looked up.

He was already watching you. T-shirt rumpled slightly, hair a little messy like he’d been running his hands through it. His mouth opened, then closed again. You waited.

“I didn’t want to say something I couldn’t take back,” you said.

He nodded. Not because he agreed. Because he understood.

“I didn’t want it to end like that,” he said. “Not with you.”

That was the moment the scene turned.

The shift you’d rehearsed. The beat the whole film had been circling.

He stepped closer and sat beside you on the bed, steady and familiar. The mattress dipped under his weight. His hand found balance behind you. His knee brushed yours.

Neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t empty—it was full of every version of this that never happened. Every almost. Every nearly.

You turned toward him.

He was close. Closer than usual. The kind of close that made silence feel like a question.

His eyes flicked down—your mouth, your hands—then came back up to meet yours again.

You moved first—only slightly.

He met you without hesitation.

The kiss was soft. Gentle. A breath before it landed. You could feel the warmth of him, the way his lips moved against yours like he’d already memorised the shape of it. His hand rested lightly on your leg. Yours slipped up to his chest.

The second kiss came a little deeper. Not rushed. Certain. The kind of kiss that filled a room without raising its voice.

His mouth tasted faintly of mint.

You stayed with it, let it build, felt it start to root somewhere deeper than rehearsal.

Still in character. Still focused.

But something in your chest had shifted. Something slow and warm and creeping.

You weren’t tracking marks or pacing anymore.

You were just kissing him.

And he was kissing you back like it meant something.

His hand slid up beneath your shirt. Warm across your stomach, steady as he pushed the fabric up. He knew the beat. You’d rehearsed it. You shifted to help, lifting your arms, letting him ease the fabric over your head. He dropped it off the side of the bed. You were already breathing differently.

You reached for his shirt in return, fingers brushing his skin as you pulled it over his head. He let you. No pause, no shift in rhythm. Now skin against skin, your chest rising against his with every breath.

You kissed him again.

And this time, as your mouths met, you moved—slowly—easing one leg over his lap, settling against him.

The bed creaked softly beneath you. His hands came to your thighs, anchoring you there. One slid up, fingers splaying lightly at your waist. The other stayed low, grounding you.

You felt the shape of him under you. Not against your bare skin—not yet—but close. Closer than rehearsal. The weight of him, the pressure of his hands, the way his eyes kept flicking between your mouth and your eyes, like the scene was happening in two places at once.

His lips trailed lower.

Down your jaw, your throat, the curve of your collarbone.

You tilted your head slightly to give him room.

His hand came up to your chest.

Fingers spreading. Thumb brushing across your breast.

You felt your nipples tighten at the contact—part from the cool air, part from the way he touched you. Careful. Measured. You’d practised this, but it felt different now the barrier of your sports bra had disappeared. He cupped you fully in his palm, and then—

His mouth followed.

Warm, soft, unhurried. Lips closing around your nipple, tongue catching enough to make you shift slightly in his lap. You kept your breathing even, stayed in character, but your body was already reacting. The scene didn’t ask for more than this yet. But you could feel something gathering. Low and quiet.

Then he looked up.

His mouth still on your skin. His eyes meeting yours.

And for a second, everything else dropped away.

You were just watching him watch you.

You inhaled, chest rising against his mouth.

And you felt yourself begin to lean into it.

His lips lingered another second, then lifted.

His hand slid from your breast back down to your waist, and with a shift in his weight, you both began to move, easing back across the mattress. You stayed close, bodies aligned as you let him guide you down.

He hovered over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other trailing lightly over your ribs. The rhythm didn’t break. This was where the pause lived. A breath. Something unspoken passing between two people who’d been circling this forever.

Your legs bent beneath him. The sheet rustled.

Then his hand slipped lower.

Fingers sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts, past the edge of fabric, finding the smooth barrier taped carefully into place. His palm settled there, warm and solid. You’d rehearsed it, but it landed heavier now. Like your body had started listening more closely.

You rolled your hips—once.

Then again.

The pressure landed right where it was meant to. Precise. Calibrated. But sharper than you remembered.

You felt it instantly. A flicker of heat. Something low and tightening that hadn’t been there in rehearsal. Your body responding like it didn’t know the difference between performance and something else.

You blinked.

Tried to breathe through it. Tried to shake it off.

It’s choreography, you told yourself. Muscle memory. Contact over fabric. Nothing real.

But your chest felt tighter. Your limbs too aware of his weight above you, the way his gaze tracked every shift in yours.

You could stop. That thought surfaced—quick and quiet. If you tapped out, they’d cut. Reset. No one would question it.

But you didn’t.

Because nothing was wrong.

He hadn’t broken the scene. He hadn’t pushed or rushed or taken anything that wasn’t given. He was exactly where he was supposed to be, moving the way you’d rehearsed, watching you like he always did—with focus, with care, never with pressure.

You held still.

There was a flicker of heat low in your stomach. You noticed it. Filed it away. Only your body reacting to pressure, to breath, to rhythm. It would pass.

You’d trained for this. Layered every beat, anchored every moment. You could hold this.

Austin didn’t falter. His touch stayed steady. His eyes never left yours.

There was no hesitation in him. He was all presence, all intention.

So you stayed with him.

And he kept going—rhythm unchanged, breath slow, every movement shaped by the scene you were both holding in place.

He eased his hand back out from beneath your waistband.

No rush. It was part of the scene. The breath before the shift.

You let yours out slowly, fingers moving to the hem of your shorts. He reached for them too. Together, you pulled them down, until you had to lift your hips to help. They slid free with barely a sound. He tossed them aside.

Then he sat back on his heels and reached for his own waistband.

You stayed where you were, watching. A second too long.

His sweatpants came off easily, the soft fabric catching briefly at his knees before falling to the floor. You hadn’t meant to stare. But something about seeing him now—fully undressed except for the small, skin-coloured patch covering what the camera wouldn’t see—pulled your focus.

The shape of him. The way his body moved. The way he carried the stillness without tensing.

You’d never seen him like this. Not really. You’d mapped every moment, but now there was no extra layer. No fabric between the weight of him and the heat of you.

Your skin prickled. You blinked, looked away.

This was still a scene. Still choreography. You knew the rhythm. You knew your cues.

You lay back.

He followed.

Came over you slowly, hands bracketing your ribs, one thigh nudging between yours as his body lowered into place.

Then he kissed you.

It was meant to be soft. Familiar. A continuation of what came before.

And it was—until it wasn’t.

His mouth moved against yours like it always had, but this time, as his hips settled into position, his tongue brushed over yours.

The faintest flick. Tentative at first, then firmer.

You didn’t expect it.

The breath caught in your throat. A sound slipped out—half sigh, half noise you didn’t recognise.

You felt him pause, for a heartbeat.

Then the kiss deepened.

He held the shape of your mouth with his, steady and warm, letting the scene carry on like nothing had changed.

But something had.

Your fingers curled against his back. Your legs shifted slightly wider. The rhythm began—hip to hip, friction finding its place.

You were still in character.

Still hitting your marks.

But the sound you’d made hadn’t been planned.

Your body was reacting before your brain could reason with it.

He moved again.

Controlled. Deliberate. His hips pressing forward in the pace you’d agreed on, fabric brushing fabric, pressure steady between you. There was no rush, no fumbling. Only that quiet escalation the scene called for.

You felt him shift his weight slightly, adjusting the angle. His hand stayed firm at your waist, the other beside your head, fingers flexing once into the mattress. Your legs shifted higher, wrapping around his waist for the mark.

Then came the sounds.

Small, intentional—part of the scene.

His breath, unsteady but measured. A soft grunt on the next roll of his hips, just under his breath. The kind of sound meant to suggest release without exaggeration. Practised. Real enough to land.

You felt it all.

The weight of him. The tension in his arms. The way his jaw brushed yours when he dipped close, exhaling like he was on the edge of something.

He was performing it.

You knew that.

You’d heard it in rehearsal. You’d run it with Lizzy counting beats at the foot of the bed. But now—now with him above you, eyes flicking between your mouth and your face, his body rocking against yours like you were the only two people left in the world—it felt like more.

You lifted your hips to meet him again.

The friction was too good. Too exact. Every pass catching perfectly over the spot you were trying not to think about.

The heat bloomed fast.

You tried to breathe through it. Tried to stay with the scene. But your body wasn’t listening.

Austin let out another soft sound, low in his throat as he pressed into you again.

That’s what did it.

Not the contact. Not even the movement.

But that sound.

And then it hit.

A clench deep in your belly. Tight, hard, spreading in slow, impossible waves. Your legs tensed. Your breath caught.

It passed through you fast—quiet, sharp, almost invisible.

You didn’t cry out.

But your fingers curled. Your thighs trembled once. Your lips parted just enough to let something slip free—barely a sound.

Austin didn’t flinch.

He kept going. Perfectly on cue. Still in it. Still steady.

But in that second, as he looked down at you again, something in his eyes flickered.

And you wondered if he’d felt it too.

He kept moving, breath low and strained in his throat. You could feel the tension in his body—measured, deliberate—the kind of control that came from rehearsal, not instinct.

His hand slid from your waist to your thigh, anchoring you. His head dipped to your shoulder, and you felt his jaw flex as his body rolled once more into yours.

A soft sound escaped him. Weighted. Part of the scene. Part of the finish.

Then he kissed you again.

Gentle. Breathless. Like something settling.

His weight lowered onto you slightly.

You stayed still.

Your heart was hammering. Your skin flushed.

Shit.

Fuck.

No. No, no—

It had happened. You knew it. You could feel it still humming in your body, the aftershocks settling beneath your ribs. Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious. But real.

You came.

On camera.

With everyone watching.

“Cut.”

The word sliced through the air.

Austin’s body stilled above you. He exhaled through his nose and lifted his head slightly, hands braced to push off without pulling too fast. You stayed perfectly still beneath him, blinking up at the ceiling, trying not to let the shape of what had happened show on your face.

There was a pause. One of those charged, still seconds where no one moved—only the buzz of silence settling into the space you’d created.

Then:

“Holy shit,” came the director’s voice from behind the monitor.

Sharp. Breathless. Immediately followed by, “That was beautiful.”

Chairs scraped. People exhaled. The moment broke.

“Let’s reset for coverage,” she called. “But I want that one in the cut. That was—” A pause. “It didn’t feel like acting.”

Someone nearby murmured agreement. You heard the script supervisor say “Gave me chills.” Another voice—camera maybe—added, “The eye contact? Jesus.”

Lizzy stepped in from the edge of frame, already talking through small adjustments for the next take. Her tone was warm, reassuring. “You okay?” she asked, gently, already reaching out with a robe for each of you.

You nodded. Managed a small sound—something halfway between a breath and a “yeah.”

Austin rolled off you slowly, bracing a hand beside your shoulder as he shifted his weight. You felt the air hit your chest and pulled the robe over yourself without looking up.

He stayed close for a second longer than necessary. Not hovering, but steady. Grounding.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

There was something in it. More than routine concern. Something deeper. He’d felt it. Knew, at least on some level, what had happened. And he wasn’t pretending otherwise.

You nodded too quickly. “Fine.”

He held your gaze for half a second longer—long enough to make your chest tighten—then gave a small nod and stood.

He offered his hand. You took it. Let him help you sit. Fingers clumsy at the robe’s tie.

Everyone else was still buzzing. Still riding the afterglow of a great take. Austin was already standing, sweatpants back on, robe loose around his shoulders, listening as Lizzy walked him through a minor camera shift.

He looked completely calm.

You tried to mirror it.

Tried to focus as someone handed you your shorts, your t-shirt folded neatly over them. You took them without speaking, your fingers trembling slightly as you clutched them to your chest.

“I mean it,” the director said again, her voice carrying across the room. “That was the best work I’ve seen from either of you. Whatever you tapped into—don’t let it go.”

The words landed too close. Too accurate.

You forced a smile. A nod.

Everyone read the look on your face as emotional exhaustion. Commitment. Like you were still in it. Someone even whispered, “She’s really gone there,” like it was a compliment.

And you didn’t correct them.

You kept your eyes on the floor. On the nearest mark. On anything but him.

The corridor felt too bright after the bedroom set.

Not blinding. Wrong, somehow. Like the light hadn’t caught up to the rest of you yet.

You kept your robe cinched tight, clothes folded against your chest. Someone passed with a clipboard. Another crew member rolled a rack of jackets toward storage. Everyone moved like the day was done.

You’d moved too. Through the coverage takes, through resets, through minor adjustments no one would remember tomorrow. They hadn’t needed the whole scene again—a few moments. Different angles. Fragments for the edit.

You’d hit every mark.

You’d said the line over his shoulder, felt his hand at your jaw, let him kiss the corner of your mouth while pretending your legs weren’t still shaking.

And you hadn’t looked at him once.

Not properly.

You’d seen him, of course—getting notes, sipping water, slipping back into his hoodie between takes. Once, you’d felt his gaze brush yours across the room and looked away so quickly you nearly knocked over a chair.

No one noticed.

They thought you were exhausted. Spent.

They were right, but not in the way they meant.

A PA held the door open as you stepped into wardrobe. You nodded in thanks and moved straight to your rail, pulling your hanger from the hook like you’d done a hundred times this shoot.

Shirt. Jeans. The things that made you feel like yourself.

You changed fast. Mechanically. Robe off, clothes on, avoiding the mirror. You didn’t want to see the flush still high on your chest, the way your eyes didn’t quite look back at you.

A voice echoed faintly down the corridor—low, familiar.

Austin.

You didn’t catch the words. Just the sound of him, talking to someone, maybe Lizzy or the director. You froze halfway through tying your shoe.

Then you turned—quietly—and slipped out the other way.

The hallway to the dressing rooms was half-lit, most of the crew already packing up elsewhere. You walked faster than you needed to, fingers still curled tightly around the edge of your script even though you hadn’t looked at it since morning.

Inside your room, the door clicked shut behind you.

No mirrors. No cameras. Just stillness.

And for the first time all day, you let yourself exhale.

You stayed in the dressing room longer than you needed to.

Not long enough for anyone to notice. Enough for the hallway to settle. The noise had drifted elsewhere—footsteps fading, radios crackling in the distance. Your bag was already packed. Your hoodie was looped over one arm. All you had to do was leave.

You pressed your palm to the door for a second before opening it. Breathed once. Then stepped out.

The lights were dimmed to end-of-day levels. Most of the crew had already headed out. You turned left toward the exit you knew would be quickest—then paused.

Austin was up ahead.

He stood near the back entrance, hoodie on, bag slung low over one shoulder. Talking to Lizzy in a low voice, both of them facing the far wall, mid-discussion.

He turned first.

Then Lizzy, already smiling as if to say goodbye. She peeled off toward the side hall.

And Austin looked at you.

His eyes met yours before you could drop them. Just a second. No expression. No smile. Only… watching.

You felt your whole chest tighten.

You shifted your grip on your bag and went back the way you came, turning right instead. Not the exit you’d planned. The long way round. The concrete floor echoed faintly under your shoes. You kept your pace even—steady, controlled.

And when you glanced back, he was still watching.

He didn’t follow. Didn’t call out.

He let you go.

You turned back, gaze low, and didn’t lift it again until the air hit your face. Then walked all the way to your car without looking back.

Your apartment was dark when you got in.

Not pitch black—a soft, shadowed quiet, the kind that comes from forgetting to leave a light on. You didn’t bother fixing it. You dropped your bag in the hallway, kicked off your shoes, and stood there for a second, still wrapped in the quiet.

The silence wrapped around you too easily.

You peeled off your hoodie. Slipped into the kitchen to drink half a glass of water you didn’t really want. Let the fridge hum fill the corners of the room.

Your phone lit up on the counter.

Austin: Hey. Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re okay.

No emojis. No overthinking. It was him—true to form. Simple. Present. Kind.

You stared at it too long.

Part of you wanted to reply. To say yeah, all good, or thanks for earlier. Something normal. Something easy.

But your fingers didn’t move.

Because nothing about today had been normal. And easy didn’t feel honest.

So you flipped the phone over.

Screen facedown. Lights off. Bedroom door shut behind you.

And you let the message sit there, unread.

You hadn’t slept much.

Every time you closed your eyes, it came back—his body over yours, the weight of his gaze, the press of his hand, the exact second your body slipped past the edge and didn’t come back.

And the way he looked at you after.

He knew.

You were sure of it. It wasn’t a guess. It was in his voice when he asked if you were alright. In the pause before he stood. In the way his eyes had stayed on you even as the crew moved around you, like they were part of a different scene altogether.

He knew.

And he hadn’t said anything.

Neither had you.

You’d run the pickups. Dressed. Walked past him. Left the message on your phone unanswered.

And now you were sitting in your dressing room with your script in your lap, pretending to focus, your coffee untouched, your stomach tight. Reading the same half-page of dialogue about burnt toast and unsaid feelings, over and over again.

Today’s scene was simple.

But facing him wouldn’t be.

The door was open. You’d left it that way on purpose—some part of you hoping someone else might fill the space first. A call time. A wardrobe check. Anything.

Instead, there was a knock.

Soft. Two gentle taps against the frame.

You looked up.

Austin.

He was leaning lightly on the doorframe, one shoulder braced, sleeves pulled down over his knuckles. He wasn’t smiling. He watched you, calm and still.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

His voice was steady. But you could feel something underneath it.

You didn’t answer right away.

You blinked slowly, heart thudding harder than it needed to, your fingers still curled loosely around the edge of the script.

He waited.

Didn’t fill the silence. Didn’t take a step inside.

You nodded—small, barely there—and lifted one hand in a quiet gesture.

Come in.

He did.

Closed the door behind him, soft click of wood meeting frame, and crossed the room with the kind of unhurried calm that made you want to both shrink into your chair and lean toward him at the same time.

He didn’t sit yet. He paused there for a moment, giving you the chance to change your mind.

You looked down at the pages in your lap, then folded them closed. Not because you were ready. Because there was no point pretending anymore.

Your voice came out quieter than you meant. “Sorry I didn’t reply.”

Austin gave a small shake of his head, stepping further into the room.

“You don’t have to apologise.”

His voice was gentle. Uncomplicated. Meant to land softly.

He sat down opposite you—not too close, not too formal. Elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped lightly, like he wasn’t sure how long this would take but had already decided to wait as long as you needed.

“I didn’t send it expecting anything,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You nodded—once—but it felt like too much and not enough at the same time.

He didn’t press. He gave you that look again—level and open, like he had time. Like there was no version of this where he walked away without at least letting you speak.

The silence held for a beat.

Then two.

You let out a quiet breath and glanced down at your script again, thumb smoothing the folded corner like it might give you something useful to say. Then back up at him—finally—and cleared your throat.

“Okay,” you started, already flushed. “I’m just gonna say it, and then maybe I’ll dissolve into the floor and we can pretend this never happened.”

He didn’t interrupt.

You kept going, even though your voice caught halfway through.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you said. “I didn’t even realise what was happening, not really—not until it was already…”

You trailed off, the words stalling somewhere in your chest.

“I didn’t fake it, Austin. It happened. It caught me off guard. And I didn’t know what to do with that. So I panicked. And left. And ignored your message. And thought about quitting acting and taking up landscape gardening.”

The heat in your face was instant. Crawling up your neck, into your ears.

“I don’t know if you knew. I mean—I think you did. You looked at me like maybe…”

You didn’t finish.

You didn’t need to.

Because he was already smiling—soft, crooked, steady.

“Well,” he said, tilting his head a little, “if it helps… you were very convincing.”

Your stomach flipped. The colour in your face doubled. You let out the most horrified sound of your life and dropped your face into your hands.

“Oh my god.”

He laughed, warm and gentle. Like he wasn’t shocked. Like it really, truly was okay.

You kept your face in your hands for a full three seconds longer than necessary.

Then peeked through your fingers.

He was still smiling—steady, soft around the edges. Like you’d given him something fragile and he’d known exactly how to hold it.

“I’m never going to work again,” you mumbled into your palms.

“Pretty sure that’s not true.”

“I might actually be the least professional person alive.”

“That also seems unlikely.”

You let your hands fall into your lap, still half-hiding behind your hair.

“I mean… who does that?”

Austin tilted his head, like he was giving it actual thought.

“Someone really committed to the scene?”

You groaned and leaned back in the chair. “Stop.”

He laughed—quiet, shoulders shaking a little. Then softer, “I’m serious. I don’t think anyone on that set had a clue. And even if they did—” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “They’re not thinking about it the way you are.”

You looked at him. Properly.

“And you?” you asked, voice quieter. “How are you thinking about it?”

He didn’t look away.

“I think… it happened. That’s all. I think we built something that felt real, and that’s kind of the point, right?” His voice softened again. “And if it felt too real for a second—I’d rather that than the opposite.”

Your heart kicked hard in your chest.

You didn’t know what you expected him to say. But it wasn’t that.

Something in you eased.

Like maybe you weren’t going to break after all.

You let out a slow breath, eyes still on him. “I thought you might be weird about it.”

“I thought you might be,” he said, smiling gently.

You huffed a laugh, the sound catching at the edges. “I nearly sprinted out of here yesterday.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Okay—did sprint,” you admitted. “And yeah, I took the long way out so I wouldn’t have to walk past you.”

Austin gave a small, helpless shrug. “You know I saw that, right?”

You winced. “Of course you did.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Wasn’t exactly subtle.”

You dropped your head back against the chair and groaned. “Kill me.”

“Nah,” he said. “I need you for the press tour.”

Then, after a beat—“I mean…” He leaned back in the chair, playful now. “If someone asks about chemistry, I feel like I’ve got material.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m just saying,” he teased. “If anyone brings up method acting, I’ve got a pretty strong anecdote now.”

You grabbed your script and batted him lightly with it. “I will actually murder you.”

You pulled the script back into your lap, still half-smiling, still a little red.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time.

It was warm. Settled.

You watched him for a moment—he shifted into his chair bouncing his knee once before going still again. Like the nervous energy had nowhere left to go.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

He looked up.

“For being…” You shook your head a little. “Exactly like this.”

His smile faded a little—softened into something more serious.

“Of course,” he said. “Always.”

There was a knock at the door before you could say anything else. A voice from the hallway. “Ten minutes!”

You both nodded at the same time.

He stood first. Adjusted the hem of his shirt, then glanced at you again like he wanted to say one more thing—but left it unspoken.

“I’ll see you out there?” he said.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He paused in the doorway for a second. Long enough to make sure you were really okay.

Then he was gone.

And somehow, your chest didn’t feel quite so tight anymore.

*

The lights were flat and bright, designed for cameras more than comfort. The table was long — eight chairs wide — with placards lined in front of each seat and slim-necked water bottles sweating quietly beside them. The Cannes logo loomed behind like a watermark, and half the room was journalists with notebooks already open.

Austin sat third from the left. Y/N was to his right.

From where he sat, Austin could see the top of her knee bouncing—small, contained, but constant. A nervous tic she usually didn’t have. She was good under pressure, sharp during interviews, but something in her posture today was tighter. More alert. Like she was already rehearsing the answer in her head. The movement stopped the second someone asked about that scene.

“This one’s for Y/N and Austin,” the journalist said. “I wanted to ask about the intimacy scene. It’s a sex scene, technically, but it’s incredibly quiet. Almost reverent. There’s a lot of emotion but very little exaggeration. How did you approach that?”

Austin turned just enough to see her profile.

The stillness came first. Her inhale was shallow — barely there — but he caught it. That tiny moment of bracing. Like she knew this question was coming. Of course she did. They both did.

But it still landed.

He hadn’t forgotten what happened. Not for a second.

It was over a year ago now — and still, sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could feel it. The shape of her breath against his mouth. The moment her legs tensed. The sound she made, barely audible. So small he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t already been watching for it.

Not because he was trying to catch her out.

Because the second it started, he’d known.

The shift was subtle. A tremble just beneath the rhythm. The way her eyes lost focus for half a beat, like her body had slipped somewhere without her permission.

It had felt… private. More than anything else they’d filmed.

She hadn’t pulled away. Hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t asked to cut.

So he hadn’t said a word.

He stayed where he was, kept the pacing right, and pretended he didn’t feel her come apart underneath him.

But he had.

And he’d thought about it more times than he probably should have.

Across from him now, she leaned slightly toward the mic.

“I think that tone was always intentional,” Y/N said. “Our intimacy coordinator — Lizzy — was with us from the beginning, and we rehearsed it like choreography. Every beat. Every moment. Nothing was improvised.”

Austin watched her closely.

She sounded calm. Grounded. But there was something in the way she kept her eyes focused just above the crowd — like she was holding a line and didn’t want to step over it.

“I think because so much of the film is about restraint,” she went on, “we knew the payoff had to match that. It wasn’t about tension exploding. It was about the weight of finally letting go. And Lizzy really helped us hold that tone—technically and emotionally.”

His chest pulled a little at the last line.

She was still protecting it. The secret of what had happened.

No one else in that room knew what had really happened. Not the director. Not the camera op. Not even Lizzy.

Only them.

When the room quieted again, Austin leaned into the mic.

“Y/N’s right,” he said. “We built everything on that foundation. Trust. Patience. Rehearsing until the tension wasn’t coming from discomfort — it was coming from the story.”

Out of the corner of his eye, her hand shifted slightly on her lap.

His gaze flicked to hers — not a full turn. Enough to let her know he was there. Still holding it with her. Still following her rhythm.

“I think that kind of quiet is harder to get right than people realise,” he added. “It only worked because she was right there with me in every moment.”

“I think we got lucky. I don’t know if that kind of trust happens on every job. But Y/N made it easy. She made it feel… honest.”

He meant it.

Not only as an actor.

There was a version of him that had felt something real in that moment. More than the weight of her under him — it was the trust she’d shown by letting the scene keep going.

She could’ve stopped him. Could’ve paused. Could’ve broken the frame and called cut.

But she didn’t.

And he’d been in awe of her ever since.

The journalist smiled. “It really was beautiful.”

There were nods. The moderator moved on. Someone else raised a hand.

And under the table, he felt it.

The lightest pressure. Her knee nudging gently against his.

Not insistent. Not drawing attention.

Simply there.

Like punctuation. Like thank you.

He nudged back.

Didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to.

But he smiled at the tablecloth anyway.

And let himself wonder—

just for a second—

what it might feel like if the next time wasn’t for a scene at all.

Taglist:

@thefallofthedamned @saturnsdaughtr @bellesdreamyprofile @butlerrizz @myradiaz @chocolatetree222 @faegoddessog

[mochatsin]

School Play

There’s another school play in which you act as the main lead because Simeon thought you’d be perfect for the role, there’s no need to cast anyone else (much to Asmo’s dismay). He’s seen your performances before, and you’re one of the easiest actors to work with compared to the brothers that constantly got their lines wrong during rehearsals. Simeon can get frustrated, and it seems that the brothers feel the same way, if not terrified of the angel’s sudden change in attitude as soon as he plays the director. You’re just relieved he’s not that way towards you.

Of course, who wouldn’t want to see a play written by Christopher Peugeot himself. The theme was a thrilling love story wherein the hero would have to go through a long journey to rescue the one they love, which was you. They would meet so many characters that would either support the hero or become an obstacle on his way to defeat the cruel lord that locked you up. 

You’re the main love interest, and you sat on the side watching as everyone else in the room debated and fought each other on why they should have the main lead role, why they should be the hero who would rescue you. Seeing as how the atmosphere in the room is starting to have murderous intent, Simeon finally thought of a solution that would be fair to everyone. Draw lots. 

That’s how you ended up with Solomon as your hero, and Barbatos acting as the main villain and the rest playing a support role. They either help Solomon with the journey or act as one of Barbatos’ minions to try to stop him from his advances. Everyone could only blame their luck, though to say that Solomon was happy about his part is an understatement. Meanwhile, Barbatos does adore the parts where he keeps you all to himself, however he does not enjoy the scene where he had to terrorize a town since Diavolo’s character, a commoner (which he loves to play), is one of the victims that the hero finds which eventually sets the tone of the play to move forward. It takes a lot for Barbatos not to run to his master’s side while he was acting out his death.

Solomon is always ready to rehearse his scenes with you, and when it’s about lines talking about you, Simeon is impressed at how quickly he can memorize them. But then again, if they’re all about how much he adores you then it’s not difficult to remember at all. Lucifer and the others hate playing supporting characters where they have to hear about how much Solomon loves you. It’s bad enough they had to play the role of helping him, but there are several minutes of dialogue with his character telling them how important you are to him and how he needs to find you quickly! It took several practice rehearsals for Mammon to say his lines without sounding so forced or annoyed at him when his role is to literally help Solomon through the journey. 

Levi is quite happy with his role as the costume designer because there’s no way his envy wouldn’t flare up if he had to stand there and listen to that. That would’ve flooded the stage if he lost all control, so he decides to use headphones and blast music when it’s Solomon’s scene and only take it off once it’s you.

Satan would play the role of the narrator, and while he normally enjoys the part he got, it’s quite irritating that he has to tell the love story between you two, even if it’s merely a work of fiction. His claws threatened to tear holes into the script, but he kept himself calm and collected. They decided to put a leather cover binding to avoid that happening, and Satan actually likes how his own personal script looks like a book now. 

Lucifer is questioning why Simeon would write such a piece, given how most lines are so sickening and romantic. The angel wanted to tell a tale of lovers that could overcome everything, though he omits the fact that he really did have you in mind when he was writing this. Maybe he projected a little too much of his feelings, but the play still had more elements regardless that a lot of the audience would be able to enjoy. The action, the drama, and the tension that could keep everyone at the edge of their seats. 

What Simeon did not expect is for the brother’s self control to snap. Maybe he should’ve thought about that when he wrote down that kiss scene. It’s a page he kept between you and Solomon, as he knew that rehearsals would’ve been a disaster if they knew how the story would actually end. Of course he did ask for your permission, if this is something you’re comfortable with and he would rewrite the part if he needed. You don’t mind, and you understand why this was kept private. 

So when the day of the play came, everything was going smoothly. At least according to Simeon’s high standards.

Solomon and Barbatos really do seem to play the perfect role. A good villain doesn't need to yell, it comes with the composure they bring in the story that sometimes people wonder if Barbatos is really acting. The fight scenes were also phenomenal whenever Solomon would use some sort of imagery magic to make it more realistic, sparkes and effects flying in the air as they fought until Barbatos eventually fled, claiming defeat but he will be back for you one day. 

What the brothers thought was a successful play became something they dreaded when you and Solomon continued the scene. These were lines they’ve never heard before, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess where this was heading. Satan is furiously flipping through the script trying to see where this was coming from, but this part was hidden from the Avatars on purpose. 

“Oh how I longed to hold you like this in my arms.” Solomon says as he pulls you in an embrace that lingered longer than the brothers would like while they watched from backstage. 

“Did you truly miss me that much?” You say, meant to be a half tease to the hero as you returned the hug. It’s a romantic reunion that the audience has been waiting for. 

“More than you could ever think.” Solomon sounds so convincing. He says his lines as if you two were truly apart for so long, that there’s disbelief in his voice like this was all a dream and he would wake up to find that his journey is not over, that you were still locked away. But he has you in his arms, and that’s all he needs to ground himself. “Each time I see the crescent moon, I’m reminded of the smile that graced your lips. It pains me whenever I turn to my side and realize that you’re weren’t with me.”

Solomon brushes the hair away from your face before cupping your cheek, looking at you so lovingly that you feel your heart skip a beat, almost forgetting that you’re acting out a scene. But to the sorcerer, he doesn’t need to act. “Tell me, will you grace me with those lips?” He asks, and that’s the cue for you to slowly lean forward to seal the deal. 

“HOLD IT!” 

Both if you freeze before turning back to see Mammon pointing the sword prop at Solomon. The sorcerer is confused, and perhaps a little irritated that his moment with you was ruined. It would’ve been a perfect way to end the play. “What are you doing?” Solomon asks with furrowed brows. 

“That’s my line! Get ya grimy hands off em!” Mammon growled, taking a few steps forward. 

“You’re not even supposed to be part of this narrative.” Solomon reminds the demon, warning him for ruining the scene. 

“You claim that as so,” Satan says as he appears by his brother’s side in a puff of green flames, looking quite pissed. “How dare you rewrite the ending to your liking, and then use the Narrative as your shield. You should be ashamed of yourself, filthy thief.” the demon hissed as he threw the script he fashioned into a book  across the stage. The brothers fully believed they were deceived with the script, and that Solomon had something to do with it.

The audience are now all captivated at the scene unfolding before their eyes as they watched the Narrator throw the book across. Perhaps the book told the whole scene, and that Solomon actually rewrote the ending according to his will since they assumed that script was an actual prop to keep the story going. “Was the hero actually manipulating the whole scene?” “What a crazy twist!” “Wait, so who's the real lover?” “Were they tricked to think that Solomon was the real love interest?!”. Whispers rang in the air as they were all made to believe this was still part of the play

That might be the only way for them to salvage what could’ve been a successful performance: to keep acting. Solomon reluctantly lets go of you before standing up to face the two demons. “I can’t believe you all would cause a scene, after all we’ve been through. After all they’ve been through.” Solomon says as he gestures to you, who is just as confused as the crowd. 

“Ah, so you acknowledge our efforts and yet you get to keep them for yourself?” Belphie steps in on the other side of the stage, with Beel following behind him. “Kinda greedy isn’t it? Even greedier than him.” Belphie says while pointing at Mammon. That somehow got the audience to laugh. 

“That’s pretty selfish too, and that’s coming from me!” Asmo finally chimes in, holding onto his tulle costume while he stomps into the stage. He wouldn’t let his brothers steal all the spotlight, and there was also no way he was going to let Solomon just kiss you like that on the stage. If it were him instead, you both would be the talk of the week! “Honestly dear, that’s quite a big low. Even for someone like you.” 

Simeon is just thankful that Lucifer and Levi didn’t even chime in on this monstrous mess of a show, he has their pride and anxiety (respectively) to thank for. Despite the sudden improv show, it seems that it captured the audience’s attention… just not in the way that he hoped.

Solomon is now putting you behind him with a magic spell flaring by the palm of his hand. Nothing harmful, just something that’s more flashy than anything. The other demons are closing in on you both, trying to make up lines on why you should choose them. Of course, a fight breaks out and everyone in the audience cheered for whoever they were rooting for to win while you stayed behind and watched the chaos unfold. 

It took one wrong spell after another for the boys to lay on the ground, groaning after Satan and Solomon’s stun lock spell collided into something bigger that it affected everyone in the stage except you since you stayed behind. You wondered what you could say or do to salvage this as the audience is watching intently on what happens next. 

Thankfully, Lucifer finally steps on the stage, calm and collected as ever while he tries to avoid the groaning actors. He played as one of the Barbatos’ henchmen that Solomon defeated, so seeing his reappearance was definitely a shock to the crowd. You prayed that Lucifer has a plan on getting you out of this mess without ruining the play you all worked so hard for. Luckily, Simeon told him a few lines that could salvage the play and save you from the embarrassment.

He grabs your hand and kisses the back of it, a small smirk appearing on his face before he continues. “I’m here to collect you, under my master’s orders. It seems that he was right, that none of these heroes were ever deserving of your heart.” Lucifer says while he stares at his idiotic brothers with discontent, managing to stay in character just like you hoped. “Luckily, we don’t need to rely on cheap tricks and underhanded tactics.” 

Solomon groans, rubbing his eyes profusely but his vision won’t focus yet due to the spell. “Don’t listen to them…” He says, desperately trying to reach out to you. Lucifer only lets out a low chuckle as he watches how pathetic the hero has become.

“Come with us, and we’ll be sure to prove them wrong.” His line is full of confidence with a slight mischief, and the crowd cheers as the lights go dark and the curtains drop, signaling the end of the play. 

What should’ve ended in a happy love story became some sort of twist. People now assume the hero might’ve manipulated the scene which they find amusing if the good guy of the story was not who they pictured to be, and the villains may actually have a shot of winning your heart. It’s the talk of the school, and people are praising Simeon for writing such a crazy plot twist, which he finds a little frustrating since it’s the only part he didn’t actually plan. He’s not sure if he wants to thank the brother’s recklessness or not. 

Even after Simeon explained the hidden parts that were reserved just for you and Solomon since he expected something like this could happen at the rehearsals, he never really anticipated that they would jump in the scene like that on the actual performance itself. Now he has to write another play in the future as many expressed their wish to see what happens between you and the dark lord Barbatos. 

Needless to say, many of the brothers were strung upside down by their feet after the show.

[caracalla-dondus]

hi hi i hope you’re having a fab day i loved your most recent works and saw you wanted some requests so here i am i didn’t see any rules posted yet so if anything in this ask makes you uncomfy im very sorry!! but oki okie this is semi inspired by your last geta fic and so i was thinking like Caracalla x like actress reader who comes into town with her acting troop and peforms for the emperors one night when caracalla is in bad mood and readers the only one who can make him laugh while he’s in one of his moods and so geta keeps calling reader back to entertain him and sorta help with his sundowning and caracalla just gets absolutely obsessed with reader and refuses to let them leave and go back with there troop and jsut wants to keep reader all to themselves smut if you do that would be fab but if not that’s okie too!! ~🫐

Thank you for your request and kind words 😊 I hope you enjoy the fic and that it's to your liking. I wrote more than I was planning but actress!reader inspired me.

The Actress

Pairing: Emperor Caracalla/Actress!reader

Summary: Caracalla becomes enthralled by an actress one night and soon becomes completely obsessed with her.

Dividers By: cafekitsune

Author's Note: I refer to actress!reader as a mime actress but "mime" does not mean the modern day mime who wears white face paint and is silent. Mime actors and actresses in ancient Rome were entertainers who did comedy, satirical, or even erotic performances. From what I briefly read, mime actresses were some of the few women allowed to publicly perform and they performed without masks unlike most theater actors. It was a scandalous profession, often equated with sex workers, but they could gain a lot of fame from their work. Empress Theodora was once a popular mime actress before she was empress.

The grand halls of the imperial palace were alive with the sounds of music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets. All in attendance were lively and enjoying the night. All except for Caracalla. Geta could feel his brother's restless agitation beside him. Caracalla had been in one of his darker moods, his hair was unkempt from refusing to allow the servants near him, his toga was disheveled from the tussle him and Geta had when Geta attempted to get his brother presentable. Caracalla had not wanted to be there that night. Geta had hoped his brother’s foul mood would be improved by the pleasant evening of revelry, but it seems to only be worsening it. With a sigh, Geta had a servant refill his goblet and he observed his brother. Geta often found himself playing caretaker to Caracalla, whose moods could disrupt everything. Geta never liked his brother being unhappy and he was determined to change his sour mood.

"Bring in the actors," Geta commanded, waving a jeweled hand.

The troupe of actors and actresses quickly stepped before the emperors and bowed. Their costumes were vibrant, their smiles wide and infectious. Yet Caracalla's face remained a mask of irritation, unmoved by them and their antics. But then the mime actress, with her expressive eyes and exaggerated gestures, and her beauty illuminated by the glow of the oil lamps stepped forward. Her voice was melodious as she spoke, delivering lines with such charm and wit that even the spectators who were distracted by aspects of the festivities had leaned forward with interest. She captivated the audience with her presence. She said a jest, a line mocking a pompous senator that everyone secretly despised and gossiped about. And then something remarkable happened.

Caracalla laughed.

It wasn’t a sarcastic, malicious laugh, nor was it a scornful snicker. It was genuine. It was carefree. It was innocent. Geta was immediately intrigued by her effect on his twin. Caracalla was enthralled, his eyes fixed on the actress as if she were the only person in the room. She had done what no one else had been able to accomplish that night or most nights, she lifted his foul mood. No one had managed to make Caracalla laugh like that in a long while and it gave Geta an idea.

After the performance, as the troupe of actors and actresses bowed and the audience erupted in applause, Geta raised his hand and beckoned the mime actress forward. With a curious gleam in her eye, she approached the imperial box. Caracalla watched her excitedly, his eyes bright with newfound interest. Geta leaned forward and asked, “What’s your name, actress?”

She gave her name in a soft and respectful manner, bowing her head gracefully.

“You will stay here in the palace tonight. My brother finds you amusing, and I wish for you to remain and continue to make him laugh,” Geta informed her.

A flicker of surprise passed over her face, but she quickly adapted. “Of course, Caesar,” she said smoothly, her cheery nature shining through. “It would be an honor.” There was no true choice of course. To refuse an emperor was to invite ruin.

Caracalla’s volatile eyes lit up, very pleased by his brother’s proposition. “Yes! You’ll stay here,” he echoed exuberantly. “You’ll stay with me.”

From that moment forward, the actress’s life changed drastically. The acting troupe she had once called family faded away as she found herself the companion of an unpredictable emperor. While others might have rightfully felt caged after being forced into such a situation, she simply went with the flow. Her time on the streets and on stage had gifted her with invaluable adaptability and resilience. She was blessed with the kind of wisdom that comes only from having to survive on her wits alone for so long. Life was a performance after all, and she was an expert at surviving any role thrusted upon her.

Her time as a traveling actress had taught her to read people quickly. She prided herself on her ability to sense danger or opportunity in a mere glance. With Caracalla, these skills became crucial. She learned quickly how to navigate Caracalla’s tempestuous moods. When he was agitated, she knew whether to soothe him or stay quiet. When he sulked, she held him close, whispering soft reassurances, and stroking his hair as if he were a fragile boy rather than the most feared man in Rome. In moments of volatile rage, she knew it was best to step back, leaving him to tire himself out. Yet her greatest tool of all was her charm. No matter how deep Caracalla spiraled into paranoia or rage, he could never resist her when she turned playful. One kiss, one embrace, one timely seduction, and his dark thoughts would vanish into thin air. His volatile temper would melt beneath her touch, and his anger would turn into boyish giggles. It was surprisingly easy to draw Caracalla under the influence of lust. He hungered for affection, craving a closeness he’d never experienced, and she was quite generous with her attention for her emperor.

Caracalla quickly became obsessed with her.

At first, he simply wanted her near. She was to dine with him, to amuse him, to accompany him in the evenings when his mind became clouded. She spoke to him with kindness, soothed him when frustration overtook him, when he was playful she laughed at his jokes even when they made no sense, and indulged his whims with the patience of a mother tending to a difficult child. Caracalla in turn clung to her like he often does with Dondus, refusing to let her out of his sight for too long.

Caracalla would dress his monkey Dondus in tiny outfits, and she would sit beside them, smiling indulgently at the sight. Caracalla laughed at his own games, turning to her, desperate for approval like a child wanting a mother's praise. “Look! I got Dondus a new dress!” he’d say, beaming.

She would laugh sweetly, clapping her hands. “How distinguished he is!”

Caracalla adored her praise, craving her attention. She became his favorite source of comfort. Often, in the twilight hours, Caracalla would grow restless. His moods turning dark, a product of the illness that plagued his troubled mind. He would pace the room, muttering about imaginary plots, threats, and betrayals.

“Geta is against me,” he whispered one night, eyes wild. “Everyone is against me.”

“My emperor,” she said sweetly, lifting her eyes to meet his. “Do not dwell on such dark thoughts.” She approached gently, her touch gentle on his shoulder. “I’m here,” she said soothingly. “And I’ll shield you from them all.” She had learned it didn’t do much good to try and talk sense to him in these moments. If she denied his claims about Geta then he would just rage at her and accuse her of favoring his brother like everyone else does. She knew these thoughts would naturally fade on their own. But she also knew to carefully choose her words because they held the power to heal or destroy.

Caracalla’s tense body relaxed under her touch. He leaned into her embrace, eyes growing soft, vulnerable. “Promise?”

“I promise,” she whispered, gently running her fingers through his red hair as he buried his face against her. “I’ll always be here for you.”

She knew exactly how to calm his fears, to make him feel safe. She’d hold him until his fears subsided, or distract him with whispered words, soft laughter, and kisses that left him breathless, his troubled thoughts wiped clean.

Geta was initially wary of her influence over his brother, but he eventually found himself grateful for her presence. The arrangement made his life easier and lifted a weight off his shoulders and that was enough for him. Geta recognized the power she held over his brother and began to rely on her to keep Caracalla tamed. “Keep him content,” he instructed her privately. “Keep him calm.”

She understood her role and embraced it. After all, things could be worse than being the favored companion of an emperor. She had influence, luxury, and a kind of power she had never dreamed possible for herself. Caracalla frequently gifted her all kinds of extravagant things. She had silk stolas in nearly every color. She had lavish jewels. She held political sway by being a whisper in his ear. And if she had to deal with some erratic moods of his in return then so be it. She thought it was better to be under the protection of an unstable emperor who cherished her than to be accosted by random men like before when she was a simple mime actress with no one to defend her. To the palace staff, senators, and other nobles, she was no longer just a lowly woman in a scandalous profession who warmed the emperor’s bed. She was now a force to be reckoned with, the woman who had the affections of the mercurial emperor.

She became more than just a source of entertainment. She became Caracalla’s heart, his anchor to reality. She could be a mother, a lover, a confidante, or simply the pretty distraction that eased his pain. And in return, Caracalla became obsessed with her, refusing to let her leave his side. Her world became a gilded cage, but she learned to live comfortably as the lovely bird within it.

On one particularly bad night, Caracalla's rage became too much even for her to simply soothe with words. He threw things, smashing vases, wine goblets, everything in his path was being destroyed. His shouts echoing through the palace halls. But she approached when she sensed his anger was cooling down, her arms slipping around his tense form. She pressed soft kisses to his jaw, his neck, his trembling hands.

“Come to bed,” she whispered enticingly, her voice honey sweet. “Let me help you forget it all.”

Caracalla shivered under her touch, his anger silenced by desire. He cupped her face roughly, crashing his lips against hers. And just like that, the world around him ceased to exist. There was only her. Only the taste of her lips, the scent of her skin, and the promise in her eyes.

She had long learned that lust was the quickest way to control him. It was almost effortless the way she could fill his mind with longing. And as Caracalla’s thoughts clouded over, drowned by his desire, he whispered, vulnerable, “You’ll stay with me forever?”

She smiled softly against his lips. “Always.”

And she meant it. There were worse things, after all, than being the possession of an emperor.

I have no idea if I would ever write a part 2 but I do have some ideas for it 🤔 I was reading about Claudia Acte who was the concubine of Emperor Nero and who may or may not have been a mime actress at one point (I only saw it mentioned on one website) but Nero at one point desired to marry her but she came from a lowly background. So Nero had a whole fake genealogy made up for her linking her to royalty and even bribed ex-consuls to be ready to swear to her royal bloodline but this angered his mother and she prevented the whole thing lol. But that just feels like something Caracalla would do with actress!reader and something that Geta would be forced to arrange because he would want to see his brother happy. So if I did write a sequel it would probably be something like that.

Do you guys remember that House of Gucci movie Lady Gaga was in? Well I was reminded of Patrizia Gucci saying "it's better to cry in a Rolls Royce than to be happy on a bicycle" and that's kinda the mindset I was going for with actress!reader. She's been torn away from her acting profession that she enjoyed, and she should be upset about it, especially since she's the object of obsession for an unhinged emperor and has been forced to essentially be his caretaker so Geta can get a break, but hey now she's got all this access to wealth and she has major influence over one of the most important men in the empire so what does it matter if she's often in the path of Caracalla's destruction? When life with Caracalla occasionally gets too rough, she'll just wipe her tears with a silk palla and then get another expensive one made after her tears stain it lol. Her life experiences have made her opportunistic but she does also truly care about Caracalla and does actually love him.

[starkeyvhs]

no. 1 party anthem — chapter I

PAIRING: drew starkey x tennis player!reader 

CHAPTER WARNINGS: high school au; banter between drew and reader; one (1) suggestive joke (? if it even counts lol); reader and drew love frank ocean lol; minor swearing

WORD COUNT: 2.4k

EDITH SPEAKS: I hope you all enjoy reading this! let me know any thoughts you may have :) I hope this chapter gives a good insight into what reader and drew’s dynamic is like LOL, anyways all kinds of reblogs and feedbacks are always highly appreciated!

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— APRIL, 2012

The chatter fills the inconveniently tiny dressing room, students in extravagant costumes and extravagant makeup to match their clothes frantically running around, trying to get everything ready at the last minute. Some are mumbling their dialogues over and over under their breath as if it’s some mantra, some are practicing their specific actions for their role, and some are simply chill. 

Like Mr. Joseph. 

Drew sits in front of his vanity flipping through his script casually, as if he really doesn’t have the most important role in the play, the warm glow of the bulbs around the mirror only highlighting his makeup more.

“Romeo!” 

He looks up, his lips morphing into a smile on their own when he sees you. 

You reach up to him and give him a firm slap on his back – something he’s used to, and would never admit to your face that it’s actually hard – a big grin on your face. 

“Here to wish you to break a leg,” you say, resting your arm on his shoulder as you look at him sitting as you stand next to him. 

“Yeah thanks,” he smiles back, keeping his script on the table in front of him. 

“You excited? You’re playing your dream role,” you say back, looking at his reflection in the mirror of him, eyeing his Romeo outfit. 

“Uh huh yes I am,” he says, looking at his reflection too, and once running his hand through his hair to fix it. 

“Bet you’re excited more about kissing Ms. Cindy on the stage,” you tease, flicking his ear. 

His smile falls and his cheeks begin flushing a pink at your words, and what sucks even more is that he can’t even deny it. 

“Shut up,” he mumbles, distracting himself with his script again. 

You laugh, snatching the script from his hand and ignoring his protests by keeping it out of your reach. 

“Oh come on,” you drawl, “I know you are.” You move closer to him, your lips almost brushing his ear as you grin wickedly at his reflection. “You know, even some girls wouldn’t mind getting a taste of her,”

“Yeah okay that’s enough,” he says almost immediately, abruptly standing up from his chair as he clears his throat. 

You can’t control your laughter as Drew begins to make his way towards where all the actors required for the first act are assembling, you right on his heels. 

“Okay leave that,” you say, “but did you even think about how your parents, and all your little siblings are out there, and are going to watch you get a lip action with Ms. Queen Bee?” 

Drew’s walking immediately stops and he turns around to look at you. He can’t get mad at you; ever, actually, but there’s something about that annoying smirk on your smart mouth that’s getting to him. 

You can see he’s getting flustered, so you take the bait, of course. “You didn’t, did you?” And you laugh that same laugh each time you tease him: which is almost every minute of every hour you spend together. 

“Ugh shut up,” he groans, shutting his eyes and tipping his head back. “You know those little nasty buggers won’t ever stop teasing me, ever,” he mumbles under his breath. 

“I know, that’s why I’m going to feed this bit of information that it’s also your first kiss to them,” you grin. 

Drew’s eyes widen, a fair hint of warning in them, but before he can say or do anything, you’re rushing to the exit of the dressing room. 

“Alright that’s it, good luck!” You say out loud, your voice carrying a sing-song tone as you slip out the door. 

Drew takes a moment to regain himself, shaking his head at your antics. He knows you like to mess around a lot, and he also knows about how much you value loyalty in friendships, so even though you said you’ll tell his little siblings about his first kiss being on the final play of his senior year in front of a massive crowd, you actually won’t do it. The thought relieves him immensely, before he redirects his focus back at what he’s actually here for. 

He can hear the chatter of the crowd reducing and slowly reaching a bare minimal level, meaning the play is about to start. 

Their teacher gives them some final instructions, giving them all words of encouragement as her last words, before allowing the first act to begin. 

Drew lets out a deep breath. 

Alright, here goes nothing.

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

“There he is! Our superstar!” 

Drew’s family’s cheers only get louder as they watch him come into the crowd from the backstage. All the actors are with their families now, greeting them and receiving gifts and compliments, and Drew definitely isn’t going to get something less. 

He laughs as he joins everyone, his parents being the first ones to hug him. 

“You kissed a girl on stage,” his youngest sister teases, a big grin on her face and his other two siblings giggle with her. He rolls his eyes at them, grumbling a small ‘shut up’ under his breath. 

His eyes find yours, seeing you silently laughing at the entire scene. He shakes his head at you and sticks his tongue out, walking closer to you. 

“Joseph that was great,” you smile, and you give him the bouquet you got for him. 

“You got me flowers?” He grins, taking the bouquet of fresh white lilies and sniffing them. “Why, aren’t you a softie?” 

“Shut up,” you mumble, smacking his arm playfully. He only laughs at you. 

“Well, thank you sweetheart,” he grins, the nickname slipping out with a gentle ease. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it just always seems so natural the way it rolls off his tongue. 

You only playfully roll your eyes at him, ignoring the gentle tingling feeling in your tummy from how perfect that nickname sounds in his voice. 

After that, he’s quick to be by your side, his arm around your shoulders as you two walk out the theatre. 

“So, you up for a drive?” He asks you, “I talked to mom, she’s okay with it,” 

“Oh yeah,” you say, “sure,” you smile. 

You walk out to the parking lot, where your car is parked. You toss your keys to Drew and he sits in the driver’s seat, you next to him in the passenger’s seat. He drives out of the parking lot of the school, making his way onto the main roads. 

You and Drew like to take drives together often. He takes control of the wheel and just drives around roads, your favourite music playing and you both talking about everything. Or sometimes, instead of talking, you opt to stay quiet, which is needed at its own times.

“So, tell me,” you say, your car’s windows rolled down, allowing fresh air to whip past you two inside. “How was your experience playing Romeo and kissing Cindy on stage,” you grin. Your phone – which is connected to the car’s speakers – plays Blonde, right from the first track. 

Drew groans, his focus on the road in front of him. “You know, you really need to drop that entire Cindy thing. It was just a peck,” he says. 

“Peck? A peck? Mister you were making out! You weren’t starring in some adult version of Romeo and Juliet mind you,” you shoot back, but your grin doesn’t wipe off. 

“Ugh whatever,” he mumbles, his gaze not wavering from the view in front of him. You sigh quietly, relaxing against the seat. 

“No but seriously, Drew,” you begin speaking, your voice taking a softer tone, “you were really good. Like, seriously, you were… amazing. That was really some Broadway level acting right there,” 

Drew remains quiet and you look at him, watching how his lips slowly curve into a small smile. 

“Is that so?” He asks, his own voice slightly soft. 

“Yeah,” you smile, “I was… amazed. You’ve done so many plays for the school and I always tell you how good you’ve been, but this one… you were exceptional,” 

A bashful expression takes over Drew’s face, and you watch how a soft blush sprinkles his cheeks and a gentle smile only widens on his lips. 

“I… I worked hard for this one,” he says, taking a glance at you before focusing back on the road, “like, I really did. We used to have 5 hour rehearsals for days on end and…” he lets out a deep breath, a small silence falling over you two, only Frank’s voice to accompany you, “yeah.” He chuckles softly. “It was draining, but it was fun,” 

“You know what I think?” You begin speaking, and he hums in response. “I think you can make it. Like, to Hollywood, or Broadway, or maybe both. I really think you can,”

Drew lets out a small laugh at your words. “Hollywood? Broadway? I have a one in a million chance to make that, you know,” he chuckles. 

“I know, and I really do think that one chance is all yours,” you speak. Drew can hear the conviction in your words, the way you’re still saying how you believe he can make it even when he made a small joke to lighten the mood. 

Drew catches another glance of you before focusing back on the empty road in front of him. “You really think so?” He mumbles softly. “I can make it? I can be a Hollywood star?” 

There is a hopeful glint to Drew’s voice, as if what you say is what always turns true. 

“Yeah,” you smile softly, “I really think you can. Just think: Joseph Starkey, biggest actor of all time. I can imagine your face plastered on billboards everywhere,” 

He laughs at your words. “Joseph Starkey sounds dorky. I think I’ll let my name be Drew Starkey instead,” 

“Okay okay, Drew Starkey does it too,” you laugh. “But, whatever the name will be, trust me, if you work for it, you’re gonna get it,” 

Drew smiles at you, and you lean back against your seat, looking out as you watch all the houses and trees whip by, Solo playing on the speakers. 

“You know,” he begins speaking after a moment or two of silence, and you turn your head to look at him, “you’re probably the only one who really believes in me that way. I mean, yeah, my family does too but, it’s different with you,” he says softly, “which, is why I want you to be the first person who I tell this to,” 

You furrow your brows at his words and sit up straighter in the seat, looking at him. “Yeah what is it?” You ask. 

“When the play finished and all of us were backstage,” he begins, and you watch him speak from his side, “Ms. Lydia bought this man there. He is the owner of this huge film camp that he organises each year for the summers, and… along with a select few, I was offered to attend this camp,”

Your eyes widen at his words. “What? Oh my god dude that’s insane!” You exclaim. “Tell me you’re going, you have to go!” 

Drew softly laughs at your excitement, catching a glimpse of your elated expression. “Well, missy, it’s not here, it’s in Boston, so that means I’ll be away for the entire summer,” 

For a moment, Drew doesn’t hear anything from your end. He turns to look at you, and when he does, he realises he can’t really pinpoint the expression on your face. Your lips are slightly parted: but besides that, there’s no other emotion present. 

“What?” He chuckles, now looking back at the road. “Don’t go all mute on me, say something,” 

“So that’s… three months in Boston,” you say slowly, almost cautiously, as if you’re testing the words on your tongue. 

“Yeah, three months in Boston,” he repeats. “Oh come on, don’t say you’ll miss me or some shit. Such a sap,” 

“What? No, who said that?” You retort back immediately, and Drew chuckles at your attempt to deflect facing your actual feelings. “It’s that I’m worried, you know?”

“Uh huh, how so if I may ask?” He asks amusedly, shaking his head at your antics. 

“I’m worried ’cause uh… A: you’ll be going so far from home on your own for the very first time,” you begin, “and… and B, you won’t know how to do your… laundry,” you finish lamely. 

“Laundry?” Drew chuckles amusedly. “I know how to use a washing machine, you know? I think me and my laundry will be absolutely fine,” 

“Okay, well that’s… that’s good to know you have all that in check,” you mumble under your breath, turning to look back out the car. You can hear Drew silently laughing to himself at your ‘concerns’ regarding him, and you force yourself to keep on ignoring it. 

“Well,” Drew is the one to break the silence. Your ears perk up at his voice but you don’t turn to look at him. “I’ll miss you, a lot,” He says, and his voice is toned down, and is incredibly tender. 

Drew knows what you’ll do: you’ll take his words and turn them into your advantage, a sinister smile curving your beautiful lips, and you’ll laugh that pretty laugh, and call him a ‘softie’ or a ‘sap’ and tease him endlessly. 

But, you don’t. 

“I’ll miss you too,” are the words which leave your lips instead, and Drew is taken aback. He keeps his emotions in check though, keeping a straight face as he keeps on driving. 

You both fall silent yet again, and all that’s accompanying you this time is Self Control playing. The melancholic rhythm along with its soulful lyrics and Frank’s voice really isn’t doing much to subdue the sudden awkward silence between the two of you. 

“But…” Drew begins to speak, “I still don’t know if I’ll attend it, you know? I mean, I still have to consider it with my parents and… and yeah, all that jazz,” he says with a short chuckle. 

“Uh yeah, yeah yeah that makes sense,” you say, trying to uplift the mood in the car. “But… you should go, it’s a very good opportunity for you,” 

Drew catches a glimpse of you and passes you a small smile, which you return. He focuses back on the road, and you opt to look back out of the car, your head resting back against the seat. 

Usually, he sometimes yearns for this kind of silence with you, because it’s comforting, and even when he knows something’s bothering him, realising you’re by his side automatically makes the problem seem smaller. 

Each other’s presence, the weight of the unsaid words and Frank’s singing is all you have with you, as Drew continues to drive on your usual route. 

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

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