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shokocide · 2 months ago

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HEY, EMO BOY! - CHOSO KAMO

summary. Choso doesn’t do distractions. But then you walk into his show and ruin his focus with one look. And now, he’s handing you his guitar, his heart, maybe more. And baby, you haven’t even seen what those fingers can really do.

word count. 10.5k (i got a lil carried away)

content. mdni fem! reader, bassist! choso, mutual pining, heavy tension, choso is a tease (and so down bad), really lovey-dovey shi like bro's not even emo, pet names, smut, fingering, oral (fem rec.), p in v, mating press, praise, creampie, slight overstim, aftercare

author's note. saw this fanart and started ovulating on demand.

"Come on, it'll be fun," Shoko says, tugging on your sleeve with the persistence of a woman who knows you have no other plans. "You like music. You like hot guys. This is both."

You squint at her, unconvinced. "You said that last time and we ended up at some dude’s garage while he rapped about capitalism."

She grins. “And it was unforgettable.”

“You spilled beer on my shoes.”

“And I’ve had character development after that.”

You roll your eyes, but she already knows she's won. She’s practically vibrating with excitement as she drags you through the dimly lit alley that opens into an even dimmer basement venue—graffiti-tagged walls, sticker-covered speakers, the scent of cigarettes and something vaguely fruity in the air.

The lights are low, the crowd humming with quiet energy, and the stage is set but empty—just a drum kit, a couple mics, and a bass propped against its amp like it’s waiting for someone.

“You’re gonna love them,” Shoko whispers, already pulling out her phone to snap photos. “The music’s sick. And the bassist—”

You blink at her.

“The bassist,” she repeats, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “Tall, broody, pretty eyes. Never says a damn word on stage but plays like he’s in pain.”

You scoff. “You’ve got issues.”

“Just wait,” she says. “You’re not ready.”

And you’re not.

Because when the band finally comes on stage and the lights cut through the haze, your eyes lock onto him—tall, dark, dressed in all black with his bass slung low, rings glinting on his fingers, and a half-lidded stare like he’s seeing ghosts.

And when he starts playing? Oh. Yeah. You’re done for.

The lights dim, bathing the room in moody blue and red hues. The crowd hushes—just for a moment—then the first chord explodes through the speakers. It’s loud, raw, electric, vibrating through the floor and straight up your spine.

You don’t flinch.

You should. The guy next to you does. Shoko’s already swaying to the beat like she’s been here a thousand times. But you? You’re frozen—entranced.

Not by the music. Not really.

By him.

The bassist, standing off to the left like he doesn’t crave the spotlight, like he’s content letting the others take the lead. But he’s the one you see. The one who owns the stage.

He’s tall and he’s wearing a loose black button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top few buttons left undone to tease just enough of his pale, sculpted chest. The stage lights catch on the gleam of sweat on his collarbones, highlighting every sharp angle and subtle flex of muscle as he moves with the rhythm. His fingers dance over the bass strings with practiced ease, and that’s when you notice it—apart from the black nail polish, each one is tattooed with a letter: C-H-O-S-O.

His long, dark hair is loose, falling in waves to the base of his neck, the ends brushing over his collar. The soft purple eyeshadow dusting his eyelids makes his deep-set eyes pop, casting shadows that only add to his sharp features. A bold tattoo cuts across the bridge of his nose, stark against his pale skin.

His brows are furrowed, mouth set in a hard, concentrated line, and his fingers—god, his fingers—they dance over the strings like he was born with a bass in his hands. There’s something hypnotic about the way he plays. Focused. Intense. Like the world doesn’t exist outside of this moment.

You don’t even realize you’re staring until Shoko elbows you lightly. “Told you,” she shouts in your ear, grinning like the smug little shit she is.

You nod, but your eyes don’t move. You can’t look away. It’s like you’ve been put under some kind of spell.

And then—then—mid-song, his head lifts just slightly. His gaze cuts through the haze and crowd and colored lights, and lands right on you. You swear it. A spark of something sharp and electric zips down your spine.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just holds your gaze for a breath longer than necessary before he looks away, like he felt it too.

Like he knew.

Like the music wasn’t the only thing pulling strings tonight.

The band keeps playing, song after song bleeding into one another, but you barely register any of it.

Your eyes keep straying to him. Choso—at least, you think that’s his name, judging by the ink on his fingers. Fitting, really. It lingers in your head like a low bassline: heavy, addictive.

At one point, you swear he looks at you again.

Really looks.

And even if it’s just for a second, it feels like a live wire pressed to your skin.

You down the rest of your drink to keep yourself from combusting.

Shoko leans in and shouts something in your ear over the music—probably the band’s name or some fun fact about the drummer—but your eyes are locked on him. You nod absently, your smile weak, dazed, because how the hell are you supposed to listen to anyone else when he’s up there, commanding your every thought?

By the time the band wraps up their final song, you’re already craning your neck for a better look. You don't even realize you're moving toward the stage until Shoko’s hand snags your wrist.

"Where are you going?"

You blink, startled like you’ve been caught red-handed. "I—I don’t know."

But you do.

You’re hoping to get closer. Maybe he’ll notice you again.

Maybe he already has.

You find yourself outside the venue before you even realize what you’re doing—leaning against the brick wall, half hidden in the shadows, heart hammering like you’d just finished a set yourself. The crisp night air cools your skin, but it does nothing to quiet the heat bubbling beneath it.

You tell yourself you just needed some air.

That’s all.

Totally not waiting around like some groupie for a guy you don’t even know.

The door creaks open behind you, and a familiar pair of boots crunches against gravel. Shoko squints at you suspiciously.

“You good?” she asks, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a quick flick. “You just disappeared.”

You shrug, too casual. “Yeah. Just needed a breather.”

She takes a drag, exhales slow. “Right. A breather. After not dancing and not drinking that much.”

You shoot her a side-eye. “Do you always interrogate people for wanting fresh air?”

“Only when they’ve been acting weird since the bassist took the stage.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not slick, y’know.”

You scoff, glancing away before she can catch the way your face warms. "I don't know what you’re talking about."

Shoko chuckles like she definitely knows what she’s talking about, but bless her, she doesn’t press it. Just smirks, gives your arm a little nudge. “He was hot, though.”

You give a noncommittal hum, eyes scanning every shadowed corner, every rusted doorway, hoping—just hoping—you might catch another glimpse of him. Choso. You’re almost certain that’s his name. It suits him. Dark. Sharp.

You won’t tell her, of course, but—yes.

Yes, this was fun.

Yes, she was absolutely right to drag you here.

Yes, the bassist was fine as hell and maybe, just maybe, you’ve developed the tiniest, stupidest little crush on a guy whose voice you haven’t even heard yet.

But god, you want to.

Even just once.

A glimpse. A moment. Anything.

And just when you think it’s time to give up, to stop being delusional and head home—

The door swings open again.

And this time, it’s him.

Panic.

Real, irrational, full-body panic.

Because there he is. Standing a few feet away. In the flesh. The bassist.

Loose black button-up clinging to his frame, sleeves still rolled up from the show, revealing forearms that shouldn’t be legal. The glint of his rings catching the light. A faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone—god, you can see it because the top few buttons are still undone, teasing just enough pale skin to keep you up at night.

And his eyes—

His eyes are rimmed with that soft, dusty lavender, and they’re looking straight at you.

You glance side to side like you might Houdini yourself out of this moment. Maybe if you ran fast enough, you could avoid embarrassing yourself beyond repair. Maybe if you—

Shoko bumps your shoulder, casual and smug. “Now’s your chance.”

“Chance for what?” you hiss, heart thudding in your ears. “To spontaneously combust? To make an idiot out of myself?”

But it’s too late.

Because before you can overthink your next twelve moves or plan a strategic escape—

He’s walking toward you.

Slow, calm, confident.

Like he knows what he’s doing to you.

Before you can say something completely unhinged, like “your bass playing did something weird to my hormones”, you feel Shoko shift beside you.

You whip your head toward her, silently begging for assistance, for backup, for escape. But she just smirks, looking between the two of you like she already knows exactly how this night’s gonna go.

“Well,” she says with a wink, already turning on her heel. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull. “Shoko. No. Shoko, wait—SHOKO.”

But she’s already walking away like she didn’t just abandon you to the mercy of the hottest man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

And now—

Now he’s standing right in front of you.

He smells like sweat and incense and something dark—something addictive.

“You waited,” he says, voice lower than expected, rich. His lips curl, just barely. “Were you hoping for an autograph… or something else?”

You blink.

He knows.

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

An autograph? Something else? What the hell does something else even mean—wait, you know what it means, OH GOD—

“I—I wasn’t waiting— I mean, I was, but not like—like in a weird way or anything!” you blurt, the words tumbling out like a panicked avalanche. “Not that liking your music is weird. I mean, it was good! Really good. You were good. Not in that way, I mean—not that you wouldn’t be—oh my God—”

You slap a hand over your face.

Abort mission. Let the ground open up. End scene.

When you peek through your fingers, he’s just watching you, amused, head tilted slightly to the side.

Then—he chuckles. Actually chuckles.

It’s low and quiet and kind of devastating.

“I was right,” he murmurs, voice all honeyed steel. “Cute.”

You make a high-pitched noise that cannot be classified as human.

And Choso—Choso just leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s offering a secret.

“Relax. I don’t bite.” A beat. “Unless you want me to.”

You definitely stop breathing.

Your brain is just a dial-up tone as you stare at him, stunned into silence, because did he actually just say that? He did. He really did. And he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for your answer.

But when you open your mouth, what comes out is: “I—uh—yeah. I mean no. I mean—I don’t know what I mean.”

He grins. Not a smirk. A real, soft little grin, like he likes the mess you’ve become.

“Wanna get some air?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the alleyway beside the venue, quieter now that the band’s done and the crowd’s thinned.

You nod way too fast.

So you end up outside, standing under the faded neon of the venue sign, arms crossed to hide how jittery you are. Choso leans against the wall beside you, lighting a cigarette. The glow flares against his sharp cheekbones, his lashes casting shadows on his skin.

“So,” he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You liked the set?”

“Yeah,” you say, trying not to look at his hands. His tattooed fingers. “You were… really good.”

He hums, clearly amused. “Still not in that way?”

You bury your face in your hands again.

He laughs under his breath, then nudges your shoulder with his. “You got a name, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

Oh, how you were so very fucked.

You tell him your name. And when he repeats it softly, your knees almost give out.

Then he offers, “I’m Choso, by the way.”

Like it’s a gift.

And before the night ends, he asks if you’re coming to the next gig.

“Only if you’re playing,” you manage to say.

To which he replies, “I’ll be there if you are.”

shoko: hello?? where are you???

shoko: ANSWER ME

shoko: sigh

shoko: i didn’t want it to come to this but you leave me no choice

shoko: i’m checking your location.

shoko: GIRL WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING THERE

shoko: 2 missed calls

shoko: you better give me answers the second you're online...or else.

you: dot dot dot

shoko: WHAT. HAPPENED.

you: emergency phone call

shoko: 🧍‍♀️

shoko: you’re a terrible liar

you: ok but like.

you: it wasn’t a lie. it was an emergency. a hot boy emergency

shoko: OH MY GOD.

shoko: OH MY GODDDDD.

you: he talked to me

you: HE TALKED TO ME SHOKO

shoko: AND???

you: and i said dumb shit

you: and he still talked to me

you: and i think i blacked out at one point??

you: but like. the good kind

shoko:YOU’RE TELLING ME MYSTERIOUS HOT BASSIST MAN TALKED TO YOU AND YOU LIVED???

you: barely

you: i think i ascended actually

shoko: you’re telling me you were about to dip and then HE approached YOU????

you: he remembered me from the front row 😭

you: called me cute 😭😭

you: asked for my name 😭😭😭

you: CALLED ME SWEETHEART 😭😭😭😭

shoko: …girl.

shoko: i don’t wanna be dramatic

shoko: but i might start planning your wedding

you: pls help i’m still outside the venue trying not to combust

you: he said he’d see me again if i came to the next gig

you: SHOKO WHAT IF I GO TO EVERY GIG UNTIL I DIE

shoko: yeah bestie we’re in our groupie era now

You show up a whole forty minutes before the doors even open—Shoko said she’d meet you later, but you’re already leaning against the building like a total loser. Or an over zealous fan. Same thing, really.

You're debating if you should take a walk to kill time when the door swings open, and out steps him. Black button-up, sleeves rolled up again, a few buttons undone, and that familiar purple eyeshadow hugging his tired eyes. His lip quirks up the second he sees you.

“Excited to see me?” he asks, cocking his head as he strolls over. His voice is low, teasing—but not unkind.

Your face goes up in flames. “What—n-no. I mean yes. I mean—Shoko said she’d meet me later and I didn’t wanna be late, obviously.”

He hums, clearly amused. “Mhm. Obnoxiously early, huh?”

“Fashionably early,” you grumble, and he laughs, like you’re the most entertaining thing he’s heard all day.

Then he nods his head toward the door. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you to the guys.”

You blink. Wait. Right now??

You glance down at your outfit—cute enough for the gig, maybe not cute enough to meet him again, let alone his entire band. But he’s already walking, and you’re a fool if you don’t follow.

The door creaks open, and you’re hit with the low hum of conversation, faint music playing from someone’s phone, and the scent of sweat and cologne. Your heart’s going a mile a minute.

“Yo,” Choso calls, and two heads turn.

The tall white-haired man draped across the couch offers a lazy grin. “Oh? Who’s this?”

Choso leans against the doorframe and jerks a thumb toward you. “She’s the one I was talking about.”

Your eyes widen. Talking about?? Since when???

“Ooooh,” the other guy drawls from where he’s fiddling with a drumstick, hair tied back and gaze sharp as ever. “So this is her.”

“Shut up,” Choso mutters, but there’s a hint of pink dusting his ears. He looks back at you, eyes soft. “That’s Satoru—he never shuts up. And that’s Suguru. Don’t let him fool you—he’s worse.”

“Lies and slander,” Satoru says with a wink.

You’re frozen. Do you wave? Speak? Die on the spot?

“Hi,” you say, awkwardly.

Suguru offers a small nod. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Finally???

Satoru leans forward with a devilish grin. “Choso wouldn’t shut up about you, y’know?”

Choso visibly tenses. “Go bother someone else.”

But it’s too late—you’re already flushed to your ears, and Satoru’s howling with laughter.

“You’re cute,” he tells you. “You can stick around.”

You glance at Choso, and he gives you the smallest smile. Like you belong here.

And for the first time—you think maybe you do.

He walks ahead a bit, glancing over his shoulder as he gestures toward the sound booth. “That’s Nao, our sound tech. She’s the only reason we don’t sound like trash onstage.”

Nao waves without looking up from her monitor, and you awkwardly lift a hand back. Choso chuckles under his breath.

He keeps going, showing you the light setup, where they stash backup guitars, even the vending machine he’s pretty sure is haunted. Every person you pass gives you that look—oh, so this is the girl.

Your fingers twist nervously around the strap of your bag. It’s not like they’re being unfriendly. If anything, everyone’s nice. Welcoming, even. But still—you can’t shake the nerves bubbling in your chest.

You feel his gaze before you hear his voice.

“Nervous?” he asks, quiet and low.

You blink up at him. He’s standing close now, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, watching you like he’s not sure if he’s scaring you or if you’re just shy.

You swallow. “A little.”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “You don’t have to be. Everyone’s chill.”

You nod, but you know the tension is still written all over your face.

And then—he reaches out. Just a light touch to your wrist. “Hey. I asked you here ‘cause I wanted you to come. Not to freak you out.”

His voice is soft now, just for you.

You manage a sheepish smile. “Sorry. It’s just… new.”

He shrugs, lips curling slightly. “Yeah. But I’m not that scary, right?”

You meet his eyes, and the look he gives you—teasing but warm—makes your stomach flip.

“…Not yet,” you murmur.

And he laughs, head tilted back like you just said the funniest thing all night. “You’re cute.”

Great. Now you’re even more nervous.

He walks you over to the stage setup, lights dim and moody, the buzz of crew members in the background. The instruments are neatly arranged—drum kits, amps, tangled cords, and at the center, his guitar resting on its stand.

He picks it up effortlessly, letting the strap fall over his shoulder. His fingers settle over the strings, and he begins to strum, absentmindedly. It’s not even a real song, just soft notes—but it’s hypnotizing.

Especially the way his fingers move. Long, slender, practiced.

You're staring. Absolutely entranced.

“Wanna try playing?” he asks suddenly.

You snap out of it so fast it’s embarrassing. “H-huh?”

He chuckles, soft and low. “Bit distracted there, sweetheart. You okay?”

“I’m good. Mhm.” You nod a little too quickly, plastering on a tight smile as your face warms. You hope he doesn’t notice, but that knowing glint in his eyes tells you otherwise.

He steps toward you with the guitar, offering it out with a slight tilt of his head. “Here.”

Your hands hover uncertainly. “O-oh… I don’t know how to play.”

He just smiles. “It’s alright, I’ll help you.”

He walks behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him at your back. You swear your heart skips a beat when his arms slip around you, guiding yours. He’s gentle as he places your left hand along the neck of the guitar, adjusting your fingers over the frets, his hand covering yours.

“Just relax,” he murmurs, voice right by your ear.

Your breath hitches.

“Shit—sorry, too close?” he asks quickly, voice laced with concern.

“N-no! It’s fine! Totally fine.” You somehow manage to stand upright.

He smiles again, that soft kind of amused. “Alright, just press here... yeah, that’s it.” He places your fingers on the strings. “Now, strum with this hand—lightly. Let the strings breathe.”

You try, hesitantly dragging your fingers down the strings. A clumsy note sounds out.

Choso hums. “Not bad. Now, try a G chord—here, like this.” His fingers mold yours again, warm and careful.

You nod, barely able to think with him this close, and repeat the motion. It sounds... slightly better.

“See?” he says, praising you with a smile in his voice. “Fast learner.”

You glance up at him over your shoulder, heart fluttering. “Maybe I just have a good teacher.”

His lips quirk, and he looks at you like you’ve just made his night.

“Well,” he says, “I am good with my hands.”

Your brain short-circuits.

He grins when he hears that soft, breathy little sound escape your lips.

“O-oh,” you stammer, eyes wide as you blink up at him.

His smile deepens, all teasing and low charm. “Didn’t mean to make you nervous,” he says, though he definitely did.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but your brain’s gone completely blank. The only thing in your head is him. His voice, his scent, the low buzz of his guitar still humming in your hands.

“I—uh, yeah. No. You’re doing great. I mean—I’m doing great. I mean—thank you.”

He laughs. Not mockingly—it's soft, sweet, like he finds you genuinely adorable.

“You’re cute when you get flustered,” he says, voice quiet.

You look down at the guitar in your hands, pretending very hard to be focused on the strings.

“Maybe we’ll get you to play a whole song next time.”

You blink. “Next time?”

He shrugs casually, stepping back just enough to make you miss his warmth. “If you’re coming to the next gig, I figured I’d see you again.”

And then, with the most casual confidence, he adds, “You wanna?”

You blink up at him, heart still pounding from the way he practically wrapped himself around you moments ago. But then—somehow—you find your footing, just enough to muster a sliver of confidence.

You clear your throat, giving him a lopsided little smile. “Let’s see how this one goes first.”

His brows shoot up, clearly amused. “Is that a challenge?”

You shrug, trying not to melt under his gaze. “Depends. You think you can handle it?”

Choso laughs—a low, warm sound that vibrates in your chest more than your ears. He leans in again, just a little, his face dangerously close to yours. “Sweetheart,” he says, voice like silk, “I know I can.”

The crowd is thicker than last time. Hazy neon lights wash the walls in streaks of violet and red, and the room thrums with anticipation. You can feel the energy buzzing through your fingertips, your legs bouncing where you sit off to the side of the stage.

Choso catches your eye just before stepping on. He’s dressed in that same loose black button-up—top few buttons undone, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tattoos stark against his pale skin. His eyes are lined in that soft purple hue again, hair falling wild to his neck, and yet he somehow looks composed. Grounded. Like he was born to be here.

He doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look—half smirk, half something softer—and it sends butterflies flurrying in your chest.

And then: the lights dim. The crowd erupts. The band takes the stage.

Suguru on drums, flashing a grin at the front row before twirling his sticks and slamming into the first beat like a force of nature. Satoru struts forward, mic in hand, already oozing charisma, and Choso—Choso slides into position with his bass like it’s a part of him. One hand gripping the neck, the other plucking strings with a lazy, practiced ease.

The sound hits you like a wave. Loud. Gritty. Addictive.

But even as the music drowns everything out, your eyes stay locked on him.

Choso doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t need to. He’s in his own world—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, swaying with the rhythm like the bass is leading him. And yet, somehow, he still finds a way to glance at you.

Just for a second. A flicker of a smirk.

And that’s when you realize it.

He’s playing for them—but looking at you.

And that smolder in his gaze? That spark that coils low in your belly?

It’s all for you.

The crowd’s roars have faded, the lights are dimming, and you’re still standing there, heart racing. Choso’s walking off stage, sweat-slick and glowing, bass still strapped to his back, and the second his eyes find you he smiles. Soft. Lopsided. Like it’s just for you.

He weaves through the staff with ease, and before you can fully brace yourself, he’s in front of you, that same lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Didn’t think you’d actually stick around,” he teases, voice low, raspy from the set.

You roll your eyes, a little bashful. “Had to see if your fingers really lived up to the hype.”

His brows shoot up, surprised—and then he laughs. It’s deep and warm and it makes your stomach do flips. “Oh? And?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I’m not sure yet. Might need a private performance to decide.”

And damn, now he’s the one blushing.

He blinks. Once. Twice. And then that lazy grin deepens into something more—something that makes your throat dry.

“A private performance, huh?” he echoes, slinging the bass off his shoulder, setting it down like he’s done this a thousand times before—cool, collected, practiced. “You planning to book me?”

You cross your arms, trying to look unbothered despite the heat crawling up your neck. “Maybe. Depends on your rates.”

He steps closer, just a little, enough to tilt his head down to look at you properly. His voice drops lower. “I charge in coffee. Late-night conversations. And the occasional secret.”

“Oh?” you arch a brow. “That’s expensive.”

He chuckles, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re worth it.”

Pause.

Your heart skips. Literally skips.

And suddenly it’s too quiet. The post-show noise is just background hum now—muffled cheers, clinks of beer bottles, bandmates laughing somewhere behind you. But he’s looking at you like you’re the only person who matters in this moment. Like he wants to learn you.

So you try to deflect, half-teasing, “You say that to all the girls who hang around after shows?”

He hums, like he’s pretending to think. “No,” he says finally. “You’re the only one who stayed quiet the whole time. Just… watched.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Was it creepy?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. It was nice. Felt like you were listening to more than just the music.”

You weren’t. You were listening to him.

But you don’t say that. Instead, you glance away, pretending not to be swooning.

And then—

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging your chin with two fingers to bring your gaze back to his. “Wanna get outta here?”

Your breath hitches. “Huh?”

He smiles, easy and relaxed, eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing it. “There’s this spot a few blocks from here—low lights, decent drinks, great fries. Thought maybe I could buy you one. A drink, not a fry,” he adds with a little chuckle.

Your heart is thudding so loudly you're sure he can hear it. “Are you… asking me out?”

He shrugs, casual but undeniably charming. “If I said yes, would you say no?”

You try to play it cool, crossing your arms even though your insides are a whole storm. “You planning to pull that whole mysterious musician act the whole time?”

He leans in just a bit, close enough for your noses to nearly brush. “Only if it gets me a second date.”

And just like that, you’re done for.

“...I guess I could go for a drink.”

His grin widens. “Good. I’ll grab my jacket.”

The bar he takes you to is tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place you wouldn’t find unless someone told you about it. There’s warm yellow lighting, a soft hum of old-school music playing on the speakers, and barely anyone around. It’s intimate in a way that makes your skin feel warm before you’ve even taken a sip of your drink.

He lets you slide into the booth first, then settles in across from you. His hands rest on the table, rings catching the light, and you find your gaze drawn to them—again. Damn those fingers.

“I’m not used to people sticking around after shows,” he says, eyes not leaving yours.

“I’m not used to chasing after bassists,” you shoot back, lips twitching.

He smirks. “So I’m special, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the smile you’re fighting wins. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

Your drinks come. He lets you steal a sip of his. You let him steal two of yours.

“What got you into music?” you ask after a while, resting your chin on your hand.

He leans back, gaze flickering up like he’s searching the ceiling for the answer. “My dad, actually. He taught me how to play. He was obsessed with rhythm—said it was the heart of everything.”

You nod slowly. “He still around?”

Choso shakes his head. “Nah. Been a while. But I think he’d get a kick out of seeing me like this.”

There’s a quiet between you, not awkward, just full. You sip your drink.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do you do when you’re not falling for mysterious musicians at dive bars?”

You raise a brow. “Who said I was falling?”

His lips curve. “Touché.”

You end up telling him more than you thought you would. About your work, your favorite food, even boring little details. But he listens like every word matters. Laughs when you least expect it. His foot nudges yours under the table halfway through the night, and it stays there.

Eventually, the lights get lower, and the bar empties out.

“Guess we closed the place down,” you say, glancing around.

Choso’s watching you with a soft look. “Wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

Your heart flutters. “Same place?”

He smiles, gaze never leaving yours. “Sure.”

The night doesn’t end there.

He insists on walking you home—no arguments, no jokes, just slips his hand into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you let him, fingers intertwining with his, warmth blooming in your chest. It’s a quiet walk, but not the awkward kind. It’s that gentle, late-night calm. Like the whole world slowed down just for the two of you.

And for once, he’s not the brooding bassist with sharp eyeliner and calloused fingers. He’s just Choso. A guy who likes the way your hand fits in his. A guy who lets out a soft chuckle when you shiver and instinctively step closer.

You reach your place too soon.

You stop at the doorstep, neither of you making a move. No one says anything. You should probably say something. Goodnight. Thanks. This was fun. But the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

He steps closer instead.

There’s a breath between you. Just one.

And then his lips are on yours—soft, almost hesitant, like he’s asking if this is okay. And you answer him by fisting the fabric of his shirt and pulling him in. His hand comes up to your cheek, holding you steady as he kisses you again. Still gentle. Still quiet. But it makes your head spin all the same.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close, forehead pressed lightly to yours.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

Your heart might’ve actually stopped.

You slam the door shut behind you, back pressed against it, heart pounding so hard you swear it echoes in your ribcage. You stare at your phone, wide-eyed, thumbs flying:

you: SHOKO

you: SHOKO I NEED YOU TO WAKE UP

you: THIS IS AN EMERGENCY

shoko: it’s literally 1am

shoko: you better be on fire

you: I KISSED HIM

shoko: what

shoko: WHO

shoko: WAIT

shoko: WAIT.

you: YES. HIM.

shoko: THE HOT GUITAR PLAYER???

you: CHOSO. YES. YES. YES

shoko: oh my god you’re so gone

you: HE WALKED ME HOME. HELD MY HAND. KISSED ME. I AM GONE GONE.

shoko: AAAAAAAAAAA

you: HE SAID ‘GOODNIGHT SWEETHEART’

shoko: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

you: I KNOW

You toss your phone onto the bed, face planting right after it, squealing into your pillow like a teenager all over again.

Because you kissed him. And he kissed you back. And you’re never sleeping tonight.

You’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room is quiet—too quiet. You’ve already scrolled through your entire feed twice, tried reading, even got up to make tea you didn’t drink.

Then your phone lights up.

Incoming call: Choso.

Your heart stutters.

You take a breath and answer. “…Hey.”

His voice is warm on the other end. “Hey. Did I wake you?”

You shake your head even though he can’t see. “No. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Same,” he says. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your breath catches. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, like it might calm your racing heart.

There’s a small silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s soft. Comfortable. Like neither of you really wants to hang up.

He speaks again, voice a little lower. “You looked beautiful tonight.”

You try to play it off. “I put in effort. Didn’t want to show up looking like I did last time.”

“I liked that too,” he says. “But tonight you walked in and I forgot what the hell I was doing.”

You laugh, hiding your face in your pillow.

“I wish I could see you again right now,” he says.

“Me too.”

“Would it be too much if I said I kinda wanna fall asleep listening to you?”

Your stomach flips.

You whisper, “Then stay on the line.”

And you do—both of you quiet, just breathing, letting the silence say everything.

You're standing outside the bar, shifting on your feet, trying to act like you haven’t been checking your reflection in every window on the walk here.

This time, your outfit isn’t casual by accident. You planned it. Styled your hair just right. Even put on that gloss you save for special occasions.

You step inside and immediately spot him, leaning back against a booth like he owns the place, one arm slung lazily over the seat. His eyes lift—

—and damn.

They rake down your figure slowly, like he’s drinking you in. And when they return to your face, there’s the smallest upward curve to his lips.

“Someone dressed to impress,” he says, standing as you approach.

“Maybe,” you reply, coy. “You are the star of the show, after all.”

He laughs low in his throat, hand brushing the small of your back as he leans in close. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Tonight, it’s all about you.”

You sit together in the same booth. This time, there’s no ice to break. The tension simmers warm between you—his knee bumps yours under the table and doesn’t move away. His eyes flicker to your lips more than once.

“So,” you say, swirling your drink. “What happens after drinks, guitar boy?”

He smirks, elbow resting on the table as he leans closer. “Depends. You thinking of letting me kiss you again?”

You raise your brows. “You planning on asking?”

He tilts his head. “I could. But you didn’t seem to need much prompting last time.”

That earns him a playful nudge. And a flustered laugh.

He grins. "Take your time, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

The jukebox crackles as the next track begins—slow, dreamy, sweet.

Like falling asleep in warm hands. Like the part in a romance film where everything softens.

Before you can even comment on the vibe shift, Choso is rising from the booth, hand extended toward you, palm up.

Your brows lift. “You serious?”

He just smiles. “C’mon. Dance with me.”

You hesitate—because, what? In a bar? With him?? But his fingers flex, waiting, and the way he’s looking at you makes it impossible to say no.

You slip your hand into his.

He pulls you gently to the dance floor. There’s no one else there—just you, him, and the slow rhythm bleeding from the speakers. His hands settle on your waist. Yours hover awkwardly before curling behind his neck.

You sway.

“I didn’t take you for a dancer,” you mumble, heart skipping when he twirls you suddenly.

He smirks. “I’m not.”

You laugh—loud and sweet and so damn happy. And when he catches you again, you don’t pull away. Instead, you melt into him, resting your head against his chest, feeling the soft thud of his heartbeat under the fabric of his shirt.

His hand traces slow circles on your back.

“This okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, nuzzling in closer. “Yeah… It’s perfect.”

He rests his chin lightly atop your head. And neither of you says another word.

Not when the song ends.

Not when the next one starts.

Because for that moment—it’s just the two of you, swaying under dim lights, held together by the sound of a love song.

You step outside into the night, your breath curling in pale puffs. The air is colder than before, wrapping around your bare arms like a whispered warning. You shiver.

Without a word, Choso shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, tugging you into his side. His hand rests at your waist, warm and firm, grounding you.

For a while, you just stand there—side by side, quiet. The city buzzes in the distance, cars passing, streetlights humming.

You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you. Hard.

Like he’s trying to memorize the slope of your jaw. The way the wind lifts your hair. The way your lips part just slightly when you breathe.

“What?” you ask, a soft laugh in your voice, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just wets his lips. His fingers flex against your hip.

“I just…” he starts, voice rough with restraint. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

You blink, heart thudding once. Twice.

The pause stretches.

“Yeah?” you murmur, leaning in a fraction. Teasing.

He nods once. Barely.

You smile—heart pounding in your throat. “So why don’t you?”

And that’s all it takes.

He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing the apples of your cheeks like you’re made of porcelain. And when his lips finally meet yours—it’s soft. Slow. Full of the tension he’s been carrying all night, unspooling between you in breathless silence.

His nose bumps yours. Your hands fist the front of his shirt again. Just like last time.

Only this time, you don’t stop at one kiss.

And when you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice low:

“You’re gonna ruin me, y’know that?”

You laugh, barely a whisper against his lips, breath mingling with his. “Then I guess I better make it worth your while.”

That gets a reaction.

His gaze darkens just slightly, lips twitching into the faintest smirk as his hands slide down from your cheeks, one settling at the nape of your neck while the other pulls you flush against him. “You trying to kill me, sweetheart?”

You don’t answer.

Because you’re already kissing him again.

This time it’s different.

Less hesitant.

More hungry.

Your fingers find his hair, tangling in the dark strands that fall just past his neck, tugging gently until he groans into your mouth. He kisses you deeper, like he’s starved, like he hasn’t been thinking about this since the first night he met you in the crowd, eyes wide and awe-struck.

His hand grips your waist, fingers digging in—not too hard, but enough to make your breath hitch.

You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip, tongue flicking against it before pulling back just enough to breathe:

“You’re trouble.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips kiss-swollen and heart racing. “You’re one to talk.”

And he laughs—low and breathy, pressing another quick kiss to your mouth like he can’t help himself.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let me walk you home before I get any worse ideas.”

The walk back is quiet—but not the awkward kind. It’s heavy with something, charged with unspoken words and lingering touches. His fingers brush yours with every step, and each time it happens, your breath catches.

You swear he’s doing it on purpose.

But you don’t stop him.

The streetlights cast a soft glow on him, turning his features golden for a moment, then shadowed the next. He looks… different like this. Softer. Less like the untouchable bassist who had you practically drooling the first night, and more like someone you could fall for if you’re not careful.

You sneak a glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

You look away fast, heart leaping, and he chuckles under his breath.

"Cold?" he asks, tugging you gently closer.

You nod, even though that’s not why you’re shaking.

His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your head fits against him perfectly, and his hand rubs slow circles against your arm, warm and grounding.

“Still nervous?” he murmurs.

You laugh quietly. “Little bit.”

“Me too.”

You tilt your head to look at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nods. “You make me nervous.”

You’re about to say something—anything—but then you’ve reached your place.

And suddenly, you don’t want to go inside.

He stops in front of your door, letting you go with a reluctant sigh. His hand lingers on your arm for a second longer before falling away.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and asks, “You gonna call me?”

You nod. “If you answer.”

He grins. “Always.”

You hesitate—just for a second—and then press a soft kiss to his cheek. It’s quick, but the way his breath hitches tells you it did the trick.

“Goodnight, Choso.”

And before he can pull you in again, before you can throw all common sense out the window and kiss him properly, you slip inside.

Heart pounding. Lips tingling.

You wake up with your heart still pounding.

And not because of a nightmare.

Nope. This was worse.

Because it was real.

You kissed Choso.

Again.

And not in a dreamlike, floaty, “this could be a maybe” kind of way. You kissed him after swaying in his arms like some romcom protagonist. You kissed him, and he kissed you back, and you felt your knees give just a little, and you definitely whimpered against his mouth like a fool.

You groan and roll onto your side, burying your face in your pillow.

You’re so doomed.

Your phone vibrates.

You blink and grab it, squinting at the screen.

choso: didn’t want to wake you but i just wanted to say

choso: thank you for last night

You freeze.

Sit up slowly.

Your heartbeat? Violent.

You tap out a reply, delete it, rewrite it, delete again. Finally, you just go with:

you: it was nothing :)

Immediately after sending it:

you: i’m being weird aren’t i ignore me please

And then:

you: but also don’t ignore me because i liked it and i like you and i’m going to stop talking now before i make it worse

Your phone is dangerously quiet for thirty seconds.

Then it buzzes again.

choso: you’re not being weird.

choso: you’re being adorable

choso: i like you too

choso: also… can i see you again tonight?

You shriek into your pillow.

And then type:

you: you better

You weren’t expecting it when he texted you earlier that day.

come to the studio. i want you to hear something.

Now here you are, walking through a narrow hallway that smells like cigarettes and worn leather, Choso’s voice telling the receptionist to let you in. He meets you at the door, hoodie on, hair loosely tied back, a pair of headphones slung around his neck.

“Hey,” he murmurs, eyes raking over you with a small smile tugging at his lips.

You smile back, brushing past him as he closes the door behind you. The studio is dimly lit, a warm orange hue cast by the LED strips lining the edges of the ceiling. There’s a worn-out couch in the corner, an empty coffee cup on the desk, and wires everywhere.

He leads you to a chair beside him. “Wrote something last night. Thought you might want to hear it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Inspired by anything?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just gives you a look.

He clicks a few keys on his laptop, and music starts playing—slow, rich bass, soft drums, a melody that feels like it’s watching you breathe. Then lyrics—his voice, lower and raspier than usual.

And the words? They burn.

It’s about being unable to get someone off your mind. About how they haunt your quiet moments. About wanting something that feels dangerous and delicate at the same time.

When it ends, there’s a beat of silence.

“…You wrote that?” you ask.

Choso nods, slow. “All of it.”

“It’s…” Your voice catches. “It’s beautiful.”

He leans back, watching you carefully. “It’s about you. In case that wasn’t obvious.”

The room feels smaller. Hotter. You swallow.

You murmur, “I didn’t know I had that kind of effect on you.”

“You don’t,” he says, stepping closer. “You have more.”

He’s standing between your knees now. One hand on the armrest beside you. The other gently tilts your chin up.

“Can I kiss you again?”

You nod before your brain even catches up.

And then he does—slower this time. Like he’s savoring it. His lips slot against yours and the world blurs. His hand slips to your waist, drawing you closer, and you wrap your arms around his neck without thinking.

The music plays on in the background. But neither of you hears it.

His lips are warm against yours, stealing every thought from your head. One kiss turns into two, then three—deeper, slower, more intense. His hands settle on your waist, firm, grounding. You melt into him without thinking.

But then—between kisses, you manage a breathless whisper, lips brushing his as you speak.

“Choso, not here—there’s people around.”

His eyes open slowly, pupils blown wide. He glances around, then back at you, and that look in his eyes? It's trouble.

Without saying a word, he grabs your hand. “Come on.”

You barely catch your breath before he’s pulling you along, weaving past people, straight toward the exit. His grip doesn’t loosen, even when he’s fumbling for his keys. He unlocks his car in a rush and opens the passenger door for you before sliding into the driver’s seat himself.

The whole ride is charged—silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional stolen glance. He taps the steering wheel with his fingers, the ones that had just been ghosting over your skin minutes ago.

When he pulls into the parking lot of his building, he doesn’t waste time. Hands still locked with yours, he leads you upstairs, heart pounding just as fast as yours.

The second the door shuts behind you, he turns around—and everything finally snaps.

Choso doesn’t pounce. He doesn’t rush.

He leans against the door, just watching you. Taking you in like it’s the first time. His eyes roam your face, your lips—your heaving chest. There’s a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to smile.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, husky.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

That’s all it takes.

He pushes off the door slowly, strides over like a man with nowhere else to be. His hands find your waist, gentle at first, then firm. His head dips down, lips ghosting over your jaw, your cheek, your mouth—but he doesn’t kiss you yet.

“You look so pretty tonight,” he murmurs, voice thick with restraint.

His nose grazes your neck, and you shudder. Every place his breath touches feels like it’s burning.

“You always look pretty,” he adds, kissing just below your ear now. “But tonight?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, lips brushing lower.

“You’re killing me.”

Your hands find the hem of his hoodie, fingers twitching as you lift it up slowly—exposing the pale skin of his stomach inch by inch. He lets you, arms raised, letting the fabric slide off and onto the floor. The tattoos swirl over his chest, catching the soft glow of the apartment lights, and your fingers can’t help but trace them.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice rougher now.

You shake your head. “No. Just… can’t believe this is real.”

Choso tilts your chin up, makes you look at him. His gaze is so intense it steals the breath from your lungs.

“It is,” he says. “And we’ve got all night.”

He kisses you again, this time softer, slower. No rush. Just lips moving against yours with quiet reverence, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.

His hands stay on your waist, warm and steady, but you feel the way his thumbs are drawing lazy circles on your skin—like he’s trying to ground himself. Like he’s savoring the moment as much as you are.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He hums into the kiss, one hand sliding up your back, fingers curling into your hair.

The path to the bedroom is a blur.

You’re not sure how you get there—if he carries you, or if you walk, tangled up in each other, lips never parting for more than a breath.

The room is dim, lit only by the city lights bleeding through the blinds. It paints both of you in silver and shadow. Choso backs you toward the bed, and when your knees hit the edge, he pauses. Looks down at you like you’re something sacred.

You swallow, heart thundering. “Are you gonna keep staring or—”

“Shh.” He dips his head, kisses your neck, just under your jaw. “Let me take my time with you.”

You shiver. God, his voice—low, velvet, dangerous.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

He pushes you onto the bed and you bounce slightly on it. He’s crawling up your body, hands trailing along your sides, slipping beneath your shirt—fingertips so gentle it sends goosebumps across your skin. You raise your arms, let him take it off. He discards it carefully, almost reverently, and then he’s touching you again.

It’s not frantic. It’s worship.

The way he kisses down your chest, murmuring things you can’t even process. The way he handles you like he’s scared you’ll break. His mouth is everywhere—leaving warmth and wetness and little marks that’ll be there tomorrow. Proof that this happened. That he happened.

When his hands slip lower, and he finally asks, “Can I?”—you nod, breathless, and he grins, slow and sinful.

“Good,” he whispers. “Because I’m not stopping tonight.”

His touch starts soft. Teasing.

His fingers graze along your thigh, slipping under your skirt. Just the pad of one finger tracing your inner thigh, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to unravel you. He watches your reactions closely—every breath, every twitch, every clench of your thighs like it’s his favorite show.

“Already shaking,” he murmurs with a smirk, fingers drifting up higher, stopping just at the edge of your underwear. “And I’ve barely touched you.”

When he finally slips his hand beneath the fabric of your panties, his fingers are warm, his touch confident. He finds you wet—soaked—and he groans low in his throat.

“Fuck... all this for me?”

His middle finger drags through your folds, slow and deliberate, gathering everything, spreading it around before circling your clit—just barely touching it. It’s maddening.

“You’re already this worked up,” he breathes, leaning in to kiss your jaw. “What happens when I really start?”

He’s rushing to take your underwear off, almost ripping them in the process. Then—finally—he eases a finger inside.

It’s slow at first. Just one finger, shallow thrusts, curling up and stroking that spot inside you until your hips start chasing him, greedy for more. He watches your face the whole time, eats up every whimper.

“Choso… more,” you whisper, barely able to speak.

His eyes flick up, dark and hungry. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You can take another?”

You nod, breathless.

He slides a second finger in—thicker, deeper. His palm presses against your clit as his fingers work inside you, curling just right, just enough pressure to make your back arch. His other hand grabs your thigh, keeps you open and steady as he builds a rhythm.

It’s obscene—the wet, messy sounds of his fingers fucking into you—but it only makes him grin.

“You hear that, sweetheart?” he says lowly.

You’re gasping now, clutching the sheets, legs shaking. He really is good with his hands.

“C’mon,” he whispers against your neck, tongue darting out to taste you. “Let go for me.”

And with one more curl, one more stroke—you do.

You come around his fingers, back arching, a moan ripped from your chest as he keeps moving through it, working you until you’re twitching, thighs trembling against him.

When he finally pulls his fingers out, he brings them to his lips.

“Tastes even better than I imagined,” he says, voice low and ruined.

He doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath.

The second those words leave his mouth, his gaze drops—hungry, wicked—and before you can ask what he’s doing, he’s already moving.

He’s moving down your body, settling between your legs, hands parting your thighs, spreading you wide open for him. You barely manage a gasp before his mouth is on you.

And fuck.

He licks a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—moaning against you like he’s tasting something divine. His tongue is hot, wet, firm—flicking against your clit before flattening and dragging against it again. He’s not shy. He devours.

You twitch under him, gasping, and his grip on your thighs tightens.

“Stay still for me,” he murmurs against you, breath fanning over your soaked heat. “Let me eat, baby.”

And oh, does he eat.

He buries his face between your legs like he’s starved—lips and tongue and heat and mess, sucking your clit into his mouth, groaning when your fingers grab his hair and pull. His nose nudges your clit, the piercings in his ears cold against your thigh.

His hands slide under your ass, lifting your hips just right so he can get even deeper. His tongue fucks into you, messy and wet, before he pulls back to mouth at your clit again.

You’re a wreck—panting, eyes rolling back, legs trembling on either side of his head. He loves it. You can tell by the way he hums into you, nose buried in your folds, like every whimper out of you is a personal victory.

Your thighs start to close around his head—he lets them. Arms locking around your legs, holding you there like he wants to be suffocated. And with one more flick of his tongue—one more swirl, one more perfect pressure—

You cry out, hips jerking, thighs clenching, and he doesn’t stop. He works you through it, licking, kissing, groaning against your cunt like he’s drunk off you.

When your body finally slumps back against the mattress, dazed and spent, he pulls back just enough to look up at you.

His mouth glistens. His eyes are wrecked.

And he licks his lips.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Choso’s mouth is still hot against yours, the kiss messy and hungry, his tongue sliding over yours like he can’t get enough of the taste of you.

He unbuckles his belt, pushing his pants down along with his boxers, his girthy length slapping against his abdomen. Your mouth parts in a soft gasp at the sight of it. But you don't have time to marvel at it. His hands are already on your thighs, pushing them up—higher, higher—until you're folded in half in a mean mating press.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough, chest heaving. “Wanna see your face while I fuck you.”

Your breath catches.

His hands hook behind your knees, holding them open as he shifts forward. The position has you completely laid out for him, helpless beneath the weight of his body. You feel his cock, thick and hard, dragging over your slick entrance—and then he pushes in, slow and deep.

You whimper—a sound torn from your throat, soft and wrecked, your back arching as he presses deeper.

Choso groans, low and guttural, head falling forward to rest against yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek, and you swear you can feel the tremble in his arms as he holds himself still—just for a second.

“F-fuck…” he breathes, voice rough with restraint. “You’re so fucking tight like this…”

His hips roll forward again, slower this time, the movement deliberate—like he wants you to feel every inch. “Feels like you’re made for me,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a rasp.

Your fingers scramble across the expanse of his back, nails dragging, searching for something to ground you. His shoulders, his arms, anything—because the way he’s filling you, stretching you, it’s too much and not enough at the same time.

Then he starts to move. Deep. Steady. And the new angle is devastating.

He hits every spot just right, his cock dragging along your walls, slow and purposeful, grinding into the deepest parts of you with every thrust. Your legs tremble in his hold, pinned back and open for him, the pressure building with each stroke. Your jaw falls open, a moan slipping free—high-pitched and desperate.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

But it’s not pain. No—never that.

It’s overwhelming. It’s perfect. It’s him.

“You’re taking it so well,” he grits out, eyes burning into yours as his pace deepens. “Fuck—just like that, baby. Taking all of me.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted as your moans spill freely. He leans down—closer, closer—until your thighs are nearly flush to your chest and his weight settles on top of you, heavy and grounding.

And he fucks you.

Not rough, but intentional—each stroke slow and deep, hips rolling so he never leaves you empty. He watches your face, watches every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes. Like he’s trying to memorize it. All of it.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling when his thrusts grind just right. His name escapes you in a whimper—over and over, his name like a mantra.

“Choso—” you gasp. “Oh my God—Choso, I-I…”

“I know,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

You’re soaked—messy, slick dripping down your thighs, pooling where your bodies meet. The wet slap of skin on skin is loud in the room, underscored by the soft creak of the mattress and your broken cries.

He shifts, angling just so, and you shatter.

Your body seizes, nails digging into his back as your orgasm rips through you, sudden and all-consuming. A sob leaves your throat, your back arching as your walls flutter and clamp down around him.

With a low groan, he shifts—gently, carefully—his hands sliding beneath your thighs to lower them. You gasp softly when he wraps your legs around his waist, keeping you close, keeping you full, as his hips press flush to yours.

He groans—a raw, broken sound—his hips stuttering. “Shit—fuck, I’m close—where do you want it, sweetheart?”

You barely think. You just nod, desperate. “Inside—please—inside.”

That’s all he needs.

He presses in deep, body trembling, a shudder running through him as he spills into you, cock twitching with every pulse of his release. You feel the heat of it—so much, thick and warm as it fills you up. And still, he doesn’t stop.

He keeps moving—soft, shallow thrusts that drag it out, that make your body twitch and whimper, overstimulated and glowing.

His name slips from your lips again, quieter this time, your fingers trailing down his back, soothing over sweat-slick skin.

And then—finally—he stills.

Buried to the hilt. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting over your collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, voice low and reverent.

His hands settle on your waist, thumbs stroking your skin like he’s grounding himself.

"Don’t want to let go just yet," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion and aftermath. He leans down, kissing your shoulder, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Feels too good like this.”

You hum, dazed and pliant, arms winding around his neck as your forehead rests against his. His weight, his warmth—it’s comforting. Heavy in the best way.

Every small shift makes you gasp—too sensitive, too raw—but you don’t ask him to move.

You don’t want him to either.

And neither does he.

So he stays there—buried deep, your legs locked around his waist, your bodies tangled as if they were always meant to be like this.

After, when the haze finally starts to fade, Choso is the first to move—but only just.

He brushes your hair from your face with slow fingers, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and full of concern. Gentle. So gentle. “Was that… too much?”

You shake your head, barely able to speak as you whisper, “No. It was perfect.”

He exhales, and the breath sounds like relief. Like he needed to hear that.

Without a word, he slips out of bed, grabbing a warm cloth and returning to you. He moves with such care—his hands slow, wiping between your thighs with reverence, like you’re something precious. You flinch a little at the sensitivity, and he mumbles a soft “Sorry” as he presses a kiss to your knee, his gaze flickering up to check on you again.

Once you’re clean, he tosses the cloth aside and crawls back under the covers. You instinctively curl into him, and he opens his arms wide, pulling you in, tucking your head beneath his chin.

His fingers trace slow, lazy circles along your spine. Your legs are tangled with his, your body warm and sore and safe. He smells like sweat and sex and his cologne, and you want to fall asleep in this exact moment, forever.

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs against your hair.

You blink up at him. “That’s my line.”

He smiles, barely-there but so real. “Guess we’ll take turns.”

You laugh—quiet, muffled against his chest—and he hums along with it, fingers still moving along your back.

A silence settles between you, but it isn’t awkward. It’s peaceful. The kind that only comes after letting someone see you bare in every way.

He breaks it eventually, voice thick with sleep. “You staying over?”

“Mhm.”

“You sure?”

You nod, eyes fluttering closed. “Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.”

And neither would he.

So he kisses the top of your head one more time, murmurs something soft and unintelligible against your skin, and lets himself fall asleep with you in his arms.

Exactly where you both want to be.

author's note. this is just pure choso brainrot because i could not get that fanart out of my head so ofc i had to write something about it. (choso girlies, i'm borrowing your man for a while, thank you)

please do not steal, modify or translate my work.

8K notes · View notes

theetherealbloom · 4 months ago

Text

IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - CH.6

Chapter Six: I Keep These Longings Locked In Lowercase Inside A Vault

Summary: You find yourself sharing a hotel suite with Pedro Pascal while working on the set of Fantastic Four: First Steps. Despite your different roles—he’s the star, and you’re behind the scenes. Nothing could ever happen between you two… right?

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Eventual SMUT, Crush, FLUFF, Slight Angst, Trope(s), Swearing, Anxiety, Lots of Cliches, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Paparazzi, Social Media, Swoonworthy, One-Room Trope, They were roommates, Strangers-to-Lovers, Actors, Hallmark Tropes, the reader can sing and play guitar, the reader is shorter than Pedro, the reader has hair, Alternate Universe, Awkward!Reader, Shy!Reader, Fan Girl!Reader, Cringe, Embarrassment, Starstruck, On-Set Accident, Blood, Stitches, Medic

Word Count: 9.6k

A/N: GOOD MORNING CHICKENS 🙂‍↕️ Lowkey, I ran into a wall writing this chapter LOL. Anyways, almost murdered the reader cause why not HEHE. If we’re doing hallmark tropes— I’M GOING ALL THE WAY, BABY.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Guilty As Sin? By Taylor Swift

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist |Main Masterlist|

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EARLY MORNING

Sunlight filters softly through the windows, casting a warm, golden glow over the room. The air feels calm, almost too calm, as if it knows that something is about to shift.

“You know we’ll still see each other at work, right?” you say with a soft laugh, zipping up your suitcase and trying to keep things light.

Despite your tone, there’s a strange ache in your chest—a heaviness that lingers just beneath the surface. You keep your focus on the zipper, avoiding his gaze for a moment too long.

Pedro stands in the doorway, arms crossed, his shoulder resting casually against the frame as he watches you with that familiar ease. But there’s something different in his expression this morning, something quieter. “Doesn’t mean I’ll miss you any less,” he replies, his voice warm but tinged with a softness that makes your heart stumble.

Then his lips curl into a teasing pout. “Especially the cuddles.”

Your breath catches, heat rushing to your cheeks as flashes of last night fill your mind—the two of you curled up together on the couch, your head on his chest, his arm draped around you. You’d fallen asleep like that, wrapped in warmth and comfort, his steady heartbeat beneath your ear. Neither of you had moved until morning.

You clear your throat, trying to play it off. “I’m sure you’ll survive without a cuddle buddy for one night.”

“Survive, yes.” Pedro sighs dramatically. “But thrive? Highly questionable.”

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his antics. The knot in your chest loosens just a little. Stepping closer, you reach out and gently take his hand. Your fingers brush against his palm, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

“Walk me to my new room?” you ask, your voice quieter now, almost shy.

Pedro’s eyes soften as he looks down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “Of course,” he says, his voice steady, reassuring. “Lead the way.”

The hallway is peaceful in the early morning light, the soft hum of the hotel’s quiet routine filling the air. Pedro stays close, his shoulder brushing yours with every step. It feels effortless, this closeness, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

When you reach your new room, you pause, staring at the door as your grip tightens around the keycard. Suddenly, you’re not so sure you’re ready to walk in and let the bubble of the past week burst.

Pedro notices, his head tilting slightly as he studies you. “You okay?”

You nod, giving him a small smile. “Yeah. Just… feels a little weird, that’s all.”

He steps closer, his hand resting gently on your arm. “Weird how?”

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. “Like… we’ve been in this little bubble all week,” you admit, your voice barely a whisper. “And now it’s about to pop.”

Pedro’s brow furrows for a second before his expression shifts into something reassuring. His thumb traces a soothing line against your sleeve. “It doesn’t have to pop,” he says softly. “It can stretch—change shape a little. But it doesn’t have to go away.”

You blink up at him, caught off guard by how easily his words settle the swirling uncertainty inside you.

“You’re right,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re annoyingly good at this.”

Pedro grins, stepping back just enough to give you space while still keeping his hand on your arm. “It’s one of my many talents,” he teases.

You swipe the keycard and push the door open, the soft click of the lock breaking the moment. “Well, thanks for the walk,” you say softly, standing just inside the doorway.

He lingers for a moment, his eyes lingering on yours like he’s not quite ready to leave. “Anytime.”

There’s a beat of silence, charged but gentle, before he takes a step back.

“Pedro?” you call after him, your voice instinctive and soft.

He turns back, one brow raised. “Yeah?”

You hesitate for just a second, then smile. “See you tomorrow?”

His face lights up in that easy, familiar way that feels like home. “You can count on it.”

You watch him disappear down the hall, the warmth of his presence lingering in the air long after he’s gone. The ache in your chest eases, replaced by something lighter—something that feels suspiciously like hope.

With a soft sigh, you close the door behind you and lean against it for a moment, letting the quiet settle around you. It feels strange not having Pedro right there, filling the space with his warmth and playful banter. The silence feels heavier now, but you shake it off and turn toward your suitcase.

Unpacking is slow and deliberate, each item placed carefully, like it might somehow ground you in this new room. Eventually, you unzip the side pocket and spot the little polaroid photobooth strip you’d tucked away.

You pull it out, your fingers brushing gently over the glossy surface. The photo was taken just yesterday, but it feels like a lifetime ago—a perfect little slice of happiness frozen in time. Pedro’s grinning wide in the picture, his arm slung around your shoulders as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You’re laughing, caught mid-giggle, eyes bright and cheeks flushed from too much teasing.

Your lips curve into a small smile at the memory. That day… it’s up there in your top three moments in life, one of those days you pray you’ll never forget—if you’re lucky.

It had started with a spontaneous coffee run that turned into hours of wandering through the streets, popping into bookshops and vintage stores, taking goofy photos at every opportunity. Pedro had insisted on the photobooth, dragging you inside with that mischievous glint in his eyes.

You’d rolled your eyes but followed him in, unable to resist the way his excitement was so contagious. The tiny booth had been cramped, your shoulders pressed together as you both tried to fit into the frame. Pedro had leaned closer, his head nearly resting against yours, and flashed a ridiculous grin just as the camera clicked.

The memory warms you now, a soft glow that spreads through your chest. You can still hear his voice, still feel the weight of his arm around you, still see the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

You carefully set the photo on the nightstand, propping it up against the lamp. It feels like a little piece of him is here with you, anchoring you in a way that nothing else can.

The rest of your unpacking is a blur, your thoughts drifting back to him over and over. It’s ridiculous, really, how much space he takes up in your mind.

Stop it, you tell yourself. You’ll see him tomorrow. It’s no big deal.

But deep down, you know it’s a little more complicated than that. You’ve been in this bubble with him for days—wrapped up in late-night conversations, shared coffee runs, and the kind of closeness that feels far too easy. Now that you’re on the edge of something new, something that feels like it could change everything, you don’t quite know how to navigate it.

Your phone buzzes, snapping you out of your thoughts.

Pedro: Miss me yet?

You bite your lip, trying to suppress the grin that’s already forming. He’s impossible.

You: I was just starting to enjoy the peace and quiet.

There’s a pause, and then:

Pedro: Liar. You miss me.

You roll your eyes, warmth blooming in your chest.

You: Maybe a little.

Pedro: Thought so. Meet me for coffee in the morning?

Your heart flutters at the thought, the ache in your chest completely forgotten.

You: It’s a date.

You set your phone down, the smile lingering on your lips.

SOHO HOUSE – AFTERNOON

The café is buzzing with the low hum of conversation, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mixing with something warm and buttery from the kitchen. You slide into a booth where Daisy and Omar are already waiting, their plates half-finished, because of course, you’re the late one.

“There she is,” Daisy grins, sipping her iced latte. “Surprised you could make time for little old us.”

Omar smirks, leaning back against the booth. “Figured you’d be too busy playing house with Pedro.”

You nearly choke on your water. “Oh my god, shut up.”

Daisy gasps dramatically. “So defensive. We’re just saying—you two have been… spending a lot of time together.”

“Yeah,” Omar adds, raising an eyebrow. “Like, a lot.”

You roll your eyes, setting your napkin in your lap. “We were literally just sharing a suite until my room was ready. That’s it.”

Daisy exchanges a knowing glance with Omar before turning back to you. “Sure. And is ‘just sharing a suite’ why you’re glowing like you’ve been in a rom-com montage?”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “I hate you both.”

Omar laughs. “That’s fine, but tell me I’m wrong.”

You hesitate a second too long, and that’s all Daisy needs to pounce.

“She’s not denying it.”

You huff, taking a pointed bite of your food. “Can we talk about literally anything else?”

Daisy leans in, dropping her voice. “Fine. Let’s talk about how Cecilia is a raging bitch.”

Omar sighs. “Finally.”

Your stomach twists. You’ve been dealing with it all week—Cecilia’s passive-aggressive comments, her cutting looks, the way she talks over you during meetings like you don’t even exist. You thought maybe you were imagining it at first, but then Daisy started noticing. Then Omar. And now it’s become impossible to ignore.

“She’s been awful to you,” Omar says, frowning. “Like, openly awful.”

“Yeah, I don’t get it,” Daisy adds. “It’s like she’s got some weird grudge against you. She’s only nice when Pedro’s around.”

You exhale slowly, pushing your food around with your fork. “I don’t know what her problem is.”

“She’s threatened by you,” Daisy says matter-of-factly. “You’re good at your job, and Pedro actually, you know, likes you.”

You shoot her a look. “Daisy.”

“What? I’m just saying. She’s been trying to sink her claws into him forever, and now she’s watching him give you all his attention. You think that’s a coincidence?”

Omar nods. “She’s not even subtle about it.”

You groan, rubbing your temple. “It’s just exhausting. I don’t want drama, I just want to do my job.”

Daisy softens. “I know, babe. But you should bring it up to the first AD. This isn’t just personal—it’s affecting your work.”

Omar nods. “Exactly. You shouldn’t have to deal with this shit.”

You chew on your lip, debating. The idea of escalating it makes your stomach knot, but at the same time… they’re right. You shouldn’t have to just deal with it.

“I’ll think about it,” you say finally.

Daisy raises an eyebrow. “You better.”

Omar smirks. “Now, back to Pedro—”

You groan.

Daisy grins, nudging you. “What? Just curious—how’s the cuddling?”

You hide your face in your hands again.

They’re never going to let this go.

OXFORD STREET – AFTERNOON

The city hums around you, the air thick with the scent of freshly brewed coffee from a nearby café, the distant chatter of tourists mixing with the occasional honk of a taxi. The sky is an endless stretch of soft blue, and the warmth of the sun against your skin makes the day feel lighter, easier.

Daisy swings her shopping bag dramatically as she walks beside you. “Alright, so we’ve got the essentials—skincare, snacks, some clothes. Anything else?”

“I could use some new art supplies,” you muse, adjusting your tote bag on your shoulder. “I ran out of markers.”

Omar gasps. “Tragic. We must fix this.”

Daisy nods solemnly. “Immediately.”

You laugh as they steer you toward the next store, their enthusiasm contagious. The three of you weave through shelves of neatly stacked notebooks, sketchpads, and rows upon rows of colorful markers. You let your fingers trail over the different shades, your mind already picturing what you could create.

“Should I be concerned that you look this excited over pens?” Omar teases, peering over your shoulder.

You roll your eyes, tossing a pack of markers into your shopping basket. “Not everyone can be an influencer like some people. Some of us need hobbies.”

Daisy cackles. “Wow. Drag him.”

Omar clutches his chest. “I am wounded.”

You smirk, grabbing a sketchbook before leading them back into the bustle of the street.

A few stores later, as you browse through a boutique filled with delicate jewelry, something catches your eye—a simple but elegant bracelet, a thin gold chain with a tiny, shimmering star charm. You pause, tilting your head as you trace a fingertip over it.

It’s beautiful. Understated but meaningful.

You hesitate, then shake your head, gently setting it back down. You’ve already bought enough today.

Daisy, pretending to check her phone, subtly snaps a picture of the bracelet the moment you turn away. She shares a quick glance with Omar, who smirks knowingly, before tucking her phone back into her pocket like nothing happened.

“Alright,” Omar announces. “Time for the grand finale.”

You raise a brow. “Which is?”

He gestures dramatically toward a shop just a few doors down—a musical instrument store. Through the large glass window, you can see rows of guitars hanging on the walls, keyboards set up near the back, and a few people testing out instruments.

You take a step back. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Daisy says, grabbing your arm.

“I just wanted art supplies,” you protest, even as they start dragging you toward the entrance.

“And now you get music,” Omar grins. “A full creative experience.”

The bell above the door chimes as you step inside. The scent of polished wood and old sheet music fills the air, and soft acoustic strumming floats from the back where someone is testing a guitar.

Daisy and Omar immediately start messing around—Omar taps on a few piano keys while Daisy picks up a tambourine and shakes it dramatically.

You, however, find yourself drawn to the guitars.

Your fingers brush against the smooth neck of one, its warm, honey-colored wood gleaming under the soft lighting. Without thinking, you pick it up, settling it onto your lap as you sit on a nearby stool.

The weight of it is familiar, grounding.

You give the strings a tentative strum. The sound vibrates through your fingertips, sending a shiver up your spine.

Omar and Daisy go quiet, watching as you idly pluck a few chords, your fingers moving almost instinctively.

And then, without meaning to, you start playing something real.

The opening chords of Risk by Gracie Abrams fill the air, delicate and wistful.

Your voice follows, soft at first, barely above a hum.

“And I wake up

In the middle of the night

With the light on

And I feel like I could die

'Cause you're not here

And it don't feel right

'Cause you're not here”

The melody flows effortlessly from your lips, your fingers moving with muscle memory, like the song has always been resting just beneath your skin.

Daisy and Omar exchange a look, their teasing smiles replaced with something quieter, something fonder.

You don’t even notice the way the store quiets, how a few people glance in your direction.

“God, I'm actually invested

Haven't even met him

Watch this be the wrong thing, classic

God, I'm jumpin' in the deep end

It's more fun to swim in

Heard the risk is drownin', but I'm gonna take it”

Your voice is steady but gentle, carrying the weight of the lyrics, the quiet ache of them.

For a moment, it’s just you and the music.

When you finish the last chord, letting it ring softly into the still air, you finally glance up.

Omar and Daisy are staring.

“…What?” you ask, suddenly shy.

Daisy blinks. “So you’re just gonna casually have the voice of an angel and not tell us?”

You huff a laugh, setting the guitar down. “I just… like playing sometimes.”

Omar shakes his head in disbelief. “Unacceptable. We need to form a band immediately.”

You roll your eyes, standing up. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Daisy loops an arm around your shoulders, squeezing you. “No, we just love you and think you’re unfairly talented.”

Your cheeks warm, but you let yourself smile.

Maybe today really was a good day.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EVENING

The ride back is filled with laughter, the kind that lingers even after the jokes have faded, warmth curling around the edges of your chest. The three of you are crammed into the backseat of a cab, shopping bags piled between you, the city blurring past in a wash of golden streetlights and neon signs.

“I still cannot believe you didn’t tell us you could sing like that,” Daisy says for what has to be the fifth time.

Omar sighs dramatically. “Honestly, I feel betrayed. I thought we were close.”

You groan, leaning your head back against the seat. “It wasn’t a secret—I just never thought to mention it.”

Omar clutches his chest. “Oh, so we’re just chopped liver then?”

You give him a deadpan look. “Yes. Exactly.”

Daisy cackles, and Omar glares at both of you before shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh. “This is the worst day of my life.”

The driver chuckles quietly, clearly entertained by the three of you.

The cab slows in front of the Chiltern Firehouse, the warm glow of the entrance lights spilling onto the pavement. You reach for your bags, shifting them into your arms as Daisy nudges you lightly.

“Alright, superstar. We’ll see you tomorrow?”

You nod. “Breakfast?”

“Obviously,” Omar says. “We can’t function without an unhealthy amount of caffeine and gossip.”

Daisy smirks. “And don’t think we forgot about her.”

You groan, knowing exactly who she means. “Cecilia?”

Omar scoffs. “Yeah, Cecilia.” His expression darkens slightly, annoyance flickering across his face. “You have to say something, babe. She’s been unbearable this entire week.”

Daisy nods in agreement. “Seriously. If you don’t, we will.”

You sigh, adjusting your grip on your shopping bags. It’s not that you haven’t noticed Cecilia’s behavior—how she seems to have made it her personal mission to be as dismissive, condescending, and outright rude as possible. You just…haven’t figured out how to deal with it yet.

“I’ll think about it,” you say, because that’s all you can promise right now.

Daisy eyes you like she wants to push the subject, but instead, she reaches out and squeezes your arm. “Alright. Just don’t let her get to you, okay?”

You nod, giving her a small smile. “I won’t.”

Omar tilts his head. “Liar.”

You snort. “Goodnight, Omar.”

“Goodnight, secret singer,” he teases.

Daisy gives you a quick hug before stepping back into the cab, and with one last wave, you turn and head into the hotel.

The warmth of the lobby greets you as you step inside, the scent of polished wood and fresh flowers filling the air. The quiet hum of conversation drifts from the bar, a few guests lounging in the plush chairs near the fireplace.

You shift your bags onto one arm, your fingers brushing over the handles of the shopping bags as you make your way toward the elevators. The day’s events settle over you like a soft blanket—the shopping, the music, the laughter.

You feel good.

Better than you have in days.

The elevator dings softly as the doors open, and as you step inside, you can’t help but let a small, satisfied smile slip onto your lips.

Maybe tomorrow will be even better.

You make your way to your room, tap your keycard on the lock and enter. The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the distant hum of the hallway. You exhale slowly, rolling your shoulders as you set your shopping bags down near the dresser. The room is quiet, save for the faint city sounds filtering in through the window—London still alive and buzzing outside, even as exhaustion begins to settle into your bones.

You flick on the bedside lamp, the soft golden glow washing over the space. Kicking off your shoes, you make your way to the vanity, catching your reflection in the mirror. There’s a tired sort of happiness in your face, a contentment that lingers in your eyes despite the long day.

You start unpacking your shopping bags, sorting through the few essentials you picked up. The art supplies make you smile—new markers, sketchbooks, things you didn’t necessarily need but wanted anyway. Your fingers brush over a particular bag, and you pause, pulling out the Polaroid photobooth strip you’d nearly forgotten about.

Pedro’s face grins up at you from the tiny squares—one shot of him making a ridiculous expression, another where you’re both mid-laugh, and the last…

The last one makes your stomach flutter.

It wasn’t planned, wasn’t posed—it was just the two of you, caught in a quiet moment, his face turned toward you, his expression soft in a way that makes something in your chest tighten.

You let out a breath, carefully tucking the photo into your nightstand drawer before shaking your head at yourself.

It’s fine. It’s just Pedro.

You brush your fingers over the bracelet you liked—the one you didn’t buy. For some reason, it lingers in your mind longer than it should, but you push the thought aside and continue getting ready for bed.

By the time you’ve showered and slipped into an oversized t-shirt, exhaustion has fully caught up with you. You slide beneath the cool sheets, letting out a sigh as your body finally relaxes.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

You reach for it, blinking at the screen.

Pedro: Made it back okay?

A small, involuntary smile tugs at your lips.

You: Yeah, just got into bed.

There’s a brief pause before his reply comes through.

Pedro: Get some sleep, cariño. Big day tomorrow.

You bite your lip, warmth blooming in your chest at the nickname.

You: Goodnight, Pedro.

You don’t wait for his response, setting your phone down and rolling onto your side. The weight of the day settles over you, but it’s lighter now, easier to carry.

And as you drift off, the last thing on your mind isn’t Cecilia, or the long production days ahead.

It’s a bracelet you didn’t buy.

And a Polaroid you won’t forget.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — MORNING

Your alarm blares, dragging you out of sleep far earlier than you’d like. With a groan, you fumble for your phone on the nightstand, blindly swiping at the screen until the sound finally stops. The room is still dim, the soft glow of early morning creeping through the curtains, casting long shadows across the walls.

You sit up slowly, rubbing at your bleary eyes before forcing yourself out of bed. The floor is cool against your feet as you shuffle toward the bathroom, yawning through the motions of your morning routine.

The second your toothbrush is in your mouth, you grab your phone, squinting at the screen as you scroll through your notifications.

Pedro: Morning, sleepyhead. Still up for coffee?

You smile around your toothbrush, quickly typing back.

You: Morning! Yes, definitely. Meet you in the lobby?

His reply is almost instant.

Pedro: I’ll be the one looking devastatingly handsome and in desperate need of caffeine.

You roll your eyes but feel warmth creep up your neck as you set your phone down and step into the shower. The water is warm, waking you up as you let your playlist play softly in the background. You don’t linger too long—just enough to wash away the remnants of sleep before stepping out and wrapping yourself in a towel.

As you get dressed, you glance at the Polaroid on your nightstand. The memory makes your stomach flutter, but you shake your head, pushing the thought away.

It’s just Pedro.

You grab your bag, double-check that you have everything for the long production day ahead, and head downstairs.

Pedro is already there when you step into the lobby, leaning casually against the wall near the entrance. He’s dressed comfortably, a hoodie pulled over his curls, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the early hour.

His head lifts when he spots you, and a slow grin spreads across his face. “Well, look who’s alive.”

You roll your eyes. “Barely.”

He chuckles, pushing off the wall. “Coffee. Stat.”

You nod in agreement as you both step outside, the crisp morning air waking you up a little more. The streets of London are still sleepy, only a few people out at this hour, and for a moment, it feels like the two of you exist in a quiet little pocket of the city.

Pedro falls into step beside you, close but not overbearing, his hands tucked into his hoodie pockets. “Did you sleep okay?”

You hum, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Yeah. I was out as soon as my head hit the pillow.”

He smirks. “Tired from all that shopping?”

You side-eye him, but your lips twitch. “Maybe. It was a productive day.”

“You have fun?”

You nod. “Yeah. Daisy and Omar were great. We just wandered, picked up a few things, nothing crazy.”

Pedro hums, glancing over at you. “Get anything good?”

“Some art supplies,” you say. “Markers, sketchbooks. Stuff to keep my hands busy.”

Pedro’s brows lift slightly, though his expression softens into something knowing. “Still adding to your collection, huh?”

You glance at him, a little shy under the weight of his gaze. “You say that like I have a problem.”

He smirks. “I’ve seen your stash.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. “It’s not that bad.”

He hums, clearly unconvinced, but before you can argue your case, you both step into the small café near the hotel. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries wraps around you instantly, sinking into your bones like comfort.

As you approach the counter, Pedro turns to you with a look of exaggerated concentration. “Alright, let me guess your order.”

You snort, crossing your arms. “You know my order.”

“Do I?” He taps a finger against his chin, drawing out the moment. “Let’s see… you’re obviously an iced salted caramel latte girl.”

You blink at him, half-impressed, half-annoyed. “You’re just showing off.”

Pedro grins, triumphant. “I knew it.” He turns to the barista, ordering for both of you before you can protest.

As you wait for your drinks, you lean against the counter, watching him. He looks relaxed, the usual weight of the long days ahead not quite settling on him yet.

“You always this perceptive?” you ask, tilting your head.

He glances at you, a small smirk playing at his lips. “Only when it matters.”

Your stomach flips unexpectedly, and you quickly look away as the barista calls your names.

Pedro grabs both cups, handing you yours with an easy smile. “Alright, let’s get to set before they start sending search parties.”

You take a sip, the sweet caramel mixing with the bitter espresso, and let the warmth settle in—not just from the coffee, but from the way Pedro falls into step beside you again, his presence easy, familiar.

Maybe today will be even better.

The car ride to set is comfortable, the early morning haze still lingering outside the windows. You and Pedro are seated next to each other, the quiet hum of the car filling the spaces between conversation.

Joseph, Ebon, and Vanessa are preoccupied—chatting, answering messages, scrolling through their phones. But you and Pedro? You exist in the quieter moments, where words don’t have to fill the silence for it to feel full.

You glance at Pedro from the corner of your eye. He’s leaning back against the seat, fingers wrapped loosely around his coffee cup, sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose. There’s something about him like this—relaxed, unreadable, but somehow still entirely present.

“You’re quiet,” he muses, breaking the silence.

You blink, caught. “I’m just… waking up.”

Pedro smirks, tilting his head toward you. “It’s been half an hour.”

You hum, taking a slow sip of your coffee. “Some of us don’t bounce out of bed with full energy at the crack of dawn.”

“I do not ‘bounce,’” he protests, dramatically offended. “I drag myself out of bed like the sleep-deprived, overworked adult that I am.”

You snort. “That’s not what I saw yesterday. You were practically bouncing into set.”

Pedro shakes his head. “I think you hallucinated that.”

“Sure,” you say, amused. “Maybe I should sketch it next time.”

His lips curl at the mention of your sketching, but he doesn’t tease. Instead, his voice dips, quieter now. “Do you still draw at the end of the day? Or are they keeping you too busy?”

You hesitate, fingers tracing the rim of your cup. “I try to. Helps clear my head.”

Pedro watches you for a beat, then nods. “Good. You should keep at it.”

Something about the way he says it, like it actually matters to him, makes warmth spread through your chest. You don’t know how to respond to that, so you just sip your coffee and hope he doesn’t notice the way your fingers tighten around the cup.

The car slows as it pulls up to the studio lot, and everyone starts gathering their things, stretching, shaking off the sluggishness of the morning. Pedro slides his sunglasses to the top of his head, glancing at you as he opens the door.

“Ready for another day of pretending we know what we’re doing?” he asks, grin lopsided.

You laugh, stepping out of the car. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The driver bids you all a good day, and you offer a small wave, adjusting your bag over your shoulder. The familiar buzz of set life fills the air—crew members moving equipment, voices overlapping, the faint sound of someone running lines in the distance.

Pedro falls into step beside you, and despite the chaos around you, you feel oddly settled. Maybe it’s the coffee. Maybe it’s the warmth of the morning.

Or maybe it’s just him.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — DAY

The day stretches long and demanding, filled with the constant hum of movement, orders being called out, and the steady rhythm of set life unfolding around you.

You and Daisy barely have a moment to breathe, running between departments, making sure everything is where it needs to be. The production schedule is tight, which means there’s no room for mistakes, no time to slow down.

“Okay, okay, hold up,” Daisy pants, stopping next to you behind the set, hands braced on her knees. “If I have to run across this lot one more time to deliver another prop, I’m throwing myself into the fog machine and disappearing.”

You huff out a tired laugh, adjusting your headset as you check the call sheet in your hand. “I hate to break it to you, but we still need to get the next set of dailies to the editing bay and make sure wardrobe has the updated continuity notes.”

Daisy groans dramatically. “How did we get roped into this again?”

“You volunteered to take extra PA shifts,” you remind her, smirking.

She scowls. “And you agreed to do it with me, so who’s the real fool here?”

You nudge her with your elbow before checking your watch. There’s a brief window before the next setup, and you both know better than to waste it. Without another word, you split up—Daisy heads toward the props department, while you weave through the maze of trailers and equipment toward wardrobe.

The moment you step inside the wardrobe tent, you’re met with the sharp scent of fabric steam and the controlled chaos of stylists making last-minute adjustments.

“Hey, got the continuity notes from this morning’s shoot,” you say, handing over the folder to one of the assistants.

They glance up, looking relieved. “Oh, thank God. We were just about to send someone to chase these down.”

You flash a tired smile. “Happy to save you the trouble.”

Before you can leave, someone’s headset crackles with an urgent call from set, and you hear your name being mentioned.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, already moving.

By the time you get back to set, Daisy is already there, headset tilted as she listens to the first AD barking orders. She shoots you a look when she sees you approach, her expression somewhere between we’re so screwed and why is everyone like this?

“What now?” you whisper.

“They need another PA to help reset the stunt rigging for the next take,” she mutters back. “Guess who gets to be that PA?”

“Us?”

“Ding, ding, ding.”

You sigh, but there’s no use complaining. Instead, you follow Daisy toward the main soundstage, where the crew is resetting for another action sequence. The rigging team waves you over, already handing you harnesses to help secure the area.

You’ve barely finished clipping things into place when Pedro appears nearby, already in costume, watching the controlled chaos of set. His gaze catches on you, a flicker of recognition in his eyes before amusement settles in.

“Didn’t realize this was part of your job description,” he teases, arms crossing over his chest.

You roll your eyes, adjusting the straps on your harness. “I do everything around here.”

“Clearly,” he says, grinning. “I should start calling you the real MVP of this production.”

Daisy, overhearing, snorts. “Oh, don’t encourage her. She’s already got enough of a complex.”

Pedro laughs, and you glare at Daisy, but it’s all in good fun. The truth is, despite the exhaustion, despite the constant running around, there’s something oddly satisfying about the work. It’s not glamorous, not in the way people think movies are made, but it’s real. And you love it.

Even if, by the time lunch rolls around, you feel like you’ve run a marathon.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — AFTERNOON

You slump onto the nearest empty bench, your limbs aching from the nonstop running around since the crack of dawn. With a tired groan, you twist open a bottle of water and down it in several long gulps, the cool relief barely making up for how drained you feel.

“I’m so glad I brought an extra change of clothes because holy shit,” you gasp, wiping at the sweat on your forehead.

Daisy collapses beside you with an equally exhausted sigh, her head lolling back against the table. “If I don’t sit down for the next hour, I might actually pass out standing up.”

Omar drops into the seat on your other side, groaning dramatically as he takes a long swig from his water bottle. “No, because fuck this,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “Why does it feel like production’s been testing our stamina like we’re training for the fucking Olympics?”

You huff a tired laugh. “Because we are.”

Nearby, a group of other PAs are in similar states of exhaustion, scarfing down sandwiches like they’ve been starved for days. The entire crew has been running on fumes all morning, juggling stunts, continuity notes, and last-minute script changes.

You dig into the lunch Daisy had brought back for you—a sandwich and a bag of chips, simple but satisfying. The three of you eat in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds being the occasional sighs of relief from getting off your feet for even a few minutes.

Eventually, Daisy leans forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “So… have you thought about saying something to the first AD about Cecilia?”

You nearly choke on your bite of sandwich. "Oh my God, not now.”

“Yes, now,” Daisy insists. “She’s been a bitch all week, and it’s only getting worse. I swear, if she snaps at you one more time, I’ll throw my walkie at her.”

Omar nods, chewing thoughtfully. “Yeah, it’s actually getting kinda unbearable.”

You sigh, pushing your food around with your fork. You know they’re right. Cecilia—one of the senior production assistants—has been making your life hell lately. Every little thing you do is apparently wrong, and her constant nitpicking has started to feel personal.

“I just…” you hesitate, rubbing at your temples. “I don’t want to make it a bigger deal than it already is. Maybe she’s just stressed?”

Daisy gives you an unimpressed look. “Stressed my ass. We’re all stressed, babe, and we’re not out here making everyone miserable just because we can.”

Omar points his fork at you. “Exactly. And look, I get not wanting to stir the pot, but if she keeps treating you like shit, it’s gonna start affecting your work. You need to say something.”

You bite your lip, mulling it over. You’re not the type to cause a scene, especially when it comes to work—you’ve always just kept your head down and powered through. But this… this has been eating at you for days.

“I’ll think about it,” you murmur, still unsure.

Daisy narrows her eyes. “You better do more than think.”

Before you can respond, the sound of approaching footsteps makes you glance up—only to find Pedro making his way toward your table, two cups of iced coffee in hand.

“Oh, look who’s finally gracing us with his presence,” Omar teases, smirking.

Pedro grins, unfazed, before setting one of the iced coffees in front of you. “Thought you could use this.”

You blink, surprised. “You—” You glance down at the drink, recognizing it immediately. Iced salted caramel latte. Your go-to. “How did you—”

Pedro shrugs, casual as ever. “You think I don’t pay attention?”

Your stomach flips, heat creeping up your neck. Daisy and Omar exchange a look before Daisy not-so-subtly nudges you under the table.

“I—uh, thanks,” you say awkwardly, taking the cup and focusing very hard on the condensation forming on the plastic.

Pedro watches you with a knowing smile before he turns to the rest of the group. “So, what’s the gossip? What’s got everyone whispering like high schoolers?”

Daisy doesn’t hesitate. “Oh, just Cecilia being Cecilia.”

Pedro’s smile fades slightly, his gaze flicking to you. “She still giving you a hard time?”

You shift uncomfortably, avoiding his eyes. “It’s nothing, really. Just—”

“It’s not nothing,” Daisy interjects. “She’s been riding her ass all week, and it’s getting ridiculous.”

Pedro frowns, leaning against the table. “You talked to the AD about it?”

You sigh. “No, because it’s not that serious—”

“It is,” Omar cuts in. “You’re working twice as hard as half the people on this set, and she’s still treating you like shit.”

Pedro’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks like he wants to say something—something firm, something protective—but instead, he exhales, rolling his shoulders back.

“Well,” he says finally, voice measured, “if you don’t want to bring it up, at least let me know if she crosses the line again.”

You glance up at him, the warmth in his gaze soft but serious. There’s something reassuring about it, like he’s quietly telling you that he’s in your corner, no matter what.

Your chest tightens, and for a second, you don’t know what to say.

Daisy, of course, fills the silence for you. “Damn, maybe you should just let Pedro handle it,” she jokes, wiggling her brows. “Bet she’d shut up real quick if he just—”

“Daisy,” you hiss, mortified.

Pedro chuckles, but there’s a hint of mischief in his eyes. “I mean… I could have a word with her.”

“Oh my God, no.” You shake your head rapidly. “That would just make it worse.”

“Debatable.”

“I swear to God—”

He laughs, hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’ll stay out of it.” A pause. “For now.”

You groan, but there’s a warmth in your chest that wasn’t there before.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — AFTERNOON

The day isn’t over yet.

After lunch, you’re right back at it, running around set, checking call sheets, adjusting rigging equipment, and making sure everything is in place for the next round of stunt rehearsals. You, Daisy, and Omar move like a well-oiled machine, setting up wires and double-checking safety protocols.

Matt Shakman, ever the observant director, watches from a distance, arms crossed and a satisfied nod of approval on his face. “You three are killing it today,” he says, passing by as you finish tightening a harness.

“Thanks, Matt,” Daisy beams, nudging you playfully. “We try.”

Jess Hall, the first assistant director, chimes in, “Seriously, you guys have been on top of everything. Keep this up, and I might actually sleep well tonight.”

You let out a small, shy laugh, ducking your head. “Just doing our job.”

“Yeah, but you’re doing it well,” Jess points out, before heading off to oversee the final checks.

As you straighten up, rolling out the tension in your shoulders, you spot Pedro, Vanessa, Ebon, and Joseph arriving on set. Pedro catches your eye first, grinning as he waves. The others follow suit, greeting you and the crew with casual waves and easy smiles.

You lift a hand in return, a small but warm flutter in your chest.

And then there’s Cecilia.

Standing off to the side, arms crossed, face like thunder.

You don’t even have to look directly at her to feel the glare she’s boring into you. The barely contained resentment. It’s been like this all day—every time you do something right, every time you get even a sliver of recognition, she seems to grow more and more pissed.

But you push it out of your mind.

You have a job to do.

And right now, that means making sure this next stunt goes off without a hitch.

The rigging for the next scene is extensive—multiple actors wired up, intricate movements choreographed down to the second. You’re double-checking the setup, securing a final carabiner when someone calls for places.

“Alright, let’s lock it up!” Jess shouts. “Rolling in five!”

You step back, joining Daisy and Omar off to the side, scanning the setup one last time. Everything looks solid. No loose wires. No unsecured equipment.

At least, that’s what you think.

Then—

A blur. A crack. A scream.

It happens too fast.

Something above shifts—maybe a light, maybe part of the set structure—but it’s falling, fast and heavy, right where Pedro is standing.

Your body moves before your brain does.

“Move!”

You shove Pedro with both hands, hard, sending him stumbling out of the way just as the metal rig comes crashing down.

The impact never comes.

Not for him, at least.

Pain explodes across your shoulder, sharp and jarring, but adrenaline surges through you, numbing everything as chaos erupts around you.

“Jesus Christ—”

“Someone get a medic—”

Voices blur together. There’s movement, hands reaching for you, but you’re not even thinking about yourself.

You blink up at Pedro, his face inches from yours, panic written in every crease of his expression.

"Are you good?" you ask, voice tight, breath coming faster now.

Pedro just stares at you, jaw clenched, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to process what just happened.

Then he swallows, hard. “Am I—?” His voice is strained. “You’re the one who—”

He doesn’t finish, just reaches for you, steadying you as a medic pushes through the small crowd that’s formed around you.

It’s only then that you notice—

The blood.

Your sleeve is torn. There’s a gash on your arm, deep and angry-looking, but you barely feel it.

Pedro does.

His grip on you tightens, like he’s just realizing how close that was. Like he’s just realizing you took the hit for him.

You don’t register the pain at first. The adrenaline drowns it out, buzzing through your veins like white noise, making everything feel strangely detached—like you’re floating just outside your body, watching everything unfold in slow motion.

But Pedro’s grip on you is very real.

“Shit, shit, shit—” His voice is low, strained, hands hovering over you like he doesn’t know where to touch, afraid he’ll make it worse. His eyes flicker between your face and your arm, widening at the sight of the torn fabric, the deep gash beneath it.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, blinking rapidly as the world tilts slightly. “You’re fine. That’s what matters.”

Pedro exhales sharply, jaw tightening. He looks anything but reassured.

The medic finally pushes through the crowd, dropping to his knees beside you. “Let me see,” he says, already reaching for your arm.

“I’m good—” you try to insist, but Pedro gives you a look. A look that immediately shuts you up.

A storm of emotion brews behind his eyes—concern, anger, something else you can’t quite name yet. He’s tense, his entire body coiled like a spring.

You feel a little dizzy. Maybe it’s the blood loss. Maybe it’s the fact that Pedro is looking at you like that, like he cares too much.

“Alright, this is gonna sting,” the medic warns before pressing gauze against the wound.

It does more than sting. A sharp, searing pain shoots through your arm, and you hiss through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut for a second.

Pedro flinches. Actually flinches, like he felt it too.

“Fucking hell,” Daisy breathes from behind him. She’s pale, wide-eyed. “That thing could’ve crushed you.”

Omar nods, face just as grim. “Yeah, what the hell even happened?”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the other crew members gathered around, voices overlapping in hushed confusion. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

The rig had been checked. The lights had been secured.

So why did it fall?

You glance toward the area where the rigging had come loose. Something gnaws at the back of your mind—an unease you can’t quite name. Your gaze flickers briefly toward Cecilia, who stands a little too still, a little too composed.

She doesn’t look shocked.

She looks… interested.

Like she’s watching.

And then, as if she senses you looking, she tilts her head slightly—just a fraction—before turning away.

A chill snakes down your spine.

“Hey.” Pedro’s voice pulls you back. He’s crouched next to you, closer now, his hand still hovering near yours but not quite touching. His knee almost brushes against yours. “You with me?”

Your breath hitches.

You hate how he does that—how he sees you so easily, how he pulls you back from the edges of your own mind with nothing but a word, a glance.

“I’m good,” you say, voice quieter than before.

Pedro’s expression darkens, like he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he turns his attention back to the medic. “She needs stitches, right?”

The medic nods. “Yeah. We’ll need to get her patched up properly.”

Pedro exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He looks like he wants to hit something.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter.

“Like what?”

“Like I just died in front of you or something.”

Pedro does not laugh. In fact, he looks even more tense, if that’s possible.

“You could have,” he says, voice low. “If you hadn’t moved so fast, that thing—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I shouldn’t have saved you?” you arch a brow. “I didn’t realize that was a bad thing.”

Pedro levels you with a look, one that sends heat crawling up your spine. “You know what I mean.”

There’s something charged in the air between you. A tension neither of you acknowledge, but it’s there, lingering like the static before a storm.

Jess Hall calls for a short break while the crew inspects the rigging failure. People start to disperse, murmuring about safety protocols and near-misses.

But Pedro doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

The medic finishes wrapping your arm in temporary bandages. “She should get properly stitched up in the medical tent.”

Pedro stands before you can even process that. “I’ll take her.”

You blink. “That’s not necessary—”

“Not asking,” Pedro says, holding out a hand to help you up.

You hesitate, but the moment your fingers brush against his, the warmth of his palm against yours, you stop thinking.

He pulls you up carefully, keeping you steady when you sway slightly on your feet. His grip lingers—just a little too long.

And when you finally look up at him, there’s something in his expression that makes your stomach twist.

Something unspoken. Something more.

Something you don’t have the words for yet.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — MEDICAL TENT

The walk to the medical tent is quiet.

Pedro hasn’t let go of you. His hand hovers near your lower back, not quite touching but close enough that you feel him there—like a tether, grounding you.

You should say something, maybe make a joke, lighten the mood. But the words don’t come. Your arm is starting to throb now, the sharp edge of pain creeping in as the adrenaline fades. You exhale slowly, focusing on each step forward.

Pedro doesn’t rush you. He matches your pace, his brows drawn tight, his jaw locked so hard you can see the muscle tick.

You swallow.

“I mean,” you start, forcing out a breathy laugh, “at least I’m lucky insurance covers this.”

Pedro stops.

Just—stops.

You nearly stumble, caught off guard, but when you turn to look at him, the expression on his face roots you to the spot.

His eyes flicker over you, frustration darkening his gaze. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” His voice is tight, controlled, but there’s an edge to it. “Insurance?”

You blink. “I mean… yeah?”

Pedro exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but then he presses his lips into a firm line, nostrils flaring.

You watch the way his shoulders rise and fall with the weight of whatever he’s holding back.

And suddenly, you get it.

He’s mad.

Not at you. Not really.

He’s mad that you got hurt. Mad that you shoved him out of the way instead of letting him take the hit. Mad that he almost lost you—over a fucking light rig.

Your chest tightens.

“Pedro—”

“Don’t.” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. He looks away, shaking his head. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Your throat feels thick. “I—”

“I saw that thing falling, and I couldn’t move—I couldn’t do anything. And then you—” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face. “Christ.”

Your fingers twitch at your side. You don’t know what to do with this—this version of him. The one unraveling right in front of you.

“I didn’t think,” you admit, voice small. “I just—moved.”

Pedro lets out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Yeah. You did.”

There’s a beat of silence. A moment where the world around you fades, leaving only the two of you standing there in the dimly lit corridor just outside the medical tent.

Then—

Pedro takes a step closer.

And another.

Your breath catches.

His eyes search yours, something raw flickering beneath the surface. He looks at you like he’s memorizing you, like he’s trying to commit this exact moment to something permanent.

You don’t move. You can’t.

Then, barely above a whisper—

“Don’t do that again.”

You part your lips to respond, but before you can say anything—

Pedro cups your face.

And then—

He doesn’t kiss you.

He hesitates. His breath is warm against your lips, his fingers trembling slightly where they rest against your jaw. He’s so close you can count every fleck of gold in his eyes, so close you can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours.

You exhale, something between relief and longing tightening in your stomach.

Then—a sharp ahem cuts through the moment.

You jolt, heart still racing, as Pedro pulls back slightly—just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to let you go. His hands remain where they are, warm and steady against your skin.

The medic staff is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow arched like they’ve seen this kind of thing play out before.

“Hate to break up the moment,” they say, voice dry, “but I have some stitches to put in.”

You blink.

Right.

The pain in your arm, dulled by adrenaline and—well, Pedro—suddenly makes itself known again, pulsing in time with your heartbeat. You wince, shifting slightly, and Pedro’s hands immediately fall away.

But he doesn’t step back.

If anything, he lingers, his fingers ghosting over your wrist like he’s reluctant to break contact entirely. His brows furrow as he glances down at your injury. “She’s not gonna need the ER, right?”

The medic shakes their head. “Nah. She’s lucky. It’s a clean cut—deep, but nothing life-threatening. We’ll get her stitched up, give her some pain meds, and she’ll live to tell the tale.”

Pedro exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. But not all of it.

You try to make a joke. “Told you I had good insurance.”

Pedro doesn’t laugh.

Instead, he just looks at you.

The kind of look that makes your breath catch, that makes your chest feel too tight, that makes you ache in a way that has nothing to do with your injury.

He doesn’t say anything, but his hand finds yours again, his fingers curling around yours. He squeezes, just once, before letting go.

“Come on,” the medic says, gesturing toward the exam table. “Let’s get this over with.”

You try really hard to be tough about the whole thing.

You really do.

But the moment the needle pierces your skin, you can’t help it—your breath stutters, your body tensing so hard it actually hurts.

“Hey,” Pedro’s voice is right there, warm and grounding. His hand finds your knee, rubbing gentle circles over the fabric of your pants. “Breathe, cariño.”

You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, blinking rapidly against the sting behind your eyes.

God, this is so stupid. You literally work on a film set—you’ve seen worse injuries, watched stunt performers brush off things ten times more intense. But the sensation of the needle threading through your skin, pulling tight with every stitch, is enough to make your stomach turn.

Pedro must see it written all over your face, because before you can spiral too much, he shifts, crouching beside you so you’re eye level. His voice drops lower, softer.

“You’re doing good,” he murmurs. “Just a little more.”

You nod, swallowing against the lump in your throat.

The medic works quickly, but it still feels like forever. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to think of something else. Anything else.

Pedro.

The way he looked at you before he almost kissed you.

The way he held you.

The way he’s still here, watching over you like he has no intention of going anywhere.

“Almost done,” the medic announces, tying off the last stitch. “You’re a champ. Didn’t even cry.”

Barely.

Pedro doesn’t let go of you. His thumb brushes over your knee one last time before he finally stands, watching as the medic cleans up and starts giving you aftercare instructions.

“No lifting anything heavy for a few days. Keep it clean, change the dressing daily. Try not to move your arm too much—don’t want to pull the stitches.” The medic pauses, glancing between you and Pedro with something suspiciously close to amusement. “And get some rest. I mean actual rest. No overworking yourself.”

Pedro snorts. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

You glare at him, but the effect is ruined by how utterly exhausted you feel. The medic finishes up, giving you some painkillers and a fresh bandage before stepping back.

“You’re good to go,” they say. “But seriously—take it easy.”

Pedro notices.

Before you can protest, he’s already there, an arm sliding around your waist to steady you. “Alright, that’s enough excitement for one day,” he mutters. “Come on, I’m taking you back to the hotel.”

End Notes:

I’m a sucker for having character A get injured and character B absolutely losing their shit and realizing they could lose them SO FAST and they haven’t even had a chance to love each other yet LOL

YAHHH I KEEP TEASING YA’LL WITH THE KISS IM SORRY— But I swear it’ll probably happen in the next chapter... maybe... 👀

There’s something wonderful about delayed gratification idk why

Pedro probably didn’t want to kiss you in such a situation like that– he’s probs the type to want to do it right.

Also OOoooOOOoo I almost killed the reader lol. How fun.

Again, my apologies for taking so long with this chapter, school is a bitch and I had to lock tf in for a little bit.

TAGLIST: @comfortzonequeen @christinamadsen @liciafonseca @greenwitchfromthewoods @iqr-x @southernbe @maryfanson @brittmb115 @klajmekk @taytay0403 @whimsiwitchy @zymiii @sarahhxx03 @leilanixx @lilasskicker-23 @https-murdock @barnescamboy @widowsvail @senhoritamayblog @morganlolitta @suzysface @reidsworld @xmaykeca @dontlookatme121 @mandaloriankait @picketniffler @pedrofan @mystickittytaco @enchantingchildkitten @seven-seas-of-fuck-you @ro-nahime-things @senhoritamayblog @hermionelove

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jaysng · 10 months ago

Text

post arguement — park jongseong

pairing: nonidol!boyfriend!jay x girlfriend!reader

genre: angst, fluff

word count: 958

REBLOG if you enjoyed

it had been a tense twenty-four hours since the argument. you could still feel the heaviness of the unsaid words lingering in the air, the way jay’s eyes kept darting toward you, hoping for a sign that things were back to normal. but you weren’t quite ready to give him that satisfaction yet.

you weren’t ignoring him, not exactly. but there was a distance, a coldness that hadn’t been there before, and jay could feel it with every fiber of his being. he knew he had messed up—he was painfully aware of that—and he wanted to make it right. so, he decided to do the one thing that might soften you: cook your favorite meal.

he moved around the kitchen with purpose, gathering ingredients, chopping vegetables, and measuring spices. the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board was the only noise that filled the otherwise silent apartment. jay glanced over his shoulder, hoping you’d notice, but you were sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phone, pretending to be more interested in the screen than in him.

he sighed softly, turning his attention back to the food. “okay, let's see… a little bit of garlic, and then… what’s next?” he mumbled to himself, opening the fridge and pulling out the ingredients for your favorite dish.

“maybe some extra basil this time,” he said, as if he were consulting with someone. “she likes that, right?”

he glanced at you again, but you didn’t look up, your focus still on your phone, though he could tell by the way your fingers hesitated that you were listening. jay smiled a little to himself, hoping that maybe, just maybe, you were starting to soften.

as the aroma of the food began to fill the apartment, you felt your resolve weakening. it was your favorite, after all, and jay knew exactly how you liked it—down to the last detail. you tried to stay focused on your phone, but your stomach had other ideas, grumbling softly in response to the delicious smells wafting from the kitchen.

you finally couldn’t resist any longer. quietly, you slipped off the couch and made your way to the kitchen, your bare feet padding softly against the floor. jay heard you coming, but he didn’t turn around, pretending not to notice as you moved closer to the stove. you leaned over the pot, inhaling the rich, savory aroma, and before you knew it, your hand was reaching for a spoon to sneak a taste.

just as you brought the spoon to your lips, the soft strumming of a guitar filled the room, followed by the familiar voice of ed sheeran singing one of his sweetest love songs. you froze, the spoon halfway to your mouth, as jay finally turned to look at you, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

he crossed the small space between you in just a few steps, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. his chin rested gently on your shoulder, and you could feel the warmth of his body against your back. “caught you,” he whispered, his breath tickling your ear.

you didn’t pull away, but you didn’t lean into him either, still holding onto the last bit of your stubbornness. jay swayed gently, moving you both in time with the music, his arms tightening around you just a little bit more.

“i’m sorry,” he murmured into your ear, his voice soft and sincere. “i know i messed up, and i hate that i hurt you. please forgive me?”

you stayed silent for a moment longer, letting the words sink in, feeling the way his heart beat steadily against your back. slowly, you turned in his arms, looking up at him with a mixture of emotions in your eyes.

“you always do this,” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. “say things you don’t mean and then try to fix it later.”

jay’s eyes were pleading, filled with guilt and a longing to make things right. “i know. i’m trying to be better. i just… i just want us to be okay,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “i’ll do whatever it takes.”

you didn’t say anything, but the way you rested your head against his chest, your arms wrapping around him in return, spoke volumes. jay let out a relieved sigh, holding you close as you swayed together to the music, the tension between you finally beginning to melt away.

the song played on, and for a little while, you stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, letting the music and the moment say everything that words couldn’t. as the final notes faded away, jay pulled back just enough to tilt your chin up, his eyes searching yours for a sign of forgiveness.

and in that moment, you knew you couldn’t stay mad at him. not when he was looking at you like that, not when he had gone through all this trouble just to make you smile again.

“just… don’t let it happen again,” you said softly, the words not harsh but still carrying a weight.

jay nodded, his expression serious. “i promise.”

you leaned up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, letting him know without words that you were ready to forgive, ready to move forward together.

“thank you,” jay whispered against your lips, his voice filled with gratitude and love.

“just don’t burn the food,” you teased lightly, a small smile tugging at your lips as you rested your head against his chest once more, letting the warmth of his embrace and the sweet scent of your favorite meal fill the space between you, knowing that everything was going to be okay.

do not copy or repost my work — @/jaysng

#enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen x reader #enhypen scenarios #enhypen fluff #enha #enhypen smut #park jongseong #park jongseong fluff #enhypen angst #enhypen arguement #jay x reader #enhypen jay #jay soft hours

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takes1 · 5 months ago

Note

THANK YOU FOR WRITING MY KUROKEN REQUEST OMHFGSGHFGRS. IM SO SO HAPPY THANK YOU AJJWKAJDHFBTNFJEJ!!!!!CANT WAIT FOR THE NEXT! :D

[p.2] kenma sharing you with kuroo

im so glad youre into it!!!! i love hearing from you! this was getting too long again, had to break it up AAAAAAAAA so there will be another part idk why i cant be concise theres just a lot of juicy stuff here

warnings. heavy nsfw, minors DNI

details. fem!reader / threesome / angsty smut / jealous!kuroo / secure!kenma /petnames / submissive(with conditions)!reader / praisewhore!reader / kenma being rough on purpose / f!rec oral / backshots / riding / kuroo being rough on accident / very mastermind!kenma / poly!kuroo, poly!kenma, poly?reader / crushing on kuroo / fluid pecking order / 3k words / somehow more to follow, pls reply to be added to taglist for HOPEFULLY FINAL PART

links. my masterlist. more haikyuu. my ao3. part one here. final part.

The sheer size of his physique always made you and Kenma both feel smaller, and fragile at times. Like a couple of toys to him.

Now that you could see what he had been hiding underneath his shirt; a full, wide chest that stretched, taut, across two robust shoulders. Lines worked under his skin, cropping up like guitar strings as he tossed his shirt to the side.

Comparing him to Kenma was useless. They weren't just in different weight classes; it was simply unfair to draw the full list of their differences out.

The worst part was that he knew how hot he was. He acted like he was the best thing since sliced bread. Always flexing in every mirror, offering a bulky bicep for you to squeeze just to watch you squirm on more than one occasion, leaning over both you and your boyfriend, crushing you in unnecessary group hugs.

"How's that sound, baby?" Kenma muttered against your ear, speaking in that low tone he knew you liked.

Face burning hot, you stared at the floor until Kuroo filled your vision. His chest was blocking your ability to ignore him, to try thinking clearly enough to maybe say something back.

Kenma was keeping you still, one arm around your middle, the other hand rested under one of your breasts, "You can touch him. It's okay."

They shared a look you couldn't see.

"I won't bite anymore," Kuroo whispered. He kissed the top of your head as an apology, of sorts.

He lifted your wrist and placed it onto his sculpted stomach. It was a safe move, because it did help you calm down and give you something to look at. You weren't sure if you'd be able to look him in the eye ever again.

Your heart was still racing, but you did want to touch him. Both of your hands slid over his impressive body, thumbs prodding harder into the bulky muscle you weren't so used to- the type of grabbing and groping you had always been curious about. The back of your hand brushed his dark happy trail, your breath clipped at how his v-line dove deep into his sweats.

"Kemma," He muttered, breathy, over your head, keeping your hand right there, at his waistband.

You missed whatever exchange they must've had outside of your focus, but you were right on time to turn and watch them kiss.

Mouth open, you watched, shamelessly turned on, at the steamy exchange of tongue and spit, past and power between them right next to your head.

Nothing about that was unsure in nature. You could have been convinced that they kissed frequently.

Kuroo's hand kept yours barred on his tummy so you couldn't let him go- his other hand slipped between you and Kenma, pulling possessively at the small of your back. Kenma was also pulling you harder, closer, and you felt his hand slide onto your neck.

He usually did that when he wanted comfort- but it felt different for blur of reasons here.

They were both holding tightly onto you, but kissing each other. It nearly gave you whiplash, how fast it simplified things.

The way Kuroo parted, jaw flexed, a little flare on his nostrils in restraint was outrageously sexy. His narrowed, drunken eyes looked to you.

Your wall was back up, immediately- but you couldn't move, so you took his kiss, anyway.

His lips were wet and warm with the faint taste of Kenma. And he was making himself busy at he curve of your neck, noisily sucking and biting that little sensitive spot where it dipped into your shoulder, where he knew you held all of your stress.

"Mmnh-!"

Your uncontrollable sound was eaten right up, and Kuroo was able to get his tongue in your mouth, all clumsy, needy, like he just wanted to be inside of you no matter the method. He pushed your hand further into his pants and -of course- he wasn't wearing any underwear.

Did they kiss just to get you to this spot? The thought was concerning, but fleeting.

You gasped when he finally parted- for air, at Kenma's mouth, and the brief, unintentional brush against his cock.

Your hand shot back out of his pants, and though it looked like a struggle for him, he didn't continue trying to keep your wrist hostage. Kuroo didn't have much patience. The way he showed his passion sided closer to some kind of underlying bitterness, if anything.

A big, loud, tingly kiss to your neck, "He's good, huh?"

You glanced at Kuroo- he watched Kenma, a toothy smirk on his handsome face, like that compliment truly resonated somewhere.

"Yeah," You sighed, still scratchy. You hadn't used your voice in a while.

His arms slipped from you, a small lull in all the intensity for a position shift. You went maybe half a second with neither of them touching you- Kuroo scooped you up just as you were moving to take your seat on your boyfriend's lap.

"What're you thinkin', buddy?"

He held you like a display for him, both hands cupping your tits, a few giggly pecks to the top of your head.

"Wanna know what's goin' on in that brain of yours," His mutter felt aggressive against your scalp, making you feel a bit meek, yielding to his greedy touch.

Kenma scanned your intertwined bodies with a calculated, muted (as most of his emotions read), excitement you had rarely ever seen before.

What he had in mind was inventive, certainly not your first thought, but it was in your favor.

Your concern was quelled as you saw his little idea into action- he could handle more weight than you thought, as Kuroo straddled him, a little amused smile on his face. He took in the view of you perched atop Kenma's face, your hands crossed delicately on his chest.

The idea was so you would have to look at Kuroo.

He caught the hickeys scattered along your shoulder and neck.

"Damn Kemma, that's pretty gnarly," Kuroo's finger slipped over your skin and you flinched, "You sure that's gonna heal before class?"

Kenma shrugged underneath you, another kiss over that already tingly, sensitive bud. You tried to shift away, but he barred his arms over your hips to kept you in place. You had to brave the sensation, this position, longer.

"That's the point," Mumbled against you. Kuroo smirked at how your form broke, a curve to your spine already.

A big, slow lap at your pussy was just what you needed- all this grabbing and pinching and bruising, you just needed some head at this point.

Your moan, light, fluttery, and soft, had his attention locked.

Kuroo's thumb was gentle -not quite as gentle as Kenma- brushing your cheek, the rest of his fingers curled lightly under your jaw. You could look at those shoulders, that thick neck, his veiny forearms all day, but it was just different, difficult, having to meet his face.

"Ohh, you gotta learn to look at me, babydoll," His thumb was lowered, swiped across your glossy lip, his voice bittersweet, "Or we're gonna have a tough time."

It was like looking at him would make it more real. To your defense, it did- every time. You hated that he was using it as a way to get at you, because now he wouldn't give it up.

Finally, a kiss you didn't move away from.

His height gave him the advantage of being able to lean across the distance comfortably. You got to sit 'still' on Kenma's skilled tongue.

Since you weren't making it an unnecessary struggle this time, he was softer. Or, he was just trying to prove he could play the 'good guy,' too. He stroked himself over his sweats to the sounds you spilled across his mouth.

It only took a minute for him to move away from you, clambering off of the mattress, temporarily--

"'Ey bud- I'm takin' my pants off- I can't stand this shit."

You looked away as he stripped, so quick, so eager to get back to his kisses.

There was a clouded, dreamy haze in your vision at his slow, methodical circles. It was impossible to sit straight, but you knew Kenma could take a bit of weight on his chest.

"M-mmnh-ah,"

It took a second for your brain to catch up to everything, but when you replayed how he announced his actions, you really liked that he was, in a way, deferring to Kenma.

"Thaat's better," He groaned, lowering in a silly way to look at your pleasure-drunk expression, "Hm."

He looked down at Kenma, a palm gliding over the lines in his stomach. The muscle underneath danced, twitchy, and sensitive.

"Does he feel good, babygirl?"

You nodded, a weak, "Mh-mm, ah-!"

Kuroo seethed at the sound and quickened his pumping hand, "Ohh- you wanna tell him how good he feels?"

As his eyes trailed down your pretty, weakening form, he barely stopped himself from touching the tent in Kenma's pants. Instead, he kept his second hand gripping his hip bone, probing the skin there.

"Mmh-!" You cried, stooping forward with a tremble.

The little pitiful, embarrassed expression on your face was deserving of another kiss, however fleeting.

"Go 'head. Tell'm, baby."

Kenma must've loved the idea, because he made it intentionally difficult for you to get your words out. It was huffy, and broken, and interrupted by a quick, higher whine or two- but you did manage to tell him how perfect he felt, just like Kuroo wanted.

He didn't notice your reaction to his quiet, natural, "Good girl."

A couple of taps let you know to take your weight off of him. You were shaky, close, and already embarrassed, by that time, though.

Kuroo helped by keeping you upright and supported as Kenma slid out from his position.

"You are sooo cute," He cooed, a big hand squishing your face up so you couldn't avoid another kiss.

He liked smothering you with attention, in the absence of his more intense habits. It felt like you were dealing with cuteness-aggression, unable to wriggle out of his hold.

Your attempts were always half-assed, since it was everything you wanted. The subtle pushing, evading his kisses, little dissatisfied huffs, were more about the principle of not letting him treat you however he wanted. Kenma always put you first. You didn't want Kuroo's sudden presence to change that.

Since he knew you wouldn't touch him, he just stroked himself, between your bodies. It only worked to get him more frustrated at how difficult you were.

"Could you-- damn," Kenma did a double-take at his friend's dick, and left it at that, "Could you lay down?"

Kuroo liked his role. He liked his dick getting praised, too. His smile was unshakable, as he followed along and adjusted per Kenma's nudging. He looked up at him once more when you were prompted to sit on his lap.

Though your pussy was aching for something more, after an hour of essentially just on-and-off foreplay -especially a fan of the big, hunky addition to the bedroom beneath you-, you only hovered until Kenma weighed your hips the rest of the way down.

Kuroo was whiny, speaking only to his friend, "Why won't she look at me?"

He looked at you, "Aren't we friends?"

You grew warm, shuddery at that call-out and the fact that he caught you staring at his abs again.

A good distraction was Kenma, finally taking those stupid sweatpants off; you leaned towards him, quick to pump his cock and treat him well to a flurry of kisses.

He looked sleepy, satisfied with how easily you paid him attention.

His question was mumbled against your lips, a way od depriving you of your last kiss, "Why won't you look at Kuroo, hm?"

You squinted and sighed, a thoughtful effort on your brow until you felt the addictive, slick sensation of Kuroo's cock sliding against your folds, bumping your clit just right.

He was such a tease- he knew what he was doing, when he did it. He wanted to cut you off and smirked at his success.

An uneven whine- your hands landed on top of Kuroo's, swallowing up the crease of your thighs, hips, and ass with his outrageously big fingers.

"You should be nicer to him," He placed a gentle kiss to your cheek and left your side, opting to get behind you.

Kenma guided you by the shoulder to lean forward, face-to-face with Kuroo, knocked to your elbows. He pressed himself against your entrance.

"Oooh, what'd I tell ya?" He spoke right through Kenma sinking deeper into your pussy, finally filling you up, and still rocked his own cock against your clit, "You gonna- ah, look at me now? Or are you about to make this hard?"

You and Kuroo were in similar roles, in the way that you had no idea what Kenma was thinking, or why he did it, aside from speculation.

"A-ahh-!" You gasped, brow furrowed at how much you needed him, how much better this felt with Kuroo here, really here, instead of just in your fantasies.

The stretch, the delayed gratification of finally taking him, loosened your personal reigns a little. You wanted to see how his friend liked it.

It was difficult, but you managed to take in his handsome, dark features while Kenma filled you over and over again. His jaw was tight, flexed, as he bit the inside of his cheek. His eyes never looked endearing but they were clearly narrowed on purpose, focused and tense at your decision to keep your attention on him only now.

He was so jealous that it looked like he was struggling more than you. You loved watching it play out in his eyes, having to sit there and listen to you get railed right in front of him.

"You've got such a pretty little slut for a girlfriend-," He quelled his hunger for you with a quick, harsh kiss, muttering just between you, "Lucky bastard."

Kenma stayed deep, just barely rolling his hips with a sigh. You choked out a moan against Kuroo's frown.

There was an enviable ease to his words.

"I know."

This whole mess of a dynamic was unfolding and taking different shapes the more you all switched, resisted, or accepted your roles.

He was deep, and you were taking him so well that he wasn't as slow, or as soft as he usually opted for. The audience present gave him just a small kick of energy that he used to be a little harder with you.

"Koz-ume--!" You begged, "Mmh- slo-w-- slower..."

He didn't slow down because he knew you were only being theatrical. The intention behind his willful ignorance, still made you search for something, somebody, that would listen. It left you holding onto Kuroo for comfort instead, squeezing him closer to you, mumbling your incoherent whines past his ear.

In the process, his greedy, pinchy hands became more sympathetic, as he had to hold you still. His frown became occupied with shushes and little pecks to your shoulder, and he eventually had wrapped his arms around you, like a hug.

"You're takin' him soo well, babygirl," His low mutter did nothing to soothe you. It only made you want to cum to the sound of his voice. He rubbed over the scratches Kenma had been busy raking across your back.

"Soo fuckin' good."

Neither of you were ready to part, not yet- but Kenma pulled you out of his arms. He hugged you to his own chest, stalling deep inside of you, stuffing your poor pussy with a cruel thrust.

Again, one of those instances that wouldn't be replicated as easily with a big difference in height.

He was breathy, but he didn't stutter: "You gonna be nice to him?"

His hand squeezed your neck, his eyes steady from you, to Kuroo. Your breath was labored, your eyes narrowed, wanting, down at him.

"Hm?"

In the stillness, you could feel the extra wet running down your legs and wondered if you'd ever be so perfectly turned on again.

A managed a higher, breathier, "Yes," and he loosened his grip, letting you back onto Kuroo. Though he hadn't gotten any, he was more than satisfied with how pliable it made you.

You couldn't stop looking at him now.

He kept his grip tight on you, in case Kenma wanted to try taking you away again. His kisses had more depth, more appreciation. As hot as it was seeing Kenma so assertive, he hated being left out in the cold.

"That's too bad."

Was a phrase that both of you, even in spite of your stimulation, paused at. Your lip was hesitantly let go from its place between Kuroo's teeth. He gave him a dirty look as you burrowed your head into his giant shoulder.

Kenma was toneless, void of empathy, "You wanted to third, didn't you?"

Kuroo's expression shattered- the tension in his whole face dissipating into a thousand little pieces for about two seconds, as he tried to decipher what he meant, how he meant it, and how he should take that.

"I'm kidding-" Kenma snickered, still speaking through his fluttery, cute giggle as he addressed you, "You still wanna fuck Kuroo?"

It really hit home, for both of you, that none of this was going to work without Kenma being decidedly cool about a lot of things.

"Yes," Spilled from your lips, muffled against Kuroo's hot skin- you repeated yourself, shakily pushing yourself up for good measure, "Fuck yes."

A 'See? I told you so,' look to Kuroo. He slowly pulled out of you, leaving you to deal with an emptiness that altogether worsened your clingy exterior.

Kuroo's jealousy had softened to appreciation, and your apprehension traded spots with a need for attention. Kenma liked the control of facilitating it all.

☆VIP☆

@integers @paradoxicalwritings @yuchacco

taglist.

^if you're new, pls reply to be added for final part!

@portrait-ninja @insertamazingname @thisiswhereishitpostalot @isayuni @ice-echo26 @ghostreader0307 @0kaymellon @peacetea-sb

my masterlist. more haikyuu.

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rotagnus · 3 months ago

Text

your first child --<3

note: can you guys tell i like horses? LMAOO

this pac will be focusing on your firstborn. if you don't want kids/aren't planning to have any, don't feel like you have to read it! this reading isn't for everyone.

it'll focus on the temperament of your child, their behavior, maybe some qualities of you and the other parent.

thank you for the love on my father/husband reading! more readings will be coming <3

pile 1.

wow. your firstborn is going to be a fierce character. probably a fire sign, but i feel like they may have some earth placements as well. this child may heal some of you who felt overshadowed in the family--they'll adore you as their parent, and they'll be an absolute sweetheart. they might not be the child to take no for an answer, and they can be hardheaded, but that was part of what you wanted to teach them--to be firm and resolute with what they say. they'll be quickwitted, albeit probably not book-smart. they might grow up in a place with lots of birds; i think birds are significant for this pile, not sure why. they'll have darker features, or have a generally darker temperament. might have your nose. they'll have this bright light in them that'll transform into a talent in the right environment. as a parent, you'll encourage them to develop their craft, which can range from a sport like basketball to a hobby like poetry. i think that this child has potential to better the world, and they're a gift to you. i'd advise you to give this child time to bloom, whatever that means to you.

signs: birds, planes, things to do with the sky. warm colors. automobiles/mechanical items. 333. fire/earth signs. sources of water--particularly lakes/rivers. vases.

pile 2.

ohhh baby this child is going to be a little angel. on the quieter side, though, somewhat melancholic. they may be extremely introverted and prefer to stay to themselves, even though some of you guys have a wide social circle. they'll contrast you in all the good ways. they'll probably be very smart, but you have to make sure that you tell them that. they can be insecure and doubtful of themselves. they might not be the kind of a child you expected, and this might weigh heavy on them. they may struggle socially, but pile 2, this isn't all bad. deep inside, they want to be seen--and eventually, they will be. they'll feel like they're with the right group of people, aligned--maybe they'll develop a deep connection to a person or a hobby, but they're destined for greatness. they may not have an easy life, but the rewards will outweigh the bad. they may be an old soul. everything will be alright, though--do not fear.

signs: goats. angelic imagery. music. air signs. diaries/journals. bite marks. long hair. 2000s music. cozy, small spaces.

pile 3.

peacemaker who?!?! this child is gonna have a good heart, pile 3. a great one. they'll have this intricate ability to read situations and people in the blink of an eye. extremely socially smart and adept--an inherited quality rather than a taught one. they'll be accepting of people and unlikely to uselessly argue, but they won't tolerate any bs! they may have more masculine energy--doesn't mean it's a boy, but i'm getting more typically masculine cards and signs. they'll have a pretty nice life, mainly because they worked their ass off for it. you'll instill good values in them--they may not be the most patient person, and they could get on your nerves sometimes. maybe they're a yapper or they cried a lot as a baby, something to do with the voice. other than that, they'll be a typically balanced person, valuing harmony and peace over things that are wastes of time. they may not be fond of family activities, preferring to keep to themselves though...just something to be wary of. other than that, it's all going to be good. this child will bring out a very vulnerable part of you.

signs: flowers. guitar. blue hour. nostalgia. abundance, particularly financially. grandparents. 555. air signs/water signs. beauty in simplicity.

#love reading #pick a pile #pick a card #pac reading #tarot reading #pick a picture #tarotblr #rotagnus #pick a photo #divine guidance #intuitive reading #intuitive readings #intuitive messages #tarot cards #tarot blog

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girllblogging777 · 7 months ago

Note

Hiii 😊 Cinammon tinged tale for Mattheo Riddle/reader please!

How about Mattheo is a member of a band, and the reader is a journalist and they give her an interview and Mattheo is instantly head over heels.. Love at first sight

𝐴𝐿𝐿 𝐼𝑇 𝑇𝑂𝑂𝐾

↳ famous mattheo riddle x journalist reader

↳ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡 : 0.6k

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 : the lead singer of the band you’re interviewing falls for you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

the fluorescent hallway outside the room hums with low voices and muffled bass, a promise of the chaos waiting beyond the doors. you clutch your notebook a little tighter, running over the questions in your head for what feels like the hundredth time.

this is the biggest feature you’ve done for the paper, a full interview with the silver dominion, the band that has been skyrocketing through the rock charts lately.

you’ve done your research: lorenzo berkshire on drums, theodore nott on bass, mattheo riddle on guitar and vocals. mattheo… the name alone is enough to bring heat to your face. it’s impossible to miss his face on album covers, magazine spreads, and the endless stream of fan edits flooding your feed.

but none of that really matters right now. this is your job, you remind yourself before stepping into the room where they’re waiting.

the band is sprawled out on a couch when you walk in, the kind of casual chaos you’d expect from a group this magnetic. theo is tapping a rhythm against the armrest, enzo is looking through the setlist, but mattheo looks up the second the door opens.

and he stops.

completely.

your eyes meet, and it’s like the air shifts. his expression freezes, his hand hovering in mid-air where it was reaching for a cigarette. his dark eyes widen and for a split second, he looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“hi,” you manage, your voice steady despite the way his gaze sets your nerves alight.

“hi,” he says back, low and unsteady, like the word has weight to it.

enzo glances up from the documents, breaking the moment. “you must be the journalist.”

“that’s me,” you reply, tearing your eyes away from mattheo. you try to focus as enzo introduces himself, then theo, but you can still feel mattheo’s gaze on you, sharp and heavy, like he’s trying to memorize every detail of your face.

“and that’s mattheo,” theo says, motioning toward him with a smirk.

you glance back at him, and he still hasn’t looked away. his lips part slightly, like he wants to say something, but no words come out.

“nice to meet you,” you say, your voice soft.

he nods, and for a moment, his mask of cool indifference slips. something flickers in his expression, raw and disarming, before he quickly looks down, fumbling with the cigarette in his hand.

“so,” you start, clearing your throat as you sit down across from them, trying your best to look at ease. “let’s dive in.”

the interview begins, and you do your best to focus, asking theo about his influences, enzo about their songwriting process. the room fills with easy banter, laughter spilling over as theo tells a story about their disastrous first gig.

but mattheo barely speaks.

he answers when you ask, short, clipped responses that seem out of place for someone so magnetic on stage. but every time you glance up, his eyes are on you, and they’re not just looking. they’re studying.

“mattheo, how do you balance writing lyrics and playing lead guitar?” you ask, hoping to draw him into the conversation.

his lips twitch into a small smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “it’s not something i think about too much. it just… happens.”

enzo snorts. “he’s being modest. he’s a control freak in the studio.”

“shut up,” mattheo mutters, but there’s no real bite to it. his eyes flicker back to yours, softening. “it’s just about the feel of it, you know?”

you nod, scribbling down his response, but you can feel the weight of his gaze lingering.

“so what about you?” he asks suddenly, cutting through enzo’s attempt to steer the conversation back.

you blink. “what about me?”

“why’d you start writing?” his voice is quieter now, laced with something you can’t quite place.

“uh, i…” you falter, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. “i guess i’ve always loved telling stories. finding the human side of things, the parts people don’t usually see.”

he leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. “and do you find it?”

“sometimes,” you say honestly, holding his gaze even though it makes your chest feel tight. “not always.”

his lips part, like he’s about to say something, but theo cuts in before he can.

“are we just gonna let him hijack the interview?” theo teases, raising a brow at mattheo. “she’s here for all of us, you know.”

“right,” mattheo mutters, sitting back, but his eyes don’t leave yours.

the rest of the interview passes in a blur. you jot down notes, ask follow-up questions, laugh along with theo’s jokes, but mattheo stays quiet, only speaking when directly addressed. and yet, his presence fills the room, drawing your attention back to him over and over.

when it’s finally over, you gather your things, feeling oddly reluctant to leave.

“thanks for your time,” you say, standing.

theo and enzo wave you off with easy grins, already diving into some argument about their setlist, but mattheo follows you to the door.

“wait,” he says, his voice low.

you turn, your pulse quickening as he steps closer.

“you’re coming to the show tonight, right?”

you nod. “i’ll be covering it.”

his gaze softens, something like relief flickering across his face. “good.” he hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “can i… ask you something?”

“sure.”

he swallows, his confidence faltering for the first time. “do you… i don’t know, do you believe in things happening for a reason?”

his question catches you off guard, but there’s something so vulnerable in his expression that you can’t brush it off.

“sometimes,” you say carefully. “why?”

he shakes his head, a small, almost self-deprecating laugh escaping him. “i don’t know. it’s just… the second you walked in, it felt like…” he trails off, glancing away, then back at you. “like something shifted.”

your breath catches, the honesty in his voice cutting through every defense you have.

“mattheo—”

“sorry,” he says quickly, stepping back. “i probably sound insane. forget i said anything.”

you want to say something, anything, but the door swings open behind you, theo calling him back inside.

“i’ll see you tonight,” mattheo says, his voice softer now. and as you leave, his eyes follow you, heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

and you know.

you know he felt it too.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

a/n : as an aspiring journalist i wish this was me fr, thank you for this request !!! likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated <3

tell me if you wanna be added to the tag list !@redeemingvillains @leona-hawthorne @shiftingwithmars @tateshifts @rose-of-the-grave @clar2aa @iris-qt @sp7-mr @deadghosy @deadsnakey @helendeath @jolly4holly @larmesdevanille @dexoq @shiftingwithleah @sunkissedscribbles @chelawrites @myunperfektstorys @yikesitslush @slut-for-fictional-men @romantasyreader28 @witchsrecs @mattiesgf @reidol0gy @kenjikishimotoswifey @2dloveshp

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loovser · 28 days ago

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the guy she was interested in wasn’t a guy at all - chapter 5

synopsis turns out the cute guy from the cd store is actually… a girl.

wc: 3.1k

cw: smut, oral (r!receiving), scissoring, choking, cursing, overstimulation, pussy slaps (hehe), spitting, there’s fluff too i promise, they love each other omg i love them, ellie is such a loser :( until she’s not 🙂‍↕️ i think thats all plus its the last chapter so… enjoy!

when she reaches the last chords, ellie lets them hang in the air for a little longer, because she really doesn’t want this moment to end — and neither do you. not when you are looking at her like she’s everything you ever wanted. not when you remind her how you truly see her.

there’s a moment of stunned silence before the rooftop erupts into claps and whistles. not because she was perfect — she was, to you — but because she was real. raw. someone shouts “yeah girl!” and she flushes hard, tugging on her shirt nervously even though she is already walking off the tiny stage.

your heart hammers painfully against your ribs as she makes her way straight to you. her eyes never leaving yours. you just know dina and jesse are somewhere in this crowd grinning like two idiots. but you can’t keep thinking about anything else as she stops right in front of you.

staying seated, frozen in your place, you stare at her. how her guitar is hanging from her shoulder by a worn strap. how the soft glow of the rooftop lights catches the tiny tear streaks still shining on her cheeks. your fingers itch to wipe them off.

ellie bends down a little, so you are eye-level and scratches the back of her neck. you hold back a giggle, flashing her a sheepish smile instead. she’s so cute. her voice is so quiet, only you can hear it over the buzz of people around.

“hi…” she says and you swallow thickly, throat sore from all the emotions you’ve been facing today. she shifts her weight awkwardly from foot to foot, clutching her guitar pick tightly in one hand. “i know you’re mad. i- um.. i wanted to show you that i’m sorry. that… it was never a joke to me. you’re not a joke to me.”

the words land heavy between you two. you bite your lip, looking at her. the hurt in her face as she makes clear that she was always serious about you makes you realize that your assumptions were right. she’s been suffering too.

ellie ducks her head a little. “you don’t have to say anything. i just needed you to know. that’s all.” and she turns, ready to leave, giving you the space she thought you wanted.

but your hand shoots out before you can even think about it, grabbing the hem of her deftones shirt. you knew she wore it because it’s your favorite band.

she freezes, looking at you with wide, green eyes that shimmer under the lights.

you pull her just a little closer, voice trembling. “will you be gone in a day or two?” you watch how the corners of her mouth tug into a smile. you are referencing the song she sang to you.

“only if you want me to.”

you roll your eyes, because it’s obvious that you don’t want that. "...you’re such an idiot."

and before you can chicken out, before you can overthink it into oblivion, you pull her face down into yours, your lips crashing into hers eagerly. ellie’s surprise crumbles as she melts into the kiss. you couldn’t care less if anyone else is seeing it. it is the moment you have been dreaming of for days.

it couldn’t be more perfect. the feeling of your lips against hers making her let out a soft whimper, almost like a plea for more. you smirk against her lips and she takes this as an opportunity to deepen the contact, her tongue slipping on your bottom lip, seeking entrance.

almost instantly, you let it in, relishing at how she explores your mouth like she’s been craving it. and she has. all she can think about is how you taste so good on her tongue. all she can focus on is how your kiss makes her lose her mind. how your mouths were made for each other. how your body fits hers perfectly, like the missing star to her constellation.

and when you both reluctantly pull back, she swears you can’t look prettier than now. your face so close to hers, lips swollen and cheeks flushed. you smile at her as she admires you and she feels like she’s in heaven. you feel the same. it’s like everything you went through these last few days finally make sense.

“is that a yes to us finishing our project together-” ellie mumbles out, shyly.

“yes. yes, ellie, we will” you grin, cutting her off mid-sentence. she gives your lips a tender peck as you both chuckle.

after walking you home and giving you a goodbye kiss, both of you decided she would go back to your place the next day.

and that’s where you are right now, as she sits on your bed and you are listening to her talk about savage starlight. ellie tells you the dumbest jokes that somehow still make you laugh. maybe because her laugh is contagious. or it’s due to the fact that she’s so silly that you can’t stop giggling around her.

“you know… i made something for you. yesterday, before i went to sleep.”

“oh?” her cheeks turn pink and you realize the innuendo on your sentece.

“you are such a perv” you tease, laughing “it’s nothing like that. i just… well you noticed i have deleted the playlist i made, right?”

“yeah, i cried over it. a lot. does this have anything to do with the fact you followed me again on instagram yesterday?”

“kinda? i regretted it, so i was… fixing it.” you shrug and she smiles “so, i made another playlist. not for miller… but for you, ellie.”

her smile gets wider and softer and you can’t help but smile back at her. it’s so good to finally be able to really feel everything you feel for her and be close to her like this.

“you did?” she asks, softly and you nod. “can we… um, listen to it together?”

“i’d really like that.” you hand her your phone, the playlist on the screen.

ellie takes her time to see it. the name of the playlist being her name. the full, real one, no nicknames or made-up stuff. just her and the songs you carefully chose for it. she is so happy she could cry. the way you make her feel is overwhelming in the best way possible.

she takes a deep breath and presses play. ‘motion sickness’ bye phoebe bridgers starts to play faintly. “i’m really sorry… about lying to you. i never meant to, i just- i got scared of telling you the truth because i thought you wouldn’t like me if i wasn’t a boy”

you get closer to her on your bed, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. she looks up at you and you can see how tormented she was being by her own thoughts.

“it was really confusing for me too, honestly. i’ve never felt so interested in someone before and suddenly i was interested in two people? that made me a little crazy.” you chuckle, watching her. “i mean, not confusing bad. just… new. for me. but whenever i was with you… it didn’t feel confusing. it just felt right.” you bite the inside of your cheek. “i didn’t know what that meant. or if it meant anything.”

ellie is quiet for a moment. then, softly: “it means something to me.” you meet her eyes.

“it means something to me, too. i figured it out when we stopped talking. that i was actually… relieved that these two people were you. and when i saw you on the rooftop i just knew that i’m really in love with you.”

“i am in love with you, too. you already noticed that,” she laughs and you smile “but it feels so good to be able to tell you.”

ellie kisses you. this time, it’s even deeper. like she is finally pouring all of the feelings she has been keeping inside of her for months, since she just admired you from her seat during your shared classes. it’s different from your first kiss. more intimate, more passionate.

her lips move against yours hungrily. with need and want. her hands grip your waist tightly as yours cup her face. the way her tongue easily slips into your mouth and how she is exploring your mouth is making it hard for you to keep your composure.

suddenly, she breaks the kiss, gasping for air. “shit — our paper”

“you’re gonna pretend you can focus on a VFX breakdown right now?”

she laughs. “i can multitask, you know.”

“i’d like to see that.” you are still breathless, your thighs brushing.

for a moment, you just stare at each other. her eyes roam your figure, gaze darkening as she looks back at your face. she can’t hold it in anymore.

“you know what, fuck this VFX project. i have other ways of showing you how i can focus on two things at the same time.” she murmurs, voice low and teasing as she hovers over you.

“how are you gonna do that?” you bite your lips as she pushes you onto the mattress.

her thighs are caging you in between her legs as she leans down to your face, stopping a few inches away from your lips. “you’ll see”

surprising you, she starts kissing your neck. she nips at it, sucking and licking. then biting. she is marking you, claiming you as hers. its sends a wave of heat straight to your core and you can’t stop the moan that escapes your mouth.

she smirks against your skin, proud of stealing that noise from you. her kisses trail down to your collarbones, teeth grazing in your skin. her hands roam your sides, under your shirt, making you shiver as she continues to colour your skin with dark hickeys.

“take it off…” you murmur, hand in her hair.

and she does, looking up at you, her eyes piercing through yours, slowly going down as she takes your shirt off. no bra. her pupils are blown like she’s looking at the prettiest thing she’s ever seen. you don’t think you could ever forget about it. and neither does she.

“you are so fucking pretty” it’s all the cinnamon-haired girl is capable of saying, before her mouth is all over you.

the multi-tasking is proven right when she gives attention to both of your tits at the same time, sucking and licking one while her finger plays with the other. you can only whimper, as you tangle your fingers into her hair.

with her free hand, she unbuttons your pants, pulling them down and finally backing away a bit, so she could take her time to look at you. how could you just get prettier and prettier as she discovers all these new sides of you?

you hair is messy, cheeks pink. the marks she left on your body sends a shiver down her spine. you feel hot under her gaze, the heat pooling in your stomach in a way that almost makes you beg her to touch you. she finishes taking your pants off, positioning herself in the middle of your legs.

ellie plays with the waistband of your panties and just her touch brushing your hips makes you bite back a moan. her heart is beating so fast she can feel it in her throat. its too much. she needs it, needs you. “how much do you like these?”

you frown “my panties? they are not my favorite-“ the sound of the thin and lacy fabric being ripped cuts you off. you gasp. did she just…?

she literally moans at the sight of you, jaw slack, like she’s overwhelmed by just how much she wants you. ripping the rest of your underwear off, she throws it away at some forgotten corner of your room. her fingers slide through your glistening heat “fuck… you are so wet already”

as your hips bucks forward to meet her face, she smirks. your eagerness makes her feel even more aroused, having you squirming on the spot just by teasing you is driving her crazy. “so impatient, baby. i’ll give you what you want.”

she spits in your clit, her gaze never leaving yours as she licks it, making you moan. your hand flies to her hair again, trying to ground yourself somehow as she starts to eat you out. it’s like she’s been starved for you this whole time as she messily sucks your sensitive bud, tongue exploring your folds and spreading your slick and her saliva all over your cunt.

her chin is dripping with your arousal but that’s the least of your worries right now as she relishes in your taste and pleasures you, whimpering into your pussy like she’s the one that’s being pleasured.

“shit, els, don’t stop”

ellie wouldn’t be able to stop even if she wanted to tease you. she’s already addicted to you, to your taste, to the way you sound when she’s in you, to how you struggle to keep looking at her. your taste, your smell… it’s too fucking good. her own hips grind into the mattress as she seeks some friction to relief the aching between her thighs.

it just pushes you closer to the edge, seeing her so desperate to give you what you want and also not being able to control herself. it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen, her green eyes fixated on you as she slides her tongue inside you. your toes curl and she can feel your walls clenching around her pink muscle. the noises she is making mingle with yours and sends a vibration through you that is too much too bare.

you can’t even warn her when your orgasm hits, body shaking as she drinks all of your juices, not sparing a single drop.

“i need you so bad, god” she strips out of her clothes clumsily as you catch your breath.

your own arousal blossoming all over again as you watch her getting closer to you. her slim figure, toned arms, perked nipples… her fucking happy trail and little bush. it all makes you crazy. she smirks as you stare at her, positioning herself on top of you, her cunt aligned to your own. her lips crashes into yours in a searing kiss, you can taste yourself on her tongue as she pushes herself down against you.

she is rough with it, in a way you didn’t imagine. but you fucking love it. the way her hand grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling it hard. your head tilts back, but you can’t keep your eyes off of her. not when she’s on top of you. not when she’s looking at you like that. not when her hips buck against you, her pussy kissing yours just how you like it.

hearing your high-pitched moans is enough for her to know that you are in complete ecstasy, but she can’t help yourself when she asks “can a guy fuck you like this? hm?” her voice even rougher due to the pleasure. you almost cum right there, hardly managing to keep it together as you moan louder. it’s so hard to talk.

your fucked out expression is driving her insane, the way your eyes never leave hers. but she wants you to say it. her grip on your hip loosens as she guides her hand to your neck, fingers closing around it, applying just the right amount of pressure to make you feel dizzy. fucking hell.

“come on, you can do better than that f’me. answer” she pants, the feeling of your throat bobbing against her palm making it almost impossible for her to not make a mess on top of you. she squeezes it and you gasp.

“n-no, fuck, els. only you” is all you manage to get out from your system, breathless, as she takes her hand back to your hip and starts moving her cunt faster against yours.

the squelching wet noises mingling with your moans and her whimpers making everything sound even more pornographic. “mmmph yeah, that’s it. this pussy is all mine” she groans.

her swollen clit rubbing against yours in a friction that makes you spiral. the way her grip on you tightens as she keeps you right where she wants you, it’s definitely gonna leave marks. she’s once again claiming you as hers and you let it. because you are.

it’s like she’s a starved woman, devouring you with her eyes as she sets the perfect pace to make you roll yours. the sight of you like this is one she will never forget, carved into her memory forever. she just wants to keep making you feel like this. you look so good under her.

“just one more, baby. i know you got it in you,” she presses herself against you, stopping for a moment just to give your clit a few slaps, relishing in your wetness and the whimper you let out as she does. “fucking give it to me”

“shit, i- i’m gonna cum, ellie” you moan out and she can’t get over the way her name sounds on your lips. she goes back to riding you, the angle somehow getting even better than before.

“let me feel you cumming all over me, make a mess baby” it’s all it takes for you. the overstimulation from the previous orgasm makes this one hits you even harder, legs shaking as your slick gush against her, crying out her name over and over, like a prayer.

her hips bucking faster and in a sloppier way as she rides it out, chasing her own orgasm that comes right away. she grunts, giving a few more rolls as she creams all over your cunt. her face when she cums is so slutty you swear you could reach your third climax just by looking at it.

she collapses on top of you and you chuckle breathlessly, your hand stroking her sweaty hair gently. “you’re mine”

“i am. and you are mine. where the fuck did you hide all of this?” she laughs as you ask.

“that’s only for you to see”

“good… you know you are kind of deserving to smoke that weed you gave me with me.”

“oh, am i?”

she chuckles, looking at you. and when she kisses you deeply again you know that you are going to be seeing a lot more.

happy mother’s day!! we reached the end of this series guys thank you so much for the support and for reading it! i hope you liked it 💘 i am already working on some other things, buuuuut feel free to request any theme you’d like me to write about! also thank you so much for the 200 followers, i love you all MWAH

taglist!

@marirxse @yashirawr @vahnilla @liztreez @hyperbabes @lybbay @coeurcanelle @desiretolive @b1uecatt @moonystoes @eriiwaiii2 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @uraesthete @machetegirl109 @snuffphiliaa @robinphobia @na0koz @ellies-real-wife @vivzzi @wtvm0m0 @lesoulew @violetszn @lesb4ellie @jun1eqz @oneinameliann

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multikara24 · 11 days ago

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First Time

a/n: It's been a while since I have used Tumblr and this work originally was going to be smut and it turned into a way to plot a long fic if I wanted too.

Warnings: Plot, Fluff, Smut with heavy feelings, P in V, Unprotected... I'm pretty sure there are more so tread carefully. Use of Y/N because apparently writers don't do that anymore?

Parining: Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

It was the first time in.. God, he couldn’t remember. It has been over 20 years and time was getting more difficult to tell, yet Joel only continued to get older. Currently, he had his head buried in the shoulder of the woman who laid beneath him. Jackson had become home a few months back after the tedious trip from Boston to Wyoming, Ellie was dating a girl named Dina, and Joel had found a woman of his own. She began traveling with him and Ellie after they arrived at Bill’s only to find nothing left. She made it to Jackson with them after a couple of close encounters and multiple injuries. She was teaching Ellie the things she needed to know when Joel was shot. They always made it back to him in one piece.

Yet, when push came to shove out on the open road. Joel always shoved. There were moments when (Y/N) would go ahead with Ellie and speak to her about things or help her with her aim after Joel showed off to them both. “Cheater” they both claimed. It was hard not to see them as a makeshift family especially when, despite how much he attempted to deny the claims, Joel was staring at her when she thought she wasn’t looking and (Y/N) did the exact same back and the two of them remained friends despite Ellie’s best efforts. Her best efforts were teasing the two adults “Joel, were you staring at her or were those Clickers?” she once asked bluntly, “It's obvious you two like each other.. There’s a building over there, go work it out.” and when those didn’t work she resorted to truth or dare games. Ellie took an interest in how oblivious the both of them seemed and constantly facepalmed in second hand embarrassment.

Arriving at Jackson changed everything. Joel was safe, Ellie was safe, and most importantly (Y/N) was safe, despite the occasional disagreements and arguments they were enough of a family as Tommy and Maria. It was only a few weeks ago that Joel’s barriers were finally broken by (Y/N), he finally let them down. Joel had a nightmare and when asked he couldn’t remember what it was about but he knew his brain enjoyed testing him, making him relive some of the lowest points of his life since the outbreak. Joel woke up panting and desperately needing something to ground him. Originally, he planned on using alcohol and drugs to numb the pain but the way (Y/N) woke up to the near nonexistent sound of Joel Miller sneaking was something that caught him by surprise. Instead of alcohol that night, he took comfort in her, albeit reluctantly and eventually unintentionally.

Now? He had his head buried in the crevice of (Y/N)’s shoulder and neck. His lips moving of their own accord as he mumbled swears between praises and soft noises while gently rocking his hips. His eyes were screwed shut as he was slightly overwhelmed by the sensations. He had lost count of just how many sensations he felt as holding on to his train of thought caused him to disconnect from the moment and disconnection meant missing every tiny noise (Y/N) made. Sex was a far from new concept to Joel but sex with someone he loved with every goddamn fiber of his being, someone who was safe enough to not have to constantly worry about if an infected or a FEDRA agent would kill them. For the first time in a long time he felt safe. He wasn’t living in chaos thanks to Jackson and Tommy for taking the three of them in. He could focus on fixing guitars, carving little sculptures out of wood, or the woman he would one day make his wife and his adopted daughter.

“God, Joel.” The hand in his hair tightened slightly and in turn he let out a groan as his teeth grazed her shoulder gently taking the skin between his teeth and giving it back just as easily. His pace picked up slightly at the sound of his name in such an intimate way as he kissed the area of skin.

“I love you.” He mumbled against her skin. The words were honest and from the heart despite the circumstances. (Y/N) processed for a moment. The three words she knew he felt but was unsure he was ever going to utter came out so simply.

“I love you too, Joel. I have for a while now.” That’s all he needed. The simple reassurance that she felt the same, that she thought the same. He pulled back not too long after looking down at her before pressing a soft kiss to the side of her jaw and then her lips.

“Don’t you need to finish?” She asked looking between them at just how taut he was. He looked up at her and chuckled through his nose softly.

“I did.” He assured her before getting off the couch and walking to their shared bedroom for a cloth then headed to the kitchen to wet the cloth and wipe her off. He placed a gentle kiss to the inside of her thigh and pulled her on top of him to cuddle, quickly bringing the blanket down with her.

“I love you.” He spoke quietly, pressing a soft kiss to her head. His southern drawl was more obvious than usual.

“I love you too, Joel.” She spoke before closing her eyes as she listened to Joel’s raised yet steady and calm heartbeat. He was her safe place and more importantly, she was Joel’s.

#joel miller #the last of us #smut #x female reader #x reader #joel miller fluff #tlou #joel miller x reader #Pedro pascal x reader

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nilla03 · 28 days ago

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𝑮 𝑺𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝑓𝑡: 𝑺𝒖𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒖 𝜗𝜚

—“Lemme play this sweet little pussy like my guitar, yeah? Bet you’ll sound better than any set I’ve ever done.”

—𝑂𝑟𝑎𝑙 (𝑓!𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔) ,𝑊𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑒𝑥 , 𝑆𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑃𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑠𝑒 + 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 , 𝐿𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑑𝑒𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 , 𝐶𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑒.

You didn’t even like the opening band..But that was before he walked out with a guitar slung low on his hips like it belonged there—like it was an extension of his body, like it was a sin to look away from the way his fingers slid over the frets.

That’s what your friend whispered in your ear, clutching your arm like she was watching God descend from the rafters. “That’s Suguru Geto. He’s just the guitarist—but fuck.”

Just the guitarist, your ass. He didn’t need to sing. He made the damn guitar moan.

And now your panties were stuck to your skin, your gloss was long gone from biting your lip too hard, and you hadn’t blinked once during the set.

Suguru was tall, tatted, with thick black hair falling into his eyes—smudged eyeliner clinging to his waterline like he’d slept in it for two days straight. The veins in his hands strained every time he struck the strings, the chain hanging from his jeans glinting with every sharp, hip-heavy move.

You didn’t know the words. Didn’t care. You just watched his fingers move and wondered what else they could do.

By the time the show ended, you were halfway to feral.

Your friends dragged you out back near the gated area. “Come on, it’s hot girl behavior to at least try,” one of them said. You were still reeling, still thinking about the way his guitar strap cut across his chest. He’d spit on the stage at one point. Spit. And you swore it was the hottest thing you’d ever seen.

You didn’t expect him to actually walk out, he did—shirt changed to a half-zipped hoodie, cigarette tucked behind one ear, hair pushed back carelessly.

“Suguru!” one of them shouted, waving like a little freak. But it worked. His dark eyes slid toward your group, slow and bored and uninterested… until they landed on you.

You. Standing there like a little dolled-up lamb in the middle of a pack of wolves, pink mini dress and lip-gloss back on, lashes fluttering. And for a second—just one—he actually smirked.

“Backstage’s that way,” he said with a tilt of his head, speaking only to you.

Your friends squealed behind you, but you barely heard them over the sound of your own heartbeat.

The moment you stepped past the threshold into the dim, whiskey-scented greenroom, the door clicked shut—and his hands were already sliding under your dress.

“Didn’t think you’d actually follow me,” he murmured, voice a low drawl, gravel-dragged and amused as his mouth dipped to your throat. “But fuck, I’m glad you did.”

You were already breathless, nodding dumbly, your back pressed to the concrete wall, fingers tangled in his black hoodie as his lips grazed your ear.

“You looked so fuckin’ sweet out there,” he whispered, licking down your jaw. “Bet you were dripping during the set, weren’t you? All cute and squirmy while I was up there playing.”

You whimpered, legs spreading for him without a second thought. “I was… I-I couldn’t stop looking at you…”

Suguru chuckled against your skin, hands gripping your thighs, pushing that frilly little dress higher. “I noticed. Those pretty eyes never left me. Thought about bending you over the amp right there on stage. Crowd would’ve loved it.”

His words were filthy, but they dripped like honey in your ears, sinking into your skin as he sank to his knees.

“Fuck, look at this,” he murmured, pulling your panties aside to see how wet you were. “Didn’t even touch you yet.”

Then his mouth was on you—hot, slow, mean, licking into you like he was trying to memorize every pulse and twitch. His tongue dragged up your slit with excruciating focus, lips latching around your clit with a filthy slurp that made your knees buckle.

“Suguru—” you cried, hand flying to his head, his hair silky between your fingers.

“Shh,” he rasped between strokes. “Lemme play this sweet little pussy like my guitar, yeah? Bet you’ll sound better than any set I’ve ever done.”

You were writhing, glossy lips parted in moans as he devoured you, humming against your clit just to feel you shake.

By the time he stood up, your thighs were trembling, your slick smeared down them.

He shoved your dress up completely, turned you around against the wall, and let his jeans fall just enough to free himself—thick, heavy, girthy, tip already leaking.

“You still want this?” he asked, voice darker now. “Say it.”

“I want it—fuck—I need it,” you gasped, nails scraping the wall.—Your cry echoed in the empty room, and Suguru’s head dropped against your shoulder, breath ragged as he rocked into you from behind, hips smacking your ass, his hands gripping your waist tight enough to bruise.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he groaned. “So fuckin’ tight—like you were waiting for me.”

He didn’t stop. He fucked you like he played: intense, focused, filthy. One hand gripped your throat, the other slithered under you to rub your clit in slow, devastating circles.

“Gonna cum for me?” he growled, voice thick in your ear. “Wanna feel you squeeze me, baby—fuck—cum all over this cock like a good girl.”

#jjk fanfic #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jujustsu kaisen x reader #geto x you #geto smut #getou suguru x reader #jjk oneshot #jjk suguru #suguru geto x reader

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siddyyyyyyyy · 10 months ago

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Rockstar Girlfriend

Older!Damian Wayne x fem!Reader

wc: 3.7 K summary: You're Damian's girlfriend, and his family wants to visit your concert warnings: none, no y/n used, established relationship a/n: I often daydream about this scnenario, so here you go. divider from @super-marvel-dc , just the stuff I needed ! enjoy

Tuning your guitar does get on your nerves on tours, especially right before you need to go on stage and the E-string seems to snap any moment. Your earpiece counts the few last beats down before the lights go off and you have to be on stage, finally getting the guitar tuned for the show. The supporting band got off stage a few mintues ago, hyping you and your bandmates up for the show, since you are the main act. This band is the most sweetest you‘ve ever met, even when they play a little softer music than you.

Just in time, you get to your mic stand and can only see some flashlights from phones in the crowd before you and your band play the first chord of the opening song. Ear-deafening shouts and cheers errupt from the crowd, having to focus on staying in the rythm, also to begin singing on the right time.

The lightshow of the stage gives the crowd an even more beautiful and energetic view, most of them singing along the first words of the song while some record with their phones. It seems like you‘re singing to a see of people, not able to recognise this many faces or even identify some with the lights flickering to the beat of the music, having to focus on multiple things at the same time anyway. But one thing is that you are sure of. It‘s that your boyfriend should be here, most likely somewhere in the front rows. As you continue to play and sing, you‘re intently watching the crowd on the first rows, trying to make out where he is. It is nearly impossible though, the lightshow making it less possible to actually recognise anyone from the stage.

You give up after a moment and focus on performing, jumping around lightly at the parts where you don‘t need to sing and can have fun. It seems like the viewers also have a lot of fun with your music, seeing some mosh-pits form further in the back and middle. You had trouble believing it at first when you saw people file out of the hall with your first few concerts, that there are some rowdy and elder people who enjoy your music. They‘re probably the same ones in the pit right now. Good thing Damian is probably at the front, he would‘ve seriously injured people on accident.

Your band is two songs in, but the set list still has twenty songs left, promising for a long night. Damian is indeed by the front rows, standing among other hardcore fans who seem too desperate for his taste. But who is he to judge, he tries to make it to every concert you guys announce and play near by. Always getting some kind of merch by the merch stands before the show, small stickers or patches, you name it; he has it.

During a more heavy song, you engange with the crowd as usual, telling them to part the crowd for the up-coming breakdown. Of course, the crowd does a good job at that, some people in the front and back just watching the show and crowd while the band continues to play.

The breakdown, the most heaviest part of the song, start playing and the people create a ‚Wall of Death‘, it looking satisfying from your view. Your bassist does most of the screaming vocals on the extra mic stand, getting to play the thrilling chords on your guitar while watching the crowd have fun.

Finally, you meet eyes with Damian. He grins proudly, wearing a shirt with your band logo on it. He gives you a thumbs up, seemingly proud and happy to support you on one of your bigger perfomances. Normally, you play at smaller stages, but the support band and your new support and love from fans made this possible to happen. It‘s a sight to see, knowing all these people like the stuff you‘re creating for your own enjoyment and actively support your band because they want more of your music.

You‘re halfway through your setlist now, not being nervous at all now as you get used to the feeling fairly quickly. It‘s always during the middle of the set when it is time for a small break, getting to drink some water while engaging with the crowd and entertaining them. And who would your bandmates be if they wouldn‘t mess around with the other mic while you talk, making the crowd laugh and record the interaction with your band. After the joksters finally lock in, it‘s time to perform the last half of the set list. The crowd really does give their best on having fun, never having seen so many mosh pits in one of your concerts before.

The show comes to an end, being sweaty and worn out after the perfomance but you can‘t leave without throwing some guitar picks and drumming sticks to the crowd, a lot of them being happy over it and catching them.

Lastly, you could finally leave for the backstage and into your private room to get unready and settle down into your own respective homes.

»Was your lovey-dovey boyfriend here again?« Your drummer asks while drying his hair off with a towel, always talking about your boyfriend as if he would take him from you. In a friendly, funny way, of course.

»Yeah, somewhere in the front row. Why?«

You answer back while taking off your make up in front of a mirror, glancing behind your shoulder at him.

»I just saw him too. Seemed like he was wearing our merch!«

He tells you excitedly with a big grin, making sure to get his hair dry from his sweat.

»Yeah, he definitely wore our merch.« You nod back as your face is bare again, walking over to your bag at the couch. Your bandmates seem to giggle and mostly joke a bit around with how cheesy your boyfriend is, being used to their shenanigans by now. You settle down on the couch for a moment, your feet and legs aching from standing and performing for almost an hour tonight, having been preparing and helping the technicians with setting up the lightshow and stage this afternoon, since you feel bad for them doing all this for your band.

Eventually, you make your way outside of the arena to meet your boyfriend, having your bag over your shoulder while the staff is taking care of the rest. He is standing by the back door, right where you walked out of, greeting him with a tight hug.

»God, I‘m sweaty, I probably stink so bad...«

Damian doesn‘t even budge and keeps you in his arms, a soft expression on his face.

»So what? You were amazing up there. As always.«

He shrugs and doesn‘t seem to want to let go of you yet, swaying together from side to side which makes you both smile at the other.

Damian walks you home, ending up carrying you once you mention about your feet hurting. There‘s something deeply affectionate in the way he holds and carries you in his arms, not leaving room for any arguments about it.

The night ends with him dropping you off by your home, exchanging some fleeting kisses before he is forced to leave for patrol with the others.

----

The Wayne Manor, 11:26 PM

»Are you not going to explain why you‘re late this time?« Bruce gruff voice calls out once Damian joins the rest on the rooftop, changed in his suit and ready to patrol finally.

»He was at his girlfriends concert. They had a show nearby today.« Tim snitches, making it short but also making Damian glare at him even harder.

»Is that true?«

His father questions again and awaits his answer, receiving a nod as Damian looks at him finally.

»Yes, I was at her show. Bought a shirt.«

Batman simply sighs out but doesn‘t seem annoyed by it for more than five seconds.

»Where was it this time?« He asks with rather more curiousity, making Damian state the name of the city, having driven back by train with you together to drop you off safely.

The conversation doesn‘t last long as they begin to patrol, Damian having a bit of trouble hearing at first, still used to the loud music from earlier. The patrol ends up being as usual, no serious troubles.

----

Next morning at the Manor seems to be chaotic once again, some voices coming from the kitchen while Bruce is sipping on a cup of coffee with a newsletter in hand.

»Why can‘t we ever join when you‘re going out with her? She‘s so nice and fun to talk to, it‘s unfair!«

Dick complains from the kitchen as he prepares some toast for himself, Damian sitting by the kitchen island with a cup of tea in hand.

»If you wouldn‘t try to disturb their dates, maybe he would have her come over more frequently.«

Tim counters as he is at the kitchen island as well, working at his laptop. The eldest son groans dramatically, defending himself from the obvious truth.

»I‘m not trying to disturb them, just trying to talk and see how it‘s going...«

»Definitely invading their privacy.«

It seems like Dick still wants to spend more time all together with you and the family, but it‘s clear that you don‘t have much time now with your small tour going on and them being vigilantes.

»I would also like to see her more often, but you‘ve got to understand she has her own duties, just like us.«

Alfred chimes in as he walks into the kitchen, preparing more tea as he talks. The discussion is interrupted as Bruce finally walks in, interrupting the complains of Dick and mean comments from Damian.

»Why don‘t we visit one of her concerts? We‘ve never been to one before.«

It is really bizarre for him to suggest something like this, especially since he seems to need to work a lot lately. Maybe he has finally gone mad?

At the silence he receives, he continues, seeing the bewildered looks from his children.

»I‘m simply saying we never saw her perform. It can‘t be that bad, can it?«

Cass, who just happens to stand by the door studies the others, not being against it herself. She raises her hand with a nod, seemingly agreeing with the idea. Damian notices, and the rest does as well, making Jason speak up finally.

»She does rock and metal, right?«

»Yes, but — «

Damian really doesn‘t want the rest to tag along to the next concert you give in town, knowing it will mostly be embarrassing and they will probably get spotted more easily by reporters or simple fans.

But before he could finish his sentence, everyone raises their hand lightly, even Alfred being okay with the idea.

»Are you kidding me?« He sighs out, being clearly overpowered as the plan is settled.

The Wayne‘s will be at your next concert.

----

Your bandmates almost freak out once you tell them the news, Damian having called you and sheepishly admitted it, claiming it‘s his fault. Clearly, no one is upset. Actually, everyone seems to be freaking out for all the good reasons.

Now it‘s time to prepare for the show this evening, mostly texting with Damian and finally getting to prepare after getting teased by your bandmates once more.

You watch people arrive by the parking lot, seeing how many people already are inside in the arena with some drinks in hand, the show beginning in about half an hour. But you can‘t watch for much longer, getting dragged to the backstage to tune your guitar and warm up for the show. The supporting band plays first just like before, hyping each other up again.

"Are you there already? Please warn them about the supporting band, don't want them to get confused."

You text to Damian, hoping they are at least in the parking lot already and ready to watch the show.

"We got here an hour ago, saved some seats. I'll tell them about it."

He responds back fairly quickly, making you assume they're in the front row if they got in so early. Time goes by and the show starts, the support band starting their 45 minutes set before you come on stage and play your own set list.

As the other times, the band starts with more softer songs, getting progressively more heavy, but still not as heavy as your songs. Bruce stays standing beside Damian, not used to rock shows, but he clearly respects it and is just here out of curiousity and wants to support his 'almost-daughter-in-law' in some way. Dick seems to enjoy himself, even when this isn't his usual type of music. He is mostly fascinated by the enthusiastic crowd and how popular your band seems to be, even when you're about nineteen by now. Perks of starting young, he guesses.

Jason seems to be rather unimpressed by the show, claiming he expected some heavier stuff. But this is just the supporting band anyway, so Damian doesn't mind arguing over the loud music. Cass and Tim simply watch, them both having informend themselves before joining the show tonight. But they do seem to be rather amused by some fans. The flashing lights from the lightshow seems to amaze Cass the most though, being almost captivated by how pretty the lights shine and work on stage.

Eventually, the band goes off stage, meeting your band backstage and tells you all about the Wayne family being there, having forgotten to tell them earlier about it.

Now that it's your turn to perform, you feel more nervous than at other times. Usually, you get nervous just before the show, but it fades once you get to play the first few chords and riffs, the cheering form the crowd spurring you on even more.

This time it's different and the bassist seems to notice of it. She walks up to you, trying to hype you up and give you some motivational words, but they do little to calm your nerves down. It's too late anyway, being called up on stage by the staff. You quickly hop on stage with the rest, lights being turned off and the anticiaption rises. Your heartbeat quickens in your chest, hearing the happy crowd even with your earpiece on. The first song starts to play, strumming the intro on your guitar while doing your best to focus on getting the notes right and not play too fast.

The lights turn back on once you start to sing, as usual confident and smooth. In the back of your head you are still thinking about Damians whole family being here, not able to ignore the heart pounding heavily in your ears while you perform. You curse yourself inwardly for still being nervy, hating how new this feels, even though it's nothing new at all.

Continuing with the show, the song progresses into more heavy riffs and up beat tempo, getting a rich mix of an energetic and hearty sound. You get a smooth transition onto the next song, pushing through your slight nervousness to perform the second song with even more passion. As there are less singing parts, you get to jump around the stage a little and let go of the skittish energy inside you. From another perspective, it just looks like you're having fun.

Jason seems more impressed now, furrowing his brows lightly as he bops his head along the music lightly. Dick seems to completely lose it though, jumping with the other fans along and getting lost in the crowd eventually. Bruce stays stoic, focussing his eyes on you as he watches how you perform. You seem more alive and vibrant on stage, never having really seen you this bouncy before. Often times, when you came over, you seemed to be just a little shy but very polite. Here, you still seem to be a good soul, but a lot less shy. And that in front of probably over six hundered people.

Playing and performing the songs seem to get easier with time, not able to focus your eyes on specific people in the crowd, but it's probably better this way. Finally, you reach the half of the set list, not being nervous or anxiuos anymore. Well, you are a bit nervous since your bandmates promised to not do any embarressing stuff on stage, not entirely trusting them though.

As soon as you had a few gulps of water, you get back on your spot in the middle of the stage, hand resting on your hip while the other holds you guitar by neck for the meantime. It's time to entertain the crowd.

»A round of applause for our vocalist and her breathtaking perfomance!«

Of course, your bassist said something before you with his own extra mic stand. Nevertheless, the crowd fires up the atmosphere, getting loud shouts and cheers from them. Cass has to put her hands over her ears from how loud it is, all the while Damian smirks proudly and claps cheerfully.

»Thank you! Did you have to embarrass me?« You finally speak into your own mic as you turn to face Marcus, the bassist, earning a few chuckles from the large crowd.

Meanwhile, Jason has to physically hold Dick back from screaming something along the lines of 'We love you!' and 'You're my favourite band!' to you and fluster you more.

»Okay, ignore these goofballs for now. I need you all to part the sea for the next song. Shit's about to get heavy.« You have actually forgotten that Damian's whole family is here, realising only a moment later and immediately search for them in the crowd. You spot them being located more by the right side of the crowd, but still fairly in the middle and at the front row. Dick waves at you, earning a sheepish smile from you before focussing back on the show.

The lights turn off again, getting a countdown and metronome in your earpiece once more as the large crowd does their work and parts into two. Bruce is very confused, not getting what's about to happen. While it's not too loud he decides to ask.

»What's this about, Damian?« He only receives a sly smile from his youngest son, hoping he gets an answer.

»Are you ready for a Wall of Death?« You exclaim through the mic, earning many cheers and shouts back. But you aren't satisfied and ask again, getting an even louder response. Now Bruce knows what it's called but he has absolute zero idea what's about to happen.

Jason knows though and makes sure Cass is not in the way, not wanting to see dead bodies. The lights switch to red as usual, matching the rythm of your song again while the fans wait for the breakdown to drop. The bassist, Marcus, does most of the singing — or vocal screaming — in the song, leaving you to jump around and play some nasty riffs.

The parted crowd immediatly rushes at eachother, the Wall of death happening. Bruce watches with light fascination, not keeping his eye off the people as if to make sure nothing goes wrong. Your band goes on though, the songs playing easily and with passion as the show goes on.

Jason seems to enjoy it more himself, headbanging more to the music while he watches you perform, and for once doesn't regret going out with his family. As for the rest of the family... they aren't into this type of music, but stay until the end anyway and mostly take pride on watching you perform the songs out with your band on stage. ----

Going off stage after throwing some guitar picks and drumming sticks into the crowd, you feel exhausted again. Feet hurting, fingers and wrists needing some stretching and your shoulders ache lightly from the strap of the guitar. Your voice is needs a break for tonight as well. But ignoring that, you take your sweaty make up off and go about the same routine as usual, before you can take a proper shower back at home. Oh, right. You're sleeping over by Damians house this time.

Walking out of the building, you see the Bat family waiting by their limousine for you. Damian approaches you once he sees you, pulling you into a hug before he kisses your cheek.

»You did great. As always.« He tells you as every night, it still sounding genuine and loving when he says it.

»Thanks... what do they think?«

»I didn't ask. But they seem okay.« Damian answers you, earning a soft groan from you, both from exhaustion and slight nervousness of their opinions. He seems to sense it and chuckles lightly, rubbing your back gently with his hand.

»Stop making out, we've got places to be!« What seems to be Jason calls out, interrupting the small kiss you shared just now.

With a small groan, he tags you along by the waist. Bruce greets you with a brief nod, not wasting any time to speak up.

»Good evening. When Damian said you have a band, I didn't expect it to be something like this.« In fact, he expected the worst the first time he found out about it, but never got to actually see what it's like until now. It makes Dick and Jason roll their eyes, even earning a brief annoyed look from Cass.

»The music was great, don't worry. I even got into one of those mosh pits. I would go again.« Dick interwhines, smiling goofily at you. He definitely had a good time.

»Me too. Loved the heavier songs.« Jason adds onto, getting slightly surprised by his positive feedback. Maybe they are just glad to have had some fun in a while, knowing they work hard to protect the city.

You exchange a few more words with them, sitting into the limousine beside Damian, who keeps his arm around your waist the entire time. He can sense your tiredness, as does the rest, but they keep talking about the show and what they liked the best. It's actually good they do so, not needing to talk so much. While quietly sitting beside Damian, you see that Cass has a pin of your band logo at her bag, getting a bit flustered and happy on the inside. You can't hold it for long though, being worn out after the long concert and doze off against your lovers shoulder before even arriving back to the Manor.

a/n: Hope you enjoyed reading it!!

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worlds-we-write · 2 months ago

Text

Let Me Hear You

pairing: Pedro Pascal x Plus-Size/Curvy Reader

summary: A chance encounter at a BDSM club leads to a slow-burning, electric connection. As their nights together grow more intense, desire and trust begin to blur the lines between pleasure and something deeper. Word Count: 6.8K Tags: Heavy smut, BDSM themes, blindfold, restraints, spanking, flogging, orgasm denial, oral (f + m receiving), dirty talk, unprotected p in v, toy usage, praise/degradation, established kink consent, body worship, aftercare.

You step into the dimly lit club as midnight approaches, the heavy thrum of bass immediately pulsing through your body. The air is warm and tinged with the scent of amber and leather, matching the low red glow of lights that casts everything in a seductive haze.

You were dressed for the setting: a black strappy corset that hugged every curve of your body like it worshipped it, high-waisted mesh-paneled pants, and a bold red lip.

It had taken courage to come, but once you were here, something settled in your bones. Like you belonged.

The music is a hypnotic blend of synth and percussion, loud enough that conversation means leaning in close. You find an empty spot at the counter and order a drink, letting the music wash over you while you scan the room.

A playful guitar riff from a familiar song comes on, and you can’t help but smile to yourself. Joy Division’s “Love Will Tear Us Apart” – not a track you expected to hear in a place like this, but it sets the perfect mood.

You tap your fingers in time on the bar top, softly humming along. Suddenly, a warm voice speaks near your ear, just loud enough to cut through the music.

“You have good taste,” the man says, motioning to the ceiling where the speakers are hidden. “Not many people appreciate this song anymore.”

Startled, you turn to face him and are met with a pair of friendly brown eyes and a teasing smile. The club’s soft lights dance across strong features – scruffy salt-and-pepper stubble along a sharp jaw, tousled dark hair, and a presence that is immediately disarming and electric all at once.

It takes you a second to place him. Pedro Pascal, your mind registers with a jolt. You almost doubt yourself in the dark, but that distinctive, warm grin and the confident ease in his posture are unmistakable. For a split second you’re starstruck – you've admired him on screen for ages – but you quickly remind yourself to breathe. Here, he's just a gorgeous man in a bar making conversation.

You laugh softly, leaning against the bar as you recover from the surprise. "I could say the same. Joy Division in a club is a bold choice," you reply, raising your glass slightly in a toast to the DJ. "But I'm not complaining." Pedro clinks his own drink to yours. "To good music and unexpected company," he quips, eyes not leaving yours as you both take a sip.

He sat down beside you like he’d been invited by fate.

The conversation flows easily from there, starting with music. It turns out you share an affinity for 80s post-punk and alternative rock. He grins with genuine enthusiasm when you mention your love for The Cure and Depeche Mode, and soon you're comparing favorite albums. The bond over music comes naturally, each shared reference and passion forming a crackle of connection between you.

The longer you talk, the closer Pedro shifts toward you, drawn in by the mutual excitement. The club around you fades slightly out of focus; the only thing in sharp detail is him – the way his eyes light up when you make a witty retort, and the subtle, crooked smile that tugs at his lips every time you surprise him with another common interest.

As the minutes pass, your initial nervousness melts away, replaced by a warm glow fueled by both the alcohol and Pedro’s undivided attention. He is charismatic in a quiet way, not the boisterous type you often encounter at bars. Instead, he listens intently when you speak, and his responses are thoughtful, laced with a flirty edge that makes your stomach flutter.

You notice the way he occasionally glances down at your body appreciatively, though he is nothing but gentlemanly in his words. It's in those brief, heated glances – a sweeping look at the curve of your hips, or the way his gaze lingers on the swell of your breasts beneath your top – that you sense a deeper interest than just friendly conversation. Each time, he meets your eyes again and smirks as if he knows exactly what he’s doing, and you feel your skin flush warm under his gaze.

When you tease him about one of his movie roles, a playful glint sparks in your eyes – your little hint of brattiness showing itself.

"I hope you dance better than you did in that one scene," you jibe lightly, referencing a comedic moment from one of his projects with a grin.

He lets out a surprised laugh, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, you caught that, did you?" he says with mock chagrin. He steps a half-step closer, close enough that your shoulder brushes against his chest. "I promise I'm much better with my moves in real life." The double entendre in his words is unmistakable, and paired with that low, honeyed tone of his voice, it sends a thrill up your spine.

You raise your chin a little in challenge, eyes sparkling. "Is that so? Maybe I'll have to see for myself." It's bold – the words just slip out – but judging by the way Pedro’s smile darkens into something more primal, it was exactly the right thing to say.

He tilts his head, studying you for a moment with that intense gaze. "Careful," he murmurs. "I might hold you to that." His fingers lightly brush the back of your hand resting on the bar, a brief test of boundaries that leaves tingles in their wake. You feel your breath catch, heart skipping a beat at the contact and at the promise woven into his words.

Before you can respond, the DJ transitions into another track – this time something more industrial with a throbbing beat that vibrates through the floor. The crowd cheers and some people head to the dance floor.

Pedro’s attention flickers toward the dancing bodies and back to you. He leans in, lips near your ear so you can hear him over the music. "Do you want to dance?" he asks. His breath is warm against your ear, and the closeness makes you shiver pleasantly.

You nod, taking his hand as he offers it. The air between you is charged as he leads you to where others have started moving.

The music is dark and sensual, and Pedro wastes no time finding a rhythm with you. His hands slide to your waist, fingers splaying just above the curve of your hips, and you automatically move in closer. Your bodies find a slow, grinding sway to the music. With him behind you, you can feel the heat radiating off his body and the solid firmness of his chest as it presses against your back. The intimacy of the position sends your pulse racing.

His thigh slips between yours from behind as you move, allowing you to rub against it slightly with each sway. You let out a soft, involuntary gasp at the friction. Pedro hears it; you feel the rumble of a satisfied growl low in his throat as he tightens his grip on your hips, guiding you to grind just a little harder.

"That's it," he murmurs close to you, the encouragement almost lost in the music, but you catch it. One of his hands skims up your side, trailing the outline of your curves. He’s testing the waters, seeing how you respond, and your body answers for you by arching into his touch.

The club lights flash intermittently, and in those flickers you catch sight of his face over your shoulder. His eyes are half-lidded, focused on you with open desire now, and his lips are parted as if savoring the moment. You realize you're wearing an almost identical expression – completely caught up in the heat that's building between you two on the dance floor.

When his hand daringly grazes the side of your breast, you respond with a playful wiggle of your hips against him, earning a sharp inhale from Pedro. He chuckles low in your ear. "Brat," he whispers, the word dripping with amusement and a hint of warning. The label sends a flush of both embarrassment and excitement through you. You like that he’s noticing your teasing, and that he's calling you out on it in such a delicious way.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you reply innocently, turning your head so that your cheek nearly brushes against his lips. The coy tone in your voice is belied by the mischievous grin you can't hide.

Pedro just shakes his head with a soft laugh, and then you feel the gentle scrape of his teeth as he nips lightly at the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. The sensation draws a surprised moan from you before you can stop it. The spot he bit tingles, and you suspect he might have left a faint mark. His tongue swiftly follows to soothe the spot, a silent apology that only stokes the fire inside you.

He presses a kiss to your neck, lips warm and lingering as the song continues to envelop you both. "You drive a hard bargain," he murmurs against your skin, his voice rougher now with arousal. "I was going to behave myself a little longer, but you're making that very difficult."

There's a tension in his tone – restrained, as if he's holding himself back. That realization sends a thrill through you: the knowledge that he wants you, that you're tempting him to lose composure.

By the time the track ends, you are both breathing a little harder, and not from the dancing alone. The air between you is thick with lust and unspoken possibilities. Pedro gently turns you to face him. His hands remain on your waist, thumbs rubbing slow circles that make it hard to think straight.

“You come here to watch?” he asked, voice low and edged with something darker. “Or to play?”

You met his gaze and smiled slowly. “Maybe both.”

He stood, offered a hand. “There’s a room in the back. Private. Stocked.” His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up. “Let me take care of you tonight. Show you how good it can feel.”

You barely remembered the walk—just the pressure of his palm on your lower back, the faint scent of tobacco and leather clinging to him, the heat curling low in your stomach.

Your heart is pounding with excitement and a touch of nerves as Pedro leads you down a short hallway to one of the private rooms. The hall is quieter, muffling the club music to a dull thump behind closed doors.

At a discrete black door with the number 7 on it, Pedro pauses and turns to you, his eyes serious for a moment beneath the lust.

"Before we go in," he says quietly, "you can say no at any time. If you change your mind, just tell me and we stop. Okay?" His expression is earnest, and the fact that he's checking in so considerately makes you melt a little.

Your pulse flutters. You nod, appreciating the care. "Okay," you reply softly. "I'll tell you if I want to stop." The hint of a grateful smile touches his lips, and he squeezes your hand. With that reassurance, he opens the door and ushers you inside.

The room was dim, backlit by soft amber lights. A four-poster bed sat in the center, draped in black. Shelves lined with implements: paddles, floggers, ropes, blindfolds, clips, vibrators. Like a curated museum of sin.

He turned to face you, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. “Color system?”

“Green,” you whispered.

“Safe word?”

You told him, and he kissed the corner of your mouth like a reward.

“Clothes off. Slow. I want to watch.”

You undressed under his gaze, heart hammering. When the corset finally slid off, baring your full curves to him, his eyes darkened.

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmured, stepping forward to kneel in front of you. His hands gripped your thighs, pressing kisses along your hips, your belly, before spreading you open and burying his face between your legs.

You cried out, one hand bracing on the bedpost, the other tangled in his hair. His tongue was relentless—broad strokes, focused flicks, slow circles that teased your clit just shy of what you needed. He pulled back when you were right there, his lips slick with you.

“You don’t come until I say. Understand?”

You nodded, breathless.

“No, baby. Say it.”

“I won’t come until you say,” you gasped.

“Good girl.” he praises, and your heart skips at the warmth those words ignite in you.

You suspect he can feel the way you shiver at the praise because he smirks knowingly and leans down to kiss you again. As he does, his hand reaches above your head. You hear a soft clink of metal on wood – likely him grabbing something from the headboard or a nearby hook.

He breaks the kiss and you feel the cool touch of leather encircling one wrist, then a soft click – a cuff fastening. Your pulse quickens as he gently but firmly pulls your other wrist up and secures it as well.

You test your arms and find them bound together by what feels like a short bar or strap, and attached to the headboard. Excitement and a tiny bit of panic intermingle, but mostly it's a heady rush to know you're now effectively at his mercy.

You felt vulnerable and feral all at once.

Pedro’s voice was close, teasing your ear. “You look like a fucking goddess tied up like this. All curves and heat and need.”

The first slap of the flogger made you jolt. Not pain—more of a sting, a delicious bite that spread like heat across your skin. He struck you again. And again. Each one met with a moan that made him growl.

“You take it so well,” he murmured. “I can see you dripping from here.

He sits back on his heels between your legs for a moment to admire his handiwork: you, naked and bound beneath him, chest heaving with anticipation.

"You look incredible like this," Pedro says, voice rough. He runs his hands from your wrists down the length of your arms, then over your collarbones. The lightest touch, yet it leaves a trail of goosebumps. "All mine," he adds, almost to himself, as his hands travel further down. They glide over the soft swell of your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples again briefly, then continue down your torso.

When his palms flatten against your belly, you tense slightly out of habit, but his touch there is warm and appreciative. He notices your reaction and meets your eyes, pausing his exploration.

"You're so damn sexy," he says fervently. "Every part of you."

To prove his point, he lowers himself and presses slow, sucking kisses across your belly, showing extra attention to the parts you feel shy about.

Each kiss is like a balm, erasing a bit of your insecurity. You can only whimper and arch under him, any self-conscious thoughts drowned out by the pleasure of his lips on your skin.

His mouth continues its journey downward, and your breath hitches as he approaches your aching center. He shifts, hooking your thighs over his broad shoulders.

Instinctively, you try to close your legs at the intensity of the anticipation, but the position and his grip prevent it.

"Easy," he soothes, planting a soft kiss on the inside of your thigh. "I’ve got you."

And then he reaches over to the nightstand and grabs something – a soft black silk blindfold. You hadn't even noticed it laying there. He holds it up briefly as if to show you.

"This okay?" he asks, the final check. Your heart is in your throat with excitement as you nod.

"Yes, please," you manage to say. The idea of surrendering your sight to him sends another pulse of arousal through you.

Gently, he slips the blindfold over your eyes and ties it snugly at the back of your head. The world goes dark. Immediately, your senses heighten; you can hear your own breathing and the distant muffled bass from the club outside, feel the slight coolness of the room on your heated skin, and smell the subtle mix of your arousal and his scent (a mix of his cologne, woodsy and spice, and the musk of sweat from your heated activities).

The bed dips as he settles back between your legs and you feel his hands on your knees, sliding up to part your thighs further. You are completely exposed to him, blind and bound. The vulnerability is intense, but instead of fear, you feel exhilaration. Every nerve is on fire waiting for his next touch.

His fingertips trace feather-light patterns along your inner thighs, avoiding the place you need him most, and it's maddening. You let out a soft whine, lifting your hips a little, silently begging. He chuckles darkly.

"So eager," he murmurs. A smack lands on your outer thigh – not too hard, but enough to make you gasp. "Stay still, cariño," he growls, the dominant edge in his voice unmistakable now. "I'll give you what you need. Be patient for me."

You bite your lip hard, trying to obey, trying to still the trembling of your thighs. But he isn't making it easy.

You feel the bed shift as he lowers himself, and then – oh god – the first hot, broad lick of his tongue up your slit. A cry tears from your throat at the sudden jolt of pleasure. He groans against you, apparently enjoying your taste as much as you enjoy his tongue.

He starts slow, languidly exploring your folds with his mouth, teasing every sensitive spot except the one you want him to focus on most. He avoids your clit at first, licking around it in cruel teasing circles, making your hips twitch upward seeking friction.

He notices and one strong arm comes across your hips, pinning you down firmly against the mattress. "I said stay still," Pedro admonishes between kisses against your inner lips, voice vibrating directly against your core.

The sensation makes you moan wantonly. You force yourself to still your hips, gripping the cuffs binding your wrists to give yourself something to hold onto.

"Good girl," he purrs, and rewards you by finally wrapping his lips around your clit. The suction and the sudden flick of his tongue over that bundle of nerves make you nearly scream.

Only the awareness that there are other rooms and people beyond the wall keeps you to a loud cry. Pleasure radiates outward from your center, and your toes curl in your heels as he works you with expert attention.

Pedro feasts on you like a man starving, alternating between suckling your clit and dipping his tongue inside your entrance to lap at the flood of arousal there. The lewd wet sounds of his mouth on you and your own helpless moans fill the room, an erotic symphony accompanying the distant bass.

Your world narrows to just these sensations – the heat coiling in your belly, the pressure building inside as he relentlessly pleasures you. He slides two fingers into you without warning, and they slip in easily with how wet you are. He curls them just right, finding that spongy spot inside that makes you cry out his name.

"That's it," he mutters against your clit, voice rough. "Moan for me. Let me hear how good I'm making you feel." You oblige with another loud moan, no longer caring who might hear. He pumps his fingers steadily, a firm rhythm that has you hurtling towards climax faster than you expected.

Your breathing turns ragged, thighs quivering around his head. You can feel the orgasm approaching, a tightening low in your belly.

"Pedro," you gasp, a warning, as your muscles start to clench around his thrusting fingers. "I-I'm gonna—"

Suddenly, he withdraws his fingers and mouth completely, pulling away from you. The loss of contact is so abrupt, it's like a bucket of cold water. The almost-orgasm that was within reach shatters and dissipates, leaving you on a cruel edge.

A firm slap to your thigh. “No. Not yet.”

You sob in frustration at the denial, hips bucking upward desperately, trying to chase his mouth. But his arm still pins your pelvis down and now his other hand comes to press on your inner thigh, keeping you spread but offering no relief.

You whined, hips bucking. He chuckled, low and dark.

"Not yet, hermosa," Pedro tuts. His voice is smug and dripping with control. "You were going to come without permission." Even though you can't see him, you just know he's watching you with that infuriatingly sexy smirk, enjoying the way you squirm.

You whine, nearly a wail, and tug at your restraints. It’s half reflex, half hoping maybe you could free a hand to finish yourself because you're throbbing with need. But the cuffs hold firm. "Please," you manage, your voice high and needy. "Please, I need—"

A sharp slap lands right on your swollen clit, shocking you. It wasn't very hard, more surprising than painful, but it makes you yelp and instantly silences your begging. Your clit throbs from the light impact, somehow adding to the overwhelming cocktail of sensations rather than diminishing it.

"What did I say about patience?" Pedro growls. He's still between your legs; you can feel his hot breath against your overstimulated center.

"You'll come when I let you, understand?" His tone is commanding, the rough Dominant you sensed in him fully present now. Yet beneath it there's a thread of care – he wants you to feel good, just on his terms.

You nod frantically, forgetting for a moment that he might want a verbal answer since you’re blindfolded. "Y-yes, sir," you stammer automatically. The honorific slips out without thinking, but it feels right on your tongue.

He inhales sharply, clearly affected by the title you granted him. "Good girl," he rumbles, and you practically preen at the praise despite your predicament. "Let's see if you can control yourself for me. If you do..." He trails a finger teasingly through your slick folds, avoiding your clit this time. "I'll make sure your mind blanks out from how hard you come. That's a promise."

His words alone send a thrill through you. You nod again, biting your lip. "I’ll be good," you breathe. "I promise."

"That's what I like to hear," Pedro says. Then, to your surprise, you feel him shift away.

The weight on the bed changes as he moves, and you hear the soft rustle of him removing his jeans and perhaps his boxers. Your heart jumps at the realization that he's undressing; soon you'll feel him skin to skin.

You strain to hear any little sound – a zipper, fabric hitting the floor – and your anticipation spikes knowing he's likely naked now, or nearly so.

The next thing you feel is the bed dipping again and the heat of his body covering yours as he returns to you.

His mouth captures yours in a ravenous kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips and chin, an erotic reminder of what he was just doing to you. The kiss is bruising and hungry; you return it with equal passion, tongues tangling.

His bare chest is pressed to yours, the hair on his torso tickling your sensitive nipples as you arch into him. God, the feeling of his warm, solid body on top of you when you can't use your hands to touch him back – it's a special kind of torment.

You instinctively spread your legs wider to accommodate him between them, and you feel the hard length of his cock brush against your inner thigh, so close to where you need it.

A moan slips from you into his mouth at the tease of contact. You want to see him badly – to take in the sight of his naked form and the lust on his face – but the blindfold forces you to experience it differently, focusing on sound, touch, and taste. In some ways, it's even more intense this way. Every brush of his skin, every breathy sound he makes is magnified.

"You want me inside you, don't you?" Pedro husks against your lips as he breaks the kiss. He starts kissing along your jaw and down your neck again, his hips grinding slowly, letting the tip of his cock slide through your slick folds without entering. It's a tantalizing preview that has you trembling.

"Yes," you gasp, back arching as he teases your entrance. "Please, Pedro... I want you. I need you."

He groans softly at your plea, clearly stoking his ego and desire. "You feel how hard I am for you?" he whispers, shifting to rub the head of his cock against your clit once, making you both moan.

He's indeed rock hard, and you can tell he's of considerable size. The thought of that thickness stretching you makes your walls flutter in anticipation.

"Condom?" he asks suddenly, voice strained like it's taking all his self-control not to just take you right now.

"Please... I- I'm on the pill," you manage, desperate for him not to stop and break this momentum. And you trust him; after all, he's been responsible in everything so far tonight, and you find yourself willing to take this pleasure raw.

He growls in appreciation, understanding your meaning. "Good girl."

The tip of his cock finds your entrance and he begins to push in slowly. Both of you gasp – you, at the stretching burn as your body adjusts to him, and him, at the sheer tight heat of you enveloping him inch by inch. Even with how wet you are, the girth of him is a delicious challenge.

He pauses once the tip is in, to let you catch your breath. "Relax, baby," he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth sweetly, a tender contrast to the filthy act of him breaching you. "You can take it."

You nod, forcing yourself to unclench, to breathe. He circles his hips a little, working himself deeper, then pulls back a touch, then slides in further.

Inch by inch, he works his cock into you, carefully but persistently, until finally, with a low groan, he bottoms out. He is seated fully inside you, his hips flush with yours.

The fullness is overwhelming – bordering on too much – but then your body adjusts and it transforms into an incredible sense of being completely filled, utterly possessed.

You cry out at the sensation, head thrown back; if not for the cuffs you'd be clawing at his back. "Oh my god..." you whimper. "Pedro..." His name on your lips comes out half-sob, half-moan. He stills, buried deep, allowing you to accommodate him. You feel so stretched, so vulnerable, tied up and blindfolded with this large man inside you. And you feel amazing.

He kisses you softly, tenderly, lingering for a long moment while you both just revel in the feeling. His hand finds yours, fingers entwining in a reassuring squeeze above your head. It's oddly sweet and grounding in the midst of such raw passion. "Doing okay?" he asks, slightly breathless.

You manage a smile between panting breaths. "More than okay," you assure him. "Please move." You roll your hips a little to emphasize your need, earning a hiss of pleasure from him as your movement squeezes him inside you.

"As you wish," he replies, and you can hear a smile in his tone.

He withdraws slowly until just the tip remains inside, then thrusts back in with a controlled, firm stroke. The friction of him dragging against your inner walls makes stars explode behind your eyelids. You choke out a moan. He starts a steady rhythm then – pulling out and sliding back in, gradually increasing the pace as he gauges your reactions.

His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he picks up speed. The bed creaks softly with the force of his thrusts now. The room fills with an erotic melody: your helpless cries and gasps, his ragged grunts, the slap of skin on skin as his hips meet your thighs. He pounds into you, each stroke hitting deep and rubbing that perfect spot inside that makes you see white-hot pleasure.

Your bound hands clench uselessly above you, desperate to cling to something. The coil in your belly that had been wound tight from earlier starts tightening again quickly – too quickly. You realize with a start that you're already on the brink from how expertly he's fucking you, combined with the earlier denial. And he hasn't given you permission yet.

Desperately, you try to hold back, to last longer. But Pedro knows. He can feel the way your pussy is fluttering and clenching erratically around him as your body races toward release.

He slows his thrusts deliberately, grinding into you deeply but more slowly, holding you just at the edge. It's agony and ecstasy. You actually sob, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes under the blindfold from the intensity of needing to come so badly.

"P-please... please, sir," you beg in a broken whisper, not caring how desperate you sound. "I c-can't... please let me cum."

Pedro lowers himself onto his forearms, changing the angle slightly as his face comes right next to yours. His thrusts remain slow and torturous. His breath is hot on your ear as he speaks, voice gravelly with restraint.

"You want to cum, sweet girl?" he drawls, licking a stripe up the side of your neck that makes you shudder. "You've been so good for me... took your spanking so well, let me tie you up and use you... such a perfect little submissive."

His words are like fire, each one fueling your desire. You nod frantically, a tear finally escaping down your cheek from sheer overwhelming need.

He kisses that tear away softly, a brief tender gesture that contrasts with the edgy control he's exerting. "Shh, don't cry. I'll take care of you," he whispers, and those words themselves feel as comforting as a caress. "You want to cum?" he repeats, speeding up just a fraction, his hips snapping a little harder into yours again. "Then cum for me. Come on, baby, let go. You've earned it."

The permission – so graciously given in that rough, sexy voice – is all you needed. You don't hold back; you can't at this point even if you tried. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave.

You let out a wail as your entire body tenses, then shatters into pure ecstasy. Your pussy clenches violently around Pedro’s cock, pulsing in waves as you cum harder than you ever have in your life. Pleasure ribbons out from your core to every limb. It's so intense, it's almost overwhelming – tears leak from your eyes beneath the blindfold as you sob through the euphoria.

"That's it... fuck, yes, that's it!" Pedro groans. Feeling you cum pushes him right to the edge. He curses under his breath in a mix of English and Spanish, his control finally shattering. With a few more hard thrusts, he holds himself deep inside you and lets go.

His body shudders above you as he releases, hot spurts filling you as he moans your name. The sensation of him coming inside only prolongs your orgasm; you swear you feel each pulse of him as another aftershock ripples through your own body.

He collapses against you, catching most of his weight on his elbows so he doesn't crush you completely, but enough that you feel deliciously pinned by his spent body. Both of you are gasping for air, trembling in the aftermath.

Your heart feels like it's pounding in your throat, and your limbs are heavy and boneless in the wake of such an intense climax. You distantly note that your cheeks are wet from a few tears, but you're too blissed-out to care or feel self-conscious.

For a long moment, the only sound is the mingled panting of your breaths and the muted bass from outside. Still blindfolded and bound, you float in a haze of satisfaction. Pedro peppers soft, lazy kisses along your jaw and neck as you both come down, murmuring praise between each one.

"You did so well," he whispers, voice hoarse but gentle. "So perfect, cariño."

Each word of praise warms your chest with a different kind of pleasure – pride, contentment, even love. With your hands still bound, you can only tilt your head toward his kisses, silently showing your appreciation.

Eventually, he gently withdraws from your oversensitive body, making you both hiss at the aftershocks. You feel suddenly empty without him, but the loss is soon replaced by gratitude as he moves swiftly to untie your wrists.

The leather cuffs come loose and your arms are finally free. They ache dully from being restrained in one position for so long. You flex your fingers, and before you can even wince at the soreness, Pedro's hands are there rubbing your wrists softly, massaging away any stiffness.

He reaches behind your head and carefully unties the blindfold, pulling it away from your eyes. You blink a few times, adjusting to the low light.

The first thing you see is his face hovering above yours, concern evident in his furrowed brow. His hair is a sweaty mess, curls sticking to his forehead, and his lips are kiss-swollen. To you, he’s never looked more gorgeous.

"Hi," you whisper with a tired smile, meeting his gaze.

He smiles back, relief and tenderness in his expression. "Hi, hermosa." He brushes his thumbs over your cheeks, wiping away the wetness there. "These okay? Not tears of anything bad?" he asks softly, referring to the tears you shed at the peak of it all.

You shake your head, leaning into his touch. "They were... very good tears," you assure him with a soft laugh. "That was just... intense." A flush warms your face as you recall how desperate and loud you got. "In a good way," you add quickly, not wanting him to worry.

His shoulders relax and he chuckles quietly. "Intense is one word for it." He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your lips, this time slow and sweet – a stark contrast to the feral kisses from before. You sigh contentedly into it, wrapping your now-free arms around him to hold him close.

You both linger like that for a while, trading soft kisses and tender touches as you bask in the afterglow. Pedro’s hands roam over you in light caresses, as if he can't get enough of touching your body – but now those touches are soothing, affectionate strokes along your sides, your hips, your thighs. He handles you like something precious, and it makes your chest tight with a warm emotion that goes beyond simple lust.

At one point he breaks the comfortable silence, murmuring, "Stay here, I'll be right back." He slips off the bed, and you watch, unabashedly admiring the full view of his naked form as he walks to a small en-suite bathroom attached to the room.

The red light bathes his muscular back and perfect ass in a flattering glow. You bite your lip, already feeling a pleasant ache between your legs that will no doubt remind you of him for days.

Pedro returns with a warm, damp washcloth and a bottle of water. Ever thoughtful, he tends to you first, gently cleaning the stickiness from between your thighs and wherever else the evidence of your lovemaking lingers.

His touch is careful and respectful, almost reverent as he cleans you, making sure not to overstimulate now-sensitive areas. It’s such an intimate, caring gesture that your heart swells. When he’s done, he helps you sit up enough to take a few sips of water, making sure you're hydrated and okay. You murmur a thank you, touched by his attentiveness.

He then quickly sees to himself with the cloth, wiping his lower abdomen and any remaining wetness. Afterwards, he tosses the cloth aside and joins you back on the bed, pulling you into his arms without hesitation.

You go willingly, nestling against his chest. He’s warm and solid, and his natural scent mixed with a hint of sweat is oddly comforting in the aftermath of sex. One of his arms wraps around your back, the other hand comes up to stroke your hair.

"You alright?" he asks softly after a moment, breaking the comfortable silence. There’s a hint of vulnerability in his tone, as if he's truly concerned that he might have been too rough or that you might regret this.

You tilt your head up to meet his gaze. His brown eyes search yours, and all you can see in them now is a gentle earnestness that makes you smile. "I'm perfect," you reply, and you mean it. "That was... beyond anything I imagined." A light laugh escapes you. "You, Pedro Pascal, definitely live up to your reputation."

He laughs at that, a real, warm laugh that rumbles in his chest under your cheek. "Oh? And what reputation is that?"

You pretend to consider, your fingers idly tracing patterns on his chest. "Heartthrob. Charmer. And, based on tonight... very skilled." The last part you add in a teasing whisper, and you feel his chest vibrate as he chuckles again.

"I'm glad I haven't disappointed," he says, tilting your chin up with a knuckle so he can steal another soft kiss. His expression grows a bit more serious afterward, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "You were amazing. So responsive and trusting." He smirks then, adding, "And just the right amount of bratty."

You giggle, feeling heat rise in your cheeks at his praise. A comfortable lull falls between you as you both simply enjoy the closeness. It's surprising, perhaps, how natural it feels to lie here in the arms of a man you technically just met tonight.

But something about the intensity of what you shared feels bonding – as if you've known each other longer. The way he's holding you, warm and protective, you certainly feel cared for.

Eventually, you know you'll have to leave the room and step back into reality. But for now, wrapped up in this sensual afterglow, you allow yourself to just be. You pepper a tiny kiss on his collarbone and sigh happily, closing your eyes.

Pedro shifts slightly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from your face. "Penny for your thoughts?" he asks quietly.

You smile against his skin. "Just thinking how I don't want this night to end," you admit softly. It's a vulnerable confession, but in this red-lit cocoon of a private room, with your body still humming from multiple orgasms and your heart fluttering with endorphins, it feels right to be honest.

He pulls you a little tighter, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "It doesn't have to, not yet," he murmurs. "We have the room for as long as we want." There's a comforting promise in his tone.

You tilt your head up. "As long as we want, hm?" You raise an eyebrow playfully. "Planning to keep me all night?"

His eyes darken a fraction, that familiar smolder returning just a bit. "If I had my way, I'd keep you much longer." He says it with a half-smile, but you sense the sincerity beneath it. "At least until we work through that entire wall of toys." He nods toward the array of BDSM implements displayed, a mischievous glint in his eye now.

Your breath catches at the idea, a fresh flicker of arousal stirring in your belly despite your satiation. You laugh softly, feigning exasperation. "Insatiable," you accuse, but your grin gives you away.

He laughs and nuzzles into your hair. "For you? Absolutely." Then he takes a deep breath, voice turning earnest once more.

"I'd love to see you again after tonight... if you want." The hint of uncertainty – almost shyness – in his proposition is endearing coming from a man who just had you tied up and screaming his name.

You answer by lifting up enough to kiss him deeply, pouring your gratitude and enthusiasm into it. When you part, you whisper, "I do want." You rest your forehead against his, smiling. "Maybe we can explore that list of favorite bands we talked about over drinks, and then some."

The grin that spreads across Pedro's face is radiant. "It's a date," he says softly, sealing the promise with another tender kiss.

Later, wrapped in his arms, the room still scented like sex and skin and sweat, he kissed your shoulder and said softly, “Next time, I’m tying myself up. Let you have your way.”

You smirked. “You wouldn’t last five minutes.”

His laugh was pure sin. “Now that sounds like a challenge.”

AN: This.... ended up a LOT longer than anticipated. Huge love to all my plus-size babes—you deserve to be worshipped and ruined just like this. 💋 There’s definitely potential for a part 2 👀 I’m already thinking about what happens after this night. Let me know if you’d want to see it continue!

#pedro #pedro pascal #pedrohub #pedro pascal simp #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro x reader #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x plus size reader #pedro pascal x ofc #pedro pascal x y/n #fanfic #pedro pascal smut

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eraserbread · 2 months ago

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been thinking about a satosugu band au way too much... mhmmfhmdn cw: heavy drug use / 18+

twenty minutes until showtime...

geto's leaning over the dressing room table, all tied up in his all-black, baggy work clothes. tattoos all over his skin, long hair all over his shoulders. he's doing sloppy lines through a plastic straw, taking them back to back in each nostril so he can bare to do his job correctly running on two hours of sleep.

he hates touring, but gojo loves it.

He's tucked in the corner with the electric guitar he calls 'infinite void.' it's so corny, you hate it, but all satoru is are stupid, baseless jokes lost amongst the seriousness of his bandmates.

he's been tuning up in drop d for nearly half an hour, swearing the fifth string is flat, but shaking his head when you and suguru tell him it's fine. he'd only be in this alternate tuning for one song, then he'll be back in standard, so it doesn't really matter.

to him, it does. it's the world. all of his precious, doting fans spent money and took time to see him sparkle tonight. he's the true star of the show, overshadowing your delicate vocals and geto's strict bass.

at least, that's what he thinks.

standing up straight, geto rolls his neck, then turns to you, holding his dusty porcelain plate in your direction. "here, baby."

you have half a mind to tell him no, but tonight's not your night either, so you agree, stepping towards him and letting him hold the plate as you take a singular line. it burns for a second, then mellows out nicely. you don't have to look at him to know gojo's staring in disapproval.

he doesn't care about your drug habits, but he hated performing as the only one sober. he can't even drink before shows because the riffs and licks he hits on infinite void are so masterful and difficult that if he weren't in the right mind, he'd fumble.

lucky you and geto. must be easy snorting your brain away and still delivering a good show.

"you three were supposed to be backstage ten minutes ago."

notoriously lax yet extremely helpful, your tour manager, ijichi opens the dressing room door, only sticking his head through the entrance because he’s fallen victim to a few lewd scenes from the few of you.

this is yet another one of them, but he turns a blind eye as you stand up straight, pushing some hair behind your ear and wiping at your nose. you're supposed to be the responsible one, not the high one. you're sure a strongly worded message will light your phone screen after the show.

after years against the spotlight and camera flashes, you're more jumpy with it then ever. gojo blames it on the drugs, but geto says its the pressure of growth. you want this five-thousand-person crowd to love what they see - but, how can they love what they see if you don't even love it?

this artistic mind of yours is cruel, but so poetic. you're sure after a good smoke and time with your boyfriend, you could piece that feeling into a song.

but all you can focus on right now is the comforting gaze in gojo's eyes as you pace backstage. the crowd is quiet after the opening act, stewing with the wait, and geto's getting his bass strap adjusted, so gojo steps forward.

"big breaths, k?"

"shut up," you tell him... lovingly. he's got infinite void hoisted round his back, tight, black t-shirt clinging to the waves and dips of his toned chest and arms. all of his outfits are purely fan service, you know that.

he brings the crowd, you entice them, and geto goes in for the kill. it's the perfect balance. they're your musical soulmates.

"pre-show kiss? for good luck?"

"no." gojo's not your boyfriend, though geto wouldn't and doesn't give a fuck when he sees you two flirting or touching. lines get blurred when you live out of hotels and buses for a year, and the two of you aren't exclusive.

god only knows how many drunk makeout sessions you stumbled into between the two of them.

then, when those room lights dim and ijichi stops scolding geto, does reality start to set in. you're handed your own electric guitar from a stage hand, checking the tuning quickly before nodding and stepping back.

the crowd erupts, geto takes that final hit from his vape, and gojo is rolling his shoulders. he's playing a resting g chord way up the fretboard, just getting comfortable with the first note he'll lead you into once that green light flashes.

then your mind is turned off. you walk out in front of the audience, hardly regarding them minus the fond look you give over your shoulder. it always starts with you, then gojo, and geto last.

the cheers and roar of the crowd are deafening even through your earpiece, but the feeling has you on fire. this is your element—your home. so, you take your spot in front of the middle mic, peeking over your shoulder as you wait for gojo to get settled with his pedals.

then, he plays that g chord, you count to three, then the melody comes flowing.

"you've got your walls as high as your friends the night we first met and you've got a way... of touching me, so I can't think enough to regret."

you're joining gojo with rhythm guitar, open strumming a few chords so you don't have to think too hard. your job is just to focus on singing, though you're completely fluent on your instrument.

in the crowd, young adults are reeling — as high as you and drunk off of the bright lights and mesmerizing presence. you scan the barricade, smiling at a few familiar groupies who were at the show last night. they know every single lyric, and every single time geto's gentle harmony accompanies your writing.

"and i know this feeling is temporary hold me until you're sure this burden is too much to carry."

you gaze to your left, catching geto's empty stare through the stage lights as he plays a simple, repeating riff. his fingers have a mind of their own after so many years of doing it, so he focuses most of his attention on you, the way you glimmer and how beautiful your voice sounds in his ear.

he smiles, then sings along.

"cut me loose, make me cry and when my eyes get all teary-eyed does that turn you on? like only I can?"

stepping away, you toss your head back as gojo's solo takes over your swimming mind. you're strumming along, hardly. he's doing the heavy lifting, smiling like an idiot through the song you wrote about you and geto's first breakup.

you're on your fifth go-around, now, but it doesn't make this tune any easier.

geto knows that, it's why he's smirking like a menace, turning his body towards you as the guitar carries you through flickering daydreams. the crowd gets lost as you get lost in your mind, but you're always perfectly on cue when that last whining note makes its way from gojo's fingers.

then, you're back at the mic, kissing it as you pour every ounce of emotion into this next run, eyes squeezed shut, brows knitted.

everything hurts — your heart, your mind, your eyes

but it's so good... so addicting.

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intrikatie · 3 months ago

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Unravelled

Seungmin x Reader

🔞Minors DNI

Thank you Love of my life @skzdreamer13 for encouraging me to post this.

✰ Pairing: Seungmin x Fem Reader ✰ Genre: SMUT ✰ Info: MxF, Fingering, Unprotected Sex, Seungmin is kind of rough. ✰ Authors Note: This is my first ever smut. So... let me know what you think?

Word Count: 2200

The door clicks open, breaking the hush of the late hour. You barely stir from where you’ve curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, a half-empty mug of tea cradled between your hands. You gave up waiting for Seungmin hours ago, convinced he’d come home exhausted—too drained to do anything but collapse into bed.

But when you glance up, you see it instantly.

His dark eyes lock onto you, sharp and smouldering, like he's trying to burn you with just a look. A slow drag of his gaze over your frame—you’re not dressed in anything provocative, just your favourite worn pyjamas, the neckline loose from time, the fabric thin, frayed in places. Your comfiest, baggiest sleepwear. But Seungmin stares at you like you’re wearing the most sinful thing he’s ever seen; or maybe like he wants to tear it off you.

“You're still awake,” he murmurs, voice lower than usual, roughened at the edges. He peels off his leather jacket and lets it fall to the floor.

You shrug, the movement small, pretending you don’t notice the desire radiating off him. “Just watching telly.”

Seungmin exhales a quiet laugh, stripped of humour—just heat, just something dark curling at the edges of his restraint. It pools low in your stomach, heavy with anticipation.

The tea is forgotten as Seungmin crosses the room, his movements purposeful and controlled. Your pulse quickens with every measured step he takes. You expect a kiss, but instead, Seungmin kneels on the sofa between your knees, his hands settling gently on them, coaxing them apart. He inhales slowly, deliberately—as if gathering control. His fingertips ghost up your thighs, barely a touch, yet your spine instinctively arches in response to the sensation.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, leaning in, pressing his mouth to the curve of your neck. His voice is rough, edged with something darker. Not anger, not frustration—just a hunger, raw and untamed.

Your breath catches. “I—”

He presses his lips down harder, his teeth scraping just enough to make you exhale shakily.

Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. His hands find your waist, sliding beneath the hem of your top, palms warm against your skin, His guitar-calloused fingers pressing into the curve of your back as he pulls you up to him. He kisses you—deep, consuming, desperate. Like he’s been starved of you all day.

You melt into him, into the heat of his body, the press of his chest against yours. His hands move with a slow, burning intensity, his lips claiming yours like he’s making up for every second he’s been away from you today.

“I’ve been craving for you all day,” he whispers against your lips, the confession hushed, reverent.

You sigh into him, threading your fingers through his hair, anchoring yourself. Because when Seungmin touches you like this—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters—it’s impossible not to fall.

His lips leave yours, trailing down your neck, his tongue pressing against your collarbone, a slow, searing path that sends jolts of electricity through your entire body. You gasp, fingers curling into his hair, as his teeth gently nip at your skin.

His hands slide up to your chest, the weight of his touch causing your pulse to race. His body is all heat and muscle. The world outside the two of you fades into oblivion, nothing matters except the way he moves, the way he feels.

Seungmin pulls back, eyes blazing with desire. His hands are rough now, tugging at the fabric of your pyjamas, impatient, tugging them off you with a swift, controlled movement. The cool air kissing the warmth of your naked body, but all you can focus on is the fire in his eyes, the way he devours you with his gaze. You’ve never seen him like this, never felt this raw intensity from him.

You run your hands over his chest, yanking his shirt over his head until it’s gone, discarded onto the floor. His body is just as firm as it looks, muscles taut beneath your touch.

He doesn’t waste a moment before his lips are back on your skin, trailing down your stomach, kissing and biting his way lower, each touch searing, leaving a mark as though he’s claiming you. Your body arches up towards him, instinctively responding to the fire he’s igniting inside you.

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes, his voice rough, his words clipped. There’s no softness now, only pure, raw hunger.

He continues his assault on your skin, hands exploring, lips pressing against every inch of your body like he can’t get enough.

“Seungmin…” you breathe, his name barely escaping your lips as you drag him back to you, pulling him in for another heated kiss. His weight presses down on you, but it’s not overwhelming. It’s everything you’ve craved—this closeness, this connection, this intensity.

Seungmin’s hands move with a kind of possessiveness, sliding over your hips, kneading the soft skin there as if he’s memorising every inch of you. His kisses deepen, rougher now—like he’s branding this hunger into your skin, making you feel how much he’s been holding back.

His lips trail lower, the heat of his breath sending shivers down your spine before his mouth finally finds your chest. A slow kiss—open, warm—followed by another. His hands cup your breasts, fingers pressing, teasing, kneading just enough to make you arch into him.

Then—his thumbs flick over your nipples. A sharp gasp escapes you, but he doesn’t stop. Circling, tracing, dragging his tongue over the sensitive peaks. You tremble beneath him, every touch sending a jolt of fire through your veins, setting nerve endings alight. The need for him surges, building in waves, cresting higher and higher.

“Seungmin…” His name spills from your lips, breathless, pleading. Your body aches—not just for more, but for him. To take. To claim.

Without breaking the kiss, he moves; a slow, deliberate shift—and then you feel him. Hard. Pressed against you. The last thread of restraint snaps.

A moan rises in your throat as his hips roll against you, dragging friction exactly where you need it. The pressure, the heat—it’s unbearable, overwhelming, perfect.

“Do you feel that?” he asks, his voice a rough whisper against your lips as he rolls his hips, “Do you feel how badly I need you?”

You nod frantically, your body a mix of heat and need, your chest rising and falling with every breath. His hands trail down your body, fingers brushing the soft curve of your waist before moving lower—

He pauses, eyes flicking up to yours, searching for a moment. But the hunger in his gaze doesn’t falter. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you need me."

It’s not a question. It’s a demand. But in the heat of the moment, it’s exactly what you want to give him.

“I need you,” you whisper, voice shaky, raw with desire. “Please, Seungmin.”

He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating through your chest, sinking into your bones. His lips curl into a smirk—dangerous, knowing—before his hand finally slips lower, finding the place between your legs that’s burning with want for him.

“Fuck,” Seungmin breathes, as he feels your wetness. His fingers press against you, slow at first, but you can feel the urgency building in him. His touch is both soft and firm, making your body arch up against him, a mix of pleasure and need clouding your thoughts as his fingers slip lower and finally enter you.

You groan into his ear as his finger moves within you, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles over your clit. Each stroke, each press, sends you spiraling closer to the edge of madness.

You’re lost in him, lost in the heat of his touch, the fire that has sparked between the two of you. It’s not just physical—there’s something deeper, something primal that pulls you closer, makes you ache for him in ways that go beyond the skin.

His hand moves faster now, his fingers working with a skill that makes you shudder, your body writhing beneath him. He watches you, his eyes dark and intent, his breaths hard and fast matching your own, as he drives you closer to the edge.

The coil inside you tightens, impossibly taut. His fingers, his breath, the weight of him—it’s too much and not enough and wholly overwhelmingly pleasurable. One of your hands grabs the arm of the sofa, as your breaths come quicker. Sharper. More desperate.

"That’s it," he rasps, his voice rough. His fingers move faster, precise, controlled, his other hand gripping your thigh like he’s holding himself back. "Let me see you."

You’re right there, right there, and then—

"Come for me Y/N."

Your body shatters. A gasp—his name—a broken cry. The world tilts, dissolves into heat and white-hot pleasure. You clutch at him, shaking, drowning in the force of it, and he just watches, mesmerised.

You shudder under his gaze, your body already responding to him, to the way his presence fills the space between you. His hands move to your hips, pulling you closer as he presses his lips to your neck once more, sucking gently at the skin. A low, needy moan escapes your lips, and you feel his breath grow heavier, his touch becoming more urgent.

“I need you,” Seungmin growls, his voice thick with need. “I’ve been waiting for this—for you—for so long.”

You can barely find the words, your body already burning with desire at the feel of him. Your hands trail down his chest, fumbling as you undo his belt, freeing him from the confines of his clothes.

His breath hitches as you help him push his trousers and underwear down to his knees, his body settling between your legs. He positions himself at your entrance, his tip grazing through your folds, rubbing against your too-sensitive clit. You gasp, the heat of him making every inch of you ache with longing.

Seungmin looks down at you, his pupils blown wide, searching your eyes for permission. But there’s no doubt in your gaze—no hesitation. You want him—need him—just as much, maybe even more. You nod, palming the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

With a slow, deep thrust, Seungmin fills you—stretching you, the initial sting quickly giving way to an overwhelming wave of pleasure. A low groan rumbles from his chest as he stills, his eyes squeezed shut, his arms trembling with effort, like he’s using every ounce of control not to lose himself completely and ruin you.

You moan his name, nails digging into his back. “Move,” you beg.

And he does. He’s not gentle—not this time—driven by an insatiable need to claim you, possess you completely.

He thrusts harder, faster, each movement pushing you closer to the edge—again. The rasp of his breath, the press of his hands, the sheer rawness of it all—everything unravels you. You’re consumed by him, by the way he moves, by the way he makes you feel alive in ways you never thought possible.

"Seung—" You can't hold back the whimper as your nails dig into his shoulders, pleasure tightening inside you with every thrust.

He groans in response, his body taut with need as he drives deeper, his movements urgent, frantic. "You feel so fucking good," he grits out, his pace never slowing.

Every inch of you is on fire. Him. His hands. His body. The heat between you. Nothing else exists. Sounds spill from your lips—pleas, broken whimpers, desperate cries—each one driving him on, urging him to go faster.

You move with him, matching his rhythm, feeling the tension build—not just yours, but his too. You know he’s barely holding on.

“Fuck, Y/N!”

“I’m—” You don’t get a chance to warn him. Your body tightens, your back arching off the sofa as an orgasm rips through you—ferocious and all-consuming. You cry out the only thought left in your head: “Seungmin!”

The intensity leaves you gasping, your body trembling with each wave of pleasure that crashes over you. Seungmin groans—louder than you’ve ever heard him—his control finally slipping. His rhythm falters before he buries himself deep inside you, collapsing against you, his body still but his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. His breath is hot and sticky against your neck.

He’s still inside you, holding you close, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his fingers trace slow, soothing circles on your skin. For a long moment, neither of you speaks—only feeling the lingering aftershocks of what just transpired.

Seungmin presses gentle kisses to your neck. Soft. Lingering. Loving.

When he lifts his head, his eyes hold a softness that contrasts with the rawness of everything that’s just occurred. “You’re everything,” he breathes, brushing a lock of hair from your face with his gentle fingers.

You smile, your fingers tracing the ridges of his back, drawing him closer. “So are you,” you whisper, your lips brushing against his as you speak. “Welcome home.”

...

♡ If you made it this far, thank you so much for your support!

♡ please consider leaving a comment, like or reblog. I love hearing your thoughts!!

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illyrianbitch · 1 year ago

Text

What Lies Between Us

Pairing: Reader x Modern Detective! Azriel

Summary: Azriel has spent years trying to escape the ghosts of his past, retiring into a self-imposed exile despite a promising career as a talented detective. When you turn up at his door asking for help on a recent case, his world is disrupted.

Warnings: angst, outrunning memories, brief allusions to crime, details of injury, horrible yearning and longing tbh

Word Count: 3.4k

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Azriel let out a sigh as he fumbled for his keys, juggling a bag of groceries in one hand. The weight of it grew heavy, and he clenched his jaw in focus as he finally pushed his door open, blindly reaching for the lightswitch on his wall.

A soft meow greeted him at his feet. Azriel glanced down to see Shadow, his black sleek fur gleaming under the light, weaving affectionately between his legs. Shadow's green eyes flicked up briefly before he leapt gracefully onto a bar stool and then the counter, nose twitching as he inspected the grocery bags Azriel placed down. He pulled back, seemingly unimpressed.

Azriel’s therapist was insistent that more greens would be beneficial in easing his anxiety. He said nothing about its relation to his nightmares, but Azriel didn’t have high hopes regarding whether broccoli could treat years of insomnia. Slowly, he pulled groceries from the bags, one by one. He almost snickered at the contents of his fridge— a few shelves now stocked with freshly bought produce, a carton of eggs, orange juice, butter, and a pack of beer. He shut the door.

There were a few birthday cards on his fridge, held on by various traveling magnets he’d collected over the years. One card was from his mother, the words “sweet boy” staring back at him, written with a heavy hand and adorned with hearts she delicately drew. The others were from his friends, a stupid one from Cassian, a sweet one from Mor, even Elain had gifted him one— and an invitation to her wedding.

He hadn’t gone.

But you had. He knew this from the pictures Feyre had posted on Instagram.

Not that he was checking. He deleted Instagram soon after.

Azriel's gaze lingered on the cards. There was one missing, and his fingers traced the place it used to be, where he had stuck it for a week before he realized he couldn’t handle looking at it every morning as he made breakfast. That card was tucked away in his bedside drawer now. He saw it every night, instead.

He let out a deep sigh, running his hands along his face, fingers brushing against the stubble that had begun to grow already.

He had planned to cook a healthy meal tonight, to take his new prescription and finally attempt to get a good night's sleep. But the thought of chopping vegetables and cooking felt exhausting. He pulled out a beer.

The cap nicked his thumb as he twisted it off, but he barely registered the sensation, quickly drawing the neck of the bottle to his mouth. He greedily swallowed down the cheap contents and moved towards the living room. Shadow padded after him, tail flicking in curiosity, a step behind every move Azriel made.

His apartment was empty, save for a few decorations and his heavily decorated bookshelves. Two of the chairs in his living room were still new, and the smell of brand new leather clung to them heavily, making the entire room reek of a department store. Azriel’s apartment wasn’t a home. It was a place filled with furniture. Besides those cards on his fridge, not much hinted at any sign of a life well lived.

Except the vinyl collection he now stood before.

His collection was meticulously organized, spanning decades of music. Some were torn, tattered at the edges where he’d picked them up at vintage shops, others brand new from gifts he’d been given.

Azriel selected a record. Its cover was worn and bent at the edges from drunken nights trying to carefully shove it back into its place. A classic rock album, the kind that filled the silence with powerful guitar riffs and soulful vocals— one of his favorites.He slid it from its sleeve, handling it with the care it properly deserved, and placed it on the turntable

Azriel wasn’t a flashy man, never one for fancy possessions, but this collection was his pride. The turntable itself was one of the nicest things he owned, if not the nicest. He cherished it, admired it every time he came into the living room. As the needle found its place, the familiar crackle precluded the strong, evocative notes of the electric guitar, filling the room with a warmth and soul that pulled a deep,weary sigh from his gut.

Shadow brushed against Azriel’s legs again, and his eyes fell at the touch, gaze falling on his guitar propped against the wall. A wave of sadness ran through him. Azriel approached it, running his fingers along its neck, along the dust that had gathered on top of it. The strings resisted against the scars on his fingertips.

He took a step back, grabbed his beer, and made his way towards the balcony.

The rush of cold night air offered a welcoming reprieve from the stifling stillness of his apartment. The chill bit at his skin, but he didn’t mind. It reminded him that he was still alive, still capable of feeling something other than biting numbness, suffocating guilt.

The city buzzed below. Azriel was never a fan of New York. The city was loud, crowded, and full of distractions that made it hard for him to find the quiet he craved. He felt disconnected from it all, from the hums of life and sounds of cars. He’d never felt as lonely as he did recently, surrounded by hundreds of people. Taking another sip of his beer, he let the music wash over him, the rich melody pouring out into the open air.

Azriel was only two songs in before there was a sudden knock on his door.

He frowned and waited a minute for them to go away. Another knock followed, more insistent this time. Grumbling, he turned around and headed to the door, placing his beer on the counter.

"Damnit, Rhys,” Azriel called out, hand reaching out to pull his apartment door open, “I told you I didn't want to—"

Azriel’s words died in his mouth as he opened the door, feeling a rush of emotions flood him all at once—relief, shock, and a hint of something else he couldn't quite name.

You were as beautiful as the last time he’d seen you, at that family dinner where he’d done his best to avoid you. Your skin was tan now, a sun-kissed glow that Azriel quickly deduced was from the recent trip you’d taken with Mor and Feyre. You’d gone to Belize, and while Feyre was gone, he and Rhysand had taken a trip upstate, stayed at a small place Rhys owned. Rhys was smart enough to not bring you up throughout the week, but Az still saw all the pictures Feyre had sent him— pictures that included you beaming at the camera, drink in hand and those pink vintage sunglasses you’d bought at a flea market three years ago.

"Y/N," he breathed out, voice barely above a whisper.

“Hi, Azriel,” you said, voice steady and soft, sweet like honey. It dripped down his skin and made him melt. His hand fell lax against the door handle. You gave him a small, almost unsure, smile. “I need your help.”

Azriel’s brows furrowed, gaze scanning your features for a moment. There were dark circles under your eyes— and your eyes, your eyes themselves seemed sad. Troubled. His stomach twisted into itself. You held his gaze for a moment before you were clearing your throat, shaking your head as if breaking the connection.

“Can I come in?”

Azriel blinked. “Of course,” he finally replied, pulling the words from deep out of his chest. He gave a smile as he stepped aside and gestured for you to come in. “Please.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

It was strange to be so close to you, to watch as you gingerly took off your coat and draped it over one of his barstools. Azriel’s eyes traced your form before him— the bend of your spine as you leaned over, the jewelry on your wrist, the boots that you wore.Even with your back turned to him, Azriel knew you. Something was deeply troubling you. There was an evident tension in your body, in the way your shoulders moved, in your shallow breaths.

His gaze lingered on your waist for a moment, on the way your body curved below your hips. He shook himself out of the daze, suddenly embarrassed and shameful.

His eyes fell to the ground, where Shadow now mewed and rubbed against your legs. You looked down at the contact, letting out a small laugh. Shadow wasted no time before jumping onto the kitchen island, nudging against your arms affectionately.

Azriel moved quickly, scooping Shadow up and setting him back on the ground. “Sorry about that,” he murmured.

“It’s okay,” you replied, a soft smile still playing on your lips. It was unsure— wary, even. The realization made Azriel’s stomach sink. He looked down at where Shadow was pressed against you once more.

Azriel’s eyes met yours, a flicker of something tender passing between you as he quietly said, “He missed you.”

Your gaze softened. A silence followed. It was heavy, but no longer uncomfortable. “I did too.”

The words hung in the air, filling the space between you with a warmth that neither of you dared to acknowledge fully. Azriel pushed away the thoughts in his mind that began to wonder if your words were meant for him, if you had missed him. He cleared his throat.

“What brings you by?”

You blinked, breaking the stare you were holding. “Right,” you said. You quickly turned back to your bag, fumbling slightly as you pulled out some papers and folders, gently placing them on the counter.

You flipped one of the folders open, saying nothing as you glanced at Azriel before casting your eyes down at the papers before you. You took a deep breath. “I need your help with a case.”

Azriel took a step forward, eyes glossing over the papers before him. He tightened his jaw. “You’re not supposed to be showing me these.”

He could get in trouble for being exposed to such sensitive information— and you, you were risking your career being here.

“I know,” you replied.

Azriel leaned forward, setting into a stance next to you. He ignored the way his skin prickled at the close proximity, instead placing a finger on the papers, pulling them closer to him. He frowned, brows furrowing as he took in the details. He casted a side glance at you.

You were already looking at him, a crease between your brows as you pressed your lips into a thin line.

“Y/n,” Azriel murmured, “I’m not sure how I can be of any use.”

“Just hear me out,” you pleaded, moving closer to tap a finger on the papers. “They’re following a pattern. I need to get ahead of it. I’m stumped and you used to be great at these cases.”

Azriel’s frown deepened. “Is it a copycat?”

You paused. Azriel missed the flicker of hesitation in your eyes before you nodded. “Yeah, a copycat.”

He let out a contemplative hum. “Who?”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, taking a step back as you remained quiet. Your silence was pronounced enough for Azriel to stiffen. He turned around slowly. His eyes gave away the question that was seated on the tip of his tongue. You nodded.

Azriel stood still, his face hardening, but there was something in his eyes that looked awfully like fear, something in his gut that felt awfully like shame— like regret. He took a deep breath.

“I can't help you.”

Your shoulders slumped. “Azriel-”

“Y/n, I can’t help you,” He repeated, the words falling from his mouth like a practiced mantra of self-denial. “Request the files you need, talk to Cassian. He knows it just as well as I do.”

Azriel curled his hands into fists. He attempted to ignore the stone that sank in his stomach at the name of his friend, of his brother. Cassian. As if sensing his distress, Shadow mewed softly, weaving between Azriel’s legs.

“That is not true and you know it,” you retorted. There was a heavy sense of frustration that seeped into your voice, one that dripped from every word you said. You could feel the tension thickening the air, suffocating the space between you and Azriel.

He remained silent, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond your shoulder. The stubborn set of his jaw made you falter further. You took a deep breath, lowering your voice to one much softer, much smoother. Azriel nearly melted at it, nearly found himself apologizing for everything he had done.

“I’ve requested access, I can talk to Cassian. But we both know you know things even I don’t. You kept meticulous records.”

“I-”

"Please," you interrupted, your voice pleading. "Az.”

Azriel’s expression softened, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of sorrow and resolve. He let out a small sigh and then he offered you a nod. His steps were measured, deliberate, as he turned and made his way down the small hallway, the echoes of his footfalls filling the quiet space.

His bedroom was just as empty as the rest of the apartment, and his gaze flickered to the bedside table as he passed. He stilled for a moment, feeling another heavy wave of sadness wash through him. Another second passed before he pulled his mind away, forcing himself to walk into his closet.

It took a few moments of pushing aside boxes and clothing before he found it, running his hands along the small safe tucked away in the back wall. With a practiced hand, he dialed the combination, the soft click of the lock releasing echoing in the room. The door opened gently, revealing its contents—a sleek handgun nestled among a jumble of items, including a worn leather journal and a stack of notes. Brushing his hand over the cold metal of the gun, Azriel reached for the journal, its worn cover familiar beneath his touch. Tucking it under his arm, he closed the safe with a sense of finality.

Returning to where you stood, Azriel found it difficult to meet your gaze again, opting to keep his eyes trained on the journal in his hand and Shadow at his feet. He wasn’t sure if it was just him that suddenly felt so smothering, or if there was something in the air that made it hard for him to breathe.

He offered you the journal with an extended hand. For a brief moment, your fingers brushed against each other. A familiar warmth ran through Azriel’s body and he resisted the urge to recoil from the intensity of it alone.

His hand stayed in the air for a moment, suspended in the moment of your touch. You glanced down at his palm, eyes drifting to his bare ring finger. Your eyes softened and Azriel followed your gaze, immediately pulling his hand back and shoving it into his pocket.

“Thanks,” you murmured, turning around to place it on top of your bag. You kept your back to him for a moment, and Azriel traced the curve of your spine with his eyes, watched how you placed two hands to brace yourself on the counter as you sighed. You slowly turned around.

“Azriel-”

The glint in your eyes told him where the conversation was bound to lead. He cut you off as fast as he noticed. “I can’t.”

You deflated, shoulders falling slightly as your gaze danced across his face. “You didn’t even let me speak.”

“I know what you’re going to say,” he said softly. He shifted on his heels, shoving his hands further into his pockets. “I can’t get involved. This is all I can do.”

“Alright,” you finally replied, bringing your bottom lip between your teeth as you absentmindedly nodded your head. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no.” He took an instant step forward, hand naturally flying out to touch your arm. He realized his movement before he made contact, letting his hand fall awkwardly at his side. “Don’t apologize. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I better get going.”

Please don’t.

“Yeah.”

Please stay.

As you started to gather your belongings, slipping the journal into your bag and pulling your jacket on, Azriel's gaze remained fixed on you. His heart lurched painfully in his chest as you reached for your jacket and pulled it on, your shirt hiking up to reveal the beginning of a jagged scar along your abdomen. He deflated, casting his eyes to the ground. A wave of self-loathing washed over him and he clenched his hands at his sides, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip.

It wasn’t until you were opening his front door that Azriel found the courage to look up, mustered the strength to meet your eyes.

“Y/n-” Azriel paused. His heart thudded loudly in his eardrums. He felt a faint tugging sensation in his chest, as if his body itself was screaming at him to get closer to you, to not let you leave. He swallowed down the selfish words he wanted to say, and instead offered you a wary, but warm, smile. “Be careful. This might just be a copycat, but they’re still as dangerous. I want you to be safe.”

“I know.” Something in your face softened, and you offered him a half smile. His eyes darted to the small dimple on your cheek. “I will be.”

You turned to leave, but no movement followed. Instead, you stilled, hand tapping on the handle before you turned around again. “It was nice to see you, Az.”

He gave you a small, curt nod. His chest tightened. “You too, Y/n.”

“Take care of yourself.”

And then you were gone.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Azriel sat on the couch, the soft hum of his chosen record filling the otherwise quiet apartment. His hand absentmindedly rubbed Shadow's head as he closed his eyes, allowing his thoughts to drift.

Weeks had passed since he last saw you, but you were never far from his mind. He had toyed with the idea of reaching out to you, of asking how things were going, but the thought was quickly dismissed. It was inappropriate on multiple levels. You weren't in each other's lives anymore, and he shouldn't have known about the case in the first place. So he resigned himself to living in his mind, replaying that night over and over, wondering if he should have asked you to stay, if he should have offered more help.

There was a knock at the door.

Azriel jumped at it, head twisting over his couch to look at his entrance. He pushed himself up, lifting Shadow from his lap as he made his way to the door. The cat emitted a discontented sound as he settled back into a lying position.

His heart fluttered with anticipation as he made his way to the door, a small glimmer of hope now flickering in his chest. Could it be that his prayers had been answered? That you were here again, unable to stop thinking about him just like he couldn't stop thinking about you?

Azriel took a deep breath as he reached for the doorknob.

He prepared to muster up a smile, running greetings through his mind, knowing himself well enough that he’d stumble at seeing your face once more. But as he swung the door open, his face fell flat.

"Rhys.”

Rhysand offered him a smile, but it lacked its usual warmth, troubled lines etched into his features. His posture was tense, his shoulders squared. There was a stiffness to his stance, a subtle rigidity that made Azriel’s stomach drop.

"What is it?" Azriel asked.

Rhys met his gaze, eyes filled with a darkened sense of worry. There was a glint of apprehension in his eyes, as if he were hesitant to speak. He swallowed.

"It's Y/n," Rhys finally said, "She's missing."

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

this idea appeared to me in a dream and i had to write it... will it ever come to fruition? who knows??? but i do love a good haunting of the narrative.... az finding us....az being thrown back into a world he thought he left behind...... lord its such yummy angst

so lmk if you’re interested in being tagged in a part 2 :)

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: @rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen

azriel tag list: @thisiskaylin @serrendiipty

#azriel #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #azriel x reader angst #azriel angst #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #azriel fanfiction #azriel fanfic #azriel acotar #acotar #acotar fanfic #a court of thorns and roses #acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader au #azriel au #acotar au #actoar au fanfiction

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