#edited the light and sharpness of these but that's it

[wooyoungiewritings]

P☆RNSTAR - Park Seonghwa x Reader

Inspired by the song "P☆RNSTAR" by Nessa Barrett

"Show me who you are, pornstar"

Summary: You're a sharp, ambitious journalist who's assigned on a column about Park Seonghwa, the biggest star in the adult entertainment industry. He's a pornstar. But from the moment he turns his sharp eyes on you, everything shifts. He reads you too easily, teases you too precisely, unraveling every line you swore you wouldn’t cross. What begins as a probing interview turns into a game of control, tension, and exposed desires neither of you saw coming.

Word count: 17K

Genre: Pornstar!Seonghwa, reporter!reader, oneshot, smut

warnings: Seonghwa with reader (fem pronouns), oneshot, smut, fem reader (fem pronouns), masturbation, oral sex (f/m receiving), fingering, dirty talk, choking, spitting, unprotected sex, cum play, Hwa is very dominant (he's a pornstar, he knows what he's doing lmao), lmk if I missed anything!

The office smells like cheap coffee and stale ambition. You sit on the edge of a squeaky swivel chair, scrolling through the latest assignment email with a sinking feeling.

New project: “The Lives Behind the Screens” — a column digging into the unseen realities of internet celebrities and adult entertainers.

Great.

You thought journalism would be different. Real stories, real people. Not this digital voyeurism dressed up as “content.” But here you are, fresh out of college, with a degree gathering dust and a boss breathing down your neck.

Your editor’s voice plays in your head: “Next up? Park Seonghwa. The biggest star in the adult entertainment industry. Viral, iconic, untouchable. And you? You’re going to tell his story. Follow him. Watch him. Don’t fall for the fantasy.”

You click the link your editor attached and his face fills the screen, high-definition, impossibly symmetrical, built for the camera. Dark hair, parted just enough to frame his cheekbones like they were carved. A mouth that looks both sinful and soft, depending on the angle. Eyes like velvet, sharp, unreadable, expensive. He doesn’t smile in most of his photos. Doesn’t need to.

The headline reads: "The Pornstar Prince of the Internet."

You roll your eyes. But you keep scrolling.

Clips. Gifs. Edits. Reposts. Commentary threads that worship him like religion. "God-tier performance." "Unreal stamina." "He makes you feel like he’s looking right at you." You keep reading. Watching. Studying.

You find a clip, thirty seconds, muted, of him on a dimly lit set, shirt hanging off one shoulder, smirking at someone off-camera. He doesn’t blink much. He doesn’t need to. His body language is all ease, all control. Not arrogance. Not exactly. It’s more like... confidence that’s been sharpened into a weapon.

You don't look away.

Not because you’re turned on, not really. You’re... intrigued.

***

You show up ten minutes early, because you're not about to let a pornstar, no matter how famous, be the one waiting for you. The building is tucked between a yoga studio and a wellness café, the kind of place with floor-to-ceiling glass windows and minimalist signage that makes you feel underdressed just for breathing near it.

You expected neon lights. Maybe a couch no one should sit on. Definitely something sleazy.

But inside, it’s... clean.

Modern. Quiet. A tall woman with a tablet and black pumps greets you like you’re here for a boardroom pitch, not a profile piece on one of the internet’s most prolific sex symbols.

“You’re here for Mr. Park?”

Mr. Park.

You have to bite your tongue to stop from smirking.

“Yes. I’m with-”

“I know who you’re with,” she says politely, tapping something on her screen. “He’s finishing up a call. Can I get you anything while you wait?”

Water? Coffee? Champagne? You half expect the offer to end in something absurd like cocaine or compliments. But instead, you shake your head politely and she gestures toward a plush couch in a waiting area that looks more like a magazine launch office than a porn empire.

You sit, legs crossed, notebook in your lap, and glance around.

There are no posters. No half-naked shots. No trophies shaped like body parts. Just soft lighting, neutral palettes, and a low hum of quiet professionalism that makes your spine tighten.

You don’t like this.

You were ready for something raw. Tacky. Exposed. You were ready to roll your eyes and keep your emotional distance.

Instead, this place feels... corporate. Intentional. Curated.

You wonder if it’s a reflection or a deflection. You wonder what the perfectly polished floor is hiding.

“He’s ready for you now,” the assistant says, voice crisp but warm. “Down the hall. Last door on the right.”

You smooth your jacket, grip your notebook, and stand.

You walk down the hall, heels dull against the polished concrete, every surface too clean, too careful. The door is slightly ajar, the only one without a nameplate. That feels intentional.

You push it open.

And there he is.

Not behind a desk, not seated with polite formality, not postured for you, just leaning against the wide windowsill, half-turned to the city below, a cigarette balanced loosely between two fingers.

Dark hair, slightly tousled like he hasn’t bothered to tame it. His shirt, black, sheer, loose at the collar. A thin chain around his throat catches the light. And his nails, black polish, chipped at the edges. Purposefully imperfect. Like he’s above caring, or maybe it’s the only thing he cares about.

He glances over his shoulder when you step in. Doesn’t speak. Just watches you.

The eyes are worse than the photos. Darker. Sharper. Too direct. Like he’s already bored, already curious. Like he sees everything, and he’s trying to decide if you’re worth keeping his attention on.

He flicks ash into a small black tray on the ledge. There’s nothing else on it. No papers, no phone. Just him.

He finally speaks, voice low and warm with the edges of smoke, like it could wrap around your neck if you let it.

“So you’re the one who wants to figure me out.” It’s not a question. But his eyes don’t move from yours. They don’t flinch. “You’re not what I expected,” he says.

You offer the smallest shrug. “I could say the same.”

That earns the hint of a laugh. Just a breath, barely there.

He stubs out the cigarette, gestures toward the lone armchair behind you. “You can sit. I won’t bite.”

You don’t say anything. Just take the seat, notebook still closed in your lap. He stays standing. Of course he does. You can tell he likes the distance, the height, likes watching from above. Not out of arrogance, but out of habit. He’s used to reading people, measuring how they move when they’re inside a space that belongs to him.

“I’m working on a column,” you say finally. “Series called The Lives Behind the Screens.”

“I’ve heard.” He nods once. “They sent me your articles. You ask better questions than most.”

You glance up. “You actually read them?”

His mouth quirks into a crooked kind of smile. Dry, a little arrogant, but not in a way that pushes you away. If anything, it pulls you in. 

“I like knowing who’s about to ask if I’ve always been this good with my hands.”

That draws a smile from you, small, tight. Not because it’s funny. But because you expected that line. He’s testing the waters.

“I’m not here just to talk about your sex life,” you say.

There’s a flicker at the corner of his lips. Something amused. Not quite a grin, just a suggestion of one, like he’s trying to decide if he’s impressed or annoyed.

“Shame,” he murmurs. “That’s usually the fun part.” there’s a languid rhythm to the way he speaks, each word stretched just enough to make you feel it.

The silence stretches.

Not uncomfortable. Just... charged. Like you’re both waiting to see who steps forward first.

Across the room, Seonghwa moves toward the bookshelf along the far wall. Not performative, not for your benefit. He’s just giving you time to look at him.

So you do.

He’s taller than you realized. Lean, but strong in the way dancers are. He walks like he knows people are watching, not cocky, just aware. The kind of presence that doesn’t demand attention, it assumes it. And the longer you observe, the more it’s clear: nothing about him is accidental.

The sheer shirt might as well be part of his skin. It moves when he moves. His black jeans are worn soft at the seams, sitting low on his hips. No belt. Just a silver chain around one wrist, around his neck and that single piercing. A bar through his eyebrow.

When he turns to face you again, he doesn't sit.

“I’m guessing you’ve already read everything about me,” he says, voice casual, like he’s talking about the weather.

“I tried to,” you admit, finally jotting something down, the way he speaks without looking for approval, the confidence that isn’t loud. “But I don’t think it matters.”

That earns you a longer look. His head tilts. “Why not?”

You don’t glance up from your page. “Because none of it’s yours. It's press releases. Magazine quotes. Fan rumors. It’s the version of you people think they want to believe in.”

He’s silent for a beat too long. When you do meet his eyes again, there’s something softer around the edges. Not exposed. But interested.

“And what version are you looking for?” he asks.

“I’m here to figure out if there’s a man behind the star,” you say, tone even. “Or if you’ve just become the thing people want from you.”

That lands. You can feel it. His jaw shifts slightly, but he doesn’t look away.

“I could lie,” he offers, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Make up some tragic story. Childhood trauma. First heartbreak. Tell you something that’ll look good in a pull quote.”

“You could,” you nod, pen tapping once against the paper. “But I’d know.”

The corner of his mouth lifts again, but this time there’s no amusement in it. Just curiosity. A quiet spark behind his eyes that says you’ve surprised him.

He moves closer.

Only a few steps, measured, unrushed, and then leans against the back of the leather armchair opposite yours. His arms fold loosely across his chest, and he studies you like a mirror. Like you’re suddenly the one under scrutiny.

“You don’t flirt,” he observes.

You blink. “Is that a problem?”

“Most people do,” he says simply. “Even the ones who say they won’t.”

You meet his gaze, hold it. “I’m not most people.”

“No,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s trying to work out how you got under his skin without touching him. “You’re not.”

For a moment, something spreads between you. You’re not even sure what it is yet. But it’s there, between you. Not attraction. But interest. A tension that hums like a wire strung too tight.

You look away first, not out of defeat, but control. Your voice is smooth as you ask, “What’s the worst assumption people make about you?”

Seonghwa exhales through his nose. A faint smile, but more thoughtful this time. He leans his head back, eyes drifting toward the ceiling like he’s weighing the cost of honesty.

“That's easy,” he says eventually. “All of it. That I just show up and look good and take my clothes off, and somehow, that’s enough.”

You nod once, pen moving again.

“And is it?” you ask, without looking up.

“No,” he says, without hesitation. “But sometimes I wish it were.”

The vulnerability slips through so subtly, you almost miss it. But it’s there. And he lets it hang in the space between you, bare, unpolished.

You don’t press. Not yet. You just underline the sentence on your page, twice.

When you glance at him again, he’s already watching you.

Not in the way men look at women. Not like he’s trying to undress you.

He looks at you like he wants to know what you look like with your guard down.

“What made you start doing this?” you ask again, pushing a little harder this time.

Seonghwa exhales through his nose, grabs another cigarette from his pocket and lights it with an unreadable expression. He taps ash into the glass tray on the table between you.

“I like sex,” he says simply, lips curving just slightly. “Turns out, I’m good at it. People like to watch. Seemed like a win-win.”

You don’t blink. Don’t smile back.

“I’m sure that’s true,” you say evenly. “But that’s not really an answer.”

His brows lift. Just a fraction. You think you catch the flicker of something else in his eyes, not surprise, exactly, but interest. Curiosity. Most people probably take the bait and laugh. Move on.

You don’t.

“So what kind of answer are you looking for?” he asks, his tone lighter now. It’s playful. Not mocking, but there’s a dare underneath it.

“The real kind,” you say. “Unless that’s too much to ask.”

He looks at you for a beat too long. Then, just when the silence starts to turn into something heavier, he grins. It’s not the polished smile from his photoshoots or the cocky smirk from his scenes. It’s crooked. Defensive.

“You’re intense,” he says.

“You’re guarded,” you shoot back.

That actually gets a laugh out of him, low and warm. He places the cigarette between his lips again, holding your gaze as he breathes in. He smells like smoke and sandalwood, expensive and addictive.

“Is it hard to get hard when you don’t actually want the person touching you?”

That makes him go still.

No smirk. No clever deflection. Just a small shift in his eyes, like a curtain tugged half an inch to the side.

“That’s a hell of a question,” he says eventually, exhaling smoke slowly through his nose.

You wait.

The jewelry on his fingers glints in the soft light. He taps the cigarette out with one hand, stubs it, and doesn’t light another.

“Sometimes it’s hard,” he says eventually. “Not physically. Mechanically, there are tricks. Prep. It’s part of the job. But mentally…” He shrugs. “Some days you show up and your body does the work, but your head isn’t anywhere near it.”

“Where does it go?” you ask.

That question lands harder than you expected. He doesn’t answer it right away.

“You like making people uncomfortable, don’t you?” he says instead, with a sharp little smile.

“I like watching people flinch when they’re used to being worshipped,” you shoot back.

That does it, a soft laugh, almost disbelieving. He runs a hand through his dark hair, the first sign of agitation. Or maybe… intrigue.

“You think I’m used to being worshipped?”

“I think you’ve made a career off of it,” you say. “And I think you’re smart enough to know none of it’s real.”

He straightens up slowly, standing to full height. Not a threat, but a shift in dynamic. He towers, but doesn’t loom. He just exists fully, commandingly, in the space. Smoke, sex, control, all wrapped in the body of a man who knows what power feels like in his palm.

“Tomorrow,” he says, tone clipped now. “Be on set at ten. Don’t be late.”

You nod, but don’t move yet. “And you’ll show me?”

He lifts a brow. “Show you what?”

“What it looks like when you stop pretending.”

The look he gives you is unreadable. Half danger, half fascination.

Then he says, “Careful what you wish for.”

***

You don’t expect to be alone when he finds you.

You’re standing just beyond the edge of the set, not quite hidden but far enough away that you don’t feel like you’re intruding. The lights are half-up, the crew moving with quiet efficiency, adjusting equipment, taping marks to the floor. It’s all so… normal. Not chaotic. Not hypersexualized. Not what you thought a porn set would look like.

There’s nothing cheap about it. No sleaze. No haze of something you can’t name.

Just calm. Controlled. Professional.

Then you feel him before you hear him.

“Didn’t peg you as the type to show up early to this,” Seonghwa says.

You turn.

He’s closer than you expected, but not too close, just inside your space enough to remind you this is his world. His set. His rules.

He’s dressed down. Black pants. Loose black tank. Hair still damp, like he just showered. Barefoot. There’s a quiet confidence to him, the kind that doesn’t need announcing. And that damn eyebrow piercing catches the light when he looks at you.

“I figured you’d bail,” he says, "Didn’t think this kind of work was your thing.”

You glance over your notepad without looking up. “It’s not.”

He tilts his head. “Dedicated. Or just curious?”

“I’m here to work.”

“You keep saying that,” he muses. “Like you’re trying to convince someone.”

You meet his gaze, steady. “Would it make you more comfortable if I pretended to be flustered around you?”

He laughs, soft, warm. “No,” he says. “That’s the problem. You don’t pretend.”

You say nothing, but your fingers tighten slightly around your notebook. He catches it.

His smile sharpens, but his voice stays casual. “So,” he says, “first time seeing something like this in person?”

You nod.

“No nerves?”

“A few,” you admit. “But I’ve done harder interviews.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “Harder than watching me fuck someone ten feet in front of you?”

Your throat tightens, just slightly. Not enough to show. But something shifts in your expression. His eyes track it.

He grins.

You look back at him, carefully composed. “I’m still here.”

“That you are,” he says, quieter now. “And you’ll watch? Even if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I don’t think it will.”

A beat passes. His gaze lingers on your face. Then he nods, almost approvingly.

“Good,” he says. “Then let’s see how much you’re really ready for.”

He turns, just like that, walking toward the set. The curtain parts behind him.

And just before it closes, he glances over his shoulder.

“Try not to fall for me,” he says with a crooked smile. “It gets messy.”

You don’t answer. You just grip your notebook a little tighter.

You’re here. Watching, really watching.

The red light blinks above like a warning and a promise, casting a harsh glow over the small, claustrophobic set. Seonghwa stands center stage, muscles taut beneath his soaked black tank top, sweat glistening on his skin like he’s been moving for hours.

He doesn’t look up as he starts, he’s not just touching her, his set-partner. He’s worshipping every inch.

She’s moaning, low, ragged sounds that fill the room, vibrating against your skin. His fingers find her, moving inside her with a steady, expert pressure that makes her cry out in pleasure. His mouth covers hers, rough and demanding, teeth grazing her bottom lip, swallowing every protest she might have.

His hips thrust hard, the tank top clinging to every muscle twitch, sweat dripping down the curve of his spine. He grunts low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest as he drives her higher, faster.

And then, just when you think you can’t bear it, he looks up.

His eyes catch yours across the room, sharp and knowing. It’s like he can see right through your carefully constructed wall, the cool, detached journalist trying to stay professional, and he’s amused by it. Maybe even hungry for it. There’s a flicker of cocky challenge there, a silent dare: Keep watching.

The way his mouth curves into a slow, teasing smile sends a jolt through you, and you realize this isn’t just a show for the cameras. This is his playground, and you’re the unexpected audience he wants to mesmerize.

You feel heat rise between your legs, your breath catching in your throat despite yourself. This is supposed to be work. But your body betrays you, tightening, aching, wanting. Your skin prickles as the two of them writhe, tangled in lust and need, so raw, so real, it’s impossible to pretend it’s not affecting you.

Every moan, every bite, every slick slide of his fingers on her wetness is a punch straight to your gut. You shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be feeling this. But you are.

And it terrifies you.

You wait alone in the dim waiting room, the muffled sounds of the set still echoing faintly beyond the door. Your fingers drum nervously against the notebook in your arms, mind spinning with what you just witnessed. The intoxicating mix of raw power, control, and vulnerability, everything about him pulls at you in ways you didn’t expect.

The door swings open without warning.

He steps inside, still dripping with sweat, the black robe hanging loose and wet against his skin. His dark hair is tangled, strands plastered to his forehead and neck, but he looks effortless, like he just conquered the world or at least that room.

His gaze lands on you, smirking as if he knows exactly what’s racing through your mind. “So,” he says, voice low and husky, “did the show live up to your expectations?”

You swallow hard, trying to steady your voice. “It was... intense. Different than anything I imagined.”

He chuckles, stepping closer, the heat radiating off him making your skin flush. “I told you, this isn’t some act. It’s real.”

You don’t look away, but take a small step back so you feel the wall behind you. “I saw that. You’re not faking it.”

His smirk deepens. “I don’t do fake. My body knows what to do.” He lets the robe slip slightly off one shoulder, revealing the sweat-slick skin beneath. “But now, I want to see you. What happens when you drop the act?”

Your breath catches. “I’m not the one putting on a show.”

He steps closer, just enough that you can feel his warmth, eyes locked on yours with a playful challenge. “Maybe you’re hiding better than I thought. But I don’t scare easy. You push me, I’ll push back.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of your chair. “Then push.”

Seonghwa leans in just a fraction closer, his dark eyes locked onto yours with that smoldering mix of cocky challenge and genuine curiosity. The faint scent of sweat and something uniquely his, clean, but with a wild edge, fills the small space between you. He lets the robe slip a little more off his shoulder, just enough to tease, but not enough to give everything away.

“So, what’s your move, reporter?”

His gaze narrows, sharp and piercing as he lets his fingers trail just a breath away from your skin, deliberately not touching, drawing out the moment. Neither of you is blinking.

“You want answers,” he says, voice low and teasing. “But answers come at a price. You think you can handle what you don’t expect?”

You hold his stare, heart pounding, refusing to flinch. “I’m not here to be intimidated.”

He lets out a slow, dark laugh, amused and a little impressed. “Good. Because I’m not here to entertain you… at least, not yet.”

He steps back, letting the space between you swell with the weight of what just passed, then pulls his robe tighter around his frame with a smooth motion. “But here’s a deal: I’ll give you the story you want. The real me, the part behind the flashing lights and staged scenes. On one condition.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Which is?”

He leans in close enough that his breath brushes your ear, voice a rough whisper. “You come back. You don’t flinch. You keep pushing. No matter how messy it gets. You keep digging, even when it hurts. No backing down. And maybe… just maybe, you’ll get more than you bargained for.”

He pulls away, smirking like he’s already won the game. “Think it over. I’ll be waiting.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving you alone with the echo of his challenge ringing louder than any spotlight.

***

When the elevator dings on his floor, you step out into a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The walls are a cool gray, the faint smell of leather and something smoky wafting up from behind one door.

You take a breath and knock lightly.

The door swings open before you finish the knock, revealing Seonghwa. “Come in,” he says, voice low, almost teasing. He steps aside, letting you slip inside.

The air smells faintly of cologne and smoke, the leftover echo of whatever he did on set lingering like something physical. The windows are wide, letting in the soft amber of the city outside. It should feel casual. It doesn’t.

You take it all in quietly, feeling the weight of his space, the echo of the man who lives here.

You settle into the dark gray couch, eyes never leaving him as he moves with casual ease.

Seonghwa walks toward the open-plan kitchen, barefoot, hair damp from a quick shower. He’s once again a robe, black, slung loose around him, revealing toned legs and glimpses of his chest when the fabric parts with each lazy step. You pretend not to notice. You do. It’s impossible not to.

He grabs a lighter from the counter, flicks it without looking, and lights the cigarette already tucked between his lips. The inhale is long. Slow. A sigh through his nose. Then he turns toward you.

“You look like you’re in a dentist’s waiting room,” he murmurs. Voice warm. Slightly mocking.

He exhales smoke and walks closer, staying on his side of the room but dropping into the armchair across from you, in the middle of the two couches, slouching low like he owns the place. Which, of course, he does.

The room shrinks around you, charged with something unspoken and raw. You don’t like it. You don’t want it. But you can’t look away.

“Okay, then,” you say, voice sharp. “You like being watched?”

A lazy smirk curls his mouth. “Doesn’t everyone?” He leans forward, arms resting on his thighs, cigarette perched between his fingers. The smoke curls up toward the ceiling.

Then he speaks again. “I like control,” he says. “I like knowing what people want and giving it to them. It’s… intimate. But safe. And when you’re good at it? They forget it’s a performance.”

Your throat tightens slightly, but you nod. “So it’s about power?”

“It’s about reading people,” he corrects. Then, smoothly, “My turn.” He tilts his head, studying you like you’re the subject now. 

“Who broke you?”

Your stomach tightens. “What?”

He grins, slow and wicked. “You walk around like you’re armored, like you’ve got barbed wire under your skin. So who put it there?”

“I’m not here to talk about me.”

His voice drops, velvet smooth. “Show me who you are.”

Your lips tighten. “No one broke me.”

“Everyone’s broken somewhere,” he says, quietly. “You just hide it well.”

He eyes you again. “My turn, again. Because you didn't answer properly before-”

You shake your head. “I’m the interviewer.” you interrupt.

“And I’m interested in you.” His smile grows.

You feel your breath hitch, but hide it behind a slow blink.

The tension between you burns like the end of his cigarette. He stubs it out, stands slowly, robe slipping slightly off his shoulder as he crosses the space between you.

Then he pauses in front of you, not quite touching, looking down.

“You want more access?” he asks, voice velvet smooth. “Then let me have the same.”

You look up, chin raised. “What are you proposing?”

“A deal.” His eyes darken. “I’ll answer anything. All of your questions. But I get to ask whatever I want too. I get to dig just as deep.”

You hesitate. He sees it. Feeds off it.

“And if you can’t handle that,” he adds, soft and cutting, “you should probably go.”

You grit your teeth. Your pulse pounds in your throat. Your body leans forward before your mind catches up.

“Fine,” you breathe. “Deal.”

He grins.

“Good,” he says. “Now, let’s really begin.”

You’re still on the couch when he lowers himself beside you, not in the armchair across the room, not at a polite distance, but next to you. His thigh brushes yours. The robe shifts again, riding high on his legs, revealing toned skin and hints of muscle that make it hard to focus.

He’s warm. Too warm. And the silence between you goes thick and heavy, soaked in everything you aren’t saying.

“Alright,” you say, keeping your voice flat, composed, even though your heart is hammering in your chest. “You made a deal. Ask.”

He smirks, eyes raking over your face like he’s deciding where to begin.

“What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

Your breath catches, like he’s slapped you with the question instead of asking it. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

“You said I could ask a question,” he murmurs, voice low and honey-smooth. “I’m just playing by the rules.”

You recover quickly, jaw tightening. “Next question.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“You want honesty? Fine,” You meet his eyes, sharp, challenging. “I think about what it feels like to stop controlling everything. To not be the one driving. To let someone else take over, just for a while.”

His expression shifts, only slightly, but you see it. Something almost thoughtful in the cocky glint of his gaze. He leans back, just a little, arm along the top of the couch behind you.

“Interesting,” he says. “So you like to let go.”

Your turn. “How often do you sleep with someone off-camera?”

He shrugs. “Less than people think. When sex becomes work, it’s harder to want it just for fun. But when I do… I make sure it’s worth it.”

Your pulse skips. You force yourself not to look away.

He leans in. His voice drops, brushing your skin like it knows what it’s doing.

“Would you ever let go with someone like me?”

You stare at him. Hard. “Would you ever stop performing with someone like me?”

A beat. A flicker of surprise behind his eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve performed once since you walked through my door.”

“Liar.”

He laughs, low, rough, the sound curling down your spine. “You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

You should move. You don’t. He’s closer now, his thigh pressing against yours, the robe parting slightly as he turns toward you.

“And what about you?” he asks. “What’s under your perfect little armor?”

You stare back at him, fingers curling around the edges of your notebook.

He continues, tone deceptively light. “You come in here, all calm and collected. Like you’re not flustered. Like watching me get someone off in front of a room full of people didn’t do something to you.”

Your spine straightens.

“It didn’t,” you lie.

He grins slowly. “Sure. Let me guess, you’re just doing your job. You don’t feel anything.”

You don’t answer.

“I think you feel more than you let on,” he says, voice lower now. “But you’re too busy trying to prove you’re better than all of this. That you’re above it.”

You meet his gaze, and something inside you cracks. Just a little. “You think you know me?” you whisper.

“I think you wear control like I wear seduction. Like armor.” He leans back again, watching you with something that’s dangerously close to fascination. “But no one ever asks what happens when you take it off.”

You suck in a breath. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to earn respect in a world that doesn’t take women seriously unless they’re agreeable.”

He tilts his head. “And you don’t know what it’s like to be only wanted for what your body can do, not who you are.”

There it is.

The stillness between you is different now, warmer, denser. It hums beneath your skin.

He says it softer, like he means it. “No one gives a fuck about what I think. Just what I can make them feel.”

The words sit heavy in your chest. There’s a moment of silence. This is biggest crack you’ve managed to get out of his guarded shell.

Then his voice softens again, teasing this time. “Alright, journalist. My turn. Last question.”

Your stomach coils, tight with anticipation.

“Have you ever imagined someone fucking you so good it ruins you for everyone else?”

Your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t blink. “Not just the act. The aftermath. The kind of sex that stays in your bones, makes everything after feel like a cheap imitation. You ever wondered what it’d take to break you like that?”

There’s no teasing in his voice now. Just quiet curiosity. Like it’s a scientific inquiry. You look at him, really look at him, and it’s suddenly so obvious he’s not just asking for the sake of it.

He wants to know if he could do it.

Your breath hitches.

And he sees it.

The smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, that smug spark in his eye, you’ve just confirmed something for him.

He ashes the cigarette again, slow and easy. “Thought so,” he murmurs.

And the worst part?

You can’t even bring yourself to deny it.

***

You lie on your back in the dark, your sheets cool against your skin but your body too warm.

It’s late. Later than you meant to be awake. Your bedside lamp casts a muted glow across the ceiling, and you’ve already scrolled through every app on your phone twice. But your mind won’t stop replaying the evening.

You shift under the covers. They’re soft but do nothing to ease the heat crawling under your skin.

He got to you.

You hate that. You hate knowing that.

All of it replays in your mind on a loop, the cocky slant of his mouth, the lazy sprawl of his body across the couch, the way he tossed you that question like a match and watched it catch fire between your thighs.

“What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

The nerve. And still, your stomach twisted.

But it wasn’t just the question. It was the way he said it. The way he looked at you like he already knew the answer. Like he could read it on your skin.

You shouldn’t care. He’s your subject. Your project. Your assignment. You’re here to peel back the layers, uncover the man behind the persona.

And yet, here you are. Lying in your bed. Thinking about him.

You open your browser on your phone. Start to type.

Park Seonghwa.

A breath hitches in your throat as the name autofills. You press enter.

Links bloom across the screen in a chaotic sprawl. Clips. Interviews. Promo photos. Glossy thumbnails of sex.

But it’s the one at the very top that stops you.

No clickbait. No dramatic title. Just:

Park Seonghwa – Solo | Intimate POV.

You stare at the thumbnail. It’s dark, soft-red-lit, just a close-up of his face. Damp hair pushed back. His lips slightly parted. His eyes. direct, dark, focused. On the camera. On you.

You hesitate.

Then your finger taps the screen.

The video loads slowly, black for a beat, and then…

There he is.

The camera is positioned low on the nightstand, the frame unsteady but intimate, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else to see. The soft red lighting of Seonghwa’s bedroom casts red shadows over his skin, the familiar surroundings of his private apartment making the moment feel even more forbidden. This isn’t a set. It’s his space. His bed. His sheets.

And he’s standing at the edge of it, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, the waistband barely clinging to his skin. His black-painted fingers trace a path along his abdomen.

His voice cuts through the quiet, low and rough, like he’s talking to himself as much as to whoever’s watching.

“I’m all alone tonight,” he says, lips curling into a wicked smile. “Just me, my hands, and this hard fucking cock. You watching this in your bed, baby?” he murmurs, voice low, laced with that cocky softness that makes your stomach twist. “Lying there all sweet and needy, just for me?”

The waistband slips lower. Your breath catches.

The camera captures it all, his cock, thick and hard, gradually revealed, the flushed head slick with precome, shining under the dim red light. Veins curl along the shaft like cords pulled tight with anticipation, each one pulsing with restrained tension.

“Mm, look at that. Fucking myself… but every thought? You. Every touch? You.” he drawls, spitting into his palm and wrapping his hand around himself with a practiced grip. He groans, low and deep, as he spreads the slickness over his cock. “I wish you were here, on this bed, touching yourself just like I am. Knowing I’m watching. Knowing you belong to me tonight.”

He starts to stroke himself, slow and teasing, watching the camera like he can see right through it. “Don’t touch yet,” he warns, voice sharp. “I didn’t tell you to move.”

He talks like he sees you, sees directly through the screen and into your eyes. Like he knows what you’re doing in your own room, alone, totally under his control.

He leans back against the edge of the bed, one hand behind him to steady him, the other still wrapped around his cock.

Then, his gaze sharpens again. “Alright, baby. Now you can touch. Let me see it. Fingers deep. Rub that clit slow and soft, don’t rush it. I want to hear how messy it gets.”

Your fingers tremble as you slide your hand beneath your clothes, cheeks flushing hot with a mix of shame and desperate need. Your breath hitches as your fingers meet your slick folds. Heat coils in your gut, sharp and needy.

“Good girl,” he groans. “That’s it. Just like that. Take your time. I want you fucking ruined by the end of this.”

He’s so fucking good at this. He’s a goddamn star.

His voice drops, ragged with arousal now. “Faster. Rub that little clit hard, don’t you dare stop. Fuck yourself for me, just like I told you.”

You whimper, body writhing under your sheets. Your shirt is already pushed up, one hand squeezing your phone tightly, the other between your thighs, fingers slick with arousal. Your hips roll into your own touch, matching the rhythm of his strokes.

He groans again, low and filthy, his voice rough with lust. “You better be touching yourself exactly like I told you. I want to hear you come for me, baby. Say my name loud.”

Your breath stutters as your fingers circle your clit faster, the wet sounds of your need echoing in your room. “Seonghwa… I-, please…”

“Fingers deeper,” he growls. “Rub that clit while you fuck yourself, baby, don’t make me say it again. I want you moaning my name, legs shaking, begging for more even when you can’t take it.”

You obey without hesitation, sprawled on your bed, one hand buried between your thighs, soaked with your own slick. 

But it’s not enough.

Your eyes flutter shut, body already moving in rhythm with his voice, his words, his breath. And then you let go. You pretend it’s not your fingers. You imagine it’s him.

That it’s Seonghwa between your legs, kneeling over you on your bed. His hands are the ones parting your thighs, his fingers circling your clit in teasing, torturously slow circles. You imagine the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin, the press of his chest above yours, his cock hard against your stomach as he whispers filth right into your ear.

Your eyes snap open. They find the screen in your hand, find him.

“Look at you,” he pants, stroking faster now, spit and precome shining along the thick length of his cock. “Fucking yourself like a good little slut. You’d let me wreck you, wouldn’t you? You’d take every inch and still ask for more. I want you crying because it feels so fucking good.”

Your breath hitches, hips lifting into your own touch, and you pretend it’s him holding you down, not your trembling hand. That it’s his lips grazing your neck as he groans how tight and wet you are for him.

You moan, high and broken, hips jerking up against your fingers. “Yes-, yes, Seonghwa, please, I-”

Tears sting your lashes from how good it feels, how overwhelming it is to be seen and controlled, even from across a screen.

Then, suddenly, his voice softens just enough to ruin you. “Come for me now, pretty girl. Say my fucking name. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

You cry out, body seizing as pleasure crashes over you in waves. “Seonghwa-, fuck, Seonghwa!”

And all the while, his eyes never leave the camera. Never leave you.

“Fucking perfect,” he groans, his strokes turning desperate now, almost harsh, as he chases his own release. “Look what you do to me.”

His body tenses, abs flexing, brows drawn tight with pleasure, lips parted as a strangled sound leaves him. And then he comes, cock jerking in his fist, thick ropes spilling over his stomach. His whole body shakes with it, moans leaving his beautiful mouth.

The video ends with him slumping back against the pillows, chest heaving, sweat shining on his skin, his hair a mess across his forehead. The smirk that curls on his lips is smug, victorious, as if he’s just claimed something from you without lifting a finger. 

“Fucking perfect,” he says softly. “Next time, maybe you’ll be here.”

And the video ends.

You’re left panting, flushed, utterly undone.

You set the phone down, heart still racing, skin still tingling. Embarrassment floods you, but beneath it is a darker craving, a need that won’t be satisfied anytime soon.

***

On Friday, you knock on the door, hesitate for a second, then push it open.

Same office. Same dark walls, same black armchair in the corner, same lingering scent of something expensive and musky. But today, none of it feels the same.

Your chest tightens with a rush of heat and embarrassment of seeing him. You remind yourself to focus, to stay professional. But the memory of the other night, the video you couldn’t stop watching, presses against your thoughts, making your cheeks flush.

He doesn’t notice.

Because the man sitting there doesn’t look like the one you met earlier this week.

Seonghwa is sunk deep into the armchair near the window, hood up, legs stretched out. A lit cigarette dangles between his fingers, ash clinging stubbornly to the end. His usual polished precision is nowhere in sight.

And neither is that smirk.

You pause in the doorway. “Morning.”

He lifts his head just barely, eyes narrowing like the light annoys him. “Oh. Right.. Today.”

No charm. No grin. Not even the cool confidence he always wears like armor.

“I texted you last night. Said I’d be here at ten.”

“Doesn’t mean I remembered,” he mutters, dragging from the cigarette. The smoke curls between you, soft and lazy, but his tone cuts through it like glass.

You step into the room, letting the door click softly behind you. “Are you okay?”

He gives you a look that makes it very clear that was the wrong question. “Peachy.”

You pause, scanning him. The hoodie. The mess of papers on his desk. A barely touched coffee going cold beside his laptop. The light in here is dim, drawn shades casting thin slats across the floor. You can feel the heat of his mood before he says another word.

“You don’t have to fake concern,” he mutters, taking another drag. “It’s not gonna make the column sound any less curated.”

Your brows knit. “Excuse me?”

He waves a hand toward you, toward the room. “This. All of this. Let’s not pretend this is anything other than you getting your material.”

You shift on your feet, a slow flare of irritation lighting your chest. “What do you think I want from this?”

“I think you care about getting the most interesting version of me. The wounded, brooding performer with something to hide.” His mouth twists into something sharp. “It’s exactly what you wanted to see, right?” His gaze cuts to you, sharp and flat. “Congratulations. You’re getting it.”

Your chest tightens, but you stay still. “You think I want you like this?”

“I think you want truth,” he snaps, tapping the ash into the tray. “And this is it. The version I try to keep under wraps because it doesn’t sell. Because it doesn’t make anyone hard or fall in love.”

You glance at the clock. “Do we still do this today? Or should I come back another time?”

He exhales a long breath, rubs a hand over his jaw. “Let’s get it over with.”

And for the first time since this whole thing began, you see him not as the man who holds all the cards, but as someone who hates being looked at too closely.

The day unfolds in fragments.

Meetings. Scripts. Phone calls. Camera tests.

You follow him like you’re supposed to, your notebook tucked under your arm, phone in your pocket, voice recorder untouched. Seonghwa walks ahead of you like he forgot you were even there, hood still up, sleeves shoved halfway to his elbows, the fraying hem of his sweatshirt twitching with each agitated movement.

The production assistant tries to make a joke as he hands Seonghwa a stack of papers. Seonghwa doesn’t smile.

It’s the little things. The way his knee bounces restlessly beneath the conference table. The way he pinches the bridge of his nose when he thinks no one’s looking. The way he zooms out when no one is talking.

You’re silent, mostly. Observing. But it’s impossible not to feel how much he doesn’t want you here.

Not just today, maybe at all.

When the others clear out of the room for a break, you’re left standing near the window. He lights another cigarette and leans back in his chair, exhaling with all the exhaustion of a man three times his age.

You glance at him. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t look at you. “Do I look okay?”

“No. That’s why I asked.”

He drags in another breath of smoke, eyes fixed somewhere past the window.

You take a step closer. “I’m not here to-”

“To fix anything,” he says, voice quieter now, less bite in it. He finally meets your eyes, and something in his expression softens just enough to hurt. “You’re here to tell a story. I get it.”

“That’s not all I’m doing. That’s not fair.”

He shrugs, more resigned than cold. “It’s not meant to be. It’s just… easier to believe you’re doing your job than actually giving a fuck.”

And it hits you then, he’s not trying to shut you out to be cruel. He’s doing it to keep himself from hoping for something more. You hate that he means it. That he believes it. That somewhere between the tension and the peeling back of layers, he still doesn’t trust you enough to believe you care.

Today’s studio space is colder than the hallway, industrial lights buzzing overhead, metal rigs stacked along the walls, and a makeshift bed propped under the camera setup.

You step in behind Seonghwa, careful not to bump into the maze of cords and crew. It’s eerily quiet for a shoot day. But maybe that’s because everyone’s waiting for him.

He’s in his hoodie, the hood still pulled over his head like armor. Hands in his pockets, spine tense. His steps are heavy, slow. Like walking into this room costs him something. And the moment people notice him, something shifts. Not respect. Not admiration. Something more primal.

“God, look at that,” someone murmurs near the lighting board. “Even with a hoodie on, he looks like sex.”

A grip elbows his buddy. “Bet they have him jack off again. He’s too good at it not to.”

Laughter buzzes through the set like a current. You pretend not to hear.

Seonghwa doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t respond. You watch his expression from the side, blank. Guarded. Not new to this.

The director finally enters, a man in a designer tee and sunglasses indoors, and claps his hands together with a wide, lazy grin. His eyes go straight to Seonghwa.

“There he is! My masterpiece,” he says with a grin. “Fuck, you’re still so fuckable it’s actually unfair. Even with that tired little pout, perfect. Stay like that.” He steps in close, fingers curling under the hem of Seonghwa’s hoodie and lifting it uninvited. “Yeah, we’ll use this for the thumbnail. Boys wanna be you, girls wanna ride you. And the ones in between? They’re paying double. Let’s not waste time on foreplay, you're losing the pants before we hit four minutes anyways.”

You blink. He doesn’t even ask.

“Today’s just a solo,” the director continues, already talking to the crew. “I want long shots of the buildup. Give me that lazy jerk-off style he does. Like he just woke up and couldn’t help himself. And get tight on his abs when he clenches, viewers love that shit. Make the fuckers at home feel like they’re right there, breathing down his neck.“

He turns back to Seonghwa. “Don’t talk. Don’t think. Just stroke it, look hot, moan a little, and come when I tell you.”

The words land with the weight of indifference. Like Seonghwa’s just a prop. A function. A dick and a face with a pulse.

You glance up at him. His jaw is tight. His mouth a flat line. Not angry, no. This isn’t new to him. It’s routine. Expected. A part of the job he doesn’t get to question.

You speak without thinking. “He’s not just a prop.”

That earns you a look. Not just from the director, but Seonghwa too. Something flickers in his eyes, shock, maybe surprise. 

The director barks a laugh. “Relax. Don’t get righteous. It’s the industry, sweetheart. If you don’t like it, you’re in the wrong room.” He walks off before you can respond, barking something about angles and cumshots.

The silence he leaves behind is deafening.

Seonghwa doesn’t move at first. When he finally does, it’s slow, measured. His jaw works, but his voice is low, almost too quiet to hear. “It’s not about what I want,” he says, eyes fixed on the floor. “It never is.” He doesn’t say more. Just shrugs off the hoodie and walks toward the set.

You don’t say a word.

But the director’s yelling grabs attention, half-distracted by his phone.

“Come on, Seonghwa. Slower. Let’s really feel that stroke. Sell it like you mean it.”

He doesn’t flinch, not outwardly.

You watch him slip into the rhythm. One hand curls lightly at the base of his stomach, the other resting behind him. He’s not touching himself, not yet.

He looks like a sculpture: smooth, stunning, perfect, and completely lifeless inside. The charm is gone. The Seonghwa you’ve gotten glimpses of, the one with the bitter laugh and the razor wit, the one who says too much when he’s tired and smokes like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded, isn’t here. He’s been replaced by a fantasy. A tool.

And no one seems to care.

“Yeah,” the director says absently, standing near the monitor. “God, your face does most of the work for you, doesn’t it? You could just stand there and they’d still fucking come.”

There’s laughter around the room. Like Seonghwa isn’t even present, like he’s just a prop they’re manipulating.

And it makes your chest ache.

You take a slow breath and step back from the edge of the set. There’s nothing for you to do here. Nothing to say that wouldn’t sound hollow, or patronizing, or worse, just like everyone else who pretends to care while still benefiting from his body.

So you turn and quietly leave the room. The hallway outside feels colder, quieter. You don’t know what you’re allowed to feel in this moment. Anger? Sympathy? Guilt?

You just know you couldn't watch anymore.

Not when he clearly didn’t want you to. Not when the man you came here to understand was being stripped away, piece by piece, until only the image was left.

And that image? That glossy, controlled performance?

That’s what they want. Not him. Not the real him.

And somehow, that realization hurts more than you expected.

The dressing room smells faintly of cologne, latex, and sweat. You sit on the edge of the black bench against the wall when the door opens. The sound is sharp in the stillness, followed by footsteps that slow as they see you.

Seonghwa walks in, his hoodie bunched in one hand, hair damp, jaw clenched. He’s wearing only his sweatpants, his skin still glistening with leftover oil. His expression flickers, not anger, but something edged. Tired. Wary.

He walks past you, heading to the corner where a small fridge hums beside the dressing table. Rows of expensive liquor line the shelves. Vodka, whiskey, soju, even a few overly expensive wine bottles. Every possible way to forget himself sits chilled and ready. But he ignores them all, reaching instead for a plain bottle of water. He drinks slowly, throat moving, his other hand flexing once at his side like he’s holding something in.

"You left." His voice is rough. Not accusing. Just...surprised.

You meet his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t think that would bother you,” He drops the hoodie onto a chair, drags a towel off a hook and wipes at his face. “You’ve seen me do worse.”

“I didn’t leave because I couldn’t handle the scene,” you say. “I left because you looked like you couldn’t.”

His movements slow. The towel lowers slightly. 

“I’ve seen you do this before. At the studio, with the woman. You were in it. Comfortable. Maybe even enjoying it.”

He scoffs under his breath and turns away, tossing the towel onto the counter. “That was a different day. Different shoot. Different director.”

“Exactly,” you say. “Back then, it looked like a choice. Like you were in control. Today it didn’t.”

He leans both hands on the edge of the counter, shoulders tense. “You know what the difference is?” He looks at you in the mirror, not turning. “That shoot? I liked the director. I liked the setting. I was in the fucking mood. It worked because it came from me. This-” He laughs hollowly, a crack of frustration. “This was someone powerful enough to say do it or get out. Someone I can’t afford to say no to. So, I did it.”

You don’t speak. You let him.

“I wasn’t in the mood. I didn’t want anyone touching me. Didn’t want to fuck, didn’t want to look sexy, didn’t want to perform, but I had to.” He shakes his head. “There are days that feels like a goddamn prison sentence.”

He finally turns, leaning back against the counter now. Arms crossed. His chest rises slowly, like he’s trying not to show how much he said just cost him.

You watch him carefully, the hard edges softening just enough to see the man behind the mask.

“You said you don’t fake it,” you say quietly. “So… what was that?”

He sighs, eyes flicking away before meeting yours again. “Survival,” he admits, voice low but steady. “I love what I do. I’m proud of who I’ve become, what I’ve built from nothing. I own this life. The good, the bad, all of it. But like any job, there are parts you hate. Parts that drain you.” He taps the counter, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “That scene? That was me bending to someone else’s will. I swallowed it because I had to. Because I don’t get to pick every day. And sometimes surviving means doing things you hate, even when you don’t want to.”

The silence stretches between you. Something hangs in the air, too heavy for neither of you to grab.

“No one’s ever walked away before,” he says finally. His voice is lower now. “They usually just...watch. Or enjoy the show.”

Slowly, you rise to your feet, the movement drawing his attention. He lowers his gaze, fingers dragging over his jaw. There's exhaustion etched into his features, but beneath it, something quieter, heavier. Resignation.

“I didn’t come here to feed on the worst version of you,” you say. “I came here to see the real one. That’s not the same thing.”

Seonghwa doesn’t look at you right away. His jaw flexes once. He’s quiet for a beat too long, and you can’t tell if it’s because he’s angry, or maybe, just maybe, it’s because he doesn’t know how to respond.

Then, finally, a dry sound leaves his throat. Almost a laugh.

“Well,” he says softer, glancing over at you again, voice softer, “congrats. You got him.” His gaze sharpens, a little of that old arrogance flickering behind it. “Grumpy. Tired. Mentally undressing people out of sheer boredom. You sure that’s the ‘real’ me you wanted?”

You lift a brow. “If this is you flirting again, it’s deeply depressing.”

He snorts, pushing off the dressing table to pace the small room with slow steps.

“You make it hard not to,” he says. 

There’s something in his walk, looser than before, more relaxed, like some of the tension’s drained from his muscles.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower, more thoughtful. “You know, I usually expect people to want things from me. Attention. A show. Something they can get off to, or write about, or pretend to care about just long enough to take.”

You meet his eyes.

“And what do I want?” you ask.

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” he says, a little smile curling at his lips now. “But it’s starting to piss me off.”

You let out a short laugh. “Good.”

He steps closer.

Not too close. Just enough to tilt the atmosphere again. To remind you of how he carries himself when he’s not being forced to play a role, but when he chooses to.

“Maybe you’re the first one who didn’t want the performance,” he murmurs. “But that means you might actually want me. And that’s… far more dangerous.”

He steps closer. Enough to make you feel like he could cage you.

Your mouth twists. “I can handle dangerous.”

“I know you can,” he says, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before rising again. “Which is probably why I keep wondering what it’d take to ruin you.”

Your breath catches, just barely. But you recover fast, narrowing your eyes.

“I think you’re forgetting who’s in control here.”

He laughs under his breath. “Oh, I remember. You’ve been trying to control me from day one.”

You smirk. “Trying?”

The air between you charges again, a slow rise of energy you’ve both become addicted to, banter as foreplay, tension as currency.

He leans in just slightly, voice a whisper now. “You keep poking at the beast, sweetheart, and one day it’s gonna bite.”

You don’t back down. You never do. Instead, you tilt your head, eyes bright, tone playful but edged.

“Show me who you are, pornstar.”

And this time, it’s him left watching your back as you leave the room, a slow grin curving at the edge of his mouth.

The day drags on, marked by long meetings, quick walks between sets, and endless discussions about scripts, schedules, and contracts. From the outside, Seonghwa is in professional, his face a carefully guarded mask as he navigates a world that rarely sees past his looks.

But you notice the small things that slip through the cracks.

When a new intern drops a clipboard near him, he crouches without hesitation, helping her gather the pages. “It happens,” he murmurs, flashing a small, crooked smile. She blushes. He doesn’t notice, he’s too focused on making sure the papers aren’t bent.

You see how he checks in with his scene partner when going through an upcoming scene. Not just the “are you okay?” they’re supposed to say, but the quiet, real kind. “Do you want to run through it first?” “Is there a word you don’t like hearing?” “Tell me what makes you feel safe.” His voice never dips into showmanship. He means it.

He holds the boom operator’s ladder while they’re adjusting the rig, just instinct. Offers his hoodie to a grip when the studio AC kicks in too hard. Tells the runner she can take his spot in line for catering because she’s been on her feet all day.

The day’s light was fading as you wrapped up, the set slowly emptying out around you. You felt the weight of the last few days settle in, a strange mix of exhaustion and anticipation. On Monday, this all would be just words on a page, a story told from your view. But tonight, there was still unfinished business. A handful of questions you needed to ask him before publishing on Monday.

He didn’t say much as you left the set together. When you arrived at his apartment, the familiar scent of his space settled around you like a cloak, dark wood, leather, a faint trace of his cologne lingering in the air.

The city outside buzzed faintly, but inside, it was different. More intimate. Raw.

In the kitchen, he opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle. You expect something like whiskey or beer, something to match the rough edges you’ve seen in him, but instead, he grabs a sparkling water and pops the cap with a practiced flick. He drinks without hesitation, eyes locked on the glass.

You watch for a moment. He drinks other things, coffee, energy drinks, soda, but not alcohol. Curious, you finally address it, “You never touch alcohol.”

He exhales slowly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m sober. Used to drink, back when I started all this,” he says, nodding vaguely toward the industry chaos outside. “Made things easier, especially scenes I didn’t want to do. Just numb the brain, let the body do the work. But it didn’t stay easy. Became a problem.”

He shrugs, a little bitter. “Quit cold turkey. Stuck to cigarettes. They don’t fuck with me the way alcohol did.”

You take that in, the weight behind his words settling between you.

He glances up, a spark of that familiar cocky edge in his eyes. “Same deal as last time,” he says quietly. “You get to ask whatever you want, I get to ask you back.”

You hesitate for a beat, then nod, meeting his gaze steadily. “Fair enough.”

The room shifts subtly, the air thickening as you settle on the couch, the glow of the city filtering in through the blinds. He drops onto the couch opposite you, propping an elbow on the armrest and flicking a glance your way that’s half teasing, half challenging. The familiar smirk curling at the corner of his lips, the kind that warns you he’s gearing up to push boundaries.

“So,” he starts, voice low and teasing, “what’s the first thing you want to know? Don’t hold back. You’re not here for small talk.”

You meet his gaze, feeling the heat of it, the sharpness wrapped in that easy confidence. “Alright then,” you say, “what’s the one thing about you that no one’s ever bothered to ask?”

His smirk deepens. “Curious. I like that.” He taps his finger against his chin. “I guess… people never ask what scares me. Everyone’s so obsessed with the surface, nobody wants to know what actually keeps me up at night.”

He leans back in the couch, arm resting casually on the armrest, his gaze locked on you with that familiar cocky glint. “Alright,” he says, voice low and slow like he’s savoring every word. “Your turn to answer. But I’m not asking about your favorite color or some safe, boring shit.” He tilts his head, like he’s about to deliver a verdict. “What’s the dirtiest thing you’ve ever imagined me doing to you? Don’t hide it, I know you’ve thought about it.”

Your breath hitches. You want to look away, but his gaze pins you, sharp and relentless. “You don’t know a thing about me,” you say, voice tight but quiet.

“Just admit that I get under your skin.” he pushes.

The air thickens between you, every word a spark, every look a flame. You don’t answer, but the tension says everything.

He tips his head toward you, a slow grin pulling at his lips. “Alright,” he says, voice low and playful. “Speed round. No thinking, just answer.”

You bite back a smirk. “Fine. But same rules for you.”

He raises his hand, palm open in mock surrender. “Deal.” A pause. He leans forward, eyes glinting. “Lights on or off?”

You roll your eyes. “Off.” You don’t hesitate. “What was your first scene like?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Awful. Cheap hotel room, bad lighting, guy behind the camera eating chips the whole time. I hated every second of it, until the money hit.”

You nod, filing it away.

His eyes flicker over you. “Ever had someone make you come so hard you forgot your own name?”

You blink, caught off guard, but you recover quickly. “No.”

He raises a brow. “No?”

You shake your head. “Next question.”

He’s grinning now. “Cold. I like it.”

You tilt your head. “What makes a scene enjoyable for you?”

“Chemistry,” he answers easily. “Real tension. Not just moaning on command.” He doesn’t wait. “Where do you like to be touched first?”

You narrow your eyes. “Really?”

“I’m not here for your journalism,” he says smoothly. “I want the truth.”

You shift in your seat. “Fine. Shoulders, my neck,” You exhale, shifting in your seat. “Rough or slow?”

His gaze darkens just a shade. “Both. Start slow, end ruined.” His eyes glitter as he tilts his head. “When you touched yourself the other night… what did you picture me doing?”

The question hits like a slap, fast, sharp, completely out of nowhere.

You freeze.

It’s just for a second. A breath, a blink. But it’s all he needs.

His smirk blooms, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the flavor of your silence.

“Oh,” he says, voice low and rich. “That’s all the answer I need.”

Your eyes narrow, heart beating faster. “That wasn’t an answer.”

“It was better than one,” he murmurs. “You should see your face right now.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, every line of him tuned in. “So what was it? Me between your thighs? My fingers? My mouth?” He grins. “Or did you watch a video of mine?”

You hate that he’s right. You hate even more how much of this is true. How a few nights ago, in your bed, you had slipped your hand between your thighs with the very image of him in your head, voice, mouth, body, all of it.

And now he’s sitting across from you, as if he knows.

You shift in your seat, your heart beating in your neck, tightening your jaw. “Do you always get off on making people flustered?”

He smiles, utterly unbothered. “Only when they’re pretending they’re not dying to be fucked.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just watches you from across the room, legs spread comfortably on the couch opposite yours, his elbow draped lazily over the armrest like he’s got all the time in the world. 

Then, without a word, he rises.

You don’t track him with your eyes, but you feel it, his slow, easy steps as he walks around the coffee table and then behind your couch. Your breath hitches when you sense him close, the faint scent of his cologne and smoke drifting down as he pauses behind you. You stiffen slightly, unsure of his next move.

And then his fingers touch your shoulders.

His voice comes low beside your ear, thick with promise and filth. “So what was I doing in that pretty little head of yours?”

You inhale sharply, but say nothing.

“Was it my mouth?” he continues, fingertips trailing with maddening gentleness over the curve of your shoulder. “My tongue?”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

His hand pauses, then brushes a little more firmly down your upper arm. “Or were you fucking yourself to a video? The kitchen one, maybe? The way I bend her over the counter and make her beg? That one tends to be a favorite,”

Your legs press together without thinking, and you feel his pause, feel the smirk in it.

“Oh,” he says softly. “So it was a video.”

Behind you, his voice lowers.

“Maybe it wasn’t one of the rough ones,” he murmurs. “Maybe it wasn’t even with a partner. Maybe…” His fingers pause, then brush inwards, tracing just beneath the neckline of your shirt, not quite slipping in, but enough to make your skin tighten. “Maybe it was one of the solo ones from my own bed.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. But the heat climbing up your chest gives you away.

“Those are always my favorites,” he adds, almost conversationally, but there's a layer beneath it, quieter, more real. “No director. No lights. Just me. In my space. Needing something.”

You clench your jaw, trying to keep control, but it’s already slipping. Your thighs press tighter together, and he must know.

He keeps going.

He leans in closer, breath warm against your skin. “Did you watch me stroke myself slow? Did you imagine kneeling between my legs, watching the way my hand moves? Did you-”

A sound escapes you, too soft to be a word, too loud to be ignored.

“Was I good?” he whispers.

Your breathe halters. You scoff, weakly. “You think too highly of yourself.”

He pushes, knowing what this is doing to you. “Did I make you come fast? Or did you take your time, pretending it was my fingers inside you?”

His hands settle gently at your shoulders again, and this time, his thumbs drag over the base of your neck.

“And now I’m right here,” he murmurs. “Right behind you. Talking you through it. Wanting to see when you give in.”

His thumbs sweep in lazy circles over the tops of your shoulders, light enough to keep you aching for more.

“I could make you feel so fucking good right now,” he says, voice silken and low. “You don’t even know.”

You grip the edge of the couch cushion, nails digging in. You still don’t answer. You can’t. Not when your breath is shallow, not when you’re afraid he’ll see just how badly you want it.

He chuckles, not mocking, but knowing.

“I see it in the way you breathe,” he says, “the way your thighs press together when I talk like this. You’re imagining it, aren’t you? Me between your legs. My mouth. My hands. My cock.”

Your entire body tenses, heat pulsing through your core like a current.

“But I’m not touching you yet,” he says, dragging his fingers higher, along the side of your neck this time, slow, reverent. “You want it. But I need you to give it to me. Say the word. Look at me. Move. Something.”

His fingers still, barely resting against your skin.

“I won’t take unless you give,” he murmurs. “But sweetheart, if you do give…” His voice dips, dark and sweet like molasses, “... I’ll ruin you in the best fucking way.”

You stay frozen for half a beat longer, heart thundering, torn between pride and hunger, between control and the deep, unbearable need rising in your chest.

Then, you shift.

Your voice is quiet. Barely above a whisper.

“Then take me.”

And that’s all he needs.

He doesn’t lunge for you. He doesn't devour or drag or tear, no, Seonghwa moves like he’s been waiting years for this, like he knows exactly how to handle something delicate, how to cherish what’s willingly offered. His hands leave your shoulders and slide down your arms, slow and grounding, as he steps around the couch and kneels before you.

His eyes never leave yours.

Your lips part, breath shaky. “I want you.”

And then he kisses you.

Not with aggression, but with intensity, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, the way you taste, the way your breath catches when he deepens it. His hands press to your thighs, parting them slightly so he can move closer, fitting between them like he belongs there.

You wrap your arms around him, needing him more than you’d ever dare to admit.

His fingers skim beneath the hem of your shirt but don’t push, just touch, warm and open-palmed against your waist, your ribs, your spine.

You let out a moan just from his touch.

He grins against your neck, the cocky bastard, but it’s laced with something deeper, that maddening adoration, the one you’re not ready to look too closely at.

“I’m going to make it better than you imagined,” he says. “I promise you that.”

His tank top clings to his toned muscles, black nail polish catching the light, and that eyebrow piercing, sharp and bold, reminds you exactly who he is. A fucking pornstar. And he owns every part of that.

He doesn’t even look away as he drags down your jeans and they hit the floor. His hands stay on your thighs, spreading them apart like it’s instinct. Confident. Unshakable. His thumbs brush over your inner skin, slow and unhurried, like he’s already memorizing what makes you squirm.

And you do, just a little. Just enough.

“God, you’re so damn easy to read,” he breathes, his fingers trace up, catching at the edge of your panties, not pulling, just letting the pressure build.

One hand stays on your thigh, holding you steady. The other slips beneath the fabric, knuckles dragging slow and hot across your skin. His fingers slide through the slick mess between your legs, and he groans, low, appreciative, like he’s savoring it.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough against your skin. “You’re soaked for me. This wet just from my voice, my mouth…” His words brush against your thigh like heat. But it’s his fingers that undo you, two of them buried deep, dragging slow, perfect pressure inside you, curling just right.

You try to hold back the sounds, but you can’t. Not with him looking at you like that. Not with him touching you like this.

“I want to know,” he murmurs, voice dark and steady, eyes locked on yours as his fingers work inside you, steady and relentless. “Which one did you watch?”

You hesitate, jaw tight, breath shaky. His thumb finds your clit again and circles, soft, slow, teasing.

“Was it one of the rough ones?” he continues, cocking his head. 

You shake your head. Your voice barely escapes you, breathless and shame-warm. “It was… one of the solo ones.”

He stills for just a second. “Yeah?,” he breathes, pushing deeper, harder. “You watched me touch myself? Stroke my cock for the camera like I was thinking of someone like you?” He groans, fucking you slow with his fingers. “Was that it?”

His fingers slip out of you only long enough to hook into your panties, tugging them down in one smooth motion. He doesn’t rush it. He watches every inch of your skin as he reveals it, his eyes hot, hungry, reverent.

When they’re off, he drops them to the floor without a second thought, gaze trailing up the inside of your thighs like a promise. 

“Tell me what you liked about it,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh. “That video. Tell me what made you soak your sheets. Was I dirty enough? Rough? Did you picture me fucking you slow, or fast and ruthless?”

You hesitate, but his mouth moves higher, a wet kiss just beside your center, and your hips twitch.

He smiles against your skin. “Come on. You watched me stroke my cock in that bed, didn’t you? The way I moaned, the way I whispered filthy shit to the camera like I knew someone like you was watching.” His tongue traces a line slowly up your thigh. “You fucking loved it.”

Your voice cracks. “You… looked so good. The way you touched yourself. Slow. Like you weren’t in a rush. Like you really felt it.”

He groans, soft and deep. “I did feel it, baby. I was thinking of a mouth like yours. Of a pussy just like this…” He leans in and presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your clit. You gasp, thighs jumping. “And now I get to taste you for real.”

He doesn’t wait.

His mouth is there, tongue dragging firm and slow over your clit like he’s claiming it, sucking it between his lips with a low growl that vibrates right through you.

You arch up, one hand flying to his hair, the other gripping the couch, already unraveling.

“Tell me more,” he murmurs against you. “What made you come?”

You can barely breathe. “When you-” Your hips jerk as he flicks his tongue again. “When you moaned. The way your eyes looked when you came. Like… like you needed it.”

He moans in response, mouth working deeper now, and slides two fingers into you again, curling them just right.

“Yeah? You like seeing me lose it?” he groans. “Wanna see it again, real and messy? Feel it instead of watching it?”

You nod, desperate, hips grinding against his mouth, chasing his tongue. He laughs softly, dark and full of heat. “You’re so fucking responsive. That’s my favorite kind of girl, one who can’t fake it, can’t hide it.”

His fingers work with unrelenting precision, pornstar skill, yes, but this is personal. Focused. For you. 

He eats you like it’s his favorite meal. His mouth and fingers work in perfect rhythm, slow at first, then faster when your moans rise. He pulls you to the edge and keeps you there, not letting up, not letting go, until-

You shatter.

It rips through you like lightning, your moan breaking out loud and needy, hips bucking, thighs clenching around his head. He holds you through it, groaning into your pussy like your orgasm is everything he’s ever wanted.

You’re still trying to catch your breath, thighs trembling, body slack against the couch when he rises up from between your legs.

He looks wrecked, in the most beautiful way. Lips wet, hair mussed from your hands, chest rising and falling beneath that goddamn tank top that clings to him like a second skin. His eyes never leave yours, dark and full of something primal.

“You taste fucking amazing,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you, deep, tongue slipping into your mouth, making sure you feel how filthy he is. How much he wants more.

You kiss him back, instinctive now, desperate and starved, the lingering taste of yourself on his tongue only turning you on more.

He pulls back just enough to tug his tank top over his head and toss it aside. His body is ridiculous. Toned, cut, a living ad for sin.

He unbuttons his pants, unzips, and pulls them down, revealing hard thighs and that heavy bulge beneath his briefs. You can’t help the way your eyes lock there, at the thick outline of him, the part of him you’ve seen in clips, in curated fantasies, shadows of it from across a room, but never this close, never this real.

He smirks, catches your gaze. “Want to see what you touched yourself to?”

Your throat dries. You nod slowly.

He pushes his briefs down, cock springing free, thick, veined, flushed, already hard and leaking at the tip. Bigger than you remembered. Even more intimidating in person. Even more fucking perfect.

He wraps a hand around himself, stroking once, slowly, eyes locked on yours the entire time. 

“This what you watched?” he murmurs. “Me in my bed, stroking it slow, saying your name without even knowing it?”

You nod again, breathless.

You stay right where you are, seated on the edge of the couch, looking up at him, and he looks fucking godlike. His cock is thick and hard, and he’s looking at you like he’s about to ruin you all over again.

You reach for him, wrap your fingers around the base of his cock, thick and warm and pulsing in your hand, and the sound he makes is low, choked, like he wasn’t expecting how good it would feel already. His head falls back for just a second as you stroke him, your thumb brushing over the bead of pre-cum at the tip.

You lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of him, from base to tip, your tongue flat and teasing. His thighs flex, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“I watched you do this,” you whisper, licking your lips. “In that solo video. In your bed. Your hand wrapped around your cock just like this.”

His thumb wipes the mess from your bottom lip, but there’s nothing gentle about it now. There’s a fire behind his eyes, hunger sharpened into something rough, possessive.

“Open,” he says, and it’s not a request.

You do.

He slides his cock back between your lips, his hand finds the back of your head, threading through your hair, not rough, but firm. Grounding.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, breath hitching. “Relax your throat. Breathe through your nose. Just let me in.”

You focus on your breath. Inhale, exhale. You relax your jaw, tongue flat, letting him take up space, letting him show you how.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Fuck, yeah. Just like that.”

This time, when he pushes deeper, it’s smoother. Less panic, more control. Your body adjusts. Your mouth opens wider for him, your throat yielding, and it feels good. Powerful, even.

He groans, deep in his chest. “You feel that? That little click when it goes in deeper? That’s your throat giving up. That’s perfect, sweetheart.”

You hum around him, and he shudders.

“God, look at you. Taking me so fucking well. You learn fast.”

His praise makes your stomach twist, heat pooling low. Your eyes flutter up to meet his, wet and wide, and the look on his face, awe, hunger, something almost reverent, makes you want to show off.

You press forward on your own this time, let him slip fully into your throat.

He hisses, hips jerking.

“Fuck. Good girl. That’s it-, fuck, that’s it.”

His free hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking along your jaw, watching every twitch of your expression like it’s art. Like you’re art.

He’s fucking your face now.

Your nails dig into his thighs, eyes locked on his, and he can see it. The want. The ache. You need this. You need him. He pulls out slowly, finally, letting you gasp for air, spit trailing from your lip to his cock. Your eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed, mouth red and swollen, and you’ve never felt more ruined, or more alive.

His hand stays on your jaw, tilting your face up to him.

“You still with me, sweetheart?”

You nod, breathing hard, voice wrecked. “More.”

That word? It’s all he needs.

He grips your jaw, your throat sore, spit clinging to your lips and chin. Your eyes are glassy, lashes wet, cheeks flushed from being fucked so deep, so hard, and he can’t take it.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, staring at you like he’s ready to devour you. “You don’t even know what you look like right now.”

Your lips part like you might try to answer, but he doesn’t let you. He hauls you to your feet with one firm pull, fingers still tangled in your hair, and crashes his mouth onto yours.

It’s not soft.

It’s not sweet.

It’s desperate.

He kisses you like he owns your breath, like he needs to taste himself on your tongue, like the filthy mess you’ve become under his hands only makes him hungrier.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb wipes at the trail of spit along your cheek, slow and deliberate.

Without a word, he turns and drops into the black armchair behind him, legs spread, cock flushed and heavy, glistening with your spit. His fingers curl in a come here motion as he leans back, one brow lifted.

“Come sit, sweetheart,” he says, voice like smoke and sin. “I want to see everything.”

You hesitate, just a second. Enough for his grin to deepen.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he murmurs. “You’ve already had me fuck your mouth. Be a good girl and let me fill you up.”

Your pulse stutters, but your body moves on instinct. You slide into his lap, thighs spread wide, and his hands are instantly on you, firm on your hips, anchoring you in place. He’s so fucking hard beneath you, the thick weight of him resting right where you need it.

“Look at you,” he says, gaze locked on yours. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. And you’re all mine right now.”

You shift slightly, the friction making you gasp, and his hands tighten. 

“I want you to ride me,” he says, voice low, like a promise. “Right here. Just like this. I want to feel all of you.”

He’s a pornstar, yes. But right now, with you, he’s so much more, an expert, a predator, a lover who knows every move to make you unravel.

Your hands grip his shoulders, grounding yourself. His hands slide up your thighs, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin near your hips before he reaches between you both and takes his cock in hand. He doesn’t rush, just rubs the head slowly through your folds, coating himself in your wetness.

“God, you’re soaked,” he groans. “You want me to fuck you, baby? Want me to fill that tight little pussy?”

You barely manage a breathy, “Yes.”

He lines himself up and you sink down slowly, inch by inch, the stretch making your eyes flutter shut, your breath catch. He’s thick, hot, perfect, and when he’s fully seated inside you, the moan you let out is unfiltered, broken.

His head falls back against the chair, jaw clenched. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s how you take cock, baby. Just like that.”

You’re start bounce your hips, both of you breathless, sweat clinging to skin, when Seonghwa leans forward and fists the hem of your top.

“Off,” he growls against your neck, voice low and ragged. “I want to see all of you.”

He peels the fabric up and over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him without breaking eye contact. His gaze drops to your bare chest, and for a moment, just a moment, he laughs, low and rich, like you're too unreal to fathom. His tongue flicks over your nipple and you arch into him, hands tangled in his hair.

His hand slides up to your throat, not tight, just there, possessive, grounding, as his other arm wraps around your back, pulling you in tighter. He kisses you again, tongue claiming yours, messy and hot and hungry.

Then he shifts, just slightly, one hand sliding between your bodies, his fingers curling around your hips.

“Here,” he says, voice low and firm. “Tilt forward a little. Right there, now roll your hips when I fuck into you. Not just up and down, roll. You’ll feel it hit deeper.”

You do as he says, and the second your hips adjust, your breath catches. Fuck. It’s like the angle unlocks something, you feel him right against that spot inside you, that sharp, aching pressure that steals the words from your mouth.

“Oh-, oh my god-”

“There you go,” he groans, watching your face twist. “That’s it. You feel that now?”

You nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders as you start to move, slow, rolling circles, grinding down as he thrusts up, every inch of him dragging right over that spot he told you to find.

His mouth finds your jaw, your ear. “Fucking knew you’d be good at this,” he breathes. “Smart girl. Feel how deep I am now? That’s all you. That’s you fucking yourself on my cock, just like I told you.”

You moan, loud and raw, body starting to tremble.

Suddenly, he shifts under you, standing in one fluid motion with your legs still wrapped around him, his arms securing you like you weigh nothing. You cling to him instinctively, arms around his neck, heart thudding like a war drum against your ribs.

He carries you through the dim hallway, but his eyes, his eyes are locked on you the whole way, like he doesn’t dare blink.

When he steps into the bedroom, it hits you.

The layout. The red lighting. The exact angle of the bed. The nightstand where the camera had been.

This is where he filmed it.

Your breath stutters, and he feels it. He knows.

His mouth curves, not quite a smile. More like something darker. “You recognize it.”

Before you can even say anything, he throws you down on the mattress, already dragging your legs apart, standing by the edge, looking down at you like he owns the whole fucking room. Like he owns you.

“You watched me stroke my cock on this bed? Come right here?” he asks, glancing down at the sheets beneath you.

You nod slowly, breath shallow.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, voice dark with promise, “Let’s make it fair.”

His hand moves between your thighs again, fingers spreading you open with no hesitation. His gaze flicks down, then back to your face, hungry.

And before you can ask what he means, he spits.

A slow, deliberate string lands between your legs, hitting right where you’re already dripping for him. He watches it drip, then reaches down to smear it in with two fingers, slow, messy circles that make your hips jerk.

He strokes himself lazily with his other hand, the head flushed and slick as he guides it up against your entrance again, but doesn’t push in.

“Now you’re getting the exclusive.” His smirk is wicked. “First-hand experience.”

And with no more warning, he pushes in, slow, deep, endless, his hips staying flush to yours as he lets you feel all of it. No rush. No mercy.

The stretch makes your spine arch, legs trembling where they dangle off the edge of the bed.

His hands grip your thighs, keeping you wide open, keeping you in place. His hips draw back just enough to make you whimper, then slam back in, harder this time.

You cry out, unfiltered, aching, and his mouth curves up. Another thrust, deeper. Your hands claw at the sheets.

“God-”

“No, baby.” His voice drops, taunting. “Say it right.”

You meet his eyes, panting. “Seonghwa.”

“Mmm,” he groans like it feeds him. “That’s better.”

You yelp, a high, broken sound, and he only grins, dragging your legs up to rest over his shoulders without warning.

“Fuck, look at you,” he pants, the shift angling him deeper, harder, like he’s trying to reach the part of you no one else has ever touched. His hips pound into you in a relentless rhythm, practiced, ruthless, like every stroke is calculated to make your body obey him.

“Fuck-, Seonghwa-”

“Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this. Bet no one’s ever earned it like I have.”

You shake your head, breathless. “N-No-, never-”

Seonghwa keeps his grip locked around your thighs, holding your legs over his shoulders, your body folded perfectly for him. His thrusts stay deep and steady, measured, intentional, devastating.

“Please-, please don’t stop-” you gasp, nails digging into the sheets. “You feel so good-, I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he hisses, thrusting harder now. “You’re gonna take all of it, sweetheart. You’re gonna come again with me standing right here, fucking you like no one ever has.”

The bed creaks beneath you. His grip is bruising now, one hand sliding to your waist to hold you still as he picks up speed, hips slapping against you with ruthless precision.

Your body’s not just close, it’s on the edge, tipping over.

“Good girl,” he murmurs darkly. “Now cum on this cock. Let me feel it. Let me fucking have it.”

Your back arches, your body convulsing as you fall apart again, crying out his name like it’s the only word you know. Your walls clamp down around him, wet and tight and perfect, and he groans deep from his chest, like your pleasure physically wrecks him.

He doesn't slow. Doesn't stop.

"Where do you want it, baby?" he pants, voice low, urgent, dangerous. "Tell me where I can come."

You barely manage to speak, voice wrecked and raw with need. “Inside,” you breathe. “Please-, want it in me.”

His eyes flare. That’s all it takes.

“Fuck,” he snarls, grip tightening on your thighs as he buries himself to the hilt, hard and deep. His pace turns brutal, hips snapping forward with mindless hunger. “You want me to fill you up? Want me to stuff you full like a good girl?”

“Yes-, yes, Seonghwa-, please, give it to me-”

He lets out a desperate, broken sound, then his whole body seizes, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spills everything, hot and thick and endless, painting your walls with every last drop. His head hangs forward, jaw clenched, muscles flexed with the effort of holding himself up.

He stays inside for a beat. Just breathing.

Then he pulls out slowly, carefully, still watching you, and watches as his cum spills out of you, slow and messy, dribbling down your skin and pooling on the sheets beneath.

His fingers drift to your inner thigh, spreading you wider, watching more of it leak from your swollen entrance.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Look at that.”

Then, without hesitation, his fingers press inside you again, pushing gently but firmly to shove back every last drop he can.

“Can’t let any of this go to waste,” he growls, possessive and rough.

You shiver at how desperate and controlling he sounds, but beneath that rough edge, there’s a strange reverence in his touch, like he’s worshipping the mark he’s left on you.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, coated with his warmth, and lifts them to your lips, eyes never leaving your flushed, gasping face. You open for him, trembling, sucking his fingers wet and slow, tasting both of you on his fingers. He watches with that smug, greedy smile, like he’s already claiming you completely.

He leans down, lips pressing against yours in a slow, soft kiss that melts away the sharp edges of the moment. His hands cup your flushed cheeks, thumb tracing gentle circles as if grounding you back to the here and now.

He stands up, flexing his shoulders, and walks over to the mini fridge near the dressing table. You hear the familiar click-hiss of a water bottle cap twisting. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from everything, “take your time. No rush.”

He walks back to you, places the bottle into your hand, and taps your fingers lightly until you hold it.

“Drink,” he says. “You’ll thank me in twenty minutes.”

You take it, but your fingers are still trembling. Whether from the rush or the way he’s looking at you now, you can’t quite tell.

“Dizzy?” he asks, settling onto the bed next to you. Not touching, just close enough that his warmth bleeds into your skin.

“A little,” you admit.

“That happens,” he says, voice lower now, gentler. “You came hard, probably held your breath. Let your body level out. You’ll be okay. I’m right here.” He reaches up, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his eyes warm and steady.

There’s a pause. You take a sip of water.

“I didn’t expect you to be so...” You search for the word, then settle on it. “Attentive.”

He raises a brow, something amused flickering in his eyes. “You thought I just fuck and leave?”

“No. I just...” You shrug. “Didn’t think the guy who made that video would also bring me water. Be so soft after.”

“It’s not softness. It’s responsibility.” He smiles, a small, tender curve of his mouth that reaches his eyes. “I’m not just the guy in the video, you know. I don’t just show up, take what I want, and disappear.” His voice is steady, warm.

“They don't show this part in the videos. I thought it was different,” you whisper.

He shakes his head gently, as if it’s the simplest truth. “It’s not about being different. It’s about respect. About care. You deserve that."

He leans forward, brushing your hair off your forehead with a gentle touch, like he can’t stop touching you.

“And besides,” he adds, his voice dipping again, “you didn’t just watch the video. You liked it.” His thumb lingers at your temple. “You deserve to be taken care of after finally getting what you wanted.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks.

As you sip you water again, he grabs a towel from the dresser, and gently parts your legs again. His touch is slower now, deliberate, but no less confident. He wipes you down with care, checking your reaction with every motion, watching for discomfort.

He catches your gaze once, smirking at whatever expression you’re making. “Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, teasing. “You’re the one who wanted it inside.”

You let out a weak sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

His fingers press a little more firmly at your thigh, not sexual, just grounding. “Still with me?”

You nod.

“Good,” he murmurs, and leans in to place a kiss just above your knee. Then another on your hip. Then your stomach. Not tender, possessive. A little filthy, like a promise that he could do it all over again if you weren’t trembling already.

He pulls the blanket up, not too high, just enough to cover the heat cooling on your skin. He settles beside you, moving slowly like he’s careful not to jostle you. His arm comes over your waist, pulling you in gently, not possessive, not demanding. Just there. Anchoring. And the moment you let your head rest against his chest, he exhales like he’s been waiting for you to do that.

His fingers wander lightly over your skin, warm and steady, drawing lazy circles against your hipbone, then trailing up the line of your side. Over and over, same rhythm. Like he’s reminding your body that it’s safe now. That he’s still here.

You’re still flushed, still a little dazed, but he watches you like he’s tracking every breath. Not because he’s worried, but because he knows exactly what this moment means. This part. The calm after the wreckage. 

“You okay?” he asks, tone softer now. Not teasing.

You nod, your cheek pressed to his chest. “Mhm. More than okay.”

He hums, pleased. “Didn’t expect you to let go like that,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against your shoulder without thinking. “You surprise me.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”

“Oh, it is.” His mouth quirks at the edge, and he kisses the same spot again, just because he can. “You were good. So fucking good.”

You glance up at him, the daze still clinging to your lashes. Then, after a long beat, he smirks, voice dipping again into that familiar cocky charm.

“Responsive. Loud. The camera would love you.”

“Don’t get ideas,” you murmur, but you’re smiling, eyes closed now.

“Too late.”

And before you can roll your eyes or protest, he leans in again, presses a final kiss to your bare shoulder, and settles back, satisfied, smug, and still entirely himself.

***

Monday morning light filters softly through your window as you sit at your desk, fingers poised above the keyboard. The weekend had slipped away in a blur, days spent pouring over notes, replaying moments, shaping words into something honest.

Your column isn’t about the headlines, the shock factor, or the rumors swirling around Park Seonghwa. It’s about the man beneath the surface, the one who’s more than just a pornstar or a carefully crafted persona.

You write about his quiet moments, the way he listens, how he’s sharp and cocky but never cruel. You describe how his confidence is real, born from years of experience and knowing exactly who he is, not just the image he projects.

There’s a paragraph about his past struggles, how he battled his own demons, found sobriety, and reclaimed control over his life, a story of resilience rarely told in the industry he dominates.

You reflect on the subtle ways he cares, the small, almost invisible acts of kindness and attention he offers to those around him. How his cocky charm is layered with vulnerability, even if he’s the first to hide it.

With a slow breath, you hit send. The column goes live.

You feel a strange mix of relief and anticipation, this is more than just a story. It’s a reckoning, a quiet unveiling of someone you’ve come to know in ways no one else has.

The day passes at the office, and before you know it, it’s afternoon.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and push through the office doors, stepping into the late afternoon light. You start walking away from the building, the click of your heels echoing on the sidewalk. The buzz of the street pulls at you, but then, unexpectedly, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Hey.”

You stop and glance over your shoulder. There he is, Seonghwa, leaning casually against the brick wall a few steps away. Black tank top, black pants, eyebrow piercing catching the light, and that wicked, confident smirk you know so well.

You try to hide the quickening of your heart.

“Hey” You raise an eyebrow, trying not to react. “You following me now?”

He pushes off the wall with a lazy kind of grace, hands in his pockets as he strolls toward you. “Would you be mad if I said yes?”

“I’d be impressed you admitted it.”

He chuckles, stopping in front of you, close, but not too close. “I read your column.”

Your heart skips, but you keep your tone cool. “Oh? Didn’t peg you as the literary type.”

His voice drops, amused. “Let’s see…” He pulls out his phone and taps the screen. “‘Park Seonghwa is more than what meets the eye,’” he begins, voice low and teasing. “‘Behind the piercing gaze and confident smirk is a man who understands what it means to be seen, truly seen, beyond the surface.’” He looks up, smirk widening. “That almost sounded sincere.”

“I have my moments.”

His smirk deepens. “And here I thought you just tolerated me.” He scrolls a little more, then reads with a wicked grin, “‘And maybe, that’s what makes him not just the best in his field, but someone impossible to forget.’”. He looks up at you. “Now I know that wasn’t for the readers.”

You flush slightly but play it off. “Believe it or not, I write for an audience. Not for your ego.”

He leans in just a little closer, eyes glinting with amusement. “Guess I’m not as bad as you thought, huh?”

You shrug, fighting a smile. “Maybe.”

That’s when he moves.

Slow, like he knows exactly how to set you off. He steps in, close enough that you have to tilt your chin slightly to keep eye contact. One hand comes up, fingertips skimming along your jaw, then drifting down the side of your neck. Light. Barely there. But very, very intentional.

His voice drops, velvet-soft. “So tell me this…” His thumb brushes under your jaw, coaxing your chin up just a touch. “Who’d you really write it for?”

You meet his gaze, lips twitching. “My editor.”

That smirk of his sharpens. “Mm. Liar.”

He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, lips hovering over yours. His hand cups your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek as if daring you to close the gap between you.

“Don’t think this is the end of the story, though. I like where this is headed,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with promise.

You don’t hesitate. Your confidence hums beneath your skin as you step forward, closing the last fraction of space. Your hand presses firmly against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

Leaning in, your lips brush just along the curve of his ear, a breathy, teasing whisper that drips with cocky challenge.

“Then keep up, pornstar.”

His breath catches, just for a second.

You pull back with a wicked smile, tapping his chest once before turning on your heel and strolling off like he didn’t just get flipped on his own script.

You don’t look back.

But you feel his stare, burning, amused, and turned on as hell.

And behind you, Seonghwa watches with a smirk tugging at his lips, eyes glued to your retreating figure.

Yeah. The story’s just getting good.

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[ggukivrse]

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 04

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, (eventual) explicit sexual content, swearing, alcohol consumption, i want them to fuck already sigh, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 5.2k

notes: i actually managed to get this one out early as promised yipeee!! this was very hastily edited cuz i wanted it out by today, but tysm to j @tranquilreign for beta reading!! idk what i’d do without u pooks :’) likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are very very appreciated! enjoy reading my lovies <333

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⤷ chapter four — halley’s comet

i was good at feeling nothing, now i’m hopeless / what a drag to love you like i do

Jungkook used to call you sunflower in the summer.

Not because of the flower itself — he never cared much for metaphors like that. But because every time the sun was out, you’d tilt your head back, eyes closed, face tilted towards the sky like you were trying to soak up every last drop of light. He’d tease you for it — call you predictable — then press a kiss to your forehead like it was instinct.

You tilt your head back now and the sun kisses the same spot. His lips don't.

And for some reason, it's the only thing you can think about now as the warmth bleeds across your skin, soft and steady. The boat rocks gently beneath you, the scent of salt lingering in the air. Laughter bubbles up from the other end of the deck, and you open your eyes behind your sunglasses, squinting toward the sound.

"Hyung, I still can’t believe you actually pulled this off," Namjoon says, nodding at Seokjin, who’s standing at the front of the boat.

Seokjin doesn’t even try to hide his smug grin. "Please. When have I ever let you down?"

"Should we make a list?" Yoongi mutters from his seat, but his tone is lazy, not sharp. He’s nursing something with ice in it and hasn’t moved much since boarding.

The engine hums beneath the conversation. You’re all sprawled out across the deck, sipping on melting drinks and soaking in the sunshine.

Somewhere behind you, Hoseok curses as a gust of wind nearly steals his hat. Haeun laughs too loud. Taehyung’s lying flat on his back with his eyes closed, Yasmine tracing lazy shapes on his chest with her finger.

Ari shifts beside you, adjusting the corner of the towel you’re both lying on so that it doesn’t bunch beneath her back. Her arm brushes yours, warm from the sun, and you feel her turn her head toward you even before she speaks.

“You guys okay?” she asks, soft and easy, like she’s just making conversation. Like she isn’t cracking open the air between you and Jungkook with three simple words.

Your body stiffens — not visibly, not enough to draw attention — but your fingers freeze mid-swipe against the condensation of your cup. You don’t answer right away. You can’t. Your brain rushes to catch up.

You glance toward the other end of the boat. Jungkook’s there, laughing at something Jimin just said, the wind catching at the hem of his shirt. Too far to hear you. Too busy to notice.

You look back at Ari.

“Huh?” you say, feigning light confusion, buying time. “What do you mean?”

She lifts her sunglasses slightly onto her head and looks at you more directly, less playfully now. “You and Jungkook. Did you guys have a fight or something?”

You blink at her. Then shake your head, too fast.

“No,” you say. “No, we’re fine. Why?”

Ari shrugs one shoulder, almost like she regrets asking. “I don’t know. You just feel... off. A little.”

You exhale through your nose and angle your face away from her, pretending to squint at the water. “We’re not off. We’re just... tired, I guess.”

“Okay,” she says, but it’s not full agreement.

You finally glance back at her, trying not to let anything show. “Do we really seem that weird?”

She hesitates, then gives a small, knowing smile. “Not weird. Just a little different.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Different how?”

“Dunno,” she says, settling back onto her elbows. “Usually you guys are either glued together or trying to beat each other at whatever game’s going on. Now it’s just... less of that.”

You almost laugh, but not because it’s funny.

Ari doesn’t push. She never does. She just lets the silence sit for a moment before speaking again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a thing. It’s not a big deal.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s fine. I get it.”

She glances toward the others. Jungkook’s crouched by the drink cooler now, talking to Hoseok about something. You look away before he catches you watching.

“You know,” Ari says after a beat, “it’s not like people expect couples to be perfect all the time.”

You swallow. “We’re fine, Ari.”

She holds her hands up. “Okay. I believe you.”

And you think maybe she does. But she’s still watching you with the kind of look that says she knows something’s sitting underneath. Something you’re not saying.

She lies with you for a few more short minutes in silence before slipping away with a soft pat to your leg, joining Kiara and Haeun near the back railing.

You let your head fall back against the towel with a quiet sigh. The sun blurs through your lashes and your drink is nothing but sugar water now, flat and warm. You swirl the straw absently, trying to shake off the weight of that conversation.

It’s not like she was wrong.

You just wish she didn’t see so much.

The spot beside you shifts slightly, and you glance over just in time to see a cold can held out toward you.

“Figured you'd want something actually drinkable,” Jungkook says, nodding toward your cup as you take the drink from his hand.

You lift the can to your forehead before cracking it open. The cool metal soothes your skin. “Thanks."

"No problem." He lowers himself onto the towel next to you, close enough that your arms brush when you both move to get comfortable. You don’t move away. Neither does he.

You tap the can against your thigh, condensation already dripping down your leg.

Jungkook stretches his legs out beside you, arms behind his head, gaze on the sky like he’s trying to read something in the clouds. The silence between you is comfortable, but your chest still hums with the residue of Ari’s voice. You tap your can against your thigh again — once, twice — then let the words tumble out before you can second-guess them.

“She asked if we were okay,” you say, not looking at him.

Jungkook turns his head slightly, but doesn’t speak.

“Ari,” you clarify. “She asked if we had a fight.”

He lets out a slow breath through his nose. “What’d you say?”

“I said no.”

A pause.

“And then?”

You shrug. “I said we’re just tired.”

Another silence, thicker this time. You feel his eyes on the side of your face, steady and searching. You refuse to look at him.

“She didn’t buy it,” you add after a beat. “Not completely.”

Jungkook sits up slowly, arms resting over his knees. His tone is quieter now, more careful. “Think anyone else noticed?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably not. Ari’s always been... observant.” You finally glance at him. “She wasn’t pushy or anything. Just— curious," you say with a shrug.

Jungkook simply hums in response.

You watch the side of his face. There’s a faint shadow along his jawline, the kind you used to trace with your thumb when you thought no one was looking. You shake the thought loose before it sticks and take another sip of your drink.

“I mean, what do they want us to do?” you mumble. “Make out on the boat?”

Jungkook chokes on a laugh — not the soft kind, but the genuine kind that comes out sudden and loud, like it caught him off guard.

You glance at him. “I’m serious.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still grinning. “You say that like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world.”

“It is,” you deadpan. “You want to traumatise Yoongi? That man hasn’t moved in an hour. You think he’s got the energy to witness that?”

That makes Jungkook laugh again, head tipping back. For a second — one small second — it’s just him, sunlight caught in the strands of his hair, smile easy and unguarded like it used to be. You look away.

He leans back beside you, bumping your arm with his in the process. “Okay,” he says. “So, no making out on the boat.”

“Glad we’re setting boundaries.”

He gives you a sidelong glance. “We just have to... I dunno, turn it up a notch.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like what?”

He shrugs, still watching the clouds. “Be a little more couple-y. You know. Lean on me sometimes. Laugh at my jokes.”

You scoff. “You think me laughing at your jokes is what’s gonna sell this?”

“Absolutely,” he says, deadly serious. “That’s the most unrealistic part of our relationship now. If you start doing that, everyone’ll think we’re closer than ever.”

“Right,” you deadpan. “Because this all hinges on me fake-laughing at your stand-up routine.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

You shoot him a look, but there’s no heat behind it. “So what else? You planning on feeding me grapes next?”

“I could,” he says, suddenly thoughtful. “But someone might throw themselves overboard if I do.”

Your mouth twitches before you can stop it — not a full laugh, but close. More breath than sound. You shake your head like you’re trying to brush it off, but the smile lingers for just a second too long.

There’s a beat of silence. A shift in tone that’s almost invisible, but not quite.

“Maybe just... ease into it,” he says. “We don’t have to overdo it. Just the little things.”

“Little things like what?” you ask, suspicious.

He shrugs. A breeze moves across the deck and a strand of hair falls across your face, sticking to your lip.

Before you can reach for it, his fingers are already there — brushing it back behind your ear.

You freeze.

Not too dramatically. Not enough for anyone to notice. But inside, everything stills.

Jungkook doesn’t pull away immediately. His fingers linger for a second longer than necessary — maybe two. Then he draws his hand back like nothing happened.

“See,” he says, “this is why Ari’s catching on. You’re a terrible actress.”

You blink, caught between five different emotions. “Excuse me?”

He huffs out a laughing breath. “You didn’t even flinch the other day when Taehyung almost touched a jellyfish, but this? I tuck a little hair behind your ear and you go full statue.”

“Because it’s weird!” you protest, flustered now. “You don’t just— touch me like that anymore.”

The words tumble from your lips before you can stop them, and there's a pause.

Jungkook goes still. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly, and for a second, you think he might actually say something real — something raw.

But then he exhales through his nose, masking it with a crooked half-smile.

“Right,” he says, voice lighter than it should be. “My bad. Next time I’ll just let it smack you in the face.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but your mouth twitches like it wants to smile.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You’re trying not to laugh,” he says.

“I’m trying not to shove you off the boat,” you correct.

“Same thing.”

He lets your words hang in the air, smiling in that way he does when he knows he’s gotten to you, just a little. It’s not smug exactly. It’s softer than that. Like he’s letting himself enjoy something small, something fleeting — and trying not to ruin it by pointing it out.

You shake your head and look back toward the horizon. The water is endless, all shifting blue and gold, and the sun is starting its slow descent, softening everything it touches.

Jungkook sits up, arms resting on his knees. You don’t look at him, but you can feel the shift — the way his attention settles on you in full.

“I meant it,” he says after a moment.

You glance over. “Meant what?”

He shrugs one shoulder, careful. “That it’s the little things. That’s how people believe it.”

You arch an eyebrow, sceptical. “People? Or you?”

There's humour laced in your words, but your smile falters when he meets your gaze.

“Both.”

The breeze picks up again, brushing against your skin, tugging gently at the edge of your towel. You catch it with your elbow, more for something to do than anything else.

You’re the one who looks away first — not because you’re uneasy, but because if you don’t, you might say something you can’t take back.

The silence stretches, and eventually you lie back, arm draped over your eyes to shield them from the sun.

“I’m still not fake-laughing at your jokes,” you murmur, voice flat but quiet. “Just so we’re clear.”

Jungkook laughs, but it’s lighter this time. The warmth that usually comes with the sound isn't quite there.

“Fair,” he says. “But maybe... maybe don’t flinch like I’ve slapped you every time I touch your arm.”

“I make no promises.”

He smiles. “Didn’t expect you to.”

The room is quiet except for the occasional hiss of steam from the bathroom and the soft swish of fabric as you move. The sun is lower now, casting long shadows across the floor, and the salty breeze sneaks in through the crack in the door.

You’re barefoot, crouched beside the dresser in a black satin dress that fits cleanly at the waist and skims your frame like it was made to. It’s simple, elegant — the kind of thing that photographs well even when you don’t try. Your hair is mostly curled, but the last roller is still clipped near the crown of your head, half-forgotten.

You’ve been retracing your steps for the past ten minutes. First calmly. Now a little less so.

“Come on,” you mutter, pushing aside a pile of folded clothes with the back of your hand. “Where the hell are you…”

You wore the earrings all day. You remember clipping them in this morning before the boat ride, the pearls small and elegant, the kind that sat just right against your jaw. They’d survived volleyball, swimming in the pool, even lying half-asleep by the sea. But now, just when you're supposed to get dolled up for one of Yasmine’s “sunset glam” photoshoots, one is gone.

And of course, it's your favourite pair. A gift from your mom the day you turned twenty.

You crouch next to the bed and run your hand along the rug for the fourth time. No glint of metal. No satisfying clink. Just a couple stray bobby pins and a sock that might be yours, might be his.

The bathroom door opens behind you with a quiet click. You hear it before you see him.

“Hey,” Jungkook calls out. “Have you seen my—”

He stops.

You glance up from your crouch to see him standing just outside the doorway to the bathroom, towel-drying his hair with one hand. He’s in sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his waist, and nothing else. His skin is still damp, a faint sheen catching the last of the light. His hair sticks up in unruly spikes, and there’s a crease from the towel pressed into his shoulder.

He pauses when he sees you on the floor in your dress, face flushed with frustration, one roller still pinned in your hair.

You straighten up. “I lost my earring.”

Jungkook blinks once. Then twice.

You don’t wait for a response. “The pearl ones. I wore them all day, I definitely had them on earlier. I think I might’ve lost it on the boat or something, or maybe at the beach, I don’t know. Fuck— if I dropped it in the ocean, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You brush past him towards your bag, and start digging through the little zip pouch where you sometimes toss jewellery when you’re tired. “And Yasmine’s going to have a meltdown if I’m not ready in five minutes. I mean, not a real meltdown, but she’ll definitely give me that disappointed look. You know the one.”

You don’t know why you’re rambling. Maybe to fill the silence. Maybe to ignore how he’s still standing there, towel now slung around his neck, jaw ticking like he’s trying very hard to keep his expression neutral.

He steps back into the bathroom without saying anything. You hear the low rustle of a drawer opening. When he re-emerges a few seconds later, he’s pulling a plain black t-shirt over his head, the fabric catching slightly against damp skin. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just crosses to his side of the room and scans the floor near the nightstand.

You risk a glance at him, then look away quickly. “It’s fine,” you say, quieter now. “You don’t have to help. It’s probably gone.”

He crouches down anyway, lifting the corner of the rug with one hand.

He doesn’t look at you or ask any questions. Just scans the floor like if he stares hard enough, it’ll reveal something.

You sigh, pressing your fingers to your temple. “I just really liked those earrings.”

“I know,” he says quietly.

You glance back at him.

He’s sitting back on his heels now, hands braced on his thighs. There’s a faint crease between his brows, like he’s still somewhere else.

Then he says, without looking at you, “You look good.”

The words are soft, sincere even, but they catch you off guard.

When you don’t respond right away, he clears his throat and stands, walking over to the dresser and running his hand along the edge, like the earring might have magically perched itself there.

You swallow. “Thanks,” you say finally, voice low.

He nods once, then double taps on his phone screen to check the time. “They’re probably waiting.”

You nod too, even though you still haven’t found the earring. The one that made you feel just a little more like yourself. The one that matched.

You take one last look at the floor, then straighten slowly. You adjust the roller in your hair without thinking, but your fingers move sluggishly now.

Jungkook’s already at the door, hand resting on the knob like he’s waiting for the right moment to say something. He glances over his shoulder.

“I’ll tell them you’ll be a minute.”

"Thanks."

He shuts the door behind him softly, and you let out a quiet sigh, turning toward the small jewellery box on the nightstand.

You sift through it with practiced fingers and pull out another pair — not the ones you wanted, but good enough.

As you clip them in, your hands move on instinct, your thoughts somewhere else entirely.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind you, the sound too sharp against the stillness of the room.

Your skin is clean, warm, dewy from the last step of your skincare routine. You pad across the floor and let your body fall onto the bed softly. The air leaves your lungs in a long, tired sigh as your legs dangle off the edge, your hair still damp from the quick rinse you took after coming back. The mattress dips beneath you, then settles.

The room smells faintly of clean cotton and the trace of your conditioner — the kind you only use for special things, because it costs a little too much and reminds you a little too much of before.

Your dress from earlier lies draped over the back of a chair, the earrings you ended up going with still sitting in your palm. You set them down on the nightstand without much care.

You’d smiled for the camera. You’d posed, you’d laughed, you’d tilted your head at just the right angle. It was fun in the moment and everything had gone well. The pictures were probably beautiful.

But you’re annoyed. And tired. And the kind of restless that only comes when something small goes wrong and you know it’s not about that small thing at all.

You sit up just enough to grab your laptop from the side table and the camera from the dresser. Yasmine had given it to you after begging you to upload the pictures onto your laptop since she didn't bring hers.

The familiar beep of it powering on is strangely comforting, and you scroll through a few thumbnails before plugging it in. A progress bar creeps across your screen as the files transfer. Slowly, of course. Nothing ever moves fast when you want it to.

You stretch out again, laptop resting on your stomach, and start clicking through the images as they load.

At first, they’re all from today.

Yasmine behind the lens, as always. The golden hour light is flattering. Everyone looks sun-kissed and effortless — mid-laugh, mid-step, mid-spin. You see yourself in frame: eyes half-lidded, wind teasing your hair, smile tugging at your lips.

There’s a shot of you and Kiara, and one of Ari piggybacking Haeun into the water. A blurry one of Jimin striking a ridiculous pose mid-jump while Taehyung points in mock horror. They'd come to join in at the end, both more than a little tipsy.

You click through them slowly, deleting a few accidental ones and some you don't think are the best.

Then, without meaning to, you scroll a little too far.

Today bleeds into yesterday, and yesterday into the last few years. One second it’s this trip, and the next it’s pictures you'd uploaded from your own crappy little camera. A party in someone’s dorm. A night spent crammed onto a too-small couch. A table cluttered with takeout boxes and half-empty cups.

You didn’t even remember some of these being taken.

Your face in mid-yawn. Jungkook blurry in the background, reaching for popcorn. Yoongi asleep on a beanbag with a party hat sliding off his head.

You find yourself smiling as you click through them all, before your finger comes to a still.

A thumbnail catches your eye. One of a video with no further label or context.

You pause, cursor hovering, before double clicking on it.

The video starts with a shaky frame — the camera shifting as you adjust it, then settling as you hold it up with both hands.

Jungkook stands in front of a claw machine, sleeves pushed up, jaw set with quiet determination. The glow of the machine paints him in soft neon blues and reds. There’s a Totoro plush front and centre, slightly tilted, half-buried under a heap of other prizes.

Your voice comes from behind the camera, already amused. “This is a lot of pressure, baby.”

“I’ve trained for this,” he says, without looking at you.

“You’ve failed three times.”

“That was just a warm-up.”

You huff a laugh. “That’s what you’re calling it now?”

Jungkook moves the joystick with purpose, eyes narrowed like this is life or death. The claw slides left, then back, then hovers over the plush.

“This is it,” he says.

“I believe in you,” you deadpan. “I mean, statistically, you have to get it eventually.”

The claw descends. You both watch as it surprisingly manages to grip the Totoro. Not perfectly — it's a little too far to the side — but it lifts nonetheless.

“No way,” you breathe.

It swings. Wobbles. Then drops cleanly, right into the chute.

There’s a second of stunned silence from you behind the camera.

“No fucking way," you laugh, genuine disbelief laced in your voice.

Jungkook bends down, reaches into the machine, and pulls out the plush. He turns toward you, holding it out with a smug smile.

“You actually did it! Oh my god— wait, let me see— he’s so cute!”

The frame swings back up, catching you reaching out for the Totoro, turning it in your hands, squealing softly like you can’t believe it’s real.

And Jungkook — he’s looking at you.

The camera somehow manages to catch it perfectly.

He’s not laughing or gloating, just watching you. A soft smile pulls at his lips, dimples making an appearance against his cheeks. His eyes are steady but a little dazed, like he’s taking in more than just the moment. Like he can’t help it.

You don’t see it in the moment — too distracted as you hug the plush to your chest and start thinking of what to name it — but the camera does.

“Can't believe that you actually managed to get it," you say, shifting the camera to show the plushie properly.

“Course I did,” he says. “You wanted it.”

You giggle, mumbling "Cheesy fuck." But the smile is clear in your voice, and Jungkook simply laughs before the screen cuts to black.

You stare at the screen for a while, fingers still resting on the keyboard, frozen in place like even they know you’re not ready to move yet.

There’s a warmth spreading low in your chest, starting at your ribs, curling in your stomach, settling somewhere just under your collarbone.

You’re still smiling. Just a little. That soft, involuntary kind you used to get around him when he said something dumb on purpose. Like when he tried to teach you how to play some impossible game at the arcade and kept losing so dramatically you suspected he was doing it just to make you laugh.

You thought that part of you had burned out. Gone cold after the breakup. But sitting here now, wrapped in soft clothes and the hush of this room, staring at a frozen screen where his laugh used to be — you realise it didn’t.

It just went quiet.

And now it’s creeping back in through the cracks, blooming in your chest with a stubborn sort of gentleness.

Because the truth is, you remember that night. You remember how he looked, focused and determined and weirdly proud of himself over a claw machine. You remember the weight of the Totoro plush in your hands. You remember walking home with him, the two of you talking about what you’d name it and him insisting that if it was going to live in your bed, he should get visitation rights.

And you remember how easy it was to love him.

Not in a dramatic way, but through the small things. In the way he listened. In the way he noticed when your shoelace was untied before you did. In the way he always, always looked at you like that — like you were it.

And not just the way he looked at you, but the way you felt looking back. Because even after everything, even after the silence and the distance and the effort you’ve poured into pretending you’re fine, the truth is that it never really went away.

That warmth tightens in your throat, a little too full to swallow. You blink down at the laptop, like maybe it’ll help. Like maybe if you just sit still enough, breathe slow enough, you can keep the feeling contained.

The screen has gone to sleep now, casting the room in a dim glow. Outside the window, you can hear the ocean, its soft waves rolling in and out quietly.

You close your eyes, just for a second.

But the quiet moment is interrupted when the door opens with a small click.

You sit up just enough to slam the laptop shut, a little too fast, the sound echoing louder than it should in the soft hush of the room. Your pulse jumps. You don’t even know why. Reflex, maybe.

Jungkook pauses in the doorway.

“Oh,” he says, voice low and a little slurred. “Shit. Thought you were asleep.”

He’s leaning on the doorframe, one hand still on the handle like the room is swaying more than it is. His top is slightly damp around the collar, and his hair’s a mess.

You blink at him. Say nothing at first.

He squints toward the laptop on your lap. “You working on something?”

“No.” You slide it aside, shake your head once. “Just… photos.”

He nods like that’s a satisfying answer, though you’re sure he didn’t really hear it. His attention shifts to the bed, and then without warning, he pushes off the door and flops onto the mattress beside you.

Not the far side. Not right on you either. Just… close.

You instinctively scoot half an inch back.

“Whoa,” he mutters into the pillow, one arm sprawled above his head. “This mattress is nice as fuck.”

You glance down at him. He’s half on his side now, eyes on the ceiling, a faint smile tugging lazily at his mouth.

“Why didn’t you come down?” he asks, sudden but not sharp. Just curious.

“I was tired,” you say.

He hums — thoughtful, but not convinced. “Lame excuse.”

“I’m allowed to be tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

You exhale, not quite a sigh. “You’re always drunk.”

That pulls a muffled laugh from him. He turns his head toward you slightly, cheek pressed into the pillow. “Not always.”

You glance at him. “Tonight?”

“Not my fault,” he mutters. “Jimin dared me to match his shots. Dumb fuck.”

You shake your head — not at him, but at the image of it in your head. “Sounds like him.”

Jungkook shifts again, rolling fully onto his side to face you. His arm stretches out across the blanket, fingers dragging idly over the fabric between you like he’s drawing invisible lines without thinking.

The air dips quieter. Softer.

“You smell good,” he mumbles, almost absently.

You reach up, brushing your hair off your face. “Shampoo, probably.”

He hums again, eyes heavy-lidded now. “The one you always stole from me.”

“I didn’t steal it,” you say, casually.

He smiles into the pillow. “Right. Borrowed forever.”

You shake your head — more amused than you’d admit out loud — and look away, toward the open window where the breeze has picked up just enough to shift the curtains.

"You looked really good too. In that dress. I mean— not that you don't look good without it. Not like without it, without it, just— y’know, you always look… pretty."

You can't stop the quiet laugh that tumbles from your lips despite the heat spreading across your cheeks. "Go to sleep, Kook."

He hums in response, and it doesn't take long for his breathing to settle into something slower.

You pull the blanket up over your lap and lean back against the headboard, trying not to think too hard about the warmth pooling between you.

You shift slightly, pulling the blanket higher.

The laptop is still balanced on your legs, almost forgotten now. You reach over and place it on the nightstand, careful not to knock over the earrings still sitting there. One catches the light and glints for just a second before going still again.

“Can you move?” you murmur, nudging his leg with yours. “I need the blanket.”

Jungkook groans dramatically, but rolls away from you, flopping flat on his back with one arm thrown over his face. “You’re so demanding.”

“You’re in my way.”

“You’re lucky I like you.”

The words slip out so fast and so soft you don’t have time to react before he’s already tugged the blanket down to your waist with one hand, helping, not thinking.

You lie back slowly, head against the pillow, trying to keep to your side. Jungkook moves around beside you — one knee bent, one leg stretched out. His foot brushes yours once, unintentionally.

His arm loosely drapes across your waist as he gets comfortable. You glance down, but say nothing. He’s already half-asleep, breath evening out, face turned toward you like he’s forgotten where he is.

You don’t move his arm, though, you don’t lean into it either.

You just let it be.

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[faithsmadhouse]

Woohoo! 🎉 on 1000!

Charles Leclerc fem reader and 🍯 #faefucked but with far reader?

A deal with the devil||Charles leclerc x fae trickster!fem!reader

Summary — after a few seasons of bad luck Charles makes a deal with the devil or rather a trickster who gives a championship winning car.

Word count—611

Warnings — riding Charles being slightly manipulated and taken advantage of and basically selling his soul.

A/n— thank you so much 😊 also this was so much fun to do!!!!! (I also went over the limit) also this isn’t edited so there might be some slight incorrect grammar

Follow my 1k celly with the tags faiths1kferalhours and faiths1kspicecelly and here’s the main post

Ferrari’s upgrades weren’t cutting it. The car was a tin can on wheels and wasn’t giving the results everyone wanted so, when you—half-laughing, half-glowing with moonlight—offered him a deal, he didn’t hesitate. Fae trickster or not, Charles Leclerc would do anything to win.

The moment he said the words, you knew he didn’t understand what he was asking for.

“I want a championship-winning car,” he breathed, eyes locked on yours like he could already taste the glory. “Tell me what it’ll take.”

You smiled slow, sharp. The moonlight kissed your skin like it worshipped you, curling around your magic, pulsing like a heartbeat. “That’s a steep price, mon cœur.”

“I’ll pay it.”

You stepped closer, your eyes glowing violet for just a moment. “Then let’s seal the deal.”

His brow furrowed. “With what?”

Your fingers brushed the waistband of his fireproofs. “With you.”

And before he could respond, your fingers were already unzipping his red fireproofs, tugging him back into the shadows of the motorhome, where time twisted in knots and the air smelled of magic and sex.

“You’re not human,” he groaned as you straddled him, pinning him to the plush seat like he weighed nothing. “ should i be scared.”

“You should,” you whispered against his throat, biting gently. “But you want this.”

He did. God, he did.

Your magic thrummed through your skin, buzzing where your thighs spread over his. You weren’t soft—you were sharp, teasing, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds like you were deciding whether or not he deserved it. Charles gripped your hips, desperate now.

“Don’t tease,” he gasped. “Please.”

You laughed. “Oh, you sweet mortal thing. You made a deal with a fae trickster. You will be teased.”

And yet—when you sank down onto him, tight and slick and too much—he swore he saw stars.

“You’re trembling,” you whispered. “Is it the magic? Or me?”

“Both,” he rasped, hands gripping your thighs.

“Fae rules,” you said sweetly, biting his earlobe. “Deals must be earned. Pleasure must be given.”

Charles groaned as you kept grinding, slow and cruel. “You’re torturing me.”

“Mm,” you hummed. “You’re the one who begged for the title and a winning car. Desperate men don’t get to set the pace.”

“F—fuck,” he choked. “You’re—tight—fuck—please.”

You rode him like your body was made to break him. Wet heat clenching around him, thighs flexing, back arched as you slammed down, again and again. Each movement deliberate. Each bounce of your ass dragging a raw moan from his throat.

“Look at you,” you whispered, voice like silk wrapped around a blade. “So pretty when you beg. Moaning for a monster.”

“You feel—god—you feel unreal.”

“I’m a monster Charles what did you expect,” you say smiling wickedly, fucking him harder.

Charles was wrecked. Whining. Eyes blown wide, mouth open. You leaned back, letting him watch the way his cock disappeared into you over and over, your cunt sucking him in like he belonged there because, after tonight, he would.

He spilled without warning, body arching, a gasp ripped from his chest like magic itself had seized him. You whispered ancient words over his skin as you milked him dry, your cunt fluttering around his pulsing length.

The moment the spell sealed, the air shimmered.

“It’s done,” you whispered, glowing in the low light, your body still pulsing with power. “Your car will be a championship contender and You’ll win it all.”

He was panting, eyes still dazed. “And you?”

You leaned in, lips brushing his. “You’re mine now, champion.”

“Mind. Body and soul.”

[societyfolklore]

Bad Idea, Right?

Title: Bad Idea, Right?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary:  You swore you were done. You told your friends you blocked him. But Bucky Barnes always knew how to get under your skin and between your thighs.

Word Count: 4.2k  

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, Rough sex, Oral (f!receiving), Fingering, Praise & degradation mix, Hair pulling / wall sex, Toxic relationship themes, Lying to friends, Emotionally complicated dynamic, Post-sex emotional avoidance

A/N:  @sunday-bug… all because you shared that one damn edit (completely dif from this) but now I have ‘Olivia Rodrigo - Bad idea right’ on loop in my damn head..

Your back had hit the wall so hard you gasped, but not from pain. It was the way he did it with that desperate, reverent hunger, like he was trying to shove the world away just to get more of you. The contact shuddered through your spine, knocked the breath from your chest, and made your thighs tighten on instinct. His hands were already inside your shirt, fingers cold and rough against your overheated skin, dragging the fabric up like it had offended him just by existing. You felt the calluses scrape over your ribs, the pad of his thumb grazing the underside of your breast like he’d forgotten what it tasted like and now he needed to remember.

He mouthed down your throat, lips wet and hot, tongue flicking behind your ear with attack precision. It sent a shock straight to your core. Your knees threatened to buckle, and the only reason you stayed upright was because he pinned you there with his body; all sharp edges and heavy heat. His beard scraped your jaw and down your neck, and you hated that it made you wetter. Hated it even more when you tilted your head for more.

You were breathless, your palms splayed against the drywall, clutching for something solid while your mind went soft. Already halfway gone. You could feel him- hot breath, hard cock, clenched jaw.

It was always like this.

You always said no. You never meant it.

It wasn’t weakness. Not exactly. It was instinct. It was muscle memory. It was fire meeting gasoline in a dark room where nothing good ever happened, but you still lit the match.

This is a bad idea, you thought, right as his teeth caught the edge of your bra and dragged it down your shoulder. Had worse.

Hours earlier.

You weren’t going to go out tonight. Swore it. Even said it out loud in that tone you use when you're trying to convince yourself just as much as anyone else. You'd already taken off your makeup, put on that worn hoodie, queued up something half-hearted on Netflix.

But your friends were already dressed, already halfway to that bar you used to avoid like it had teeth. His bar. So you went. Just to prove it didn’t matter. Just to prove he didn’t matter. You told yourself you’d stay for one drink. One laugh. Maybe half a song.

And then you saw him.

Back corner. Hood up. Shoulders hunched like he didn’t want to be noticed- but his eyes were already on you. Locked in. Hungry in that quiet, heavy-lidded way that always made your heart skip a beat you didn’t want to admit to.

He didn’t come over. He didn’t need to. Just sat there, fingers tapping the glass in front of him, mouth barely twitching like he already knew how the night was going to end.

You pretended not to see him. Ordered something strong and downed it too fast. Laughed too loud at things that weren’t funny. You held your phone like a shield. Fidgeted with the rim of your glass. Said you had to pee just to get away.

But the longer you stayed, the more you felt it, that low hum under your skin, a dangerous ache that didn’t quite hurt but refused to go away. The way your body always seemed to tune to his presence like a song it hated but still knew by heart. That magnetic pull.

That slow, inevitable draw.

You lasted just over an hour before slipping outside for some air. The noise had gotten too loud, the lights too sharp, and the burn of your drink wasn’t doing what it was supposed to anymore. You told your friends you needed a smoke. You didn’t have one. But you needed something to do besides stare at the bar and feel the heat of his gaze crawling up your spine.

And of course, he found you there. Like always. He didn’t even pretend to be surprised.

You’d barely had time to breathe before the back door creaked again behind you.

You lasted just over an hour before slipping out the back door for air. The night was cool, but your skin was flushed, your blood buzzing in that restless way it always did when he was close. You paced, fiddled with the zipper of your jacket, stared out into the alley like it might give you an answer. Like maybe it’d remind you that walking away was still an option.

He found you there, like always. Slow footsteps, his shadow stretching long across the alley wall before you even heard the creak of the door closing behind him.

“Couldn’t even wait until last call?”

You turned at the sound of his voice, smooth and low, tinged with something smug and sharp. That voice always got under your skin. Familiar enough to drag up a hundred memories you didn’t want to sift through.

You let out a small, crooked smile. Not quite a laugh.

“Still playing vigilante?” you asked, your head tilted like you were trying to gauge the bruises you were sure were hidden under his hoodie. You never asked where they came from. He never offered.

“Still pretending you don’t miss me?” he shot back, and there it was, that grin. The smirk that had gotten him into your bed and under your skin more times than you could count. Hair falling around his jaw, eyes drinking you in like he hadn’t seen you in months, even if it had only been a couple of weeks. 

He stepped closer. His boots scraped softly over gravel, slow and deliberate, like he knew exactly how to draw this out. Not touching. Not yet. But his presence was thick, magnetic. You could feel it curling around you, pulling at your spine, daring you to move first.

The look in his eyes made your stomach flip. All dark amusement and something heavier behind it. Like even when he smiled, there was still something broken beneath it. Something that wanted, needed. Not just sex. You knew that look. You’d seen it before, usually right before he kissed you like an apology and fucked you like a promise. You knew better. You always knew better.

“You left fast,” he murmured. “Didn’t even give me a chance to say something reckless and stupid.”

You raised a brow. “Don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t even see you.”

He laughed once, under his breath. “Liar.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t deny it. Your gaze flicked down to his hands; scarred knuckles, a twitch of tension in his thumb. Then back up to his mouth, which was already curling again like he’d caught the slip.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of every fuck, every fight, every night you swore would be the last.

“One drink,” he said, stepping in close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body. His fingers brushed your wrist, barely a touch, but enough to make your stomach twist. Soft, like he knew he didn’t need to push.

You smirked. “Sure. One drink.”

He tilted his head, voice quiet. “I didn’t mean in there.”

You laughed despite yourself, and fuck, you hated that it felt good. “Didn’t think you did.”

You could pretend a little longer. Pretend you weren’t already leaning toward him. Pretend your hand didn’t slide into his just as easy as it always had.

“Still a bad idea,” you said, just loud enough for him to hear.

“Most fun ones are,” he replied.

And when he tugged gently, guiding you away from the alley wall and toward the edge of whatever this was, you didn’t stop him.

You never did.

Now.

His place had always been a mess- unmade bed, cluttered floor, that dim yellow lamp in the corner that buzzed when it was left on too long. But you didn’t see any of that. Not really. All you saw was the look in his eyes when he turned the lock. Like he’d been holding his breath since the alley and could finally exhale now that you were here.

You kicked your shoes off as he tugged your shirt over your head. You didn’t even remember the walk here, just the way his hand traveling your skin, pressing, possessive. You didn’t remember the elevator ride, but you remembered the heat of his mouth on your neck the second the door clicked shut. And you definitely remembered the sound you made when he pressed you into the wall like he needed to own you just to breathe.

His mouth had been on you before you could say a word. Hands rough, mouth softer than it had any right to be. And God, it was a hit- pure, concentrated need shot straight into your bloodstream. His tongue dragged across your throat like he was carving the shape of your name there, licking into your skin like he wanted it under his teeth forever.

You didn’t just take it, you gave it back.

One hand in his hair, tugging him closer, the other trailing down his side to feel the twitch of muscle under your palm. You traced the ridge of his spine, not for affection, but to anchor yourself. Because being with him was like balancing on a fault line, any second, you were going to break. And maybe you wanted to.

Your hips rolled against his thigh. His fingers pushed beneath the waistband of your jeans. You met his touch with your own, slipping your hand down between you, palming him through his jeans. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating into your chest. You liked the way his hips bucked into your hand. You liked knowing you could still pull that sound out of him.

It was a pattern. It was a loop. Your breath hitched when he bit your lip; his pulse jumped when you pressed harder, rubbing slow, lazy circles until you both lost track of who was chasing who. There was no rhythm, only craving, matching urges stacked on top of each other until your bodies didn’t care who had started it.

You kissed him hard, open-mouthed, your hand sliding up under his shirt to feel the twitch of his abs as he groaned. He gripped your hip like he was holding on for dear life. Like if he let go, he’d come apart. Maybe he would have.

It wasn’t just addiction.

It was relapse.

He backed you onto the bed, dragging your jeans down your legs like he was unwrapping something that had been meant for him all along. Like he was unwrapping a secret he’d kept hidden, a habit he wasn’t ready to kick. And maybe you were.

His eyes raked over you, pupils blown wide, lips slick from your mouth and smiling like he’d just won a prize. You were shirtless, flushed, the waistband of your panties biting into your hips and your jeans twisted around one ankle like you’d barely survived getting them off. Your chest rose and fell too fast. His hand slid up your thigh, lazy but sure.

Then your phone buzzed beside you on the mattress. Sharp. Interrupting.

You glanced at it. The name on the screen lit you up with guilt before you even answered.

Your best friend.

Bucky smirked against your stomach. “Go on,” he said, voice low and smug. “Tell her you blocked me.”

You answered before you could think better.

“Hey,” you said, voice tight, trying to sound bored. “What’s up?”

Your best friend didn’t waste time.

“Please tell me you’re not where I think you are.”

Bucky was already tugging your panties to the side, dragging the soaked fabric down with a slow, deliberate flick of his wrist, like he was savouring the reveal. One thick finger slid through your folds with ease, collecting wetness, and he groaned low against your skin like the sound alone might make you come apart. "You never came back inside.." 

Her voice sounded far away as Bucky stubble dragged along your inner thigh as he mouthed at the sensitive skin. The finger he’d dipped into you came back to circle your clit with practiced laziness, slick and filthy, and he chuckled into your skin when your thighs twitched involuntarily.

You glared down at him, trying to warn him off, but it only made him grin wider. He knew exactly what he was doing to you. His eyes set on your and then just tapped his ear, shit you were still on the phone. 

“No,” you lied, the word catching slightly as his finger made another circle. “Course I didn’t. I just went home.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, tongue flicking out once, twice. Lingering longer this time, pushing closer to the place you needed him most. You clamped your jaw shut, trying to keep your breathing even, trying not to moan his name with your best friend on the line.

He knew it. And he loved it.

“Seriously,” she said. “You need to block him for real this time.”

He dragged your panties down your thighs slow, deliberate, never breaking eye contact. You spread your legs wider for him, and he bit just above your knee- a sharp nip, enough to make you flinch.

“I did,” you whispered. “I’m done.”

His mouth moved up as he got settled on his stomach, tongue a firm stripe through your soaked folds, dragging from your entrance all the way up to your clit like he wanted to taste every bit of what he did to you. His groan was low and guttural, vibrating straight through your core, mouth open, tongue thick and wet, pressing in again to tease your fluttering hole before flattening and sliding up. His mouth closed over your clit like he was punishing you for the lie. He started to suck- slow at first, like he was building something. Like he wanted you to squirm, to shake. The suction was warm and steady, his tongue flicking under the hood with maddening precision, making your whole body arch into the pressure. Every inch of that stripe made you twitch, made your breath hitch, made your toes curl in the sheets.

“You okay? You sound- weird.”

You slammed the mute button as you arched chasing the feeling of him.

“Don’t you fucking stop,” you hissed

He didn’t.

Two fingers pushed inside you, thick and sure, curling up in that maddening rhythm that made your hips stutter against the bed, your entire lower half bucking toward his face like your body had a mind of its own. He was fucking you with them slow and deep, dragging against every nerve-ending inside you, fingertips pressing up into that sweet spot with a precision that made your vision blur.

His tongue worked your clit with slow, hungry circles, like he was savoring every second. Long licks became short, teasing flicks, then back again- until your breath was catching in your throat with every pass of his mouth.

You tried to unmute. Failed. Tried again, shaking, fingers fumbling across the screen.

“Sorry,” you gasped, voice wrecked and thin. “You know how tequila hits me. I need to go...”

You hung up without saying goodbye. Couldn’t. Not like this. Not with your mouth falling open around a moan you couldn’t swallow. Not when he had you laid out, open and trembling, every inch of your skin burning under his mouth. Not when your legs were shaking from the pressure building low and fast, like a fuse just waiting for his next move to set it off. You didn’t need to say goodbye, you needed to fall apart.

You dropped the phone to the sheets like it was too heavy to hold, both hands now gripping his hair, pulling him closer, grinding up into his face as his fingers drove into you again. The angle shifted just enough to make stars blink behind your eyes, and the way he groaned into your clit.

“God!” It shattered something in you. That groan wasn’t just arousal. It was possession. It was homecoming.

You came with his name caught between your teeth, thighs clamping around his head, one hand tangled in his hair, the other gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles cracked

He didn’t stop. Not right away. Just kept licking, slow and greedy, like a man making up for lost time.

Only when your legs went limp did he pull back.

He kissed the inside of your knee, soft and smug.

“Yeah,” he said, voice thick and wrecked. “Real done with me, huh?”

You tugged on his hair, rolling your eyes even as your thighs still trembled.

“Shut the fuck up and take off your pants.”

He fucked you like a man with something to prove. Not just to you, but to himself. Every thrust was a declaration, every roll of his hips a punishment and a plea tangled together in the heat of your bodies.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him like you were drowning in the drag of his pace. His hips slammed into yours, rough and relentless, like he needed to bury himself so deep he could erase every trace of anyone who had ever touched you. Like he wanted to carve himself into your walls and never leave.

You gasped into his shoulder as he lifted your leg over his arm and angled deeper, hitting something inside you that made your vision white out. The sound of skin slapping filled the room, obscene and rhythmic, matched only by the soft, guttural curses he muttered into your neck.

"You feel that? Fuck…" he grunted, his breath hot against your cheek. "You needed this. Needed me." "B-uck-y"  You moaned his name, the syllables breaking in your throat, because yes. You did. You always did.

He pulled you to the edge of the bed, one hand hooked back under your knee, the other wrapping around your throat just enough to make your breath catch and your pulse skip. He didn’t squeeze. Just held you there, steady, controlled, reminding you that he could if he wanted to. And fuck, part of you wanted him to. That edge, it lit you up like kindling.

He paused just long enough to lock eyes with you. "Say it," he muttered, grinding his hips forward.

"Say what?" you were panting.

"That you missed this. That you missed me."

You moaned instead, high and helpless.

Then he fucked you harder.

You clawed at his bed, dug your nails into his shoulder blades, into the sheets, into anything that could hold you down while he tore you apart, over and over. Your thighs wrapped tight around his waist, trying to keep him in, to hold him deeper. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing heavy, groaning when you clenched around him.

"You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?"

"Fuck… yes… don’t stop."

You didn’t even know what number you were on. You just knew you couldn’t stop chasing the way he filled you, stretched you, ruined you.

When he slid back in after your second climax, he fucked you deep, slow at first, letting you feel every inch like he wanted to leave a mark somewhere inside. Then he grunted and started again with that brutal pace. The kind that made you cry out, the kind that had your back arching up off the mattress.

He flipped you over like you weighed nothing, shoved your face into the bed, and drove into you from behind with a growl that vibrated down your spine. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking until your throat was bared to the air and your back arched like a bow.

“Such a fucking liar,” he sneered, voice thick with dark amusement. “Lied to your friends just as easy as you lied to me.”

He pulled your hips higher, snapping his hips forward again with brutal force, making your breath hitch on a whimper. 

You tried to speak, tried to tell him off, to deny how wet you still were for him- but all that came out was a broken moan as his cock hit that spot again, deep and punishing. His fingers dug into your hips, bruising. Holding you still.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “Squeezing me like you’re starving for it. You were never gonna stay away.”

“F-fuck you,” you managed to gasp, even though you were pushing back onto him, desperate for more.

“Oh, you are,” he growled, fucking you harder, dirtier. “And you fucking love it.”

You didn’t disagree. You couldn’t. You only whimpered, pushed your hips back harder into him.

He didn’t stop. One hand tangled in your hair, yanking just enough to make you arch, the other splayed across your lower back, pinning you there while his cock slammed into you, relentless, desperate, almost angry with how much he wanted you.

Your thighs shook. Your vision blurred. You sobbed his name into the sheets as another orgasm hit you like a train.

All you could hear were his low groans, your cries, and the slick, messy sound of him ruining you in the dark.

You didn’t talk after. Not really.

He brought you water. Drank whiskey in just his underwear, perched on the edge of the bed like the last hour hadn’t wrecked both of you. His hair was a mess- your doing. You could still see the angry red crescents and lines your nails left on his ribs, fading but visible.

The room smelled like him. Or maybe it was you that did. The air felt thick with it; sweat and sex and the sharpness of his cologne. The evidence of him was still leaking from between your crossed thighs, soaking quietly into his sheets as you sat there, legs drawn up, trying to act like you weren’t completely unraveled.

“Your friends still hate me?” he asked after a stretch of silence, swirling the amber in his glass.

You snorted. “Told them I blocked you.” The lie came easy now. Just like all the others.

His mouth pulled into a lazy smirk. “Liar.”

“You’re one to talk. Told yours I was fucking my boss, didn’t you?”

“Maybe you should.” He didn’t even blink.

“I might.”

The silence returned, heavier now. Weighted with things neither of you were willing to say.

“I should go,” you murmured, making a vague reach for your underwear.

He didn’t move. “You want to?”

You didn’t answer. Just let your hand fall back to the sheets.

The next morning.

You’re still a little high off the night before.

Not just the orgasm- that was earth-shattering- but the feeling. The rush. The heat of his hands still echoes on your skin, phantom touches pressing into your thighs, your hips, your throat. You can feel where he bit you if you tilt your neck just right. Your panties are damp, your body humming like it’s waiting for round two. Or three. Or forever.

And the shame?

It’s only teasing at the edges, like a mean little whisper you haven’t let in yet.

It doesn’t matter. That’s what you tell yourself as your heels click against the sidewalk. That it’s your choice. That you’re allowed to have a dirty little secret. A vice. Something selfish and stupid and private. You’re not hurting anyone. Not really.

Only him. Only you.

Only every promise you both keep pretending not to make.

Your friend raised a brow over brunch, fork paused halfway to her mouth.

"Where’d you end up last night?"

You looked up from your coffee, careful to keep your face neutral. "Told you I went home."

Her brow lifted. "Uh-huh. Then why do you look like you got hit by a truck?"

You laughed a little too easily, stirring sugar into your cup. "Didn’t sleep well."

"Is that what we’re calling it now?" Her voice flat with disbelief.

You didn’t answer. Just shrugged and took a sip.

Technically not a lie. You hadn’t slept well. Not with the way Bucky had taken you apart on his mattress like he was trying to fuck the fight out of you. Not with how your body had ached afterward in all the places his hands had held you too tight. Your thighs were still sore. Your voice still rasped when you laughed.

Your phone buzzed on the table.

Bucky: One more drink?

She saw it. You watched her read his name. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. Just gave you that look. The one she always did when she was trying not to say, You deserve better.

"You’re not going, right?"

You laughed too quickly. Shrugged, like it meant nothing.

"God, no."

But the thing was, your legs were still sore under the table. You could still feel the bruises his fingers had left on your hips when he dragged you down onto him. You could still feel his come sliding out of you every time you shifted.

You left early.

You were already halfway to his place before the guilt even caught up to you.

And by then, it didn’t matter.

You were already buzzing from the anticipation. Already rationalizing.

It was your body, your decision. You were allowed to enjoy yourself. To take what you wanted. The only ones getting hurt were the two of you.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because you both just kept coming back anyway.

[theconstantsidekick]

Avengers: Age of Ultron ft. Static (5) | s.r

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Stark!Reader, Tony Stark x Stark!Reader (siblings)

Genre: Angsty as hell

Summary: Steve just found out his girlfriend, Y/n Stark, has powers that are powerful enough to swallow the world whole. The Maximoff girl poked the bear, Y/n snapped, and now it’s raining trauma, trust issues, and pink lightning.

(These scenes incorporate y/n, yet to be codenamed—Static, into the pre-existing story as a character without making drastic changes to the plot or mythos. All the major plot points from the MCU remain in place with the addition of the reader as Static, who is not only a Stark but also enhanced. Whatever events from the canon aren’t mentioned, take place without much change.)

Warnings: Cursing, Mentions of Violence, Some Actual Violence but not bloody

a/n: was i supposed to be working on the next part of thunderbolts*? yes. was i moved to write this simply because of an edit i saw? also yes. the heart wants what it wants, alright?

Avengers : Age of Ultron ft. Static (4) | Series Masterlist | The Avengers (ft. Static) | Captain America: The Winter Soldier (ft. Static) | Static Verse Masterlist

“Cap!”

Steve hears someone calling for him, distant but insistent, cutting through the haze of music—his and Peggy’s song.

He doesn’t want to leave. Not yet.

“Wake up!”

Not yet.

“Cap, wake up!”

The moment he opens his eyes, the world slams into him. His ears are ringing. His body feels heavy, sluggish. He squints against the dim, flickering light and flexes his jaw.

A figure hovers over him.

“Sorry,” Barton mutters. He almost sounds like he means it.

Steve brings a hand to his face, fingers brushing his jaw. The pain is dull, but Barton’s got a hell of a right hook.

With a groan, he pushes himself up.

“We gotta move, Cap,” Barton urges, offering a hand. Steve takes it, steadying himself as he stands. “The Hulk’s out.”

Steve exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders, pushing past the lingering fog in his mind. “Where’s Romanoff—?”

Barton cuts him off. “She’s down.” Before Steve can protest—not sure to what—Barton adds, “Tony’s already trying to contain the Hulk—”

“But—”

“We’ve got a bigger problem.” Barton’s voice is grim.

Steve’s stomach tightens. “Bigger than the Hulk?”

Barton hesitates. Opens his mouth. Closes it.

“Spit it out, Barton. While I’m still young.” There’s a joke in there somewhere. He doesn’t think this is the right time to point it out, though. 

And clearly neither does the man in front of him, because then Barton straightens. “Your girlfriend has superpowers none of us knew about.” His expression gives away absolutely nothing. “And whatever the Maximoff girl did—it set her off.”

Steve feels like he’s been hit. Not just punched—wrecked.

Y/n.

His Y/n.

And just like that, everything clicks into place. The moments of hesitation, the way she always seemed to almost tell him something before changing the subject. The way her eyes darkened when certain topics came up. The nights he caught her awake, lost in thought, as if she was carrying a weight too heavy to share.

He knew she was keeping something from him.

But he never thought it would be this.

Not powers. Not something so big.

A sharp pang hits his chest—betrayal, confusion, something deeper, something uglier.

Why didn’t she tell him? Did she think he wouldn’t understand? That he couldn’t handle it?

Or was it worse than that?

Did she choose not to tell him? Did she never plan to?

And then another thought creeps in, colder, heavier: Has anything between us been real?

Barton keeps talking, oblivious to the way Steve’s world is tilting beneath his feet. Or maybe all too aware of it…

“When I woke Thor up, I told Tony I was sending him to help with the Hulk,” Barton says. “Tony said—” He clears his throat, a nervous tic more than anything. “He said our best bet at handling the Y/n situation is our heaviest hitter.”

Steve forces himself to focus, even as his hands curl into fists at his sides.

“What are you saying?”

Finally some emotions bleed through, Barton’s face is tight with something close to guilt. “I’m saying Tony thinks if we don’t stop her now—and I’m quoting him here—she’ll swallow the world whole.”

Steve’s stomach turns. That can’t be right. This would mean that she doesn’t just have powers, no. They are so catastrophically strong that the God of Thunder might be the only solution.

And Tony doesn’t exaggerate when it comes to threats. If he said those words—swallow the world whole—then whatever’s happening, it’s bad.

Steve swallows hard, forcing the mess of emotions down, locking them away like he does everything else. He can’t afford to feel this right now. There’s no time for the pain gnawing at his ribs, the panic clawing at his throat.

If Y/n is out there, if she’s a threat, then he has to stop her.

Even if it kills him.

His grip tightens around his shield. “We have a location?”

“Fifteen clicks west.”

“Civilians?”

“None. It’s a forest.”

Steve nods and turns, already moving.

“Cap.” Barton’s voice stops him mid-step. He doesn’t turn, but he listens. “I think she made a conscious decision to head to the forest.”

Steve exhales. 

That means something. 

He doesn’t know what yet, but it means something.

Without another word, he presses forward.

He’s not entirely sure what he was expecting to see when he got there, but he knows it wasn’t this. He couldn’t have ever imagined this. 

The clearing hums with a strange, unnatural energy.

Steve slows, boots digging into the soft, torn-up earth. Trees sway like they're caught in a silent storm, the air thick with a pressure he can feel in his bones. Every step forward feels heavier.

And then he sees her.

Hovering above the ground, balanced on disks of pink light, the space beneath her feet warped and shivering. Above her, the sky itself has been torn open—a portal stretching wide, pulsing with static and colors not meant for human eyes. The sound it makes isn't quite thunder and isn't quite wind. It's deeper. Older.

And wrong.

Thor is already there, hammer in hand, charging the storm around her with lightning. He tries to push through, to reach her, but the energy shielding Y/n tosses him back like he’s nothing more than a leaf in a gale. Each time he rises again, a little slower.

Steve clenches his jaw.

She doesn’t move.

Doesn’t react.

Her head is tipped slightly back, her eyes a glowing, vacant pinkish-white, like she’s trapped in some nightmare she can’t wake from.

He should move.

He should call for backup, even if he isn’t sure what good that would do.

He should think like a soldier.

But he just stands there for a beat longer, looking up at her, feeling something crack open in his chest.

He'd seen her fight before—grit, quick reflexes, faster with her mouth than her fists most of the time.

But this—this wasn't fighting.

This was power. Raw, terrifying, uncontainable.

Tony’s words in Barton’s voice echo in his mind: Swallow the world whole.

He believes it now.

He believes it because he can feel it—the way the earth trembles under her, the way the sky itself recoils.

And even knowing all that... he can’t help but think she’s beautiful.

Not soft, not gentle.

Beautiful like a storm is beautiful. Like a wave big enough to drown whole cities.

The part of him that had seen a quiet future once—a dance in a hall with a woman in red lipstick and kind eyes—aches in the back of his mind.

A part of him still reaches for that simplicity, that life he left frozen in time. A part of him reaches for…

No.

No. No. 

There isn’t time for that right now.

Steve tightens his grip around the shield, forces himself to move, even as the storm claws at him.

“Y/n!” he shouts into the howling static.

For a moment—barely a flicker—her head turns.

He sees it.

He knows he sees it.

She's still in there. Somewhere.

That’s all the invitation he needs.

He sets his jaw and pushes forward, straight into the storm.

“Y/n!”

His voice tears through the static, cracking like thunder.

No answer.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. The disks of light beneath her feet pulse once—sharper, harsher—and the storm ripples outward, blowing him back a step.

“Y/N!” he roars, lungs straining, but her eyes remain fixed on something far away, something not of this world.

He stumbles forward, shielding his face from the wind that bites like shrapnel. The pressure is crushing. Like gravity itself is breaking.

Off in the distance, across the clearing—Thor rises.

Steve barely catches the blur of him lifting off the ground, a streak of light and fury as Mjolnir crackles with divine charge. He hurls it straight into the heart of the storm.

It strikes the shield around Y/n with a boom that splits the sky.

The energy buckles—just for a second—then rebounds violently, sending Thor hurtling through the air. He slams into the ground fifty feet away, carving a trench through the earth.

Steve instinctively moves, breaking into a run.

“Thor!”

The god of thunder groans, lifting himself slowly. Steam rises off his shoulders. His cape is torn.

Steve reaches him, helping him to his feet. “You alright?”

Thor nods, slow and shaken, brushing dirt from his armor. “I’ve fought in plenty of wars throughout the galaxy—” his gaze lifts toward the woman floating above the chaos, “—but I have never seen power like this.”

They both look up.

Y/n remains motionless in the eye of the storm. Unreachable. Unshaken. A figure of light and fury, crowned in something ancient and unrelenting.

Steve’s voice drops. “She’s in there.”

Thor says nothing. But his silence isn’t doubt—it’s fear.

“She’s in there,” Steve repeats, as much to convince himself as anyone else.

Bzzzt.

“You’re right, Cap,” Tony’s voice crackles through the comm. No jokes this time. Just a tight, clipped breath. “She is.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “Stark, what the hell is going on?”

“Hell is the correct word,” Tony answers. “Listen, I’m a little busy keeping the Hulk from giving the skyline a face-lift, so I’m gonna make this quick.”

There’s static, then a breath that sounds like he’s somewhere dark, somewhere wrecked.

“She’s not in control,” Tony says. “Not even close. The teenage mutant emo witch scrambled her head like an egg, and whatever’s spilling out now? It’s not just power—it’s memory, fear, everything she’s spent her life locking up. It’s all coming loose.”

Steve glances up again at the storm above her, the portal yawning open like a second sky.

“She didn’t want this, Steve. Not like this.”

He says it fast. Like if he slows down, he won’t be able to keep talking.

“You’re the only one who might still get through to her.”

“It should be you,” Steve says. Quiet. Stubborn.

“I can’t,” Tony replies. Fast. Final. “Not now. Thor’s the only one strong enough to hold her off. And I’ve got front-row seats to the Hulk’s rampage—only thing standing between him and a civilian bloodbath is me and the suit.”

Another pause. Quieter now. Almost—almost vulnerable.

“She’ll listen to you.”

“You’re not looking at what I’m looking at,” Steve tells him, looking up at the sky.

“Damn it, Rogers! She’ll listen to you because it’s you!”

Well, shit.

When they first got together, Tony kind of hated the whole thing. It was never a secret that Tony kind of hated Steve, and by extension hated the fact that his sister didn’t. 

Steve got it. It was practically tradition—you’re supposed to hate the guy dating your sister. He respected that. Still does.

Over time, Tony mellowed into something resembling acceptance. Not thrilled, not supportive—but he’d tease Y/n, make gagging noises whenever he caught them being soft, throw barbed comments Steve’s way with just enough bite to be brotherly.

Steve never expected more than that.

He ever expected Tony to fully accept it—accept them.

But now it seems, he already had.

Tony’s voice drops to a near-whisper. “You gotta bring her back, Rogers. Before we lose her.”

Damn it.

He steals himself.

He clenches his fists and turns to Thor. “Can you contain the fallout? Make sure she doesn’t get closer to the city?”

“I can try,” Thor states, sounding fairly more sure than his words would signify.

He nods. “Alright, you go do that.”

“And what will you do?” Thor asks.

“Something I was desperately good at before we started dating.” Steve looks off to his left, up high. “I’m gonna try to get her to look at me.”

With tasks divided, both of them head off in the opposite direction. Thor flies up into the sky, meanwhile Steve begins climbing up to a cliff—the closest he can get to her.

All he can think of as he climbs is—

Why didn’t she tell me?

His fingers dig into the rock, half from effort, half from how damn loud the question is inside his head.

Was it him? Did he say something? Do something?

Did she think he couldn’t handle it?

No. No, he’d told her—he’d said she could talk to him. That he wanted her to. He meant it.

Unless she didn’t believe him.

Unless—she never really planned to tell him at all.

That thought hits harder than he expects. His foot slips for half a second, sending a scatter of pebbles down the cliff. He catches himself.

Maybe he should’ve pressed harder. Pushed past the dodges, the jokes, the way she’d always shift the topic when he got close. The way she’d laugh, look at him knowingly over a beer bottle, and say, “Don’t go digging, Rogers. You might not like what you find.”

He hauls himself up another ledge.

The insomnia. The nights she couldn’t sleep, staring at the ceiling like it was screaming at her. The way she flinched—just slightly—when anyone mentioned powers. Or Hydra. Or the word control.

Suddenly, and all at once, he remembers the look on her face—at the hospital after Fury’s assassination. Wide eyes. Ashen skin. Terror, sharp and visible, when someone said Winter Soldier.

He remembers the bridge. The ambush. The way she stood between Bucky and everyone else, not afraid—furious. Vengeful. Familiar.

The lawyer who somehow knew exactly what Hydra did to his best friend.

She always knew too much.

Before he did.

Before anyone did.

But he didn’t want to pry. He told himself people get to keep their secrets. That she'd tell him when she was ready.

He thought that was kindness.

Maybe it was just cowardice.

Because deep down, he knew. He knew. She was holding something back. And he let her.

He let her.

And now here they are.

The world split open like a wound and she’s at the center of it.

His lungs burn. The wind howls. His heart’s somewhere between furious and aching.

And yet—

And yet—

She’d offered. She’d asked him to move in with her. Her exact words—God, it was what Tony 

had guessed: “I happen to have a place. You should move in.” She sounded so timid—he’d never ever seen her timid before.

And he said no.

Because he didn’t want to impose.

Jesus Christ.

He makes it to the top of the ridge. Stands. Wind clawing at his suit. Shield strapped tight.

Up ahead, Y/n is still hovering in the storm. Surrounded by chaos. Held aloft by raw, terrifying light.

You didn’t trust her with your baggage either, he thinks.

You said you liked Brooklyn. You said you didn’t want to impose.

Maybe she heard that loud and clear.

He doesn’t know who he’s mad at. Himself. Her. The world. Ultron. Fate.

All of it.

None of it.

She’s not the Y/n he knows right now—but he’d know her anywhere.

And he has no goddamn idea what to say.

But he knows he has to say something.

“Doll,” he calls out—soft, shaky.

No response.

He steadies himself, plants his feet against the wind. “Doll!”

Her head twitches, barely a flicker of recognition.

And then—

“Steve?” Her voice is small. Timid. A child lost in a storm. Like she’s afraid of what she might find if she looks.

Steve's heart damn near breaks.

“Doll, you gotta stop this,” he pleads, stepping closer, even though the cliff edge ends and there’s nothing beneath him but air and chaos. “You—you gotta stop, please, baby. Please.”

“I—” She looks around suddenly, like she’s seeing everything for the first time. Or maybe nothing at all. “Steve—I—” Her eyes are wide, wild, wrong. Like she’s stuck between two realities, slipping in and out of something he can’t see. Her breath catches. “I… I can’t,” she finally chokes out.

“You can’t what, doll?” he asks gently, carefully, like she’s a spark about to go off.

“If I—if I stop—if I stop—they’ll find me,” she breathes. “I can’t let them take me again, Steve. I can’t go back!”

“Doll,” he says, firmer now. Grounding himself like she’s the only thing keeping him from flying apart. “Baby, listen to me—”

He steps toward her again. No ledge. No plan. Just her.

She’s hovering, suspended in light and terror and something ancient clawing at the seams of reality—but she’s an arm’s reach away, and if it’s her, you best believe he’s gonna try.

“Listen to me, alright?” he says. “No one’s taking you anywhere.”

“No!” she screams, and the sound fractures the air like a bomb going off.

Lightning arcs out from her fingers. The portal behind her pulses—uglier now, twitching like a raw nerve. The trees behind him shatter. Her body jerks like she’s trying to contain something inside and failing, miserably. “I won’t go back. I’m never going back!”

“Y/n…” he says again—quieter, like he’s scared his voice might break her more.

And just like that—her rage collapses.

It folds in on itself and slips into something horrifyingly fragile.

Tears spring to her eyes, and when she speaks again, her voice doesn’t belong to a god.

It belongs to a girl.

“You don’t understand, Steve,” she whispers. “I can’t go back. I won’t—I barely made it out the last time. And if they find me again—if I go back—I don’t think I’ll survive this time.”

Her hands are shaking.

Not glowing.

Not clenched into fists.

Just shaking.

She’s trying to shrink herself smaller. As if that might save her from whatever her mind is showing her.

And Steve—Steve has never seen her afraid before.

Never.

She’s been furious. Ruthless. Sarcastic, reckless, impossible.

But never scared.

Not even when they were surrounded by aliens on the streets of New York. Not even when they were on the run from S.H.I.E.L.D. which was secretly infiltrated by Hydra. Not even when he asked her once, stupidly, if she was okay and she shot back, “Do I look like I need saving, Cap?”

But this—

This is fear.

Raw. Childlike. Crippling.

And it wrecks him.

He still doesn’t know what she’s seeing. What the hell Wanda’s spell has done to her mind. Who she thinks is coming for her.

But he knows this.

He knows how to hold the line.

And he knows what it means to stay when someone’s falling apart.

“Hey,” he says, voice shaking. “Y/n, look at me.” She does. Barely. “I need you to hear me, alright doll?” The wind hisses low around them, a breath held by the world. “As long as I’m here—no one’s gonna touch you. No one’s gonna find you. No one’s ever gonna hurt you again.” She shudders. Her lip trembles. “I swear to you,” he continues, “on my life—on the shield, on Brooklyn, on everything I’ve got left—I will keep you safe.”

Y/n shakes her head slowly, tears streaking down her cheeks, catching faint glints of light from the storm above.

“You don’t know that,” she whispers. “You can’t promise that. You can’t protect me—not from them. I—” Her voice breaks. “No one can.”

The wind picks up again, as if her fear fuels it.

And Steve, God help him, just smiles.

Soft. Steady. Like he’s been handed a suicide mission and decided it sounds like a good afternoon.

“Come on, doll,” he says gently. “When have you known me to turn down a challenge?”

She stares at him.

Still afraid. Still not fully here. Like she’s standing at the edge of a cliff, unsure if what’s waiting below is safety—or another trap.

But for the first time since this nightmare began—

She’s looking at him.

And in her eyes, something wavers. Something flickers.

Not power.

Not rage.

Recognition.

Steve takes a step closer—slow, deliberate, like approaching a wounded animal, or something holy. He lifts his hand—not reaching, not yet. Just holding it out.

“Come on, doll,” he says softly. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Her lower lip trembles. Her eyes fill all over again.

But she nods.

Small. Barely there. But real.

Steve breathes. Not relief—not yet. Just enough to keep going.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he says, voice quiet, fierce, and impossibly tender. “I promise, baby.”

The portal groans above them like the sky itself is exhaling.

Y/n floats, barely stable now—like her body’s starting to remember gravity. Like the nightmare is splintering at the edges. She looks down at him, eyes shimmering with a pain so old, it feels fossilized.

“Why are you even here?” she whispers. Not accusing. Just… tired. Broken. Small. “Why are you still here?”

And that’s it.

That’s the question.

The answer he’s been holding in his chest since before the tower, before Sokovia, maybe even before he knew he’d fallen for her at all.

Steve steps closer, hand still outstretched. His shield long forgotten at his back. Just a man now. A man in love.

“Because I love you,” he says.

No hesitation. No heroics. No shield between them.

“I love you, Y/n. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’ll always be here.”

Her breath catches. A choked, fragile sound.

And he says it again—like a vow, like a lifeline, like it’s all that’s keeping the sky from falling: “You’re safe with me.” He extends his hand, palm up, steady in the howling wind. “I promise.”

Y/n looks at it.

Then at him.

Slowly—instantly—the power radiating off of her begins to fade.

The shield of pink static peels back, dissolving like fog at sunrise. The air clears. The storm silences. Even the sky seems to be holding its breath.

Her eyes meet his.

She reaches.

So does he.

Fingertips outstretched.

Inches away.

“Barton? You have the shot?” Tony’s voice crackles over the comms.

Steve’s body goes cold. “What?”

“I do,” Barton answers, steady as steel.

Y/n flinches mid-air, still reaching.

“Take it,” Tony orders.

“No!” Steve bellows—but he’s too late.

The arrow hits with a dull, sickening thunk, embedding itself in her neck.

She gasps.

Her hand jerks mid-motion—never quite reaching his.

Her face contorts in pure disbelief. Then heartbreak.

“You… promised…” she whispers, not even trying to hide how shattered she is.

The pink disks beneath her feet sputter out.

And then—

She falls.

“Y/n!!” Steve’s shout is raw, broken. He dives without hesitation.

He catches her in midair, arms wrapping around her as they plummet. His shield snaps beneath them just in time—he twists their bodies so she lands on him, not the earth. The impact roars like thunder.

They hit the ground. Hard.

Dust and wind rise around them in a choking spiral of silence.

She’s not moving.

He’s still holding her.

That’s the last thing he remembers until he jolts awake in the Quinjet.

“Run and hide?” Tony’s voice filters in through the haze.

“Until we find Ultron, I don't have a lot else to offer,” Maria Hill replies over the comm.

“Yeah. Neither do we,” Tony mutters, and ends the call.

Steve blinks hard. Then the memory slams back into him.

“Y/n!” He sits up fast—too fast. Pain screams across his back and ribs, but he doesn’t care. “Y/n? Doll?”

“She’s fine, Cap. Jesus,” Tony snaps from behind the cockpit, where Barton is flying the jet. “Calm the hell down before you open up something you just broke.”

Steve’s already scanning the jet.

Banner’s a few feet away on the floor, pale and shaking, wrapped in a thermal blanket. Natasha sits close beside him, silent but watchful. Thor stands off to the side, arms crossed tight over his chest. His armor is streaked with dirt, one knuckle bleeding. He doesn’t speak.

But he’s watching something.

Someone.

There’s a quiet intensity in his gaze—concern etched into the hard lines of his face. Worry he’s not bothering to hide.

Steve follows his line of sight.

And that’s when he sees her.

Y/n.

Lying still in the makeshift med bay at the rear of the jet. She’s got an IV in one arm, a sensor clipped to her finger, and a faint red mark blooming near her neck where the tranq hit. Someone’s tucked a blanket around her legs. Natasha, if he were made to guess.

She looks… small.

It’s in such high contrast to the force of nature he’s used to, such a far sigh off from the woman radiating power that had Thor shaken, and for a second, Steve forgets how to breathe.

He is on his feet in a heartbeat. “Calm—Are you fucking kidding me!?” he explodes, rounding on Tony. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking we needed to contain her,” Tony shoots back, voice clipped and sharp. He doesn’t even turn around—just stays seated, facing forward.

“I had it under control!” Steve insists. “She was listening. She was coming down.”

Tony finally turns, slow and deliberate. The smirk on his face is hollow and sharp. “And what if she changed her mind? What if the next surge brought that forest down? You have absolutely no clue the kind of blast radius she’s capable of encompassing.”

That shouldn’t upset him, but Steve’s hurt all the same. “You said I was the only one who could help her!”

“And you did!” Tony claps once, mocking, bitter. “Mission accomplished, Cap. What do you want—a medal?”

“What I want,” Steve is fucking enraged, “is an explanation as to why you didn’t fucking tell me about your goddamn contingency plan of shooting at my girlfriend?”

“Your gir—” Tony’s enraged too now. Steve can see it. He knows they aren’t related to each other by blood but in this moment their resemblance is uncanny. “It was a fucking tranquiliser, Rogers. I didn’t tell Barton to put a bullet in her head.” Steve’s blood runs cold. He thinks he might just have to fight her girlfriend’s brother. But then Tony adds, “Which is what she would have wanted.”

Motherfucker.

“How can you say that—?”

“He can say that, because he knows me,” comes a frail voice from the corner of the quinjet. His eyes turn to Y/n instantly. He rushes over before he can even register her words. But then she turns to Tony and continues, “And it’s what he should have done.”

“Fuck off,” Tony dismisses, strong and forceful.

“That was the contingency plan we agreed on,” Y/n accuses with what Steve presumes is all the venom she can muster in her weakened state.

“I didn’t agree to jack shit! It was your contingency plan, not mine! And it was fucking stupid contingency plan!” Tony bites back, matching her beat to beat.

“Tony, you know it’s the safest way out! I could have—”

He cuts her off, finally pissed enough to get to his feet. He stares her down, “You could have burnt the whole world to the ground, Y/f/n and I still would not take the goddamn shot. I am not going to put you down like a rabid dog, ever.” 

And that’s when Steve sees it—he sees Tony break. He’s loud, he’s practically yelling. But his eyes… Tony’s eyes reflect the same emotion hers did when they were out on that field—it’s fear. Crippling, debilitating, paralysing fear.

This wasn’t Tony choosing strategy. It wasn’t control. It wasn’t ego.

It was the only thing he could do to keep her alive.

Even if it broke every bone in his body to make the call.

If nothing else, Steve gets at least this much.

Apparently, so does she it seems. Because she sighs then. Her stance changes, so noticeably, so drastically that it throws Steve off. 

“Alright,” she says easily, still feeble. “Alright.” She nods at him, just once. An unspoken invitation. But Tony hears it loud and clear. He walks over to her slowly. She pulls him into a hug—protective, firm. She wraps her arms around him like she’s anchoring him in place. Tony hesitates. His hand hovers behind her back like he’s still not sure this is real—like he might crush her if he holds on too tight.

She ruffles his hair gently.

That’s all it takes.

He holds on like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“You did good, Tones,” she says to him softly, kissing him on the temple. “You did good,” she reassures him. “It’s over now. Okay? It’s over now, peanut.”

And then her eyes lift, meeting Steve’s over Tony’s shoulder.

No words.

But everything’s said anyway.

That nothing will ever be the same between them again.

Find the Static Verse Masterlist here. Read The Avengers (ft. Static) here.

[kk095]

Olivia’s Unfinished Story

*Happy Friday, everyone! I wanted to try something a little different this time around. I hope you enjoy!*

Her name was Olivia.

She was the kind of woman you might overlook in a crowd- slim, fair skinned, with straight, light brown hair that she kept neat and cut to her shoulders. Her bangs sat just above a pair of green eyes that always seemed to be watching, not out of shyness, but observation. At 5'8, the twenty-eight year old carried herself with quiet poise, a strange mix of bookish awkwardness, and buttoned-up grace. Her wardrobe was sensible- cardigans and slacks, modest blouses, neutral tones. It wasn’t that she lacked style; she simply didn’t think anyone was looking closely enough to warrant the effort.

By day, Olivia worked a corporate job in a beige office on the twelfth floor of a building with too much glass and not enough personality. Her cubicle was tidy. Her emails were prompt. She was the type who remembered birthdays, who always signed her messages with "Best," and who brought her lunch from home in reusable containers labeled with masking tape. Her coworkers liked her well enough, though they never really knew her. She existed on the periphery- reliable, polite, self-contained.

But at night, in a small apartment with a flickering desk lamp and chipped mugs of tea, Olivia became someone else. She wrote under the name "S.R. Quinn," a pseudonym she guarded like a secret lover. Her stories- twisting, cerebral mysteries filled with unreliable narrators and haunted minds, had attracted a quiet, devoted following online. Some of her readers speculated about the author's identity, but she never gave herself away. Olivia preferred it that way. Her characters said all the things she couldn’t. They unraveled in ways she never allowed herself to. Writing, for her, was a kind of release- a hidden doorway she stepped through every night.

She lived alone, but it never really felt lonely. Her walls were lined with shelves full of books, and her laptop bore the fingerprints of a thousand edits.

She had routines: the same route to work, the same booth at the quiet café near her apartment, the same brand of peppermint gum always tucked into her bag. Sometimes, on the subway, she would look at the people around her and wonder who among them led secret lives, too. It comforted her to think she wasn’t the only one pretending.

There were things she still wanted to do. A novel half-finished. A mystery not yet solved. A character she hadn’t quite figured out.

She had no idea she would be the latest patient in our emergency department. Last night, that’s exactly what happened to Olivia.

The trauma bay lights cast a sterile glow across her pale skin, and her chest bucked beneath gloved hands performing deep, violent chest compressions. The monitor beside her beeped incessantly in arrhythmic protest, displaying a jagged line of ventricular fibrillation. Beneath it, a stack of empty syringe caps and torn vials spilled from the tray, scattered among crumpled wrappers and used IV bags.

She lay supine on the table, stripped barefoot and topless, her bare chest glistening with conductive gel under the harsh overhead lights. Her green eyes were wide open- glassy, unblinking, eerily serene. The endotracheal tube jutted from her mouth, hugging her pale lips, secured tightly with tape, and the soft hiss of the ambu bag filled her lungs with each squeeze. Her pants remained on, the dark fabric in contrast to the table. There were no bruises, no blood, no visible trauma. Just a stillness that didn’t belong in a room like this.

The rhythm of chest compressions played like a grim metronome, gloved hands stacked over her sternum, pushing deep and fast. Each thrust drove Olivia’s chest down in sharp, unnatural motions, her ribs caving beneath the pressure. With every compression, her chest recoiled slightly, the skin pulling tight before collapsing inward again. The force rippled outward through her torso, making her belly tremble faintly.

The defib paddles were pressed against her bare chest. “CLEAR!” Dr Lindsay called out.

Her back arched as the jolt surged through her, then fell limp again. No change. Someone stepped up to resume CPR. The rhythmic thud of gloved hands on her sternum resumed, tilting her motionless face slightly with each thrust.

After that unsuccessful cycle of CPR, the paddles pressed back down against her bare chest, gel smearing beneath them. “CLEAR” Lindsay called once again. A sudden jolt of electricity surged through the writer’s body. Olivia’s back arched sharply, her spine lifting off the table in a stiff, unnatural bend. Her legs jerk in response- one foot kicking upward involuntarily, the other twisting inward, toes curling hard. For a split second, both feet hover awkwardly in the air before crashing ungracefully back down to the table. Her soles, flushed pale from poor perfusion, land heel-first, the deep, wide, soft wrinkles of her size 10 soles visible before her body goes slack again, motionless except for the rhythmic force of compressions that resumed after.

Another shock was delivered. A gasp escaped Olivia’s lips, though it was more of a reflex than a sign of life. Another cycle CPR ensued. A dose of epinephrine. Gloved hands moved with rehearsed precision, voices sharp, clipped, and clinical.

“Still in v-fib, Linds.” Nurse Nancy informs, shaking her head. “No pulse.” Dr Jen the resident chimes in.

“I’m shocking again. Re-charging the paddles to 360. CLEAR.” Lindsay responded, Heather halting CPR and stepping away from the table.

KA-THUNK! Olivia’s body jumped. The flat, lifeless gaze remained on her face. Her expression was untouched by fear or pain, frozen somewhere just before the end.

The next shock came and went. Her body jerked with unnatural stiffness, like a puppet pulled by unseen strings. For a breathless second, she froze midair- fingers curled, toes flexed, then collapsed on the table once more, as if gravity remembered her all at once.

Chest compressions resumed, but not for long. For a moment, the room stilled- hands hovered, eyes glanced to the monitor. A flatline stared back at everyone, unbroken and absolute.

“No cardiac activity on the monitors.” Jen the resident informed, calm and even, like they’re noting the time of day.

Nancy leaned in, shining a penlight across both of Olivia’s eyes. Nothing. No flicker, no constriction, no reaction whatsoever- just the blank, glassy look of fixed and dilated pupils.

A quiet pause passed.

“She’s been down forty minutes.” Lindsay speaks, voice low but certain. “Let’s go ahead and call it. Time of death, 1:11am.”

The ambu bag was detached from the ET tube and set beside Olivia’s head on the table. Chest compressions stopped for good. Heather shut off the monitor, muting the flatline. The paddles were placed back on the crash cart, the ECG leads peeled away, electrodes discarded in silence.

Olivia had written dozens of stories. None of us knew that, of course. Not Heather peeling off her EKG leads, not Dr Lindsay logging her time of death, not Dr Jen placing the sheet over her body. In life, she had been anonymous. In death, she remained so.

But somewhere, tucked into online archives and under a username no one could now trace, there were worlds Olivia had built. Complex characters. Tangled mysteries. Paragraphs people had read and re-read and bookmarked to revisit. She had more to tell. But last night, her story ended right here in our emergency department.

[lahbarsaglini]

haven’t shot your heart yet

pairing: matt sturniolo x oc!youtuber

summary: in a world curated for the screen, matt and kylie stumble into something real. their first encounter was something passed off as chemistry for the cameras. but there’s this new feeling going on, quieter, deeper—an off-script connection in an online world that rarely pauses for breath. this is how everything started.

notes: first one, don't really now how writing or editing here works, but i swear i'm trying my best. this turn out to be bigger than what i expected. slow burn, getting to know each other type of thing. maybe i'll end up doing a series for this plot, don't know. oh, idk how big the pictures turn out to be. i'm nervous af.

wc: 2.7k maybe?

It wasn’t supposed to be a date. Not officially, at least. 

Kylie Rose had 3.5 million subscribers on her channel now, more than when they first met. 

She was finally back in Boston after a weekend at her hometown. She had this quick modeling job with AllSaints that required her attention, a shoot drenched in dark layers and sharp eyeliner — her kind of thing.

He saw her Instagram Story, a blurry shot of the Boston skyline at dusk with the caption: “back in the city. hi again”. That was enough. He paused on it longer than he should have. 

Matt didn’t rush. He didn’t double-tap. He just thought — about how funny she was when they met each other on Cut The Camera, how sharp and honest she’d been in her answers, and how she never once tried to impress anyone. She just was. So he DMed her. 

“saw you’re in Boston. we can hang out if you have time, just us.”

That was something he almost regretted texting. No “me and my brothers”. Just us. No group thing. He second-guessed because maybe she wouldn’t be down to. But he just shook it off and tried not to think too much about it, occupying his mind with something else. 

See, tried is the key word. Because something shifted when they met.

When Kylie walked into the studio for the episode, Matt felt it in his chest first, a weird mix of calm and chaos. She had this quiet confidence. Like she knew herself and didn’t need anyone else to verify that. 

During filming, she’d answered a question about vulnerability, saying: “I’m not afraid to be real. If you’ve seen what I’ve been through, you’d know that pretending is way more exhausting.” 

Matt looked at her then — really looked. Not the public figure, not the curated YouTuber. Just her. 

It stuck with him. He noticed the way she would play with a specific ring on her finger, turning it around every now and then. Combined with the look on her face, it seemed like she was getting ready to fight someone. But if you blinked, maybe it was just a grounding technique. He noticed how she didn’t put her loose strands of hair behind her ear in a discreet way, but instead, switched her posture while placing the entirety of her hand on top of her head, fingers going in between her roots, pushing her hair out of the way and sliding it down. Like an effortless bold statement. 

After the podcast ended, he and his brothers went home talking about how easy she was to talk to, even when the subjects were not. He took a very quick minute to visualize her in front of his eyes when the traffic stopped because of a red light. 

It wasn’t about attraction alone — although, yeah, she was gorgeous. He didn’t really believe in love at first sight.

It was interest. Curiosity. That pull toward someone who feels like a mirror you didn’t know existed. 

So when he saw she was in Boston, 7 months later, he didn’t want to lose the chance. He’d been so busy in LA, going back home was a relief. And she was there as well. He wanted to meet her off-camera. Without edits. Without Nick and Chris. Just them. He felt like there was more to know.

Kylie accepted Matt’s invitation for one simple reason: she wanted to. No overthinking, no asking for anyone’s permission. No making a pro/con list like she normally would. When she saw the message, she read it twice, and then smiled. Because even though their first interaction on Cut The Camera was short, it stayed with her. 

Matt had really listened to her. He didn’t interrupt, he didn’t talk over her. Not that Chris or Nick had been disrespectful, but Matt really made space for her voice. 

Of course she caught the way he glanced at her sometimes, or whenever she said something gallant — not judgemental, not surprised, just… Intrigued. And his laugh? It wasn’t loud, it was real, honest. 

On the other hand, Kylie’s life was loud. Cameras, opinions, clickbait. 

But Matt? Matt was quiet intention. 

He wasn’t asking for a post or a collab. He wasn’t looking for clout. He just wanted to see her. That was kinda rare. Plus, she’d caught herself wondering what he was like without the other two, no triplet dynamic or shared punchlines. Just Matt. So when he reached out, her answer came naturally: 

“i’m down. you better like milkshakes.”

And that was it. She didn’t know what it would be, didn’t even expect anything big. She would go for a milkshake and hang out with someone she knew because of work. For her, it was about letting herself say yes without armor. 

And maybe — just maybe — because she wanted to know him too. 

“i can pick you up, if you want. i just thought i’d offer”. 

Kylie stared at it, amused. She could easily drive. I mean, she had her car with her right there, parked outside her place. It was really no problem. But something about the offer made her pause. 

It’s old school. Gentle. Hinting that he actually wants to spend time with her, not just meet up. So she typed back:

“bold of you to assume i trust anyone’s driving but my own 😎

but okay, come pick me up

let’s risk it.”

He showed up ten minutes early. 

Not that he told her that, of course. He waited outside, leaning against his car trying not to look like his mind had been pacing inside the vehicle. He stared at the floor, holding back a smile because of the situation back at his parents place.

“Why does Matt look like he's walking into a GQ shoot when we’re just ordering fucking pizza?” Nick even dropped down his phone when he saw his brother. “I’m going out for a bit,” he replied, grabbing the car keys.

When Kylie walked out in a dark denim jacket, boots, and her pretty dark hair pulled into a ponytail, he goes:

"Wow, you look like you're about to kill someone," he'd meant it as a compliment.

Her response, however, was pure Kylie—quick and witty. “Really? I haven’t shot your heart just yet.”

Matt's breath hitched, just for a second. Kylie's retort, delivered with that effortless, bold grin, landed oh, so precisely. He tried to play it cool, a casual shrug, a slight tilt of his head. But inside, a small, involuntary part of him was doing a backflip. 

He remembered her playing around with Nick, tossing out a pick-up line during the podcast. It had been funny then, a casual, performative flirtation. But this? This felt different. More direct. More... pointedly at him.

Matt forced a light laugh, trying to keep his composure. "Well, let's hope my heart survives this then," he quipped back, hoping his voice didn't betray the sudden flutter in his chest. He shoved his hands into his pockets, a subtle movement to ground himself. He told himself it was just Kylie being Kylie, just her natural charisma. But as she walked closer, the scent of something alluring, like vanilla, maybe something floral reaching him, he found himself thinking about that "just us" text again. And suddenly, the idea of hanging out with her felt a lot more significant than he'd anticipated.

Matt’s car pulled away from her street, the hum of the engine a low counterpoint to the quiet anticipation between them. "How was the photoshoot, by the way? I saw the behind the scenes that you posted yesterday" he asked, glancing at her. "AllSaints, right? Sounds intense."

Kylie leaned back, her hand resting on the window sill. "Yeah, it was... my kind of intense," she chuckled. "Very moody, you know? Felt less like modeling and more like acting out a vibe. The creative director was cool. We shot mostly around Beacon Hill and a few old brick alleys. Felt very 'Kylie Rose' before I even showed up." She paused, a small smile playing on her lips. "It's funny, sometimes I think I accidentally built a brand that just fits me, instead of the other way around."

Matt nodded, his eyes on the road. "I get that. Sometimes it feels like the content just... becomes who you are." He made a turn, heading towards the narrow, bustling streets of the North End. "Speaking of brands, I scouted a place. Hope it's moody enough for you."

They found a parking spot a few blocks away and walked, the afternoon air carrying the scent of Italian pastries and old brick. The café was called Thinking Cup on Hanover Street, precisely the kind of place Kylie imagined. Vintage wooden chairs and small, mismatched tables were bathed in the warm glow of Edison bulbs, while soft, jazzy lo-fi music drifted from unseen speakers. It was cozy, unpretentious, and immediately inviting.

"Perfect," Kylie murmured, taking in the vibe.

They approached the counter, the menu board looming above them. Kylie scanned it, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Milkshake, please," she said, her voice clear. "Strawberry."

Matt blinked. He'd half-expected her to go for something complex and dark, like a double chocolate mocha or a salted caramel concoction – something that matched the depth of her online persona. But strawberry milkshake? It was simple, sweet, almost... innocent. He found himself smiling.

"You know," she commented, turning to him after placing her order, "Do people even drink coffee anymore?"

"Only people trying to prove something," Matt deadpanned, and they both laughed, the sound easy and genuine in the low hum of the café. "I'll take a vanilla milkshake, please," he told the barista, leaning in slightly. "I don’t drink coffee.”

“You kidding,” she turns, her ponytail spinning around in a dramatic way. “I hate coffee.”

They grabbed their frosty glasses, condensation already beading on the sides, and found a small table by the window. The clinking of ceramic mugs and hushed conversations formed a comfortable backdrop. Kylie took a long sip of her vibrant pink drink, a satisfied sigh escaping her lips. "This is exactly what I needed."

Matt watched her, the simple pleasure on her face a stark contrast to the complexities he often perceived in her videos. They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, letting the warmth of the café and the soft hum of conversation wrap around them like a blanket. Kylie leaned back in her chair, eyes scanning the view outside the window—graffiti-tagged walls, narrow alleyways, and weathered brick buildings soaked in late afternoon light while he asked her about how it was moving to Boston, her favorite places and all that jazz.

...grit,” she finished, swirling her straw lazily in her milkshake. “Like, it’s rough around the edges, but in a way that feels earned. Like a city with good stories.”

Matt nodded slowly, elbow resting on the table as he watched her. “That’s how you describe cities?” he asked, amused. “With character assessments?”

Kylie raised an eyebrow and leaned in slightly. “Would you rather I described it by square mileage and architectural stats?”

“No, I like your version better,” he admitted, chuckling. “Makes me wonder what you’d say about people.”

She paused, that familiar glint sparking behind her eyes again. “Well, you, for example,” she began, tracing a finger along the rim of her glass. “I think you’re like one of those old radios, you know? Quiet until someone tunes in just right. And when they do… there’s music. Unexpected, layered, kind of addictive. But not everyone takes the time to listen properly.”

Matt blinked, a little thrown off. “That’s… oddly poetic.”

“Poetic is my second language,” Kylie quipped with a small shrug, though there was something soft behind her tone, like she wasn’t just joking. She tilted her head. “What about me?”

He glanced down at his drink, swirling the melted rim with his straw as he considered. Then: “You’re like a fire alarm with lipstick on.”

Kylie snorted. “Wow.”

“Wait, hear me out,” he said, laughing along with her. “You’re bold. Sharp. You say what people don’t want to hear, even if it makes them flinch. But you’re also… deliberate. You know how you affect a room, and you don’t waste that.”

She looked at him for a moment longer than necessary. Not with amusement, but with intrigue. Maybe even appreciation. “Okay, that was good. I’ll allow it.”

They sat in a silence that wasn’t awkward, just full —the kind that held weight because both were thinking the same thing but neither wanted to break it too fast. Outside, people passed by the window, some rushing, some strolling. The city moved on without them, but neither of them seemed in any hurry to rejoin it.

“Hey,” Matt said suddenly, “can I ask something kinda random?”

“Always,” Kylie replied, sipping again.

“Do you ever just… wish you could shut it all off? Like, all of it. The comments, the posts, the numbers. Just go somewhere where no one knows your name?”

She leaned back, milkshake halfway to her lips. Her expression shifted. Not darker, but more grounded. Real.

“All the time,” she said quietly. “But then I remember... if no one knows my name, maybe I forget it too.”

Matt’s gaze didn’t leave her. “So what do you do instead?”

She gave a small, lopsided smile. “I try to find people who don’t care about the numbers. Who see me anyway. But try is exaggerating a bit. I don’t really chase people.”

Matt’s chest tightened just slightly. “I think that’s a pretty fair plan.”

Kylie looked down at her almost-empty glass and then back at him. “Good. ’Cause I think I just found one.”

Neither said anything after that. They didn’t have to. The milkshakes were almost gone. But the silence between them? Still sweet. Matt was the one who interrupted that break.

"So, what's next on the Boston agenda for you? Any more shoots, or are you free for a bit?" Matt asked, trying to sound casual, but hoping she was free.

Kylie smirked. "Nope, all done. Just chilling until tomorrow. Then I gotta start thinking about work again. Why, you got something in mind?"

Matt's smile widened. "Maybe. How about we just... drive?”

Kylie's eyes lit up. "Deal. But I'm DJ."

Minutes later, they were back in Matt's car, the windows cracked just enough to let the cool evening air flow in. 

Matt, a creature of habit when it came to his music, found himself surprised to hand over the aux cord without a second thought. Kylie, seizing the moment, queued up a mix that perfectly encapsulated her own eclectic taste: the raw energy of Arctic Monkeys flowed into the dreamy, lo-fi vibes of Hotel Ugly, before abruptly shifting to that one Doja Cat remix she remembered and swore "goes stupid in the car”.

He stole a few looks at her as she sang along, completely unfiltered. Her voice was pretty and free. She wasn't trying to impress him; she was just being. He liked that. More than liked it, he felt a pull towards that unapologetic authenticity.

The city lights eventually thinned, giving way to quieter, tree-lined streets. Matt navigated instinctively, pulling into what looked like a hidden entrance to a local park, like the kind only residents knew about, almost empty at this hour. The dusk was deepening into twilight, casting long, soft shadows across the open spaces. She read “Danehy Park”.

Kylie hopped out first, her boots hitting the gravel with a soft crunch.

"We're walking?" he asked, a hint of playful disbelief in his voice. He didn’t think she would like nature. 

"We're existing," she corrected, already moving towards a path that wound into the trees. "Just come on."

They walked, not rushing, just letting the conversation flow. The topics drifted far beyond the usual first-date pleasantries. They talked about childhood memories, the raw, unedited moments that shaped them. They spoke about what truly scared them, the anxieties and quiet fears that YouTube rarely saw. They even touched on who they were before the cameras, before the subscriber counts and the public gaze.

Matt found himself telling her about his favorite place to think, where the world felt vast and his problems small. Kylie, in turn, shared a more tender, poignant memory: the exact day she realized her childhood ended too early, a quiet admission that hung in the air, heavy with unspoken understanding. Matt didn't pry; he just listened, truly listened, the same way he did on the podcast.

Then, tucked away amidst some older trees, they stumbled upon it: a small, forgotten playground. Swings hung still, slides gleamed faintly in the dim light, and a merry-go-round sat patiently.

Kylie's eyes lit up, a spark of childlike mischief igniting within her. "Race you to the swings?" she challenged, already taking a step back, ready to sprint.

Matt laughed, a genuine, unrestrained sound. "That's not fair. You're in boots!"

"Exactly," she shot back, already halfway to a running start. "I'll still win."

And she did.

While he pushed himself on the swing, Kylie sat sideways so that she could see him. 

“Come on, Matt! You can do better than that, go higher!”

Matt laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound. She went behind him to give him a push and then stood in front of him from a safe distance. Looking at her, a profound sense of ease settled in. "You're something, you know that?" he said, the words coming out unbidden.

Kylie's smile softened, turning reflective. "Only when I let myself be," she replied, her gaze meeting him across the now small distance between his swing and her. "It's… quieter here. With you."

"Yeah," Matt agreed, the word barely a whisper. "It is." He felt it too. A rare peace, a sense of belonging that was both unexpected and deeply comforting. It wasn't about the cameras. In the quiet of the park, under the fading light, it was just them. The air between them hummed with an unspoken understanding, a gentle current of connection.

Eventually, Kylie’s laughter died down, replaced by a soft sigh. "Okay, Cinderella, playtime's over," she said, her voice tinged with a familiar, reluctant resignation. "I really should head back home."

Matt's heart sank a little at the mention of her leaving, but he nodded. "Right, reality calls."

They walked towards the edge of the playground, the silence comfortable between them. Just as they were about to leave, Kylie spotted the slide. With a sudden burst of energy, she climbed the short steps. "Wait, one more for the road," she announced, and instead of sliding down forward, she sat, faced the sky, and pushed off to slide backwards.

"Kylie, don't—" Matt started, but it was too late. Her boots caught on the edge, and she wobbled precariously as she reached the bottom. With a small yelp, she almost toppled over. In an instant, Matt was there. His hand shot out, catching her arm just as she lost her balance at the end of the freaking slide. 

“Are you good?” he asked, kinda preoccupied, but she was too busy laughing her ass off to answer the question. Her head was thrown back, a bright, uninhibited sound bubbling out of her that echoed through the quiet park. He couldn't help but crack a smile, then a full-blown laugh himself, caught by the sheer absurdity and her contagious joy.

"I'm okay, it’s okay!" she finally gasped between giggles, pushing herself upright with his help. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes, sparkling with mirth, met his. She straightened her denim jacket, adjusting her hair.

“Really? I just had to save you from yourself,” Matt retorted, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he released her arm.

Kylie rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Thanks, hero. My pride is slightly bruised.”

They ambled back to his car, the previous comfortable silence now replaced by a lighter, more animated hum. The near-tumble on the slide, instead of being an awkward moment, had simply become another shared laugh, solidifying the easy camaraderie that had blossomed between them.

Once they were settled back in the car, the engine a soft purr, Matt took control of the music. "Alright, since you nearly broke your neck on my watch, I'm taking back DJ duties for moral support," he announced, scrolling through his phone.

Kylie scoffed playfully. "Fine, but if it's country, I'm calling an Uber."

He grinned, selecting a Mac Miller track, its “chill but cool” beats filling the space. "Relax, I know your vibe. We're going with something that screams 'I just narrowly avoided a playground injury, but I'm still cool enough.'"

The drive back to her apartment was easy. The earlier, deeper discussions about fears and childhoods had laid a powerful foundation, but now, it was simply the joy of sharing a quiet moment, of existing together without pressure. The city lights began to brighten again as they approached her neighborhood, and the unspoken realization that their time together was nearing its end hung gently in the air.

The mellow notes faded as Matt pulled up to the curb outside Kylie’s place. The city, though still awake, felt hushed, as if in deference to the quiet understanding that had grown between them. He cut the engine, and the sudden silence in the car felt both profound and entirely comfortable.

Neither of them made an immediate move to get out. The vibe between them was thick with a new, unspoken awareness, a delicate tension that was both exhilarating and just a little bit daunting. It wasn't the kind of tension that needed breaking, but one that promised something more.

Finally, Kylie unbuckled her seatbelt. "Well, this was... not what I expected," she said, a small smile playing on her lips as she turned to face him. "But in the best way." She paused, her gaze steady. "It was actually really nice to see you without your brothers, I wasn't expecting that."

Matt's smile softened, a genuine warmth spreading across his face. "Good unexpected, I hope?"

"The best kind," she confirmed, her eyes twinkling. She opened the car door, but didn't immediately step out. Instead, she paused, a genuine softness in her expression. "Thanks for not being weird," she offered, the words sincere.

Matt chuckled, a warm sound in the cool night. "Thanks for not being… Hollywood," he replied, a playful jab at the work community they were used to.

They shared a smile, a silent acknowledgment of the authenticity they'd found in each other, away from the glare of cameras and expectations. It was a shared secret, a small victory in a world that often felt performative.

"Next time," Matt said, his voice a low rumble, the words holding a weight that transcended a casual suggestion. "You're picking me up. I see your car."

Kylie's smile widened into a full grin, a flash of her inherent confidence returning. "Bet," she nodded, her eyes bright with a challenge he was more than willing to accept. "But I’m still picking the music."

He didn’t mind one bit.

tagging: @sturns-mermaid @a103-chris-mm @zenithsturniolo @cayleeuhithinknott

[theothernads]

• 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝟎𝟎𝟕 — 𝐄𝐍𝐇𝐘𝐏𝐄𝐍 𐙚 (TEASER)

────────────────────────────────

ִֶָ࣪☾. 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: In a world where vampires exist, the city of Seoul is not safe. With the most notorious in the Facility, 007 everyone thought that the city would be kept at bay with murders being stopped and for terror to stop haunting everyone in the night. That's what you thought when they were captured and stopped the vampirism from spreading by biting normal humans. However, you made a mistake in assuming that these seven would give up, and you underestimated their desire for power and control when you were invited for an internship to said Facility 007. It should have been easy enough. But one myth and night changed everything, and now, you have to figure out how to play your cards right if you want to take them down.

ִֶָ࣪☾. 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: vampire!Enha×f!reader. ☰ .⭒ֶָ֢⋆.

ִֶָ࣪☾. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: biting, violence, chainsaws, blood, fighting, lots of death, Enha are MEAN ASFAWK (dont romanticise it), handcuffs, vampires (duh), needles, and violence <3

╰┈➤ don't proceed if you don't like that.

ִֶָ࣪☾. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 19.2k ☰ ִֶָ࣪☾. 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘: ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

ִֶָ࣪☾. [𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒]: I am back!!! Ack! I saw those concept photos and I had a dream. And my phone💀. Okay, but the reaction to my last oneshot was so amazing, and even to the headcanons! I am so glad! And I'm grateful as well. Also!! Which song is your fave from the album? I really love 'Too Close', 'Helium', and 'Bad Desire'. I feel like Bad Desire could have had a boom in the chorus, but I love it. So. Also, give me a week to edit the whole thing!!

ִֶָ ➤ if you wanna be added to the taglist, just comment or give an ask!! <3. ִֶָ࣪☾. ᯓᡣ𐭩

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ᥫ᭡.━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

FACILITY 007.

The most highly guarded prison to accommodate the most notorious vampires to ever roam the streets. Each prison was made with soundproof walls, ropes at the ready, and a seat built into the wall.

These vampires managed to make the news within hours; they made their trademark through these black masks, covering the cheeks and nose with narrow gaps where the teeth would be of some kind of horrid creature.

Each of their kills were brutal and malicious, with people drowning in their own blood, limbs left at awkward angles, and sometimes, the bodies were too unrecognisable to even have an autopsy performed.

Lee Heeseung — the oldest of the lot, observant and critical, but insanely quiet.

There was a permanent frown on his lips, skin glittering under the fluorescent lights, fists curled between his lap. But even as you dared to stare, you couldn't miss the intrigue bleeding into his gaze, then consuming him fully as he lifted his chin with a slow precision.

Riki. You know he was the youngest of the lot, but he easily could go from zero to a hundred. It was go big or go home for the youngest vampire, exceeding all boundaries of peace to pursue any shadow of violence and make it his own. Sarcastic and mischievous, too.

Park Jongseong — another silent creature, but well-spoken with a tipping temper. Even then, you saw the sharp gaze through the strands of his hair, and the curiosity simmering with a careful heat, as if waiting for the right moment.

Kim Sunoo would be waiting for you — his bloodlust knew no end, usually impulsive and seemed proud of his tendencies. Kim Sunoo was awake. Too awake for your liking. You know there was no clock within the rooms, but he didn't need one. It was as if every tick of a second was taken account of all in his head. And he waited. It wasn't the friendly smile, of course, but knowing, insane. As if he had you all figured out, but he was building up a wall of his own defenses in place.

Sim Jaeyun — quiet and calculating, someone who was like the dark horse. Only existing in the shadows but a plan crafted by him meant perfect execution and skill. Cold and dead. That is what came to your mind first when Jake flickered his gaze to you, and it had the same ability to dissect your skin and leave goosebumps to trigger all over.

On your right was Park Sunghoon — a no-bullshit vampire, even more calculating and a violence that he hid all too well, knowing he craved dominion over his actions.

Finally, Yang Jungwon. The last vampire and supposedly the leader, the one seen always at the crime scene with a cunning smile and a skill built for hunting blood. He was intelligent, twisting, but it wasn't enough to keep them out of trouble.

You hated those no-good vampires, and there was absolutely nothing to persuade you to ever go near one…

Except.

Except the fact your mother offered you an insightful internship at her facility to gain experience since you are in the final year of your biomedical course. There were perks that came with having a crazy scientist as your mother. And, you accepted it with a single breath.

What you didn't accept is the part where you had to go to the West Wing and administer drugs directly to said vampires.

You knew you were about to enter dangerous territory.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱‧₊˚━━━━━━━━━━━━━

╰┈➤ Taglist: just ask or comment <3. ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

[jessesluvr]

You are such an amazing writer? where have you been?!?! Your first two works are engraved in my brain I swear I have read them about a million times. I hope you know that! you are so very talented!

Can I please request a Miller Fem reader! (Joel or Tommy daughter, you pick!) x where they (who are already in a relationship) are on a patrol and something happens, maybe too many infected or maybe raiders, and both pass out after the rescue team arrives (maybe reader passed out first and Jesse once the team arrived, I feel like he would try his best to stay awake for protecting reader). When he wakes up reader is still asleep since she was more wounded and he just doesn't leave her bedside and sticks to her like glue on her recovery until she can go back to patrolling and doing things by herself again.

In this situation I do believe he would be so ashamed to look in Joel/Tommy's eyes since he vowed to himself that he'd protect their daughter and he thinks he failed and is no longer worthy being with her. It would be up to Joel/Tommy to go like "Hey son, it's not your fault", and of course reader to reassure him.

It's up to you, always! If that's not something you would like to work on please ignore my request. Also, edit the plot as you please, it is yours. Thank you so much, I wish you a really great week! Keep up with blessing us with your talent! 🤍

holding on | jesse x reader

author's note : okay, you're gonna make me SOB?! thank you so much for your absolute kind words. i've missed writing fanfiction and this brings me immense joy to start writing again knowing you're enjoying what i write ! thank you again for requesting <3 ! late night post before bed, goodnight !!

summary : after a brutal infected attack leaves both you and jesse injured and unconscious, jesse struggles with guilt over failing to protect you, but with support from joel, tommy, and your reassurance, he finds the strength to heal alongside you and move forward together.

word count : 1k

the cold bit deep into your skin as you and jesse moved through the dense forest beyond jackson. the air was heavy, thick with the smell of moss and decay, and your breath came out in little clouds, mingling with the fog that clung to the ground. you’d been on patrol for hours, alert to every sound, every shadow. it was routine for you—training with joel had drilled it into your bones—but today something felt off.

jesse kept close, eyes sharp. you liked having him at your side; he was calm, reliable, always aware. you smiled faintly at him when he glanced your way, that little half-smile that meant, “we got this.” the two of you had been together long enough now that you moved like a single unit, anticipating each other’s steps, silent communication weaving between you.

the forest was eerily quiet as you and jesse moved deeper into the overgrown path. moss hung heavy from the twisted branches above, droplets of water catching the faint morning light. every step felt measured, every breath steady—until the screech shattered the stillness.

it started with one—a lone infected, its ragged clothes soaked with grime, eyes wild and unblinking. before either of you could react, a second appeared, then a third, all emerging from the shadows like ghosts of a nightmare. their growls were guttural and desperate, a sound that set your nerves on fire.

“back to back,” jesse whispered, already raising his rifle. you mirrored him, gripping your own weapon tighter. your pulse hammered in your ears, but your hands stayed steady—years of training taking over.

the infected lunged. you fired twice—one dropped, but more came rushing in. jesse was a heartbeat away, shouting your name as he tackled one to the ground. the scuffle was brutal, teeth snapping inches from his face, claws scraping leather and flesh.

you spun, striking out with your knife, feeling the satisfying thud as it met bone. but the pack was relentless—too many, moving too fast. a sudden flash of movement caught you off guard; one knocked you sideways, and you crashed into a tree trunk. the wind whooshed out of your lungs, and pain flared sharp in your ribs.

jesse was at your side in an instant, fighting off a snarling infected with everything he had. “stay with me!” he barked, dragging you to your feet, but your vision swam and the world tilted.

you felt the cold seep into your skin as you crumpled to the ground, the sound of jesse’s desperate shouts fading around you. the last thing you registered before darkness claimed you was his fierce, unyielding gaze refusing to look away.

“you’re awake,” he said softly, a relieved smile breaking through the exhaustion on his face.

“what happened?” you croaked.

jesse squeezed your hand. “you got hurt pretty bad out there. i—” his voice broke, and he swallowed hard. “i was supposed to protect you.”

you blinked, confusion and tenderness washing over you. “jesse... you didn’t fail.”

he looked away, shame heavy in his gaze. “i promised joel, and tommy... i was supposed to keep you safe. i couldn’t even keep you on your feet.”

outside the tent, joel and tommy’s voices murmured low. you heard tommy say something about jesse needing a break, needing to rest. but jesse refused to leave your side. you reached out and placed a hand on his cheek, forcing him to meet your eyes.

“look at me,” you said quietly. “i’m still here. and so are you. that’s what matters.”

he let out a shaky breath and leaned into your touch. “i don’t deserve you.”

“you do,” you whispered, your voice firm. “we’ll get through this. together.”

joel’s visits were always quiet but meaningful. one evening, after you and jesse had eaten the meager dinner offered in the medical tent, joel sat with the two of you.

“jesse,” joel started, his voice gruff but kind, “i know you feel like you failed. hell, i feel like i failed too—every day. but that’s part of this world. sometimes we get lucky, sometimes we don’t. it ain’t on you.”

jesse looked down, voice barely a whisper. “i promised i’d keep her safe. i broke that promise.”

joel reached over and clapped a firm hand on jesse’s shoulder. “you didn’t break nothin’. you were there, you fought. you stayed. that’s what counts.”

tommy, standing nearby, nodded. “we all have our scars. the important part is what we do with ’em.”

you squeezed jesse’s hand, feeling the weight of their words settle into the room, softening the edges of guilt and fear.

days passed in a slow rhythm of healing and quiet. jesse stayed close, watching you sleep, bringing you water, never leaving your side. he’d learned the hard way how fragile life was, and how quickly things could go wrong. you could see the weight of guilt pressing on him, but you refused to let him carry it alone.

late nights brought the most fragile moments. jesse would lie awake beside you, tracing patterns on your skin, whispering about futures you dared to hope for. sometimes, tears slipped quietly from his eyes, and you’d pull him close.

“you’re not alone,” you told him one night, voice thick with emotion. “we’re a team. i need you as much as you need me.”

his breath hitched, and he kissed the top of your head, holding you like you were the most precious thing in the world. “i swear, i’ll never leave you.”

those promises—spoken and unspoken—became your lifeline. the fear that had threatened to swallow you whole softened in the warmth of jesse’s unwavering love.

when the day came for you to try standing without support, jesse was right there, nerves barely hidden. you leaned on him, both physically and emotionally, and with each shaky step, you reclaimed a little more of yourself.

“look at you,” jesse said, voice full of pride and awe. “you’re incredible.”

you laughed softly, tears of relief slipping down. “i couldn’t have done it without you.”

he smiled, eyes shining. “that’s what partners are for.”

and as you looked out beyond the tent—the wild, dangerous world waiting—you knew that no matter what came next, you’d face it together.

[synintheraven]

Thank you Līga @whitedarkmoonflower my beloved for providing me with pics of my (second) husband 😏

[elmonstro]

HELLO FELLOW BIGBANG PROCRASTINATOR. I SURELY AM NOT ALSO PROCRASTINATING. Good thing our partners for it will NEVER find out;)))))

ummmm <3 maybe percy for 1? or haha a rodimus for 7? :3

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FRIEND!!! Hope you have an awesome dayyy!

SHHHH don't let them hear!! I had to stop procrastinating lmao but here they are, you can have both <3 as a treat

From this expressions challenge, I'm still open to requests but might take a while

Bonus sketch for u

[scottinaussie]

Fr. Mike Schmitz

October 2024

[curestardust]

"Most Rusalki choose to live in lakes or under the sea... While I choose this land." Vila Trailer - "Another Fairy Tale"

[empitthy]

𝖤𝖭𝖣𝖫𝖤𝖲𝖲 𝖤𝖣𝖨𝖳𝖲 𝖮𝖥 𝖣𝖱. 𝖲𝖠𝖬𝖨𝖱𝖠 𝖬𝖮𝖧𝖠𝖭.

[sie-the-doe]

This.

is a pan.

I do a lot of photography and abstract art, but I dont post a lot of them.

This is a major intersection for me with the two kinds of art that I do, and Im so so happy I took and edited this picture. Pretty heavily edited too, lol.

:3c Stay Silly, Make Art, and Have Hot Sloppy Sex.

[parakeetpark]

The vast number of ways your head can hurt is truly profound