#he's smiling because all the secrets are out and he can breathe

[flux1563]

Scandal Payment

Winter x big cock

Words : 6k

Tags : squirting, multiple orgasms, big cock, spanking, creampie, deep throat, cum in face

Winter sat cross-legged on her bed, her eyes glazed over as she stared at the glowing screen of her phone. The room was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the thunderous applause and screams that usually filled her ears during performances. Her heart raced, a wild stallion galloping through her chest, as she scrolled through the articles that had turned her world upside down. The headlines were a blur of accusations and betrayal. How had it come to this?

Her manager, Mr. Kim, knocked tentatively on the door, his voice a trembling whisper. "Winter, the CEO is here to see you. Are you ready?"

Winter took a deep, shaky breath and nodded, even though she felt anything but prepared. She knew the gravity of the situation, the weight of the scandal threatening to crush her career and her life. She had to face the music.

Mr. Park, the CEO of the agency, walked in with a solemn expression. He was a man who had seen the darkest side of the industry, his eyes reflecting a reservoir of unspoken secrets. He glanced at her, his gaze a mixture of pity and resignation. "Winter," he began, his voice a heavy sigh, "we've got a problem."

Her stomach twisted into a knot. She had been dreading this moment, the moment when her entire world could come crashing down around her. She had always worked so hard, striving for perfection in every move, every note, every smile for the cameras. And now, it could all be taken away because of one mistake.

"It's... it's not what it looks like," she stuttered, her voice barely above a whisper. But she knew the truth was written all over her face.

Mr. Park sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world rested upon them. "I know it's not easy for you," he said, his voice softer now. "But the damage is done. The company's reputation is at stake."

Winter's eyes widened in horror as she realized what he was implying. The scandal wasn't just about her anymore; it had become a battle for the agency's survival. Her heart pounded in her chest like a drum, echoing the fear that had taken root in her soul.

"What... what do you want me to do?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Mr. Park leaned forward, his eyes boring into hers with a fierce intensity. "I have one solution," he said, his voice a low growl. "One way to save both of us. It won't be easy, but it's the only way out."

Winter felt a chill run down her spine. She knew she was about to make a deal with the devil. But she was desperate, clinging to the last thread of hope.

"I'll do anything," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Mr. Park's eyes narrowed, a glint of something akin to victory sparkling in them. "One of our investors," he said slowly, "has made an offer. He's willing to help us cover up this... incident."

Winter felt the blood drain from her face. "What kind of help?" she asked, though she already knew what was coming.

"He wants you to be his... companion," Mr. Park said, his voice thick with the unspoken words. "If you agree to this arrangement, we can keep this scandal under wraps and your career can continue. You'll be under his protection, but you'll still be part of the company. You can still be an idol."

The room spun around her, the walls closing in as if the very air had turned to lead. A sex slave. That's what she was being offered as a lifeline. Winter felt the bile rise in her throat, the thought of giving up her body, her very being, to some faceless monster too much to bear. Yet, the alternative was unthinkable. Ruin, disgrace, and the end of everything she had worked for.

"You're asking me to sell myself," she managed to croak out, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Mr. Park nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "It's the only way," he said firmly. "It's either this or face the consequences. The choice is yours."

Winter felt like she was drowning, her thoughts racing faster than she could comprehend. Her mind was a tumultuous storm of fear, anger, and despair. But amidst the chaos, a flicker of defiance began to burn. She had worked too hard, come too far, to let it all slip away without a fight.

"Fine," she said through gritted teeth, her voice shaking with the weight of her words. "I'll do it."

The CEO's expression didn't change, but she could see the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. "Good," he said, his voice cold. "I'll arrange everything. You'll be informed of the details when it's all set."

Winter nodded numbly, her mind racing. How had it come to this? She had always been the good girl, the one who followed the rules, the one who had it all figured out. And now she was being sentenced to a life of servitude.

Days passed in a blur, each one more surreal than the last. Her world had shrunk to the confines of her room, where she waited for the message that would dictate her fate. It came in the form of a sleek black envelope slipped under her door. Inside, a simple note with an address and the words "Come to this private mansion. Wear only a jacket without anything fabric inside. Mr. Y/N is waiting."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she read the message over and over, trying to convince herself that this was just a nightmare, that she would wake up any moment. But the cold reality remained, seeping into her bones like a relentless frost.

The day arrived, and with it, the heavy weight of her decision. She showered, trying to scrub away the feeling of filth that clung to her skin. She slipped on the jacket, the chilly air of the early spring evening brushing against her bare skin beneath it. The fabric was all that stood between her and the unknown.

With trembling hands, she took a cab to the address provided. The mansion was a fortress of opulence, nestled in the heart of a quiet neighborhood. Its grandeur was a stark reminder of the power she was about to face.

Winter stepped out of the taxi, her legs threatening to buckle under the gravity of her situation. The massive gates swung open, revealing a long, winding driveway lined with meticulously trimmed hedges. The house loomed before her, its windows dark and mysterious, like the eyes of a predator watching its prey.

The door to the mansion opened, and a man in a tailored suit emerged, his face a stoic mask. He gestured for her to follow, and she took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come. The door closed behind her with a finality that echoed through her soul.

The interior was like something out of a magazine, with gleaming marble floors and grand chandeliers casting dramatic shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and a hint of something else, something darker and more sinister.

Mr. Y/N was waiting for her in a dimly lit drawing room, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He was older, with silver hair and a sharp jawline, his eyes as cold as the metal around his fingers.

"Welcome," he said, his voice like velvet over gravel. "I trust you've come to your senses."

Winter's stomach churned, but she forced a smile, her heart hammering in her chest. "Thank you for... helping me," she managed, her voice a shaky whisper.

He took a sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving hers. "Consider it an investment," he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "An investment in your future."

The words sent a shiver down her spine. She knew what he meant. This wasn't just a one-time deal; she was being bought and paid for, a commodity to be used at his whim.

"Now," Mr. Y/N said, setting his glass down on a side table with a clink. "Let's get started, shall we?"

Winter's mind rebelled, but her body obeyed. She knew she had made her choice, and there was no going back now. As she followed him up the grand staircase, she couldn't help but feel like she was climbing the steps to her own personal hell.

When they reached the top, Mr. Y/N turned to face her, his eyes darkening as they swept over her bare skin. "Open the jacket," he instructed, his voice a low growl.

Her hands trembled as she slowly unbuttoned the jacket, revealing herself to him. She felt exposed, vulnerable, a piece of meat on display for his perusal. The cold air in the mansion nipped at her skin, making her shiver.

Mr. Y/N took a step closer, his eyes lingering on her body like a connoisseur examining a fine piece of art. "Very good," he murmured, his voice a caress that made her skin crawl. "Now, let's go to your new quarters."

He led her down a long hallway lined with closed doors, each one a potential nightmare waiting to be unlocked. Finally, he stopped at one and opened it, revealing a plush, velvet-covered room that looked more like a prison cell than a bedroom.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of flowers, almost cloying in its sweetness. The walls were lined with mirrors, reflecting her image back at her from every angle, a constant reminder of the deal she had made.

Mr. Y/N's eyes raked over her, a hunger in his gaze that made her stomach churn. He took another step closer, his breath warm against her cheek as he reached out to trace the line of her neck with one finger. "You're more beautiful than I imagined," he murmured, his voice thick with lust.

Winter felt his hands slide down her body, the fabric of her jacket whispering against her skin as he pushed it off her shoulders. It fell to the floor, leaving her naked and trembling before him. His gaze dipped to her breasts, his pupils dilating as he took in the sight of her hardened nipples.

Without a word, he leaned in, his mouth closing over one sensitive peak. He sucked hard, his teeth grazing the tender flesh, and she couldn't help the gasp that tore from her lips. The sensation was almost unbearable, a mix of pleasure and pain that had her body responding despite her mind's protest.

He moved to the other side, giving her no reprieve, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub before he bit down, eliciting a whimper. Her body was a traitor, arching towards him, craving more of the exquisite agony he was inflicting.

The room spun around her, the world narrowing to the feel of his mouth on her body. She felt his hands on her hips, guiding her back towards the bed, and she knew what was to come next. But she couldn't stop it, couldn't even bring herself to protest as he pushed her down onto the soft, velvet surface.

Mr. Y/N's eyes gleamed with victory as he climbed over her, his body pressing her into the mattress. He trailed kisses down her torso, each one leaving a fiery path in its wake. When he reached her navel, he paused, his tongue flicking out to taste her.

Winter's breath hitched as his mouth moved lower, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. His hands gripped her hips, holding her in place as his mouth found her most intimate spot. She wanted to scream, to push him away, but she was paralyzed with fear and a perverse excitement that she despised herself for feeling.

He took his time, savoring her like a fine wine, his tongue dancing around her clit with a skill that belied his age. She felt herself responding, her body betraying her once more as she grew wetter, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

And then, just when she thought she couldn't take it anymore, he stopped, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror above the bed. "You're mine now," he said, his voice a dark promise. "And I intend to enjoy every inch of you."

Winter's body was a live wire, her nerves singing with the anticipation of what was to come. She felt his hand slide down her stomach, his fingers delving into her wetness, and she couldn't help but arch her back in response. He chuckled, a sound that sent a shiver down her spine, and then his mouth was back on her, his tongue lapping at her clit with an intensity that stole her breath away.

Her body tensed, her muscles coiling tight as a spring. And then, with a suddenness that took her by surprise, she felt it. The warm rush of liquid that spurted from her, soaking his face as she lost control. Mr. Y/N's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he licked at her, savoring the taste of her submission.

The sensation was overwhelming, the most intense thing she had ever felt. It was as if her entire being was concentrated in that one point of pleasure, exploding outwards in a shower of sensation. Her legs trembled, her body shaking with the force of her release.

Mr. Y/N pulled away, his face glistening with her arousal. He licked her lips, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror. "Magnificent," he murmured, his voice a low rumble of approval.

Winter felt a twist of shame, but it was quickly overshadowed by the realization of what she had just done. She had squirted for this man, this stranger who now owned her. It was a humiliating reminder of her new reality, one that sent a jolt of arousal through her body despite herself.

He climbed off the bed, his erection straining against his pants as he moved to a closet and pulled out a set of restraints. "Time to get comfortable," he said, his smile cold and predatory.

Her heart racing, she watched as he approached the bed, the restraints jangling in his hand. She knew she had no choice but to submit, to become the plaything he desired. She allowed him to bind her wrists to the bedposts, the leather biting into her skin as he secured them tightly.

Mr. Y/N's eyes gleamed as he surveyed his handiwork. "Now," he said, his voice a low growl, "we can truly begin."

He unbuttoned his shirt with deliberate slowness, revealing a chest that was as hard and unyielding as the rest of him. His pants followed, pooling at his ankles to reveal the monstrous erection that strained against his boxers. Winter couldn't tear her eyes away, a mix of fear and fascination warring within her.

With a smirk, he pushed his underwear down, freeing his cock. It was massive, a thick, veiny beast that stood proud and erect before her. At least twelve inches of pure, unadulterated power, a symbol of his dominance over her. She had never seen anything so big, so intimidating. Her eyes widened as he stroked it, watching as it grew even larger.

Mr. Y/N stepped closer to the bed, his cock mere inches from her face. "This," he said, his voice a velvet caress, "is what you're going to serve from now on. You're going to take it any way I want it, whenever I want it."

Winter's breathing grew shallow as she stared at the imposing member before her. She had never felt so small, so powerless. Yet, a strange thrill coursed through her, a dark excitement that she didn't want to admit to herself.

He climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between her legs. Her heart hammered in her chest like a wild beast trying to break free. The weight of his body was like a mountain pressing her into the mattress.

"Open your mouth," he ordered, his hand guiding her chin up.

Winter stared at the massive cock in front of her, the tip glistening with precum. "It's so big," she said, her voice trembling. "I don't think it can fit."

Mr. Y/N chuckled darkly. "You'll manage," he assured her, his voice filled with the promise of painful pleasure.

With a deep breath, she parted her lips, feeling the head of his cock brush against them. It was hot and heavy, the pressure making her mouth water with a mix of fear and anticipation. He pushed forward, and she felt the tip enter her mouth, stretching her lips wide. His hands were in her hair now, guiding her, urging her to take more.

"Relax," he murmured, his voice a dark whisper in the quiet room. "Take it slow."

Winter did as she was told, her eyes never leaving the mirror. She watched as his cock slid deeper, inch by inch, her mouth stretching to accommodate his girth. Her teeth grazed the sensitive skin, and she tasted the saltiness of his desire.

The feel of his cock filling her mouth was almost too much, the sensation overwhelming her senses. She could feel the veins pulsing beneath her tongue, the power in his grip as he held her head in place. He began to thrust gently, pushing her boundaries with every stroke.

Panic began to bubble in her chest as she struggled to breathe, her throat tightening around him. "I... I can't," she gasped, her eyes pleading in the reflection.

But Mr. Y/N was relentless, his eyes dark with hunger. "You'll learn," he said, his voice a low growl. "You'll learn to take it all."

He pushed deeper, the head of his cock touching the back of her throat. She gagged, her eyes watering, but he didn't stop. Instead, he began to fuck her mouth, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm.

Winter's eyes widened as she felt her throat opening for him, the muscles relaxing despite her fear. She took a deep, shaky breath through her nose, focusing on the feeling of his cock sliding in and out, the way it filled her up.

To her surprise, she found herself growing wetter, the sensation of being used, of being his to do with as he pleased, turning her on in a way she had never experienced before.

Her mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions – fear, anger, humiliation, and a dark, pulsing need. She hated herself for it, but she couldn't deny the way her body was responding to his dominance.

And as he continued to use her mouth, pushing her further than she ever thought possible, she realized that she had made a deal with the devil. And she was about to pay the price in full.

Winter's saliva began to dribble from the corners of her mouth, trickling down her chin and onto her chest. She felt the warmth spread across her skin, a stark contrast to the coldness of the room. It was a humiliating reminder of her new role, a symbol of her degradation that seemed to only fuel Mr. Y/N's desire. He watched the droplets with a hunger that made her stomach turn and her pussy throb in equal measure.

"You're doing very well," he murmured, his voice thick with lust as he praised her efforts. "Your mouth is so tight, so eager to please me."

As his praise continued, she felt something shift within her, a strange pride swelling in her chest. Despite the fear and disgust, she found herself eager to make him happy, to satisfy his hunger. His grip on her hair tightened, his thrusts becoming more urgent as he approached climax.

Suddenly, just as she felt the pressure of his cock about to burst within her, he pulled out, his hand coming to rest on her cheek. The head of his cock hovered before her, the veins bulging and pulsing with the force of his impending release.

With a guttural groan, Mr. Y/N pulled back and sprayed her face with his hot, sticky cum. It hit her like a warm, wet slap, coating her cheeks, her nose, and her mouth. Winter's eyes widened with shock, but she couldn't help the way her tongue darted out to catch a rogue drop that had landed on her bottom lip.

He watched her, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror, as he painted her face with his seed. She felt a mix of revulsion and arousal, a confusing cocktail that left her trembling and breathless. When he was done, he leaned in, his cock still semi-hard and glistening with the remnants of his release.

"Look at yourself," he said, his voice a harsh whisper. "Look at what you've become."

Winter stared at her reflection, her eyes red-rimmed and her face a mess of cum. She had never felt so exposed, so utterly owned. And yet, there was something undeniably erotic about it, something that had her body begging for more.

"Now, get on all fours," Mr. Y/N ordered, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down her spine.

With trembling legs, she complied, her knees hitting the plush carpet with a soft thud. The coldness of the room was a stark contrast to the heat between her legs, her pussy aching for his touch. As she positioned herself, she couldn't help but feel like a creature at his mercy, a pet awaiting its master's command.

He climbed off the bed, his eyes never leaving her. She watched in the mirror as he walked over to a nearby dresser, his erection still at half-mast. He opened a drawer, the sound of leather and metal clinking together reaching her ears. Her heart raced, her breathing shallow and fast as she waited for what was to come.

When he turned back to her, he was holding a riding crop. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of fear and excitement through her. "You're going to learn to be a good girl," he said, his voice a dark promise. "And this will help."

He approached the bed, the crop swishing through the air as he walked. "Spread your legs," he instructed, his eyes cold and calculating.

Winter did as she was told, her thighs parting to expose her wet pussy. She felt vulnerable, like prey caught in the sights of a predator. He stepped closer, the scent of leather and his cologne wrapping around her like a noose.

He trailed the tip of the crop along her spine, the sensation sending goosebumps racing across her skin. She couldn't help but arch her back, presenting herself to him like the whore she had become.

Without warning, the crop came down hard on her ass, the sting making her yelp. The pain was a shock, a bolt of lightning that sent her senses reeling. But it was quickly followed by a pulse of pleasure that had her pussy clenching around nothing.

Mr. Y/N chuckled darkly, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he watched her squirm. "Again," he said, the crop rising and falling with a sickening thwack.

Winter bit her lip, the pain turning to fire as he struck her again and again. But with every blow, the heat grew, the flames of desire licking at her core until she was a writhing mess of need and desperation.

"Fuck," she panted, her voice high and tight. "It's too big. It won't fit."

Mr. Y/N chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down her spine. "Don't worry," he said, his voice a dark whisper. "We'll make it fit."

He set the crop aside, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached down and stroked her swollen clit. The pleasure was instant, a spark that ignited the bonfire of her lust. He circled the sensitive nub with his thumb, watching her reactions with a clinical interest.

Her eyes rolled back in her head, her body trembling as she moaned, her pussy clenching and unclenching in anticipation. He took his time, building the fire until she was begging for release, her hips bucking back towards his hand.

And then, without warning, he stopped, his cock nudging at her entrance. It was a blunt, thick presence that made her gasp.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down her spine.

Winter nodded, her body trembling with anticipation. She knew this was the moment she had been dreading, the moment she would be truly claimed.

Mr. Y/N gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh as he pushed forward. She felt the tip of his cock breach her, the pressure almost unbearable.

"Relax," he murmured, his voice a dark caress. "Take a deep breath and push back."

With a whimper, she did as she was told, feeling the head of his cock pop inside her. The pain was like a knife, stealing her breath and making her eyes water. But she didn't stop, didn't pull away, driven by a need she didn't fully understand.

He pushed further, inch by torturous inch, until she was stretched to the limit. Her muscles protested, her pussy screaming for relief. But the pain was mixed with a pleasure so intense it was almost indistinguishable.

"Please," she gasped, her voice a desperate plea. "I can't..."

But he was relentless, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror. "You can," he said, his voice a harsh command. "You will."

And with one final, brutal thrust, he seated himself fully inside her, his balls slapping against her ass. She felt like she was being split in two, the agony and ecstasy blending into one overwhelming wave that crashed over her.

Mr. Y/N didn't give her time to adjust, his hips moving in a punishing rhythm that sent shockwaves through her body. The pain grew with every thrust, but so did the pleasure, a twisted dance that had her moaning his name.

"You're so tight," he groaned, his grip on her hips tightening. "So perfect."

Winter's eyes widened in the mirror, the pain of his entry like a brand seared into her very soul. She had never felt so full, so stretched, so... violated. But even as the agony tore through her, she felt her pussy clench around him, her body's natural response to the intrusion.

"Fuck, Mr. Y/N," she whimpered, her voice a desperate plea.

He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back as he whispered in her ear. "Call me 'Master'. It's what you're here for."

The word was like a slap across the face, the reality of her situation hitting her with the force of a freight train. She was no longer Winter, the beloved idol. She was a sex toy, a plaything for this monster.

"M-Master," she corrected, her voice shaking.

His thrusts grew more forceful, his cock pounding into her like a hammer against an anvil. Each stroke sent a fresh wave of pain through her, making her scream.

"FUCKKK, MY PUSSY WAS TORN," she screamed, the pain so intense it stole her breath away.

Mr. Y/N's only response was a growl of satisfaction, his pace never faltering. She felt her insides tear, her body protesting the brutal invasion, but she knew it was too late to turn back now. She had made her deal with the devil, and she would see it through.

The room was a blur of pain and pleasure, the two intertwining until she couldn't tell one from the other. Her mind was a whirlwind of fear, anger, and a dark, twisted desire that had her panting for more.

With every thrust, she felt herself slipping further and further away from the girl she once was, her identity fading like a distant memory. But even as the pain grew, so did the thrill, the excitement of being used so completely.

Her orgasm built, a crescendo of sensation that threatened to shatter her into a million pieces. "Master, please," she begged, her voice a ragged whisper. "I'm going to come."

Mr. Y/N chuckled, his grip on her hips tightening. "Cum for me," he ordered, his voice a dark rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. "Squirt for me."

Winter's eyes widened as he pulled his cock out of her, the sudden emptiness making her gasp. But she knew what he wanted, what he was waiting for. With a cry of pure abandon, she pushed back against his hand, her pussy clenching around his fingers as she came.

The release was explosive, a geyser of liquid that spurted from her, soaking the bed beneath her. Her body convulsed, her muscles tightening and releasing in waves of pure pleasure. It was like nothing she had ever felt before, a powerful, primal force that seemed to consume her.

Mr. Y/N watched with a hungry gaze, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror. "Beautiful," he murmured, his voice filled with awe. "You're a natural."

Winter's cheeks flushed with a mix of pride and embarrassment. She had never felt so exposed, so utterly vulnerable. But she couldn't deny the thrill of his praise, the way it made her pulse race.

He slammed back into her, the sudden intrusion making her gasp. The angle was different now, the head of his cock hitting a spot deep inside her that had her toes curling with every thrust. It was like he had found a secret button, one that sent her hurtling towards the edge of oblivion.

With his free hand, Mr. Y/N reached around and slapped her ass, the sound echoing through the silent room. "Tell me," he growled, his breath hot against her ear. "Tell me what you want. Tell me how it feels."

Winter's eyes rolled back in her head, her mind a haze of pain and pleasure. "I want... I want it all," she moaned, the words spilling from her lips like a confession. "I want you to use me, to fill me up."

He slapped her again, the sting making her pussy clench around him. "And how does it feel?" he demanded.

"It feels..." she gasped, her voice trailing off as she searched for the right words. "It feels like... I'm on fire. Like I'm being torn apart and put back together."

Mr. Y/N's hand came down again, the pain turning her words into a scream. "Again," he said, his voice a harsh whisper. "Tell me again."

"It feels amazing," she managed, her voice hoarse. "It feels like... like nothing I've ever felt before."

The slap of his hand on her ass grew more rhythmic, matching the tempo of his hips. "And do you want more?" he asked, his voice a low, dark rumble.

Winter could feel the orgasm building, a pressure that threatened to consume her. "Yes," she panted. "More, Master. Please."

With a smirk, he reached between her legs, his thumb finding her clit. He began to rub in tight circles, the added sensation pushing her closer to the brink. "Beg for it," he said, his voice a command.

"Please," she whispered, the word a desperate plea. "Please, I need it."

He increased his pace, the friction of his thumb driving her wild. "Say it," he demanded. "Tell me what you need."

"I need your cock," she gasped, her voice a needy whine. "I need you to fuck me, to make me squirt again."

The words were like a trigger, and she felt it building, the pressure growing until she couldn't hold it back any longer. With a scream, she came again, her pussy pulsing around him as he continued to pound into her.

Mr. Y/N's breath grew ragged, his own release close. He pulled out, the wet sound making her whimper. "Look at me," he ordered, his voice strained.

Winter managed to lift her head, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. "Master," she whispered, her voice shaking.

He stroked himself, his hand a blur as he worked his cock. "Tell me," he said, his voice tight with need. "Tell me how much you want it."

"I want it," she moaned, her pussy still clenching in the aftermath of her climax. "I want it all."

Mr. Y/N chuckled darkly, the sound a stark contrast to the desperation in her voice. He positioned the tip of his cock at her entrance once more, watching her with a hunger that seemed to consume him. "You're going to take it," he said, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror. "You're going to take it all."

With one powerful thrust, he was back inside her, filling her completely. Winter's eyes rolled back in her head, the pleasure so intense it was almost painful. She could feel herself stretching around him, her body trying to accommodate his massive size.

"Fuck," she whimpered, her voice a desperate plea. "It's too much."

Mr. Y/N leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back as he began to fuck her with a ferocity that stole her breath. "Is it?" he asked, his voice a low growl. "Is it really too much?"

Winter's eyes met his in the mirror, the need in his gaze reflecting the tumult of emotions churning within her. "No," she gasped, the word torn from her lips. "It's... it's not enough."

The room was filled with the slap of skin against skin, the sound of their ragged breathing. Her moans grew louder, the pleasure building like a storm within her. She had never felt so alive, so consumed by another person.

With every stroke, she felt herself slipping further and further into darkness, into a world where pleasure and pain were one and the same. She had never been so lost, so utterly at the mercy of another.

Mr. Y/N's hand came down on her ass again, the pain making her jolt. "You're mine," he said, his voice a dark promise. "You're mine to use, to break, to build back up again."

Winter's body responded to his words, her pussy clenching around him like a vise. "Yes," she whispered, her voice a ragged confession. "I'm yours."

He slammed into her, the force of his thrusts making the bed shake beneath them. "Good girl," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "Such a good, obedient little slut."

Winter's eyes squeezed shut, the sting of his words only adding to the whirlwind of sensation. She didn't want to be a slut, didn't want to be used like this, but she couldn't deny the way her body responded to his commands. Her pussy clenched around him, her orgasm building with every brutal penetration.

"Yeah," she panted, her voice a desperate plea. "Keep fucking me, Master. Make me forget."

The pressure grew, a tight coil of need that threatened to shatter her into a million pieces. She could feel herself slipping away, her mind a blank canvas of sensation. The pain in her ass, the fullness in her pussy, the burning in her throat from screaming his name – it was all she knew, all she was.

And then it hit her, the orgasm ripping through her like a tornado. She felt her pussy spasm around his cock, her muscles contracting in a symphony of pleasure. "Master," she screamed, her voice hoarse. "I'm cumming!"

Mr. Y/N chuckled darkly, his thrusts never slowing. "I know," he said, his voice a low growl. "And I'm going to keep fucking you until you can't think anymore."

Her vision swam, the world around her fading into a haze of ecstasy. The only thing that remained was the feeling of his cock pounding into her, the sound of his slaps echoing in her ears. She was lost, adrift in a sea of pleasure that seemed to have no end.

"Cum for me," he ordered, his voice a harsh command that sent shivers down her spine. "Cum until you can't move."

Winter felt her body respond, her pussy spasming around him as she climaxed again. The pleasure was so intense it was almost painful, a never-ending wave that crashed over her again and again. She didn't know how much more she could take, didn't know if she would survive this.

But even as she thought it, she felt the need building once more, the hunger growing insatiable. She was a creature of pure instinct, a living embodiment of lust.

With a final, brutal thrust, Mr. Y/N released his hold on her, his cum flooding her insides. She felt herself contract around him, her orgasm milking him for every last drop. It was a powerful, primal feeling that left her trembling and exhausted.

As he pulled out of her, she collapsed onto the bed, her body limp and spent. The only sound in the room was their harsh breathing, a testament to the intensity of what had just transpired.

[barnesonly]

˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

winter soldier x empath!reader

summary: Hydra sends you — a broken empath — into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.

word count: 7352

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, sa (mentioned), brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? we’ll see.

Chapter Six | Previous Chapter

The door opens like it always does.

Same sound. Same pace. Same stillness before he walks through.

But something’s wrong.

You know it before he even says a word.

James steps into the room with that same careful quiet, bare chest marked with new bruises, a healing scar on his side. He looks at you — really looks at you — and something in your chest eases.

The silence feels heavier this time. Not like before, when it was safe, when it wrapped around the two of you like a shared secret.

Now, it’s sharp. Measured.

He sits beside you. Not far. Not close. Just… safe.

“Hi,” you say gently.

“Hi.”

His voice still sounds like him. Still warm in that low, rough way. His fingers tap against his leg the way they always do when he’s trying to settle. But he doesn’t reach for you yet.

You swallow.

“You came back.”

“I always do.”

That makes you smile. Almost.

He hasn’t mentioned the bridge. Or the man. Or the name

You wait a little longer. For a flicker of recognition. A sign. A stray sentence that could mean that man still lingers somewhere behind his eyes.

It never comes.

Instead, he looks down at his hands. “They changed something. Didn’t they?”

You blink.

He meets your gaze again — not lost, not vacant, but quieter somehow. Less certain.

“I don’t remember all of it,” he says slowly. “Not the last mission. Not what happened before I saw you again. Just the machine, the sounds, the orders… They wiped it, didn’t they?”

Your heart breaks a little.

“I… I don’t know… I’m sorry.” you lie, it hurts like hell yet you do it anyways. Again.

You reach for his hand, and he lets you take it.

“They didn’t get rid of everything,” he adds, like it’s meant to comfort you.

But you feel the absence. Feel the ghost of what he did remember — before they scrubbed it away.

He doesn’t ask why you’re quiet. He just shifts a little closer, hand warm against your thigh now, his eyes heavy and tired.

You lean your head against his shoulder.

And say nothing.

Because you don’t want to remind him of what they took. Not when for the first time you’re terrified of him remembering.

———

It starts the same. White room, chair and Kern sitting across the table.

He folds his hands and smiles, barely.

“I hear the session went well,” he says.

You don’t answer.

“I take it he didn’t mention the man again?”

Your jaw tightens. “No.”

Kern’s expression doesn’t change. Not even a flicker of guilt. “Then the procedure was effective.”

You don’t look at him. You stare at the wall behind his head and try not to breathe too loud. The memory of James’s voice still echoes in your chest — They changed something. He knows. Even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

Even if he doesn’t remember who they took.

Kern leans forward slightly. “You should be relieved. That man was a threat. Pierce made the correct decision.”

Your eyes snap to his and Kern notices your guilt in them. You let the silence thicken, swallowing down everything you want to scream.

Kern just watches you before you speak again.

“I just wanted to keep him safe,” you whisper.

“And now he is,” his smile sharpens. “And so are we.”

You clench your fists in your lap.

He’s wrong.

You don’t feel safe at all.

You close your eyes.

“Can I see him again?” you ask softly.

Kern leans back in his chair. “Soon.” Then he speaks again. Calm. Controlled. “I noticed something,”

You lift your eyes warily.

He leans forward just slightly, elbows on the table. “You’ve grown… quieter. Guarded. And not just with me.”

You don’t say anything. You know better.

“You wanted to be the one to stabilize him, make him remember things. And yet — when he began to remember someone else — you didn’t seem pleased.”

You flinch, just barely. But he sees it.

Of course he does.

Kern’s smile thins. “You were jealous.”

Your fingers tighten in your lap.

“I don’t think you expected him to remember anyone besides you,” he continues, his voice almost gentle now, like he’s talking about weather. “I think you told yourself that what you were building with him was unique. That you were unique. The only crack in his programming.”

You meet his eyes. “I never said that.”

“No. But you felt it.”

He lets that sit between you for a moment before adding, “And now? You’re afraid. Not just because Pierce wiped him. But because it worked. And because you didn’t stop it. You agreed to it.”

You blink, hard, like that’ll stop the sting in your throat.

“It’s not like that. I didn’t want it, I was—“

He cuts you off “Scared?” Kern tilts his head. “Yes, you are.”

Then — quieter — “Because if he can remember someone else… maybe what you’ve built isn’t as strong as you think.”

Your throat closes. You try not to show it. You stare at him, trembling. Just slightly.

You want to scream. To fight. To run.

But instead… you nod.

Because the fear is real.

And Kern is right.

And for the first time it feels like the threat is outside, not inside.

Interview over.

———

You’re already sitting on the edge of the cot when he steps inside.

Shirtless again. Fresh from something bloody, though this time there’s no wound you can see. Just the tense, stormy silence of someone who’s been given too many orders and not enough answers.

No red light.

Again.

He notices it almost immediately.

He sits beside you. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t speak.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye. His fingers flex against his knee like he’s trying to ground himself — like maybe the air feels different.

“Hi… I missed you,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer, his eyes locked on the turned off camera.

“Did you know?”

“What?”

“That they’re going to wipe me?”

Your breath catches.

His voice is so calm. No anger. No accusation.

But it cuts sharper than any scream.

You try to lie. You try to say no.

But you can’t.

“It was something important. I feel it,” he says before you can speak. “Whatever it was.”

You don’t confirm. You don’t have to.

Because when you glance over — he’s looking at you like he already knows.

You close your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t move.

“I can’t remember what it was,” he continues. “But I know it mattered, Dove.”

That’s what breaks you.

Not the blank space — but the ache in his voice. The certainty. Like his soul remembers what his mind can’t.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, quieter now. “Why didn’t you stop them?”

Your throat burns. “Because I couldn’t. Because I was scared. And because I didn’t want to lose—”

You stop yourself. The word hovers there, fragile. You reach out — your hand finds his, warm and calloused, grounding.

He’s quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that hums with tension — that makes your skin prickle like the air before a storm.

Then, his voice comes low and sharp.

“The camera.”

You freeze.

His hand slips from yours.

Your pulse jumps in your throat.

“The light. It’s off again.” he says.

You stare at your lap, the silence between you suddenly unbearable.

His voice cuts through it — harder now. Clipped. Controlled.

“You’ve known.”

You say nothing. Your fingers twist in the fabric of your shift, the guilt curling hot in your stomach.

He stands suddenly — not violently, not yet, but the tension in his shoulders tightens like a pulled wire.

“What is going on?” His voice trembles — not with weakness, but with the kind of fury that’s born from confusion. From betrayal. From fear.

You lift your gaze slowly.

“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me what they’re doing.”

Your breath shakes in your chest. “I don’t know everything. I swear, I don’t.”

He laughs — bitter and low and cracked.

“Funny how you always say that right when it matters.” James steps forward. “You know something.”

It’s not a question.

You nod, barely.

He waits. You don’t speak. His jaw ticks.

“The camera. The silence. You’re different,” he says, voice sharper now. “You’re scared of something, but not me. So what is it? What aren’t you telling me?”

You look down at your hands, your eyes burning.

“I made a deal.”

The words land like a strike. His posture changes instantly — a shift in the air, in the muscle of his shoulders.

“What kind of deal?”

You force yourself to look at him.

“I told them I’d keep you stable. That I could make you… compliant. I said if they let me keep seeing you, I’d help control the damage. So they gave me this.”

You glance up at the dead camera light.

“Privacy,” you say. “Time…“

James stares at you, expression unreadable. Blank the way he gets when something’s fracturing behind his eyes.

“You were supposed to control me?”

“No—no. That’s not what I meant, I didn’t mean—”

He steps back.

You hate the way your voice sounds. Like pleading. Like shame.

“I didn’t do it to trick you,” you say. “I did it to protect you.”

“By lying?”

You flinch.

He runs both hands through his hair, the tension coming off him in waves now — pacing again, just like before, but angrier this time. Not at the walls. At you.

“They said they’d hurt you, James,” you push, desperate now. “Or worse. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“They did hurt me, Dove!” he yells at you. “You let them use me as their weapon, send me on mission, kill people. You knew all along and you didn’t tell me anything! And I trusted you, thought I’m doing better! You didn’t stop them, you let them continue! After everything you said. After you said you’re with me. You said we’re in this together!”

“I tried,” you whisper.

“Not hard enough.”

You see the ache in his eyes, the betrayal as tears form in his eyes. You can feel the ice in it — how deep it cuts.

“I’m still here,” you say. “I’m still choosing you.”

James stops pacing. He Looks at you again and just asks.

“Are you?”

Pause.

“Because I don’t think you, are.” he adds. “I think you’re just like them.”

The words hit harder than any blow.

You feel it like a rupture — something splitting open in your chest, slow and deep and devastating.

“I’m not,” you breathe. “You know I’m not.”

But James just shakes his head — once, sharp. Like he’s trying to shake the thought of you clean from his mind.

“You lied to me,” he says. “Over and over.”

“I thought I was protecting you.”

“No,” he snaps. “You were protecting yourself.”

That silences you. Because maybe… maybe he’s right. You wanted something certain — they gave it to you and you took it. No matter the cost because you were afraid to be alone, because you loved him and the only thing that mattered to you was saving the relationship built on scraps.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” you whisper.

James lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Yeah? Well, it’s too late for that.”

You flinch. Your chest aches.

“I trusted you,” he says again, quieter now — but no less sharp. “I thought you were the only one in this place who saw me as more than a weapon. I thought… maybe I wasn’t alone.”

You finally look up.

“You’re not.”

His expression twists. “Don’t say that.”

“I mean it—”

“Don’t say that like it still means something.” His voice cracks, just a little. “Because whatever this was… it’s done.”

You stop breathing.

He takes another step back, like distance might dull the pain. Like putting space between you will stop the shaking in his hands.

“I don’t know who you are anymore.”

That’s what undoes you.

Because you do know who you are — you’re the girl who sat by his side after every mission, who memorized the way he breathed, who clung to every flicker of warmth he gave. You’re the girl who loved him, even when they told you not to.

But none of that matters now.

Because in his eyes — you’re just another cell in his cage.

He straightens. Cold. Composed.

And this time, his voice doesn’t shake.

“Next time Kern drags you in for one of his fucking interviews,” he says, “tell him it’s over.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re done,” James says. “No more control. No more sessions. No more pretending this is anything but what it is.”

Your breath catches.

He looks at you one last time — and it’s not hate in his eyes.

It’s worse.

It’s nothing.

“I don’t want to see you again.”

Your eyes wide up. He didn’t say that. He didn’t—

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do!”

You want to say something. Anything. But your mouth won’t move.

He stares at you for one final second — like he’s trying to kill whatever softness still lingers — and then turns.

Walks to the door.

And slams his fist into it, hard.

“Voss!” he barks, voice thunder. “Get me the fuck out of here!”

The echo of it ricochets through your chest.

You flinch like you’ve been struck.

“I tried…” you manage to whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of everything breaking between you. “I wanted to protect you, I wanted us to have something real, I thought— I thought I was doing the right thing, James, I—”

Another slam of his metal hand against the door cuts you off. Louder this time. More desperate.

He still doesn’t look at you.

Your throat tightens. “James, I love you.”

There’s a beat of silence, hollow and suffocating.

And then—

“No, Dove. I loved you.”

Slam.

“Voss!” he shouts, his voice raw now, blistered with fury and something deeper — something like heartbreak. “Let me out!”

You take a step forward anyway. Stupid. Hopeful. Hurting. Your hand reaches for his arm — just to touch him, to hold him still, to keep him here — but the moment your fingers brush his skin, he recoils like you burned him.

“Don’t touch me!”

You freeze.

He turns toward you then, just enough for you to see his face.

And that’s when you notice them — the tears. Silent. Steady. Cutting tracks down his cheek like something sacred was carved out of him.

“James…”

His jaw clenches. His eyes shimmer. And his voice, when it comes, is lower. Harsher.

“Don’t.”

That single word guts you.

Not because it’s cruel — but because it’s final.

And before you can say anything else — before you can fall to your knees or plead or beg him to believe it wasn’t supposed to end like this — the lock groans.

The door opens.

Voss stands on the other side, unreadable as ever.

James doesn’t spare you another glance. He steps through the doorway — quiet now, stripped down to bone and breath and fury.

But right before the door seals shut behind him, Voss turns his head and says, almost conversationally:

“I told you this arrangement wouldn’t last.”

———

You sit alone in the chair.

The lights feel brighter today. Harsher. You keep your eyes low, your fingers knotted in your lap — already bracing for what’s coming.

The door opens.

Kern enters without a word. No clipboard. No “how are we feeling today?” smile.

He doesn’t sit. Just stands across from you, arms folded.

“I see you finally told him,” he says, calm as glass.

You don’t look up.

“Or maybe he figured it out on his own,” Kern adds, a slight lift in his voice. “Hard to say, really. But I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

His voice sharpens.

“You wanted time with him. I gave it. You wanted privacy. I gave that too. You said you could manage him — that you could keep him docile, contained, predictable. Stable. That was the deal.”

You finally look at him. “I thought—”

“You thought you could lie to him and come out the hero.”

“You said he doesn’t have to know.”

Kern shrugs. “I thought you’d execute it better. And now?”

Pause.

“And now he’s spiraling again. After everything we invested in this little experiment.”

You go still.

“Is he okay?” you ask quietly.

Kern smiles, but there’s no kindness in it. “You’re not in a position to ask that anymore.”

You flinch and swallow hard.

“I loved him.”

Kern leans back in his chair, eyebrows lifting.

“And that, my dear, is exactly what ruined everything.”

Silence stretches. Thick. Final.

Then he stands up. “You’re off the schedule. No more cell visits. No more private sessions. This deal is done.”

You look down at your hands. “So what now?”

Kern pauses at the door. Glances back at you.

But he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t answer. He leaves.

Interview over.

———

The door shuts behind you with a cold, final hiss.

You stand in the center of the cell for a moment, stunned — like your body hasn’t caught up to the weight in your chest.

Then, slowly, you sink to the floor.

Your cot feels too far away. Or maybe it just doesn’t matter anymore.

The lights buzz overhead, too bright, too sterile. You curl your arms around your knees and press your forehead down, like you could make yourself smaller. Like that might make the pain a little quieter.

It doesn’t. He’s gone. Not physically but in all the ways that mattered.

James is gone.

You replay it in your head again and again: his voice, raw and shaking. The sound of his fists slamming against the door. That final word — Don’t — like a knife in your ribs. You can’t forget the way he flinched when you touched him. The way he looked at you like he didn’t recognize you anymore.

Like he didn’t want to.

You thought you were protecting him.

You thought you were keeping him safe.

You thought if you just held on long enough — if you endured Kern’s manipulation, if you swallowed your guilt, if you lied the right way — it would all be worth it.

But it wasn’t.

Now there’s no him. No you. No deal. No way out. Just cold concrete walls and a camera.

You rub your wrists, even though nothing’s tied you down this time. The feeling is phantom, but it’s there. That tension under your skin, that fear crawling through your ribs — because if they’re done with you, if this deal is broken, then what happens next?

Will they lock you back in isolation?

Will they make an example of you?

Will they touch him again?

You don’t know.

And for the first time in a long time, you feel truly, helplessly afraid.

You whisper to yourself, at first.

Tiny fragments. Broken thoughts.

“I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean for it to go like this.”

Your fingers dig into your arms, nails leaving little crescents of pain, just to feel something that isn’t this. Isn’t guilt. Isn’t shame.

“I tried. I tried.”

But trying wasn’t enough. Not this time.

Not when it cost you the only thing that ever felt real.

You curl tighter. Your heartbeat echoes between your ears, uneven and thick, like it’s fighting to keep rhythm through the storm in your chest.

You want to scream. You want to undo it.

You want to tell him everything — everything you didn’t say when it counted. You want to tell him it wasn’t a game. That every touch, every look, every whisper was real.

That you meant it when you said you loved him.

That it wasn’t control.

It was never control.

It was desperation. Survival. Hope.

Love.

And now it’s nothing.

Your voice cracks.

“James…”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you taste salt. Until the hiccupped, shaky sound of your breathing hits the walls and bounces back.

He’s gone.

You pressed your hands so tight around the wound, thinking you could stop the bleeding — and you only made it worse.

What if you ruined him?

What if he doesn’t come back?

What if next time they do wipe him for good?

What if that look on his face — that “Don’t touch me” — is the last real thing he ever says to you?

You dig your fists into your eyes. It doesn’t help. It just makes the dark behind your eyelids more jagged.

You try to breathe. Try to calm down.

But all you can think of is how empty his eyes looked. How hurt. How betrayed.

I think you’re just like them.

You clutch your chest like you can physically hold your heart together. It doesn’t work. The spiral hits harder now — no words left, just feeling.

Numb. Frantic. Grief-laced panic.

You curl into yourself until the cot creaks beneath you, until your shoulders shake, until you’re so small you wonder if you’ll just disappear entirely.

You wish you could.

You wish they’d never brought you here.

You wish you could go back.

But you can’t.

And when you finally stop shaking, you’re left with nothing but silence and the hollow echo of the one person who used to make it bearable… walking away.

You stare at the door he walked out of — slammed out of — like maybe if you look hard enough, he’ll come back.

But he doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

You don’t even know how many hours you spent crying.

How long it took you to put yourself together at least a bit. You spent the entire night curled up, letting the emotions run wild.

You curl your fingers, throat raw from crying, and for a moment… you feel it again.

That thread.

The one that always hummed beneath the surface. That shimmer of warmth in your chest that told you where he was. What he felt. That he was still there.

It used to come so easily.

Just a breath — just a thought — and you could reach him.

James…

You reach out with your mind.

Tentative.

Gentle.

Like touching a bruise.

You close your eyes and stretch the edges of yourself toward him — toward where he should be — feeling for the imprint of him in your blood.

The familiar weight of his presence.

But there’s nothing.

Just static.

Dead air.

No warmth. No pain. Not even rage.

It’s like reaching for something that used to be there, and now it’s just—

Gone.

The connection you always felt isn’t there anymore.

Your breath hitches. You try again — harder this time. Pushing past the ache in your skull, the weakness in your limbs, the blood running down your nose.

James, please…

Nothing.

You feel the recoil of it, like being shut out of your own skin.

Tears spill again, sudden and sharp. You press your knuckles to your mouth, trying to hold them in, but they come anyway.

You can’t feel him.

Not even a flicker.

Like you never mattered at all.

Like you never even touched him.

And that’s when the real terror sets in — not the kind they gave you, not from Voss or Kern or the pain they carved into you like scripture.

This is worse.

Because if you can’t reach him…

If that bond is gone…

Then maybe you really did lose him.

Maybe you really are just like them.

You sink down onto the cot, curled in on yourself, mind aching from the failed connection, heart ringing with the silence he left behind.

And for the first time since they brought you to this place, you realize you’re truly alone.

Not just in the cell.

But in the world.

———

You don’t know how much time has passed.

The light doesn’t change in here. The walls don’t breathe. You’ve stopped trying to count your heartbeats. You’re not sure it’s even beating anymore.

You just sit there, hollowed out.

Your head still throbs from the strain of trying to reach him — from pushing your powers until your nose bled and your body trembled and still…

Nothing.

No answer.

No James.

So when the door opens, your heart lurches.

But it’s not him.

It’s Kern. Of course it is.

He steps inside like he owns the air, the silence, even your body curled up on the cot. Clipboard in hand. That same clinical detachment behind his eyes, like he’s already dissecting you.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he, at first. Just watches you, like you’re a dying thing in a glass box.

“Voss showed me what you tried to do earlier today. The footage from camera,” he starts. “He’s not coming back.”

Your voice is quiet, cracked. “I tried to reach him.”

Kern doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

“I know.”

You look up.

Your voice wavers. “But I couldn’t feel him. Not even a flicker. It’s never been like that. I thought maybe he was just angry, but I—”

You stop.

Because you see it now, in the way Kern doesn’t meet your eyes.

The way he adjusts the clipboard. Casual. Deliberate.

You inhale sharply, throat tight. “What did you do?”

A pause.

Then he speaks with infuriating calm.

“We had to wipe him.”

You freeze.

The words don’t make sense at first — your brain won’t let them.

“No.” You shake your head. “No, you said—you said he was stable, you said if I kept him—if I helped you—”

“He was,” Kern interrupts. “Until the deal lasted. Until last night.“

You feel the floor drop out from under you.

“He screamed at Voss until the guards came. Wouldn’t return to holding. Had to be sedated. Called you a spy. Begged us to wipe him before you could get back in his head.”

Your mouth opens. But no sound comes out.

“Too dangerous,” Kern says simply. “Too unpredictable.”

He moves a step closer. Lowers his voice like he’s offering comfort.

“You broke the parameters of the arrangement. There’s no version of this where we let that continue. I gave you too many chances already.”

Your body curls inward and you whisper, “He trusted me.”

Kern tilts his head.

“No,” he says. “He trusted the illusion. And illusions are fragile things, aren’t they?”

You want to scream. To hit him. To crawl out of your own skin and run until the silence stops following you.

But all you can do is sit there, shattered.

Because he’s right.

You did break it.

You lied. You hoped. You gambled.

And James paid the price.

Kern watches you for a moment longer, then turns to leave.

“You’ll have a new assignment soon,” he says without looking back. “Try not to get attached this time.”

———

A few days later.

You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at the ceiling.

You think your neck hurts. You think your lips are cracked. You think there’s dried blood on your collar.

But none of it matters.

They haven’t sent anyone.

Not Kern.

Not Voss.

Not James.

The meals come like clockwork — silent hands sliding trays through the door, never staying long enough to meet your eyes. You don’t eat much. Just enough to keep from passing out.

You don’t sleep, either.

When you do, it’s worse.

Your dreams are soft things with sharp teeth. You see his face. Hear his voice. But his eyes are gone — blank and unfamiliar, like looking into the body of someone who used to wear him. Sometimes, in the dreams, he turns away before you can speak. Other times, he looks right at you and doesn’t recognize you at all.

You try not to reach out again.

But some nights, you still whisper his name under your breath. Just once. Just to see if maybe…

Nothing.

And now?

Now you’re just here.

Sitting on the edge of your cot, still in the same torn shift. The bloodstains are faded now. That strange little mercy of time.

You don’t cry anymore.

You’re too empty for that.

But the guilt lives in your lungs. The weight of what you did. The sound of his voice.

I don’t want to see you again.

You’d give anything to hear him say it again — just to prove he remembered you at all.

———

Two weeks later.

They give you new tasks now.

No more interviews. No more long hours in your cell waiting to be called. No more James.

Now it’s one assignment after another — different rooms, different names, different faces. Soldiers. Agents. Guards. Men with thousand-yard stares and blood under their nails. Women who twitch when the lights flicker and speak in code even when no one’s listening.

They bring them to you when they’re unstable. When they’re dangerous.

And then they tell you to fix them.

Calm them. Quiet them. Like you’re some kind of… sedative. A walking syringe. A controlled dosage of something soft and sickening.

You’re not allowed to see anyone twice.

You think that’s part of the deal. Part of your punishment. No one you can get attached to. No one who can look at you like you’re more than what you’re being used for.

Hydra knows better now.

So they keep rotating you. Room to room. Person to person. A ghost on repeat.

You do what they ask. You keep your hands gentle and your voice lower than a whisper. You soothe their monsters. You pretend it doesn’t cost you anything.

But every time you touch someone’s pain, you bleed a little.

Every time you ease their fear, it burrows deeper into you.

You ask about him once.

Only once.

It’s after a long day — three sessions, back-to-back. Your fingertips still buzz from someone else’s panic. You’re too tired to be smart. Too raw to lie.

Kern is waiting outside the door. His expression is neutral. He says nothing, just motions for the guard to escort you back to your room.

But as you pass, you stop.

“James,” you whisper. “Where is he? Is he okay?”

Kern doesn’t look at you.

He doesn’t slow.

Doesn’t even blink.

“That’s none of your concern anymore.”

And keeps walking.

You stand there for a long time, alone in the hallway, until the guard nudges you forward again.

You don’t ask again after that.

You don’t have to.

You already know the answer.

He’s gone.

Not physically — they wouldn’t waste a weapon like him — but the him you knew. The him you loved. The him who held your hand and gave you a name like it… like you meant something.

That version of him doesn’t exist anymore.

And you’re the reason why.

———

You’re back in your cell.

You tried to move on, you had to — there is no time for a break in places like this.

But it’s so damn hard.

The sob that rips out of you is ugly. Raw and breathless and helpless.

You press your palms to your eyes like maybe you can block it out, like maybe if you cry hard enough, the grief will collapse into something manageable.

But it only gets worse.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper to the empty room. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know—I didn’t think they’d take you— I didn’t think I’d lose you.”

You clutch your chest. Your fingernails dig into your skin. You rock forward like maybe motion can stop you from shattering.

But the emptiness is too wide.

The guilt too sharp.

You sob until your throat is raw and your hands are trembling and your whole body feels like a cage you can’t get out of.

Never in your life you’ve felt so lonely. Not even before you met him.

“I just want you back,” you breathe, cracked and childlike. “Please, James. Please just—come back.”

The emptiness is too wide — It feels like the end of the world.

You don’t remember how long you stay there, collapsed on the cot, curled around the echo of his name.

You miss him.

You love him.

More than anything.

And you don’t think it will ever pass.

———

You notice it the second they come for you.

The way the guards don’t look you in the eye.

The way the restraints go back on — not for safety, not for protocol, but ceremony. A message.

You don’t ask where they’re taking you.

You already know.

It’s been weeks since your last interview. Since him. Since the last time you sat across from Kern and tried to defend something that no longer exists.

You’ve stopped expecting things now.

So when they drag you into the interview room, you expect it to be more of the same. The silence. The staring. The cold.

But today… something’s different.

Kern is already seated when you’re brought in. Gloved hands folded neatly on the table. The clipboard beside him is closed.

He nods at the guards.

“Leave us.”

They hesitate.

He lifts a brow. “She’s not going to be a problem.”

You want to argue — but he’s right. You aren’t. Not anymore.

They unshackle you. Leave the room.

The door hisses closed behind them.

And then it’s just you and him.

You sit down slowly. The chair is colder than usual.

You fold your hands in your lap. Wait.

Kern doesn’t look at you right away. He’s calm. Too calm.

Finally, he speaks.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I called you in.”

Your brow furrows. “I haven’t seen him.”

He smiles faintly. “I know.”

You stare.

“Then what is this?”

He tilts his head, studying you like you’re something beneath glass.

“An update,” he says. “Of sorts.”

You don’t breathe.

“He escaped.”

The words are quiet. Precise. Unshaken.

“What?”

“Two nights ago. During a mission. The extraction was clean until he encountered… a complication.”

Your mouth is dry.

“What kind of complication?”

Kern leans forward, elbows on the table now.

“That man he recognized some time ago.”

Your heart stutters.

“He remembered,” Kern says.

You shake your head. “No… no, that’s not possible, you wiped—”

“Apparently not well enough.”

You feel like the floor just dropped out from under you.

“You’re lying,” you whisper. “You’re trying to scare me.”

“I don’t need to scare you,” he says. “Not anymore.”

Silence again.

You feel it crawling up your spine, colder and colder and colder.

“What do you want from me?”

Kern finally opens the clipboard.

Not to write anything down. Just to look at you over it.

“You were the first one to reach him,” he says. “The first one to change him.”

“No—”

“You got through the cracks,” he continues. “Made him feel. Made him hope. And now we’re cleaning up the consequences of your attachment.”

“That’s not fair,” you breathe. “I didn’t make him run.”

“You made him unstable.”

He slides a file across the table toward you. Your name is stamped across the top.

“You were a project. An experiment. Your job was to soothe. To regulate. And instead, you taught the most valuable asset Hydra’s ever possessed how to disobey.”

Your hands are shaking.

Kern smiles again. That familiar, clinical smile.

“And now… someone has to pay for that.”

He stands slowly.

Collects the file.

“You are no longer an asset,” he says. “You’re a liability.”

Then he turns to the door.

And just before he leaves—

“Congratulations,” he says. “You broke the Winter Soldier.”

The silence after Kern leaves is unbearable.

You barely have time to stand.

The door hisses open again — but it’s not the soft sound of guards coming to escort you gently back to your cell.

It’s fast. Heavy boots. Four men this time.

You know what this is before the first one even reaches you.

“No—”

You jerk back, but there’s nowhere to go.

One of them slams your head against the table.

Another tightens a hand around your neck. Not to kill. Just to remind.

To remind you that you’re theirs.

“Please,” you choke out, “please don’t—”

A punch to your ribs cuts the breath from your chest.

Then another.

You hear the crack before you feel the pain.

Someone grabs your hair, yanks your head back. A needle flashes in your periphery — and then it’s darkness again, jagged and chemical and cold.

———

When you wake, you’re strapped down.

Arms, legs, chest — every inch of you pinned beneath thick leather and metal. Your mouth tastes like blood. There’s a metallic sting in your nose.

You blink through the haze, trying to make out the shape standing in front of you.

It’s not Kern or Voss.

It’s Someone else. A faceless man in a white coat.

He doesn’t speak. Just adjusts something on a nearby tray.

You try to ask where you are. What they’re doing.

You get as far as the first syllable before the current hits.

Your body jerks so hard the restraints creak.

Your scream dies in your throat, strangled and raw.

Then darkness again.

———

You don’t know how long it lasts, they keep torturing you but you’re barely awake. The pain — every hit, every cut — is insufferable.

It’s worse this time — not just pain, but memory.

They show you things.

James.

His hands on yours.

His voice, broken and warm.

The way he looked at you when he trusted you. When he still thought you were his.

Then the moment it all broke.

Over and over.

Looped like a punishment.

And maybe it is.

Because this is your fault. All of it.

They tell you again and again:

You made him run.

You made him weak.

You made him remember.

And by the end… you start to believe them.

———

The door slams open.

And then they throw you in.

You hit the floor hard — cheek-first, breath knocked from your lungs. Cold stone bites into your skin. You try to push up, but your arms won’t cooperate. They shake beneath you, bruised and bloodied and trembling like paper.

You hear the door seal behind you. The lock clank into place.

And then — nothing.

No footsteps.

No voices.

Just silence.

You’re alone again.

You lie there for a long time, curled in on yourself, bleeding from the mouth, the ribs, the knees. Every part of you burns. Every inhale is a knife.

You don’t know how long passes before you start crying.

It’s not quiet.

It’s ugly and gasping — sobs that tear your throat raw, snot and blood and all of it spilling as your chest convulses against the stone. You press your forehead to the floor and whisper his name like a prayer. Like he might hear you if you just say it enough.

“James…”

A broken breath.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You curl tighter, trying to make yourself smaller. Trying to disappear.

“I just wanted you safe,” you whisper. “I just wanted you.”

Your voice cracks.

You press your fists to your eyes and sob harder.

“I miss you.”

The words are pathetic. Childish. Pointless.

But they’re all you have.

“I miss you so much,” you say again, quieter. “I can’t do this without you. I can’t—I can’t—”

You slam your fist against the floor. Not hard. You don’t have it in you. But it still makes a sound.

You wish you could hear him instead.

His footsteps. His voice. His hand taking yours again.

But it’s just stone.

Just cold.

Just silence.

And the unbearable, soul-hollowing truth that you’ve lost him and there’s no one left to blame but yourself.

———

You lie on your side, curled in the dark, breath hiccupping through what’s left of your sobs.

Your body hurts.

But not like your chest does.

Not like that ache in your ribs, the one that has nothing to do with fists or boots or blood.

It’s the part where he was.

Where his presence used to wrap around you like warmth, like firelight in a cold room.

Gone now.

You close your eyes, swallow back the taste of blood.

And then — shakily, trembling — you try to reach for him. Again.

You dig into that hollow part of yourself where your powers live. Where your mind stretches out like a net, casting through the dark for something familiar, something safe. Him.

James.

You try not to panic when it’s quiet.

You try again.

James, please.

But there’s nothing.

Not even static. Not interference.

Just…

Distance.

A horrible, yawning emptiness.

He’s not gone. You would know if he were gone. But he’s far.

Far enough that your reach can’t touch him anymore. Far enough that even your mind can’t find his warmth in the dark.

You choke on a sob.

You try one last time, with everything you have, pushing past the pain, past the blood dried on your temple, the bruises on your ribs.

James. Come back. Please. Come back to me—

But nothing answers.

Not even a flicker.

You collapse back against the floor, your power burned out, your breath shallow, cold rushing in to fill the empty space where he used to be.

You can’t feel him anymore.

———

You sit curled up on the cot, arms hugging your knees, the blanket draped over your shoulders like it might shield you from the silence.

Your head leans against the wall, eyes fixed on the door.

You don’t move. Not for hours.

Because maybe today’s the day.

You keep telling yourself that — quietly, in your head, like a secret mantra. If you don’t say it out loud, maybe it won’t break. Maybe it’ll stay whole and real.

If he remembered… he’ll come back to me.

After all that was Hydra’s plan in the first place. If he escapes he will have something to come back to.

But you know things are different now. He’s wiped. And even If his memory of you came back after escaping — it’s bruised.

But still you picture it a thousand ways. James stepping through the door, his face soft and stunned. That furrow in his brow when he’s confused. The way he says your name like he means it. Like it’s yours.

You’d stand. You’d run to him. He wouldn’t even have to say anything. He’d just hold you.

And it would be okay again.

He remembered someone on that bridge. If he remembered them, he has to remember you, too. You were the first. The closest. The one they let in.

Your fingers tighten around the blanket.

He’ll come back. You know he will.

He loved you.

Didn’t he?

———

It’s been days now.

You’ve stopped counting them — they only bleed together. Same food tray. Same light. Same silence.

The hope is different now.

Sharper. Sadder.

You don’t think he’s coming back to you anymore.

Not like before. Not to sit beside you, not to reach for your hand, not to call you Dove like it meant something soft and unspoken.

But maybe he’ll come back for you.

Maybe he’ll remember what they did to you, how they used you too — how you were never free.

Maybe he’ll come back with fire behind his eyes, teeth bared. Maybe he’ll tear the place apart looking for you, kill every last one of them until the only thing left standing is him.

And you.

You clutch the edge of the cot and whisper it into the dark:

“Please… just come back.”

Not because he forgives you.

Not because he still loves you.

But because he knows you’re here.

Because no one else will save you.

And because deep down — no matter how much you hurt him — you don’t believe he could leave you behind.

Not James.

Not him.

Chapter Seven soon 🕊️

“You take something precious. Twist it. Make her believe he’s better off gone. That she’s the one keeping him in pain.“ Kern, Chapter Three.

tags (tysm for all the love and support, If you asked to be tagged and I didn’t tag you it means I couldn’t for some reason 💔): @tfamidoingwithmylife @stell404 @shakysif @unicornqueen05 @carolinianmermaid @zoroforlife @beforemdnight @nicksolemnlyswears @mistalli @blazeflays @storystorktwo @its-in-the-woods @blv3rd @starkglory @diabolicaldinosaur @elisha-chloe

[zylokv]

I LEFT YOU EVERYTHING, YOU LEFT ME WAITING. — MINATOZAKI SANA

❝ what if i did a solo performance? just for you. ❞

synopsis — they weren’t supposed to fall. not like that. not in stolen moments behind the cameras or in the quiet lull between takes. but somehow, it happened anyway — slowly, gently, like a secret being kept. and just as quietly, it all fell apart. someone trusted made sure of that. and now it’s been weeks. she still checks her phone in the middle of the night, hoping. you still think about her smile, and wonder if any of it was ever real. both of you still waiting. both of you still in the dark. notice — emotional angst/unrequited love, miscommunication, implied sabotage, idolxnon-idol, written with realism, metaphors, and a slow and painful unravelling love story. pairing — minatozaki sana x reader ! disclaimer ! this is a work of fiction created purely for entertainment purposes. all events are fictional. while this story may feature public figures (e.g., sana from twice), it is not meant to reflect their real thoughts, actions, or relationships. please remember: nothing depicted in this story actually happened.

you’re early, but so’s the sun. it spills over the rooftops like it has nowhere better to be, catching on the palm fronds and rust-red tin of the surf shack across the street. myna birds argue overhead in the breadfruit tree. usual noise.

you lean against the old tour van, logo half-faded, bumper held together by duct tape and denial. the iced coffee in your hand is more ritual than refreshment.

“you hear 'em yet?” comes a voice behind you.

you glance back. keoni’s stepping out of the gear shed, chewing on dried mango, curls smashed under a cap that’s seen better years.

“nah,” you reply, “but if they’re late, you’re doing the intro hike in that hat.”

he laughs. “they’re idols, not royalty.”

you arch a brow. “tell that to the last crew who filmed here and needed someone to ‘escort the mosquitoes away.’”

“i escorted them straight into the gulch.”

you snort. silence settles for a breath. the crew’s been buzzing—two artists visiting on a break, no cameras yet, just a private walk. low-key, but big. some newer guides offered to take it, but they asked for you. probably because you don’t ask for autographs. probably because you don’t talk much.

a van pulls up, sleek and black, windows tinted like a secret.

keoni gives a low whistle. “showtime.”

you push off the bumper, brush the sand off your legs, walk toward the driveway as the door slides open.

first out: sharp eyes, clipboard, no patience. manager. she gives you a look like she’s seen every kind of idiot and hopes you’re the exception.

“you’re the guide?”

“yep. and you’re the one who’ll yell at me if i let them touch sea turtles, right?”

her lip twitches—almost a smile. she steps aside.

and then they step out.

sana, all light and limbs, laughing at something inside the van. miyeon follows, sunglasses too big for her face, waving like there’s a red carpet no one else can see. they look like they were airlifted straight from a magazine into the humidity without even blinking.

you keep your tone easy. “aloha. welcome to hale‘iwa. i’m your guide today. just me. no cameras yet, so you’re stuck with my jokes until they get here.”

sana gives you a once-over, curious but not unfriendly. “we heard you’re the best.”

“that was probably my mom,” you say. “she has a lot of burner accounts.”

miyeon snorts. “yah—if this turns out to be the 'oops i forgot the water' tour, i’m calling dispatch.”

“deluxe package,” you say. “we only lose a few people on that one.”

behind them, keoni appears with a crate of gear. you nod toward him.

“this is keoni. if you fall into a lava tube, he’s in charge of pretending we trained for that.”

he waves. “i left my rope at home.”

“that’s a joke,” you add. “kind of.”

you help distribute water bottles and light packs. miyeon chatters while adjusting her straps, and sana asks about the flower behind a staff member’s ear.

“left side,” you say, overhearing. “means they’re taken. right side, single.”

sana turns, brows up. “and you? which side do you wear yours on?”

her voice is light. but her eyes aren’t.

you look at her, then smile. “depends on the day.”

“mm,” she says, like she’s filing that away.

you gesture toward the path carved between trees. “alright, we’ll head through a shaded route up to a lookout. no drones, no crowds, just us and the mosquitoes. try not to flirt with them. they take it seriously.”

“do they bite harder when you lead them on?” miyeon asks.

“worse,” you say. “they ghost you after.”

sana lets out a small chuckle.

the trail begins with soft ground, old roots reaching like fingers across the dirt. you point out ‘ōhi‘a trees, explain the legends of pele and hi‘iaka. your voice is steady, practiced—but you’re watching them. especially her.

sana stays close. not too close. she asks about the birdsong, the smooth black rock, the kapu signs carved near the tree line. she listens like she’s used to noise and this quiet unnerves her in a good way.

miyeon’s already up ahead, spinning in slow circles, filming her feet.

the wind shifts. you smell the ocean again, faint but constant, and the distant trace of charcoal from someone grilling down by the beach road.

the first scenic stop opens ahead, a bluff over shallow tidepools and lava shelves. the camera crew’s waiting at a distance, giving you space. they haven’t started filming yet.

you pause at the edge, the sun low behind you, painting sana and miyeon in warm orange light. miyeon lifts her phone, posing without being asked.

sana steps beside you.

“you really live here?” she asks.

you nod. “grew up bouncing between islands. this one stuck.”

“doesn’t it get lonely?”

you watch the horizon. “sometimes. but the view’s decent.”

"yeah, it's beautiful."

she turns her head. just slightly. her eyes linger. not on the ocean.

the tide’s gone quiet, pulled back just enough to reveal the black stone pools scattered like mirrors across the lava shelf. water glints in the shallows. a kolea bird watches from the edge, still as carved bone, its eyes sharp like it remembers more than it should.

hermit crabs trace slow spirals in the wet sand. their shells catch the sun like dropped garnets.

you stand off to the side, close enough to explain things, far enough that they’ll cut you out of the final shot. there’s a mic clipped to your collar anyway. the sound tech gave you a thumbs-up earlier like you did something brave. you’re trying not to think about that.

miyeon’s crouched near a tidepool, poking at the reflection of a fish with a twig she definitely wasn’t supposed to take.

“what happens if i fall in?” she asks, grinning.

“free exfoliation,” you say, and then with a glance at the camera, “not recommended.”

sana laughs behind her, clear and bright like she’s never been tired. she’s squinting into the sun, shielding her eyes with one hand and fiddling with the mic pack at her waist with the other. her hair’s clipped up, loose pieces catching the wind. the stylist tries again to help, but sana waves them off.

“this water’s so clear,” she says, leaning closer to the tidepool. “it’s like a glass bowl.” she pauses. “are the crabs single?”

you blink. “…what?”

she glances over her shoulder with a smile too sharp to be innocent. “you said earlier the flower behind your ear means you’re single. what about the crabs? do they wear little hibiscus too?”

“only the hot ones.”

laughter bubbles up—real, from the crew and from miyeon, who actually claps. sana laughs too, cheeks turning slightly pink as she looks away, back toward the water.

“i like you,” she says.

your breath catches.

then—“i mean the dad jokes,” she adds quickly, teasing. “good material.”

you rub the back of your neck. one of the camera guys catches it and snorts behind the lens. you step sideways again, pretending to check the rocks, subtly trying to disappear.

she doesn’t let you, though.

not really.

her gaze follows you whenever she thinks you won’t notice. when you talk, she listens too carefully. when you point out the limu kohu, the petroglyphs carved deep into the lava, she hums under her breath like she wants to memorize the rhythm of your voice.

you talk about the mo‘olelo behind the sea caves, about the bones buried beneath stone that no one touches anymore. miyeon is still skipping ahead, half-dancing over uneven ground, but sana’s gone still.

she only moves again when you do.

“can we take selfies with the rock that looks like a turtle?” miyeon calls out. “i want to send it to our manager and pretend it followed us home.”

“sure,” you say. “i’ll make sure they consent.”

the boom operator snorts. miyeon throws you a wink like you’ve just auditioned for her next sitcom.

they film for twenty more minutes. the wind pulls at sana’s sleeves. sun glints off the curve of her earring. her questions never stop—what flower is that? how old is this lava? did you always live here?

but it’s not the questions that get to you.

it’s the way she asks. like she’s testing something. like she already knows the answer but wants to hear your voice wrap around it anyway. her eyes flick to you when you think she’s distracted. her shoulder brushes yours once. twice. again.

and you—

you pretend not to notice.

mostly.

when the crew finally calls a cut, it’s late enough the rocks are warming underfoot. someone shouts for a break to reset gear. you lead them higher, where the trail plateaus under a grove of hau trees—broad-limbed and slanted toward the sun, their yellow blossoms falling like pieces of afternoon.

you pass around water bottles, then sit off to the side near a beat-up cooler. your shirt sticks slightly to your back, damp from the walk, but you don’t tug at it. miyeon fans herself with a palm frond, dramatically narrating her own personal survival doc. sana drops down near her, sweat at her temples, but still watching you.

you’re talking with one of the writers—older, in a sunhat and sunglasses and a linen shirt that might’ve been white once. her notebook rests on her knees, the pages half-crumpled from years of use.

“you still eat those li hing mui mangoes?” she teases, scribbling something.

you lean back on your hands. “only when i want to experience death recreationally.”

“please. you loved them in college.”

“i had fewer taste buds back then.”

she laughs, and sana turns her head a little.

college?

miyeon’s still babbling into her phone off to the side, pretending to sell lychee juice like it’s the last product on earth. sana doesn’t look at her.

the writer lowers her voice a little. “you know, i told them you don’t really do this.”

you shrug. “i don’t.”

“they asked why. i said it’s usually a no unless i’m the one asking. and even then, only if it’s raining and you’re bored.”

you glance at her, but say nothing.

sana shifts. the wind picks up, shaking petals from the hau branches. they drift like lazy confetti across the dirt.

“so what changed?” she asks suddenly.

you turn. she’s lounging like she doesn’t care, one leg crossed over the other, arms slack, gaze tilted away from yours. but her voice is steady. deceptively so.

“what do you mean?”

“why’d you take this one?” she asks, still looking at the writer, not you. “if you don’t usually take people like us.”

your jaw works quietly. you glance at the writer. she lifts a shoulder, amused.

“they’ve got their reasons,” she says vaguely, biting the cap of her pen. “probably something poetic. i’ve been trying to squeeze it out for a decade.”

you exhale. “it wasn’t the cameras,” you say at last.

sana raises an eyebrow, just slightly.

“it wasn’t the schedule,” you add. “wasn’t the crew. wasn’t the fee.”

“then what was it?” she presses, eyes on you now.

you glance at her, then back at the dirt.

you remind me of someone. “she was really persistent..” you say blaming the write with a slight grin.

sana’s lips part, but miyeon bounds back in at that exact moment, clutching a lychee like it’s her firstborn. “guys. guys. are we talking about how lucky we are yet? because i’d like to thank the academy and also my sweat glands for keeping it real.”

you chuckle under your breath.

sana doesn’t laugh. she just keeps watching you.

“you’re good at this,” she says, quieter now. “talking about hawaii. like it’s not just a place.”

you glance at her.

“like it’s alive,” she finishes. “like it’s part of you.”

you look down at your hands. your thumbs run slow over the ridges of your water bottle.

“it is,” you murmur.

the breeze softens. miyeon flops dramatically onto a picnic blanket, muttering about hydration. the sun slips through the trees like warm syrup, pooling in patches of gold.

sana stretches back with a sigh. “you should be on camera more.”

“not my thing,” you say.

“why not?”

you half-smile. “i’m better off behind it.”

“maybe,” she says. “but you make it hard to look away.”

you glance up.

she’s not looking at you anymore, not exactly. her gaze drifts somewhere just to the side, like she’s already trying to turn that moment into memory.

you don’t answer.

the wind stirs again—leaves rustling, petals spinning—and for a second, you think the island might be answering for you.

don’t touch that—”

crack.

“…never mind.”

you blinked down at the snapped guava branch in miyeon’s hand. she froze like a guilty raccoon. sana stifled a laugh behind her fingers.

“that was structural,” you muttered, kneeling to check the low railing.

“it looked like a stick,” miyeon said innocently.

“a stick holding up the hillside,” you replied, brushing dirt from the crumbling base.

“well that’s... poor design,” she offered.

behind her, sana giggled again—soft, melodic, eyes crinkling.

“we’ll glue it back later?” she said.

“yeah,” you deadpanned. “we’ll patch it up with good intentions.”

“or duct tape,” miyeon added helpfully.

“or prayer,” you said under your breath.

keoni passed by, handing you a reflector bag. “i gotta check the van. you’re the boss till i get back.”

you gave him a small salute. “pray for me.”

he winked. “always.”

ahead, a lei-making station sat shaded beneath a wide mango tree, the aunty running it already eyeing you with the kind of mischief only decades could earn.

“eh!”

you flinched automatically.

aunty leina sat cross-legged on a low mat, ti leaves in her lap and a grin on her face that could split coconuts.

“you letting these girls break the valley now?” she called, eyebrows up.

you held up both palms. “not my fault, aunty. i said no touching. they touched anyway.”

“you gotta bring stronger tape,” she said, nodding at miyeon. “or one leash. or two.”

miyeon gasped dramatically. “is this bullying?”

“not unless you cry,” aunty said.

you stepped forward, grinning. “aunty, you still mad about that mango bread or what?”

“i should be. was dry as sand.”

“you ate the whole thing.”

“because i was being polite!”

you laughed and bent into a half-bow, holding both hands out as you approached her mat. she grabbed them immediately, pulling you down beside her with a grunt of approval.

“what you bringing me today?” she asked, glancing past you. “celebrities again?”

“not my fault,” you said. “they keep signing up.”

“bring me someone who knows how to hold scissors.”

“we’re working on it,” you said. “miyeon’s banned from touching plant life.”

aunty leina snorted. “you better be getting overtime for this.”

you looked sheepish. “i got lunch duty instead.”

she nudged you gently with her elbow, her voice lowering. “you still the same,” she said. “all quiet till you get somewhere safe. then boom—talking story like you live in my kitchen.”

“you’ve seen me in your kitchen,” you reminded her.

“exactly,” she said. “you forget to shut up.”

sana and miyeon caught up just as you laughed again, wiping your hands on your pants. miyeon dropped onto the mat and started inspecting the flower piles with the reverence of a child in a candy store.

sana stayed standing, brushing her long skirt with one hand.

aunty leaned closer to you again, voice sly. “eh... that one,” she said, nodding toward sana. “she got the eyes. soft kind. watching you like you grew from this land.”

you pressed your lips together. “aunty...”

“what?” she said, all innocence. “i’m just pointing.”

“you’re matchmaking.”

“same thing.”

sana stepped forward just then, crouching beside you. “these are so beautiful,” she said, eyes bright as she gently touched a strand of plumeria. “i don’t want to ruin them.”

“you won’t,” you said. “ti leaf first. fold it once, then thread the flower. you’ll get it.”

she looked at you. “you’re really patient.”

you shrugged, glancing at aunty leina. “i’ve had good teachers.”

aunty grunted proudly, as if you were her valedictorian.

“besides,” you added, handing sana a flower, “you’re better at this than miyeon.”

“hey,” miyeon called from across the mat, flower crown crooked on her head. “i’m art.”

“you’re chaos,” you corrected.

“art is chaos.”

you shook your head, but your smile betrayed you. the camera crew was still adjusting lenses, not yet rolling, and you—usually quiet, usually distant—were sitting easy in the middle of it all, fingers threading plumeria like you’d been born to do it.

aunty leina turned to one of the interns and whispered—loudly—“see how calm they are? that’s why everyone falls in love on this island.”

you looked up. “aunty…”

“i’m just saying,” she said, holding up her hands. “no shame in being charming. just don’t make her cry, eh?”

you blinked—startled by how quickly the teasing could turn real.

sana glanced between the two of you, the corners of her lips lifting. her shoulder brushed yours as she leaned down again, a little closer this time.

“you really are different when you’re not working,” she said, almost to herself.

you didn’t answer. you just handed her the next flower.

the sun caught the tops of the ti plants just right — sharp, soft green against the red of miyeon’s skirt and the white lei she had somehow managed to drape across her shoulder like a fashion statement. she laughed like the whole valley could hear her. probably could.

you kept to the edge of the clearing.

hands in your pockets. back to the wind.

“shoot, no one told me there’d be bugs with wings this confident.”

miyeon was mid-complaint, swatting gently at the air with the back of her hand as a persistent ʻōpeʻapeʻa hovered near her ear. she wasn’t scared—just annoyed, and dramatically so.

you leaned on the nearest rock, the kind smoothed down by generations of rain. the air smelled like crushed guava and warm dust. your boots pressed soft into the soil. the shade wasn’t much, but it was something. the mountain air was cooler here than down by the coast, and softer too. the kind of breeze that told you rain wasn’t far off.

sana’s hands were slower than miyeon’s, more careful. she looked up once — past the camera, past the boom mic — straight toward where you stood. it was just a glance. quick. not meant to land.

but it did.

you tilted your head a little. said nothing.

“leave the it alone,” someone from the crew called out with a grin. “he’s just flirting.”

“he’s standing like he’s auditioning for a romance movie poster,” miyeon shot back. “brooding by a rock.”

“looks like the quiet type,” the sound tech said. “probably writes poems at lunch.”

“no, he carves them into driftwood,” miyeon said proudly. “and releases them into the tide like messages in a bottle.”

sana, kneeling beside her, let out that light kind of laugh she always used when she was on camera floaty, practiced, just a little amused. but her eyes kept darting to the lei she was threading. fingers slow, deliberate. quieter.

“okay, what about you, sana?” miyeon leaned toward her, flowers half-finished and already tangled in her lap. “you like the sweet ones, right?”

“mm…” sana didn’t look up. her voice was soft, thoughtful. “i like when someone listens. really listens. not because they’re waiting to speak.”

one of the younger staffers made a low “oooh” from the side, and miyeon slapped her own thigh.

“wait, that was good. write that down. someone tweet it.”

the director behind the camera gave them a small cue to keep going, motioning a loop with his fingers. filler talk. b-roll footage. make it fun. make it personal.

you shifted your weight near the back of the set, adjusting the strap of your bag as a local aunty passed by carrying iced tea bottles. she nudged your shoulder with hers.

“you watching the show or the girl?” she whispered, grinning.

you gave her a small smile, shook your head. “watching the flowers, aunty.”

she snorted. “the flowers not the only thing blooming.”

you laughed under your breath and leaned a little on the rock behind you. from where you stood, you had a clean view of the clearing — and sana, who kept looking up with these barely-there glances. like she was checking for something. or someone.

you didn’t plan to step forward. but something pulled you. maybe curiosity. maybe just boredom. maybe it was her voice when she said

“and they should love nature. not like, documentary nature. real nature. messy hair and muddy shoes kind.”

you shifted, curious now, and stepped forward. just a little. just enough to stand behind the cam crew. between the lens and the valley, in a quiet limbo where only the breeze could touch you.

she didn’t say anything, but the look she gave you was new. like the warm part of the tide when it first wraps around your ankles.

sana noticed.

her shoulders straightened. her smile twitched.

she noticed immediately.

but she just blinked once and adjusted the strand of her lei. her expression didn’t change much, but something softened. the gaze she gave the camera next was… steady. direct. like she was saying something without opening her mouth.

miyeon clapped her hands. “i want a hot disaster. where’s my hot disaster?”

“in the microwave,” someone from the audio team muttered.

a few people laughed. you didn’t. you were still watching sana.

she was still watching you.

sana kept her hands moving, threading flower after flower. “it’s not that complicated,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “just want someone who makes you feel like… like you’re home.”

you weren’t sure why that stuck with you. maybe because she didn’t say it to the camera. maybe because she said it like it was true.

but you didn’t say anything. you just looked away.

the petals kept turning in her hands.

and somewhere in the footage, a glance was caught. a quick one, soft, aimed right where you stood — too quick to cut, too subtle to explain.

no one noticed on set. not even you.

not really-

but sana’s next smile lingered longer than the last.

just a little. ;)

the director called cut.

not loud — just a quiet wave of his hand, a soft “okay, let’s reset” as the audio crew unclipped wires from behind sana’s back. miyeon immediately flopped sideways onto the grass like she’d been holding up a skyscraper with her spine.

“i’m done,” she announced. “take me home. return me to factory settings.”

sana laughed, brushing stray petals off her lap. “you’re not even sweating.”

“exactly. that’s how you know i’m serious. this is internal damage.”

“internal damage from what?”

“from life, sana. from living.”

the youngest camera op passed by, hefting the b-cam onto their shoulder. “you’ve been sitting down the whole time.”

miyeon sat up just to glare. “i’ve been emotionally standing.”

aunty leina was already weaving between them with a basket, collecting the finished lei and handing out light scoldings. “no toss ‘em like trash,” she said, wagging a finger at miyeon. “you wear it, you respect it. even if you made it ugly.”

“mine is conceptual,” miyeon said, trying to untangle hers from her sleeve. “it tells a story.”

aunty gave her a look. “yeah. a sad one.”

“she keeps lookin’ at you,” he said.

you didn’t ask who. you just lifted the edge of the tarp, pretending not to hear.

“don’t play,” keoni added, grinning. “you know who.”

“nah,” you said. “too hot to think.”

he snorted. “nah, it’s her making you sweat.”

you were saved by a call from one of the producers — they were wrapping early today to give the team enough time to get footage back to the hotel and prep tomorrow’s shoot. that meant packing up, a long van ride back, and the final few minutes of down-time where everyone felt a little looser.

you ducked out from behind the tree and crossed the clearing again, arms behind your back as the breeze shifted west. your steps slowed when you saw sana still kneeling by the lei-making mat, hands resting in her lap. she looked up at the sound of your boots in the dirt.

“hey,” she said, soft.

you crouched beside her, careful not to knock any of the materials still strewn around. “hey.”

her eyes traced yours for a second. a long one.

she looked at you a second too long to be casual. then, like it was just conversation, “so… is this your main job? or do you have a secret life?”

you blinked. “secret life?”

“mm. spy? florist by day, vigilante by night?”

you gave a small laugh. “nothing that interesting.”

her smile curved. “i don’t believe you.”

you hesitated. normally you kept the line pretty firm — smile, wave, answer only what they needed for the show. but the way she looked at you then, like the question was less for the show and more for herself… you found your voice.

“i help out at a café,” you said, eyes flicking toward the trees. “in town. a friend of my uncle’s runs it. nothing fancy, just coffee, pastries, regulars who like arguing about the weather.”

“sounds cozy,” she said.

“it’s loud.”

“still sounds nice.”

you glanced at her — her hair catching the light, her posture relaxed for the first time all day.

“you work a lot?” she asked.

you shrugged. “depends. here when they need me. café when the schedule’s light. not really the sit-still kind.”

she smiled again, but this time it folded deeper. “me neither.”

you didn’t mean to ask it — it just fell out. “do you ever get tired of cameras?”

her smile turned quiet. “yes,” she said, honest. “but… i like meeting people like this. places like this.”

you didn’t answer. you were still watching her eyes when she reached to adjust the lei near her knees. the thread snagged slightly and she tipped forward to fix it — just a little shift of balance, barely a stumble.

you caught her elbow before she could fall.

“careful.”

sana laughed, a bit breathless. “oops.”

you didn’t let go right away. her skin was warm. soft. a few staff glanced your way, but no one said anything. not this time.

keoni’s voice crackled from the radio on your hip. “van’s ready. we rollin’?”

you tapped the mic. “copy. heading back.”

you let go gently and stood, brushing dirt off your palm. sana followed, slower. her eyes still lingered on your face.

as the group began making their way back toward the main trail, you fell into step behind the crew, trailing just far enough to keep an eye on the path.

sana dropped back too, matching your pace.

after a while, she said — lightly, like it didn’t matter — “so… are you guiding us again tomorrow?”

you paused, then nodded. “yeah. you got me till the end.”

she smiled. bright. quiet.

“good,” she said. “i was hoping so.”

you didn’t say anything — not out loud. but you felt something shift in the way she looked at you again.

like she was filing something away. tucking it behind her smile.

you kept walking.

ahead, miyeon tripped over a root and screamed something about cursed trees. the crew laughed.

sana didn’t.

she just looked at you again.

the clouds barely held together above hanapēpē, drifting thin and drowsy like they'd overslept. the air smelled faintly of seawater and roasted beans.

you had your head bent over the espresso machine, steam hissing softly, a practiced hand steadying the portafilter. your apron, worn and flecked with milk dust, hung loose over your frame. same routine, different day. behind you, the regulars muttered about surf forecasts and the price of mangoes. someone’s kid laughed near the pastry counter. outside, the breeze carried the chime of a wind-battered bell on the door.

you didn’t look up right away when it opened.

your head was down, one hand steadying the portafilter as the espresso ran slow into the shot glass. the smell of milk steaming, the sound of someone slicing into banana bread behind you. your sleeves were rolled up above your elbows.

you glanced up, halfway through a pour.

and there she was.

sana stood near the door like she hadn’t just scoured the whole damn town for you. her hair pulled loosely back, a light blue tank just visible beneath an open white button-down that fluttered slightly when the door shut behind her. a floral skirt swayed at her ankles — patterned, soft, the same blue as her top. like sunlight filtered through water.

you blinked once. nearly over-poured.

she smiled.

"hey," she said, a little breathless. “so… you do exist outside of trailheads.”

your first thought was she matched me. your second was she looks like summer on purpose.

your third was somewhere between how the hell did she find me and don’t smile too much, you’ll look ridiculous.

“only on days off,” you replied, sliding the used portafilter aside. “and only when i need to fund my overly lavish lifestyle.”

she gave a soft laugh, stepping closer to the counter. her hands touched the wood like she was testing its warmth. “mystery solved.”

you raised a brow. “you asked around?”

her cheeks tinted just barely. “i didn’t have that much to go on. miyeon was no help. she said something like, ‘if you wander around with fate in your heart, you’ll find them.’”

you snorted. “sounds like her.”

“and… i did find you.”

you stared at her, fingers stilling on the counter. you weren’t used to people looking for you like that. especially not in a skirt that matched your whole outfit.

“what’ll you have?” you asked after a pause, because you needed to do something, because standing still in front of her felt dangerous.

sana leaned her arms on the counter, watching your face. “something simple. americano.”

“iced or hot?”

“surprise me.”

you glanced down at her skirt again. “iced. you look like you’ve been outside too long.”

she laughed, head tilting. “i have.”

as you prepped the shot, she watched — not in that casual way tourists do, but carefully. you realized you kind of liked her watching. you kind of hated how much you liked it.

“so…” she said, her voice light, “you didn't really say where this beautiful coffee shop were”

you shrugged, keeping your eyes on the espresso. “didn’t think you’d want more caffeine after miyeon.”

“well. miyeon and i got lunch. and then i wandered.” she shrugs slightly feeling as it wasn't worth to mention how she walked for an hour to find you and already had two coffee with miyeon earlier.

you looked up at her then. “wandered?”

her smile twitched. “yeah. i have a good sense of direction.”

you stared for a beat longer. you tamped the espresso with more pressure than necessary.

you didn’t answer.

steam rose between you. she leaned closer through it.

“i like when you’re like this,” she said, and her voice was gentle, not teasing. “you’re… not what i expected.”

you just turned back to the drink. because that thing in your chest — that old twitchy thing that didn’t like being seen — was already shifting too much.

“you’ve got a lot of expectations for someone you’ve known three days,” you said.

“maybe.” she reached out — just a little. and brushed her fingers against a napkin holder. like she wanted to reach you, but was afraid of spooking something. “but you let me ask questions. you don’t stop me.”

“not yet.”

“i think that’s why i came.”

you handed her the cup, warm between both palms. her fingers brushed yours when she took it.

“try not to spill,” you said. you reached for a ragged towel that seen better days while wiping the counter

she took it, brushing her fingers against yours. “are you always this soft when you flirt?”

you blinked confused still wiping the counter clean. “i’m not flirting.”

“okay,” she said, sipping anyway. “but you still haven’t told me if you’re single.”

that made your hand freeze mid-wipe on the counter.

you looked at her carefully. “you always open with that?”

“only when i’ve already watched someone make coffee for me, be soft with a group of grandmothers, and explain lava rock to a camera with their hands behind their back like they don’t want to exist.”

she let her fingertips trace along the edge of her cup, soft and aimless, like she didn’t know what to do with the silence she’d created. you watched her, the slope of her lashes, how the sunlight through the window caught in her hair like it belonged there. like she belonged here.

you wiped your hand on a cloth and came around. you sat across from sana by the window, the light slanting gold between you both.

you opened your mouth. closed it.

then: “...i’m single.”

you didn’t mean to speak. but your voice came out anyway.

she smiled, looking down at her cup like it was just a casual thing. the corner of her mouth lifted, not a smirk, not a grin—something lighter. quieter. like she'd known but wanted to hear it anyway.

“thought so,” she said. low, teasing, but her gaze dropped a second too late for it to be casual.

you leaned your forearms against the table, shoulder tilted in her direction. “you’re very confident for someone who called me mysterious like twelve times this week.”

“i didn’t say mysterious,” she replied, a little sing-song. “i said quiet. and maybe avoidant.”

you rolled your eyes. “you’re not helping your case.”

her laugh was soft. she swirled her cup absently, like she was stalling. then turned her head to you, half-curious, half-playful. “so… do you know who we are?”

you blinked. “you and miyeon?”

she made a face. “nooo, i mean, yes, but—like... the group i’m in.”

you tilted your head at her slowly. “uhh... twice.”

her brows rose, impressed. “you do know.”

you shrugged. “teenage girl i know is a fan.”

her eyes lit up. “really?”

“she’s not here,” you said. “so you’re safe.”

sana laughed, the real kind that crinkles the skin around her eyes. “and you?”

“me?”

“do you like us?”

i like you.

the words came up like steam, fogging your thoughts. but you didn’t say them. you just leaned a little forward and said, “i haven’t heard enough to say.”

her gaze caught yours. “maybe you should.”

“you offering a concert?”

she leaned forward a little. “i could.”

“hm.” she tapped her fingers on the side of her cup. “what if i did a solo performance? just for you.”

your pulse hitched. you blinked once, then exhaled a little laugh into your sleeve.

“you’re too fast,” you murmured.

“you’re too slow,” she shot back, still smiling.

another pause, a longer one. the room faded around her for a second.

your pulse did something strange.

you looked down, biting back a smile,

“so,” she said eventually, her chin resting on her hand. “how’s life these days? giving tours in the morning, drinks in the afternoon?”

“normal,” you said. “no camera at least ”

“i missed you guys already,” she teased. “keoni was my favorite.”

“he liked you too.”

she tilted her head. “what about you?” she leaned forward slightly, like the distance between your knees wasn’t already criminal.

you blinked. “what about me?”

“do you like me?”

it knocked the breath out of your chest. she was smiling, that same bright grin she gave everyone, but there was a question behind it she hadn’t quite hidden. her eyes didn’t match the joke.

you didn’t answer right away. your gaze dropped to her hands wrapped around her cup. the chipped polish on her nails. the slight red tint on her knuckles from the sun.

“i think you’re good at talking,” you said slowly.

she squinted, suspicious. “that’s not a yes.”

you shook your head, a quiet huff of a laugh leaving your lips. “that’s a very nervous yes.”

her smile curled, softer now. she looked at you like you’d just given her a secret.

she leaned forward a little, elbows on the table. “you never answer my real questions.”

“you keep asking them in public,” you said. “that’s your fault.”

she tilted her head. “is this public?”

your throat dried. the café was mostly quiet now, the only sounds the soft clatter of dishes in the back and the hum of a machine you’d forgotten was running. one of the baristas, kahi, glanced over.

you raised your hand, beckoning her.

“can you take over for a bit?” you asked. “gonna take my break.”

kahi smiled knowingly. “sure. take your time.”

sana leaned back in her chair like she’d just won something.

“so,” she said again, grinning. “do you get bored of guiding people around here?”

you shook your head. “not really.”

“why not?”

“because most people leave. and when they do, it’s quiet again.”

she tilted her head. “you like it quiet?”

you looked at her. “i like it when people mean it when they say they’ll remember.”

sana blinked. her lips parted just slightly, like she wanted to ask something else, but her phone buzzed on the table. her eyes flicked to the screen. miyeon.

she picked it up and typed something quick. then she stood slowly, brushing her skirt down.

“i have to go,” she said. “miyeon’s waiting.” she reached for her cup, drank the last of it, then hesitated. her fingers played with the edge of the saucer.

you nodded, standing too, out of instinct more than anything.

she took her time standing, fingers lingering on the table’s edge. the hem of her white overshirt fluttered a little when she turned toward the door.

you stood with her.

she hesitated there, right by the frame, like the sunlight didn’t know which one of you to choose.

you walked her out.

she turned once, soft steps pausing near the corner. “hey... do you have instagram?”

you hesitated. blinked. “uh… i mean. i barely use it.”

“but you have one?”

“…yeah.”

“give it to me anyway,” she smiled.

your fingers hesitated, then reached into your apron for your phone. you pulled it out and handed it over, watching her eyes light up as she typed.

she took it like it was normal, like this happened all the time. except she wasn’t searching for the usual account.

her thumb hovered.

“i’m giving you my private one,” she said.

you blinked again.

“don’t tell anyone.” her smile curved, just a little. “miyeon doesn’t even know i give this out.”

you stared at her.

she tapped around on your phone for a moment, then stifled a laugh.

“wait,” she said, flashing the screen at you. “this is really your username? brewing.beach?”

you looked. winced.

“you said you didn’t really use it,” she said, scrolling. “but this is criminal. zero posts?”

“i wasn’t lying.”

“no bio. no story. no highlights.” her eyes were wide with mock horror. “you’re just… a digital ghost.”

you took your phone back. “i log in. i just don’t live there.”

“yeah, i can tell.” she grinned. “i feel like i followed a shadow.”

“it’s mysterious,” you said flatly.

“it’s suspicious,” she corrected. “feels like i just gave my private account to a tourist who might disappear into the ocean.”

you raised an eyebrow. “isn’t that what you’re doing this week?”

she gasped. hand to chest. “that’s cold.”

you almost smiled. almost. “you’ll survive.”

“i better,” she said. “i just gave my secret account to a stranger with no posts and an unflattering username.”

you shrugged. “you didn’t have to.”

“mm,” she hummed, slow and dramatic. “but i wanted to.”

then her voice lowered. “don’t make me regret it.”

and then she looked up, full eye contact, like she could hear your heart going off in your chest. “that okay?”

“yeah,” you said, but it came out hoarse. “yeah. i won’t tell.”

her smile softened. she typed, handed your phone back, and her username was already followed.

then she didn’t move.

neither did you.

and that was when something in the air changed.

you thought she was about to leave, she even glanced toward the door, like she should—but her feet didn’t follow. instead, she turned back around.

and stepped closer.

your breath caught.

there was barely a handspan between you. her perfume was faint but sweet, like citrus and skin-warmed flowers. your heart thudded stupidly loud in your ears.

“you have this... way of looking at people,” she murmured.

you didn’t know what that meant, but you didn’t ask.

you couldn’t ask. not when she was this close. not when she was tilting her head, eyes flicking down to your mouth for half a second and then back up again.

you opened your mouth to say something—anything—but you didn’t get the chance.

she leaned in.

and kissed your cheek.

but not quickly. not playfully. not the kind you’d brush off with a joke.

no—she pressed her lips there like it meant something.

like it was a secret she couldn’t say out loud yet.

you felt it in your spine. your stomach. your knees.

it was soft. it was slow. it was warm enough to burn through the fabric of your shirt and straight into your bloodstream.

and when she pulled back—barely—her lips ghosted over your skin like she was memorizing it. like maybe she wanted to stay there.

your eyes didn’t open right away.

and when they did, she was smiling.

just a little.

the kind of smile that made the sun look second-best.

“see you around,” she whispered.

then finally—finally—she turned and walked out the door.

and you just stood there.

heart pounding. hand still curled around your phone. breath caught somewhere behind your ribs.

her lipstick light pink, faint, left the softest trace on your cheek.

you didn’t wipe it off.

you weren’t sure you ever could.

your cheek still felt her.

and somewhere in your pocket, your phone buzzed again—new notification. new follower.

shy.shibatozaki accepted your follow request

and suddenly, the room felt like it wasn’t yours anymore.

it was hers.

and you wanted her to come back.

you don’t remember the exact moment your face started heating up for no reason — just that it had something to do with her name lighting up your phone at 11:47 p.m., while the ocean outside your window made that low, steady hush, like even it was trying to hear what she’d say next.

the sheets were tangled around your legs. your hair still damp from the shower. a bead of water slid down your neck, caught in the collar of your shirt. it clung too close at the back. and your chest — it was doing that thing again. not thudding like fear, not fluttering like joy, just… loud. constant. like a knock that wouldn’t stop.

shy.shibatozaki 11:47 p.m. guess what me and miyeon are watching ! i missed you already i loved the coffee you gave ~ !

you didn’t even have to guess. you could already imagine her curled under a fuzzy blanket, face half-glowing in tv light, head leaning into miyeon’s shoulder. something warm stirred in your stomach.

shy.shibatozaki 11:48 p.m. also me and miyeon are wearing our matching pjs 💙🩷 anddd she took the yellow bear headband >:(( not fair right?? :(

a photo came with that one. slightly blurry, but enough to make your chest tighten — sana in blue pajamas, she was wearing her glasses and it was slipping down her nose, hair tied back lazily with a few strands falling over her cheek. miyeon was beside her, grinning while mid jump, wearing a yellow bear headband. it looked like home. she looked like the kind of perfect you didn’t want to blink at in case it vanished.

you bit your pillow and groaned into it.

then you answered. (on some nonchalant shi she aint even know it)

you 11:51 p.m. perhaps queen of tears..? thats the only kdrama i know hahaa...

shy.shibatozaki 11:52 p.m. HEYYY we're not watching qot! HOMETOWN CHA-CHA-CHA!! miyeon said i act like yoon hye jin..? BUT NO >:( anddd they eat so much in this drama :( i luvvv hawaii food but like ugh i miss korean foods :(

you stared at that message longer than necessary. something about it made you sit up. the air had cooled — you hadn’t noticed — but the breeze coming in smelled faintly of rain and seaweed. maybe you were imagining it, but it felt like a different kind of night.

you told yourself she was just being cute. she was always cute. it didn’t mean anything. her cheeks didn’t make your fingers tingle. her texts didn’t sit warm in your pocket. your chest wasn’t rising like tidewater with every buzz.

you were not smiling.

your phone buzzed again.

shy.shibatozaki 11:55 p.m. hellooo did u fall asleep..? earth to tour guide cutie?

you blinked.

cutie???

your legs were moving before your thoughts could catch up. you grabbed your keys. hoodie. slippers. hair still damp. didn’t care. you stepped outside. paused. cursed. ran back in for your wallet. stepped out again.

the streets were quiet — wet pavement glowing gold beneath the streetlights. your footsteps echoed softly. your hoodie clung to your back. a gecko darted across the sidewalk near your foot, but you didn’t flinch. your head was somewhere else. somewhere with blue pajamas and sleepy eyes that missed korean foods at midnight.

you passed the surfboard rental hut. slowed. stopped.

on impulse — stupid, reckless, flirt-level impulse — you pulled out your phone and sent a photo. an old one. from earlier this week. waves curling over the shore, a bright sky behind it, and someone surfing in the distance.

you 12:04 a.m hey, isn't chief hong like a surfer.. or something..? maybe i can help you learn how to surf yk? :) i'm good at riding the waves.

the second it sent, regret bloomed full-bodied through your spine.

wow, you regretted even saying that.

holy fuck should i delete that? was i too straight forward? was that too much? was that real? should you delete it? why did you say that???

shy.shibatozaki 12:05 a.m. WHATT YOU SURF!! AHHH YES maybe you can teach me when i do come back :) ill rate your flips maybeee from you arms~

you almost tripped over the curb outside the store.

you couldn’t even laugh properly. just gripped your phone, heart thrashing, and slipped inside the brightly lit corner mart like it might hold answers on a shelf.

you needed to focus. get the food. get out. do not spontaneously combust in the ramen aisle.

you got ramen. rice cakes. gim. sesame oil. carrots. pickled radish. banana milk. a new blender blade. more gochujang than one person should legally own. frozen mangoes. why. who knew.

you stared at the shopping cart.

“what the hell am i doing,” you whispered.

you don’t even like smoothies.

but your hand still reaches for strawberries.

back home, you dropped the bags on the counter, half-shivering from the night air, half-sweating from the chaos inside your chest. turned on a recipe video. leaned too close. muted it again. swore when the rice stuck to your hands. tried again. heartbeat climbing steadily, unreasonably, like it knew where this night was heading before you did.

you were mid-slice — carrots wet and bright on the cutting board — when your phone buzzed again.

       incoming video call:

       shy.shibatozaki

you wiped your hands on a dish towel and answered without thinking.

“yaaaah,” she whined, face filling your screen, voice low like she was trying not to wake miyeon. “where did you go? you disappeared.”

you pressed your lips together,

“just stepped out.”

“you didn’t reply to my text for like... nine minutes.”

“how do you know the exact time?”

“because i counted,” she whined. “you’re so mean...”

“just… had something to do,” you said, camera aimed slightly too high on purpose. the kitchen lights were on behind you.

“mmm,” she narrowed her eyes. “are you cooking?”

you tried not to look guilty. “why would i be cooking at midnight?”

“are you at your kitchen..?” she whispered.

you blinked, heart thudding. “...you’re seeing things.”

she pouted. “liar.”

you turned away, pretending to check something on the stove — when really, you were just trying to hide the dumb smile spreading across your face.

on her side, sana yawned. the blanket now tucked under her chin. her glasses had started slipping again, and she didn’t fix them.

“you’re not telling me what you’re making…” she mumbled, eyes blinking slower now.

“nothing important.”

“hmm.” she let that go, surprisingly. “oh, by the way… we might start preparing for our next comeback soon. nothing confirmed but i’m kinda excited. i want a sexy theme” she grinned sleepily. “if we get one… i’ll tell you first.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. you didn’t move. just kept spreading rice over gim like your hands had never learned to do anything else. your chest felt… weird. tight. like standing thigh-deep in surf, waiting for a wave you couldn’t see coming.

“and maybe,” she mumbled, almost to herself, “i’ll bring you something from seoul... like a signed photocard... or a bag of korean snacks... or me.”

or me.

your breath stalled.

she didn’t even seem to notice. her eyes fluttered shut, cheek pressed into her pillow. hair all tangled. lips parted slightly, like she didn’t even realize what she said.

your ears were on fire.

you didn’t say a word. didn’t dare to breathe too loud. just finished wrapping the kimbap roll with your heart pounding like it had picked up the rhythm of every wave slapping the shore that night.

not falling. you were not falling. this was just... curiosity. friendliness. a professional obligation to keep her happy and full.

you smiled. not because of what she said — but because she didn’t finish the sentence. her breathing slowed, soft. the blanket shifted a little as she turned, and her hand stayed on her cheek, curled like she was dreaming something warm.

the strawberry not yet a smoothie. the wind outside whispered her name again — like it was in on the joke. like the waves knew exactly how hard your heart was crashing tonight.

you didn’t wake her.

then you sat down on the floor.

looked at her again.

you weren’t falling. you didn’t do this. you didn’t blush. you didn’t cook for people who flirted with you at midnight. you didn’t send surfing thirst traps.

you weren’t insane.

some mornings feel scripted.

not by the sky or the sun or even the alarm — but by something quieter. something like fate, or a dream that refuses to end.

this is one of those mornings.

the first thing sana sees is the curve of light spilling through the curtains. the second is the soft hum of her phone, still propped under the pillow like a secret. the screen glows faintly at the foot of the bed. not loud, not obvious. just there. waiting.

“...miyeon?” she whispers, still half-asleep.

“present,” miyeon chirps from across the room, already in glam-mode with one eyebrow lined and her pink pajama slightly askew. she’s crouched near the mirror, filming, one hand holding a blush brush like a dagger.

“why is the call still—”

“shhh. don’t ruin it. we’re in the middle of a cinematic masterpiece.”

sana squints. the image is angled badly, tilted like someone dropped the phone and never bothered fixing it. the camera lens is fogged a little from the a/c, edges soft and cloudy like a dream.

but it’s enough.

you’re not speaking. not even looking. just... there. folding a shirt. your hair’s still damp from the shower. your white tank top clings slightly at the back, and the loose white trousers hang soft and low at your hips as you lean over to straighten something on the floor.

the light hits the back of your neck like it missed you all night.

like you were born inside a slow-motion montage. like the universe forgot to warn her that people like you exist in real life.

sana forgets to breathe.

“...why do they look like that,” she mumbles, blinking hard.

“right??” miyeon says, spinning the phone to record sana now. “like excuse me, who gave them the right to clean so attractively.”

“do they even know we’re still on the call…”

“and they’ve been like that for an hour. just tidying things in slow motion like they’re filming a skincare ad for lonely people.”

sana groans and hides her face in the pillow. “don’t say that…”

“you’re blushing.”

“i’m not.”

“you’re in love.”

“shut up—”

“you’re so in love it’s embarrassing,” miyeon says gleefully, zooming in on her. “look at how they're dressed up, they clean up good.”

sana peeks from behind the bear. “…they’re just… really clean.”

“do you think they're an ISFJ? they’re that quiet, competent character who always walks their lover home and then disappears without asking for anything.”

“miyeonnn—”

“sana,” miyeon sing-songs. “do you—wait for it—do you likey~?”

sana groans, kicking at the blanket harder. “you’re the worst.”

but then you look up.

no rush. no shock. just a glance at your screen like you already knew it was still on. your gaze flickers, soft and unhurried, before your lips curl into the gentlest, sleep-warm smile.

your hand lifts in a lazy wave.

“morning,” you say, voice low and quiet. “hope you two slept well. we’ve got the atv tour today, so… time to get up.”

sana short-circuits.

miyeon howls with laughter in the corner.

“you didn’t hang up…?” sana manages, barely above a whisper.

you scratch the side of your neck. “why would i?”

you sound so casual. too casual. like you didn’t just make her heart skip two entire steps.

but then — you pause.

just enough to tilt your head a little, like something’s still on your mind.

“also,” you say, almost as an afterthought. “you didn’t finish what you were gonna say last night.”

sana freezes.

miyeon drops her brush on the table in slow motion.

“so,” you add, still smiling, “i didn’t want to hang up.”

and that’s it. no dramatic music. no fireworks.

sana dies.

just the most quietly romantic thing anyone’s ever said to her.

sana curls deeper into the blanket, face burning so red it could power a city.

miyeon is filming everything.

“okay, bye now,” you say, eyes already scanning off-screen. “gotta get the keys from keoni.”

click.

call ended.

the screen goes black.

sana stares at the screen like she’s been hit by a truck made of flower petals and longing.

her fingers twitch.

her soul leaves her body and ascends into the soft sheets of the afterlife.

then she lets out a squeak so high-pitched it sounds like a dolphin being emotionally overwhelmed.

“THEY SAID THAT???” she cries into the pillow.

“they remembered i didn’t finish what i was saying,” she whispers into the pillow, half-horrified, half-melting. “and they said it in their morning voice…”

“they didn’t want to end the call,” miyeon repeats, gleefully filming the aftermath. “do you understand what level of romance that is? that’s a novel ending. that’s page 374 of a fanfic. that’s—”

“i can’t go on the atv,” sana groans, burying herself completely now. “i’ll crash it just looking at them.. i’ll never recover.”

miyeon just smiles like the devil herself.

“you’ve already crashed,” she says, scrolling back to rewatch the smile. “and you’re so not getting up.”

sana bolts upright. “you recorded it, right..?”

“duh.” miyeon holds the phone aloft like it’s a national treasure. “my phone was already rolling since you were asleep. i got the back muscles, the tank top, the morning voice, the part where they said they didn’t want to hang up because you weren’t done talking—”

sana lunges. “let me see it!!”

“oHOH,” miyeon squeals, twisting away like a gremlin, phone clutched to her chest. “you want the video?? you need the video???”

“miyeon, please.”

“say the magic words~”

“i will literally cry,” sana threatens, face already turning red as she tries to grab the phone again. “give me the—miyeon, i’m serious!”

“you’re serious?? like serious-serious??” miyeon’s eyes sparkle like she’s hosting a game show. “on a scale from one to ‘i’m-down-bad,’ how serious are we talking?”

“i won't buy you those tanned friends”

“no you won’t,” miyeon says smugly. “you’re too in love to be mean.”

sana lets out a wail and collapses into the blanket, face burning. “miyeoooonnn…”

“oh my gosh, she folded.” miyeon falls dramatically beside her. “someone’s in loooove.”

sana peeks from the covers. “just let me watch it once.”

miyeon hums. “what’s the magic word?”

sana glares. “airdrop it.”

miyeon gasps, delighted. “OH. OH??? she said airdrop!! she’s desperate. this is beautiful. hold on—lemme queue it up for full emotional impact—rewinding to the part where they scratch their neck, ready—aaaand play.”

sana watches.

watches the exact moment your voice, all soft and quiet and unbearably gentle, says it again.

“you didn’t finish what you were gonna say.”

“so i didn’t want to hang up.”

she actually squeaks. like a mouse. or a broken record. or a seventeen-year-old girl watching her first romance drama in 4k.

and then she slaps miyeon’s arm, hard.

“DON’T PLAY IT AGAIN—”

“TOO LATE, I’M LOOPING IT.”

“STOPPP—”

“it’s okay,” miyeon sighs, falling back onto the bed beside her. “if they looked at me like that and said that in that voice, i’d record it in 4k and build a shrine.”

sana turns slowly. “you mean you did record it in 4k.”

the atvs are parked in a half-circle near the trail’s edge, their engines quiet but still radiating heat. someone’s checking the tires, someone else is untangling cords for the mounted cameras. the air smells like red dirt and sun-dried leaves.

you’re wiping down the atv with a rag that was clean twenty minutes ago. the handlebar grips are dusted over, already sweating beneath your hands. your white tank clings a little from the humidity, loose at the edges but damp at the spine. the same white cotton trousers from earlier—creased, stained faintly at the knees—hang low and light at your hips. your black backpack leans forgotten by the tire, half-zipped, a water bottle poking out.

you don’t notice them watching you.

sana notices all of it. unintentionally.

“they’re gonna get dirty again in five minutes,” keoni says loudly from where he’s standing with sana and miyeon, watching you from across the lot.

“they’re too clean to accept that,” miyeon replies, biting back a grin. “look at that form. they’re washing it like it’s a first date.”

keoni raises a brow. “i’m just sayin’. no point polishing a pig.”

“don’t say that,” sana says, elbowing him with a soft smile. “the atvs are cute.”

“the atvs,” keoni mutters. “or them.”

before anyone can respond, you stand and stretch your arm out—then toss the dirty rag in a perfect arc. it lands square on keoni’s chest, leaving a dark smear on his light shirt.

he stares down at it.

you smirk, still flushed from the sun. “guess now you’re the dirty one.”

keoni lifts the rag off like it’s cursed. “you’re lucky i can’t throw this back. you’re wearin’ your best heartbreak outfit today.”

sana feels something in her chest clench slightly—unreasonably—but she laughs anyway. miyeon snorts and fans herself dramatically.

you’re laughing now too, leaning into the side of the atv where eunji—the writer—stands beside you, both of you mid-conversation. she says something that makes you tilt your head back and laugh harder, hand on your hip, face tilted toward her like this is normal. like this is yours.

sana blinks.

college, she remembers suddenly. that throwaway comment from before. the way eunji looked at you.

but then she shakes it off. maybe they just go way back. maybe it’s nothing.

“so,” keoni claps his hands once. “we divin’ these up or what?”

“dibs on riding with the prettiest,” miyeon declares, flinging her hand toward sana dramatically.

“alright,” keoni calls, tossing a small bag into the front of the seat. “miyeon—you’re with sana. we don't need you crashing all of us and possibly driving us off.”

a few of the crew laugh. people start pairing up, bags start getting tossed into backs, helmets passed around, bags pulled tight with lazy grunts. the clearing smells like hot dust and engine oil.

eunji is already slipping her sunglasses on, stepping lightly toward you.

you’re tightening the gear bag on the back of your atv, easy and quiet. eunji sits behind you like it’s second nature. your backpack bumps gently into her knee. she leans forward to say something near your ear and whatever it is—it makes you laugh.

sana watches that laugh.

miyeon watches her watching it.

then: “girl, you're jealous,” miyeon says flatly. “do you want me to swap?”

“i’m not—!” sana starts, then stops. “just—get in.”

miyeon grins, climbing on like it’s her birthday.

keoni throws his arm around one of the cameramen. “you better hold the camera steady..”

sana shifts slightly, adjusting the strap of her vest. she’s watching the way how you lean a little, how comfortable you look with her.

then, like it sneaks up on her:

“…shouldn’t they ride with the cameraman?”

it’s soft. too soft for the question to make sense, really.

keoni frowns. “why?”

“aren’t they the better driver?”

miyeon squints at her. “uhhh… why do you care so much all of a sudden?”

sana blinks fast. “i don’t.”

keoni shrugs. “they’re always the better driver. but eunji calls shotgun.”

sana looks away, pretending to adjust her strap.

miyeon leans into her side.

“someone’s jealous,” she sings quietly.

“shut up,” sana whispers, cheeks warm.

miyeon grins wide. “don't worry i'll try my best to hear what they're talking about!"

sana only looked back with a frown trying to make sense when miyeon was further away than her.

and then the engines start, one after another. the grove fills with sound, dust kicking, laughter overlapping, the hum of sun and wheels and things unsaid.

you don’t look back as the atv peels forward.

but sana looks forward at you.

and for a moment, it feels like she missed something that used to be hers, even if it never really was.

the beach greets you with its quiet curve of white sand, hemmed in by palms and black rock. no signs, no tourists—just the hush of waves and a wide blue that feels untouched.

you pull the atv to a slow stop at the edge, tires crunching lightly over shell bits and drift.

behind you, eunji swings off without a word. the sun hits her hair and shoulders like it’s warming up just for her.

“still can’t believe this place,” she says, shielding her eyes. “it’s like a movie set.”

you nod. toss the keys to your palm, slide your black backpack off one shoulder and keep it close.

eunji adjusts her sunglasses and starts toward the trees. you follow a few steps behind, half listening to the sea—until, loud and fast—

“YAAHHHHHH—” “sana ya we’re literally gonna die—”

a second atv swerves into view, kicking sand as it jolts to a stop just a few feet from yours.

sana is at the wheel—white tie-strap beach top, loose blue pants, hair already tangled from the ride. miyeon’s behind her, windblown and yelling, one hand still holding her phone up, clearly filming the chaos.

except....

now she’s wearing a green baseball cap (idk what kinda cap it is sorry.), the brim low and lopsided over her brow. and a pale blue long-sleeve thrown over her top, sleeves pushed up to her elbows like she borrowed it in a hurry.

you blink. she hadn’t had that on earlier.

your first thought is that someone from staff gave it to her. the sun’s stronger now, and she’d been squinting earlier, rubbing at her eyes when she thought no one was looking.

it makes sense.

still… you wonder if she asked. or if someone just noticed. offered before she had to.

you wonder if she would’ve asked you.

and then immediately hate that thought—because what would you have given her? your tank top?

you glance down. white cotton. thin, barely enough for yourself, let alone her. now your shoulders are out, your neck already warm, and you frown.

stupid. why didn’t you bring a hoodie or something?

why didn’t you even think—

sana beams, squinting. “we made it!!”

miyeon coughs dramatically. “barely.”

you’re already stepping forward, one hand steadying the atv.

sana swings her leg off and stumbles slightly, laughing. her eyes meet yours for just a second—and you offer your hand. she takes it without thinking, and you help her down. a little dust clings to her shoulder, and you glance away.

“was i that scary?” sana asks, brushing sand off her wrist.

“you were focused,” you say.

miyeon hops off next. “she was possessed,” she mutters. “she didn’t blink for three whole minutes. i checked.”

sana frowns. “yah. you were screaming into my ear the whole time.”

“i was saying your name in prayer.”

staff start laughing behind them finally arriving. one of the managers lifts a camera, catching the girls mid-bicker.

“let’s take photos before miyeon sweats off her foundation,” someone calls out.

“TOO LATE,” miyeon yells back, fixing her hair.

sana looks around. “wait… this place is way too pretty. i need to mark our territory.”

she digs a stick out from the sand, starts writing their names in huge curved strokes: sana ♥ miyeon. then reaches into her bag, pulls out a flag printout of a selfie—the two of them in bear headbands, cheeks puffed—and plants it in the sand like a little flag.

“perfect.”

it lasted for 20 seconds.

a wave creeps in, silent and sharp—and then rolls straight over it.

“NOOOO—!!” “sana do something!!”

the names dissolve. the flag topples.

you’re already walking toward it, knee-deep in saltwater in seconds. you crouch without a word, lift the soggy print gently, and hand it off as you walk back.

sana accepts it with both hands.

“…you saved it,” she says quietly, blinking down at the wrinkled photo.

you glance down. then back up. “…i mean. i tried.”

she reaches out like she’s being careful not to scare it. takes it from you with both hands. the photo is soggy. the ink’s a little smeared. one corner is folded.

“…still cute,” she says.

you rub the back of your neck. “it’s limited edition now.”

miyeon pouts. “the beach is jealous of our love.”

keoni steps in finally, waving the group into motion. “alright, girls, let’s go. hours to film a reel. and then we can like go shopping for souvenirs” his tone knowing at how influencers are so predictable

sana turns, still cradling the picture. “we’re taking some together, right?”

miyeon perks up. “of course. we need cute poses. maybe one where i pretend to propose.”

“again?” sana laughs.

“yah. it’s tradition.”

they start toward the rocks, still bickering, still smiling.

you follow at a slower pace—off-cam, quiet, steady.

and when sana glances back once, half over her shoulder, like she’s checking something she didn’t mean to leave behind—

you’re already looking at her.

while someone looks at the both of you.

the sky is soft and orange, like someone brushed it gently with gold and peach. the kind of light that makes everything feel like it matters a little more than it should. palm trees lean gently over the patio. somewhere below, the ocean taps against the rocks like it’s trying to get someone’s attention.

they’d just finished shopping—bags half-full, miyeon dragging her feet and whining about not buying enough of those tanned friends—and now everyone’s gathered at the long dinner table for one last shoot. the cameras are rolling. the mics are clipped. this is the final scene.

the ache is there.

you sit behind the camera setups, off to the side, your black backpack’s looped over one shoulder like always, like something unfinished. you haven't touched a plate. you just focus the frame.

you don’t eat.

you just watch the light fade.

and maybe that’s why you don’t realize you’re moving until you’re already pulling eunji aside—out of frame, around the corner of the beach patio where it’s quiet enough to hear the waves.

behind you, sana’s eyes flick up for a moment — casual. automatic.

she sees you turn the corner with eunji. she doesn’t look away.

“so, sana-ssi,” miyeon says into her mic, “what are you gonna miss the most about hawaii?”

sana hesitates.

her gaze lingers a beat too long at the edge of the patio.

off-camera.

eunji follows without question. “what’s up?” she asks softly.

you unzip your bag. the black one you’ve carried every day of the tour. from inside, you pull out a small tupperware—wrapped in cloth to keep the shape—and a smoothie bottle. it’s no longer cold. the condensation’s long gone. the ice melted hours ago.

“can you give this to her?” you ask, not looking up. “on the drive back. just say it’s from the crew if you want. i just—i don’t want to make it weird.”

eunji stares at the items. "oh.. kimbab?”

you nod. “and a strawberry smoothie.”

“there’s a note. inside the wrap. give it to her on the drive back. please.”

eunji smiles gently, hesitating on something before she then tucks the food into her own tote. “yeah. of course. i got it.”

you nod once. say nothing more.

and you don’t see the way sana looked up just then from her seat—eyes landing on you and eunji in the shadows. she blinks once. then turns back to miyeon.

on the patio, the camera’s still rolling.

“probably this view,” sana says suddenly, answering the earlier question. “or the shrimp.”

miyeon holds back a smile. “not the crew?”

“they’re part of the view,” sana jokes, looking straight ahead. but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

she doesn’t say what she wanted to say.

not with you just around the corner, not with something she won’t understand tightening in her chest.

she glances toward the ocean.

not you.

the shoot’s over.

it ends in a blur of bowing staff, camera bags thudding shut, thank-yous muffled by tired voices and the low crash of the ocean below. someone’s still scraping plates into a bin. someone else is laughing near the curb. the whole place feels like the backstage of a play that ended five minutes too soon.

you stand by the entryway, tucked between two rusted railings and a low stone planter blooming with yellow hibiscus. your weight shifts slow in your shoes, like the ground isn’t quite yours. your hands stay buried in your pockets. it’s not for warmth. it’s for restraint.

you hear her before you see her. not her voice — not yet — just the soft scuff of her sandals on the pavement. the sound of someone light on their feet, like she’s trying not to disturb the night.

then:

“there you are.”

you turn.

sana’s walking over, hands tucked into her sleeves, eyes already finding yours like she’d been scanning the whole set for them. same soft top. strands of hair stuck to her cheek. her mouth is pinker than it was earlier — maybe from the sun, maybe from the drink miyeon forced her to finish.

and for a second, your heart is stupid enough to think she might run to you.

instead, she walks slowly. calm. unreadable.

“thought you left already,” you say.

“nope,” she replies, easy. “i was looking for you.”

your throat catches around nothing.

“me?”

“mm.” she glances away for a second — then back. “you kinda disappeared after wrap.”

“you noticed?”

she rolls her eyes. “you think i wouldn’t?”

“you were really good today,” you say quickly to avoid an awkward silence. “both of you.”

she blinks. “seriously?”

“yeah. miyeon too. you guys were— i dunno. like a good pair in a romcom..?”

“what if that's what we we're going for?”

“doubt it.”

she grins. a little bashful now.

then you add, “good luck, by the way. with the next comeback.”

“oh.” she tilts her head. “you remember what i said?”

“barely. and miyeon gave me a twice song quiz and uhh i failed...”

sana snorts. “which one did you miss?”

“all of them.”

“wow.”

“i’m a disgrace to my generation.”

she laughs again — and this time, she smooths a crease from your shirt, fingers brushing you so gently it feels like she’s saying goodbye without really saying it.

“hey,” she says. softer now. “thank you. really.”

her eyes flick to your mouth for half a second too long.

you don’t move.

“for what?”

“just… everything. for making this trip feel special. even when the cameras weren’t rolling.”

you swallow.

the words sit too neatly in your chest. they stack themselves like a house you start to believe in.

“same to you,” you say. “you made it easy.”

she glances at you again — not away from you, not past you — at you.

and in that moment, you believe it. you believe she means it.

you believe she’s holding something back, and maybe it’s only distance, maybe it’s only fear — but it’s not indifference.

“i’ll miss you,” she murmurs.

you freeze.

you want to ask if she means it. you want to ask if she’ll text. if this was ever more than just a week of light flirting and pretty lies.

but you smile anyway. not big. just enough. “i’ll keep failing your quizzes from afar.”

“and i’ll be disappointed in you from korea,” she shoots back, but it’s gentle. fond.

she waves once. then again when she’s at the van. you raise your hand, but she’s already turned away.

the door shuts. miyeon says something loud. sana laughs. they drive off.

you wait. just long enough to be sure she’s not coming back. just long enough to be sure that was the end of it.

then you sling your bag over your shoulder. it feels too light, like something’s been taken out of it.

maybe it’s just the part of you that believed you’d get to say more.

you’re halfway to the curb when someone shouts behind you.

“excuse me!”

you turn.

he jogs up, holding a small cloth-wrapped tupperware and a tumbler bottle, slightly fogged over but clearly warm now.

“this was left at the table,” the waiter says. “one of the guests forgot it?”

you stare.

for a second, you don’t move.

you don’t even need to open it.

you know.

the weight of it. the shape. the faint sweet smell leaking through the folds.

then slowly—slowly—you take it. unwrap it. see the handwriting you recognize. your own.

please eat well. you told me you miss this type of food. remember to tell me about your comeback. with all the love i can't say, your guide.

you stare at it.

the kimbab. the smoothie. the whole thing.

your hand curls tighter around the cloth. you feel the glass bottle shift inside. the smoothie’s warm now.

untouched.

you swallow. the ocean sounds louder all of a sudden.

your chest hollows out.

you stare at it for a long time.

not because you don’t understand —

but because you do.

you don’t even think of eunji. she wouldn’t forget something like this, right? not something made with care. not something that mattered to someone else that isn't her.

but sana—

she didn’t forget.

she chose not to bring it.

you rolled the kimbap in silence at 12am, hands shaky from too little sleep. blended the smoothie twice because the first one didn’t taste like you remembered her describing in one of those tv shows she was in. added an extra note. rewrote it when it felt too much.

you imagined her holding it on the ride to the airport. sipping it on the plane. maybe thinking of you, just a little.

you imagined it meant something.

but it didn’t.

not enough. not to her.

and then, without thinking, you turn and walk—past the entrance, down the small stone path that leads to the trash bins. you lift the lid. and drop the whole bundle in.

no hesitation.

just silence.

you let the lid fall.

and walk away with nothing but silence.

not even the lie that she cared.

two weeks.

that’s how long it’s been since hawaii.

since the wind tasted like salt and sunscreen, since your laugh still echoed when she closed her eyes. since miyeon dragged her half-asleep through customs, arms full of souvenirs they didn’t need but bought anyway, because it reminded her of you — stupid stuff, like the peach keyring you touched once at a market stall, the tiny charm shaped like a surfboard.

since sana sat by the plane window for six silent hours, headphones in but music off, the screen in front of her playing some romcom she didn’t watch. just static. just motion. just the city shrinking behind clouds, and the empty weight of a phone that hadn’t buzzed once.

you didn’t text.

and maybe she should’ve known then.

maybe she should’ve let go the moment the message bubble stayed empty. maybe she shouldn’t have memorized the time difference, shouldn’t have set silent alarms for 2:17 a.m., just in case you replied while she was sleeping — as if knowing the exact minute you might’ve sent something could stop her from missing it.

but she couldn’t help it. she was still waiting.

she took more photos than usual. not for instagram. not for the fancafe. just dumb little things — her coffee order, the new hoodie she thought you’d like, the earrings miyeon said made her look “way too pretty to be single.”

she saved them all.

none of them ever got sent.

it’s late now. practice ran long. her hoodie’s damp at the collar, some strands falling loose.

but her fingers are restless.

so she goes live.

the car is dark. quiet. the windows blur with streetlights, smearing gold across her cheekbones, and the screen lights her face just enough to catch the pink gloss still clinging to her bottom lip. her voice is a little hoarse, like it’s been tucked away too long.

“hi~” she says, drawing it out, soft and breathy. “did you miss me?”

hearts explode. comments fire in from all corners of the world.

she laughs, ducking her head, rubbing at her eye with the back of her wrist. “i look like a mess today, huh? no filters. bare face. very exclusive.”

“you look beautiful no matter what!!” someone writes.

she gasps, presses a hand to her heart. “don’t lie to me like this! not when i’m already so weak.”

fans fill the chat with crying emojis and heart showers.

“we had practice all day today,” she says, tucking a flyaway hair behind her ear. “comeback soon, right? do you guys wanna know the concept?”

they scream in the comments. she hums thoughtfully, as if considering.

“hmm~ what if i give you a hint? just a little one,” she says, holding her fingers close together. “okay. one word only. spicy.”

the chaos that follows makes her giggle for real. someone spams pepper emojis. someone else types “IS IT A DANCE SONG IS IT SEDUCTIVE??”

“yah! it’s a secret!” she scolds, then immediately leans closer to whisper, “...yes.”

she leans back with a wink. the mood is light. good. silly in the way she knows how to be.

but her thumb keeps slipping.

to the viewer list. to the names she doesn’t mean to look for.

and then —

@brewing.beach joined.

her breath catches. only for a second. just long enough that something inside her forgets to move.

you’re here.

you’re watching.

your name — your screenname — floats at the top of the list like a bruise she doesn’t want to press, but can’t stop touching.

she swallows. hard. finds her place in the conversation again.

“also,” she says quickly, “nayeon unnie tripped over her own shoe during cooldown. i wish i could show you, it was like… you know those baby deer videos?” she holds up both hands and wiggles them like flailing limbs. “legs everywhere.”

laughs fill the screen. someone tells her she should post the clip. another fan says you’re cuter than a deer though.

she smiles. lets it land somewhere softer. but the glow doesn’t stay long.

someone else asks about hawaii.

“miyeon said you had the idea for the vlog!! what was your favorite part?”

her breath sticks in her throat for a second too long.

but she makes her voice gentle. normal.

“filming was fun,” she says. “but… honestly, i was kind of out of it by the end.”

a beat. the comments fly too fast to catch.

“i think i got sunburned on like… just one ear?” she touches her earlobe. “very fashionable. very cool. right, once?”

they answer with chaos again. sunscreen jokes. marriage proposals. someone starts a fake petition called justice for sana’s ears.

she laughs, but it’s thinner now. quiet at the edges.

you’re still watching.

and still not saying anything.

you never did.

you didn’t say anything the day she left. not when she waved from the van. not when she said she’d miss you, even though her voice cracked on it. you didn’t reply to her message, didn’t text after the plane landed.

you didn’t even react to the gift.

she had made sure of it — she’d written her number on the back of a photocard, one she picked herself from a pack of outtakes. she wasn’t even looking at the camera in it, just smiling off to the side. the same way she always looked at you when she thought no one would notice.

she slipped it into the box. sealed it herself.

and asked eunji — sweet, harmless, helpful eunji — to give it to you while she was shooting with miyeon.

“just slide it to them when you say goodbye,” she whispered. “please?”

eunji smiled. said of course. said sure. said leave it to me.

but you never reached out.

and sana… believed you had gotten it.

for two weeks, she believed it.

in the back of this car, the memory hits her differently.

eunji's laugh too sharp.

her tone too playful.

how she never looked sana in the eye when she came back.

sana’s heart aches in the shape of something slow and sickening.

“anyway… i’m home now~” she says softly, even though the car is still moving. “i’ll rest. i’ll… i’ll message you guys next time, okay?”

lie.

the fans fill the chat with goodnights. hearts. we love you!!

she ends the live.

the silence after is unbearable.

her driver hums low under his breath. the city leans past the window in smears of yellow and gray. she watches her own reflection. the curve of her mouth. the shine of her eyes.

she unlocks her phone.

scrolls to your name.

still empty.

still no finally got your number.

still no thank you.

no i miss you.

she opens the messages anyway. stares at the blank thread. waits for it to become something else.

but it doesn’t.

it stays quiet.

the same way you did.

her eyes burn first.

but she doesn’t blink. not yet. just breathes.

once. twice.

then —

quietly. gently.

like it doesn’t even belong to her — like the heartache is someone else’s, and she’s just borrowing it for a while — the tears start to fall.

one slips past her cheek. then another. then they don’t stop.

they hit the fabric of her hoodie without a sound. soak into the sleeves she tugs up to her mouth. the kind of crying you do when you're trying not to. the kind that hurts more because no one sees it but you.

she curls tighter in the seat. presses her phone to her chest. wishes she never wrote her number. wishes she didn’t check. wishes she knew how to stop hoping.

the city moves on.

and sana stays behind, muffling her sobs into the hoodie she wore for you.

forgotten.

kino's note — took 2 weeks for this ahh writing.. i miss my beautiful girl so i thought to break my heart with this :D idk abt a part 2 but ill try my best.

[jessesluvr]

We all know Jesse is like thee hottest man around Jackson. Do you think you can write about Reader and Jesse being in a secret relationship, which obviously means that nobody knows, and a random female member of the community starts to take a liking to Jesse and she flirts with him and ask him favours and touches his arms playfully, and Dina/Ellie, unaware of your relationship, try to set them up and jokes about them being "a couple", and even though Jesse brushes it off and tries to secretly set boundaries, Reader still feels insecure? angst to comfort to a mwah from Jesse 💚

Tysm babe you are great on your writings!

no one knows | jesse x reader

author's note : jesse is the finest man, and they picked young mazino PERFECTLY. i cannot get him out of my head. literally screaming. am i posting this @ 12am? of course because i cannot sleep. rest well loves ! <3

summary : keeping your relationship with jesse a secret seemed simple, until a new girl started openly flirting with him, and your friends unknowingly encouraged it, leaving you insecure and heartbroken. but when jesse finds you and makes a choice to stop hiding, the two of you face the town together, stronger than ever.

word count : 1.2k

you knew what you were getting into. keeping it a secret had been your idea.

"just for now," you’d told jesse, fingers tangled in his under the blanket of his bed. "it’s easier this way."

he’d searched your face for a long moment, brows furrowed. "are you sure? i’m not... ashamed of us, y’know."

"i know. i’m not either. i just... like it being ours for a while. without anyone else in it."

he’d kissed your knuckles then, warm and steady. "okay. our secret."

and for a time—it had been perfect. small moments. lingering glances. stolen kisses in dark corners. a life that belonged to no one else but you two.

but secrets came with a cost.

the first time you noticed her, it was small. harmless. new girl in the community. pretty, friendly, maybe a little too friendly. you brushed it off.

jesse had always been kind to everyone. that was part of what you loved about him.

but then came the little things. a hand on his arm when she laughed. lingering touches when she thanked him. standing just a little too close.

you told yourself not to care. you weren’t supposed to care. no one even knew you had a right to.

and jesse, bless him, didn’t seem to notice. or if he did, he handled it politely, carefully pulling away each time.

still, the gnawing ache in your chest grew with every passing day.

the final crack came at the tipsy bison.

it was friday night, packed with familiar faces. patrol shifts were light this week; most of the town was drinking, laughing, letting off steam.

you arrived a little late.

eyes scanned the room, and your heart caught in your throat.

there they were. jesse at the bar, that girl practically glued to his side.

her laugh rang out above the noise. she leaned in close, hand on his forearm, fingers tracing small circles against his sleeve.

you stood frozen, nails digging into your palm. your chest felt tight, breath catching.

then, cruelly, from a nearby table, dina’s voice rang out, loud and teasing, "look at jesse, making friends!"

ellie grinned, chiming in, "damn, maybe they are friends. or more. you two a couple yet?"

your stomach twisted.

you watched jesse’s face carefully. he gave an awkward smile, rubbed the back of his neck. "she’s just... friendly," he said lightly. "i’m not—" he trailed off.

you couldn’t take it.

couldn’t sit there pretending to laugh along. pretending it didn’t gut you to hear your friends joke about it. pretending it didn’t burn to see her touch him like that.

without a word, you slipped out. heart racing. eyes stinging.

by the time you reached your room, tears blurred your vision.

"this is what you wanted," you reminded yourself bitterly. "you wanted to keep it secret."

but you hadn’t known it would feel like this. hadn’t known how it would twist your stomach to see someone else touch him, to hear your friends cheer it on. hadn’t known how small and stupid it would make you feel.

"you’re so stupid," you whispered, voice breaking. "stupid, stupid, stupid."

you curled into your bed, pulling the blanket tight around you. trying to block out the memory of her laugh, her hand on him. trying to block out the sound of jesse’s voice—light, uncertain, unable to say the truth.

because he couldn’t say it. not when you’d asked him not to.

and now it was eating you alive.

the knock came softly at first.

"babe? it’s me."

your breath caught.

"please. let me in."

after a long pause, the door creaked open.

"i saw you leave," jesse said softly, stepping inside. he closed the door behind him. "i was looking for you."

you kept your back to him.

he sat down on the edge of the bed—close, but not touching. "talk to me. please."

"she likes you."

"no. she thinks she does. there’s a difference."

"everyone thinks you should like her back."

"that’s not true."

you turned then, eyes glassy. "dina and ellie were making jokes about it. everyone sees it. and you can’t even say anything because i—" your voice cracked. "i told you we should keep this secret."

"hey." jesse’s hand reached out slowly, warm against your arm. "you’re not wrong for wanting that. i agreed because it mattered to you."

"but now it’s hurting us," you whispered.

"then screw the secret," jesse said, voice firm. "i don’t care what anyone thinks. if this is making you feel like this? it’s not worth it."

tears welled in your eyes.

"but what if people judge us? what if it gets messy?"

"i don’t care." his voice softened. "you come first. always."

he cupped your cheek, thumb brushing away tears. "and for the record, i was pulling away tonight. but you left before i could tell you."

"i just felt so stupid." "you’re not. and you’re mine. don’t ever doubt that."

he leaned in, forehead against yours. "i love you."

"but—" "no buts." he kissed your forehead. "i’m gonna kiss you now. because i love you. and because you need to know that you’re mine—and i’m yours. okay?"

you nodded.

his lips met yours—warm, steady, full of promise. you melted into him, arms curling around him, breath hitching.

when he pulled back, eyes soft, foreheads still touching, he smiled.

"better?"

you let out a small laugh. "yeah. better."

"good." a mischievous spark lit his eyes. "now, if you want... we can go back to the bison. i’ll dance with you. let ‘em all know."

you blinked. "really?"

"really. i’m done hiding if it hurts you. let’s go make the whole damn town jealous."

you smiled, wide and real this time, and kissed him again, fierce and certain.

"i love you."

"i love you more."

the bison was still packed when you walked in.

you were nervous, heart hammering, but jesse squeezed your hand reassuringly, lacing your fingers together for the whole room to see.

you didn’t miss the way a few heads turned.

at the table where dina and ellie sat, conversation faltered. both of them blinked in surprise as jesse led you toward the bar, not letting go of your hand.

ellie let out a low whistle. "well, shit."

dina grinned wide, eyes sparkling. "oh my god. you sneaky bastards."

jesse chuckled, pulling you closer. "not so sneaky anymore."

and across the room—you saw her. the girl from earlier.

her smile faltered as her eyes flicked to your joined hands, realization dawning. you met her gaze, steady now—not cruel, but sure.

jesse caught it too. he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple in full view of everyone. "mine," he murmured softly.

the girl turned away.

ellie laughed. "guess we owe you two a drink."

dina elbowed her. "more like we owe them an apology."

"all good," jesse said easily, arm around your waist now. "we’re just... making it official."

you caught dina’s wink and ellie’s grin. "’bout damn time," dina said, raising her glass.

and as jesse pulled you onto the small makeshift dance floor, twirling you under the dim lights, you felt lighter than you had in weeks.

no more hiding. no more aching.

just you, and him, and the whole damn town finally knowing it.

[charlenethecattt]

𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝐸𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑆𝑡𝑜𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑂𝑛 𝑀𝑒

Part two

Kwonjiyong&reder

Summary: After Jiyong puts you on stage, he definitely falls for you.

Warnings: None, just fluff.

Other notes: I saw that you liked the previous part but I apologize again for being short but I promised that this chapter would be longer so I hope you enjoy it (English is not my native language so sorry if there are any errors)

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Your legs were shaking.

Not just because of the crowd, or the way G-Dragon had looked at you on stage like you were the only one in that stadium —

But because he told you to wait.

And you were.

You were literally standing behind some black curtain with tape on the floor and random wires everywhere, wondering if you were about to throw up or pass out.

Mel, your best friend, had basically freaked out the second you came back from the stage. She hugged you so hard you thought your spine cracked, and screamed in your ear,

“BITCH—what the ACTUAL FUCK was THAT?!”

You were still trying to process. So she did the talking.

“Girl, he sang to you. Like—looked you in the soul and sang. That’s not fanservice. That’s like… dating with extra steps.”

You laughed, barely. “I think I blacked out halfway through.”

Then you both screamed together in silence, like gremlins.

That’s what you loved about Mel—she never judged your freakouts. She joined them.

The guards hadn’t said anything to you except “Wait here.”

And that was fifteen minutes ago.

You were half convinced this was a prank or some weird misunderstanding and at any second they’d kick you out and post it on TikTok with “delusional fan moment” written across your forehead.

Mel nudged you.

“He’s gonna come. I saw the way he looked at you. If he doesn’t show up, I swear on my Spotify Wrapped I will personally find him and fight him in platform heels.”

You smiled. A little.

That’s when a voice said, “You can come through now.”

You and Mel turned your heads so fast it probably counted as a neck workout.

It was one of the crew members—headset, black tee, classic all-business. She pointed toward a hallway lit by neon lights.

“Just you,” she said to you.

Mel’s eyes went wide. “Excuse me—rude?? She needs emotional support, she just got personally serenaded by a K-pop GOD.”

But the woman smiled. “Don’t worry. She won’t be alone.”

You looked at Mel, panicked.

Mel grabbed your shoulders. “Okay. Deep breath. He’s literally just a guy. A hot, insanely famous, ridiculously talented guy who made eye contact with you and might be obsessed with your vibe. But still. A guy.”

You nodded. Sort of.

Then walked.

The hallway felt like something out of a dream—dark walls, echoing footsteps, posters of past concerts, the faint sound of the band still playing far away.

You turned a corner—

And there he was.

G-Dragon.

Leaning against a metal doorway, black hoodie over his stage outfit, black hair slightly messy like he ran his hand through it too many times.

And when he saw you—

His entire face changed.

That lazy, guarded smirk he always had with press? Gone.

Instead, his eyes lit up like you were someone he was genuinely happy to see.

“Y/N,” he said.

He laughed softly. “You came.”

“You told me to,” you said, trying to play it cool, though your heartbeat was throwing a full rave inside your chest.

“That’s true.”

Then he stepped forward.

Closer.

Like, too close to process.

“I’m sorry for the weird mystery vibe,” he said. “I just… couldn’t stop thinking about you. After I saw you in the crowd.”

Your brain short-circuited.

“I—I wasn’t even trying to stand out.”

He tilted his head. “Exactly.”

There was a pause. An insane amount of tension. And then he smiled. Playfully.

“You don’t think I do this with every concert, right? Pick a random girl and make it a whole secret mission?”

You blinked. “Do you?”

He chuckled. “No. You’re the first.”

He glanced at the hallway behind him.

“Come on. The others wanna meet you.”

Y/N Blink in confusion “the other?Wait—like, the others others?”

“Yep. The whole band.”

WHIPLASH.

You were not ready for this. Not even slightly.

But he already started walking, so what could you do?

Your feet followed before your brain could decide.

He led you through a heavy black door.

The hallway turned into a lounge — warm lights, low music, water bottles everywhere. It felt like backstage, but not messy.

It felt real.

Your stomach flipped when you saw them.

T.O.P sat slouched on a leather couch, scrolling through his phone with sunglasses still on.

Daesung was sipping something from a cup labeled “not water :)”

And Taeyang — Taeyang was halfway into doing push-ups, because of course he was. You stood frozen like you accidentally wandered into someone else’s dream.

But jiyong just nudged you gently forward.

“This is Y/N,” he said, voice low and casual. “She’s cool.”

Seunghyun raised one eyebrow. “This the girl you almost fell off stage for?”

You turned crimson.

Daesung leaned forward with a grin. “Ohhh, so this is the girl. We’ve been hearing about you for the last twenty minutes.”

Taeyang stood and offered you a quick, polite bow. “Nice to meet you.”

You bowed too, muttering a small “you too” that sounded like a mouse.

But then—

“Y/N!”

You turned just in time to see Mel barreling into the room.

G-Dragon turned to the crew girl who brought you in. “I said one guest.”

“She refused to leave,” the girl shrugged. “Threatened to cry. Or throw something.”

Mel grinned. “I wasn’t about to let her meet her future husband without me.”

SeungHyun whistled low.

“Bold.”

You mouthed “I’m gonna kill you” to Mel, who mouthed back “worth it.”

G-Dragon chuckled under his breath. “She’s fun.”

You could feel his eyes on you again. That soft focus, like he was watching more than just your face — like he was seeing your energy.

And you hated how warm that made your chest feel.

His hair was different tonight.

Longer, falling just above his jawline in soft black waves that framed his cheekbones.

It wasn’t the platinum you’d seen in interviews — it was black. Natural. Real.

And somehow, that made this whole thing feel even more intimate.

“Wanna step outside for a sec?” he asked you.

Your heart paused.

“Sure,” you whispered.

“If you make her pregnant I’m gonna kill you dragon” Mel scream in the side of the room.

⸻

He led you to a tiny side balcony. Just a few steps and you were outside, in the night air. You could still hear the hum of the crowd in the distance.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood beside you, elbows resting on the railing, looking out at the skyline.

“You have no idea how weird this is.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He smiled, but not like before. This smile was… almost sad.

“I don’t do this. Like—ever. I’ve had fans cry, scream, faint. But you just… looked at me like I was a person. Like I wasn’t on a stage or a screen. I don’t remember the last time someone did that.”

You stared at him, heart in your throat.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered.

“I’m glad you did”

He turned toward you then. Fully. No stage lights, no backup dancers. Just him, real and too close.

His gaze dropped for a second — to your lips. Then back up.

Your whole body felt like it was vibrating.

“I should probably say something smooth here,” he murmured.

You laughed nervously. “Like what?”

He shrugged. “Something flirty. Mysterious. The usual idol bullshit.”

“But?”

He leaned in — not enough to kiss you, but enough that it made your breath catch.

“But the truth is, I don’t know what this is. I just know that when I saw you… I didn’t wanna let it go.”

You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t say anything.

You just looked at him — and he looked right back.

And somehow, that silence felt louder than any scream from the concert.

After a moment, he leaned away slightly, taking a deep breath. “They’ll probably think you left.”

You nodded. “Mel’s probably already planning our wedding.”

He laughed. “Honestly, I respect that.”

You turned to head back inside, but then—

“Y/N?”

You glanced back.

“Can I see you again?”

Time. Froze.

You blinked. “Like—see me again see me, or…?”

He smirked. “See you again, secretly.”

And that was when you knew.

This wasn’t fanservice.

This wasn’t a random moment.

This was the beginning of something dangerous.

Something real.

And you were already in too deep You said nothing. Just nodded once. A small, nervous, real nod.

And that was enough for him. Back inside, the energy hit you again like a wave.

The guys were still chatting, Mel was comfortably arguing with T.O.P over which era had better fashion, and the room smelled faintly of coffee, hairspray, and something electric.

Daesung noticed you first. “Ohhh, the lovebirds are back.” You gave him a look. “We were just talking.”

Taeyang raised an eyebrow. “On the balcony?”

Mel grinned. “Spicy.”

G-Dragon just smiled faintly and leaned against the wall, arms crossed, like this was all completely normal. Like your heart wasn’t still running marathons in your chest.

You sat beside Mel, pretending to be chill, when in reality your brain was screaming something like: What is my life, what is happening, is this real, do I exist??

She leaned over. “You okay?”

“Nope.”

“On a scale of 1 to holy shit?”

“Holy. Shit.”

Jiyonh phone buzzed. He glanced down, then looked at the group. “We’re heading to the hotel soon. Van leaves in ten.”

You looked up instinctively.

He caught your gaze — and held it.

That silent question again.

Would you come?

He didn’t ask out loud.

But your whole body felt the tension in the air. You didn’t answer yet. You weren’t sure you could.

Mel must’ve felt it too. “We should probably go,” she said casually, standing. “Before I get tackled by security.”

The guys laughed. Even ji.

You both said your goodbyes, polite bows, casual waves — trying so hard to act normal.

But when you passed him — just for a second — his hand brushed yours.

Not enough to be seen.

Just enough to feel.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

Mel passed out on your couch one of your earbuds in her ear, random playlists running

But you were just staring at the ceiling, heart still wired.

Your phone buzzed.

[junwritten]

my blogger

pairing: choi yeonjun x f!reader

genre: fluff, mutual pining, slice of life, light academia vibes

warnings: light swearing, mild academic stress, adorable yeonjun being adorable

summary: you’re sitting at starbucks with your crush doing homework when he invites you over to a friend’s place—and drops a line that just might ruin you forever.

MDNI . txt masterlist

you don’t really mean to fall in love with choi yeonjun.

it just kind of… happens.

it starts in your elective media studies class, where he shows up with fluffy hair, chapstick shimmer on the edge of his cup, and opinions on blogging that make the whole room sit up straighter. you don’t talk to him for the first two weeks. you just write about him.

because, well—your professor made you start a blog. and not just a pretend blog—a real one, with actual weekly entries about digital culture, personal reflections, media consumption, blah blah. most of your classmates do the bare minimum.

but you? you write essays about yeonjun.

not directly, obviously. that would be unhinged. you just refer to him vaguely as “the boy with the soft laugh who sits by the window.” and “gloss boy,” once, which is embarrassing in retrospect.

you write about how he talks with his hands, like he’s painting ideas in midair. how he doodles on the sides of his notes. how he reads blog posts out loud with this half-laugh in his voice, like everything is secretly funny to him.

so when he turns to you one day and goes, “hey, wanna get coffee and study sometime?” you nearly choke on your own breath.

but somehow you say yes. and even more miraculously, it turns into a habit.

starbucks becomes your thing.

you get the same drinks each time—he orders some ridiculous iced monstrosity with extra whipped cream and strawberry drizzle, and you get a boring latte and steal sips from his cup when he offers. he always offers. you always pretend not to want it and then take it anyway.

you work together, side by side, laptops open, headphones half-on. he makes you laugh more than you probably should during a study session. you keep writing blog entries about him, even though your class only requires one a week and you’re way past the limit.

and okay. maybe you’re delusional. but sometimes it feels like he’s writing about you too. not in blog posts—you’ve never seen his, he’s secretive about it—but in the way he looks at you when you’re not paying attention. in the way he saves the seat next to him with his jacket. in the way he texts you at midnight like, “send me a pic of your notes i zoned out thinking about waffles.”

you’re so down bad it’s painful.

today’s no different.

he’s waiting for you at the usual table when you arrive, spinning his iced drink between his hands, eyes lighting up when he sees you.

“you’re late,” he says with a grin.

“you’re early,” you shoot back, sliding into the chair across from him.

your laptop’s heavy in your bag, your brain foggy from too many late nights, but something about being here—being next to him—makes everything feel easier. he always does.

you sip your drink, scroll through your notes, make it exactly fifteen minutes before he distracts you again.

“hey,” he says suddenly, glancing at his phone. “soobin just texted. he’s having people over. wanna come?”

you blink. “oh, i thought you were just heading over to his place.”

“yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “but aren’t you coming?”

you pause, caught off guard. you were fully prepared to say goodbye, to sit here alone with your homework and your unspoken feelings.

“well…” you start.

but before you can finish, he’s looking at you with that stupid, goofy smile. the one he only ever really gives to you. and he says, with zero hesitation and all the dramatic flair of someone who absolutely knows what he’s doing.

“i’d be lost without my blogger.”

you freeze.

your heart skips three beats. maybe four. your brain explodes.

“you—” you choke out. “what?”

he just sips his drink, unbothered. smug. “what?” he echoes, voice light.

“you know about my blog?” you hiss, leaning across the table like it’s a secret government mission. “how do you—”

“you write like you think no one’s ever gonna read it,” he says, all soft and honest, like he hasn’t just upended your entire existence. “but i read it. every post.”

you are going to die right here in this starbucks.

“you’re the reason i passed that midterm,” he adds. “your notes? immaculate. your media takes? unhinged but smart. your entries about ‘the boy with the soft laugh’?” he wiggles his eyebrows. “flattering.”

you cover your face with both hands. “oh my god.”

he laughs—actual, full-body laughs—and reaches out like he’s going to tug your hands away, then thinks better of it and just lightly taps your wrist.

“you’re a good writer,” he says. “and a terrible liar.”

you peek through your fingers. “how long have you known?”

“first week,” he says. “you posted about my ‘strawberry crime against coffee.’ i put two and two together.”

“why didn’t you say anything?”

“i dunno,” he shrugs. “i liked being your secret muse.”

you groan. “yeonjun.”

he tilts his head. “what?”

you lower your hands, exhale, and look at him—really look at him

he’s so annoyingly pretty. he’s so bright, and funny, and stupidly clever, and he’s looking at you like you’re something worth reading twice.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” you mutter.

“oh?” he says, smirking. “so you do think i’m cute.”

you shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “are we going to soobin’s or not?”

“only if you sit next to me the whole time,” he says. “i need my blogger.”

“you’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“not a chance.”

you pack up your stuff together, sipping from the same drink, your shoulders brushing as you walk out into the golden haze of late afternoon.

it’s a little ridiculous. a little romantic. painfully soft.

you don’t know what’s going to happen next. you don’t know if this means anything real, or if he’s just teasing, or if you’re dreaming this whole thing up and you’ll wake up in your dorm bed with a dead phone and a missed alarm.

but then he slips his hand into yours without saying a word.

and you think maybe—just maybe—you’re not the only one who’s been writing love letters between the lines.

later that night, when he falls asleep halfway through a movie at soobin’s, curled into your side with his head on your shoulder, you take a picture of him and post it to your blog with no caption.

the next morning, he reblogs it from his burner account.

the tags say:

#i’d be lost without her

#yes this is about me

#no i’m not embarrassed

and you just sit there smiling at your phone like an idiot, typing one final entry for the class.

“there’s a boy i wrote about once. i thought he’d never know. i thought if he did, it would ruin everything. but it didn’t. it made everything better. it made everything real.”

you hit post.

and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re writing for a grade.

you feel like you’re writing for the boy who sees you.

the one who reads between the lines.

and honestly?

you’d be lost without him, too.

[satorena]

.𖥔˚. he asks if you believe in soul ties. you laughed, but your heart whispered yes before your mouth could catch it. 1.6k wc.

the second time wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

not to you, anyway.

it was late night. not romantic nor dramatic— simply late. one of those hazy nights, with slumped muscles and fried brains from one “one more round?” too many, where breathing next to the right person felt like an exhale. one that ended with tangled limbs, throaty moans and soiled sheets.

it wasn’t anything like fireworks. it was something deeper, quieter, like fleeting warmth left in a hoodie after someone else wore it.

sitting at the edge of the bed, half-wrapped in comforters that reeked of your unison, you mindlessly scrolled through your phone. he traces shapes at the column of your bare spine, lightly dragging his fingernail from the dimples in your lower back up to the middle of your shoulder blades. he revels in the way a soft gasp crawls out your chest and momentarily draws your attention away from your screen and back onto him.

she smelled of his pillow now. fuckkk, he’s so cooked.

“you ever think about soul ties?”

he blurts out before he can help it. he doubts he’d be able to hold it back even if he tried. his voice is gravelly, thick with the sleep he hadn’t drifted into yet, and it broke the silence a dropped glass.

you turn around, eyebrows raised in amusement, “seriously?”

he swallows thickly, “yeah.”

your lips part, caught somewhere between a laugh and a breath, and gojo engraves the sound in the deepest parts of his memory. “you’re asking me about soul ties. . . right now?”

somewhere in the midst of his question and your reflection, his hand finds yours, and thumbs at the smooth skin enveloping your knuckles, “you make it sound like it’s weirder than it is,” he mutters, suddenly second guessing every molecule of sincerity that led him to voice it out loud.

“it is,” you answer, smiling so gently that any inch of doubt that had surfaced is immediately dismissed. he’d kill for you. he’d watch the world burn for you. “we’ve had sex twice. and i’ve known you. . . what? three weeks?”

“and a half,” he corrects you, like it makes it any less ridiculous.

you fully turn toward him, pulling the covers over your kiss bitten, love marked chest, phone now entirely forgotten. the light from the bedside lamp catches the slope of your cheekbone, the curve of your smirk, “okay, i’ll bite. why’d you ask?”

he runs his hand— not the one you started subconsciously squeezing at— over his face and inhales sharply, “because i don’t feel normal after this.”

your head tilts and your eyes widen curiously. cutely. god help him.

“i mean—” he gestures vaguely between the both of you, still sprawled under his sheets, your joint hands flailing around. “after you. this. us.”

“and you think that’s because of a soul tie?”

“i think,” he starts carefully, “that there’s something here. and it feels too familiar for how new it is. and i don’t know if that’s chemistry or karma or. . . if it’s just because you look at me like you already know all my secrets.”

you snort, an ugly but honest sound that’s so authentically you. it makes his heart skip a beat and jump starts a nasty flock of butterflies in the depths of his stomach, “you’re really going full poet on me, huh?”

“don’t make fun of me,” he pouts, laughing despite of himself.

“i’m not,” you assure him, voice incredibly soft, pressing your palm into his. his fingertips hover over yours almost comically, but in a way that makes him want to keep you in his pocket and shield you from this cruel world. for now, he settles with flexing his fingers to lock yours into his, “i just didn’t peg you for the type.”

he hums, “what type?”

“the type to sleep with a girl twice and start talking about the metaphysical ramifications of it.”

he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow, “you ever felt something like this before?”

you hesitate.

and that was enough to make his chest ache in places he hadn’t even known were tender. you look down at your joint hands laying in your lap and curl your fingers around his index. there aren’t any languages in this universe that could translate how deeply he feels for you.

“i think i’ve felt parts of this,” you speak after a beat. there’s vulnerability laced into yours words, “little echoes in other people. but never the whole thing at once.”

his heart does something stupid at that. “so you feel it too?”

the trail of your eyes from your lap to his face is as slow as your growing smile. “maybe.”

“you’re gonna make me work for it, aren’t you?” he isn’t complaining. he wouldn’t want it any other way.

you shrug in faux nonchalance, eyes glinting. “you’re the one bringing up soul ties. that’s big talk.”

“i know it sounds crazy,” gojo falls back onto his mattress and stares at the ceiling. “i just. . . you kissed me, and something in my brain short-circuited. like something ancient woke up.”

“oh my god,” you laugh, clutching his blankets tighter to your frame. the grip on his hand also tightens, “you’re so serious right now.”

“i am!” he agrees, unashamed and prideful. “i’ve never had sex and immediately wondered what kind of spiritual fallout i was gonna have to process.”

you stare at him, wide-eyed and amused. he likes that look on you, amongst others. “you make it sound like i cursed you.”

“maybe you did,” he mutters, focused. “would definitely explain that magical ass pussy; consider me bewitched.”

he expects the gentle swat at his shoulder and the honeyed giggle that follows suit. he is not one of god’s strongest soldiers— you make him so weak in the knees. he is but a fool for you, entirely smitten and fully submitted.

there’s a sudden pause. and then, “satoru,” if you say his name like that one more time, “you think sex means that much?”

“not always. but with you. . .” he looks at you, really looks. “it doesn’t feel. . . casual. even when we’re trying to pretend it is.”

you slowly nod, your gaze distant like you were trying to read a thought off the inside of your eyelids. “i know what you mean.”

he waits.

“i’m not usually sentimental,” you admit through a shaky breath. he squeezes your hand as silent support. “but something about you makes me want to be.”

gojo sits up then, long legs crossed, blanket now pooling around his hips. he lets out a huff that blows at dampened fringes on his forehead. “you scare me.”

you blink, “why?”

“because i don’t think i’d know how to unfeel this if i needed to.”

your expression cracks open just a little. subtle but not. it isn’t shock. not even tenderness, but something between recognition and surrender.

he shifts, brushing your knee with the back of scarred knuckles. “i’m not asking you for anything. i just wanted to know if you believe in it.”

you stare up at him for a while, and this time your gaze was unguarded.

“i think soul ties exist,” you mumble quietly. “but not always forever. sometimes they’re just for the right moment. a lesson, maybe. a wake-up call. a connection you needed when you were drifting.”

he thumbs at your ring finger. “and us?”

you take a deep breath. his heart drums wildly against his chest. oddly enough, it’s the calmest he’s felt in a while

“i don’t know yet,” you admit easily. your eyes focus on the way he imagines the sight of a heavy rock sitting atop the digit. “but if i’m tied to you. . . i don’t feel like running.”

uncharacteristically, that shuts him up. he feels a weird sentiment claw at his throat and hold him snuggly. his shoulders drop a little, as if your words loosened something around his ribs.

you both sit in stillness for a moment.

then, you shift closer, resting your chin on his shoulder. he wastes no time to tilt his head towards you, the warmth of your breath fanning his cupid’s bow. with a little smile, you start, “you know what’s funny?”

“what?” he’s a little breathless. you’re too beautiful for your own good.

“you were nervous to ask me that question,” your hand cups at his jaw and lazily traces the softest of stubbles peeking through pores. “but i’ve been scared to admit that you’re the first person in a long time who makes me want to stay after.”

he doesn’t hide his surprise.

“i always leave,” this time, it comes out hushed. the scrape of your nails at his neck feels good. “always. first night, second night— it doesn’t matter. i leave before it means something.”

he needs to know. “and now?”

you shrug, “i’m still here, aren’t i?”

a grin breaks out across his face, crooked and too full of affection. he tilts forward and lands a sweet kiss on your lips. he parts away with the softest of smacks but the goofiest smile, “soul tie confirmed.”

a girly laugh erupts from your stomach, and you nudge him playfully on his shoulder. “don’t get cocky.”

how could he not? when you look at him like you need him even half as badly as he needs you? he’s already leaning in again, “no promises,” and seals it with another kiss. he presses his body weight onto yours and traps you in between his mattress and himself, dizzying off the taste of your tongue in his mouth.

he feels your hearts interlinked through your chests. and even if neither of you said it out loud, he’s positive you felt it as well— that invisible thread, woven quietly between skin and spirit, tugging like a soft yes.

incredibly self-indulgent. my man my man my mannn

[phrear]

why don't you just take a nap instead or something

[sugucide]

one thing about satoru gojo is that he's a freak.

he'll try anything once, and then three more times for good measure. anything! as long as it ends with him emptying his balls, prefer on or inside of you, he's a very happy man to entertain your weird requests.

this, though, is too weird!

"you want to have vanilla sex?" he gawks at you.

you're laying back on his bed, bare and smiling up at him as he climbs over you. he's hard, sure, but he's not flooded with the excitement of your usual ideas.

"why don't i put the collar back on?" he suggests tapping the tip of your nose. "oh! or we could play with those candles again... or you could make me squirt... no? roleplay? anal? some music, at least?"

you shake your head, and if you weren't so damn cute satoru might be more upset than he is. "you know," you start, "plenty of couples have plain sex regularly. i just want to feel you."

"we aren't like most couples," he grimaces. "im the strongest. and you're the sexiest. i don't think she's physically capable of having boring sex with you, baby."

"stop calling your dick a she," you stare up at him. "please? you said you'd try anything."

satoru kisses your lips gently, as boringly as he can do without getting too worked up. you are naked underneath him, after all. "i said that hoping you'd propose pegging me. or letting me put that dildo of yours down your throat while i—"

"just fuck me," you whisper.

and because satoru is secret a lover before he is a freak, he complies. with a gentle nod and a few seconds to line himself up with you, he pushes inside and lets you lock your legs around his waist before he starts a gentle pace with you.

it feels good, of course, it's you. but there's something sweet to the way he fucks you— no, makes love to you, that isn't there when gags and blindfolds and candle wax are in the way. it's just you and him, eyes locked as he becomes whole with you in the most intimate way possible.

he realises, when your eyes flutter shut and you pull him impossibly closer to whisper sweet nothings in his ear, that he might just like boring sex.

"i love you so much," he coos. "like having you like this. just us. god i love you, baby. i think i needed this."

the two of you cum in sync with eachother. you shake and tighten around his cock and he spills into you with sweet moans that sound a little more raw and vulnerable than they usually do. he kisses you silly, peppers his lips all over your face until you're laughing underneath him.

and he pulls back to look at your face, and nods to himself. you smile, and push his white hair out of his face with a gentle tilt of your head.

"what's that look for?" you ask.

and that's when you notice the tears welling in his eyes. the tremble of his lip as he recognises a million different feelings at once. and with a sniffle, and a shaky breath, he grins.

"let's get married."

[kaitoru]

୨୧ kento trying to be gentle with his horny pregnant wife.

body worship. gentle sex. praise kink. reassurance.

you’re six months pregnant, glowing but aching, your body screaming for him, his touch, his closeness, him.

but kento’s been so careful lately, too careful, always pulling back when things get heated, his fear of hurting you or the baby written all over his face.

you’re frustrated, needy, and a little insecure, and it all comes spilling out in a moment that changes everything.

“kento,” you murmur, voice soft edged with a pout, shifting to prop yourself on your elbows, your loose sundress riding up to expose more of your belly.

his hand freezes eyes snapping to yours, and you feel the heat creeping up your neck, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

“do you not wanna fuck me anymore because i look like this?” his jaw tightens, a flicker of something, guilt, desire, love, crossing his face, and he’s on you in an instant, moving so fast it steals your breath.

“don’t,” he says, voice low, as he leans over you, caging you with his broad frame, his lips hovering over yours. “don’t ever think that, you’re perfect.” his hands are gentle but firm, sliding your dress up and off, leaving you bare except for your panties, your belly round and beautiful between you.

“i want you so much it hurts,” he admits voice rough, kissing your forehead, your cheek, your lips, soft but hungry.

“i’m just—trying not to hurt you, love.”

“then don’t,” you whisper voice trembling with need, your hands tugging at his shirt, fumbling with buttons until his chest is bare, warm under your fingers.

“i need you, kento. i’m fine—we’re fine. please.” your plea breaks him, his restraint crumbling, and he kisses you deeper, tongue brushing yours, a soft groan escaping him as he shifts to settle between your legs, careful not to press on your belly.

“okay, love,” he murmurs voice softening, his hands sliding your panties down, tossing them aside.

“but we’re doing this my way—slow, gentle.” his fingers find your pussy, already slick, and he groans, low and reverent, circling your clit with a tenderness that makes you shiver.

“fuck, you’re so wet,” he says, voice hushed, like it’s a secret just for you. “so perfect, always so perfect.”

“kento—ngh—please,” you gasp hips twitching up, desperate for more, and he nods, easing a finger inside you, then two, stretching you with a care that’s almost maddening.

his other hand rests on your belly, protective, adoring, and he leans down, kissing the curve of it, his lips soft against your skin.

“you’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion, his fingers curling inside you, slow but deep, making you moan.

“carrying our baby, so strong, so gorgeous.” you’re trembling, his words sinking into you, soothing the insecurity, and you tug at his belt, fumbling until he helps, shucking his pants and boxers, his cock hard and thick, leaking as he positions himself.

“tell me if it’s too much,” he says, voice firm but gentle, guiding himself to your entrance, pushing in slowly, so slowly, the stretch delicious and overwhelming.

“ngh—fuck, you feel so good,” he groans voice breaking, his hands gripping your thighs, keeping you spread, careful not to jostle your belly.

“it’s—mmph—perfect,” you moan voice shaky, hands clutching his shoulders, feeling the muscle flex under your nails.

he thrusts gently, each movement slow, deep but soft, his cock dragging against your walls, hitting that spot that makes you whimper.

“kento—fuck—more, please,” you beg, and he shakes his head, a small, strained smile on his lips, his forehead pressed to yours.

“easy, love,” he murmurs voice a soothing balm, kissing your neck, your jaw. “you’re doing so well—fuck, you’re so beautiful, taking me like this.” his thrusts stay steady, gentle, but the praise, the way he’s looking at you like you’re his whole world—pushes you closer, your pussy fluttering around him, slick and needy.

“my perfect wife,” he whispers voice thick, his hand stroking your belly again, grounding you both.

“kento—oh god—” you gasp, voice breaking as the pleasure builds, his words wrapping around you, his cock filling you just right, and you’re close, so close.

“i’m—fuck—i’m gonna—” you moan, and he nods, kissing you deep, his thrusts picking up just a fraction, still careful but enough to tip you over.

“come for me, love,” he whispers voice soft, and then a shuddering, blissful orgasm has you crying out, pussy clamping around his cock, thighs trembling as you grip him tight.

he groans, low and fervent, following you, spilling deep inside with a broken, “fuck—my love—” his thrusts slowing, gentle, riding out the aftershocks.

you’re both panting, sweat slick and spent, and he stays inside you for a moment, catching his breath, his hands soft as he strokes your belly, your face, kissing you slow and tender.

“you’re incredible,” he murmurs voice all warmth, pulling out carefully, grabbing a warm cloth to clean you up, his touch gentle, reverent.

“i didn’t hurt you, did i?” he asks eyes searching yours, and you shake your head, smiling, pulling him down for another kiss.

“you’re too careful.” you tease, voice hoarse, and he chuckles, low and fond, wrapping you in his arms, his hand resting on your belly, protective as always.

“i love you,” he says, simple and true, and you melt into him, knowing he’d never stop wanting you.

© written by kaizer | do not copy plagiarize or translate any.

[classyrbf]

CLASSMATE GOJO PT 4! — GOJO SATORU

SYNOPSIS...continuation of the classmate!gojo series which you can find here

INFO...classmate!gojo x fem!reader, choking, spit kink, sex in a (semi) public setting, almost getting caught, groping, name calling, creampie, dumbfication, riding, video recording, oral (m!receiving), fingering, rough sex, squirting, praise, degradation, just pure filth, not proofread

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

series masterlist

The tension between you and Gojo have been extremely high since that moment in the hallway. Every time you think about it, your head starts pounding in your chest and you can’t help but get wet. He was so demanding and cocky, obsessed with you the way you were with him. Every time you saw him in class and on campus, your eyes always locked and no words were spoken, but it was still like you can read every single one of his thoughts.

You’ve both held off on messaging each other, anticipating the day when he would finally break and just fuck you already. You’ve both been waiting long enough, especially you. For months you’ve been obsessed with him, touching yourself to him, trying to convince yourself that your pretty pink dildo was better than the real thing. But it’s been days and days since you’ve spoken a word, it was getting harder not to just pull him into an empty lecture room and fuck him right there.

You know good and well he’s been teasing you too. Wearing those compression shirts that show off his muscles, or posting shirtless pics of him in the gym on his social media, sweat dripping down the valley of his abs, not to mention the video of him doing push ups with the sound on, the sounds every so slightly reminding you of what he sounds like when he’s jerking off to you, trying his hardest not to cum too quickly. He knows what he’s doing to you, but you can play that game right back.

You pull up to class wearing the shortest skirt possible, showing off your legs, the fabric barely covering your ass. Your shirts are tight and slightly see through, allowing damn near everyone to see what you’re wearing underneath. The most shocking part is the fact you haven’t been dress coded, but after all it is a university, they couldn’t care less. Besides the fact, gojo always steals glances at you, his eye twitching when he sees how much skin you’re showing because if they’re anything like him, they’re thinking about hiking up that sorry excuse of a skirt and fucking you to tears.

Both of you knew just how to drive each other right to brink before breaking and that’s exactly what happened. Gojo snapped, something inside of him switched. He’s rewarded himself for having such restraint, but with each passing moment he can’t the tent that forms in his pants when he thinks about you. It’s perverted, it’s sickening, it’s exciting. That was all Gojo was when it came to you, that’s all he ever felt. And you were just like him if not worse. Messaging him from a secret account because you had such a huge crush, unable to hold back your perverted thoughts and tendencies, sending him nudes just to feel closer to him without actually confessing your true feelings. It makes him smile.

One look at you and no one would expect a girl like you to do such nasty things. It was like something out of a porno, truly. The quiet and shy girl is actually a huge slut! Gojo would bet some good money if he posted that to any sight there’d be flocks of people wanting to watch. God, has gojo been blessed? He asks himself that every time he looks at you, just like he’s doing now. Watching you stand in the empty lecture room after school. You have no idea he’s here, just a few feet behind you.

He slowly opens the door, stepping inside to see you’re still busy doing whatever on your phone. You’re too distracted to hear his footsteps behind you, getting so close he could breathe right on your neck. “Hey, pretty girl,” he speaks. You jump, nearly dropping your phone when you see the man with snow white hair standing before you. “What’re you up to, hm?” He snatches your phone without second thought, an evil little smile on his face when he looks at it.

“Gojo, give it back!” You go to snatch it, but his lanky arms and quick movements just put it out of your reach. “Give it!”

“Is this a recent picture you took? Oh, wow look at this one!” He chuckles, swiping through your photos. He actively scrolling through your nudes, and even though you’ve sent him plenty, it’s different when he’s looking at them while standing inches away. Embarrassing. “And why haven’t you been sending these to me? I could’ve used these, you know?” He hands you your phone back, cornering you between the desk.

“Well, you said you were gonna make me wait,” you trail off, shoving your phone in your bag.

“Oh,” he laughs. “I did say that, didn’t I? Sorry to keep you waiting, baby. But, if you really wanted it,” he leaned closer to your ear, “you could’ve just asked nicely,” he whispered. You breath hitched, a shiver sent down your spine, goosebumps littering your skin. “So, are you gonna ask nicely?” His fingertips trailed over the bare skin of your thighs, just shy of going under your skirt.

You looked up at him through your lashes, your eyes searching his. You couldn’t wrap your head around the fact your crush was asking you to ask him to fuck you. Never in a million years did you think you’d end up in this situation, yet here you are with your body pressed against his. You’re certain he could feel your heart beating against your chest right now.

“Come on, don’t make me beg.” He had a small pout on his face, a playful look in his eye. He enjoyed toying with you and you hated the fact that you enjoyed it. Your eyes kept flickering down to his lips, fighting the urge to break and kiss him right now. His fingers only went higher under your skirt, your body frozen in place when you felt him play with the lining of your panties, tugging at the fabric. You slightly jumped at the elastic snapping against your skin.

Underneath this facade, you were completely desperate, you’ve been desperate from the start, but you couldn’t let him have his way. It’s possible he can see right through you, reading every single one of your nasty thoughts, yet you were still open to taking your chances. You cleared your throat, sucking in a deep breath. “I really have to go, yeah? Studying and stuff.” You gripped your bag tighter, finding confidence to break away from his hold. Your shoulder brushed against his. Gojo cocked his head to the side, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips because who did you think you were fooling? With a swift movement, he pulled you back, your bag dropping to the floor when you felt his hand wrap around your throat and his warm lips on yours.

It took you about a millisecond to fold for him, immediately returning the kiss. He pushed you against the table, deepening the kiss, his tongue swiping against your bottom lip. The makeout was heated and messy, almost like he was impatient, hungry for you. You couldn’t even get a chance to breathe, having to pull away and catch your breath. He stared down at you, breathing heavily. Neither you spoke a word but somehow it felt like you were communicating. Just looking into his eyes, you could read him like an open book. He wasn’t going to wait for you to ask him, no, no, he was planning on fucking you either way, right here right now.

“You’ve been playing with my head for weeks, months even.” He gripped your throat tighter, his other hand ghosting up your thigh and to your panties. His fingers crossed over the cotton underwear, playing with your slit over the fabric. “You wanna get fucked so bad. Putting on this shy, innocent girl persona. Well good job cause you had me fucking fooled.” He pushes your panties to the side, his fingers dipping between your folds. “Oh,” he laughs, “you’re already wet. Thought you were just gonna leave here, go home and fuck yourself to pictures of me? Playing all the videos I sent you? All those voice notes?” He slowly plunged his fingers inside, a low hum emitting from his throat.

Your breath hitched, spreading your legs wider for him without even thinking. Your body was consumed with heat, your pussy throbbing and your mind filled with nothing but the filthiest thoughts that you’ve imagined of him. “I know you do the same too,” you spoke through your whimpers. “You’re just like me.” You smiled, a sick perverted smile. His fingers curled inside of you, slowly pumping them in out and out of your sopping cunt. Gojo stayed silent, narrowing his eyes at you. He hated how right you were, but he loved it as well. “You’re a pervert, Gojo Satoru,” you giggled. He was taken by surprise, feeling your hand rub against his raging bulge while you stared at him. “You wanna fuck me just as much as I wanna fuck you.” You bit down on your bottom lip.

“God, you’re fucking nasty.” With those words, his kisses your lips again, his fingers now moving at a faster pace than before. You moan into the kiss, feeling how his long and slender finger work against your walls, pressing against your g-spot skillfully. Your slick coated his fingers, your pussy squelching, growing wetter and wetter with each passing second. “You know…anyone could walk in right now and see you getting finger fucked. I bet that excites you even more, doesn’t it?” He whispered against your ear, pressing a kiss to your skin, your pussy clenching on his fingers.

“Y-your fingers feel so good—nnggh! Yes! Right there!” You squeal, brows furrowing in pleasure when he repeatedly works that one sweet spot. “Oh, fuck.” Your eyes roll back, your jaw dropping. Your skin tingles, and you feel like you’re high off pleasure just from this simple moment. You can’t imagine what it’s gonna be like when you finally fuck him. Just thinking about makes you want to cum on the spot.

“You got me so fucking hard,” he grunts. “Fuck!” Gojo quickly removed his fingers from your pussy. He literally couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He felt like an wild animal, a primal urge to just pin you down and fuck you stupid. All this pent up tension, all those nights he wished he was fucking you instead of his hand, he finally gets his wish. He was as patient as he could be. “Come on, into the office. I don’t need anyone interrupting.” He practically dragged you into the professors office located on side part of the classroom. Thankfully it was unlocked or else he would have to just take you right there in the lecture room.

He slammed the door shut, locking it within seconds. “Get these fucking clothes off.” He helped you lift your shirt off, tugging your skirt and panties down. While he undressed, you hurriedly took your shoes off, tossing them with the rest of your clothes before helping him as well. Your hands found his belt buckle, fumbling with it before you slipped it off and unbuckled his pants. His cock sprung up as you slowly removed his boxers. It was prettier in person. You were already mesmerized. Thick and long with a pretty pink tip that was dripping precum. Not to mention his heavy balls waiting to be drained. “Come here, baby, let me see you. Get up here.” Gojo helped you up from your knees, grabbing a handful of your ass. “Look at these pretty tits, fuck yes.” His hand groped your tits, squeezing and grabbing at them.

He pressed wet kisses to your throat, his hand roaming all over your body as his kisses moved further and further down. His tongue licked at your skin, stopping when he got to your tits. “Don’t tease, Satoru!” You whined, pushing his head further down, earning a chuckle from him. He mumbled a quick apology before taking your perky nipple in his warm mouth, the feeling of his tongue making you sigh in satisfaction.

His blue eyes kept flickering up to look at you, enjoying the way you whimpered and looked so desperate. Could you blame him for staring? His free hand traveled down to your cunt, feeling how you were now almost dripping, your poor cunt was begging to be stretched me filled. His fingers plunged in, a high pitched moan echoed through the office. His fingers went deep, your jaw falling slack at how he dragged them along your walls, pumping them in and out of you. Your body shudders in his touch, pleasure consuming your mind and body.

Gojo let go of your nipple with a ‘pop’, his lips coated in a thin sheen of saliva, a devilish smile on his face. “Come over here.” He walked you over to the small couch, sitting down on it while you stood in front of him. “You’re so fucking perfect.” He pulled you down for a kiss, messy and heated. His hand came down harsh on your ass, a small laugh erupting from both of you between kisses. Gojo was surprised when you pulled away from him, kissing down his jaw and neck, taking your time with him. Your soft hands, and your manicured nails lightly scratched at his skin, trailed down his muscular abdomen. “Now you’re teasing me, huh?” His head fell back and he could his dick jump each time you got closer.

“Shush.” You hummed, batting your eyelashes at him while you copies his movements and kisses down his chest, your tongue licking a stripe between his abs. His breath hitched, watching you with low eyes, imagining how good your throat would feel around his cock. His chuckled when your hands caressed his thighs, knowing you were giving him a taste of his own medicine. It was working pretty fucking well too because his dick was throbbing so hard it was hurting. Here you were on your knees in front of him, smiling because you’ve imagined and practiced this moment so many times before. His dick sat pretty, pre cum running down his shaft. You wrapped your hand around it, pressing a little kiss to his tip.

“Fuck. You are a tease.” His hips squirmed in the seat below him, his hand gripping the leather. His other hand rested on the back of your head, sticking your tongue out and slapping it on there, earning a low growl from him. “Oh, baby—mmm.” His eyes fluttered shut but soon popped back open when you took him in your mouth, going deeper than he expected. “Ah! Ah! Your mouth feels so good. Look at me while you suck it.” You bobbed your head up and down, while your hand simultaneously jerked his cock, your wrist moving in circular motions. “Yeah, yeah, just like that—shitttt!” He tossed his head back on the couch, his chest moving up and down rapidly with each breath he took.

You lifted your head to take a breath, spitting on his cock, using it to jerk him off. Your head moved lower, taking his balls in your mouth, sucking and licking on them. His hips stuttered at the feeling. He won’t lie, he’s never had his balls sucked before but goddamn was this a good first time to do it. Watching you, he could tell you were enjoying this. You’ve wanted this longer than he has and just that simple thing turns him on. You’re fucking crazy, but he doesn’t care. He needs it. He needs you.

You moved back to his cock again, taking him further down your throat until you gagged. Tears pricked your eyes as you came up for a breath only to go back down and test your limits. You nearly took him all the way, nose almost pressed against his pelvis before having to come back up again. You suck in a breath, saliva tricking down the corners of your mouth. Gojo honestly had no words, he just stared at you in awe. You’re messy, nasty, and everything else he desires. Both of your hands wrapped around his cock now, pumping him, wanting to milk him or every lost drop and see what his pretty face looks like when he cums. “Toru, cum for me, please. I want it,” you begged, kissing his throbbing tip again.

The nickname alone was about to make him bust all over you. “Goddamn, baby. You’re a little fucking slut aren’t you? You want me to cum? Fucking work for it,” he panted, pushing your head back down on his cock. Your throat squeezed around him, his hips bucking up in your mouth. You sucked his dick like your life depended on it and Gojo swore he could feel his soul leaving his body. Your mouth, your hands, your spit, your eyes, your sheer determination, he was so close. “Nnngh, you’re gonna make me cum. Keep going, yes, your throat feels so good,” he moaned, pushing your head down further. “Work for it, baby, fucking work—ah! Fuck! I’m cumming! Ohhh.” You watched his eyes roll back, his hips stuttering and his abs flexing before you felt his hot sticky cum hit the back of your throat.

You swallowed every drop with a smile on your face, lifting your head. His cock was glistening in your spit and you were sure the makeup your had on previously was running down your face, but it was all worth it to see him cum like that. Gojo pulled you into his lap, pulling you in for a kiss, a lazy smile on his face and a fucked out look in his eyes. “You did such a good job, baby,” He said in between kisses. “But don’t think I’m done with you.” He pushed you down on the couch, a small yelp followed by an excited giggle leaving your lips. He got up from the couch, grabbing his phone from his pocket. “Since you like to record yourself so much,” he looked towards you, “why not record something for both me and you to look back on?” He set the phone up on the desk. “Maybe even upload it, yeah? Shy girl is actually a secret slut.” He eyes you down like prey, his hand coming to wrap around your throat.

“Please, I need it. I need you to fuck me.” You blink up at him, spreading your legs for him. Gojo takes his cock, slapping it against your wet and swollen pussy, laughing at how much you react. You must really be needy for it right now. His heavy cock slaps against your neglected clit, running his tip up and down your slit, coating his cock with your slick. “Just put it in! Please! Make me cum, fuck me stupid. I need you.” You can’t take it anymore, your head is spinning and you feel dizzy. And just then, his cock pushes past your folds, and he smiles at the way your eyes light up, like switch had been flipped. “Yessss,” you squeal, eyes squeezing shut when he pushes his cock in further, the stretch felt so good.

Gojo pulled his hips back, allowing you to feel every inch of him sliding out before sliding back in just as slow, your breaths quickening. Your walls hugged him tightly, sucking him back in before he slowly pulled out again. You pouted, hands clinging to his biceps, nails digging in his skin because you couldn’t believe that this slow pace felt so good already. His hand gripped tighter on your throat, his eyes never leaving yours. “Open your mouth,” he whispered under his breath. You did so without question, sticking your tongue out before gojo let his spit drip into your mouth. “Good girl. Good fucking girl—nnngh!” He thrusted into you roughly, your body jolting upward. A small cry fell from your lips, his throbbing dick sitting inside you.

Without warning, Gojo began moving at an alarming pace, his hips snapping into yours, your nails digging into his skin harder, leaving marks. “Oh fuck!” You screamed. “Fuck! Fuck!” You were completely taken aback, his cock pumping in and out of you, fucking you like a wild animal. You cling onto him, trying to take the force of his thrusts without crying out.

“So damn wet,” he grunts, pressing a sloppy kiss to your lips. He relishes in your warmth and tightness, like it was a trance, pulling him in and never letting go. His hips tilted up just enough to graze against your g-spot, your eyes rolling back as you sat there and took every ruthless inch of his cock. Unintelligible mumbles and whimpers filled his ears, his heavy body pressing against yours in a way that made you feel so full of him. Your eyes were glazed over, completely drunk on his cock without a care in the world.

You’ve never been fucked like this, not even by yourself. The greediness in his thrusts, the filthiness of his words, the feeling of his cock, it was more than you imagined. That pink dildo of yours didn’t compare to this. Not even close. “Toru…I’m so closeeee,” you sobbed, not because you weren’t enjoying but because you were enjoying it too much. How was he already going to make you cum this quick? It messed with your head, it messed with your body. The familiar pressure began building, your lewd moans echoing in the small office. “I’m…I’m cummingggg—fuck! Oh my god!” You cried out, body shivering as your pussy gushed. You juices soaking your thighs and Gojo, an amused look on his face seeing your entire body lose control. He pulled out of you, more squirt dribbling from your drooling cunt.

“That’s it, make that pussy all messy for me. Give me every last drop.” He slapped his cock over your soaked lips, teasing your poor clit. It’s felt like your body was entirely sensitive, every little touch from him was enough to drive you crazy. “Atta fucking girl.” He reached down, rubbing your clit back and forth. With jolting hips, you tried to pull away from him, but he held you down in place. “I can tell you’re already addicted to my cock. You’re drooling for it,” he hummed, lolling his tongue out and licking the drool from the corner of your lips before kissing you, slipping his tongue into your mouth.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you up onto his lap, lips still entwined. His hand gripped the plump flesh of your ass, squeezing it harshly and spreading it, the tip of his cock poking at your entrance. You pulled away from him, looking over your shoulder at the camera to see it was still recording. You had completely forgotten about it, lost in your sex hazed mind. A harsh slap on your ass snapped you out of your thoughts, gojo biting down on his plump limp while his eyes scanned your body. You couldn’t take his teasing anymore, leaving you no other choice but to ride his cock. Slowly sinking down on it, swallowing up every inch, you watch as his eyes roll back, his grip on your ass tightening.

A small giggle lets out as you watch him, your hands gripping his broad shoulders while you slowly bounce up and down on it. “Your cock feels so good,” you moan, letting your ass slam all the way down before going back up. “I fucking love it.” Your hips move in a circular motions, Gojo letting out a pleasured sigh, lifting his head and looking down at where you two meet. He watches his cock disappear and reappear like it was some sort of magic trick. “You like how I ride you, Toru?” You smile down at him, caressing his face in your hand.

“Fuck yes, I do.” A broken moan leaves his throat, his brows knitting together when he feels your pussy juices leaking down his shaft and to his balls. You were the best things he’s ever fucking felt. He sucked in a breath of air, shocked when you began moving faster, riding his cock harder, your aggression showing. He smacked your ass again, helping your rock your hips back and forth the way he liked it. “Ride it, baby. It’s yours. It’s fucking yours. Use me—ahh, yes just like that!” His mouth fell open, breathy whimpers were all that were heard.

Plap, plap, plap.

That sound was like heaven to Gojo. He couldn’t help but put on a lazy smile, focusing on how concentrated you were, how good you looked with sweat dripping between the valley of your tits while they were bouncing. “Mmmmph, fuck! Ohhh, I’m gonna cum again!” You cry out, bouncing harder and harder, so greedy to feel that immense amount of pleasure. It was like a drug. “Yes, yes, yes!” You cry out, clinging onto him once more, lifting your body as it shook, squirting all over his cock again, soaking the poor couch beneath you. “Oh my god!” You sob, trembling in his arms.

“Good fucking job, baby. Mmm, take your time.” He presses a kiss to your cheek, holding you in his arms until you stop shaking. Your mind was completely blank, wanting nothing more than to feel his cock again. “Aye, aye, slow down—ah! Shit!” You’re back to riding him like nothing ever happened, slamming your hips down as you chase another orgasm. “Goddamn, you’re a little slut for this dick, huh?” He chuckles, swatting your ass again. Without hesitation, you nod your head. “Squirt all over this dick again and show me just how much you want it.”

Both of you are moaning like bitches in heat, fucking each other like no tomorrow. Neither of you are worried about anything else right now. It’s just you and him in your own little world. “Shh, shh.” Out of nowhere Gojo quickly covers your mouth and stalls your movements. A confused look adorns your face, until you hear footsteps outside in the lecture room. Oh shit. Both of you had a wide eyed, panicked look on your face. Were you that in your head that you didn’t hear the person come in? “Keep going, just go slow, baby. Be quiet.” He silently laughs, pecking your lips.

It was crazy, but you did it anyway. With hips moving on their own, you rode him as slowly as you could, both of you watching the door to the office to make sure no tried to come in. The rustling of papers could be heard outside, an annoyed groan coming from whoever was out there. “Don’t worry, just keep going,” he whispered, running his hands down your waist, allowing to move a tiny bit faster. His tip rubbed up against your g-spot, a tiny moan escaping your lips. “Shhh, shhh, come here.” He slipped his fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet. “There you go. I know it feels good, baby, but we can’t get caught.”

The noises outside grew quieter until the footsteps grew closer to the office door. You and Gojo completely stopped, hearts beating rapidly against your chest. It felt like seconds turned into minutes before the footsteps began moving away, growing quieter and quieter until the door to the lecture room creaked open and then shut. “Holy shit!” You laughed. “Fuck, we almost got caught.”

“That was terrifying,” he laughed along with you. “I’m surprised they couldn’t smell the sex,” he joked. But you were also surprised too, cause you two have been going at so rough, you were sure the smell travelled beyond the small office. He pulled you in for a kiss, his lips moving against yours when he slipped his tongue into your mouth once more. His cock throbbed inside you, a reminder of what was happening before you two were rudely interrupted. His hips buck into you, catching you off guard. He props you up slightly, angling his cock just right to hit all your sweet spots.

“Ughh, yesss! It’s feels so fucking good!” You groan, baring your teeth, jaw clenching. His cock slips in and out, his balls slapping against your ass, and your pussy squelching along with it. It was evident he was close, his thrusts more sloppy and unplanned, grunting and moaning in your ear. “Shit! Shit! Yes! You’re gonna make me squirttt—ahhh!” You scream, your body convulsing your pussy clenching around his cock while your cover both of your in your juices for a third time. But Gojo doesn’t stop, he holds you down and forces you to take it this time, no matter how much you scream and cry. “It’s too much! Oh my god! It’s still going!” You pant, tears pricking your eyes. It feels so good but hurts at the same time. Your pussy was practically like a water fountain. How was he able to make you squirt so much?

“Take it! Fucking take it! I don’t care if you keep squirting on my cock,” he grunts, pushing every inch of his dick deep into you, his hips snapping at an unbelievable pace. “Oh, oh, I’m gonna cum! Get up!” He moans, still fucking into you to keep the tempo going.

“Cum inside me. Please, it’s what I’ve always wanted.” Just those words alone sent him over the edge, his hips press flush against yours, his head thrown back as throat groans fill your ears. His grip is bruising, his cock throbbing before you feel him spill his cum inside you, hot spurts coating your walls. He completely loses himself, hips stuttering, eyes in the back of his head. A small gasp emits from you, your first time feeling what’s like to be creampied, especially by Gojo Satoru. You lean down, pressing light kisses to his throat, smiling while doing so.

“Ah! Oh my god! I’m fucking lightheaded.” He gulps, lifting his head, trying to catch his breath. He locks onto you, staring at you and taking in every ounce of your beauty. With the smell of sex in the air, and your sweaty bodies pressed into one another, Gojo knows it can’t get any better than this. “Just stay there for a minute. I swear if you move, I might cum again,” he chuckles, tossing his arm over his head, still attempting to ground himself.

You peck his lips, lying on his chest. “Well, we need to leave soon before we actually get caught,” you say, trailing your fingertips over his skin. You look over your shoulder and once again forgot about his phone recording. “Oh, yeah,” you laugh.

“What?” He opens his eyes, looking in the direction you were. “Oh,” he laughs. “Shit, I forgot I did that.” He flashes a smile. “Let me get up.” He helps you off of him, sitting you down on the couch so his cum wouldn’t drip out of you. He reaches for his phone and ends the recording before walking over and grabbing both yours and his clothes off of the floor. “Damn, baby, you made a mess.” He looks at the floor below the couch, see a puddle of your juices.

“Sorry! There’s gotta be something in here to clean it, right?” You laugh, hoping that maybe the professor would have some paper towels or something in his office. He steps over to you, slipping your panties over your ankles first before helping you to your feet. “Thank you.” You kiss his cheek.

He slips on his clothes while you slip on the rest of yours. “I don’t think he has anything in here to clean this up,” he says, looking through the drawers and cabinets. “Fuck it. Janitor will get it.” He shrugs.

“Toru! We can’t just leave that there!” You whine, pulling at his hand.

“It’s not like they’ll know who did. Look, don’t worry about it, okay?” He kisses you, pulling you close to him. “I swear,” he reassures. “Let’s just go back to my place and get cleaned up cause we definitely smell like sweat and sex.”

Both of you walk out of the office, trying to act as normal as possible. The university was still quiet, a straight getaway from this point, both of you running hand in hand out of the lecture room, giggling like two little kids. “I can’t believe we actually did that,” you say, still shocked. “But it was so exciting. Made the sex better.”

“I agree. Wondered what would’ve happened if we did get caught,” he pondered, glancing at you.

“Let’s not go that far.” You playfully push him.

“Just jokes, baby.” He kisses the top of your hand.

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[gojoest]

curiosity — gojo satoru

MDNI, f! reader, childhood friends to lovers, satoru is painfully aware of his own feelings while reader is not, mention of past girlfriends (and how they all looked like you), handjob (m! receiving), cumming in pants (and in your hand), not proofread, wc: 2k, dividers by @/cafekitsune

synopsis: gojo satoru is your childhood best friend. you’ve been inseparable ever since you were little. spending day and night together, you’d often have sleepovers together — a tradition you both carried on throughout your college years. at least once a week you’d drop by his dorm room and stay the night, or vice versa. but compared to your childhood days, you no longer share one bed. that is, until . . .

part 2

a/n: this is a further (and very lousy) elaboration on this post of mine but hey, HAPPY BDAY TO MY ONE AND ONLY

“i think we should try sleeping together”, you suggest one night.

“wah—“, satoru gasps, a teasing glint in his eyes. “didn’t know you felt that way about me”, he smirks.

“just sleeping”, you quickly clarify. “whatever obscene thing you just thought of — it’s not that”, you add, giving him a roll of your eyes.

“you should pick your words more wisely”, he scoffs. “if you go around telling people you want to sleep with them, they will misunderstand”

“ugh”, you huff, “i obviously didn’t mean it like that, and you know it”

“yeah, i do”, he lets out a soft chuckle. he knew exactly what you meant, but still he disguised his wishful thinking behind a teasing remark. “why though? all of a sudden?”

“dunno”, you shrug. “just feeling bad that you always take the floor”

“if that’s the case we can just swap”

“no — i cherish my comfort. come on, we used to do this all the time”, you pout.

indeed you did. but you were kids back then, things were different.

his heartbeat would race and his face would get all hot and red, the heat would fester through his entire body. but when the lights were off it was easy to hide it, the signs that he liked you. after making sure you were fast asleep, he would hold your hand and childishly smile to himself, he would peck it softly, secretly. one time you woke up in the middle of the night and almost caught him but he, startled, kicked you off the bed. yelling at you, lying, how you pushed your finger in his nostril in your sleep… he was so embarrassed, but also relieved you believed what he said was true. his secret was safe.

but now?

when you stand too close to him his body starts acting up in more mature ways. while he is better at controlling his facial expressions now and hiding his nervous heartbeat behind a nonchalant attitude, he struggles with keeping his urges at bay. he’s no longer the boy that blushes while secretly holding your hand; he is a man who craves you.

even when he’s laid on the futon beside the bed you occupy, the sound of your breathing alone gets him hard. you lie there, sleeping innocently, unaware of how much of a pain in the crotch you are being to him. when you leave in the mornings, he climbs onto the bed that is soaked with your scent and shamelessly jerks off. he stands on his knees and sprays his load on the bedsheets. eyes shut close, he pictures you beneath him.

he sighs in defeat. “fine”

“the right side is mine — it’s only natural, because i am always right”, you snicker and quickly pad over to the bed, plopping your body down on the mattress. “sure”, he chuckles and follows after you, sinking himself right next to you.

it is a bit awkward, you must admit. you are laid on your sides facing each other, in silence.

it’s cramped indeed, your knees are brushing against his and the space in the middle separating your bodies from one another is very scarce. but that was to be expected, the beds in the dorm rooms were designed for one person after all.

“so”, you break the silence. “how’s your girlfriend doing?”

“she’s not my girlfriend, anymore”, he states dryly.

“but it’s been barely two weeks since you started dating”

“well, things didn’t work out i guess”

the girls he dated, all of them looked a bit like you. same height, same hair color and length. similar facial features… he never lasted long with any of them though. all of them, visibly bothered by your presence in his life, would too soon ask him to make a choice — either them or you. neither of them aware that he chose to be with them in the first place only because they reminded him of you, and that it was never the question itself that drove him away from them. it was bound to happen, sooner or later. they could never be you.

you hum. “i see”

as you shift to make yourself more comfortable, you feel the shirt he gave you to wear to bed roll up ever so slightly, revealing the bare of your belly. a bit self-conscious now that he’s next to you, you are immediately urged to cover yourself. you slide a hand under the blanket, rummaging around to get a hold of the hem, but oh...

…the back of your hand brushes against something stiff. the friction incurring a low pant from the man, your best friend, next to you.

“fuck”, satoru hisses. his hand clasps around your wrist, pushing it away, but along with the movement his knuckles graze the flesh of your stomach. “fuck”, he curses again.

“satoru”, you say his name, voice hushed and timid but there is a note of underlying curiosity he is way too familiar with.

this is exactly why he was avoiding the one bed scenario — his boners were too hard to hide at this age and this size of him.

“satoru”, you repeat. “are you hard?”

“i wish you didn’t ask the obvious”, he mumbles, embarrassed. warmth washing over his face uncontrollably, just like in the past. but there was a bigger problem now — down in his pants, and the fact he got caught.

“is it because of me?”

“no”, he clicks his tongue, his grip still tight around your wrist, keeping your hand at bay. “it’s because i didn’t jerk off tonight, you know — it’s a natural thing for us men to randomly pop a boner throughout the day”

…which was true. but it was not the case right now.

“can i play with it a little?”, you ask, sneakily twisting your wrist in an attempt to free your hand.

“oi!”, he yelps. “did you hit you head or what?”

“i am curious”, you blurt out. “just a little?”

“stop”, he warns. “it’s weird”

his resolve is hanging by a thread right now, you’re too cunning to tempt him like this. he knows things will get awfully messy between you if he lets you cross this line. but still, he can’t flat out deny you. deep down he wants you to persist, a little bit more… if you ask him one more time, maybe he’ll crumble. surely, he will.

“it’s not”, you reassure. “i won’t jerk you off, i’ll just touch it”, you explain. “please? just a little?”

well. fuck it.

“this is a bad idea”, he says, but loosens his grip around your wrist. “fine”, he mumbles. “but just a little”

you nod, pulling your hand away only to slide it down his body.

you’re not really sure why you were so happy to hear the news about his break-up, but you always felt more at ease when he belonged just to you. your best friend, and not someone else’s boyfriend. you don’t know why you were doing this right now, or why your heart was racing. maybe because it really was weird? or maybe you were just horny?

finding his cock wasn’t difficult, it sure stood out from the rest of his body.

“you really are hard”, you gasp, running your fingers across the bulge in his shorts, dragging out a throaty groan out of him.

“yeah”, he mumbles. “like i said, stop stating the obvious”

“it’s a bit wet here”, ignoring his words, you thumb the spot where his tip is, making him squirm. his body slightly jerks as you press your palm against it. cupping it inside your hand you squeezing it gently. “it’s warm too”, you keep exploring further. “it has a pulse”

satoru lets out a helpless whine. “you sound so dirty right now, it’s weird”

he’s longed for this type of intimacy with you for years. but in his head, he pictured it differently. it was him who was supposed to do things to you, not the other way around. he was supposed to be the confident one, delving into your layers, making you squirm and fall apart under his touch. not the other way around… but this was good too. too good for him to oppose it. you were his weakness, after all. you always have been. no matter how much he teased and picked on you, in the end he always let you do as you pleased. this was not an exception.

you giggle to yourself. “yeah? you like that new side of me, don’t you?”

“…maybe”

sneaking your hand through the front of his shorts and boxers, you feel the flesh of his cock directly. it was twitching, his tip slick with precum. you put the tip of your index finger on his slit and rub circles around it to smear the pre oozing out of it, getting another soft whimper out of him. the head of his cock all slippery now, urging you to rub it all over the rest of his length.

your fingers wrap around his cock as you start to move your hand up and down, slowly, smearing his own slick onto his own flesh.

he tries to swallow the moan stuck in his throat. “you said you were not going to jerk me off, but what now? you’re playing a bit too much, don’t you think?”

satoru can last long. under normal circumstances, that is. but having you — not just his hand, but you, his first ever love, his only love — touch him like that, he could barely hold back. the urge to bust has been there since the moment you put your hand on his cock.

“why? you gonna cum?”, you slip your hand lower, down to the base of his shaft — where his balls are. you caress them tenderly, incurring yet another soft groan from him, before you go back to stroking him again. with each drag you pick up the pace. the room is filled with the squelching sounds caused by your hand, at this point, confidently fisting his slick covered cock, and his heavy breathing. 

“hey”, he puts his hand on your cheek, softly pinching on it with his fingertips. an attempt to make you snap out of it, but alas — you don’t back away. “don’t regret this”, he whispers, almost beggingly. but his voice comes out too shallow for your ears to pick up on.

“are you close?”, you peek at him, watching his face with rapt fascination, grateful that you left the night lamp on.

never have you ever seen him like this. his cheeks so hot and flushed that his pale skin was lit completely red, up to his ears and his neck. beads of sweat across his forehead with strands of his hair stuck on it. mouth agape — huffing and puffing. his brows knitted, desperately. pleadingly. his mouth telling you to stop, yet his face told a different story. so did the part of him inside your palm. it made you throb, down there, and squeeze your thighs together. your own wetness spurting out from your slit, drenching the inside of your underwear”

“fuck—", he growls. “i am— c-close”, he stutters, struggling to control his breathing and the moans that roll out of his mouth.

you feel his cock twitch in your hand, differently. the pulse on it beating faster and more brashly, like it almost made his skin stretch and push against the flesh of your palm. and then, there was a delay. a few, very short seconds in which his cock stood still before violently exploding, pumping out a thick shot of cum. then some more, and more, and more — until the pouring turned into a light dribble toward the end.

“ugh”, he throatily groans, his body relaxing after oozing all the tension out. although slower now, you keep stroking him, running your fingers across his softening cock.

“oh wow”, you gasp, his cum sticky on your skin, drenching the space between your fingers. “what a mess”, you giggle.

“you’re trouble”, he sighs. “is your curiosity satisfied now?”

you nod.

“if you get curious about other things”, he pauses, scratching the back of his head, “come to me. don’t go to other men”

“i’ll think about it”, you smirk.

after that night, you stayed over for an entire week.

this little play time turned into routine, and you were no longer the only one playing.

[ilovolderman]

Friday Night

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: You end up sitting next to Bucky in a casual team dinner.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, flirting, light language, water war (because who can resist a splash battle?)

A/N: this is part 4 of "You Said What?", just some fluff in a universe where you and Bucky secretly date. It can be read on its own and doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3. im loving writing about these two so thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

It’s one of those rare nights at the compound, no missions, no briefings, no surprise alien invasions. Just a Friday. Just dinner. And, somehow, Steve decided it’d be nice if the whole team ate together like one big weird family.

The long table is already half full when you show up a few minutes late, sliding into the only empty seat left, next to Bucky, obviously by coincidence. Totally random. Totally not planned. Totally a miracle.

“Hey,” you murmur, your knee bumping his under the table. You don’t move it.

“Hey,” he says back, low and warm, like it’s just for you. His knee nudges yours in return, the tiniest pressure that somehow makes your chest feel full.

Dinner is loud. Sam’s in the middle of a dramatic story involving a rooftop and a rogue pizza slice, gesturing so wildly he nearly knocks over his drink twice. Wanda is laughing so hard she’s wheezing. Clint and Natasha are arguing about spice levels in the curry. Tony ordered five different desserts “just in case,” and even Vision looks mildly amused.

It’s chaotic. It’s weirdly cozy. And it’s perfect.

Meanwhile, Bucky quietly slides the breadbasket your way before you even ask. Passes you a napkin when you drop yours. Leans over and murmurs a dumb joke under his breath just to make you laugh. And when you both reach for the same dish, your fingers brush—and linger. Neither of you moves.

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen all night.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper, biting your lip.

“Like what?” he asks, faking innocence.

“Like you’re thinking about kissing me at a table full of Avengers.”

He leans in, voice low. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Your breath catches. You blink, trying not to let it show. “Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t kick you under this table.”

“I’d still kiss you.”

“You’re impossible.”

He smirks. “Yeah. But I’m your problem.”

You’re in the middle of pretending to care about Steve and Nat’s back-and-forth on training strategies when your phone buzzes in your lap.

[bucky]: come to the kitchen. 5 mins. say you forgot the hot sauce.

You bite your lip to keep from grinning. He sees it and smiles with just one side of his mouth.

A few minutes later, you slide your chair back, muttering something about needing Sriracha. No one blinks. They're all too busy arguing over which dessert to try first.

You slip into the kitchen.

And there he is. Leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyes already on you. Like he wasn’t just sitting beside you five minutes ago.

“I’m starting to think I’m more addicted to seeing you than caffeine,” he says, that soft smile tugging at his lips.

You walk right into his arms. He smells like clean laundry and something you can’t place—something that’s just him.

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

“Tell that to Sam,” he mutters. “He said I’ve been grumpy all week. I was just missing this.”

His fingers brush your cheek, his thumb grazing the curve of your jaw. You lean up and kiss him—quick, soft, sweet. The kind of kiss that says I wish we had more time.

And then you steal another.

And another.

He groans, resting his forehead against yours. “Okay. One more, and then I’m walking back in there like nothing happened.”

You smirk. “You have lipstick on your mouth.”

“Dammit.”

When you both return, the table’s still buzzing, still full of warmth and noise and people who feel like home. Bucky catches your eye as you pass him the dessert like it’s nothing.

But you know. And he knows. And your heart is doing somersaults when Bucky leans in again.

“You’ve got whipped cream on your lip.”

You freeze. Glance at him, wary. “Do I?”

He nods solemnly and you wipe your mouth with a napkin. “Better?”

He tilts his head, eyes sparkling. “Not really. Might need to check later.”

You kick him under the table.

Dinner winds down slowly, plates are half-empty, dessert is more whipped cream than anything else, and everyone’s full in that way that makes you too lazy to move.

Tony’s talking about building a pizza oven on the roof. Clint is inexplicably napping in his chair. Wanda’s stealing bites off Sam’s plate while pretending not to. And you?

Your face hurts from smiling, your stomach’s full, but you still offer to clean up.

“I’ll do the dishes,” you say, already sliding your chair back.

A second later, Bucky glances your way. “I’ll help.”

“Seriously?” Sam teases. “Since when do you volunteer?”

“Since now,” Bucky says coolly, already following you into the kitchen.

You roll your eyes, but your heart is racing.

The kitchen is quieter than the dining room, where the others are still laughing, picking at desserts, arguing over who cheated in charades last week. In here, it’s just you, the soft clink of dishes, and Bucky—close behind you.

You roll up your sleeves and start running the water, pretending your hands aren’t slightly shaking. “You don’t actually have to help, you know.”

“I know,” he says, leaning a hip against the counter beside you. “But I want to.”

You glance at him sidelong. “You hate doing dishes.”

He shrugs. “I’ve done worse.”

You snort, handing him a dish towel. The two of you fall into a rhythm quiet, easy. You wash, he dries. Occasionally your arms brush, and each time it’s like a tiny electric pulse zips up your spine. You tell yourself not to overthink it. You fail.

“You were quiet at dinner,” you say, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn bit of lasagna like it personally offended you. “Well. Except for all the flirting.”

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is low. “I like watching everyone like that. Laughing. Being...normal.” He pauses. “I like watching you.”

You freeze, dish half-submerged in sudsy water. Slowly, you turn to look at him. “That supposed to be smooth?”

He grins, shameless. “Did it work?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because he’s looking at you again—that way he does, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and worse, that he means every bit of it. Your heart is somewhere in your throat.

“Bucky,” you say, unsure what comes next.

But then he sets the dish towel down. Steps a little closer. And when you don’t move he reaches up and brushes a wet strand of hair from your cheek.

“You gonna kick me under the sink,” he murmurs, “or are you finally gonna let me kiss you?”

Your breath catches. “There are at least three Avengers in earshot.”

“Then I’ll be quick.”

And he is. But somehow it still feels slow, like the whole world holds its breath for you, just for this. It’s not desperate. It’s not showy. It’s just real. When he pulls back, you blink up at him, dazed. “You call that quick?”

He grins, a little smug. “Told you I’ve done worse.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too. “You missed a spot,” you say, tossing him a still-dripping plate.

He catches it one-handed, totally unfazed. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You bump your hip into his, reaching for a fresh towel. “I tolerate it.”

There’s a beat of silence before he adds, “You know, I kinda like this.”

“The dishes?”

“No. This.” He gestures between you. “You. Me. Elbow-deep in soap. Feels… nice.”

You reach over and flick a bubble at him.

He blinks, deadpan. “Did you just—”

You do it again, giggling. He retaliates by flicking water at your face. You shriek. He laughs.

“What, you can handle HYDRA but not a splash of water?” he teases.

You grab the sprayer.

“Don’t you dare.”

“I dare.”

There’s a short-lived, extremely wet battle that ends with Bucky shielding himself with a dish towel and you both breathless from laughter, leaning against the counter like you’ve run a marathon.

“I think we’re officially banned from post-dinner cleanup now,” you say, still giggling.

“Worth it.”

There’s a pause. He looks at you, hair a little damp, cheeks pink from laughing. And then he leans in again, just because he can. Just because you’re both still smiling.

When he pulls back, he murmurs, “Think we can sneak off to dry off somewhere quieter?”

You grin. “Only if you promise not to start a water war in the hallway.”

“No promises.” But you link your pinky with his anyway.

And that’s when it happens. A very deliberate throat-clear from the doorway. You both freeze like guilty teenagers. Natasha’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, one brow raised like she’s watching a soap opera. “You two done playing splashy-splash, or should I get you floaties?”

Bucky groans softly, his head thudding against the cabinet door behind him. You try to hide behind the dish towel. It doesn’t work.

Natasha steps further into the room, clearly savoring this. “Didn’t know dishwashing came with a swim option.”

“We were just—” you start.

“—cleaning,” Bucky finishes, not even trying to sound convincing.

“Mhm,” Natasha hums, giving you both the kind of look that could peel paint. “You know, for two people trying so hard to look casual, you’re not very good at it.”

Before you can respond, there’s a loud clink from the doorway. Steve steps in, completely unbothered. Holding a slice of pie on a plate like it’s the most important thing in the world.

 “Is everything okay here?”

Natasha raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything more. Instead, she shoots you one last look, a knowing glint in her eye. “Alright, alright. Carry on with your... dishes.” She turns, heading toward the door, but not before adding with a teasing smile, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Steve watches her leave, clearly lost in his pie-induced bliss. “What’s her deal?”

You and Bucky exchange an amused look before Bucky mutters, “You really don’t want to know.”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, probably not.”

And just like that, the moment passes. Natasha's suspicion lingers in the air for only a second longer before Steve’s back to his pie, you’re back to drying dishes, and Bucky’s smile is a little too smug for anyone’s good.

next part

[dilf-docs]

Call It What You Want

husband!pedro pascal x younger!reader

summary: you and pedro are married, but you've kept it a secret up to the point you sometimes forget there's supposed to be a golden band on your finger. but then you both get cast in your first movie together. the chemistry is off the charts, and it starts to catch upon you: will the lines between shipping and reality finally blur?

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (ñom), smut, dry humping, oral (m. receiving) while pedro wears the skirt™️ (welcome to another episode of the writer's barely disguised fetish), p. in v., teeny bit of angst because i malfunction if i don't bring sad vibes to the function, the worst ever attempt of comedy witnessed by human kind, they're so down bad it hurts, jealous!reader, possesive!pedro, reader speaks spanish and may or may not have direct/indirect latino blood somewhere, use of spanglish but no translations ☹️ (boo go do your homework, citizens. that's what u get for making my dieter bravo fic flop BYE), i transcripted two real interviews for this so keep those likes, reblogs and comments up in the air where i can see 'em 🪓🪓

word count: 11,706 words

side note: hello! this is me, sliding my cv to become president of the pedro pascal fics. i'm kidding, just on duty to fulfill another request 🫡 believe it or not, i envisioned something like this but for myself IJBOL we have to keep the delusional levels UP!! i hope this meets ur expectations, it was fun to write :)

part: prev | masterlist | next

"Please welcome, the internet's newest darling, Y/n L/n!"

You walk into the set, cameras flashing bright and the band playing on the back. You hug Jimmy Fallon, and when he notices your body trembling he tells you everything will be alright. So did your manager before you stepped inside, but you can't help the nerves. You've never been this big before, and now it's all coming down together without letting you breath.

You take your seat and so does Jimmy.

"Hello, Y/n. This is your first time here, right?"

"Am I being too obvious?" you snort. The crowd laughs with you.

"Don't worry. It happens, especially when you're so young"

"Oh, please" you blush. "I can promise you there are kid actors who could handle this better than I am right now"

"Kid stars?" he lets out one of his famous cackles. "No need to be humble. You are great! Let's just talk about the year you've had: big breakout roles, ascend to fame, you're rocking it!" the crowd cheers, and you again turn into a flustered mess.

"Yeah, I suppose. It's hard to dimension when you've started as an extra for popular shows, to now being, you know, the main face of projects. But I could get used to it" you smile, "it's been a dream. I still can't believe it sometimes, look- I'm shaking"

The camera pans closer to the hand you're showing to Jimmy.

"Oh my God, even big stars like you get nervous"

"Big star? I wish I could feel like a constellation. I'm feeling more like a red dwarf star, baby"

The whole place bubbles in laughter. You feel better, your manager even giving you a thumbs up from behind the cameras.

"So, Y/n" Jimmy says once the laughter dies. "You just got casted in the upcoming Gladiator II movie, directed by Ridley Scott. How does it feel to be on your first big movie, alongside names like Paul Mescal, Denzel Washington and Pedro Pascal?"

You try to steady your heartbeat. "First of all, I have to say, it's such an honor to work with Scott. I grew up watching his movies. Like, Thelma and Louis is definitely my go-to movie. So, like, getting paired with such a talented cast is as awesome as terrifying" you answer with a laugh.

"Talking about that, you see" he leans closer, like he'll tell a secret. "I've heard things about you and a certain future co-star of yours"

You shift your position on the couch, your ring(less) finger itching. You have to avoid breathing in relief when Jimmy pulls out a picture.

"Oh. My. God"

He stiffles a laugh. No way. Has the room's temperature suddenly gotten hotter? Why is your face burning?

"Will you tell us the story behind this?" he asks, the camera focusing on the picture in question. The audience laughs, and you pray to God this is a nightmare, because it's too much embarrasment for a human to bear.

"Okay" you clear your throat, coughing awkwardly. "For my 25th birthday, I uploaded a bunch of pictures on Instagram, including ones where I was a teenager" you begin to giggle, "So. Um, there was this one, you see, that's, me, in my childhood home's bedroom, and my fans were quick to notice the poster above my bed"

"You mean, this one?" and Jimmy points it out. You cover your face with your palms. "It's a... Narcos poster" the audience laughs as you get redder. "A Pedro Pascal's Narcos poster"

"I know" you groan. "Picture this: me 18, and while my friends had posters of their favorite bands and artists, I was so different because I had a whole ass poster of a crime drama show about the world's most famous drug dealer on my bedroom" you recall with a laugh. "It was hard to explain to my mom. I believe she thought I wanted to sign for the DEA or something. When I told her I was going to be an actress, she was so relieved! She said: Oh, well. You'll die, but of hunger! Not a bullet in your head, at least"

"Oh. I'm so sorry. You proved her wrong though!"

"I did! Don't worry, Jimmy. She's my biggest fan now" you look at a specific camera before saying, "Te amo mami!"

"I see you speak spanish. I sometimes forget" he comments. "You've got one thing in common with Pedro, it seems. Think that'll make working with him less awkward?"

"I just hope he forgives me or I'm capable of moving out of the country and changing names" you giggle. "Pedro, lo siento!"

"Well, that's Y/n L/n, everyone! Pedro Pascal's number one fan" you burst out laughing in shame. "More on her lastest movie after the break"

mandoshoney: tell me i'm not the only one who started shipping pedro pascal and y/n l/n PLEASE can't wait to get content of them interacting ㅤㅤann-gell: mandoshoney y/n's pedro pascal's controversially young gf era starts now! i wonder how the press tour for #gladiatorII will go 🤔 unhing3dprincess: i bet my grandma they are dating ㅤㅤstarlightt180: unhing3dprincess ptwt can never tweet like normal ppl…wdym you're betting your grandma?!!!?

You were never a fan of secrets.

But then Pedro waltzed into your life with his charming smile and iconic mustache, and before you knew it, you had married him off in some church in California one random sunday morning ("I love you so much, can't wait to marry you, cariño" "If you can't wait any longer, why not now?")

Flash forward, four years later, and you'd think such event would be plastered all over the internet. But there is a reason why only you, family, a selected number of friends and your agents knew: you kept it a secret.

To the world, he was Chile's most elegible bachelor and you were a young rising star. The public loved both of you for the same reasons: charming persona and acting skills. Yet inside the privacy of your home, he was Pedro and you were y/n, wife and husband; he was yours as you were his.

And of course, no marriage is perfect, and your first real challenge is rather funny: you both get casted in your first movie together.

It shouldn't be hard, but it is. Being inside the Gladiator II set during seven months, so far away yet so close at the same time, was torture. You were Rome's empress and he's Marcus Acacius, yet behind the scenes, the actual married couple were you both.

It was hard to pretend you didn't know what he looked like without clothes when he wore his bathing suit, or that you didn't know his favorite food when Paul asked, or acting like you weren't interested in dating when a local in Malta during your trip at the beach asked you out (he didn't know who you were. You were flattered when he called you pretty in such a hot European accent, but then Pedro appeared from seemingly "nowhere" and you remembered what your real favorite accent was. He immediately called you bonita after that)

It was so hard to keep hands to yourself when he walked by you, covered in fake blood. To not think about licking it all over and under his armour. So was to pretend the thought of dry humping him with his Roman skirt on wasn't tempting. Or that the urge to kiss him got harder and harder to fight each passing day, even getting to a point where you would envy Connie for being able to kiss your husband in the open more, a privilege you didn't have.

You were loosing your mental health here. But Pedro was no better.

It was so hard to see you, the Moroccan sun shining over your features like you were an angel. Otherworldly. That he'd see red when you'd finish filming a scene with Joseph, forcing himself to interrupt the small chat you'd engage in after. He too couldn't keep pretending he didn't want to tear off those silk dresses out of your body, and kiss you out in the open like Joseph did.

He almost failed once, cornering you in the hallway of the hotel you were staying. His hot breath lingered on your neck. I miss you, he had said. You felt his hard brush the inner of your thigh. We can't, you whispered in a dragged out voice.

It was hard.

So you gave him your used panties, and you swear you could hear him jacking off in the bathroom of his room, next to yours. He'd screamed your name, and your hand had found it's way to your dripping cunt, doing what he was supposed to do; touching you the way he did. And you came, drowned out moans against your pillow. But it wasn't like when he did it.

But God has heard your prayers.

For the first time in weeks, you're lucky. You find Pedro sitting alone in the cafeteria, his phone in hand. He's still wearing his armour and skirt, not bothering to change for the break. You aren't God's strongest soldier, but you're trying not to go down on him so badly right here and now.

"Hey" he raises his head when he hears your voice, smile adoringly. It only grows wider when he notices you alone. "Thought you'd never get rid of Paul. He's like, stitched to you"

"Same can be said about you and Joseph" you sit across him, and despite most of his tone being playful, there are still hints of jealousy behind. It arouses you deeply, and with this hot summer day above you, your skin isn't the only thing that's getting sticky.

"In case you haven't read the script, I'm his wife" you wink. "Sorry this is how you find out"

He laughs loudly, and God, how have you missed that laugh. Sure, it's been there when you've been out with the cast together, but it doesn't tingle your chest as when you're the cause of it; it feels like it's for you only, and that's what makes it special.

"I miss you so much" he whispers, his hand sliding across the table, finding yours. His thumb carresses your soft palm, and you melt under Pedro's tender touch.

"I do too" you sigh, but it's instantly replaced by what could only be described as a smug face. You lean closer, whispering on his ear, the warm meeting cold. He shivers. "Wanna know something?"

"I'm all ears"

"I just came back from walking. Guess what?No one is 'round here" you lean back against your chair, shit-eating grin on your face as all his body tenses up. "Made sure of it. The trailer zone is empty too"

Pedro gulps, his adam's apple bobbing as his eyes look at you.

"Y/n" calling your name as a warning.

"What? Can't a girl find ways to have her husband all for herself?" you snort. "Please say yes" you let go of his hand, but the free fingers now travel across his broad chest, taunting him. "C'mon, we both deserve a break"

He can't say deny you anything, can he? You know it, he knows it.

Before you register, his big hand engulfs yours as you run across the set. You giggle at his rushed steps, even more when you stand before his trailer and he's fumbling his slippery hands with the doorknob, sloppy movements erratic.

"But you told me to stop" you tease, and he doesn't even let you add more because he's pushing you inside, forcing you with rough calloused hands to a chair and then you to sit over his lap.

"Fuck, babygirl. I've spoiled you way too much" he groans against your lips. "Lo sabes, ¿verdad? Just can't say no to you"

Your eyes darken dangerously, the hunger on them mirroring his own.

"How could you ever say no to this?"

You press your chest against his broad one as your lip bites into his lower one, teasing. Pedro feels his underwear getting tighter when your tongue finds its way inside his mouth, even getting a glimpse of the taste of the strawberries you had earlier before.

He deepens the kiss, and when you pull away to catch your breath, he doesn't waste his lonely mouth and busies himself with the task of kissing your sun-kissed neck, licking and pressing his lips under your jaw. Pedro goes even lower, down until he's reached your collarbone, making you groan a bit under his wet sloppy needy mouth. He's enjoying how putty you are under his intense kissing, fingers in his curls, that have begun to damp under the ablaze of the small space and pleasure that fills the air.

"Kiss me again in my lips" you whine after a while of him teasing you with kisses that get only rougher. "Pretty please, papi"

You cup his face in your hands, and Pedro's back to kissing you in the mouth, tasting all of your insides as he hasn't had in what feels like a lifetime.

"Of course, baby. Missed this pretty mouth" he mumbles in between hot kisses, his now growing boner pressing into you.

"Baby" you giggle. The skirt he's got on may hide it, but your fingers refused to wait, pulling it up. His bulge presses against the shorts he's got under the skirt, and you can feel your pussy and mouth drool. "We have to do something about this big boy" your hands pull down the short, leaving just his underwear on. He's about to remove the skirt, but your demanding hands stops him. "This stays"

His brown concerned eyes make you laugh, but you don't give him time to think about it, rather grinding against his erection. Pedro's breath hitches when he feels your daring movements, bucking his hips against yours.

The friction is addicting, and he captures your lips once again to make you feel what he can't with words: how fucking good this feels.

You keep moving over his aching dick. Your husband throws his head back, groaning in pleasure at the way your hips move against him, knowingly. His hands find their way to your ass under the flowy almost translucent skirt you chose to change in, gripping the rosy skin tightly, hands almost covering all of it.

"You wore this for me, right, cariño? Knew I couldn't say no" he groans, firm hands on your cheeks, the grinding meeting his hips now harsher. "Less with you walking around with this slutty skirt of yours"

You make little sounds he's obssesed with, dripping out of your filthy mouth.

"Fuck" Pedro groans after a while, "I need to have you, mami. Missed you so much" eager fingers make it to your top. He growls, deep within him―guttural, ready to pull it off as he mumbles naughty wife when he realizes you got no bra on, chastising you for a "rushed" plan that seemed planned all along, when a sound cuts through the air.

You both stop.

The sound gets clearer.

It's a knock. A knock at his door.

A knock in Pedro's trailer.

And you are inside. Both.

While you're grinding him.

With his skirt on.

(It's time to build a bomb and kill yourselves off and whoever is stading behind that door)

"Pedro!" a familiar accent calls. Peudrou. It's Paul. "Hey, man. Just wondering if you are here"

He's debating on speaking up when he sees your red face and rising-falling chest before him.

"Answer" you whisper breathlessly. He tries not to groan when he fills you slip out of the spot in his middle while also trying not to think about murdering Paul as soon as he gets out.

Aside from the order, you're unexpectedly quiet, and Pedro quirks an eyebrow at you. He knows you better―you're his wife after all, and if there's something he's aware of, is your inability to loose.

"I'm here" tone clipped and annoyed. But no footsteps backtracking are heard: the Irish man is still there.

You bite your lip, watching the skirt with his legs spread, a sight too tempting. Also, he was still hard, as hard as the task to not go and keep doing your job.

Oh, fuck this shit.

Your devilish hand equals the grin in your face, fingers making their way toward his unattended bulge.

"What are you doing here?" Paul asks, but Pedro's attention has completely deviated, now focused on how they land right over his clothed dick, skirt pulled up by your other hand. "I thought you were at the cafeteria"

"Yeah?" but it comes out strained, yet the younger man doesn't notice or comment.

His hips raise when your fingers press his member, massaging it.

"Yeah" he uses a tone that equals a duh. "You texted me yourself"

Pedro rolls his eyes, wishing desperately he would go away, annoying him just as much as a fly hovering above fresh food. Talking about food, fuck, weren't you hungry? He tried to warn you, holding your wrist, but all resolve was lost the moment you looked in his eyes: he immediately pulled down his briefs, dick sprouting hard.

"Well, changed my mind" his tone falters in between words, member now free from the confines of his tight underwear.

"Are you tired, man? You sound tired" Paul comments on his tone. "Came to rest?"

You spit on your hand, and he gulps.

"Somethin' like that"

You start to jerk him off, leaving little wet kisses and licks just above his dick. Pedro's eyes are hypnotized, glued to every lick of yours across his girth, the spit making your movements smoother. Sexier. Fuck.

"Well, sorry to break it to you but rest time is over. They want us back on set now"

Your tight needy lips are wrapped around his his length and it's so hard to keep the talk normal when he justs wants to yell at Paul to fuck off. Your hand is there too; you are as of help as much as you aren't.

"I'll be there, Paul, just―Fuck!"

But his attempt to cover a moan doesn't go unnoticed.

"Are you alright in there?" he tries to enter, but Pedro locked the door. He's yelling he's fine, but Mescal doesn't sound convinced. "I can't go inside; it's locked. Are you sure you are okay, mate?"

"Didn't want you to take a picture of me drooling on my sleep" he manages to get out in a monotone voice. A real win if you take into account you've gotten to a point where you squeeze under his cock, massaging his balls.

"Smart move!" he chuckles from outside. "I guess I'll see you there"

Pedro covers a moan with his palm as he's throwing his head back in pleasure. He can feel his orgams looming over, minstrations growing sloppier around his pulsating cock, the need to fill your greedy evil mouth with his seed making him sick. He's a simple man: he just wants his pretty wife to fuck his cock silly and come in her mouth in peace. Is that so hard to get this days?

Paul seems to be finally gone as Pedro can't keep containing his grunts anymore, steps moving: until said steps sound closer again.

"Oh, I almost forgot, have you seen Y/n? I can't find her anywhere" it's coming. His orgasm is coming in the absolute worst moment. He can feel you gagging at his hard rock cock, hitting the back of your throat now. Still, your hands don't loose their grip on his cock and skirt, determination filling that sexy little body of yours. It was rather admirable the effort you were putting in this. "Think she went to the beach? She said she loved it. God, that little rebel. Anyway, if you see her, tell her-"

He leans his head back once again, seeing stars. No one knows him like his wife, truly.

The sight of you drooling from your chin, the wet sounds of him fucking himself onto your mouth as your spit-coated fingers pump his girth, you gulping down the precum from his tip, his fingers holding your face roughly by the cheeks...

"Yes, Paul, yes!" Pedro barks, barely hiding the moan that erupts from his ribcage, thick shots of his hot cum hitting your tongue and deep of the throath. "Fuck off and let me get ready"

"Jesus, mate, chill. I'm sorry. See you there"

And Paul Mescal's hovering fly ass is finally gone.

"Poor Paul" you say as soon as you pull off his length, voice raspy as you huff for air. Pedro lovingly cleans rests of your saliva and his cum from your chin as he chuckles at how much audacity, courage and horniness could fit in such a small young body. "You've ruined the friendship"

"You think?" he licks off some as you sit on his lap again, tongue directly on your face. You feel aroused again, but time's up. "It's your fault. That and this"

He points down.

"Just as you used that pretty head of yours to think of the trouble you just made, think of an excuse for Mr. Ridley about the skirt"

at0michips: wait wdym paul is sick??? ㅤㅤl-u-n-a-m: at0michips he's died vnightx: i'm wondering who'll do now the do you even know me interview with pedro now :( i was so excited!!! hope they don't cancel it :( ㅤㅤunhing3dprincess: vnightx i bet my grandma it's y/n ㅤㅤat0michips: unhing3dprincess why do u keep betting ur grandma omg 😭😭😭

"You know what I think would be fun?" Pedro comments while you wait for the interview's set to be prepared.

Tour press has finally begun. That meant you could go home for a while after the filming wrapped, just to be back for the promotion of the film. You were excited of course, the experience new and thrilling. After much needed battery recharging and husband/wife time, you were ready to take over the world.

But then Paul got sick.

Today's interview was scheduled to be him and Pedro, but since he was unavailable, they paired him with you, since you both spoke Spanish (which felt slightly racist in your opinion), and because Fred and Joseph were already paired up for the other.

You leave your coffee, knowing he's about to say something stupid or endearing, perhaps both, brown liquid probably spilling out of your mouth. Or worst, nostrils.

"Tell me"

"What if we left little hints that we're together?" his smile is one of mischief. "Like you could wear my cap, or I could wear a chain with your initial around my neck, like Ryan Gosling did at the Barbie premiere"

"Or as Taylor Swift sang" you counter. "But Pedro, dear, you're underestimating our fans. You don't think they'll match it sooner than we think?"

"Maybe" he agrees. That's just what I want. "What's funny is we're about to do a type of interview where we could blow our cover"

"Maybe" you repeat, "or maybe you don't know all about me as much as you think, Mr. Pascal"

He fake gasps, feigning hurt. "Is this a dare, Mrs. Pascal?"

"No" you try to be mature for once, cutting the banter as much as you'd like to go on and kiss him right there. "Also, remember to answer incorrectly sometimes, you know..."

"There's no way I'm letting you win though"

"Pedro, no seas necio!"

The producers arrive just in time to let you know it's ready.

"After M'lady" he's back to being charming as he is, not as husband charming but just Pedro Pascal charming. The nerve of this guy to do it in front of the LADbible crew.

"Whatever" you grumble, the nerves getting the best of you as you realize this interview may or may not give away more than you've been allowed before.

"Hello, I am Y/n L/n" you present yourself. Wow, the camera is really close. This isn't going to end well.

"And I'm Pedro Pascal"

Hearing his voice soothes you. It's okay, y/n, you got this. "And this is Do You Really Know Me- No wait, it's do you even know me. Okay, let's start again: Hello, I'm Y/n and this is-"

"I don't even know anymore" Pedro jokes, making you laugh. "Do you even know me?" he asks while looking forward, now making the crew laugh.

"This is Pedro Pascal, that'll do" you sigh.

"This is gonna be sad, she's not going to know any of these" he says, but in reality, he's mocking you, the mischief in his eyes glowing as he only looks at you tauntingly.

"Same can be said about you" you tease, "we're like a million years away"

"That's not true!" he gasps, "I watch your every move" punctuating each word. God, you try not to make a face. "I have Google alerts on you"

If he was gonna play, so were you.

"Glad to know I have you alerted" with the sweetest voice ever, seeing how his friendly façade falters for a bit at the tone you've used. You laugh, and Pedro takes the chance to laugh it off too.

After the introduction, they ask one of you to keep score, and you offer yourself because, well, you don't trust Pedro.

"I'll go first" you say. "Which was my first ever role in the industry? As an extra during an episode of Stranger Things, as a voice actor in A dog's purpose" you can't help but laugh, "or as a back-up dancer in Hustlers?"

"In Hustlers?" Pedro inquires in disbelief. "You're telling me you were in Hustlers?! I didn't even know you could dance!"

Lies. You and Pedro sometimes put some bachata and dance in the kitchen. God bless Juan Luis Guerra.

"Jennifer Lopez and I are practically besties" you answer nonchalant.

You know the answer. He does too. But he chooses the last one for comedic purposes.

"I'll go with Hustlers. Now that I'm looking at you, you do have a... dancer face"

"It's okay, you can say the forbidden word. I'll take it as a compliment" you laugh, "you're wrong, though. The answer is Stranger Things"

"No way!" and it sounds as if he genuinely didn't know. Good lying son of a bitch; Jim Carrey on Liar, Liar would've been proud.

"Yes. If you look in the background of season two, on this one episode where Nancy and Steve appear to have broken up during a halloween party, you can see me drinking from a cup on a corner"

"That's so crazy"

"Yeah, I was twenty already, yet playing a highschooler" you giggle. "Wow, time flies by. Anyway, we're both at zero. Your turn"

"What film did my dad not let me see at the cinema when I was, uh, ten years old?" Pedro reads from his card. "Rambo: first blood, The Breakfast Club, Day of The Dead"

"I'm going to base this in the year you were born. Okay, so 1975. Let's see" one of the things Pedro loves about you is that you're like a film encyclopedia, but right now, that'll cost him a point. "They all came out the same year, and they were also R rated. Hmmh, I'll choose The Breakfast Club"

Your analysis was just mindless bragging really. You knew the answer the moment he started reading the question, because the anecdote came during a time he heard you listening to the movie's soundtrack ("Did you know that my dad...")

"You complain about Paul all the time, but you're just the same" he comments. "She's a real competitor, people!"

You flush in embarrasment. "Okay, that's one for me. Next question" you read the card in your hands. "What pet do I own? An orange cat named Louis after my favorite singer, a fish, or a Shih Tzu named after my brother"

The orange cat lives with you both. You're curious as to how he'll answer.

"You aren't naming a Shih Tzu frickin' Fernando" he laughs, so loud, it ends up catching up to you and the crew. "I'll go with the cat"

"That's correct" you lament. "How would you know?"

As if the damn cat doesn't love him more than he loves you.

"I follow you on Instagram" he defends himself. Clever. "We are, um, what do you call it-"

"Oomfs"

"I'm not gonna try to pronounce your made up language. Okay, my turn. Which of these characters I've played in Saturday Night Live? Naughty daddy, protective mom, or weird uncle who has a creepy sneeze" he reads out loud in a confused tone.

This is easy. It was all over your timeline.

"Protective mom" you answer on a beat.

"This isn't fair, that was really popular!" he complains.

"It's still two for me and one for you" you mock. "Now, what is the nickname the internet has given me? I won't give you clues because it's an easy one"

"Easy? You said we were million of years apart and now I'm supposed to know?"

"Well, you seem to manage Instagram so I think you'll be just fine" you tease, and Pedro just wants to rip that smirk off of you. So he caves in first.

"It's people's princess"

"What?!" your eyes grow comically large, shimmering with betrayal as you shout with an incredulous tone. "I can't believe you know" more like can't believe you said it.

"You're royalty! How am I supposed to not know that, internet darling? Besides, told you: I keep my eye on you" and he winks.

This motherfucker. Oh, he's totally sleeping on the couch tonight.

"Talk about internet darlings" your snarky tone comes out, and Pedro knows he's pissed his competitive wife off. "I guess we have a tie. Your turn"

"What are the initials of my full name?" his brows furrow. "I forget. JBPP, JPBP, JBPP"

"José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" you recite. "B, of course"

"But that's too easy, everyone with Google knows it!" but then he's leaning into your ear, whispering in a very low voice to make sure only you hear. "I'll let it pass, though. Love hearing you pronounce my name, mami"

Your face grows obscenely red. "I'm back ahead. Let's see if you can keep up. Okay, here it goes" you read the card, "what is the director I've stated I want to work with? Greta Gerwig, Pedro Almodóvar, or Quentin Tarantino"

"Pedro Almodóvar, no? You said you were jealous I had already worked with him" he playfully nudges you. Too much contact, face hot again. Maybe in group interviews you'll do better, because right now, you're doing a rather poor job at controlling yourself, even as an actor; you can already picture your agent pulling her hair behind the cameras.

"It's Greta Gerwig, actually"

"What?! No way, you told me this!" he grumbles. "This game is rigged"

"Don't get me wrong, I'm still jealous. I just think working with Greta Gerwig is peak womanhood, and I gotta live that. So, Greta, if for some reason this silly video gets to you, call me. I promise I'm not that childish"

"She is" Pedro slips in, "don't call her. So unprofessional" in a mocking exaggerated tone.

"Whatever, you sore looser. Me three, you two. Next!"

"Fine. Which of these songs would I have played at my funeral? My Heart Will Go On, Purple Rain, Nothing Compares To You"

He looks at you, silently pleading you to not answer correctly. Your competitive side screams in agony.

"I have no idea. Why do I feel you've already said it somewhere, though? I'll go with Nothing Compares To You, because the first its too corny for you and the second too epic"

He scoffs, amused at the fact that you did obey, but at what cost? Pedro's well aware his princess can get as competitive, if not worse, than Paul.

"You're saying I'm not epic enough for Purple Rain? Too bad, because that's the answer" you grunt, crossing your arms. "That's right, I am cool enough to have it played. I guess we're tied again!"

"No, you don't loose a point. It's still three to two. This just gives you the opportunity to tie"

"W-wait a minute"

"Settle down" you pat his thigh, "you can still try, handsome"

He gulps when your hand meets his skin, despite the layer of clothes. It's still something that gets him on edge, no matter the years you've known each other. And handsome? You came here for blood.

"Okay, here's your chance: what image of me became trending topic on twitter? An image of me eating a typical dish from my country, an image of me watching Deadpool and Wolverine with glasses while Hugh Jackman's shirtless scene reflects on them or C, me meeting Taylor Swift at the backstage of the Eras Tour"

"The typical dish is tempting" he muses out loud, "but I'll go with the Taylor Swift one because that sounds like something that'd trend"

"You're right" you throw your card. "I'm not complaining though. Best day of my life"

"Does this mean I'm winning?" he beams excitedly. "Oh, in your face Paul! I will finally win something!"

"Slow down, cowboy. There's still some left"

He purses his lips. "Let me have this one thing, would you? Guess not. Here it comes" he starts to read his card, "At school I competed in state competitions, in which sport? Soccer, lacrosse, swimming"

"Swimming" you answer hastily, trying not to think on Pedro wearing tight little swimsuits, as you've only seen him wearing swim trunks.

"Okay, that's dissapointing. Please continue"

"I participated in which play while I was in highschool? Hamlet, The Iliad or Much Ado About Nothing"

You doubt he remembers. The only time it ever came up, was when you visited your parent's house and a photography of you during said play was showed to him by your dad.

"The Iliad, right?" you laugh. The answer is wrong: It's Hamlet. "What? I swear it was that one! It's just you have very..." beautiful is at the tip of his tongue but he refrains himself, "...very greek features"

You can't help but laugh.

"Why of course! This is a face people go to war for"

"I agree" your heart skips a beat, "but I don't think I'll make it that far, if we talk about a war"

"You big fat liar!" you slap his arm playfully. "You've played all sort of characters, from soldiers of all nationalities and places, and like, superheroes, f*****g Joel Miller, even a DEA agent. You at least learned something!"

"Wow, slow down, this isn't a filmography recount" he jokes. Liar, you mouth to the cameras. "Okay, last one: I became a viral sensation for eating what type of sandwhich in LADbible's snack wars: BLT, PB&J, grilled cheese"

You remember the video fondly. Even your brother had sent it to you, along a text that said: Isn´t this your husband?

"PB&J, I win!" you cheer, instantly getting off the chair to do a celebratory dance. Pedro doesn't say anything, just throwing the cards away while the fondness of his eyes betrays him.

pyramiidsf: i want someone to look at me the way pedro looks at y/n mybritishstyle: guys they're just friends 😭 he's like that with all his female co-stars ㅤㅤann-gell: mybritishstyle me when i'm delusional af mandoshoney: where's that girl that's always betting her grandma??? SHE WAS RIGHTFLKRGJ

"Hello, I'm Paul Mescal. I'm here with my friends from the cast of Gladiator II" Connie and you both raise your palms to greet the camera, laughing when you realize you'd done it at the same time, "and we are going to play a game about how well we know each other for Vanity Fair" the irish man introduces the interview you're filming today.

"Did they prompt you?" Pedro speaks up, "or did you just make that up on the fly?"

You laugh a bit too loud, hoping they cut it off in the editing process.

Paul goes first, taking up a card with the first question written on it.

"Okay. Question: What's my least favorite day of the week?"

"Tuesday" answers Joseph once Paul is done reading. "Oh, you're writing it down?"

"Yeah" he answers.

"You just wrote Tuesday" Connie points out, Paul's card on his legs. You laugh along the rest.

"Yeah" he repeats laughing. "I actually, when you said Tuesday" Yeah, he said Tuesday Pedro adds on the background of laughter. "I was like...I'm gonna give everybody a point for that"

"I think I deserve a point for being observant" Connie complains.

Everyone gets a point and Paul moves towards the next question.

"What was the name of my character in Normal People?"

"Connell" both you and Joseph answer, looking at each other before squinting your eyes playfully.

"Callum" Pedro answers out loud at the same time, and you laugh. He clearly had slept when you played it for a re-watch last summer.

"No, you're out" Paul pokes Pedro next to him.

"Connel" Joseph repeats, and Fred agrees to the same answer.

Paul then asks Connie what's hers after he confirms you three.

"Connor?" she asks, confused.

"Incorrect. Three points" while pointing you three.

"You got wrong" he tells Pedro, "Callum's a different character"

"See? You just don't pay attention when you watch things" you blurt out, stopping yourself before adding the with me. It would be harder to come back from that, but so is this as everyone looks at you, even your husband, subtle panic in his eyes. Where the cameras this close? How long had you been silent?

"It's just, quick funny story" you improvise. "Pedro didn't know much about Paul's career, and as I am a fan, I took the time to show him and recommend him your stuff" Paul smiles. "Clearly, my fanatism didn't rub on Pedro but a girl can try"

He laughs, before saying "So the answer is Connell" and you try so hard to remain normal like the energy hasn't shifted.

"He only plays characters with the letter C in the name" Pedro jokes, chewing on a toothstick he seemingly pulled out of nowhere. More laughs follow, and you are so grateful for how he's handling your little metida de patada.

"What's number one on my bucket list?" he asks next, "and don't look at my answer"

The marker is the only sound to be heard, and then Pedro jokingly tries to take a peek.

"No peeking" Connie berates as Pedro laughs.

"You're not gonna be able to see that" Paul replies in an anyways tone.

You repeat the same joke, before Fred blocks you. "Not you too!"

Paul finishes after a while, Connie commenting it was long. Joseph raises his hand.

"Yes, Joseph"

"Is it to see the Great Wall of China?" he asks.

"No, but it's in that-"

"It's close, isn't it?" you interrupt.

"...family of thought" he finishes.

"It's to go and see something" Pedro points out.

"Okay. Rajasthan" tries Connie. "Go to Rajasthan, for a tour"

"Travel to South America" Paul interrupts with the correct answer, "I've never been to South America"

"I'm from South America" Pedro comments, never missing a chance to shout out his dear Chile.

Paul jokes about him getting three points while the rest of you laugh.

"I was born in South America. 17 points for Pedro"

"I want points too" you jump on the joke. "I know Spanish, so I can take you there and avoid you getting lost, mi querido amigo"

"But who was born there?" Pedro counters, "you get no points"

"I think Joseph is the only person who gets a point there" Paul adds, "because everybody just jumped on the bandwagon"

"He said to visit the Great Wall of China" Pedro protests, "which is nowhere near South America"

"It really is not" Connie agrees.

"Qué gente tan tramposa" you complain. "That's unfair. I remove my offer"

"Think about bucket list, and he came up with travel to bit" he tries to reason Joseph's point.

"And by the way, where in South America?" Pedro questions.

"Don't fight, don't fight" pleads Joseph, the calm one. Fred just sits there, enjoying the chaos.

"I want, any, I want to do a big tour of everywhere" Mescal defends himself.

Pedro doesn't back down. "'Cause it's very different"

Paul starts to get angry too. Jesus, men. Competitive men of it all.

"I know it's very different" making an annoyed face.

"Well, different is nice" you intervene, a hand placing in Pedro's left shoulder. "If you stop giving points for free, I'll come with you to the big everywhere tour"

"Alright" Paul agrees. "When's my birthday?" is the next question.

"February" all of you say.

Joseph struggles with the date first, saying seventh, then fourth. Fred tries with ninth, Pedro with eight, and then Joseph starts counting from one to two. Fred counts from eleven to twelve.

"Second" Mescal reveals. "Point to Joseph"

"Oh my God, you guys are good" Connie mentions.

"That's all my questions" and it's time to move on the next one: which happens to be your dear husband, Pedro.

"Paul is like" he brings up while the toothpick dances on his teeth, "Paul is motivated to catch up on points. He's coming for you" to pick on his competitive side as Mescal looks deep in thought.

"He's coming. He's coming" Joseph repeats as Fred laughs.

"What is my full name?"

"Oh! Pedro-" Paul tries in a blink. "Something, J? Jose? Juan?"

"Pedro Pascal, something, something" says Joseph.

"Nope"

"No?"

"Pedro Maria, Jose Maria Pascal" Paul struggles.

Pedro is about to answer when your voice cuts through the air.

"It's José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" you recite.

"It indeed is!" he says, smiling a bit too much. "She gets a point"

"Jose Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" your husband repeats in a more english-friendly pronunciation, looking at the camera while toying with his toothpick.

"I said Jose, I said Jose" Paul protests.

Pedro shakes his head. "You said Jose, but then you put it-"

Connie takes Paul's side. "You did say Jose"

"But then you put it behind Pedro which eliminate- which disqualified you" he replies.

Paul gets angry. That sore looser.

"That's absolute bullshit"

"Don't worry mate, the game has just begun" you joke, making the man more irritated. "Think you can get ahead of me?"

"Joseph is still ahead, y/n" Paul counters, still irritated. "Besides, wouldn't it be cheating? You can speak Spanish!"

"So? Not like speaking a language allows you to know every person's name Paul" you mock. He just snorts, despite still being half angry. Pedro is allowed to continue, trying not to make a face at yours and Paul's banter.

"The question is, who is my favorite actor?" he reads. As the cast members laugh, he uncaps the marker with his mouth, and now you have to try not to make a face, thinking about those teeth sinking into your flesh.

Quinn raises his hand. "It's me"

"That you're my favorite actor?"

"Yeah. You said that to me once" the bald man sounds sure of it.

Paul tries to think in the background. So do you. How can you not know this? he must've brought it up at least once.

"Do you remember?" Joseph insists.

Pedro finally remembers. "I said you were- I said I thought you were special"

"Oh" he sounds rather dissapointed.

"And special can mean a lot of things" he jokes, laughing by himself. Fred laughs with you as Joseph makes a face, your laughter turning even louder when you notice Paul all moody, trying to get this point.

"Who's your favorite actor?" Paul asks, "I think we just have to shoot from the hip here guys"

"Marlon Brando?" Connie guesses.

"Is it Harrison Ford?" Fred guesses.

"Let's go with Harrison Ford just because he's my favorite actor..."

You can't believe you didn't know this. You've re-watched and watched so many Star Wars content together. He gives you a brief look, knowing you're embarrased at your lack of answer.

"As a kid?"

"He's most influent, yeah" Pedro agrees.

"What job did I have before I became a full-time actor?" is next.

"Dancer. You were a great dancer" Paul aswers. Both Fred and Joseph repeat it, adding he was specifically a go-go dancer.

"Oh, he is" you add. "Videos of you dancing are lovely. Ever thought of getting back in the bussiness?"

He laughs, what appears to be a light blush creeping up his cheeks.

"Sure, darling. When you ask me to dance, I'll be there"

Nobody comments on this, too busy waiting for Pedro to say yes or no to the answer they believe to be right. But he isn't saying it is. Now you remember why.

"Come on, come on, come on" Paul begs.

"Can any of you guys remember?" Pedro pleads.

They insist that he danced in Spain, then New York, then settle with Spain again, even Pedro confirming so. But it still isn't the answer written on the card, no matter how much the boys insist.

"Connie?" he tries. She just looks confused.

"The answer in the card is-"

"Waiter" you answer. "You were a waiter"

Now you have three points under your belt.

"Why do you always say the answer at last?!" Paul grumbles. "You are cheating!"

"I'm not" you laugh the accusation off. "You just can't accept I'm better"

"Si que lo eres" Pedro agrees. "Es divertido hacer que se enoje Paul"

"What did you say about me? It's not fair, you're probably sharing the answers!" he's still adamant on insisting with the supposed cheating issue, making you laugh.

Now it's Connie's turn, who starts with: "How many languages do I speak?"

You put a puzzled look.

"You speak seven, eight maybe" Joseph guesses. Pauls says she speaks french, "but most likely seven"

Pedro points his finger at him. "Once he gets going, he's on a roll"

"Joe's got it" Connie agrees.

"Paul, end this reign" Pedro jokes. He looks rather frustrated.

"And the bonus points" Connie offers. "Okay, bonus, what are they?"

"This is an emperor's reign" your husband adds.

Joseph answers: Italian. Danish. English. Swedish. French. Spanish. Norwegian.

Connie agrees she speaks Spanish, making you jump in excitement.

"Oh, I didn't know that!" you beam. "Wait, does that mean you did get what Pedro and I gossiped about you?"

"What?" Joseph asks.

"Nada" you quickly correct yourself. "Yo no dije nada"

"Not that much. I just speak a bit of Spanish. I mostly dominate my own language, German and English"

"You blew our cover!" Pedro nags, hitting your bare leg, yet its devoid of anger.

"He needs a bonus" comments Connie, surprised at Joseph.

"This is horrifying" Pedro says when Joseph gets another point and a fricking bonus on top of that. "This is a slaughter"

"Oh, for which film did I have a gym built in my garage?"

Both Joseph and Paul answer the question correctly, saying Wonder Woman. The latter is quick to state they both get that point.

"That's one for me" Paul says, then looks at you. "And none for you"

You stick out your tongue at him as Connie reads the next card.

"If I were to take this cast on a vacation where would I take you?"

"Ibiza" answers Joseph. Connie agrees in Spanish, with a cute and excited correcto.

Your husband feels the need to crack a joke at Quinn's expense.

"Somebody was paying attention to Connie Nielsen very closely during the shooting of this movie"

"Okay. What is my favorite curse word in Danish?"

"Fuck" Pedro tries.

"No"

"Nobody is going to get that, Connie" Paul bickers.

"Oh, I don't know any Danish" you lament.

"At least now you know how it feels" Mescal drops, making you snort. You playfully kick him on the ribs with your shoe.

"It's very simple" Connie gives as a clue. "It's the same word in every language"

"Shit" Paul tries.

"Satan" she reveals.

Everybody is laughing in confusion at that, saying there's no way you could use that.

"Vos Satan!" Connie curses.

Now it's Fred's turn.

"What is my weirdest on-set habit?"

"I haven't noticed you do anything weird on set" Paul tells.

"I have" Pedro interrupts.

They all get on a small briefing about what could it possibly be, that it was weird, and wasn't part of his character, as you ponder. It was funny before, but now Paul is behind you by a point. So think fast.

"Yeah. I would say being yourself" Pedro jokes, but surprisingly, it works.

"Me! Five points for Pedro" he celebrates as you all laugh. "Love Fred. Oh, Fred"

"Oh, oh, okay" he moves to the next question. "What is my favorite reality TV show?"

Joseph tries with Survivor and Paul with Alone. Truth is, you don't watch any show of said kind, only vagely hearing about Love Island.

"You and I have talked about reality TV" Pedro reveals, "It's just that we never identified one"

They keep guessing shows that sound like a foreign language to you.

"You know what's offensive? That I'm the second youngest of this cast and I have no idea what are you all talking about"

"She's not to be trusted" Pascal quips, "can't trust someone who doesn't appreciate the art of reality TV"

You huff, annoyed.

"Is it A&E stuff?" Pedro asks.

"Yeah, it's the competitive cheapskates" Fred answers. "It's people that really save money on everything"

Pedro gets the point because he mentioned the A&E bit.

"There's like this amazing guy that made a stew out of fish bones, and I just thought it was incredible" he shares. Then, moves to the next question. "What is my go-to crafty snack?"

Nobody remembers eating snacks on set, and Fred gives the clue that it's a drink. Joseph says it's a smoothie, and he does remember it but it isn't the answser.

"I'm thinking of something specific. That Emerge-C that you put in the water"

"Oh, that's very good" you agree, so does the rest, even discussing the best colors

"Who in the cast would I ask to bail me out of jail?"

Everyone even Pedro agree its him. Everyone gets a point, yet Joseph remains ahead.

It's Joseph's turn. "What is my favorite sport?"

"Skateboarding" Paul is so quick to answer, earning him two points for both being correct and time.

"What celebrity do I get mistaken for?"

"Daisy Edgar-Jones sometimes" says Mescal. Of course he had to bring her up.

"No, she gets mistaken for me" Joseph jokes. "Yeah, poor Daisy. But I'm writing it down"

"That was the two letters?" Pedro notices. Still, no one gets it.

It's fucking Justin Timberlake. You'd never guess that.

"What is my favorite film franchise?"

You've probaly named all the existing franchises to no avail. You think fo your dad, a huge geek, trying to remember if there is one missing.

"Oh- Lord of the Rings!" you both answer with Paul at the same time.

"C'mon!" his celebration is short lived when he realizes you tied to him.

"What is my favorite British slang word?"

Pedro says it can't be said, but Quinn insists they can, even adding it's his favorite one too.

"We can say bad words? We can say-?" but the camera beeps over it.

The answer is Bellend. What even is that? Joseph feigns sadness and Pedro keeps apologizing, even as you sit on the chair.

"Okay. I'm last"you wiggle your eyebrows with interest. "Let's see. Okay, first question: what did I take from the Gladiator II set?"

"You took something?" Joseph asks on disbelief.

"Why wouldn't I take something?"

"Is it like an item or memorabilia?" asks Connie.

"It's an item" you uncap the marker, scribbling down the answer.

"It's a short word" Fred points out, but still can't provide a guess.

"You took the rings home" Pedro answers. You snap your had on his way, probably obvious. "What? You told me" he says.

Of course Paul complains. "Hey, that isn't fair! He knew the answer before!"

"Well, if you payed more attention to me, you'd know it"

Lies. Pedro knows because it's sitting in the jewelry box inside your house.

"See? I do pay attention" Pedro playfully hits Mescal.

"I could pay you more attention" he looks at you.

"Alright, then do. Ready? Next question: what is my go-to movie? Oh, this is a good one. I'm always changing it, but most of the time I end up choosing the same one"

They all give you a puzzled look as you scribble.

"C'mon, guys! I've said it on interviews before too. Paul?" the man shrugs. "Thought you said you'd pay me more attention. Heads up, you're doing a terrible job so far!"

"Hey!" he protests. "It's not fair if the answer's changing. Give us a clue"

"You didn't give any clues to yours!" you giggle. "Besides, I don't want you to win"

"Hey, that's against the rules!"

"I'd say it depends on the season" Pedro speaks up. You quirk an eyebrow. "Like, if it's changing, I don't think your Christmas go-to movie is the same as your summer one"

"Actually" you smile fondly, "that is true. On summer, it's Mamma Mia. So I suppose, if you can't guess the one, that'll do"

"No" he smiles, cheeky. "I know it too"

"Yeah?" you challenge, "what is it, then?"

"It's Thelma and Louise" he answers, and your heart beats fast.

"How do you know?" Paul inquires. "Somebody was paying attention to Y/n L/n very closely during the shooting of this movie"

Ah, his joke from earlier. Joseph giggles behind him. Karma, he supposes.

"She said it on an interview, guys. C'mon, learn your sources!"

"Okay" you clear your throat. "What movie got me into acting?"

"Thelma and Louise" Joseph tries.

"No" you laugh, "you're just recycling the answer"

"Is it an old or modern movie?" Connie asks.

"Hmh, old" you pause, "just not... I don't know if you'll ever guess it"

"Is it a Pedro Almodóvar film?" you shake your head. "What? You're always mentioning him!"

Pedro looks into your eyes amid the others' discussion, and you can tell he remembers the conversation.

"There isn't one"

You smile, chest pounding at his soft tone.

"That's correct"

"A trick question?!" Paul yells. "I quit"

"When there's just one left?" you tease.

"Yes, because you've been hiding it all the time but no more" he counters, pointing both you and Pedro. You feel the space getting smaller, breaths going from even to noticeable. "You are sharing answers"

You try to make your breath of relief pass as a chuckle.

"I'm not even gonna win, relax. And drop the charges, please. Loose like a man"

"You didn't explain it though" Connie speaks. "What did Pedro mean?"

"While I have many movies that are inspiration to me, they aren't the reason I chose this path. I did it because I saw an Oscar's ceremony when I was 11" you explain fondly, feeling warm at the memories. "I still remember when they handed the award to Diablo Cody for best original screenplay. I don't know, man, it moved me. What it meant for young artists who came from nothing. I guess I wanted, one day, to be the one standing there, for other dreamers to see it's possible"

"Wow, that's beautiful" Connie says.

"Thank you" you get flustered. "Suppose it was worth it, you know, to do interviews about not really knowing my cast mates" and laugh.

"How does Pedro know, though?" Joseph asks.

"We talk a lot" you clear your throat. "Last one: what indie horror movie did I make a small appearence in? I'm feeling generous because it's the last so I'll give you a clue. It's a Stephen King adaptation"

Paul is the first to speak. "You where in a-"

"Yeah but it wasn't such a huge role. Don't make yourself any ideas"

"I have no idea" Connie surrenders. "Other clue, as in how many words?"

"It doesn't even have any words" you laugh. "You give up? It's 1922. Was an extra as well. Made me think Netflix had my name highlighted in the extra call sheet, because I did so many minor and background roles during that year. Grateful, though, because now I get to be Rome's empress and not fortune teller or highschool #6"

The interview ends, and the camera may or may have not captured the last seconds, Pedro's gaze fixated with you the entire time.

elysyannemimi: we all saw that right? GET PEDRO AND Y/N IN A ROMCOM ❗THEIR CHEMISTRY IS INSANE❗ at0michips: love paul and y/n so much 😭😭 gimme enemies to lovers RN ㅤㅤbobgirllll: at0michips wait what if paul and y/n are secretly dating 😳 ㅤㅤann-gell: bobgirllll quick question are u dumb unhing3dprincess: i bet my grandma they're married. it has to be. trust me ㅤㅤstarlightt180: unhing3dprincess BESTIE U ARE BACK

You arrived in London today. The premiere will be in a few days, and things have been, well, hectic.

Lux couldn't stop talking all the plane ride, but your mind kept going back at the email your manager had sent you before you had boarded the plane.

It's catching upon you, read the haunting message. Attached below, a TMZ article that claimed a regular church attendee had seen you both getting married. It also used a lot of the noise fans had been making on social media, connecting dots or just hyping up the undeniable chemistry. It ended with a little paragraph saying it was obvios, and they're just hoping you'd confirmed it.

You came to realize you didn't care about it anymore. Sure, the pushing around annoyed you, but the thought of still keeping your marriage under wraps feels pointless now. Why wouldn't you shout to the world how in love with your husband you are?

Yet, when you arrive at the hotel, you keep the same protocol of arriving after Pedro, who has already checked in with two keys, claiming its for him and his sister, while you ask for the key to Lux's actual room. After you swipe cards with her, you head over the room you'd be sharing with your husband.

His face appears in your frame, everything happening quickly.

"Get inside. Now"

Your body is dragged inside the hotel room, not even giving you time to swipe the key for yourself.

"Pedro!" you exclaim, between surprised and confused. "What the hell is your problem?"

"Did you read it?"

"What? The article?" your tone is filled with annoyance. "Yes, I did. Why?"

"What do you mean why?" he snaps, voice raising higher. "Don't play dumb with me. You know fans have fuelled the rumors, and tabloids have started digging every corner in fucking California"

"So, what? You're acting as if people finding out is the worst thing in the world" you roll your eyes.

"It is, yes!" Pedro bursts out, caving in to the stress.

It feels like you've been hit across your face.

"Excuse me?" you seethe, hurt etched all across your features. "Would it be the worst thing in the world to admit you're married to the person you supposedly love the most?"

"I love you, y/n. It's just-"

His voice softens, trying to reach for you, yet you pull back, his hand falling to his side in an akward manner. He sighs in frustration, running a hand through his hair as he sits on the edge of the bed.

"I love you" he repeats, sounding much more sure this time.

Your frame seems smaller as your voice comes out hoarse, filled with emotion, appearing to be in the brink of tears:

"Then why do you act like you're embarrassed of me?"

He hates himself for making you feel this way, making you think things that aren't true.

"I don't. Never" he emphasizes. Then, tries to reach once again when you move a little bit closer to him, recognizing that's your way of letting him know you're ready. "You're the most precious thing in the world to me, don't ever think the opposite" then he sighs, heavy. "I'm just scared"

You silently ask him to explain, rubbing his thumb soothingly across his tattoo.

"You're so young, and I'm, well- I know we're aware of it, but people are cruel and the press is ruthless. I don't want to see your name dragged across the mud because you decided to marry me. Your career is starting, and I'd never forgive myself is something happened to you because of me. Not trying to make this about me, yeah? But this industry is fucked up. You've work hard to get to where you are, and it'll be unfair if you'd loose it. I'm scared because us..." he wavers, words trailing off. "I want us to be. I wouldn't want to live in a world without you, i-it would kill me not to have you be my wife"

You desperately want to kiss off the worry on his face, but let him finish.

"N-not saying our love is weak, or anything! That a couple of opinions or tabloids will- you know? Just, I-I don't want them to break us apart. Mi vida, you're the light of my life. Please, forgive me, I-"

He feels his throat closing up, words failing to come out. You sense the grip on your hand to be stronger, immediately letting loose of it.

"Hey. C'mere" your voice is tender, allowing him to bury his face in your stomach as you comb his messy curls with your fingers. "It's okay, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere"

He lets himself melt under your touch, his mind loosing itself in the soft of your digits and your perfume up his nostrils. He's again breathing normaly, hands now hugging your waist.

"There you go. Better?" Pedro nods, still not being able to talk. "That's okay, take all the time you need. We have all day"

"Do we?" he raises his view, his eyes soft yet there is something else to the brown shade.

You hum as to nod. "We agreed to join Lux for dinner. It's barely 1pm"

"Tell me you're thinking it too" his voice cuts throughout the air, boucing off the tapestry on the walls.

You laugh, nervously. "I don't think I do"

"Hmmh, I see" he stands up, towering over you. "You sure you don't?"

"You sure you want this?"

Before you know it, his lips capture yours in a passionate kiss, cutting off all words to be said. What a waste of air, anyway. You are quick to reciprocate, whimpering against his lips.

Pedro picks you up like you're as light as a feather, his arms flexing as he carries you and places you on the bed, frame hovering over yours. He breaks the kiss to breath, but you're pulling him back in, his hold on your hips tighter and the wet spot in your panties wetter.

"Look at you, pretty baby. So needy" he whispers against your face, hot breath lingering above your lips. "And mine. Mía. Only mine"

"I am, yes. Yours only. Need you so bad right now, papi" you answer in a rush. "Now shut up and fuck me"

"Con gusto" he chuckles darkly, "gotta keep the wife happy"

"Happy wife, happy life" you recite, stripping him off of his plain shirt, revealing his toned torso, bulging biceps defined by the movements. You gulp. "Fuck, papi. Gotta thank Marvel for this. I love all of your versions, but I can work with this too" you dreamily stare at him, your hands cupping his face.

He strips the rest of his clothing, but a cute blush adorns his cheeks.

"Yeah, well, it's Scott's fault too"

Your impatient fingers reach the middle of your panties to rub your clothed pussy, letting out a sound that darkens his hazel orbs.

"Fuck that guy" you mutter. Pedro laughs.

"Thought you said you loved the guy"

"Until I learned what he said about your body" you groan, still rubbing. "Connie told me"

His hands now travel to remove your clothes, almost ripping them off.

"Who cares? I just want to fuck you now" he breathes out, practically drooling at the sight of your damp panties. "Lemme take this off too"

He unhooks your bra, seeing the hard nipples. The urge to lick them is so bad, but his desire to fill you silly to the brim is stronger.

You see his hesitation, which is why you grab him by the neck to pull him in for a kiss. He kisses back fiercely, labored breaths as he struggles to focus on your lips, his wet mouth darting to your jaw, neck and collarbones. His hands roam all over your body, needy.

"Gotta be inside of you, mami. Can't wait any longer"

"Then stop waiting" you plead, tugging at his boxers with urgency.

Seeing you so cockhungry, lips parted and pupils blown wide makes his hard dick twitch with anticipation.

He mutters a labored fuck, aligning himself to enter your sticky folds. Pedro enters your tight pussy with a low groan, burying himself deep inside of you, used to his length by now. You're basically begging for it, nails digging and eyes supplicating.

He can't deny you anything, can he?

A messy whine leaves your widened mouth as you adjust, pleasure mixed with pain.

"Mhmm" you moan.

"Mhmm what?" he mocks. "You asked for it. Now take it, cariño"

He thrusts deeper into you, watching in awe how his dick enters your pussy; it was always perfectly, your pussy made for him.

"You're drippin' baby" his rough voice caresses your cheek. He kisses the are, giving a lick to the sweat starting to form. "S'fucking tight too"

You move your hips towards him, trying to augment the friction. The overstimulation starts to cloud your sense, reducing you to a whiny mess as you grip his steady arms.

"I can't think of anything but you, baby" he confesses between grunts, "filling up your pussy to the brim, you dripping with my seed for days"

You moan at the filthy words.

"Love how you take my dick, amor" stretching you as Pedro moves in and out. "S'made for me"

"Yes" you moan, skin slapping sounds bouncing off the walls. "Fuck, I love your dick..."

His pace picks up, and it comes to a point where he's just fucking you silly, his grip on your hips surely to leave a bruise as you keep spilling obscene sounds of pleasure from your lips.

"Your pussy's mine, yeah? No one else gets to have you like this"

"N-no, just you, Pedro. My h-husband" you manage to squeeze, more moans vocalizing the pleasure you felt with each thrust, his big dick inside of you moving in a a steady rhythm, making your eyes roll back further and orgasm closer.

Your breasts bounce with each thrust, and he finds impossible to resist the urge anymore, licking the sensible skin and hard nipples, your hands moving to his back, scratching him harshly, both chasing your release.

"Please!" you whine out loud, not caring how desperate you sound.

Harder. Faster. Rougher.

But your husband knows you, so he indeed starts to fuck you harder, heavy breaths and slippy kiss noises hanging in the spaces between each thrusts. He pants with every motion of his dick, a knot forming on his belly.

"Shit, baby. I think I'm gonna cum. Gonna come so hard"

"Do it. I'm on birth control, remember?" you groan, feeling your high approach as well. "Fill me up, please. Give me all your cum"

Your bodies move as one, precise thrusts hitting exactly that sweet spot of yours repeatedly, chasing your orgasm. For a brief moment, your eyes lock with his and then he's saying:

"I love you, y/n. So much"

Your heart skips a bit, his dick twitching inside as his gaze glimmers with adoration and possesiveness, teeth grazing your skin with marks for him to call you his.

"I love you too, Pedro. More than you know"

A final thrust is delivered. Fuck, feels so good you think you hear him say. Just like promised, he fills you with his release, shots of his thick, warm cum inside your sticky walls. You follow soon, back arching, toes curling, and both head and eyes rolling back. Pedro falls on top of you, his broad body collapsing over yours, as you both pant hard, trying to steady your pulse and breath. He then removes himself and positions you to be the one on top now, lazily throwing the covers over your bare bodies. We need to shower, you said, but he argued you'd do it later before going out.

"I needed that" and you happily hum in agreement at your husband's dragged out words.

Your head falls and rises, with the movement of his chest, silence settling on the previously filled with sex noises room. That until he speaks up:

"One day, I'm gonna fill you up so good until you have my babies, mami" he murmurs, just then realizing what he said. But you snuggle closer, hand and legs drapped over his bare body. You look at him closely, seeing nothing but certainty on his eyes.

I choose you. I'll always choose you.

"Whatever it is with you" your nose brushes his, a small sweet kiss on his lips, "I want"

His eyes shine, probably with tears or the glow of affection.

"Let's do it"

"What?" you look into his eyes for any sign of doubt, bull all you see is love. "Pedro, are you serious?"

He nods. "Wouldn't you want that?"

You feel the corner of your lips pull up.

"Never have I wanted anything more"

poppysplayground: Y/N AND PEDRO RED CARPET DEBUT AT THE LONDON PREMIER OF GLADIATOR II WTF I JUST WOKE UP ptwt is in SHAMBLES mostannoyingbillioner: UM HELLO pedro showing up with two hot women on his arms LUX GIMME A CHANCE pompeiianbollockr: WAIT WDYM THEY ARE MARRIED?!??! ALL THIS TIME?@?#? HOW???! NEED BIGGER CAPS TO SCREAM I'M GOING INSANE at0michips: that article better come out now or i'll burn the TMZ building ann-gell: not me thirsting for a married man 😭😭😭 how they kept this a secret for so long?? we should've noticed ㅤㅤunhing3dprincess: ann-gell i did. knew betting my grandma was the way all along ㅤㅤpyramiidsf: i'm gonna start betting my grandma too

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @trashcora

[noosayog]

[3:47 pm] ft miya osamu

wc: 700

--

When you slam open Atsumu’s bedroom door and plop yourself onto the carpet next to him, he barely looks up from his phone. 

“Ever heard of knocking?”

You lay belly down on the floor and scream into the worn fuzz of the carpet. 

“Gross. You know our bare, unwashed feet walk on this floor right?” 

He offers you a pillow and you take it, squishing it between the floor and your face. Atsumu waits for your breath to run out. 

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Atsumuuuuu…” you bemoan. “I’m going through a crisis.” 

He says nothing, continuing to scroll on his phone but you can tell you’ve garnered some of his interest. 

“I have a secret. Like one that I can’t tell anyone.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s so shameful. I’ve been keeping it to myself for, like, ever.”

“Yeah, I bet I couldn’t guess what it is.” The sarcasm is completely lost on you. 

“Yeah. You’d make fun of me. It’d be material for you to tease me for a lifetime,” you pause, take a deep breath. “I-

“-have a big fat crush on my brother?” 

You gape. “What?” 

He looks up from his phone. He blink at you, like you’re any simpleton. “You,” he says slowly, punctuating each word, ”have a big, fat, embarrassing, crutching, debilitating crush on my brother.” 

“I didn’t even realize you knew so many big words-”

“What?” 

The two of you freeze up. 

“‘Samu!” Atsumu exclaims. “Thought you weren’t gonna be back until later tonight.”

“I wasn’t.”

He gives no other explanation. You stay still, hoping that if you don’t move or breathe, he won’t notice you. The silence stretches.

“Ohhh.. kay. Well, I better go. You kids-”

You jolt awake at that, in disbelief that Atsumu would flee alone after what he’s done.

“I’ll go with!” You turn and run, making monumental efforts to avoid a dark eyes trained on you. 

You’re about to squeeze past when a hand slams against the doorframe, arm now blocking off your exit. Osamu stares hard at you while your gaze stays glued to the exit beyond, though it’s more like you’re staring at his bicep which is now stationed at your eye level. 

“I’m just gonna go…” you hear Atsumu mumble, ducking under Osamu’s arm barrier, stealing your escape route. 

“Jackass-” you mumble.

“Hey.” 

The low voice comes from right above your head.

“Osamu,” you greet, still staring at his arm. “I gotta go. I have plans-”

A finger comes up to lift your jaw. It’s careful, but still forceful. When your eyes finally meet his, the one finger turns into two which grip your chin in place. 

“Was what Atsumu said true?” 

It takes a lot for you to hold back a stutter. “Sounds like you heard him loud and clear to me,” you say, ready to slap his hand away. 

“I did.”

“Then why are you still asking-” 

“If it’s true,” he leans down, talking slowly. It makes you start to hyperventilate. You need a paper bag or something. “I don’t wanna hear it from my stupid brother.” 

His eyes are mesmerizing, captivating. Not even the many, many years of knowing him dulls the effect of his straightforward gaze on you. You think you hear someone concede, “it’s true.” 

“What’s true?” he whispers. He’s so close you feel his words ghost your mouth.

Autopilot talks. “That I have a big fat crush on you.” 

He eats up the next millimeter of space. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips.

Suddenly, his neck is caged inside of your arms and you’re licking up his familiar minty breath and surely this all isn’t your doing because your brain is still catching up. 

His smile widens against your lips and you can feel the smugness radiate off him. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have interrupted, then.” 

That clears the fog. You shove his shoulders away and try to ignore the fact that he doesn’t go very far.

“Why?” you demand. 

He kisses you again. “‘Cause my brother’s got a big mouth.” 

You tilt your head in confusion. Osamu takes it as an invitation to slot his face better against yours. 

His kiss almost makes you forget your train of thought, but that’s okay because he answers your question anyway. 

“And he probably would’ve blabbed that I have a big fat crush on you too.”

[honeyblackberries]

In the back seat (18+)

caleb x fem reader/mc smut

minors dni | inspired by diet pepsi by addison rae | cross-posted to ao3

word count: 1466

cw: simp caleb, soft dom caleb, he also likes to bite, pantie freak caleb, reader enables him, praise, oral (fem receiving), p in v, responsible car sex <333 (don't get freaky in a rental car irl), irresponsible intercourse (caleb doesn’t wrap it before he taps it), porn with feelings, porn no plot because idk how to write plot but i also can’t really write porn so maybe this is a secret third thing, no set pov.

names used: pips (pipsqueak but cuter), good girl, pretty girl, my girl

If Caleb is being honest with himself this moment is something straight out of his teenage fantasies. Driving along the coast with you in the passenger's seat, listening as you sing along to a song that’s been on repeat for the past half hour. Hair softly blowing in the wind as the late afternoon sun glows behind you like a halo.

You’re an angel he thinks, how else could you bless him with such a gift on one of his rare days off. The keys to his dream car—with the disclaimer that it was only a rental during his visit to Linkon—and that short sundress… His gaze unconsciously drifts from the road and onto you.

Maybe wet dreams are a better description for this. The way the hem of your dress rides up your thighs while you shift to find a more comfortable position, cotton panties peeking out underneath it.

Your eyes meet his and Caleb feels his pants tighten.

Today was supposed to be a well deserved break from all the demands that come with being the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel. Something relaxing. Yet he can’t help but feel inclined to the complete opposite. Back ramrod straight and hand, previously loose and confident on the wheel, now gripping it so tight that his knuckles strain.

“I'm happy you’re here,” you say sweetly and he has to stop himself from acting like a horny dog. “Is there anything you wanna do before we head home?”

“Eat you out,” he thinks dreamily.

“..What?”

Shit. Shit. How could he say that out loud!? He’s an idiot, a depraved fool—

“Well, okay.”

He almost crashes the car.

“Are you sure? We don’t have to—I mean—I didn’t mean to say it out loud,” you laugh at him and he isn’t sure whether to be mortified or turned on.

“Pull over.” He does.

Caleb doesn’t realise it but despite the less than innocent circumstances his silly reaction makes you smile. Happy at the expression that settles on his handsome face. How his eyes light up in a way you never really see anymore, giddy and unrestrained.

‘Cute,’ you want to tease, but he’s already rolling the tinted windows up. Undoing his seatbelt and moving into the back seat. Oh how could you keep him waiting when he’s just so eager? You undo your own seatbelt and amusedly follow along. Moving to get on top of him.

“Don’t hover pips,” he instructs—in that know-it-all voice he’s used since you were kids—and you don’t get the chance to consider it. Not when his hands trail under your skirt to grab your thighs and impatiently bring you down onto his face.

“Fuck you smell so good,” his nose presses right against your clothed heat. He inhales deeply. “I could get off just from smelling you, just from smelling these,” his lips part to let teeth graze the thin fabric of your panties.

“I can keep 'em when we're done, yeah?” His hot breath makes a shiver run through you in anticipation. His tongue licks down the centre where a wet patch starts to form. “I’ll cook dinner in return.”

You want to argue that he always cooks dinner. But you want what he’s currently offering more.

Your small hum of agreement is all he needs.

Safe to say, Caleb does mouth at you like a dog. Desperate, hungry, tongue heavy and slobbering. You have to push yourself against his chest to keep steady. The toned muscles there flexing as he eats like he’s been starved.

“Good girl, sittin’ so pretty for me,” his praise is barely understandable. Voice muffled and lower than a moment ago.

One of his hands leaves your thighs, his fingers moving to the fabric separating you. He teasingly pulls it back and lets go, a light snap against your skin. You flinch and he chuckles in response. He then pushes it to the side to expose you bare to him. Continuing to lick, this time with the addition of his thumb rubbing directly against your sensitive bud.

“Delicious,” he moans at the taste and sucks at your clit for more.

You’re not sure how long you last before everything crashes down all at once. Your orgasm racking your body and leaving you trembling. Dripping right into his open mouth.

The way your breath hitches and small whines you make when you cum always remind him how he could spend the rest of his life between your thighs. Forever wanting you pliant in his hold like this.

As you start to feel yourself coming down from the high, Caleb lightly bites at your tender flesh, making you yelp. He places a soft kiss in apology, even though you both know he isn’t sorry in the slightest.

In an act of revenge you start to reach for where he needs it. Fingertips barely brushing the large tent in his pants before he grabs your wrist to stop you.

“Next time pips, I’ll go crazy if I’m not inside you soon.” At that you’re suddenly flipped around, back pressed against the leather seat. Wedged in the cramped space afforded to you between the car and his large body.

Caleb looks down at you with a wide grin. The lower half of his face damp with your arousal and his own saliva.

“Let me put it in?”

Even when he’s like this the words come out as a question. He’ll only do it if you let him, only if you want it half as much as he does. His silver necklace dangles in front of you and reflected in it is your lips, curled up into an affirmative.

Caleb wastes no time. Hurriedly undoing his pants and freeing his hard leaking cock. Leaning over you with one hand beside your head as the other grasps his reddened tip and nudges you panties to the side with it. Lining himself up he sinks into you slowly.

“You’re heaven,” he yaps, already pussy drunk. "You feel like heaven, ugh—like you were made for me. Weren’t you?”

He shakes his head at his own words, as if a better explanation came to him. Then he resolutely bottoms out inside you.

“No, I was the one made for you.”

“Caleb—” you whine at the feeling of being so full. Arms moving to wrap around his torso, not sure if to hold him closer or push him away.

He groans, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to fight off the orgasm that would have had him cumming from the way you say his name. Testingly, he pulls out slightly just to push back in. Repeating shallow thrusts to get you comfortable.

“More,” you beg.

“Of course,” he kisses you and you can taste yourself on him. “I aim to please.” His pace quickens, becoming rough. You can’t help but clench at the immediate change.

“Oh shit—loosen up pretty girl.” You try to.

Over and over you feel his cock try to make your cunt give in to him, and when he feels the grip of your walls ease up slightly he angles his hips to hit deeper.

You claw at his back, the fabric of his shirt catching under your fingers. The feeling of him too much.

“You like that huh?”

The car windows are fogging at the spike in body heat, neither of you letting up until you both get your fill. The sounds of shallow breathing and skin against skin the only thing that can be heard.

Caleb bites your lip when he kisses you in between thrusts. Like he wants to devour you in every way possible.

“I’m—close,” you bury your face into his neck, trying to ground yourself.

He nearly slips entirely out of you. Hips starting to lose their rhythm, a sign that he is too.

“I know—fuck—cum with me.”

Your release comes first, and he doesn’t last long after.

“That's my girl.”

His movements slow as he spills into you. A white ring forming around the base of him as a mix of both your cum tries to leak out. He grinds a few times to make sure it stays then collapses on top of you.

The two of you remain like that for a few minutes, relishing in the feeling of your chests pressed together as you cool down. Caleb’s cock slowly going limp inside you.

His hands move to cradle your face, gently stroking your cheeks as he kisses all over with cherishing lightness.

“I love you.”

“Love you too Caleb.”

Then he has to go and ruin the moment.

“Panties please,” he holds out his hand. Asking for a treat.

You sigh, the post-nut clarity kicking in. “I’ll give it to you after I wash it.”

“Don’t wash it.”

“...”

a/n: rip need everyone to know this was initially supposed to be a sylus fic. also what do we think do we like me actually trying to make the layout nice/not write in all lowercase??