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kathaelipwse · 11 days ago

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The Moment I Saw You || C.San

Pairing: Rookie.Idol!Reader x Idol!San

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 10,495 words ; Reading Time: 40-ish mins

Synopsis: They called you the "guitar rookie" — cool, mysterious, and unforgettable on stage. But for San, it only took one performance to fall completely under your spell. What starts as quiet glances and backstage banter slowly turns into secret texting, emotional confessions, and late-night comfort. But fame is cruel, and love in the spotlight even more so. When the hate gets brutal, San does something no one expects — he fights for you.

Author’s Note: This story’s a love letter to that electric spark between two people who meet in the whirlwind of fame and find peace in each other. I adore writing flustered San, loyal San, "ride-or-die" San — so this fic gave me life. Hope you enjoy the slow burn, tension, and soft chaos.

The air in the practice room always smelled faintly of sweat and ambition, a potent cocktail that you had grown accustomed to. Just six months into your solo debut, the buzz around you was a low hum, a quiet acknowledgment of the raw talent that crackled through your live performances. In a sea of perfectly synchronized dance routines and polished pop anthems, you offered something different: grit. Authenticity. And a damn good electric guitar.

Your company, a smaller label that had taken a gamble on your unique blend of idol charm and rockstar edge, was cautiously optimistic. Your digital single had performed respectably, earning you a small but fiercely loyal fanbase who appreciated your self-composed tracks and the way your fingers danced across the fretboard during live stages – a genuine rarity in the current idol landscape.

You yourself preferred the quiet hum of anticipation to the deafening roar of immediate fame. It gave you space to breathe, to hone your craft, to let the music speak for itself. Your stage presence was a carefully constructed paradox: cool and composed, almost aloof, yet undeniably magnetic. There was a mysterious charm about the way you’d offer a fleeting smirk after a particularly sharp riff, the way your dark eyes would scan the crowd with an unreadable intensity.

Tonight, however, the quiet hum was about to be amplified to a deafening roar. Tonight was the culmination of a year’s worth of relentless work: the prestigious Gayo Daejun. The air backstage thrummed with nervous energy, a chaotic symphony of hurried footsteps, last-minute mic checks, and the hushed excitement of idols from every corner of the industry.

Your own dressing room felt like a small island of calm amidst the storm. Your black custom guitar, affectionately nicknamed 'Shadow', leaned against the wall, its sleek body gleaming under the soft lighting. Your stylist fussed with the subtle silver chains adorning your black leather jacket, while your makeup artist dabbed at your already flawless smoky eye.

“Ready, Y/N-ah?” your manager, a kind but perpetually stressed man named Mr. Kim, poked his head in.

You offered a small, confident nod. Inside, however, a familiar flutter of nerves danced in your stomach. This was the biggest stage you’d ever performed on. The audience wasn’t just your fans; it was the entire Korean entertainment industry, fellow idols you admired, and millions watching at home.

As the minutes ticked by, the tension backstage thickened. Snippets of other performances drifted into your room – the booming bass of a powerful dance track, the soaring vocals of a ballad. Then, Mr. Kim gave you the signal. It was time.

Walking towards the stage felt surreal. The backstage area was a blur of glittering costumes and anxious faces. You took a deep breath, the scent of hairspray and expensive perfume filling your lungs. The roar of the crowd beyond the heavy curtains was a tangible thing, a wave of sound that promised both exhilaration and potential disaster.

Your name flashed on the monitor, and a surge of adrenaline coursed through your veins. This was it.

The lights dimmed, and a single spotlight pierced the darkness, landing squarely on your silhouette as you stood center stage, Shadow slung low across your hips. A hush fell over the arena, a pregnant silence that amplified the frantic beating of your own heart.

Then, you raised your hand, your fingers hovering over the strings. A single, clean note rang out, cutting through the silence. It was the opening of your self-composed track, a raw and edgy anthem about breaking free. The crowd responded with a wave of cheers, but you barely registered it. Your focus narrowed, your world shrinking to the six strings beneath your fingertips.

The first chord hit like a punch to the gut – a gritty, distorted power chord that reverberated through the stadium. The stage lights pulsed in time with the music, casting sharp shadows that danced around you. Your cool composure settled over you like a second skin. Head tilted slightly, you launched into the opening riff, your fingers a blur of practiced precision.

From the side of the stage, hidden in the shadows after the explosive finale of his own group’s performance, Choi San stood catching his breath. Ateez had just delivered a high-octane set, leaving the crowd in a frenzy. He was about to grab a water bottle when a lone figure walked onto the stage. He barely glanced up, expecting another flashy dance number.

But then, the first chord struck.

San froze. The plastic water bottle slipped from his suddenly numb fingers, clattering unnoticed on the floor. His jaw went slack, his breath catching in his throat. It wasn’t just the sound – though the raw, live tone of the electric guitar was a shock in itself – it was the sheer confidence emanating from the figure bathed in the spotlight.

His heart, which had been pounding from Ateez’s intense performance, now seemed to have vanished entirely, replaced by a strange, hollow ache.

He watched, unblinking, as you moved with a fluid grace that belied the aggressive energy of your music and your soft voice blending well. The way your head would snap back with a flick of your dark hair during a particularly powerful strum, the fleeting smirk that would play on your lips as you effortlessly shredded a solo – it was captivating.

The music surged, a tidal wave of sound washing over the arena. San was oblivious to the cheers of the crowd, the flashing lights, the murmurs of his own members nearby. His entire world had narrowed to the figure on stage, the girl with the guitar, the raw talent that seemed to bleed from her fingertips.

He watched as you stepped closer to the edge of the stage during a particularly intricate solo, your eyes locking with unseen members of the audience. There was a fire in them, a fierce passion that resonated deep within him.

The final chord crashed, echoing through the stadium before fading into a sudden, profound silence. Then, the arena erupted. The cheers were deafening, a testament to the captivating performance they had just witnessed.

You offered a small bow, the corner of your lips tilting into that enigmatic smirk one last time before you turned and walked off stage, disappearing behind the curtain.

San remained rooted to the spot, his mind a complete blank. The echoes of the music still vibrated in his chest. It wasn't just that you were talented; there was something else, something that had resonated with him on a visceral level.

Finally, as his members started to nudge him, concern etched on their faces, San managed a single, breathless utterance, his voice barely a whisper amidst the lingering roar of the crowd.

“…who is she?”

The adrenaline from Ateez’s performance had long since faded, replaced by a persistent, almost unsettling hum within San. Back in their dorm, the usual boisterous energy of the members felt muted, a backdrop to the insistent replay echoing in his mind. He’d excused himself shortly after they’d arrived, claiming exhaustion, but instead, he’d retreated to his bunk, phone clutched tightly in his hand.

The YouTube video title glowed on the screen: “Y/N - Iconic Solo Debut Stage @ Gayo Daejun” He’d found it within minutes of searching, the algorithm already attuned to the sudden spike in interest surrounding the mysterious guitarist.

He pressed play.

The opening chord of ‘[Your Song Title]’ reverberated through his earbuds, sending a familiar jolt through him. He watched, his eyes glued to the screen, as you stepped into the spotlight. Every subtle movement, every confident strum, every flick of your hair was magnified, imbued with a significance he couldn’t quite articulate.

He watched the entire performance again, and then again. A strange tension coiled in his stomach, a feeling he hadn’t experienced before. It wasn’t just admiration for your talent; it was something deeper, something that felt intensely personal.

On the fourth viewing, he paused the video. It was a fleeting moment, almost imperceptible – a small, genuine smile that flickered across your lips after nailing a particularly challenging riff. It wasn’t a practiced idol smile for the cameras; it was a flash of pure, unadulterated joy, a glimpse behind the cool facade. San’s thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the curve of your smile as if he could somehow capture the feeling it evoked within him. His chest tightened.

He replayed the solo, the intricate melody and the raw energy of your playing sending shivers down his spine. He’d always appreciated good musicianship, but this… this was different. It wasn't just skill; it was soul. It was like the music was an extension of you, a direct line to something honest and captivating.

A restless energy began to build within him. He needed to know more.

He exited YouTube and opened his browser, typing in your stage name. Information flooded the screen: your full name, your company, the name of your debut single, even a few interviews where you spoke shyly about your music and your unconventional path as a guitar-playing idol. He clicked on every link, devouring every piece of information, piecing together a fragmented image of the person behind the captivating performer.

He learned you were a soloist, which surprised him. Your stage presence felt like it could command an entire band. He scrolled through fan forums, reading comments that echoed his own fascination: “Who is this girl?”, “That guitar solo was insane!”, “Her vibe is so cool.”

Later, when a few of the members had gathered in the common room, their post-show buzz slowly dissipating into comfortable exhaustion, San couldn’t contain it any longer. He wandered in, his phone still clutched in his hand.

“Do you guys know the rookie guitarist from tonight?” he asked, his voice a little too eager.

Wooyoung, sprawled on the couch scrolling through his own phone, looked up, a playful smirk already forming on his lips. “You mean the one you haven’t stopped watching on your phone?”

San flushed slightly, trying to appear nonchalant. “I was just… impressed. Her live playing was really something.”

Jongho, ever the straightforward one, nodded. “She was good. Definitely stood out.”

Hongjoong, who had been quietly sketching in a notebook, looked up, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Bro. You’ve watched that clip six times since we got back.”

San’s ears burned. He hadn’t realized he’d been that obvious. He mumbled something about needing to analyze different performance styles.

Hongjoong leaned back, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. “Analyzing, huh? Or maybe… admiring?” He tapped his pen against his chin thoughtfully. “She did have a certain… je ne sais quoi.”

San avoided his leader’s gaze, suddenly finding the pattern on the rug intensely interesting.

“Just ask her out already, Romeo,” Hongjoong added, his voice laced with playful teasing.

San’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “Hyung! What? No! I just… I was curious about her music.”

The other members exchanged knowing glances, a chorus of suppressed chuckles filling the room. San knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. The image of you on stage, bathed in that single spotlight, the raw sound of your guitar echoing in his ears, was firmly imprinted in his mind. The quiet hum of curiosity had morphed into something far more insistent, a burgeoning fascination that felt dangerously close to… obsession. And he had a feeling this was just the beginning.

The fluorescent lights of the music show backstage buzzed with a familiar, almost sterile energy. A few days had passed since the Gayo Daejun, and the memory of your performance still lingered in San’s mind like a favorite song he couldn’t stop humming. He’d tried to play it cool around his members, deflecting their teasing with awkward jokes and feigned disinterest. But the truth was, he’d spent a significant amount of his downtime rewatching your stage and scrolling through any new information he could find about you. He even found a few fan-made compilation videos of your live guitar moments, each one further solidifying his initial captivated impression.

Fate, or perhaps his own carefully orchestrated movements, had brought them both to the same music show today. Ateez had an early performance slot, and San had been surprisingly subdued throughout their pre-show preparations, his usual playful energy noticeably absent. His mind was elsewhere, a nervous anticipation thrumming beneath his skin. He kept replaying Hongjoong’s teasing words – “Just ask her out already, Romeo” – and a ridiculous scenario where he tripped over his own feet while trying to introduce himself.

He’d subtly inquired about your schedule from one of the staff members he knew, feigning general interest in the lineup. When he learned your dressing room was on the same floor, a few doors down from Ateez’s, a plan began to form – a flimsy, transparent excuse to be in your vicinity. He’d even rehearsed a few potential opening lines in his head, ranging from a simple “Hello” to a more elaborate (and probably disastrous) compliment about your guitar tone.

Now, his heart hammered against his ribs as he stood outside your dressing room, a half-empty water bottle clutched in his hand. He’d “coincidentally” run out of water just as Ateez’s segment wrapped up, and this hallway, he’d reasoned, was the most logical place to find a water dispenser. He leaned against the cool wall, trying to project an air of casual nonchalance, taking slow, deliberate sips. Every distant footstep echoing down the corridor sent a jolt of nervous energy through him. He silently berated himself for his lack of composure. He was Choi San, for crying out loud. He commanded stages filled with roaring fans. Why was this one potential interaction turning him into a stammering mess?

Then, the door to your dressing room opened.

San’s breath hitched. You stepped out, your manager, a slightly harried-looking man in a crisp suit, a few paces behind you, both seemingly engrossed in a quiet conversation. You were dressed in a stylishly understated outfit for your post-performance interviews – dark wash jeans, a slightly oversized band tee, and a delicate silver necklace peeking out from beneath the collar. Your dark hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail that accentuated the sharp angles of your jawline and the delicate curve of your neck. San’s gaze lingered for a fraction too long.

For a split second, your eyes met his. Your expression was neutral, a polite acknowledgment of a familiar face in the industry. But for San, it felt like a spotlight had suddenly illuminated him. He froze, his carefully constructed facade of nonchalance crumbling into a jumbled mess of nerves and a sudden, intense awareness of his own slightly sweaty post-performance state.

He hadn’t planned what to say, hadn’t rehearsed any smooth lines that could possibly convey the impact your performance had had on him. All the witty remarks and carefully crafted compliments he’d mentally conjured vanished from his brain, leaving him with a single, overwhelming thought: it’s really her. Up close, the intensity he’d witnessed on stage was somehow both amplified and softened.

As you drew closer, his throat suddenly felt incredibly dry. He pushed himself off the wall, his legs feeling strangely unsteady, like he’d just finished a particularly grueling choreography session. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but all that came out was a strangled, almost bird-like sound. He winced internally.

“You were…” he finally managed, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, the sound echoing awkwardly in the relatively quiet hallway, and tried again, his gaze fixed somewhere around your shoulder, unable to meet your eyes directly. “You were… amazing. At the Gayo… the guitar part? Insane.” He cringed internally at his utterly inadequate delivery. Insane? Really, San? That’s the best you could come up with?

You stopped walking, a genuine hint of surprise flickering in your dark eyes. You shyly tucked a loose strand of hair that had escaped your ponytail behind your ear, a delicate, almost unconscious gesture that San found inexplicably endearing. A faint blush, barely perceptible, dusted your cheeks. You lowered your gaze slightly.

“Thank you,” you replied softly, your voice even more melodic and nuanced than he’d expected from your powerful yet soft singing voice. “I… I didn’t think anyone noticed. It felt a little… out of place, maybe, amidst all the other amazing performances.” You offered a small, self-deprecating smile.

San’s internal monologue was a chaotic scream of flailing limbs and incoherent noises. She doesn’t think anyone noticed?! It was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen! Tell her! Tell her how it made you feel! Tell her you haven’t stopped thinking about it!

But outwardly, he could only manage a slightly wider, albeit still awkward, smile and a more emphatic nod. “Noticed? Are you kidding? It was… captivating. The way you played, the energy… it was completely different. In a really, really good way.” He finally managed to meet your eyes, and the intensity he felt seemed to momentarily surprise you. He quickly looked away again, suddenly feeling like he was staring.

He wanted to say so much more – to tell you how the rawness of your sound had cut through the usual polished perfection, how your confidence with the guitar had been incredibly inspiring, how he’d rewatched your solo countless times. But the words seemed trapped in his throat, choked by a sudden wave of self-consciousness and the unexpected reality of you standing right in front of him.

He offered another small, slightly less awkward smile, hoping it conveyed at least a fraction of the genuine admiration and burgeoning fascination he felt. You returned the smile, a brief, shy curve of your lips that sent another unexpected jolt through him, settling somewhere warm and unfamiliar in his chest.

Then, your manager, who had been patiently observing the exchange, gently placed a hand on your arm. “We should probably get going, Y/N-ah. The interview with Star News is starting soon, and they’re waiting.”

“Right,” you said, nodding apologetically. You offered San another quick, polite nod, your eyes briefly meeting his again with a hint of something he couldn’t quite decipher before continuing down the hallway with your manager.

San watched you walk away, your ponytail swaying gently with each step, his mind still reeling from the brief but impactful interaction. He’d actually spoken to you. He’d sounded like a complete idiot, but he’d spoken to you. He replayed the exchange in his head, dissecting every word, every glance, the shy tuck of your hair, the soft melody of your voice.

He took a long, shaky gulp of water, the coolness doing little to quell the heat rising in his cheeks. He leaned back against the wall again, a goofy, starstruck grin slowly spreading across his face. Choi San, the charismatic performer known for his powerful stage presence and confident charm, was officially a flustered mess. And he had a distinct feeling that this brief backstage run-in was just the beginning of a much more complicated – and potentially exhilarating – chapter.

The weeks that followed the music show took on a surreal quality for both you and San. For you, the unexpected compliment from a senior idol, especially one as charismatic as San of Ateez, had been a pleasant surprise. You’d replayed the brief interaction in your mind a few times, a faint warmth spreading through you at the memory of his earnest, if slightly stammering, praise. You’d even found yourself looking up Ateez’s performances afterwards, a newfound curiosity piqued by his intense stage presence and the powerful dynamic of his group.

Then, the “bump-ins” began.

It started subtly. At the company cafeteria, you’d be mid-bite into your kimbap when you’d glance up to find Ateez at a nearby table, their usual boisterous energy filling the space. More often than not, your eyes would meet San’s, and he’d offer a quick, friendly smile, sometimes accompanied by a small wave. You’d offer a shy nod in return, a blush creeping up your neck.

At music show waiting rooms, their paths seemed to intersect with increasing frequency. He’d always find a reason to approach – a casual “Hey, Y/N-ssi, your performance today was great,” or a lighthearted comment about the chaos backstage. Once, he’d even complimented the unique design on your guitar strap, sparking a brief, slightly awkward but undeniably pleasant conversation about your musical influences.

You tried to rationalize it as coincidence, the inevitable overlap of schedules in the relatively small and interconnected idol world. But a persistent feeling, a delicate dance of anticipation and nervousness, began to bloom in your chest. Every time his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at you, a little spark ignited within you.

You found yourself paying more attention to your appearance on days you knew Ateez would be at the same events, and a nervous flutter would erupt in your stomach whenever you heard their distinct laughter echoing down the hallway.

San, on his end, was far from relying on mere chance. He’d become a surprisingly adept strategist, his internal radar constantly pinging for any sign of your presence. He’d casually inquire about your schedule from friendly staff members, linger a little longer near common areas he knew you sometimes frequented, like the practice room hallways or the studio lounges, and even subtly enlist the help of Wooyoung and Seonghwa to “casually” scout ahead.

His members, initially amused by his sudden, laser-like focus, were now exchanging knowing glances and offering increasingly unsubtle teases. “Looking for your sunshine again, San-ah?” Hongjoong had quipped one afternoon, earning him a playful shove.

Then came the official announcement that sent a genuine tremor of excitement through the industry: a special collaboration stage for the upcoming Golden Disc Awards. And your name was listed alongside Ateez. Specifically, the press release detailed a duet and a joint performance piece that would culminate in a powerful instrumental break featuring your guitar playing alongside Ateez’s signature dynamic energy. And the duet partner? Choi San.

A wave of surprise, quickly followed by a surge of nervous excitement that made your palms sweat, washed over you when your manager relayed the news. A collaboration with a group as globally recognized and incredibly talented as Ateez was a monumental opportunity, a chance to reach a wider audience. But the thought of working so intimately with San, the idol who had sparked this unexpected and rather persistent flutter in your heart, sent a different kind of thrill, a more personal and slightly dizzying sensation, through you.

Rehearsals began a week later, a whirlwind of choreography practices with Ateez’s formidable dance line, vocal run-throughs where your voices surprisingly blended with a unique harmony, and meticulous stage blocking sessions. The song was a powerful, emotionally charged ballad that built to an explosive instrumental bridge, perfectly designed to showcase both Ateez’s dramatic performance skills and your raw, emotive guitar prowess.

During these rehearsals, San’s attention was often, though not always overtly, fixed on you. It wasn’t the intense, unwavering gaze from the Gayo stage, but a softer, more curious observation. When you were carefully tuning Shadow before a run-through, the delicate movements of your fingers across the fretboard seemed to captivate him.

He’d lean against the wall, his usual playful banter momentarily silenced, his eyes following your every adjustment. Once, he’d even asked, his voice genuinely curious, “What tuning are you using for this song? It sounds… different.” You’d explained the drop-D tuning and how it lent a heavier feel to the lower register, and he’d listened intently, nodding thoughtfully.

Between takes, as you’d often hum the melody to yourself, lost in the intricacies of the arrangement, his gaze would linger on you, a soft, almost fond smile playing on his lips. Sometimes, he’d even hum along quietly, and you’d catch his eye, a shared moment of musical connection passing between you.

From his perspective, every small detail about you seemed to be etching itself into his memory. The way your brow would furrow in intense concentration as you worked out a particularly complex chord progression, the way you’d tap your foot rhythmically even when you weren’t playing, the small, almost imperceptible sigh you’d let out after a particularly demanding vocal section.

Even the subtle scent that seemed to perpetually surround you – a delicate blend of warm vanilla and a bright, refreshing citrus – became a comforting and uniquely yours sensory detail that he’d subconsciously started to associate with moments of quiet focus and unexpected smiles.

He started calling you “sunshine.” It began innocently enough, a casual remark during a particularly grueling rehearsal when you’d offered a quiet but encouraging word to a visibly tired Wooyoung. “You’re like sunshine, Y/N -ssi,” he’d said with a genuine smile, and the nickname had stuck.

He used it sparingly, mostly during lighter moments or when he wanted to offer encouragement. But the way your cheeks would instantly flush a delicate pink every time the nickname escaped his lips, the way your gaze would momentarily soften and then quickly dart away, told him it had a deeper, more personal impact.

You tried your best to maintain your professional composure, focusing intently on the intricate vocal harmonies you shared with San and the precise timing required for your guitar solo within Ateez’s powerful choreography. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the warmth that spread through you every time San’s gaze lingered a little too long, or the way your heart did a little flip-flop whenever he offered you a genuine, encouraging smile, often accompanied by that endearing nickname.

His presence was a constant, gentle distraction, a warm current that made it harder to maintain your focus but also made the often-stressful rehearsal process feel surprisingly lighter, filled with stolen glances and unspoken understandings.

The tension between you was building, an invisible thread stretching taut with each shared rehearsal and fleeting interaction. It wasn’t just the pressure of the highly anticipated Golden Disc performance; it was the undeniable pull of mutual attraction, a silent conversation conducted through lingering glances, shy smiles, and the shared language of music.

You both knew something was subtly shifting, a delicate connection forming beneath the surface of polite professional interactions. The Golden Disc stage was looming, and with it, the tantalizing promise of a closer collaboration, and perhaps, something significantly more.

The exchange of phone numbers had been a purely practical affair, orchestrated with the efficiency of a military operation by your respective managers under the guise of “seamless rehearsal coordination” for the Golden Disc collaboration. Your contact list now held a new, somewhat official-sounding entry: “San (Ateez) 🎤.” You’d sent a polite introductory text confirming your number, a brief “Hi San-ssi, it’s Y/N. Got your number,” and he’d replied with a simple but friendly, “Got it! Looking forward to working with you, Y/N-ssi :)”. The initial exchange felt formal, almost anticlimactic, leaving you wondering if that would be the extent of your direct communication outside of rehearsals.

However, as the intense rehearsal schedule for the Golden Disc Awards kicked into high gear, the need for direct communication occasionally and organically arose. A last-minute change in the choreography blocking that affected your stage positioning, a question from San about the specific tone you were aiming for during the instrumental break, a quick confirmation needed on shared wardrobe elements to ensure visual harmony on stage.

These exchanges were usually brief and strictly professional, yet each notification that popped up on your screen displaying San’s name still elicited a subtle, almost involuntary quickening of your pulse, a tiny flutter of anticipation that you tried to suppress.

Then came the night after a particularly grueling full dress rehearsal that had stretched late into the evening. You were finally back in the quiet solitude of your dorm room, the distant hum of the city lights painting faint, blurry streaks across your ceiling.

Your body ached in places you didn’t even know existed, your mind still buzzing with the complex choreography, the intricate vocal harmonies you shared with San, and the soaring melody of the collaboration song that had been looping in your head for hours. You’d changed into comfortable pajamas and were mindlessly scrolling through social media on your phone, a familiar and usually effective way to unwind before sleep claimed you, when your phone vibrated with a new message.

The contact name displayed brightly on your screen read “San (Ateez) 🎤.” Your thumb hovered over the notification for a long moment, a strange and unfamiliar mix of anticipation, nervousness, and a touch of something akin to excitement swirling within you. It was late; you hadn’t expected to hear from him.

San (1:03 am): Were you nervous that night? At the Gayo. You didn’t look it at all. Like you owned that stage from the moment you stepped on it.

A small, genuine smile touched your lips. He was thinking about your debut stage again. It felt like a lifetime ago in the whirlwind of the past few months, yet the memory of the intense spotlight, the roar of the crowd, and the raw, unfiltered energy of your music was still incredibly vivid. You hesitated for a moment before replying, carefully considering your words, unsure of how much vulnerability to reveal.

You (1:04 am): Terrified. Honestly. My palms were sweating so much I thought I might drop Shadow. I just didn’t want to screw up on such a big stage, especially as a relatively new face.

Your reply felt honest, stripped of the cool, composed confidence you consciously projected on stage. You wondered if he’d find it surprising, perhaps even disappointing, that the seemingly fearless guitarist had been battling a storm of nerves underneath.

His response came almost immediately, the speed of it making you smile again.

San (1:04 am): Seriously? You were incredible. You commanded that stage like it was your own. The way you moved, the way you connected with the music… and that guitar solo… still gives me chills every time I watch it. You have such a unique energy.

A warm, fuzzy feeling spread through your chest at his words. It was different from the polite, often generic compliments you usually received from industry colleagues. There was a genuine enthusiasm and a keen observation in his message that felt… real and deeply validating.

San (1:05 am): Next time you’re on a big stage like that, I’m cheering for you from the front row. Promise. I’ll even bring a giant banner with your name on it!! :}

Your heart did a little unexpected flutter at that playful promise. A promise from Choi San, delivered in the quiet intimacy of a late-night text message. You typed out a simple “Thank you :]” but deleted it, feeling it was far too inadequate to express the warmth that was blossoming within you.

You (1:06 am): That means a lot, San-ssi. Really. It’s… reassuring to hear that.

The late-night texts slowly but surely became a more regular, almost anticipated occurrence. They were often initiated by San, usually after both of your demanding schedules had finally wound down for the day, when the rest of the bustling idol world seemed to have finally fallen silent.

They talked about everything and nothing – the unique pressures and unexpected joys of being an idol, their individual musical tastes and surprising shared interests in obscure indie artists, funny and sometimes slightly embarrassing anecdotes from their respective days.

You found yourself genuinely looking forward to these digital exchanges, the quiet intimacy of sharing your thoughts and feelings with someone who seemed to genuinely understand the unique and often isolating pressures you faced in the industry.

San was surprisingly easy to talk to, his digital persona mirroring the warm and playful energy he exuded in person, but with an added layer of thoughtful curiosity. His texts were often punctuated with a liberal use of playful emojis and genuine, insightful questions.

He’d delve into your songwriting process, asking about your lyrical inspirations and the emotions you aimed to convey through your music. He even remembered the name of your guitar, Shadow, and would occasionally ask about it, curious about its history and your connection to it.

You found yourself opening up to him in a way you hadn’t with many others in the industry, the relative anonymity and unspoken understanding of the late-night messages creating a safe and comfortable space for vulnerability.

One particularly hectic afternoon, in the midst of a chaotic day of back-to-back schedules that included a radio interview and a photoshoot, your phone buzzed with a picture message from San. Your initial thought was that it was probably another funny meme his members had sent him.

But when you opened it, your breath hitched slightly. It was a selfie of him, looking slightly tired but grinning broadly, his dark hair a little tousled, holding up a piece of slightly crumpled white paper. Scrawled on it in playful, slightly uneven lettering, adorned with a few charmingly crooked doodles, were the words: “Team Y/N”. He’d even drawn a little stick figure playing a guitar next to your name, its shape endearingly lopsided.

A genuine, unguarded smile bloomed on your face, chasing away some of the day’s accumulated stress. You quickly saved the picture to a private album in your gallery, tucking it away amongst your personal photos, a secret little treasure.

Every now and then, when the relentless pressures of the industry felt particularly overwhelming or isolating, you’d find yourself subconsciously scrolling through your gallery and stumbling upon that silly, heartfelt selfie, and a wave of unexpected warmth and quiet support would wash over you, a tangible reminder of the connection you were slowly building. The late-night whispers in the digital darkness were undeniably weaving a delicate but strengthening thread of something special and undeniably personal between you and Choi San.

The Golden Disc Awards ceremony was a blur of flashing lights, roaring applause, and the nervous energy that permeated every corner of the massive venue. Your collaboration stage with Ateez had been a resounding success.

The ballad, initially a gentle blend of your vocals and San’s, had built in intensity, culminating in the powerful instrumental break where your guitar solo intertwined seamlessly with Ateez’s dynamic performance. The crowd had been captivated, a sea of glowing lightsticks swaying in unison.

Backstage, the atmosphere was electric with post-performance adrenaline. You exchanged exhausted but exhilarated smiles with the Ateez members, a sense of shared accomplishment hanging in the air. San’s eyes had met yours a few times amidst the congratulatory chaos, a soft, knowing smile passing between you that spoke volumes without uttering a single word.

As the evening progressed, and the awards ceremony moved onto other performances and announcements, the opportunity for a private moment felt increasingly elusive. Yet, a silent understanding seemed to exist between you and San, a shared desire to acknowledge the unspoken feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface of rehearsals and late-night texts.

Finally, during a brief intermission, amidst the flurry of idols heading to the refreshment areas or making quick phone calls, San caught your eye from across the bustling backstage corridor. He offered a subtle nod towards a less-trafficked hallway leading towards the emergency exits, a silent invitation.

Your heart skipped a beat. You made a quick excuse to your manager about needing some fresh air and followed him, your steps light with a mixture of anticipation and nervous excitement.

The hallway was dimly lit and blessedly quiet, a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos you’d just escaped. San was leaning against the cool wall, his hands tucked into the pockets of his stylish stage jacket. He looked up as you approached, his usual playful energy replaced by a soft, almost vulnerable expression.

A comfortable silence settled between you for a moment, the unspoken tension thick in the air. You fiddled with the hem of your dress, your gaze fixed on the patterned carpet.

“That was… incredible,” you murmured, breaking the silence, the adrenaline of the performance still coursing through you. “Thank you for… for everything during rehearsals. It was amazing working with you all.”

San pushed himself off the wall, taking a step closer. His gaze was intense, focused solely on you. “The pleasure was all ours, Y/N-ah. Your playing… it added a whole other dimension to the song.” He paused, then his voice softened. “But you know… tonight… when we were performing…”

You finally lifted your gaze to meet his, a question in your eyes.

You murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, the words feeling both inevitable and terrifying to voice, “You weren’t looking at the audience tonight, San-ssi. Not really. You were looking at me.”

A soft, almost shy smile spread across his face, a smile that reached his eyes and made your heart do that familiar little flip. He took another step closer, closing the remaining distance between you.

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice low and husky, his gaze never leaving yours. “Yeah, I was. And you’re right.” He took a deep breath, as if gathering his courage. “That’s… that’s when I knew I was in trouble.”

He reached out, his fingers gently brushing against your hand, sending a jolt of electricity through you. He didn’t take your hand fully, but the light touch was enough.

“From the moment I saw you on that Gayo stage,” he continued, his voice earnest and sincere, “there was something… I don’t know. Something about your passion, your talent… it just… it hit me. Hard.” He chuckled softly, a nervous sound. “And then getting to know you during rehearsals, those late-night texts… it just confirmed what I was already starting to feel.”

He finally met your gaze fully, his eyes filled with a vulnerability that mirrored your own. “I… I really like you, [Your Stage Name]-ah. A lot. And I know this is probably crazy, especially with our careers and everything… but I wanted to be honest with you. I want to give this a real shot. If… if you’re okay with it.”

The sincerity in his voice, the gentle touch of his fingers, the vulnerability in his eyes – it all washed over you, confirming the feelings that had been quietly blossoming in your own heart. The late-night conversations, the stolen glances during rehearsals, the unexpected warmth of his attention – it had all pointed to this moment.

A soft smile bloomed on your own lips, mirroring his. You finally laced your fingers through his, your touch tentative but firm.

“San-ssi,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly, “I… I like you too. A lot more than I probably should.” You took a deep breath, your gaze locked with his. “I was… I was falling too.”

A wave of relief washed over his face, his grip on your hand tightening gently. The quiet hallway suddenly felt like the only place in the world, the hushed silence amplifying the unspoken emotions that hung between you. In that dimly lit space, amidst the whirlwind of the idol world, a new chapter had quietly begun.

The initial secrecy of your relationship with San was a fragile, precious thing. It thrived in the quiet moments, in the stolen glances across crowded rooms, and the coded language of late-night texts. Small, tangible tokens of affection became your secret communication.

Notes, folded into impossibly small squares, would appear nestled amongst the strings of Shadow, San’s playful handwriting a stark contrast to the serious intent of his sweet messages. Bubble teas, delivered with a knowing smile by a staff member who’d clearly been briefed, were a small, sweet rebellion against the demands of your schedules. You, in turn, would leave little gifts in Ateez’s studio, a silent acknowledgment of the connection that was growing stronger with each passing day.

But the digital world offered no true sanctuary. The leaked photo, blurry and taken from a distance, was enough to shatter the illusion of privacy. Two figures, walking hand-in-hand under the dim glow of a streetlamp – San’s unmistakable silhouette, your smaller frame – were all it took to ignite the internet.

The explosion was immediate and brutal. Comment sections became battlegrounds, initial curiosity quickly morphing into a torrent of negativity. Accusations of using San for fame were rampant, your talent dismissed, your worth questioned. “She’s just a leech!” one comment screamed. “Riding on Ateez’s success!”

The rigid expectations of idol life fueled the fire. “A rookie dating? Unbelievable!” another user fumed. “She should be focused on her career, not boys!” The attacks grew increasingly personal, descending into cruel insults about your appearance and unfounded rumors about your character. “She’s so plain,” one anonymous commenter sneered. “No wonder she has to cling to someone famous.”

Yet, in the face of this online onslaught, your fans stood firm. They defended your talent, your hard work, your right to a private life. “Leave her alone! She’s an amazing artist!” their voices echoed across the digital space. Surprisingly, a significant number of ATINYs joined their ranks, their support for San extending to his personal happiness. “If San is happy, we should be happy for him,” one ATINY wrote, a sentiment that resonated with many.

Despite this unwavering support, the sheer volume of hate was overwhelming. The negativity seeped into the real world. Your company’s social media was flooded with abusive messages. Your manager’s phone rang non-stop with angry calls.

Then came the chilling delivery. A stark white box. Inside, funeral flowers – white chrysanthemums. A typed note, its words a venomous threat, a stark warning to stay away from San.

The sight of those flowers, a tangible manifestation of such intense hatred, sent a cold wave of fear through you. The joy of your new relationship was instantly poisoned.

San, who had been watching the online storm with growing fury, finally snapped when he learned about the funeral flowers. The image of those stark white blooms, the direct threat against you, ignited a protective rage. He couldn't stand by while you were subjected to such vicious malice.

The playful, loving man you were falling for was momentarily consumed by a fierce, unwavering determination to shield you from the darkness that had descended upon you.

The notification popped up on countless screens simultaneously: “ATEEZ San is live.” Within seconds, the number of viewers skyrocketed. Fans, still reeling from the leaked photo and the ensuing chaos, flooded the chat with questions and worried emojis. San’s lives were usually energetic, filled with playful banter and updates on Ateez’s activities. This felt different.

The camera focused on San’s face, his expression uncharacteristically serious, his eyes holding a raw intensity that made viewers instantly fall silent. He was in what looked like a quiet corner of their dorm, the usual playful clutter noticeably absent. He took a deep breath, his gaze steady and direct.

“Atinys,” he began, his voice lower than usual, carrying a weight that commanded attention. “And… everyone else who is watching.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the unseen viewers. “Over the past few days, there has been a lot of… speculation and negativity online. Regarding the recent photos that were circulated.”

He didn’t name you directly, but everyone knew who he was talking about. The chat, which had been a torrent of messages moments before, slowed to a crawl, a collective holding of breath.

“I usually try to keep my personal life private,” San continued, his voice firm. “But the level of hate and maliciousness that has been directed towards… someone I care deeply about… it cannot be ignored.”

His jaw tightened. “So, I want to be clear about a few things. Firstly, the hateful comments, the personal attacks, the threats… they have gone too far. My company, KQ Entertainment, is already collecting evidence, and if this does not stop immediately, we will be taking strict legal action against those responsible. This is not a request; it is a warning.”

A hush fell over the internet. The mention of legal action, especially from a company known for its protective stance towards its artists, was a serious deterrent.

San’s gaze softened slightly, a hint of vulnerability flickering in his eyes. “Secondly,” he continued, his voice dropping a notch, becoming more personal. “I have seen a lot of unfair accusations being thrown around. Especially towards… her.”

He paused again, taking another deep breath. “So, let me be absolutely clear on this. She did not pursue me. She did not initiate anything. If anyone is to blame for… for us… it is me. I was the one who was captivated from the moment I saw her on stage. I was the one who sought her out. She didn’t confess; I did.”

The impact of his words was palpable. The narrative that had been so viciously constructed online, painting you as an opportunistic rookie, crumbled in an instant.

San’s expression hardened again, his eyes blazing with a fierce protectiveness. “Finally,” he said, his voice ringing with conviction. “The person you are all attacking… she is not some fantasy you have created in your minds. She is not some character in a story. She is a real person. She has feelings, she has dreams, she has worked incredibly hard to get where she is.”

He looked directly into the camera, his gaze unwavering. “And yes,” he stated, his voice firm and resolute, each word carrying weight. “She is mine.”

The internet seemed to hold its breath. The usual rapid-fire commentary in the live chat was replaced by a stunned silence. San’s raw honesty, his direct address of the hate, and his unequivocal declaration had landed like a shockwave.

Slowly, tentatively, the tide began to turn. The sheer force of his statement, coupled with the explicit threat of legal action, had a chilling effect. The most vicious hate comments began to subside, replaced by more cautious and uncertain messages. The fear of facing legal repercussions started to outweigh the anonymity and perceived impunity of online hate.

The narrative had shifted, propelled by San’s unwavering defense of the person he loved. The silence on the internet was heavy, pregnant with the aftermath of his words, and the dawning realization that they had crossed a line they might now have to answer for.

The moment San ended the live stream, the adrenaline that had coursed through him began to recede, leaving behind a raw ache of anxiety. Had he said too much? Had he made things worse for you? The uncertainty gnawed at him as he practically sprinted out of the dorm, his members watching with a mixture of concern and understanding. He didn't offer any explanations, his only focus was getting to you.

The drive to your dorm felt like an eternity. Every red light, every slow-moving car, amplified his fear. He imagined you alone, facing the fallout of the scandal, the weight of the hate, and now, the potential repercussions of his public declaration. He cursed himself for not being there sooner, for not being able to shield you from any of it.

Finally, he reached your building, his heart pounding in his chest. He practically flew up the stairs to your floor, his knuckles rapping urgently against your door. Every second felt like a lifetime.

The door creaked open, and there you stood. Your eyes were red-rimmed, and your face was pale, but the sight of him seemed to bring a flicker of relief. Before either of you could speak, he pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you with a fierce protectiveness. He held you so close he could feel the tremor that ran through your body.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m so, so sorry for all of this.”

You clung to him, burying your face in his chest, the familiar scent of his cologne a small anchor in the storm of your emotions. Your own voice was muffled against his jacket as you finally spoke.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, San-ah,” you whispered, your words catching on a sob. “You… you didn’t cause this.”

The dam of your carefully held emotions finally broke. Tears streamed down your face, hot and heavy against his shirt. The fear, the anger, the exhaustion of the past few days – it all poured out in a torrent of silent weeping.

He held you tighter, his hand stroking your hair soothingly. He didn’t try to stop your tears; he simply held you, offering a silent reassurance, a solid presence in your moment of vulnerability. He knew words were inadequate. What you needed was comfort, understanding, and the knowledge that you weren't alone.

He held you like that for a long time, until your sobs gradually subsided, leaving behind a quiet hiccuping. He gently pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own filled with a deep tenderness. He brushed a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“Are you… are you okay?” he asked softly, his voice laced with concern.

You managed a small, shaky nod. “Just… scared.”

“I know,” he whispered, pulling you back into his embrace. “I know. But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He stayed with you that night. You didn’t talk much, the silence filled with a comfortable understanding, a shared exhaustion. He held you close on your small couch, his presence a warm and reassuring weight. Sleep eventually claimed you both, a fragile peace found in each other’s arms amidst the wreckage of the scandal.

The aftermath of San’s live stream was a strange mix of relief and lingering tension. The most vitriolic hate comments online did indeed slow down, replaced by a hesitant uncertainty. The fear of legal action had cast a pall over the most aggressive antis. However, the underlying prejudice and negativity hadn’t vanished entirely.

In the days and weeks that followed, healing became a slow, deliberate process. You leaned on each other, finding strength in your shared experience. San was a constant source of support, his presence a quiet reassurance that helped to soothe your frayed nerves. You talked, tentatively at first, then more openly, sharing your fears and anxieties. He listened without judgment, offering comfort and unwavering support.

Your company, emboldened by San’s public stance and the threat of legal action, stepped up their efforts to protect you, increasing security and actively pursuing legal avenues against the most egregious offenders. The storm hadn't completely passed, but the intensity had lessened, a fragile calm beginning to settle in its wake. The healing had begun, nurtured by the quiet strength of your connection.

Eleven months. The memory of the scandal’s harsh glare had begun to soften around the edges, like a photograph left in the sun. In its place bloomed a quiet resilience, a steadfast focus on the music that truly defined you. The songs you’d poured your heart into during those months of healing, each note and lyric a testament to your journey, were finally seeing the light.

Your new album, a collection of melodies that whispered of romance and longing, resonated with a global audience in a way that surpassed all expectations. The vulnerability and emotions in your voice, the delicate arrangements, the raw honesty of your lyrics – they spoke a universal language of the heart. Fans, who had witnessed the subtle shifts in your music and your demeanor, intuitively understood the quiet inspiration woven into each track.

You watched, a profound sense of gratitude washing over you, as your album soared up international charts, your name now synonymous with a unique blend of idol charm and genuine musical artistry. The label of “rookie guitarist” had faded, replaced by the recognition of a rising star, your music captivating hearts across continents.

Throughout this whirlwind of success, San remained your unwavering anchor, your most enthusiastic supporter. His encouragement was a constant, a quiet strength that buoyed you through every demanding schedule and nerve-wracking performance. He’d be the first to text after a show, his messages a flurry of emojis and heartfelt praise. The Ateez dorm often echoed with your new tracks, his members offering good-natured teases while secretly humming along to the catchy melodies.

And when your solo concerts began, San made sure he was there. He’d often slip into the venue unnoticed, a face in the crowd, his gaze never leaving you as you commanded the stage. From the shadows, his phone would capture fleeting moments – the intense concentration etched on your face during a complex guitar solo, the radiant smile that bloomed when the audience sang your lyrics back to you, the sheer joy that radiated from you as you connected with your fans through your music. His phone gallery became a secret testament to your talent and the pride he felt.

One night, after an electrifying concert in Las Vegas, the energy between you and the roaring audience a tangible force, San felt an overwhelming wave of love and admiration. He wanted the world to know the depth of his feelings, the sheer luck he felt in having you in his life.

Back in his hotel room, the glittering cityscape spread out before him, he scrolled through the candid shots he’d taken that night. He selected a few that truly captured your essence – the focused intensity in your eyes as you played, the pure joy in your laughter as you interacted with the crowd, your silhouette a powerful presence against the vibrant stage lights.

He opened his public Instagram account, his thumb hovering over the share button. He wanted to express his feelings honestly, openly, for all to see. Finally, he typed a caption, his heart laid bare:

“Watching you shine so brightly tonight, Y/N, fills me with a happiness I can barely describe. Your talent is breathtaking, your passion is infectious, and the way you connect with everyone who hears your music is truly magical. I feel incredibly lucky, every single day, to have you in my life. You inspire me endlessly. ❤️🎸”

He attached the soft, candid photos, a public declaration of his love and admiration. The post went live, and the internet responded with an outpouring of warmth and support. Fans, who had long sensed the depth of your connection, were touched by his heartfelt words and the genuine pride that shone through.

The image of the charismatic idol so openly celebrating his partner resonated deeply, solidifying their perception of your relationship as a source of strength and inspiration. The rise of your star was no longer just your own triumph; it was a shared journey, a testament to the enduring power of love that had weathered the storm and now shone brightly for the world to witness.

The relentless pace of idol life often blurred into a continuous cycle of performances, recordings, and travel. But tucked away in the quiet corners of their shared apartment, a haven carved out amidst the chaos, existed a different reality – a space where the bright lights faded and the masks came off.

Tonight was one of those nights. You were curled up on the plush couch, a worn paperback novel open in your lap, bathed in the soft glow of a nearby lamp. San’s oversized hoodie swallowed your small frame, the sleeves pulled down over your hands. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head, secured with a stray hair tie, and your glasses rested on the bridge of your nose, your makeup-free skin looking soft and natural. You were completely absorbed in your book, oblivious to the world outside and the adoring gaze fixed upon you.

San, who had been quietly tinkering with some music equipment across the room, paused, his eyes drawn to the picture of domestic bliss you presented. A soft smile touched his lips. He reached for his phone, snapping a quick, candid photo of you, your brow furrowed in concentration as you turned a page.

Without a word, he opened his phone settings and set the photo as his wallpaper, a private reminder of the quiet joy you brought to his life. You remained engrossed in your book, completely unaware of his silent adoration and the new image gracing his phone screen.

A mischievous glint suddenly sparked in San’s eyes. He moved silently towards the couch, a playful grin spreading across his face. In one swift motion, he scooped you up in his arms, lifting you with surprising ease.

“San!” you exclaimed, your eyes widening in surprise as you were suddenly airborne. The book tumbled to the floor, landing with a soft thud.

He carried you the few steps to the bedroom, his grin widening with each flustered protest you made. “Operation: Relocate the Bookworm!” he declared in a mock-heroic voice. With a playful grunt, he gently tossed you onto the soft mattress.

You landed with a soft bounce, your glasses askew, your heart hammering in your chest. You stared up at him, wide-eyed and breathless. “Oh my god, San, I’m a virgin I don’t think you’ll fit—”

San froze mid-chuckle, his playful expression instantly morphing into one of utter shock. He stood there, a statue of bewildered surprise, his mouth slightly agape, his eyebrows practically reaching his hairline.

A beat of stunned silence hung in the air, broken only by your slightly panicked breathing. Then, a slow dawning of realization crossed San’s face, followed by a flicker of something akin to amusement struggling to break through the surprise.

“…I was trying to cuddle?” he finally managed, his voice a hesitant whisper, a bewildered question mark hanging in the air. He even gestured vaguely with his hands, as if demonstrating the concept of a platonic embrace.

Another beat of silence. Your eyes widened further, the color rising in your cheeks as the full implication of your utterly mortifying statement hit you. You squeezed your eyes shut, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

San’s eyebrows shot up even higher. “…Wait,” he said slowly, his gaze searching yours with a mixture of disbelief and dawning understanding. “You’ve never—?” He trailed off, a slow, knowing smile starting to play on his lips.

Your face flushed a deep, uncontrollable crimson. You became a flustered mess of tangled limbs and stammered denials. “NO! I mean… I’m waiting… I—ugh! This is so unbelievably embarrassing! Can we just… can we just forget I said anything?” You buried your face in the pillows, mortified beyond words.

A soft chuckle rumbled in San’s chest, a sound that held genuine amusement but also a surprising tenderness. He gently sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to carefully pull you into his arms. You kept your face hidden, your cheeks burning like twin embers.

“Hey, sunshine,” he murmured softly, his lips brushing against your temple. “It’s okay. Really. There’s absolutely no pressure, no expectations. You take all the time you need, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” He held you close, his arms a comforting and reassuring embrace. He kissed your temple again, a lingering, tender gesture.

A playful smirk tugged at his lips, and a mischievous glint returned to his eyes. “But,” he whispered, his voice laced with amusement, “I am definitely teasing you about this forever. You know that, right? Like, for the rest of our lives.”

You groaned into his chest, but a small, reluctant smile finally broke through your embarrassment. “Oh, you wouldn’t dare,” you mumbled, though the lack of conviction in your voice betrayed you.

“Oh, I would dare,” he said, his chuckle deepening. “In fact, I’m already planning the anniversary celebrations for ‘The Night Sunshine Thought I Wouldn’t Fit.’” He punctuated his words with a playful squeeze.

You swatted playfully at his arm, your face still buried in his chest. “It’s not funny!”

“It’s a little funny,” he countered, his voice full of mirth. “Especially the look on your face. Priceless. I should have taken a picture.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe I still can? For posterity?” He made a mock attempt to reach for his phone.

You tightened your grip on his hoodie. “Don’t you even think about it, Choi San.”

He laughed, a warm, genuine sound that filled the room. “Alright, alright. My lips are sealed… for now. But just so you know, the next time we’re cuddling, and you look even remotely tense…” He trailed off suggestively, raising a playful eyebrow.

You playfully punched his arm again, a giggle escaping despite your lingering embarrassment. “You are the worst.”

“The worst… but you love me,” he finished, nuzzling his face into your hair.

You sighed contentedly, the warmth of his embrace chasing away the last vestiges of your mortification. “Unfortunately,” you mumbled into his chest.

“See? Admitted it,” he teased triumphantly. “Now, about that book you were reading… maybe we can cuddle and just read?” He emphasized the word “just” with a playful wink that you couldn’t see but could definitely feel in his tone.

You finally lifted your head, a genuine smile gracing your lips. “Maybe,” you said, leaning into him. “But if you even think about bringing up the ‘fitting’ thing again…”

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Wouldn’t dream of it… for at least five minutes.”

You rolled your eyes, but the laughter bubbling in your chest was a testament to the comfortable, playful love that defined your quiet moments together, even the hilariously awkward ones. In the safe haven of their shared home, amidst the endless teasing and the deep, unwavering affection, their unique and tender story continued to unfold, one laugh, one cuddle, and one mortifyingly iconic misunderstanding at a time.

-- The end <33

689 notes · View notes

venomvalley · 6 months ago

Text

LIGHTS, CAMERA—

onlyfans!leon kennedy x pornstar!reader // 5.6k words

summary: Leon needs a way to pay off his tuition for the police academy and you, his long-time friend slash rising pornstar, help him start his OnlyFans career. But things get a little awkward when your fans start begging you to collab.

tags: 18+ only! oral sex (m!recieving), safe sex, enthusiastic consent, p in v, praise kink, light corruption kink, reader films a non-leon threesome for plot reasons. continuing my submissive leon propaganda. there are also feelings here.

notes: jesus christ i finally finished this behemoth. based this around my own experience with sex work so it should not encompass the industry as a whole. this is just fiction.

-> read on ao3

The bedroom is bathed in dapples of red and blue when you open the door. Leon stands on a new shag rug just before the couch, arms spread wide when he turns and notices your presence.

“So, how's it look?”

You close the door behind you as you survey the room, eyes darting over decorations old and new.

His bed sits in one corner, sheets recently used, a set of sleep clothes tossed carelessly at the foot. Half-shoved beneath an askew pillow is the stuffed koala you bought him for his birthday last year. Band posters taped to the wall overhead.

Good thing he wasn't asking your opinion on that.

The remodeled filming area in another corner looks the most inviting. His soft, fluffy couch and pillows that quickly became a staple in his videos; two lamps on either side, lights perfectly aimed at the center cushion where he always sits (mood lighting is important, you had told him. an easy way to increase production quality); a small end table to store lube, condoms, toys for the day's shoot—anything you might need for filming amateur porn.

Your smile gleams with pride as you set your bag down near the door. “You've gotten really good at decorating. The fans are gonna love it.”

“You think so?”

You scoff at him in dramatic jest, shirking your coat somewhere near his bed. “Are you questioning my judgement?”

“Never. Couldn't have done it without you, honestly.”

Something sweet and sticky settles at the center of your lungs, and his cheery tone wrings out your breath. You couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

This all began as a way to pay off tuition from his current stint at some expensive police academy. If you're being honest with yourself, you much prefer him doing this. Maybe a bit selfish of you, given the circumstances, but he's good. And here's the thing: Leon paid off his debt months ago. He obviously loves the attention, the praise, the sharp spikes of dopamine each time he gets behind the camera (you get it—why else would you still continue fucking for some strangers on the internet?). He held the perfect recipe for stardom: an early twenties guy in prime shape, inexperienced to the point of blushing around any naked body beside his own, with the prettiest noises of pleasure you've ever heard. Everything fit into place.

Your presence in his life predates the porn. Just two almost-friends from high school who reconnected at a grocery store back home. A star in your own right, with a career spawning from NSFW subreddits you used to post on for fun. And when he came to you with news of his financial issues, desperate and embarrassed and all grown up, you didn't tell him about your job. You knew the risks, the side effects, the potential consequences. The internet—people—can be cruel.

Then he found your twitter (a happenstance, he swears) and the videos you posted. The website you linked in the description of all of them.

I think it's cool, he had said over text one night. At least it looks fun.

And so the floodgates opened.

You ensured the quality of his videos. Took some inspiration from a few guys you worked with in the past—lighting, angles, making noise is a must—and applied your own knowledge to craft Leon into the perfect sellable package. It's all business at the end of the day.

Until it isn't. Porn is one of very few industries that require the mix of business and pleasure for success. And although you play your directorial part well, you'd be a dirty fucking liar if you said that watching Leon jerk off every Tuesday and Friday isn't the highlight of your week.

He's a good boy so he leaves his face out of the shot, whines please and thank you to some invisible voyeur when he cums. Makes you food after a long session because you refuse to take any form of payment, but that first time he looked at you like a kicked dog when he insisted he pay you in a nice meal at least, and how could you resist?

So here you stand, the light casting soft shadows over his body as he plops down on the couch, boxers tight around his hips and thighs, bulge front and center when he spreads his legs wide.

Don't look don't look don't look. You might be a whore, but you can express self-control around your friend.

“What are we doing today?” you ask, turning around to sift through your bag on the floor.

“I got a few gifts in the mail, so…”

"Damn, already?”

He offers up a smug shrug, arms resting on the back of the couch. “What can I say? My fans love me.”

You set up the tripod and the camera (the same one you use for your own videos), as he sifts through the end table with a set of muffled thumps. He then places a bottle of lube and an unfamiliar cock ring on the coffee table, leaves to the bathroom for a moment before returning with the most sophisticated fleshlight you've ever seen. The material is see through, textured to perfection inside the sleeve. It's a work of masturbatory art.

“Holy shit.”

“Cool, right? It even has suction settings.” He slides a finger into the toy, and you watch through a filter of opaque glass as the silicone stretches beneath his exploration. “It's really soft.”

You swallow thick, eyes glued to the movement of his long fingers. “Oh, I gotta see this.”

His boyish excitement rubs off on you. Can't help it when he settles on the couch with a grin, fingers drumming along his thigh as you make last-minute adjustments to the lighting and camera's framing. The final result is beautiful, movie-like. Smooth gradient and hard shadows, showcasing his figure from neck to knee (an upward angle, of course—the most popular, a perfect showcase of the thickness of his thighs, a POV of sorts that places the watcher on their knees before him).

He slips into a role that mirrors much of his real life: curious and inexperienced, an endearing amount of confused. Changes his voice enough that, should anybody familiar stumble upon his videos, they wouldn't immediately recognize him. Makes a show of palming himself through his underwear, hips grinding a slow rhythm against his hand. He asks hushed questions, teasing and bashful as his cock swells beneath the fabric.

It's the ‘you really wanna see it?’ that does you in. Because yes, no matter how many times he's bared himself before the camera, you always wanna see it through the **technical filter **of the viewfinder. Can't bare to sneak a peek with the naked eye. Too afraid that he'll catch you staring.

And when he finally tugs down his underwear, waistband tucked snug beneath the weight of his balls, you curse the natural mechanism of blinking.

The show begins.

He takes time spreading the lube over his length, favors slow, teasing pumps as he tells you (no, not you specifically—the viewer) how good it feels. How he wishes his hand were yours. And it’s so easy to pretend that the camera isn’t there. That this isn’t a performance for hundreds of people. That he’s talking to you, the unseen face behind the lens, the catalyst of this whole affair.

He gets nasty as time goes on. Whines about how needy he is, how good it would feel for somebody to come and sit on it. The squelch of his fist is almost overstimulating. His palm rubs over his belly, follows the path of his happy trail to cup at his balls. It’s the perfect shot, really. The flex of his forearm, the show of veins along the back of his hand, the clench of his abdominals.

For the first time since you began filming his videos, temptation proves too strong to bear. For the very first time, you chance a look over the viewfinder. A simple rise of your head, a hairsbreadth of movement, but he notices. Locks lidded eyes with you and pins you there, the usual blue of his irises now deep as midnight, bottom lip pillowed between his teeth.

Your heart drops, settles somewhere snug between your hips where your pulse thumps heavy. If he said the word, you would crawl over on hands and knees and kneel between his legs and continue where he left off. There’s a pretty curve to his cock that you’d love to follow with your tongue. You wonder how the slick mess of his precum might taste.

Okay. So you’re a whore.

From what you’ve heard from friends in the business, porn isn’t supposed to be sexy for the cameraman. They’re too focused on camera angles and making sure the lighting stays good to worry about the actual sex. But it’s not like that with Leon. He and his pleasure sit front and center at all times. The scene is stagnant, with very few instances of framing or lighting changes. It’s just you and the man in the viewfinder.

You almost black out when he fits the fleshlight over his cock. The first pump leaves his thigh muscles tensing as his head falls against the back of the couch (heat settles in your belly when you realize that you’re the only one allowed to see his face and, by extension, his face when he's jerking off). His hips grind, chasing the suctioning pleasure as his fist builds a steady rhythm. He’s noisy: whining and moaning, cussing under his breath.

It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen, and it ends much too soon. After a few minutes of milking vibration, he replaces the fleshlight with his hand, fucking his fist, body tensing as his orgasm looms.

He cums hard and heavy over his belly in pearlescent streaks that wet the line of dusky blond hair you find there. A horrible part of you wishes to lick it up. To clean his cock with your mouth instead of the wash cloth that you promptly run and fetch.

You trap yourself in the bathroom to calm the stampede of your pulse between your thighs. The weight of your need bends you over the sink, and you stick your hands beneath the warm water, gripped tight around the fabric, as you watch your sanity empty down the drain.

You come back with a smile, tossing the rag on his belly. “Good?”

He cracks open an eye, cheeks rosy post-orgasm, body melted into the couch. “You have no idea.”

As he starts to clean up, the red blip of your camera catches your attention. In your haste to escape, you forgot to end the recording. A definite first for you at this point in your career, and you should be way more humiliated than you feel about letting the camera run for five minutes, but you're currently soaking through your shorts and are far too worried about the wet spot you might leave on his furniture.

On cue, Leon turns to you, tying the strings of his jogging pants, and says, “What do you want for dinner?”

The message you receive from a long-time twitter follower on a boring Wednesday night licks heat up the back of your neck:

would love to see u collab with that new guy everybody's raving about. i'll tip extra…. dont make me beg ;)

ps ur so sexy. love that last DP video… blue is ur color

Then a link to Leon's twitter.

You're used to requests and the generous money that accompanies them. From the vanilla to the weird to the dehumanizing, you've admittedly filled each category. Film yourself smoking an entire cigarette? Two hundred bucks, easy. Sticking your feet in a store-bought lemon meringue pie? Five hundred, just like that.

You don't like to think about the last category too often. Luckily, you're well-off enough financially that you don't have to accept those requests anymore.

But this one frays your nerves solely for the fact that you consider it. You exit out of the browser and close your laptop and sit in the dark silence of your bedroom for a long few minutes.

It's not like you haven't thought about it. He's beautiful and sweet and genuine. The sex would undoubtedly be fun.

You imagine yourself teaching him a few things. The blush across his cheeks the first time you swallow down his cock, the high-pitched sigh he would make at the first feel of you around him, buried to the hilt, all clenching muscles and white-hot heat.

But you can't. Could never ask that of him. How much are you willing to ruin for a few hundred bucks?

You spend the better part of the next hour with your hand between your legs. Fantasizing. Nothing wrong with that. Just need a little release to make yourself feel better.

When you finally cum, it’s to the thought of bouncing in Leon’s lap. His hair fisted between your fingers. The thrum of his pulse beneath your lips.

The cleanup is embarrassing. Fantasy is one thing, but the proof of your betrayal spreads sticky between your thighs, on your fingers and lips. It’s the first time you’ve ever done something like this—come to the thought of a fellow sex worker.

But damn, you’ve never been this wet in your life. Never came this hard either.

Suffice to say, you’re considering your twitter follower’s request.

Moments like these are why you love your job.

Your friend’s face smothered by your thighs, a pretty cock deep down your throat. His name is Nate, tall and burly and hairy where it counts, and he knows how to fuck. He does it well.

The scene had been set in the bedroom of a mutual friend’s apartment. Fluffy pillows and soft sheets and ambient lighting. Bee sits in a chair just out of view of the camera, prepping herself with two fingers in her pussy and another circling her clit. She’s a sight to behold: thick at the hips and thighs and waist, soft to the touch, curly hair tied away from her face in an intricate updo.

You have two gorgeous people in the room with you, and yet all you can fantasize about is Leon. How he would fill your mouth, the softness of his tongue on your clit. If he’d be gentle or rough.

(You want him to use you like his fleshlight.)

You pull away from Nate’s cock with a gasp as he sucks hard on your clit, fitting a thick thumb inside your pussy to give you something to clench down on.

This is what you’re used to. This is fun.

And yet—

Bee climbs up on the bed, crawling over to your splayed bodies with a low-lidded grin. She joins you between his legs, kisses you hard on the mouth before licking a wet stripe up the length of his cock.

Threesomes are your favorite scene to shoot, no matter the mix of genders. A good change in routine, a pleasurable overstimulation. The diversity of bodies, of taste and smell and texture.

And yet—

The condom makes its arrival shortly after your first orgasm, and Bee helps you into place, taking her seat on Nate’s slicked-up face. With weakened legs, you seat yourself on his lap in one long stroke, balancing yourself with a hand on each of his thighs. He fills you full, more thick than lengthy, fitting perfectly against your g-spot with each grind of your hips.

And yet—

all you can think about is Leon.

The space he commands inside your head infuriates you. When the fucking is over and you’re all washed up and lounging on the couch, your friends take note of your distraction.

“Nobody else is gonna notice, but we do,” Bee says, nursing a glass of blood-red wine, cuddled up to your side like always.

She passes it to you with a knowing look, and you take a hefty swig before handing it back. “It’s just this guy. I’ve been helping with his content.” You shake your head, massaging a hand over your cheek. “It’s stupid, and it’s pissing me off.”

A bit of an understatement. You can’t tell them that he occupies every aspect of your waking mind. That every moment of free thought goes to fantasizing about fucking him.

Beside you, Nate dips his head, brows raised in surprise. “Oh shit. You in love, kitty cat?”

“Jesus Christ, no. He’s just—“ you sigh, “different. Cute, like a puppy or something.”

Bee nods. “Yeah, I get it. You’re in loooove.”

Your frustration reaches its peak, and you would pull your hair out from the root if not for the way she grabs your hands in a dramatic show.

“I’m not in love. I wanna fuck him.”

Your friends share an understanding ahhhh, and Nate wraps a comforting arm around your shoulders. Pulls you in close to say, “Listen, he’s forbidden fruit. We’ve all been there.”

The lilt of his tone portrays jest, and the heat in your cheeks makes you want to shrivel up and crawl into the crack between the cushions.

Bee laughs, and your shoulders curl toward your knees in resignation. “I can’t believe I have sex with you two.”

“Shut up. We’re the best you’ve ever had.”

You blink a moment, considering the statement.

Yeah. Can’t argue with that.

She pats your bare leg, pity woven in the lilt of her brow. “Just talk to him.”

“Absolutely not. We’re actually friends, and I don’t wanna mess it up.”

Leon texts you a few days later, well past midnight. A screenshot of a very similar DM to the one you received, quickly followed up by a set of question marks.

leon [2:45 am]

have u been getting these too

You snap out of your half-asleep state and roll over onto an elbow.

me [2:45 am]

yeah. when you get popular enough people request for you to collab with other creators.

leon [2:46 am]

wait they requested u to collab with me????

You adjust your grip on your phone, palms turning clammy at the question. The unknown of how this conversation may go strikes the fear of rejection in you. He’ll either voice his disgust or his excitement, and you—

Who are you kidding? You know exactly which response would be worse.

me [2:48 am]

they’re pretty much begging me actually

leon [2:49 am]

hmmm

The next evening, you show up at Leon’s apartment with your trusty duffel bag in tow. He sits on his couch, dressed down in a baggy shirt and sweatpants. A huge shift to what you’re used to. No sex toys or lube or neon lights to be found. Just Leon and whatever odd reality show he watches on the television.

“Hey,” you say, abandoning your bag and shoes and coat by the door.

You collapse on the couch beside him, a ball of anxiety wound tight in your chest. Not sure why. Things just feel different, off with him today. Like the living room holds its breath in anticipation.

He gives a simple greeting in return then focuses back on the tv, and you dissect the line of his shoulders, his expression, the relaxation of his muscles to give any sort of hint as to what the problem is. If there's even any problem at all.

Leon is one of your closest friends, and you don't want to lose him to some intrusive DMs on twitter. Or to the volatile nature of the porn sphere (you know firsthand how it chews people up and spits them back out).

“I kinda just want to… talk this time.” His voice comes out of nowhere, a loud break from the drone of the tv.

You turn to face him, throwing a leg over his knee. “We can do that.”

Subconsciously, he reaches for your thigh, palm warm through your jeans as he soothes a thumb along its seam.

He clears his throat. Says, “So. Saw your new video.”

Ah. The threesome. Wonderful reception from the viewers (you checked the comments). A lot of orgasms to be had. The first time Bee had ever squirted. Sex with them is always a treat. Comfortable and messy.

“What’d you think?”

“It looked… uh, fun.”

“It was a lot of fun.”

“I…” His brow furrows, head turning to stare at the wall behind you. “I wanna do something like that.”

Your heartbeat picks up in your chest, a thumping that vibrates your throat. “I have some people I can set you up with—”

“No, not like that.” He heaves a sigh, turning to look at you. Frustration clouds his expression, mouth twisting into a pout. “I'm not… experienced like you are.”

You remember him speaking about his ex—his first kiss, his first love, his first everything. A passionate relationship that he thought would last forever, now just a blip in the timeframe of his life.

The sex, however, left a lot to be desired. Expected given their inexperience, but you think it time for Leon to graduate, and given the current state of your conversation, so does he.

“You’ll be happy to know that a lot of people get off to that.”

“I know, but I want somebody I can trust.”

There's a heaviness to his words, a hidden meaning that he nudges you toward.

You think you might faint.

“Like who?”

You need to hear him say it. Couldn't bear the humiliation of being wrong.

He glances away, gaze bouncing over the coffee table. “You can say no, but I'd like it to be you.”

Inside your mouth, your teeth grit to force down a wide, beaming smile. It festers in your chest like a bonfire, the smoke almost suffocating.

“I'd be honored, Leon.”

He looks you in the eye for the first time since you walked through the door, and you swear you see the sun rise. His grip on your thigh tightens. “Seriously?”

You nod. “We gotta do this right, though. I work for a company that has actors fill out forms before every scene.”

“Forms?”

“Consent forms, the kinks you're into, that kinda thing.”

“Oh.”

“It's a formality, but it keeps everybody safe.”

“Okay, yeah. Let's do it.”

It happens on a Saturday. He comes over to your place this time—wants to see where you film your own videos, where you eat dinner in the evenings, where you lay your head down at night. You think a huge part of it is that nobody but you has ever been inside your office. All the videos you film in this room are solos.

Except for this one.

He prefers a submissive role. Light choking. Praise. Pet names.

You've psychoanalyzed him more times than should be healthy to see what makes him tick and now, sat on your lush, comfy bed, you hold the passkey to his psyche. The knowledge is exhilarating, many of your theories proven correct by the heavy ‘X’ of his pencil markings.

Bondage: yes.

Anal (giving/recieving): maybes for both.

You look up at him with a sharp grin, lips spreading wider at the sight of his fidgeting.

“Can I ask why anal is a maybe?”

He shrugs. “I’ve never done it before. Eventually I’d like to, but…”

“But not now?” He shakes his head. “That’s fine. Just checking.”

Specificity is important to you. Asking as many questions as possible to understand where the comfort and discomfort lay, so you know exactly where he defines his boundaries.

Once you’ve checked and double-checked his answers, the scene begins. Soft lighting to blur the edges, to aid in the dream-like nature you try to portray. Setting up the camera is second nature to you, a simple shot without an extra hand wielding it. You choose to go for a more amateur, intimate angle for his first video to make up for the lack of immersion.

Two creators meet up for a shoot, and if they seem like they know each other personally, you can thank chemistry and hormones.

A good cover for any future skeptics.

The video begins with Leon sat on the end of the bed, your form kneeling between his legs. You had promised him that you would hide his face, and the framing reflects that—you in full view, Leon from the neck down.

Your hands massage at the muscles of his thighs, the length of his cock a heavy weight against his belly. He’s bigger up close, the sight of his slicked-up head making your mouth water. Thick enough to provide a stretch. Perfect.

This is it. What you’ve been dreaming about for weeks.

You catch his eye then lean forward to press a chaste kiss to his frenulum, and beneath your hands, his muscles tense then release. The blue of his eyes darkens beneath the furrow of his brow.

So pretty. Always pretty, yes, but even prettier with his dick in your mouth. He tastes masculine, like salt-musk and body wash. Weighs down your tongue like you imagined in your fantasies. You drool over his length and swallow him down in one smooth motion, your throat sheathing around the flared head of his cock.

His head falls back, hips twitching against your mouth, a whine building in his chest. You begin to bob your head, slow enough for him to reach for you—fingers brushing your shoulder, a palm soothing down your back, touch feather-light. Reverent.

And then he pushes you away. Says, “I don’t wanna finish like this.”

When you smile up at him, his thumb plucks the swollen curve of your bottom lip, lidded eyes meeting your softened gaze. Like a sledgehammer to the chest, affection slams into you. The suddenness is enough to take your breath away.

He helps you to your feet, steadies your hips as you straddle him, and then he kisses you. Sweet as sugar. Slow pecks of his lips against yours, the quiet noise of your mouths, the weight of his warm hand massaging over the small of your back.

For the first time in a while, you forget about the camera. You forget about posing and angles and looking your best. The world narrows in on Leon—the tenderness in which he holds you, the softness of his skin, the pretty cock pressed against your belly.

You pull away and lay a hand to his chest. “Lay down, honey.”

He obeys your instruction in silence. Spreads out on the bed as you roll the condom on and soak his length in lube. Your hands shake as you carry out the motions (second nature), excitement heating your blood.

How many times have you dreamt about this?

You part your labia with the plush head, slicking up your clit, back and forth and back and forth until he shudders. Grips hard at your waist. Pleads with you under his breath.

“You want it, baby?” you whisper, voice a messy shudder as your pleasure begins to climb, syrupy and slow. Thawing molasses.

He nods his head, swallows thick when you line yourself up.

It's always the first thrust—thick, stretching heat—that gets you. The way you both gasp at the fresh sensation, and you find it difficult to keep up your porn star persona when his eyes glisten like your pussy hangs the stars in the sky.

You settle in his lap for a long moment, whispering praise as your body stretches to accommodate him.

You're so pretty.

How do you feel so good?

It's like we were made for each other.

He grinds up into you, already bottomed out but chasing more of that plush heat, brows arching when you follow his rhythm with your own hips.

As if remembering the actual reason behind the sex, you arch your back for the camera, slowing the rise and fall of your hips to better present the way your hole stretches around Leon's cock. You even give a fucked-out smile to the lens, head turned to gaze over your shoulder, bottom lip tugged between your teeth.

You hook your feet over his spread thighs for leverage, hands steady atop his broad chest, and begin to bounce in earnest. The harsh slap of skin, the wet squelch of your coupling leaves you clenching hard around him. He whines beneath you, effectively pinned in place, his grip on your hips shifting to your ass.

You circle trembling fingers over your clit, gasping at the pleasure that coils heat in your belly. He fills you to perfection, brushes every nerve inside your pussy as you ride him, and you can't stop looking at him. His face, in particular, more expressive than you've ever seen it. Wide eyes wet with tears, brows drawn, pretty lips open in a silent moan.

He grabs you at the waist, hard enough to bruise in an effort to still you. To pull your chest to his. Traps you there with an arm wrapped around your back.

“Are you—”

He huffs. “I need a second.”

You grin against the side of his neck, nipping at the cute mole just beneath his jawline. “It's okay if you cum.”

“No. Not—not yet.”

During the downtime your mind drifts back to the camera, long enough to question how the shot looks, how long this will take to edit, if people will even like it. It's different than anything you've done thus far. Fitting, you suppose, considering Leon is different than everybody else you've slept with. Something you can't take the time to unpack right now, but you like being with him. The sex feels like your heart might collapse under its own weight.

He kisses you and you melt into him, fingers mapping out the bulk of his arms, the heave of his chest, the stubble along his jawline. You tilt your hips to relieve the pressure building in your belly, grinding your clit against his pubic bone when he parts your lips with his tongue.

The motion sparks an all-consuming blaze, your bodies a forest fire. He rolls you over, face buried in your neck, then seats himself between your spread thighs. Smooths his cock over your pussy, the fat head catching on your clit.

“Fuck, baby,” you sigh, and stretch your arms over your head in offering, thoughts turning to static at the abrupt shift in dynamic. “That's so so good.”

He bottoms out in one stroke, arms flexing at the velvety clench of your cunt. Exhales a steadying breath before finding his rhythm: a steady, rough slap of his hips that jolts you against the sheets. His name rests a searing, heavy weight on your tongue, but you can't risk crying out to him. One issue during editing and you've suddenly doxxed him.

But oh, the temptation rears its head, a silky suggestion at the back of your brain.

You grab him by the nape of his neck and tug him down, until you can whisper into his ear. Breathe his name like a prayer, over and over again, quiet enough for only him to hear.

His thrusts intensify, and your fingers slide between your bodies to rub over your clit. You clench hard around him, a burst of heat singeing the base of your spine, and he groans into your neck with a stutter of his hips.

You cling to him as the pleasure rises, teeth sinking into the meat of his shoulder.

And then you’re cumming. It comes on fast, slams into you with a force that steals your breath, and Leon crushes you against his chest as he weathers the rhythmic fluttering of your cunt. Grinds his hips into yours as you milk him.

When the last of the aftershocks finish, you barely manage a breath before he kisses you again. Devoid of heat, a slowness both languid and loving.

He pulls away long enough to whisper, “Thank you,” against your lips.

You smile.

Your video with Leon is a resounding success, garnering you new followers and subscribers after posting the teaser on twitter. People compliment your chemistry, how comfortable you seemed around one another. Some speculate that you’re dating. Others beg for you to work with him again.

Leon comes over the night after you post the video to read the comments, and you spend the next few hours combing through the best ones.

hybridscreamer07: i could see ur pussy clenching when u came... so hot kitty xoxo

sabrina_daniels73: MORE OF THIS PLS!!! i love seeing couples make porn together :)))

titsandass.fan replying to sabrina*_daniels73**: are u new??? theyre not a couple dumb fuvk*

aquaticcrage: mmmmm idk which person i'd rather be

And then you have a talk, curled up in your comfy bed, some youtube video droning in the background. He had brought over some wine coolers to celebrate, and you're both halfway through the second one before he sets it on the nightstand and turns to you.

“I was wondering something.” His timidness makes a return, cheeks blooming into a deep blush.

“I’m listening.”

“So… was that a one-time thing?”

You curl up against him, resting your cheek on his shoulder. “Did you want it to be?”

Anxiety pierces your chest, strips your soul raw. You liked the sex. A lot. Fantasized so much about it that you feared he could never compare, but being with him was better than any thought conjured by your brain. But most importantly, you like him. Like spending time with him, and seeing him naked, and his smile, and his cooking. Such mundane things, yet you can’t imagine living without them.

He swallows thick. Says, “No.”

You can breathe again.

“Good. I don’t either.”

He blinks down at you, lips parting in surprise. And then, as if the words finally register, his face softens. “How soon is too soon?”

“We can start right now.” You move to straddle his hips, slipping your fingers beneath his shirt.

“You don’t have your camera.”

You press a kiss to the purpled bruise on his shoulder, blotted in the shape of your teeth. “We don’t need one.”

#resident evil fanfiction #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fanfiction #my fics #ns/ft #fic: lights. camera

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shellshocklove · 1 year ago

Text

lover, lover, lover | joel miller

pairing/AU: 70s!pornstar!joel miller x inexperienced!female reader

summary: after blurring the lines with your boss and pornstar joel in pismo beach, what happens when you come back home to LA?

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so mdni! reader is 23, joel is in his early 30s, accuracies and inaccuracies about the 70s and the porn industry, smoking of cigarettes (it's the 70s alright), misogyny (bc of the times™), swearing, use of pet names, oral (f+m receiving), use of sextoys, handjob, praise kink, soft!dom joel but also a hint of sub!joel, porn, degradation, no use of y/n

a/n: this is the part 2 to this fic. you should read the part 1 first or this will make no sense lmao. i know it's been months since i posted that one and i've gone back and forth a lot on if i was gonna write a second part, but here it is <3 again i wanna give a big thank you to my beloved @dustydaddyyy for encouraging me every step of the way, listening to me when i feel lost, and for reading through everything. i love you babes!!! <3

main masterlist / ao3

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸 this account stands with palestine. the creator of tlou is a zionist, and the second game is largly based on israel/palestine. please, everyone who interacts, educate yourself about the genocide happening right now, and support/donate.

You jolted awake.

With a groan and a confusing squint, you sat up on your elbow. The back of your hand rubbed roughly at your eye as you looked around your darkened bedroom. The fan on your dresser huffed and swirled, blowing cool air in your direction with every pass – blowing away the memories of your dream.

You turned around to lay down again when you heard it. A distant sound of your phone ringing in your hallway. You let out another groan as you scooted out of bed, your nighty falling around your knees as your feet met the carpet floor. Shuffling down the hall you muttered a quiet “I’m coming, calm down,” to the phone.

You lifted the phone of the hook with a quiet, “Hello.”

“Did I wake ya, sweet girl?” the static voice answered.

“Joel, what time is it?” you sighed into the phone, your arm hitting the cool wall as you leaned against it.

“Um…” he started, probably checking his watch, “02.05.”

“Yes, you woke me up…” you told him, eyes tired and falling shut before blinking open in quiet panic, “Wait– did something happen? Why are you calling so late?” Fear squeezed around your heart, wrapping its cold hands around it as flashes of Joel getting arrested, or kidnapped… or something worse, played like a movie in your head.

“No,” he laughed, “No, sweetheart! I just couldn’t sleep.”

“So, you decided to wake me instead? You are aware we have a meeting with VCA tomorrow at 9am? I told you that didn’t I?” Two fingers pinched the bridge of your nose – trying to squeeze the sleep away.

You usually never forgot any of Joel’s meetings or commitments, and you prided yourself in staying on top of his schedule. You could swear you told him about the meeting the other day on the way back from Pismo Beach.

Pismo Beach.

You hadn’t seen him since you dropped him off. Two days had passed. Two days since… Since you’d had sex with Joel. Two days since he told you he wanted you to be his. Was Joel your boyfriend now? You couldn’t tell.

��Yeah, you did, you’re a good assistant,” he said, the smile evident in his voice.

The praise wrapped itself around your heart like a pink cloud of love – it made you smile.

“Thanks,” you whispered, your quiet voice making him chuckle down the other end.

You waited for his chuckle to die before you asked him, “Um… was there anything else?”

“You tired of me already, sweetheart?” he teased.

“No, never,” you shook your head, “it’s just late.”

“I know, I’m sorry baby,” the way he said it, he left the words hanging in the air.

A second passed in silence, and then another. You waited for him to say something else, but when the words never came you spoke, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Can I come over?” he almost cut you off, his words hanging at the end of your own like a teenager on a skateboard gripping tightly to the back of a bus.

“Tonight?” you asked, front teeth digging into your bottom lip.

“Yeah, now,” he clarified, “my car’s fixed– I can be there in probably… thirty minutes?”

“Ehm…” your head bumped against the wall. Thirty minutes? It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see Joel – you did – but it was so late, and you had to get up so early tomorrow.

“Maybe twenty if I speed,” he laughed.

“Joel,” you chided, a smiled tugged at your lips.

“Okay, thirty,” he relented.

You pushed off the wall, a finger curling around the phone cord. “If I say yes you have to be sneaky– and quiet. My landlord doesn’t allow boys to visit.”

“Good thing I ain’t a boy then, sweetheart.”

You snorted, teeth digging into your lip to kill a smile from blooming, “I’m serious, Joel! A girl got evicted last month because she got caught having her boyfriend over.”

“How’s that even legal?” his static voice wondered.

“I don’t know Joel, my landlord… she’s this old lady– super religious and she owns the whole complex– I think she inherited it from her late husband who was a developer or something. Anyway, every time I bump into her, she always questions me about if I have a boyfriend and then gives me this speech about how premarital sex is a sin, and how I’ll go to hell–”

“Shit, baby– move out,” Joel cut you off.

“I can’t,” you sighed, “It was the only place I could afford when I moved here.”

“Ain’t I payin’ you enough?” he teased, “I’ll talk to Ronald about a raise f’you want.”

You let out a chuckle, “I’m not sure it’s appropriate– or professional, to talk about this now, Joel.”

“Alright, baby– always so professional,” he playfully chided, “we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

You let out a hum, though a small knot tied itself in your stomach at the thought. You didn’t want Joel to get the wrong impression; that you wanted a raise now that you’d let him fuck you.

“See ya in 30?” he said, breaking the static silence, “I’ll be real sneaky.”

“Ok,” you said softly.

You told him your address, making him repeat your apartment number back to you before you hung up. You didn’t want him accidently knocking on the wrong door, and getting you evicted.

Padding back into your bedroom, you grabbed your silk robe hanging off the door. You twisted it around yourself while you turned on the lamp over your bedside table. The light bathed your room in a soft glow. You were starting to wake up a little now. Leaving your bedroom door ajar you walked back down your hallway with soft steps. Stepping into the kitchen, you grabbed a mug from your cupboard, busying yourself with making a cup of tea as you waited for Joel.

Thirty minutes later, you heard the buzz of your doorbell. Abandoning your cup on your kitchen table, you quickly hurried to your door, buzzing him in. Your heart hammered in your chest. The risk of getting caught so late on a Sunday night was low, but you could never be too careful. You waited for him in your doorway, your finger picking at your nail bed as you looked out for him to round the corner.

You breathed out a relieved sigh when you saw him, a smile widening across your face as he picked up his pace in a small jog. His grin was wide as well, all teeth and crinkles as he closed the space between you. With a small glance over his shoulder, he made sure he hadn’t been caught as you ushered him inside.

The light in your hallway was low, tinting everything in a warm yellow hue. His hands were on you in an instant, strong hands gliding over your waist from behind as you locked your door. In the next moment you felt his chest press against your back, locking you to his body in an engulfing hug. His nose dragged down the column of your neck, pressing sweet kisses into your skin.

“Hi,” he mumbled.

Leaning into his touch you hummed out a greeting. His grip tightened around you before he turned you around in his hands, your hands automatically wrapping themselves around his neck. God, he was handsome. Soft brown eyes shining under the soft light, you watched as they took you in, traveling down your bare face, down to your silk robe hiding your nighty. A sting of embarrassment panged in your chest under his gaze, maybe you should’ve changed into something else, something a little sexier. Then you realized what kind of sexy he was used to, sheer lingerie, stockings, garter belts and high heels, not whatever underwear you were hiding away in your drawers.

“Shit,” he whispered, eyes blown wide in the low light, “let me kiss you properly, sweetheart.”

His big palm cupped your cheek, bringing you closer before he brushed his lips over yours. He tasted like a mix of his last cigarette and beer. You didn’t realize how much you’d missed his touch, his lips against yours. Joel hummed into the kiss, nose bumping into yours as he held you close, thumb ghosting over your skin. The kiss was quick, but still tender, and when you broke apart, the embarrassment from earlier had faded.

“Missed your lips baby,” he whispered against them, emphasizing his words with another peck.

“You did?” your voice was breathless, eyes half lidded from his affection.

He didn’t answer, only catching your lips in another mind-blowing kiss. His hand not on your cheek traveled from your waist to the curve of your ass, where it squeezed. You jumped a little from his touch, breaking his kiss. Immediately Joel removed his hands, catching himself as he took a step back.

“No?” he asked, eyes searching yours.

A flood of warmth filled your chest, “No, it’s okay– it’s just… late.”

His eyes softened at your words, his palm finding your cheek again to softly rub his thumb over your skin, “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, “It’s okay…” you trailed off, your hand grabbing his other hand to intertwine your fingers, “Let’s go to bed?”

With his hand in yours Joel trailed after you down the hallway.

“The bathroom is just in here if you wanna use it?” you stopped at the end of your hallway, pointing to your closed bathroom door. Joel gave you a short nod and a smile, and let go of your hand, but not before giving it a little squeeze.

You stepped backwards to push open your bedroom door while he vanished to your bathroom. The alarm clock on your bedside table showed 3.08 in big red letters when your eyes flickered to it as you pulled at the strings of your silk robe. You twisted out of it and hung it back on the hook on your door, before you climbed back into your bed, waiting for Joel.

He walked into your room a few minutes later. You watched him from under the covers, eyes hooded with tiredness as he shed his clothes. Naked, safe for his briefs, he haphazardly folded his clothes, eyes flitting around your room for a place to put them.

“You can just leave them on the dresser,” you said, all cozy under the covers.

Sending you a small nod he sauntered over to your dresser with his clothes half-folded in his hand, where he placed them down gently. He stood there for a moment longer with his back turned, something catching his eye.

“So,” he spoke up, “what’s the review?”

“Huh?” You were confused.

You watched how his shoulders shook, grabbing something off your dresser before turning around, hiding it behind his back as he closed the space between you. You were still confused, a furrow pulling at your eyebrows.

“What d’ya prefer? This,” he started, revealing what he was hiding behind his back, “Or the real thing?”

In his hand he held the box with the dildo he’d modeled for. You’d forgotten all about it in your back seat while you were in Pismo Beach, only noticing it again as you’d parked outside your apartment. You had been meaning to give it back to Joel, didn’t take his ‘joke’ of you keeping it at face value, but then you’d forgotten all about it, leaving you with no choice other than to bring it inside.

“Joel,” you felt a flash of heat burn your cheeks.

“What? I wanna know,” he grinned, fingers fiddling with the cardboard to open it.

You gave him a chastising kick from under the covers, trying to shut the conversation down, but it only made him huff out a laugh.

“I don’t know, I haven’t tried it,” you said truthfully. The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind.

“What? Not even once,” his eyebrows knitted together, he almost looked disappointed.

You shook your head, “I was gonna give it back to you when I dropped you off on Friday, but it slipped my mind.”

“Why? I gave it to you,” he pulled the dildo out, the supposed perfect recreation of his package.

“Joel, you couldn’t have been serious about that?” you breathed out a laugh. It was hard to take him seriously with the toy in his hand.

“Well, now I’m a little disappointed, sweetheart,” he placed the box and the dildo on your bedside table, next to your alarm clock, “I really wanted to know your thoughts.”

He crept up the bed as you shifted over to make space, holding open the duvet for him to slip under.

“I’m sorry, Joel– I just didn’t think you were serious about that… and,” you trailed off when he wrapped his strong arms around your body, twisting around in his arms as he pulled you close against him.

“And, what?” he said, his breath huffing against the shell of your ear.

“I… uh, I haven’t… since,” you didn’t know how to say it.

But Joel knew, pulling you closer to rock his hips against your ass, “Haven’t what, sweetheart? Touched yourself?”

He wasn’t hard, but he wasn’t not hard – you could feel the semi he was sporting against your backside. It made you lose your trail of thought, as memories of the last time he held you against his body like this, filled your mind.

You had enough sense to shake your head, not trusting your voice to come out as words and not a strangled moan.

“No?” he teased with another rock of his hips, “Well, I have, sweetheart– touched myself thinkin’ of you.”

“Joel,” you couldn’t fight the whine from escaping as he rocked his hips against you again, his big hand slipping under your nighty.

“Touched myself thinkin’ about this beautiful fuckin’ body of yours,” his hand splayed over your tummy, traveling upwards to grab at your breast. “Thought about these pretty tits,” his voice got lower, whispering in your ear as he flicked a finger over your nipple, making you sigh. He let go of your breast, hand gliding down your body to ghost over the hem of your panties, “And this tight little pussy,” he finished.

“Joel,” you sighed, body reacting automatically to his touch. His breath in your ear sent goosebumps down the whole of your body, and a whine fell from your lips as he palmed your heat over your panties, feeling your arousal starting to soak the cotton.

“Yes, sweetheart, say my name as I touch your pussy. Tell me who’s makin’ you feel good.”

Fuck, it took all your strength to gather your thoughts, “Joel, it’s–” you let out a gasp as his fingers found your clit.

“What, baby?”

“It’s– It’s late,” you managed to breathe out.

And just like that, the spell was broken. His hand slipped from your cunt to rest over your waist. You twisted around to face him, a pang of guilt filling your chest.

“I’m s-sorry, I just–”

He cut you off by pressing his lips against yours in a quick kiss. “Don’t you apologize to me,” he said, eyes boring into yours, “If you ain’t feelin’ it, I ain’t feelin’ it, okay?”

You felt yourself nod, your chest filling with gratefulness. You wanted Joel so much, you did, you wanted him to feel good, but you didn’t want it at 3am when you had to wake up in four hours.

“Thank you,” you whispered gratefully, your forehead falling against his.

He shifted his face, cheek brushing against your forehead until you felt him press a kiss to your skin. “Nothin’ to thank me for, my sweet girl.”

You shifted closer to him, cheek boring into his naked chest, “It’s not that I don’t want to,” you told him, “I’m just so tired.”

Pulling you closer to his body, Joel wrapped his strong arms around you, “’s okay, baby, you just close your pretty eyes, okay?”

You nodded against his head before you whispered, “Good night, Joel.”

“Night, sweet girl.”

“Hey,” you felt a nudge in your side pull you from your dream, “How d’you turn off this thing?”

Then you heard it. Your alarm. The beeping was loud and obnoxious, but it did the job to wake you, usually.

With heavy limbs you sat up on your elbow, goosebumps spreading over the newly exposed skin as you leaned over Joel’s body to press the snooze button. His big hands found your waist when you leaned back, guiding you to straddle his body.

His lips found yours in a soft kiss, then another before he mumbled, “Good mornin’,” against your lips.

He didn’t give you the chance to reply as he pulled you into yet another kiss. It took you by surprise, your hand coming up to press into the pillow next to his head, to hold your weight. Under the duvet you felt his hand travel down your body, slipping under the hem of your nighty and dragging upwards, cupping your ass as he pulled the fabric with him. His touch ignited something in you, making you whimper against his lips.

“There she is,” he whispered, pulling away from your lips with a loud smack to press kisses along your jaw. It made you sigh, your body going lax in his arms as he pulled you closer, mind going blank from his loving. Then he suddenly tightened his arms around your body, his strong hand splaying over your back as he flipped you around to lay on your back beneath him. A small yelp fell from your lips at the sudden movement, the yelp turning into a giggle when he dived into the crook of your neck, his mustache tickling you as he pressed small kisses against your skin.

With a hasty hand he balled the fabric of your nighty in his hands, pushing it up your body to reveal your naked body to him. He sucked a breath through his teeth at the sight, eyes hungry with lust as they raked over your form.

“Need to fuckin’ taste you, sweetheart.” His voice was a low rasp, coated in residual sleep and arousal, “Been thinkin’ about how sweet you taste this whole weekend.”

You couldn’t hold back the whine at the back of your throat at his words, hips bucking by their own accord where he had your legs splayed open over his thighs. Arousal spread like electricity through your body, where it pooled like dripping honey in your tummy.

“Please,” you begged when his fingers found the hem of your panties, his pointer finger dipping beneath the band to run it across your skin.

“Yeah?” he coaxed, “Want me to eat your little pussy, sweet girl?” his finger stretched at the elastic, letting it slap against your skin as he pulled away. Under him you whined, frantic hands finding the back of his neck to pull him closer to you. In your hurry to kiss him, you missed his mouth, clumsily bumping your nose into his instead.

It made him breathe out a shallow chuckle, “Okay, baby, okay. I’ll take care of ya.”

He pulled back from you, your hands around his neck falling to your sides, and softly hitting your mattress. Grabbing at the soft flesh at the back of your thighs, he spread them wider, putting your covered cunt on display for him. His eyes drank in your body, studied how soft and pliant you’d gone from his touch.

You watched his face, his eyes, his lip twitching with a wicked smile when you jumped under his finger, starting to press slow circles down on your covered clit. He dipped his finger lower, caressing your folds over the fabric before he pressed two fingers into your covered hole as far as your panties allowed. You could feel how soaked you already were, your dripping cunt fluttering around nothing when he pulled back.

“Let’s get you out of these, huh?” he said, voice dripping with pity, “My sweet girl’s just beggin’ to be touched, ain’t she?”

To your own surprise you managed to peep out an answer, “Yes.” Your voice came out strangled and begging, your mind clouded over with Joel.

“Yes, that’s right, baby, you’re such a good girl, let me hear you.” He hooked his finger under the elastic, tapping your ass lightly. You lifted up off the mattress, helping him drag your soaked panties down your legs.

Under him you felt your mouth drop open slightly, watching him as he clasped your panties in his hand, his thumb rubbing at the wetness with a cocky smile tugging at the corner of his lips. With his thumb coated in you, he dropped your panties, losing them in the sheets as he brought his attention back on you.

His eyes bored into yours as he lowered himself between your legs pressing soft kisses against your inner thigh. His big hands splayed over the back of your legs, pushing them closer to your chest to putt your naked and dripping cunt back on display. You held your breath as you waited for him to finally touch you where you wanted, but then he hesitated. The air was charged with arousal, his breath fanning over your throbbing clit. A thought of how you might die if he didn’t touch you soon, crossed your mind.

With a desperate whine, your hand tangled in his hair. You didn’t know what to do, so you begged, “Please, Joel?”

His eyes found yours immediately, where he saw how much you needed him, but he needed it in words, “Y’want me to touch you, sweetheart? To eat your pussy?”

“Yes,” the words fell from your lips so fast you almost cut him off, “Please,” you added for good measure.

Your consent was all he wanted. He dipped his head to lick ever so gently at your clit, making you mewl under him, a needy desperate sound, begging for more. When he wrapped his lips around your clit, and sucked, that’s when you turned into a withering moaning mess under him, hips bucking into his mouth, chasing more of the pleasure he was giving you.

Joel hummed against you, the bass of his voice vibrating against your most sensitive spot, pulling you deeper under the blanket of pleasure.

When his hand loosened its grip around the back of your thigh to caress your folds, a moan got caught in your throat. “P-please” you stuttered, dying to have his fingers split you open and coaxing you towards your release.

But Joel removed his fingers, continuing to explore you with his tongue instead. He dipped down, tongue lapping at your folds, tasting your arousal like he told you’d he’d been dying to. With one fat lick up the length of your pussy he took your clit back in his mouth, going back to lapping and circling it just right, coaxing you closer and closer.

“Fuck.”

You were hauling quickly towards your orgasm. Your eyebrows twisted together in a tight frown, fingers gripping and tugging at his hair, your leg close to shaking with the intensity. You were right there on the edge.

Then he abruptly pulled away. The disappointing mewl escaped you on instinct, and Joel laughed. Laughed. Your heart twisted in on itself at the sound.

“W-what?” you muttered, confusion painting your features when he sat up.

Joel grinned down at you, a mischievous glint in his eye as he leaned down to your face and cupped your chin, his thumb rubbing your skin with tenderness.

“Want you to be good f’me, sweet girl, can you do that?”

Your head moved in his hand, a timid nod as you searched his face. “I–I can be good.”

His grin widened, all teeth and crinkles around his eyes. He squeezed your cheeks together lightly, a small pout forming to kiss away.

“Good girl.”

His mustache tickled your cupid’s bow, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, taste how desperate for him you were.

He left you breathless when he pulled away, your body all loose and pliant from his touch, not registering what he was doing until he was back to sitting between your legs. Your eyes raked over his body, his broad shoulders, trailing his happy trail down his torso to his waist, noticing the shape of his hard cock in his briefs, a wet spot staining them where the head was.

Fuck, you wanted him inside you.

Then you noticed his hands, and what he was in them. The dildo, of him. You shifted up the bed in surprise. Your nighty fell down over your chest as you sat up on your elbows, watching him with wide eyes.

He watched you too, turning the dildo in his hand to nudge at your entrance as he leaned forward to hover over your body, a big hand on your chest pushing you down.

“Are you gonna be good?”

“Joel,” you gasped, feeling your hole flutter in anticipation.

“Are you?” he pressed, rubbing the silicone head slowly up and down your folds, coating it in your arousal.

“Y-yeah, y-yes,” you nodded, face heating from the obscene slick sounds of your arousal.

With a wicked grin, his eyes flicked back to your aching cunt, before he pushed the head inside slowly, feeding your more and more until the dildo was buried inside you. A broken moan fell from your lips, mouth dropping open from the pleasure of being stretched.

“There you go, sweetheart. ‘s big stretch, isn’t it? Doing so good for me, my good girl, honey, my good fuckin’ girl.”

He pushed the toy in and out in shallow thrusts, working you open around the fake cock. It wasn’t the same, but still the stretch was divine. With his eyes glued to your cunt he pulled the dildo all the way out, only the head notched at your entrance, before slowly thrusting in all the way. You whimpered when you felt him nudge at your spot inside, your hand desperately grabbing for his other arm to anchor you from falling over the edge too soon.

“Joel,” you whimpered, “P-please, t-touch m-my–”

Joel picked up his pace, fucking you faster and deeper with the dildo, the obscene squelching sounds of your cunt filled the air between your moans. His grip tightened in your hand, guiding it to hover over your clit.

“Touch your what, honey?” He teased, pressing your fingers down, guiding them in tight circles.

“Ah– fuck,” you whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as you felt the coil in your tummy tighten, and tighten, and tighten.

Then it all became too much. With a broken cry you came, squeezing hard around the fake cock. Joel continued fucking you, a small gush of liquid pouring down over the toy with each thrust, as you pulsed and squirmed around it.

Catching your breath, you came down from your high, while small jolts of pleasure crashed over you, making your legs shake like a leaf in a storm. It was like your ears were ringing, before you realized they were actually ringing.

“This fuckin’ alarm,” Joel muttered, hovering over you to turn it off.

His voice brought you back to earth, as you turned your head to look at the time. Shit, you were gonna be late!

With shaky hands you glided your hand down your cunt to grab at the base of the toy still inside you, “Joel, we’re gonna be late for your meeting,” you murmured, slipping the dildo from your cunt. Everything was sticky and messy between your legs, a big wet stain growing under your ass.

Joel pushed your hand away, like he was scolding you for touching what was his. “We can be a little late, sweetheart,” he said calmly, before ducking down to press a kiss to your clit.

You shifted up the bed, away from his touch, anxiety an endless spiral in your tummy. “No, we can’t, Joel– They told me it’s a pitch for a new movie, you’ll miss out on a big opportunity if you don’t show.”

Between your legs, Joel’s head dropped to your chest, as a pained sigh left his lungs. He went quiet for a beat as you watched the messy curls at the top of his head, then he lifted his head to look at you, “Okay, then.”

You felt bad leaving him hanging as you both got out of bed, his rock-hard cock strained desperately against the fabric of his briefs – just dying to be touched.

“Joel, I-I’m sorry,” you closed the space between you, snaking your arms around him.

“Sweetheart, ya need to stop apologizin’”, he placed a dry kiss to the top of your head, steady hands finding your waist. Your heart swelled in your chest. He made you feel so safe.

You almost muttered another ‘I’m sorry’, before catching yourself, “Okay,” you nodded against his chest. You basked in his touch for another minute, his strong arms around you, breathing in the comforting scent of him – the intoxicating mix of his faded cologne, cigarettes and sex.

“You were enjoyin’ it though, weren’t you?” Joel asked as he pulled away. You could see the cheeky smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he looked down at you, “So tell me, sweetheart... it better’n the real thing?”

“No,” you said, your own teasing smile tickling your lips as you detangled yourself from him, and turned around to head towards the bathroom, “Real thing’s better.”

Suddenly you felt his hands on your hips, and then Joel was pulling you back against him. He pressed himself against you so you could feel how hard he still was, his aching cock barely contained by his briefs.

“Attagirl,” he half-whispered, half-groaned into your ear, breath fanning over your neck and making you shiver.

“I need a shower,” you said with a giggle, stepping away from him before turning around again, only for Joel to pull you close once more. He found your eyes, his hands barely loosening their grip on your body. You could still feel him against you, his hard cock now pressed against your stomach. “Do you… maybe,” you bit down on your bottom lip, wide eyes searching his face.

“Wanna shower with you?” he helped you with a grin, and you nodded.

Your shower was cramped, too small to fit two people, and even though you had been the one to ask, you still felt nervous under the streaming water. He looked so good; your eyes couldn’t help but trail the water droplets racing down his thick muscles. He watched you too, but more openly, his eyes not afraid to trail down your body – to glide over your tits, down your back, and over the curve of your ass.

And then there was his cock, still hard and leaking, making its presence known between you like a third person. What made it worse was that he didn’t even acknowledge it, just went about washing his body like nothing, pushing back his wet curls as he rinsed your shampoo from his hair.

Did he want you to say something? The thought fluttered in your stomach.

“Um, Joel?” your voice echoed against the tiles.

You watched as he tipped his head forward from under the showerhead, eyes blinking at you as soapsuds hit his broad shoulders and ran down his chest.

“You know– um… I can–”

Jesus Christ! Could you be less sexy.

When he didn’t say anything, you breathed out a nervous sigh, eyes flitting down to his cock, hoping he would take the hint.

And he did.

“You wanna touch my cock, sweet girl?” His whole demeanor shifted.

“Would that– would that be okay?” you said, your teeth catching on your bottom lip.

“More than okay, sweetheart,” he said, with a devilish grin.

You took a few steps closer, a shaky hand landing on his waist while the other hovered between your bodies, right above where his heavy cock twitched in anticipation.

You didn’t know what to do. Well, you did. You’d seen it enough times at work to know, but you’d never actually done it before. Another reminder of just how inexperienced you were when it came to all of this. You looked at him with uncertainty, for guidance, and without uttering a single word, Joel knew what you were asking.

He curled his fingers around your wrist, bringing it up to his face, and spat. Using that tender grip he guided your hand down between your bodies again – the back of your hand brushed against the rough hair of his happy trail – and down to the base of his aching cock.

“There ya go,” he whispered as your fingers wrapped around him, Joel’s spit smearing over his shaft as you moved upwards in an experimenting stroke, “Good girl, just like that,” he hissed through his teeth.

You tilted your head to watch his face. Watched how his eyes were so fixated on your hand wrapped around him as you began to slowly stroke his cock, familiarizing yourself with the weight and feel of him in your hand. You didn’t miss the way his breathing shifted, releasing a sound you’d never heard come from his lips before. A whimper.

“Am–am I doing okay?” you asked, your eyes following his down to your hand wrapped around him. He was so big in your hand, your fingers struggling to meet around the girth of him.

He hissed out a strained laugh. “Yeah, baby, you’re doing so good– massage the head for me a little,” Joel groaned.

You did as you were told, bringing your hand up to the tip with a tug, squeezing out a pearl of precum. It dripped down over your hand, your thumb skating over the sensitive head, and smearing it all over.

“Shit,” Joel hissed, “keep doin’ that, sweetheart, bein’ so good f’me,” he praised, encouraging you.

You’d never seen Joel like this before. So at your mercy– at anyone’s mercy – always the one to take charge. But now he was falling apart from your touch. He encouraged you further as his breath got heavier. You sped up the strokes over his cock, and his body slumped into yours, face buried in the crook of your neck, as he whispered breathy babblings of praise into your skin. A glowing feeling of pride grew in your chest as you brought him closer and closer to his release.

“I’m close, baby,” he whimpered in your ear, “don’t fuckin’ stop.”

So you didn’t.

With your hand tight around his cock, you quickened your pace, tracing your thumb over his slit just like he’d told you to do earlier. A slick noise of spit and precum echoed against your bathroom tiles. His thighs tensed, his hand grabbed at your waist to pin you to his body, and you knew he was right on the edge.

“Fuck, I’m comin’.”

With a string of praising curses, he came apart in your hand. His thighs clenched, his heavy balls tightening as cum spurted from his tip in ribbons over your hand. The bass of his voice vibrated against your skin, as you continued working him through his high, slicking up your hand and fingers even more.

You squeezed him until there was only a small dribble pearling at his tip. A white stream of cum ran down his cock and down to his balls, dripping down onto the tiles of your shower floor. And then it was too much, and Joel hissed, lifting his head from the crook of your neck to dab your hand away.

He didn’t say anything, only grabbing your face with both hands, crashing his lips against yours in a desperate kiss. With your hand messy from his release, you didn’t know where to touch him, opting to grab at his elbow with your other hand to steady yourself.

Out in the hallway, your phone rang, forcing you to breathlessly pull away. With a sorry smile, you ran your messy hand under the showerhead before quickly pulling at the shower curtain.

The phone rang loudly as you tiptoed down the hallway. Water droplets ran down your skin, leaving a trail of dark spots on the carpet. Your hand clung to the towel you’d wrapped around yourself while the other hurried to answer the phone.

“Hello?” you sang.

“Hi, sweetie, it’s your uncle,” a gruff voice answered.

“Oh, hi,” you said, leaning against the wall.

Down the hall your bathroom door opened, steam framing Joel’s body as he stepped out naked as the day he was born, with a towel resting over his shoulders. His heavy cock soft between his strong thighs– it was like a scene straight out of a porno, one he’d probably starred in. He caught your eye, and smiled, making his way towards you as he brought the towel up to dry his hair, his biceps flexing with the effort.

“What was that?” you stuttered, completely missing what your uncle had said on the other end.

“Almost hung up on ya, I said,” your uncle repeated.

“Sorry, I was just getting out of the shower.”

“I was just calling to say I’m driving a Corvette down to LA in a couple of days for a client. Was thinking I’d take you out to dinner– catch up– make sure you’re not getting up to any trouble down there,” he laughed.

His tone was lighthearted, but you couldn’t help but cringe. The trouble in question reaching his hand out to trace a drop trailing down your exposed collarbone, ducking down to place a teasing kiss to your skin.

“D-dinner sounds nice,” you managed to choke out, “Um, I know a nice Italian place down in Santa Monica.”

“Sounds great, sweetie! I’ll call ya after I’ve dropped off the car Thursday afternoon,” your uncle’s static voice replied.

“Thursday afternoon,” you repeated, “Ok, see you then!”

“So…” Joel started, his arms snaking their way around your form. “I ain’t the only man who wants a piece of ya,” he joked, after you’d hung up the phone,

“That was my uncle, Joel,” you let him know, your body melting against his touch.

“He’s takin’ you to dinner?” he queried.

“Yeah,” you nodded, “he’s driving a car down here for work, so he wanted to see me.”

Joel hummed, dropping his head to brush his lips over yours as his hand splayed over your waist slid down to the curve of your ass.

“Nonono,” you chuckled, pulling away, “Joel, we’re already late as is!”

“So what,” Joel groaned, pulling you back for another kiss, hands tightening their grip on your ass, before trailing soft kisses to the corner of your mouth, “We could stay in ya know... enjoy the real thing.”

Joel’s kisses continued along the line of your jaw, teeth grazing your skin.

“As tempting as that sounds,” you let out through a small groan as you felt his tongue tickle that spot under your jaw, “We can’t cancel this meeting.”

Joel’s lips stopped their descent towards your neck, and he took a breath, the force of it tickling your skin, before he lifted his head, lips grazing across your jaw as he kissed the corner of your mouth again.

“Later,” you promise him, eyes looking into his. Joel’s smile was wistful, another small sigh escaping through his nostrils before he brushed his lips over yours.

“Later.”

“Let’s get started? Or do we want some coffees before we start?” Ronald asked from his seat at the head of the table.

You were seated in a chair in the corner, the cigarette smoke hung low over the room. In your lap your notebook rested, cracked spine opened to a random blank page while your fingers fiddled with your pen.

All the big important men from VCA were here, eager to finally work with the infamous Joel Packer on their new big-budget project. The last couple of years had been big for Joel, multiple magazine photoshoots, longer features and obviously modeling for a sextoy, but this film would be his biggest opportunity. It would bring in a lot of money, and Ronald knew it. He couldn’t hide the dollar signs in his eyes behind his ‘friendly’ grin.

“Ey, sweetheart!” Ronald raised his voice. You lifted your gaze from your notebook, curious as to what he was yelling about.

“Yeah, you!” He looked straight at you, a hand waving you towards him. Did he forget your name? You wouldn’t put it past him.

Leaving your notebook and pen in your chair you walked over to him, hands wringing behind your back as you stood behind Joel where he sat to Ronald’s right. He looked at you with impatience, a crude finger motioning you closer.

“Why don’t you go get us all some coffees, sweetie?” he spat out the order, his sour breath hitting you in your face.

“Um, uh,” you looked to Joel for help. This wasn’t your job; this was a job for an intern. It was important for you to be here, to take notes, to know what arrangements needed to be done, and which people to call.

“Um, uh,” Ronald parroted, “just do it– isn’t it what I’m paying you for?”

It wasn’t, but now everyone was looking at you. Everyone except for Joel. His gaze bored into the teak in front of him, fingers tightly pinched around a cigarette. With no help from Joel, you held your tongue and muttered a “Yes, sir,” to Ronald before you turned on heels.

“Alright! I wanna start by introducing Cheryl here, making her film debut alongside Joel–” you heard Ronald start as you slipped through the door of the meeting room.

Outside the meeting room, you were met with a brown hallway, identical to the left and right. Wood paneling clad the walls, and you couldn’t help your eyes from peeking through the glass partition walls of other meeting rooms as you made your way down the hall. Everything looked the same. You turned a corner, and you swore you’d been there before. After walking for what felt like a small eternity, you made it to a break room with a small kitchenette.

The coffee in the pot looked old and stale, and you poured it out in the sink. As you waited for the fresh pot to brew you searched through the cupboards for a coffee carafe. The cupboards of the kitchenette were pretty empty, only filled with mugs and drinking glasses. With a sigh you kneeled to look through the cabinet below the sink. You tried your best to be fast, not wanting to miss anything important. Finally, you found what you were looking for. With fresh coffee in one hand, and paper cups in the other, you made your way back down a hallway you hoped would bring you back to the meeting.

A couple of wrong turns later you let out a sigh of relief as you peaked Joel through the glass partition wall of the meeting room. This better be good enough for Ronald, you thought as you opened the door, not bothering to knock.

“And I think that’s about it,” one of the men opposite Joel said as you placed the coffee and paper cups on the table, “We’ll break for lunch and go ahead with the chemistry test later today.”

Did you really just miss the whole meeting?

“Sounds great,” Ronald said, pushing his chair out, and standing to his feet to shake the hands of the men from VCA. Then the rest of the room came alive as people got up from their seats and gathering their things. In front of you a chair bumped into you, pushing you a little off balance.

“Oh! Sorry– didn’t see you there.”

It was Cheryl, Joel’s new co-star. She was young, just turned twenty-one if you remembered correctly, and gorgeous. Her blonde hair, curled to perfection, cascaded down her back. Her light blue dress clung tightly to her body, accentuating her curves while the deep v-neck showed off her cleavage.

You shook your head and put on a smile, muttering an “It’s okay,” as you stepped out of her way, and shifted closer to Joel. He was busy gathering the papers spread out in front of him on the table, tapping them lightly against the teak before gathering them in his hands, turning towards you and Cheryl.

When you didn’t make a move to leave, Cheryl cleared her throat, widening her eyes at Joel as they flickered towards you. Your heart sunk in your chest. It didn’t take a genius to take her hint – you knew when you weren’t wanted.

“I’ll uh… I’ll wait for you down in the reception,” you muttered to Joel, “Let me know what you want for lunch, and I’ll get you something.” Before he could say anything, you turned around to leave, grabbing your notebook and pen.

You knew you shouldn’t have looked back as you made your way out the door, but you did. The cold stone in your chest sank lower as you watched them. Cheryl’s body curled towards Joel as they talked, her hand landing on his bicep as she let out a giggly laugh. It made your heart sting, but maybe not as much as the ache of watching Joel’s bright smile, the one he so often gave you.

Over fifteen minutes later, Joel finally walked into the reception where you waited for him. You were hard to miss where you sat on one of the couches, reading a magazine, the only person occupying the space.

“Whatcha readin’?” he asked, slumping down next to you, so close his arm brushed against yours.

You couldn’t watch his bright eyes, and the cheeky smile tugging at his lips. So, you held up one of the porn magazines you’d grabbed off the coffee table, blocking his view of your face, substituting it with the woman adorning the front and posing seductively to the camera, showing off the biggest boobs you’d ever seen.

“Industry news,” you shrugged.

You earned yourself a chuckle, “Anythin’ interestin’?”

“Not really,” you sighed, quickly shutting the magazine, and throwing it haphazardly on the table.

You could feel his warmth beside you, his broad frame, and strong arms. The same arms who’d held you so close this morning. Still, you didn’t look at him, your gaze falling to your fiddling hands in your lap. A piece of skin around your thumb had come loose, and it burned as you pulled at it.

“Um…” you started, still watching your hands, “What’s the plan for lunch? You want me to go down to that deli you like– get you a sandwich?”

Joel’s arm brushed against you as he shifted in his seat, bucking his hips slightly to fish out his pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. “Ain’t no need to do that for me, sweetheart,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the cigarette between his lips.

“Well, it’s kinda my job,” you mumbled, your face pulling up into a slight frown as you ripped the loose skin around your thumb.

“Yeah– but,” Joel drew a breath of his cigarette.

Now you looked at him, eyebrows pulled tight in a real frown, “But what?”

He watched you, eyes dancing over your face as he took another drag, releasing the smoke out the corner of his mouth.

“Nothin’.”

You couldn’t interpret his face with the way he was looking at you, almost as he was searching for something. A silence grew between you – it was ugly and festering, like a canyon had grown between you – it was something you’d never felt with Joel before.

“A sandwich sounds nice,” he finally spoke across the silence, and you nodded.

“Um– can I borrow your car?” you asked, clearing your throat of your anxiety.

“Yeah, sweetheart.” It was like your question had woken him.

Joel had driven you both into work today, your car sitting pretty in its parking space outside your apartment complex. He rested his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray on the table before he fished his car keys from his jeans pocket and handed them to you.

“They have me set up in a trailer out on the lot next door– I’ll wait for ya there, alright?” The hand handing you his keys locked around yours, caging them between your hands.

You squeezed his hand, the familiar weight of it in your hand, the tenderness in which he held you, made you feel a little better. Shrinking the deep canyon between you to a ravine.

“Um, why exactly?” you asked, eyes glued to your intertwined hands.

“Shit– sorry,” Joel shook his head and shifted closer to you, his knee brushing against yours, “they want me and Cheryl to have a chemistry test before they go ahead with signin’ the contracts. It’s nothin’ big or anythin’– just a blowjob.”

Just a blowjob.

You nodded slowly. It was just a blowjob, but it was a blowjob from Cheryl. Cheryl who was younger with the perfect body. Cheryl who made him smile and laugh. Cheryl who could give him a blowjob, and not some sorry excuse of a handjob.

“Oh, okay,” you peeped, loosening your grip around his hand, clasping the keys in your hand.

You got up from the couch before he could say anything more, “I’ll go get you your lunch then.”

His cigarette resting in the ashtray had burned out, like your conversation with Joel. You bent slightly to grab your purse when his hands clasped around your wrist, bringing your attention back on him.

“’s everythin’ alright?” he asked you as he got up from the couch as well, closing the space between you.

Your lips pulled into a smile, one you hoped was convincing, “Yeah! Why wouldn’t it?”

His other hand came up to cup your cheek gently, shifting your face to look at him. “’s just for work, you know,” he told you.

Your head was nodding even before he’d finished talking, your face still pulled tight in a smile, “Yeah, Joel, I know.”

“Okay,” he whispered and leaned closer. You shifted your face in his palm, his lips hitting your other cheek in a short peck before you were pulling away. His fingers like a bracelet around your wrist, fell heavy to his side.

“See you in a little bit,” you told him before pushing the door to the reception open and stepping outside.

Some forty minutes later you were knocking on a trailer door with the sign ‘Joel Packer’ hanging on the front. In your other hand you were balancing two coffees and a bag with two sandwiches. You knocked again when nothing happened, scared you’d shown up to the wrong trailer for a second, even with the sign telling you, you were in the right place.

“Joel? I have your lunch.”

“Come in,” he answered almost immediately.

You opened the trailer door and stepped inside, careful not to spill the coffees all over the carpeted floor of his trailer as you balanced everything. With the door closed you turned around, eyes scanning the cramped room for Joel.

He was laying on the couch, one hand down the front of his pants where he palmed himself over his briefs – a lazy smile resting over his features as he took you in.

“Oh! Sorry,” you quickly looked away, scurrying to place his food on the nearest table.

Behind you Joel got up from the couch, crossing the small space between you to wrap his arms around your body, and press his front against your ass. You jumped in his grasp, your hands finding his where they rested around your waist.

“Stop apologizin’” he whispered in your ear, his teeth catching on your earlobe, “was just gettin’ ready, baby,” his breath was hot against the column of your neck, and you felt his cock grow against your ass. “Ain’t gonna have any trouble gettin’ hard now though,” he chuckled.

“Joel,” you whined, the sound pathetic at the back of your throat.

“Yes, baby, let me hear ya,” you could feel the bass in his voice vibrate against your skin.

His hands spread over your body, drinking you in with his touch, grabbing at your breast while pressing tender kisses to your neck. You melted against him, body soft and pliant. In an instant you were back in your memories from this morning, and you couldn’t fight the whimper from falling from your lips. With closed eyes your memories mixed with your present. Images of how he’d kissed you, touched you, and taken care of you this morning blended with the firm press of his body against yours and his calloused hands exploring you; like how you could still see your reflection in rippling water.

“Joel,” you tried again.

“I know, my sweet girl,” he cooed.

Behind you he bucked his hips against your ass, the bulge of his hard cock splitting your cheeks. You felt your arousal wet your panties, an ache of anticipation settling in your core.

“Fuck, sweetheart– wish it was you getting on your knees for me later.” He whispered his filthy words in your ear with another buck of his hips. “Wanna feel your tight little throat around my cock as you choke on it.”

His confession made a nervousness intertwine itself with your blinding arousal. You turned around in his arms, your face nuzzled into the dip where his neck met his collarbone, “I-I’ve never done that before.” Your confession was barely a whisper, the words muffled into his skin.

His grip tightened around you, and you felt the way his body moved under your cheek, a comforting hand landed carefully at the back of your neck. His jaw and cheek bumped against the top of your head as he dipped down to your face and his breath changed like he was about to say something, but then was interrupted by a hollow knock on the trailer door.

“We’re ready for you on set in fifteen minutes, Mr. Miller,” a voice called.

With the knock the spell was broken. You untangled yourself from his embrace, a shy smile ghosting over your lips as you stepped away.

“You should eat.”

Again, you’d agreed to watch him film. Joel had convinced you on his way out the trailer door, his hand resting at the small of your back as he led you towards the set. It was a small shoot – only Joel and Cheryl, the cameraman, the sound guy, a couple people from VCA, Ronald, and you. In the time you’d worked for Joel, you couldn’t remember a set feeling this intimate (not that you usually stayed to watch– not unless he explicitly asked).

The only goal for the scene was to find out if Joel and Cheryl worked well together on camera – hence no specific storyline or roles they were supposed to act out. Joel was getting his dick sucked, but other than that they were free to take the scene whichever way they wanted.

The room buzzed with quiet conversation as the cameraman got the camera and film ready. Joel was already seated on the couch where the scene would take place. His legs were spread wide, his hard bulge on display as he leisurely smoked a cigarette. Cheryl had taken up the seat beside him, leaning her elbow on the back and resting her head in her hands. They were talking, but you couldn’t hear from where you stood in the corner. Every now and then Joel’s eyes would search for yours, meeting them for a moment as a small smile spread across his lips, before they would flick back to Cheryl, joining their conversation again.

A few minutes later, the cameraman gave the okay to start shooting, making the rest of the set settle down. Joel still smoked his cigarette, so you took it upon yourself to be a good assistant and walk over to him with an ashtray.

A smile spread across Joel’s face when he saw you approach. His arm came up to rest over the back of the couch, his body opening to you with curiosity. You gave him a small smile in return, presenting the ashtray to him with a teasing raise of your eyebrow.

“Just ‘nother drag, sweetheart,” he teased, placing his cigarette back between his lips.

“Nuh-uh,” you chuckled, stealing his cigarette from his mouth with two pinched fingers.

The rest of the smoke in his lungs came out in small chuckles, his hands gathering in his lap as he leaned slightly towards you, moony eyes watching you. He was about to say something before,

“Quiet on set,” the cameraman interrupted with a shout.

You wanted to do something. Cup his cheek, kiss him, anything to just touch him, but you couldn’t. You needed to keep it professional. Instead, you gave him another small smile before you walked back to your previous spot in the corner.

“And… action!”

With the shout of the cameraman, the film was rolling, and the shoot had started.

Leaning against the wall again, you crossed your arms over your chest as you watched Cheryl sink to her knees between Joel’s spread legs. On her lips she wore an innocent pout while her hands caressed his thighs.

“Wanna put my mouth on it,” she said in a sweet voice.

“Yeah, baby? What do you want in your pretty little mouth?” Joel’s voice was deep and coaxing, his hand cupping Cheryl’s chin where his thumb ghosted over her skin.

Cheryl tilted her face down slightly, eyes big and wide as she looked up at him through her lashes.

“Your cock, sir,” she pouted.

You still didn’t know much of the plot to the porno they were shooting, but it was clear that they were going in a specific direction. It wasn’t unusual for Joel to slip into a more dominant character in the pornos he played in, but this new element of innocence from his scene partner wasn’t something he often did.

“You want me to teach you how to suck cock like a proper whore, sweet girl?”

Sweet girl.

You watched how Cheryl’s head nodded in his palm, teeth catching on her bottom lip, and a wicked smile tugged at the corners of Joel’s mouth. It made you shift your weight, arms tightening around your body.

“Alright…” Joel’s thumb ghosted over her bottom lip, “Take my cock out,” he ordered, pulling his hand away.

Cheryl obediently did as he said, her hands messing with the buttons on his jeans. Joel wasn’t wearing anything underneath – it was easier that way, he’d told you earlier in his trailer. Cheryl gasped as Joel’s hard cock sprung free. Her eyes wide as she watched how his cock slapped against his lower stomach.

“’s big isn’t it, sweet girl?”

Again.

Your teeth caught on your bottom lip, pulling at the loose skin with a burning ache.

“So big, sir,” Cheryl agreed, nodding her head.

“Too big for your little mouth, sweetheart?” Joel teased, taking himself in his hand, pulling gentle strokes up and down.

Cheryl shook her head again, “No, sir! I can take it!”

Joel huffed out a laugh at that, his grin growing wider. “Yes, you can, slut.”

His degrading words pulled a moan from Cheryl, and not a second later her mouth was on him. Joel laughed again, another huffing chuckle leaving him as his heavy hand came to rest at the top of her head, guiding her down on him.

“That’s it, slut, suck that big cock– take it all the way down that whore throat,” he encouraged, head tipping back in pleasure. The wet sounds echoing through the room were obscene, pornographic. Sticky strings of spit clung to Cheryl’s chin and dripped down to her breasts where she’d tugged at the V of her neckline to expose them.

“Feels so good, my sweet girl– just like that,” Joel moaned, eyes squeezed shut with a look of pleasure coating his features like he’d ascended to heaven.

My sweet girl.

The room spun, and you pressed your back harder against the wall, like it would fall down over you if you didn’t press up against it. Or maybe it was you who would cave in.

That pet name. That fucking pet name.

You needed to step out if you wanted to breathe, your throat tightening up as your thoughts drifted; to this morning in your bed and then again in the shower, to the two of you in that motel bed, to Joel’s hand on your knee as he’d knelt in front of you by the pool in Pismo Beach. Burning tears pressed behind your eyelids. You couldn’t watch any more, couldn’t hear any more, you couldn’t.

As quietly as you could you stepped out of the set. Your eyes pinched together in a squint as the hot LA afternoon sun blazed down on you. The air hot and stuffy, but not as suffocating as you felt inside.

Why did you feel this way? Jealous of another woman?

Joel wasn’t your boyfriend… at least not in so many words, but after Pismo Beach and his confession, he felt like yours. Someone you can’t help but fall in love with. That’s what he’d told you.

You couldn’t keep your thoughts from spiraling. Fall in love with? How could he be in love with you? You’d only had sex twice, never been on a proper date. You didn’t know who he was outside work. His touch and his kisses felt good, but how could you know if it was more than that – more than just something physical. He’d never called you his girlfriend. Why did you have any right to be upset right now?

This was his job. You knew that before you got involved with him. It wasn’t a problem for you, you’d told him so in the job interview. You’d spoken the truth at the time, but now you weren’t so sure.

Numbed by your realization, you stepped back inside. The scene you were met with only affirmed your thoughts.

You couldn’t give him what he wanted.

They’d moved positions. Cheryl’s head hung off the armrest, perfect boobs bouncing beneath Joel as he fucked her throat. It was lewd, and dirty and plain vulgar. With every thrust of his hips Joel earned himself a quiet gag. Under him, her body was completely at his mercy. He pulled back every once in a while, to let her breath, before plunging his hard cock back down her throat. Ropes of bubbling spit escaped her mouth and ran down her face.

Joel was completely in control, using her throat purely for his own pleasure. Groans and moans spilled from his lips in between filthy praises and ‘good girl’’s. Cheryl’s body squirmed under him, her hand rubbing quickly at her clit under her dress, edging herself towards her orgasm.

This is what Joel wanted. Someone like Cheryl– someone who was confident and skilled, someone who knew what she was doing.

You watched Joel’s thrusts turn sloppy, and that now familiar pinch in his brow let you know he was about to bust his load. With a quick motion he jerked his cock back, taking his throbbing and sensitive cock in hand, fisting himself quickly. Cheryl gasped for air, before she withered with her orgasm.

Joel groaned louder than you’d ever heard him before, his eyes flicking up from Cheryl’s squirming body to find yours. A smile spread across his face then, and then he was spilling over his knuckles and painting Cheryl’s face with his release.

“Shit,” Joel panted, coming down. His hand squeezed the last few drops of his cum out of his cock and onto Cheryl’s tongue.

“Aaaand– cut,” the camera man yelled.

Joel dropped the act immediately, stepping away from a ruined Cheryl as his cock went soft in his hand.

“Shit,” Cheryl groaned, wiping some of the mix of spit and Joel’s cum from her face.

“You okay?” Joel asked, tender hands helping her sit upright.

Cheryl giggled sweetly, big smile blossoming over her features, “Okay? More than okay, Joel– fucking amazing.”

As the gentle lover you knew him to be, Joel helped Cheryl clean up her face after getting handed a towel, but not before assessing the picture he’d painted– which wasn’t much, not compared the cumshots he usually gave out.

“If I knew I’d be filmin’ today I wouldn’t have jerked of this morning,” he laughed, wiping her face.

It wasn’t funny.

part three -> here

i hope this was okay? and that you liked this! <3 as always feedback as a comment, in the tags, as an ask or reply is very much appreciated, and they make me super happy! <3

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller one shot #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #dom!joel miller #the last of us smut #tlou smut #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #inexperienced!reader #70s au #pedro pascal

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devosin · 4 months ago

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— LATE NIGHTS & FLASHING LIGHTS !! episode two : a day in the life of vil schoenheit

♡. Spotify playlist | Updates, every Friday !! — Vil Schoenheit x reader | Vil pov . .

Vil parked his car in a hurry, pressing his foot down on the brakes, until the car came to an abrupt stop, he could hear a loud crash in the back, and he can only assume something in his trunk broke. "Fuck", he stares down as his feet, trying to maintain his cool, he closes his eyes for a moment, his vision shaky.

VIl mentally starts counting, ‘one, two, three’ in an effort to calm down his heavy breathing.

The paparazzi and public were invasive, hell he'd always known that, he's experienced it first hand, from the time a fan broke into his car and waited for him, or the time the paparazzi camped outside a set, at midnight just to take candid pictures of him at his worst state possible, or the multiple times fan accounts and more, broadcasted his location like he was public property.

He's had his fair share of obsessive fans and run-in's with violent and severely intrusive paparazzi members, but never did he expect one to break into his fucking apartment.

Vil blinks away the tears pricking his eyes, finally getting his breathing back to a normal pace. He hadn't even seen the intruder, but security cam footage and the sheer state of his living room was a dead give away that someone had been there, and it definitely wasn't his housekeeper, considering there was footage on his camera’s of someone watching him sleep and the next morning his bathtub was filed with warm water.

Which also means whoever came into his home was close enough to him, to do just about anything.

“I have to move out”, he mumbled, leaning back into the carseat, as he stares into his rearview mirror, he closes his eyes, moments like this really made him regret working in the entertainment industry, privacy was something he had to shell out for doing something he adored, reality was cruel, wasn’t it.

Time: 7:36 am

Location: Outside Vil’s car

Vil places a cigarette between his lips, as he leans his body against the doorframe of his car, Vil move’s his hands, reaching into his pockets and pulls out a lighter, a second of contemplation passes before he decides to light the cigarette. He takes a deep intake of the smoke, before exhaling with a sigh.

His eye bags felt heavy, and his entire body felt sluggish and weighed down; he hadn't felt this shitty for months, Vil breathed out another puff of smoke.

He didn’t smoke a whole lot, but when he did, it was to ease his anxiety, which happened to be happening more frequently than it did in the past.

Time: 7:41 am

Location: Inside the studio

Vil walked around the set, looking around the studio, until Amanda, who seemed more than energetic at 8 in the fucking morning, approached him, “Vil, thank God you made it on time”, she said, placing her hands on his shoulders, the touch made him flinch, which she didn’t seem to notice . . ‘great . . she’s touchy’, he thought mentally to himself.

Vil walked around, following Amanda who seemed more than eager to show him everything, which included the mop the janitor left last night, and the stain on this specific wall they never got out but was too lazy to paint over, he debated on telling her that he could honestly care less, but he stopped himself because . . there wasn’t much of a point to doing that.

“Where’s y/n?”, he asked curiously, looking around the studio, and Amanda responded right away, more than eager to talk . . doesn’t she run out of breath, ever? . . “They’re running late, something about traffic”

“Excuses”, Vil mumbled under his breath, glaring at the hardfloor in front of him, “What was that?”, Amanda asked . . ‘oh so she has super hearing now too?’, “Nothing.”, Vil forced a smile.

“Actually, I think I have a meeting, um . . Amanda?”

“Really? Oh . . “, Amanda’s shoulder’s visibly slumped like some looney tunes character Vil notes mentally, the image buried in the back of his head, he’d laugh if only he wasn’t holding onto the edges of professionalism.

“Yeah, I actually totally forgot! You know, . . meetings!”, he explains, like he’s talking to a disappointed child, ‘the ice cream truck will come another day, sweetie’, he even does hand gestures, to further sell his point, which only makes him feel like he’s taunting her (he is).

“. . oh . . okay . . “, she mumbles, and then perks up instantly, “I totally get it, you should try this scheduling app I use—” fuck no.

“Look at the time”, Vil pretends to look over at his watch which died about two hours ago, right after he left the house in a rush of panic, today really wasn’t his day, “I really have to go”. . . go get a drink.

Editing everything actually made me want to kill myself, fucking hate canva and how slow that shit is.

Also, I was cringing so hard trying to write the "My beloved Vil" part, I could not take that shit serious, but delusional people like that do exist.

This was supposed to be a soft chapter then I lost the plot and decided to just go with it, after all, what's a smau without some drama, plus it makes sense since this was released on Friday the 13th, epic right.

Previous chapter | Masterlist | Next chapter . .

— LATE NIGHTS & FLASHING LIGHTS !! ♡. Synopsis : VIL SCHOENHEIT recently signed a contract under Descendant. Inc for his very own late night show, only to find out his co-star and fellow co-host is none other than Y/n L/n, someone he hates despite knowing very little about them and never having met them, previously. Y/N L/N, an actor who made their debut 3 years ago and hasn’t been able to catch a break since, recently decided to sign a deal with Descendants. Inc to host their new late night show “late nights & flashing lights”, as a break from acting . . Only to find out their favorite long-time actor will be co-hosting with them. Tune in every Friday, for a new episode of “late nights & flashing lights” to see if these two hosts can find a peaceful work-bond amidst their judgements . . and quite possibly even love? . .

♡. Want spoilers ?! . . Join my server . . !! (or to be namedropped <3)

— taglist ♡ ; @well-look-at-this , @honkai-freak , @kingnem10 , @merviolet-asks , @katzline , @pebble-bb , @meigalaxy , @lordbugs , @crowbird , @yuus3n , @azriel-sama , @reivelmin , @the-ghost-0f-t0m0 , @eliza-be-t-h , @feverish-dove , @yejiswifex , @l0v3r666 , @cece-cherries , @frootloopscos , @abell2029cluster , @ephemii , @alienlatteinspace , @frangiipanii , @vamprel , @kittycat246 , @jar-03 , @leifsclubroom , @everettelz ,

♡ . Ask to be tagged... (If you don't see yourself up here, I cant tag you)

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jhyoos · 4 months ago

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REBEL GIRL

Chapter 2 : Aftershock

rockstar! sevika x influencer! reader

summary : (y/n) gets her phone blown up by fans while she’s at a promotional event.

warnings : swearing and a cringy ass band name.

notes: thank you all so much for over 100 likes on chapter 1! im forever grateful 🫶

taglist: @graciebloom @swordfemm4 @m00npjm @sevikasleftarm @moodient @fayecreates (comment a 🎸 if you wanna be in the taglist!)

chapters : one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten

The morning sunlight streamed through your apartment windows, casting a golden glow on the sleek black furniture and stacks of PR boxes you’d yet to unbox. A sharp knock on your bedroom door made you groan as you finished brushing the final stroke of your jet-black eyeliner.

“Y/N, are you ready? We’re going to be late!” your manager, Lauren, called out.

“I’m coming!” you shouted back, setting down your eyeliner and grabbing your leather jacket.

Today was a big deal: you were modeling for Eclipse Noir, a major fashion brand known for its bold, goth-inspired designs. It was one of the biggest collaborations of your career, and you couldn’t afford to mess it up—not that Lauren would ever let you forget that.

As you descended the stairs, Lauren was waiting by the door, scrolling on her phone. Her sharp suit and stern expression reminded you of why she was one of the best in the business. But when her eyes snapped up to meet yours, there was an unmistakable glint of irritation.

“So, are we going to talk about this?” she asked, holding her phone out to show you the glaring headline:

TMZ Exclusive: Influencer Y/N Spotted at Shattered Souls Concert in LA!

The article was plastered with a photo of you in the VIP section, looking effortlessly cool as you leaned against the barrier. Fans were already dissecting every detail of your appearance, and speculation about your connection to the band was running wild.

“Send me that. My makeup looks really good,” you said in a joking tone.

Lauren looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

You rolled your eyes. “What’s there to talk about? I went to support Caitlyn.”

Lauren sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You know how this looks, right? It’s one thing to go to a concert; it’s another for everyone to think you’re dating a rockstar—or worse, being used for clout.”

You snorted. “Caitlyn and the rest of the members are good friends of mine. Since when do I care about what TMZ thinks?”

“Since your brand is involved,” Lauren shot back. “You’re about to model for one of the most exclusive fashion labels in the industry. We need to make sure your image stays polished.”

“Polished?” You raised an eyebrow, gesturing to your edgy black outfit. “I don’t think anyone’s expecting me to play it safe.”

Lauren shook her head but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Fine, but keep your head in the game today. No distractions.”

The Eclipse Noir photoshoot was held at an upscale studio in downtown LA, its interior a moody mix of industrial and gothic aesthetics. Chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, casting dramatic shadows against the exposed brick walls.

You were ushered into hair and makeup almost immediately, where a team of stylists worked their magic. Your outfit—a tailored black leather jacket with studded accents, paired with high-waisted pants and knee-high boots—fit perfectly into your aesthetic.

As the cameras started flashing, you felt the familiar rush of being in your element. Each pose was deliberate, every expression calculated. The photographer praised your ability to embody the brand’s edgy but elegant vibe, and even Lauren looked pleased for once.

“Perfect, Y/N. Just one more look,” the photographer called out as a stylist adjusted your jacket.

Between shots, you caught glimpses of your phone lighting up with notifications. Comments flooded your Instagram posts, and fans were tagging you in the TMZ article nonstop.

It wasn’t until you were in the dressing room changing into your last look of the day that a message from Caitlyn popped up:

“Hey, how are you holding up after the TMZ thing? Let’s catch up. Meet me at Sable Café after my gig tonight?”

You smiled, typing back a quick reply:

“I’m fine, just amused. See you tonight.”

Later that evening, after finishing your shoot and grabbing a quick dinner, you found yourself at Sable Café. The small, intimate space was lit by warm hanging lights and smelled of freshly brewed coffee. It was quieter than usual, which you appreciated after the whirlwind day.

Caitlyn was already there when you arrived, seated in a corner booth with a steaming cup of tea and a cup of coffee she got for you. She waved you over, her usual calm demeanor replaced by a faintly amused smirk.

“Hey,” you greeted, sliding into the seat across from her. “How was the gig?”

“Same as always,” she said, leaning back. “Though Vi was even more over the top than usual.”

You chuckled. “Sounds about right. So, what’s up?”

Caitlyn tilted her head, studying you. “You tell me. That article’s got everyone buzzing about you and the band.”

You shrugged, taking a sip of your coffee. “It’s TMZ. They’ll forget about it by tomorrow.”

“Maybe, but you’re not exactly blending into the background.” Caitlyn’s tone was teasing, but her expression softened. “Seriously, though. How are you feeling about it? You’ve been in the spotlight before, but this is different.”

“It’s fine, really,” you said, brushing it off. “If anything, it’s funny. People are acting like I’m dating someone in the band.”

Caitlyn laughed. “Well, you did have that little moment with Sevika.”

You rolled your eyes. “It wasn’t a moment. She’s just... Sevika. You know how she is.”

“True,” Caitlyn admitted, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Still, you’re handling it well. I was half-expecting you to freak out.”

You smirked. “Give me some credit. I’m tougher than I look.”

As the soft hum of café chatter surrounded you, Caitlyn took a slow sip of her tea, her eyes lingering on you thoughtfully. You set your coffee down, arching an eyebrow at her.

“What?” you asked, a small smirk tugging at your lips.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “You know, the band’s heading out on tour soon.”

“Okay…” you said, dragging out the word. “And?”

“And,” Caitlyn continued, her tone deliberate, “I think you should come with us.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Think about it,” she said, a spark of excitement in her eyes. “We’ve been talking about expanding our audience online, and your platform is massive. You could help us create behind-the-scenes content, give fans an insider look at the tour. Plus, we’d get to hang out more.”

You hesitated, tapping your fingers against your cup. “I don’t know, Cait. I’ve got my own projects lined up. And after that TMZ article…”

“That’s exactly why it’s perfect,” Caitlyn interrupted. “Lean into it. If people are already talking, give them something to talk about. Show them the real story.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “And by ‘real story,’ you mean what? Taming Jinx? Me babysitting Sevika and Vi while they flirt with half the planet?”

Caitlyn chuckled. “You’re not wrong, but you’d also get to see what it’s like behind the scenes of a tour. Think of the content opportunities—mini vlogs, exclusive interviews, maybe even some collabs. It’s a win-win.”

You leaned back in your chair, considering her words. The idea of touring with the band was tempting—there was no denying that. The exposure could be huge for your brand, and the experience itself would be unforgettable. But you couldn’t ignore the potential chaos, especially with Sevika in the picture.

“I don’t know, Cait,” you said slowly. “It’s a lot to take on.”

Caitlyn smiled, sensing you were warming up to the idea. “Just think about it, okay? No pressure. But I’d love to have you there.”

You sighed, a small smile creeping onto your face. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” Caitlyn said, raising her tea in a toast. “Here’s to adventures—potentially disastrous ones.”

You laughed, clinking your cup against hers. Despite your reservations, the idea of going on tour with Shattered Souls had planted itself firmly in your mind. And something told you that this was just the beginning of a wild ride

The faint hum of an engine greeted you as you stepped onto the tour bus, your suitcase rolling behind you. The space was surprisingly cozy, decked out with plush seating, a mini kitchenette, and bunks lining the narrow hallway. A faint scent of leather and something faintly citrusy lingered in the air, blending with the faint echo of Vi humming a melody from somewhere deeper in the bus.

“Welcome to the chaos,” Caitlyn said, grinning as she leaned against one of the built-in couches.

Vi popped her head out from a back corner, her guitar strapped across her chest. “Hey, rockstar!” she greeted, giving you a casual salute. “You’re brave for signing up for this circus.”

You laughed, pulling your suitcase into the bus. “What can I say? I like a challenge.”

Jinx, sprawled out on one of the couches with a drumstick twirling between her fingers, snorted. “You’re gonna regret saying that when Vi starts her late-night jam sessions.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Vi said, plucking at her guitar strings. “She loves it.”

“Lies,” Jinx quipped, smirking.

Caitlyn nudged you gently. “Come on, let me show you where you’ll sleep.”

You followed her down the narrow hallway, passing bunks stacked two high. She stopped in front of one with a neatly made bed, the bottom bunk open for you. “Here you go,” Caitlyn said, gesturing. “Home for the next few weeks.”

“Perfect,” you said, sliding your suitcase beside the bed. “Thanks, Cait.”

“Settle in. We’ll hit the road soon,” Caitlyn said before disappearing back to the front of the bus.

You knelt by your suitcase, unpacking essentials and carefully organizing them into the small shelves above the bunk. The space was tight but manageable, the rhythmic hum of the bus adding a strange sense of calm. You reached up to place your toiletry bag on the highest shelf when you felt it—a bold, unmistakable hand pressing against your ass.

Startled, you snapped around, ready to deliver a sharp retort. Instead, you found yourself face-to-face with Sevika. She leaned in close, one arm lazily gripping the rail of the top bunk above you, effectively caging you in. Her towering frame loomed over you, and her signature smirk was even more infuriating this close.

"Nice view," she drawled, her voice low and rich, dripping with amusement.

You arched a brow, crossing your arms as you tilted your head up to meet her gaze. “Wow, straight to harassment. Do you always skip the foreplay?”

Her grin widened, clearly delighted by your sass. “Foreplay’s overrated. I like to get to the point.”

You let out a dry laugh, leaning casually against the bunk behind you despite the way her proximity made your heart race. “Is that what you call this? Because right now, it’s giving ‘desperate.’”

Sevika chuckled, her gaze flicking to your lips for just a second before returning to your eyes. “Desperate? That’s a bold assumption, sweetheart. Seems like you’re still standing here talking to me, though.”

“Only because you’re blocking the way,” you shot back, nodding pointedly toward the arm she had resting above you. “Or do you think looming over people is some kind of charm tactic?”

She shifted slightly, leaning in closer, her smirk never faltering. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

“Not the way you think,” you replied, your voice steady, even as your pulse betrayed you. “But hey, if this is the best you’ve got, I can see why the fan girls swoon. Low standards must really be your thing.”

Sevika laughed at that, a deep, rumbling sound that somehow sent a shiver down your spine. “You’ve got a sharp tongue, Y/N. I like that.”

“And you’ve got no sense of boundaries,” you quipped, reaching up to tap the arm she still had braced above you. “Mind moving? I’ve got things to do.”

Instead of retreating, Sevika leaned in even closer, her smirk softening into something more challenging. “What if I said I don’t mind staying right here?”

You tilted your head, refusing to back down as you matched her stare. “Then I’d say you’re about to have a real boring time watching me unpack.”

She grinned, finally stepping back and dropping her arm. “Alright, you win—for now. But don’t think I’m done with you, sweetheart.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you replied with a sly smile, brushing past her. “But next time? Try asking nicely. It might get you somewhere.”

As you turned back to your suitcase, you caught Sevika’s low chuckle behind you, her voice floating down the hallway as she sauntered off. “You’re going to be fun, Y/N.”

You smirked to yourself as you resumed unpacking. Let her think she had the upper hand. If Sevika wanted to play games, she’d quickly learn you weren’t one to lose.

This is gonna be a long tour.

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blueskittlesart · 8 months ago

Note

did u not like totk?

i LOVED totk. i think it was well-written and did its job as a sequel to botw very well. HOWEVER. i do think it suffered slightly from the commercial success of botw. as i mentioned in my last post, nintendo does this. thing. when one of their games gets popular where every game after it has to be Exactly The Same so they can make all the money in the world via comparison marketing. (and this is a problem with the wider game industry in general but also a very observable pattern in loz specifically.) I know it's been a pretty long time since botw came out, but before (and immediately following) its release there was some pushback from longtime fans who worried that the open-world and lack of traditional dungeons meant that the game had strayed too far from the classic formula that makes a game a "zelda game." this is to say, botw was EXPERIMENTAL. and the devs had no idea if what they were doing was going to be successful or not. the open-world of botw wasn't a gimmick, and it wasn't the devs jumping on the open-world bandwagon. it was what CREATED that bandwagon. the open-world was a deliberate choice made specifically for botw because it reinforced the story that botw was designed to tell. the game is about exploring a desolate world, about making connections, and rebuilding both the broken kingdom and the player character's shattered sense of self by traveling and learning and building relationships. a large open-world map with only minor quest guidelines and lots of collectibles and side quests lends itself perfectly to this specific story, which is specifically about exploration and rebirth.

the problem is, botw was. almost TOO good. it was so good that every other game company on the planet started scrambling to build giant open-world maps into their next release, regardless of how much sense that actually made narratively. and because of that, when it came time to release a sequel to botw, the devs had a lot to think about. they had HUGE shoes to fill in terms of fan reception, but they were ALSO being asked to follow up one of the best-performing games of all time, commercially. totk needed to SELL as well as botw. And, likely because nintendo was worried about that potential commercial value, totk needed to keep people comfortable. I don't know for certain, but I definitely get the feeling playing totk that the devs were specifically told not to stray too far from what made botw marketable and successful--that being the open world and the versatility of gameplay. so in order to follow that up, they made... 2 more huge open maps, and new gimmick gameplay which was explicitly super-versatile.

do i think that the extra maps and ultrahand were BAD choices? no. however, i don't think they necessarily ADDED anything to the game as a narrative whole. one of my favorite things about botw was how everything seemed to be designed AROUND the narrative, with gameplay elements slotting neatly into the story thematically. totk just. didn't really have that, imo. there wasn't a huge narrative benefit to the gigantic, completely unpopulated depths and sky maps. ultrahand was cool, but within the context of the story it meant basically nothing. in some ways, i almost think totk could have benefitted from a much more linear approach to its storytelling, a la skyward sword, because there are a lot of story beats that have to be found in chronological order in order to have the right emotional impact, but because of the nonlinear open-world it kind of became a struggle to hit all the important story points in the right order. an easy example of this is the dragon's tears in comparison to the memories--the dragon tears have a very specific set order in which they happen, and finding them out of order can make the story you're seeing in them feel confusing and disjointed. the order in which they should be found is technically displayed on the temple wall, but most players aren't going to pick up on that or follow it--more likely, they're just going to explore the geoglyphs as they come across them organically, and therefore will likely witness the story in a completely disjointed way. compare this to the botw memories, which ALSO technically have a set order--the order in which they're displayed on the sheikah slate. however, because they're largely just small moments in time, and not one continuous story, finding them out of order has a lot less of an impact on how you as the player experience the narrative, and it's not hugely detrimental to your experience of the story if you find them naturally as you explore rather than explicitly seeking them out in order. If TOTK had been allowed to deviate from the botw formula a bit, i think we may have ended up with a more cohesive game in terms of narrative beats like that. as it is, i just think the game is torn slightly between wanting to be its own new game with new gameplay and needing to be botw, if that makes sense.

#again. love the game. have played it several times in its entirety. story is great. i just think the gameplay itself could have been better #yk?#asks #zelda analysis

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multiversefanfics · 8 days ago

Text

Heater

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader Warning: nothing Summary: Dean radiates a lot of body heat. Word Count: 548 Sam's Version

Dean Winchester radiates a lot of body heat, so much so there's nights you wake up soaking in sweat, and every time you look over at him, he's peacefully sleeping.

One night, it was extremely cold, you cuddled close to Dean trying to steal his body heat just enough to fall asleep. It worked, you instantly fell asleep, but you were woken up a couple hours later, dripping sweat.

You groaned and tried to peel yourself away from Dean, but all he did was hold you tighter. You wiggled out of his grip and stripped yourself of your clothes, fanning yourself with your hand. You turned to look at Dean who was still asleep, smirking in his sleep as if he somehow knew what was going on.

You groaned once more and went into the bathroom, turning on the water to the shower. You looked at yourself in the mirror, cheek red and wet, your hair stuck to your forehead, you looked like you ran a marathon, when in reality you slept next to Dean.

You stepped into the shower, the water cold, but not freezing. You heard the bathroom door creak open and flat footsteps getting closer and closer to the shower.

"Baby, it's 2 in the morning, why are you in the shower?" Dean poked his head through the shower curtain, his eyes scanning your body

"You are a heater, my love. I woke up in a pool of sweat, I have to change the sheets too." You looked over at him, glaring a bit.

Dean chuckled, mumbled an apology, and went out to change the sheets while you were still in the shower. After washing off your body, your skin finally started to cool down, you stayed in a few extra minutes just to really cool down, you leaned your head on the tile and reached to turn the water off.

You pulled yourself from the wall and wrapped a towel around your body, you stepped out the shower and heard the loud whirring of something in your bedroom. You slowly crept out of the bathroom and saw Dean setting up an industrial fan, pointing it towards your side of the bed.

You smiled at the cute gesture to make sure you can sleep through the night without waking up sweaty. You walked over to Dean's dresser, took out a pair of sweatpants and one of your sports bras. Dean looked over at you and smiled, he strutted over wrapping his arms around your waist, leaning his chin on your shoulder.

"You look good in my clothes, better than I do." He pressed a kiss on your cheek and squeezed you lightly "Come on, sweetheart, let's get back to sleep."

Before you knew it, Dean had you over his shoulder, walking over to the bed, he laid you down and crawled in bed next to you. You felt the instant coolness of the fan as you laid next to Dean, you sighed in relief and melted into Dean.

Dean ran his fingertips up and down your spine soothingly, you smiled up at him and kissed his cheek, you drew lazy circles on his chest, slowly drifting back to sleep.

"I love you, sweetheart." Dean kissed the top of your head and drifted to sleep himself.

A/N: I hope you guys like this if you want to be tagged in future fics comment here or send me a message. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. 🥰

Main Masterlist - Dean Winchester Masterlist

Taglist: @iwudbutnah @littlesoulshine @miss-marmalade @bettystonewell

#dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fic #dean winchester #supernatural

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bellfilmz · 25 days ago

Text

Party Monster

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Rapper!Rafe x Stripper!reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A chance encounter with a cocky rapper, Rafe Cameron, leads to an unforgettable night, only for the aftermath to be complicated by a surprise song that seems to capture everything unsaid.

Masterlist

⸻

Part one

⸻

The bass booms through Eclipse, rattling the walls of the club, thumping through the floor beneath your feet. The air is thick with sweat, cologne, and the unmistakable scent of expensive whiskey. The lights—flashing reds, greens, and purples—make everything feel hazy, as if the entire world is slipping in and out of focus.

This is Eclipse, the most notorious strip club in New York, and you’re no stranger to its chaos. You’ve worked here for months, watching the same scene unfold every night—men in expensive suits throwing money like it’s nothing, women twisting and contorting on stage, their bodies swaying to the beat of the music. It’s a game, and you’re damn good at it.

But tonight feels different.

You’ve been going through the motions, the usual rotations and dances, when a murmur sweeps through the room. It starts with a few whispers, passed quickly between dancers and staff alike, before it spreads like wildfire.

“Rafe Cameron is here.”

Your heart skips a beat at the name. You’ve heard it before, of course. Who hasn’t? Rafe Cameron isn’t just a rapper—he’s a damn phenomenon. His cocky, unfiltered personality makes headlines just as much as his music. The industry has tried to mold him into something more digestible, but he refuses, instead becoming a symbol of everything that’s raw, reckless, and unrestrained.

You’re not exactly a fan, but you can’t deny that the guy is everywhere. And now, he’s in your club.

You lean against the bar, casually glancing toward the VIP section, where a group of men—no doubt Rafe’s entourage—have gathered. They’re loud, throwing cash into the air, the whole scene a blur of booze and overpriced laughter. But it’s Rafe who catches your eye.

He sits at the center of it all, sprawled on a leather couch, his back slightly arched as if the whole world should revolve around him. He’s dressed in a black silk shirt with the top few buttons undone, showing off the tattoos on his chest. His dirty blonde hair is messy, but in that effortlessly cool way, like he hasn’t even tried to style it, but it looks perfect anyway.

The moment your eyes meet, your breath catches in your throat.

There’s something about the way he looks at you—intense, almost predatory, like he’s already decided exactly how the night’s going to play out. You can almost feel the heat from across the room, the pull of it drawing you closer despite every instinct telling you to stay away.

What the hell are you doing?

It’s just another celebrity, right? Another rich asshole looking for a good time. But there’s something different about him. He’s so… confident. And not in the cocky, insufferable way that most rich men are, but in a way that’s almost magnetic. He has that aura, that energy that commands attention without trying.

You’re tempted to roll your eyes at how predictable it all seems, but for some reason, you can’t pull your gaze away.

“Damn,” you mutter under your breath, pushing yourself off the bar and heading toward the stage. But your eyes keep drifting back to him.

His gaze never wavers.

—

After your set, you find yourself walking back toward the bar, your body buzzing from the performance. You weren’t expecting him to be standing right there, leaning against the edge of the counter, a glass of whiskey in hand.

“So, you’re the one everyone’s talking about,” Rafe says, his voice smooth but laced with that same arrogance that seems to follow him wherever he goes. He’s not even looking at you directly—his attention is half on the glass in his hand, half on the way you walk toward him.

You can’t help the small smirk that tugs at the corner of your lips. “Am I now?”

“Yeah. A lot of guys around here are paying attention,” he says, his eyes flicking to the men sitting at the nearby table who are too busy with their own conversation to notice the two of you. He turns his gaze back to you. “But none of them really matter, do they?”

You raise an eyebrow, your arms crossing over your chest. “And why’s that?”

Rafe’s lips curl into a playful smirk, his eyes glinting with something dangerous. “Because I’m the one standing here, aren’t I?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You really think you can just walk up to a woman and expect her to drop everything for you?”

He tilts his head, the smirk never faltering. “I don’t need to expect anything. I’m just saying, it’s rare to find someone who doesn’t care about my name.”

You’re tempted to roll your eyes, but something about his bluntness makes you stay. “Well, congratulations, you’ve found one.”

His grin widens, like he’s not the least bit fazed by your resistance. “You’re different, I can tell. And that’s exactly why I’m interested.”

There’s a moment of silence between the two of you, heavy and thick with unspoken tension. Rafe takes a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving yours. “What’s your name?”

“Reader,” you reply, your voice calm but your heart pounding in your chest.

“Reader,” he repeats, as if tasting the word. “I like it. You’re not like the others.”

“I’d say that’s obvious.”

He leans in closer, the scent of whiskey and something spicy mingling with the air between the two of you. “I think we should get out of here,” he says quietly, his voice dropping an octave.

“Temping, but I’m still working sweetheart”

He smiled, “well I did book a private room with you for the rest of the night so…”

You swallow, a rush of excitement and hesitation flooding your veins. You’ve never been one to fall for the smooth-talking charm of a guy like Rafe Cameron. But in this moment, you can’t help but wonder if this could be different.

—

It isn’t long before the two of you find yourselves in a hotel suite, the city’s skyline spread out in front of you like an endless sea of lights. Rafe had led you here with little more than a few hushed words and a dangerous glint in his eyes. The night stretches on with heated glances, flirtatious teasing, and touches that leave you both breathless.

You’ve always prided yourself on keeping control. You’re the one who calls the shots in this world. But with Rafe, everything is different.

His hands on your skin, his lips pressing against your neck, his words whispered in your ear—all of it is too much, too fast. And yet, it feels right.

The night is a blur of passion and recklessness, your bodies tangled together, moving in a rhythm that feels like it’s always existed. It’s a night you’ll never forget.

But when morning comes, you wake up to an empty bed.

You blink, disoriented, before reaching across the sheets and finding nothing but cold space where Rafe had been just hours ago. The sheets smell faintly of him, but the room is otherwise silent.

A quick glance around the suite confirms what you fear: he’s gone.

No note. No trace. Just silence.

Your heart sinks as you pull yourself out of bed, the weight of the night pressing heavily on your chest. You dress quickly, slipping out of the hotel room with as much dignity as you can muster. You aren’t going to beg for an explanation. You aren’t going to chase after someone who made it clear he wasn’t interested in anything beyond a one-night affair.

But deep down, you can’t shake the feeling that something has changed inside you. Something has shifted when Rafe Cameron touched you, and it’s a feeling you can’t quite erase.

—

Weeks pass, and life goes on. You bury yourself in your routine, pretending the memory of that night doesn’t haunt you.

Until one evening, as you work the floor at Eclipse, the club’s speakers blare a song you’ve never heard before.

It’s dark, haunting. The beat crawls under your skin like a secret, and then comes the voice—the unmistakable rasp of Rafe Cameron.

“You love it when I play with the knife

You hate it when I leave in the night

You tell me that you’re bad for my life

I’m part of the monster inside.”

You freeze.

It’s not just the lyrics that hit you hard; it’s the sound of his voice, the familiar rasp that had whispered against your ear the night the two of you spent together.

Your heart races, your mind struggling to comprehend what you’re hearing. Is this… a song about you?

“Who sings this?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady as you turn to your friend, who’s leaning against the bar.

“Rafe Cameron,” your friend replies without hesitation, barely looking up from her phone. “He dropped this track last night. No promo, no announcements. Just a surprise release, and the internet’s losing its mind.”

Your throat goes dry.

It’s him. It’s Rafe.

Reader’s breath caught.

Rafe had left that morning like she meant nothing.

But this song?

It told a different story.

⸻

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐?

#obx fanfiction #obx fic #obx x reader #outerbanks rafe #rafe blurb #rafe cameron #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe fanfiction #rafe fic

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dare-writes · 2 months ago

Text

Messy Kissing

Tom has a photoshoot idea.

Aaron's Masterlist

tom ryder x female reader

genre: fluff, nsfw implication (paragraph starts with The photoshoot went great until Tom decided a ‘Lunch Break’ was necessary.)

WC: 2.0k

sexual content warnings: referenced m!receiving oral

warnings: reader gets hate from Tom's fans (mentioned), kissing, publicly... Tom is your #1 fan, Reader is a Tom Tamer!, reader fixed him????, established relationship, Tom loves love, and Tom hates haters, Tom is lowkey just always hot and bothered over you

Inspired by my ‘Tom Ryder, who got that as an approved photoshoot concept but only allowed you to kiss him. (He got you to do a few down his abs (alternating sides because “isn’t that cool?!”)and one kiss mark just at the waistband of the pants/boxers he wore)’

im so back (im exhausted this was meant to be done weeks ago im sorry chat)

If there were some things everyone should know about Tom, it would be 1) He loves you, 2) No, he doesn’t plan to leave, and 3) He is a chronic social media scroller. If he’s between roles, he’s lounging in his Beverly Hills house in The Flats, either tanning or rotting while scrolling through various secret social media accounts he had.

More often than not, he saw comments about you. Most were cute, some were funny, and few were rancid. It made Tom coil in irritation. Managing to find a lover outside of the film industry was the greatest thing to happen to him. Hell, a lover outside the industry got him sober, makes him happy, and most importantly to him? She supports him endlessly but keeps him humble.

The first time you visited the set, Tom insulted a crew member, and you were immediately on his tail.

“Tom, did you insult her for getting a coffee order wrong? She’s not even your PA.”

“No, Tom, that isn’t okay! She’s a part of sound, not everyone who works for you.”

“You didn’t just say that—Thomas Ryder! You’re going to drive me insane! Working with you, they work with you! Not for you!”

It took a few months of those conversations to get Tom to listen. Of course, he still has his moments. Thankfully, he’s gotten better. It’s like Tom entirely forgot about the little devil he always listened to on his shoulder, preferring the little angel holding his hand.

Tom hated seeing distasteful comments about you, so he often mass-reported them. Sometimes, he would get reported for his… distasteful response to nasty comments, but no one hurts his angel!

Your social media was rarely used, especially since it was a private account. It wasn’t hard to avoid hateful comments if you weren't active on the apps. Twitter was never somewhere you chose to be because of hurtful language.

Tom noticed that all your social media apps were offloaded on your phone while cuddling against your chest one day. You never knew Tom to be so observant. He knew your cafe/Starbucks orders and your go-to food places, but you would never expect the guy with his walls covered in sticky notes to notice something as small as this. That's when he began planning his next shoot with a creative director he worked closely with at the beginning of his career.

Months before Valentine’s Day, he was scheduled for a themed shoot. The company worked closely with Tom to make the concept, and Tom made it for them when he heard the ideal release would be just before February 14th.

The studio wanted sexy. Tom wanted dedication to you. So they compromised.

“Tom, I never come to your shoots, ‘sides I have the quarterly report coming up soon.”

“I know, baby, but please! I need your support!” Tom said, tugging you along into the studio. “Besides, you’re going out tonight with Lucky, Malina, and Gina?”

You furrowed your eyebrows and stopped following him. His arm tried to tug you further, but you didn’t relent. He sighed and stood before you, waiting for the elevator. “Yeah, but that’s at like 7? It’s 8 in the morning, Tom.”

Tom pouted and grabbed your other hand, “They can do your makeup; I’ll work my T.Ryder Magic! Please, baby, I want you to be there.”

“Really?” You asked skeptically. He loved your cinched eyebrows when you questioned him, even if it was slightly in doubt.

“Really,” Tom nodded. You sighed as the elevator dinged its presence. “Fine.”

Tom childishly pumped his fist and pulled you into a kiss, murmuring against you. “Good.”

It was a protracted fiasco, pulling you into costumes and makeup. The costumes weren’t bad, and Tom tried everything on while you watched. He was like a puppy, waiting for your approval for each outfit. And approval he got, each mostly dark in concept. Most also wore open shirts and praised his toned body one way or another. He tried them all on before getting pinned up for sizing to tailor.

Soon enough, Tom was dragging you off to a new room. A few colorful backdrops, a bustling assistant, the photographer, and the digital technician were testing the camera and monitor, and a creative director was waving Tom over.

“Stay here,” Tom mumbled before kissing your forehead. He took off his clothes, hair, and makeup, which were splendid. The director nodded at his appearance, approving his more straightforward outfits.

During the photo shoot, his clothing slowly shed, and you paid no mind. He had done plenty of scenes and photo shoots that were considered more risqué than this. As much as Tom loves his acting, he personally hates romance-related scenes. He wanted thrill and action, not slow, passionate romances. He got enough with you and was more than satisfied with you.

White flashes have become customary to you; you are slightly used to them now. Despite that, Tom doesn’t ever want flash photography while down red carpets or any other flashy event. He tries to be considerate, even if he doesn’t seem like it. (Yes, there are instances of Tom yelling at the paparazzi for their overly white blinding flashes. It was a viral ‘issue’ that he spoke against .)

Amid the white, a makeup artist rounded to your side. At some point, the creative director joined the MUA and, and various swatches of reds and pinks littered your now chapped lips. The occasional swipe of a random lip hydrates while they attack your drying lips with new lip colors.

Tom’s smile towards you was unknown to you; he liked watching the pampering and the unusual expression on your face. It was dumb early in the morning, your confused tilt and breathy sighs between new swipes of lip colors on you. Tom rarely got to see you dazed and confused, only getting that look from you after a very blazing night of messy kisses, heated whispers, and arousal swirling in the air. Tom would avoid looking at you as often as possible. He did his best only because he refused to get a stiffy in the middle of the photoshoot.

Lilian, the makeup artist, finally settled. After hundreds of lip swatches, thin papers are applied to the lips to create prints for kiss marks.

Tom wandered over finally, barely in anything now. His low-rise jeans and the elastic band of his briefs peaked out. His overly defined pelvic bones pointed directly where his privates were. A pretty dark red painted across your lips. He looked back at the creative director for a moment, who nodded.

Before you could look up at him, he leaned down to your lips and kissed you chastely. Instinctively, you leaned into the kiss. Then he moved his face to make you connect your lips to his right cheekbone. You audibly gasped when he pulled away, a well-placed dark kiss spot left on his cheekbone.

“Tom!”

“It’s fine,” he said, waving his hands. You tried to stand and reach his cheek to smear the red away, but he stopped—a simple soft hold on your wrist before he kissed it softly.

“It’s a part of the shoot.”

His response fell on deaf ears. “Tom, we have to get your makeup redone-“

Lilian handed you a paper. The small Ariel print in the corner told you everything you needed.

TRYDER_VDAY25_CONCEPT_SHOOT

Photoshopped kiss marks on Tom’s pre-shoot from a couple of weeks ago. He is in the same clothing from the initial fitting, dark red kiss marks littering his cheek, neck, and chest, and a few scandalous ones you can see peeking from beneath the waistband (it was half erased on the image to give that look).

The photo shoot was a whirlwind to begin with. Now, it was just making your head spin. You sighed in relief, the paper falling to your side with your other hand no longer scrunching your hair messily. The hairstylist groaned quietly in the corner underneath Tom’s coming sentence.

“Happy Valentine’s Day?” Tom questioned with a cocky smile.

“That’s over a month away.”

“I know! But it was a surprise! For you! And between you and me?” Tom leaned in, kissing your temple softly before wrapping an arm around you. “I wanted to rub it in people's faces, and I’ve got a wonderful partner who loves me at all times.”

Your lips unknowingly pouted as you looked up to meet his eyes. He winked back and pressed another kiss to your temple. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Tom said against your skin.

“Shall we get started again?” The director asked. Tom looked back at him with a nod. “Ready.”

—

The photoshoot went great until Tom decided a ‘Lunch Break’ was necessary. He even bought a ton of food to get you stolen away to his private room for the time being. There wasn’t a lot of eating to be done, but a dark red lip stain around the base of his cock and your slightly tearful eyes said enough.

He returned all the favor, saying he would do the same to you if he had lipstick ready. You said absolutely not.

When the photos were released, people obviously had mixed reactions. Most people speculated they were edited. Plenty of people assumed it was just a Valentine’s Day thing. His haters were not pleased to see you in the interview behind-the-scenes videos.

A steady camera recorded you smiling and talking with a creative director. The male director even leaned in to kiss Tom’s neck a few times to decide where it would look good on him.

There are a few other clips of just Tom and a strangely weird close-up of you and Tom. It cut right to you just applying lipstick, your finger holding down on the next target spot to kiss. Following was of you leaning to kiss his collarbone.

It was easy to understand why it was put in. Tom leaned down to kiss your head while you kissed his collarbone.

Another was of Tom winking at the camera while you kissed down every opposite ab, left down right, right down left. “Isn’t that cool?” Tom said, pointing down at his girlfriend kissing his stomach.

With a click of your tongue, you stood up. With a glare lacking real hatred, you walked beside the creative director. Watching Tom pose for the next few minutes was hypnotizing.

Tom, in his element, was never disappointing, and honestly, his attitude was deserved at the beginning of his career before it inflated his big head. If you weren't working your office job, you would find a way to watch Tom work, whether it was interviews, filming movies, or just these photoshoots. Part of you wished you were apart of this world instead of the stuffy business world you got stuck into.

Watching the video with Tom was even funnier, until the worst clip came to your disbelief.

Tom laughed maniacally as the director pointed you two into the shame corner. There was a single curtain and a full-length mirror for Tom to check his appearance. The camera zoomed in on you with your face hidden in your hand, and Tom dragged you in with a smile.

The worst clip of all was when the creative director said you and Tom had to do the kiss stains beneath his waistband. It took about 10 minutes to find the right angle so that the kiss was visible. After those 10 minutes, Tom was finally pulling his briefs and jeans back up.

The entire fiasco of planning a photo shoot to make haters revel in his love was worth it. Tom didn't care too much about the toxic people filling his DM requests; they weren't worth the time he could spend on you.

He was more than delighted to post you daily rather than scroll through comments from those who groveled over him.

It was even better to have Tom post a picture of you and him with a sloppy mess of dark red lipstick at midnight for Valentine’s Day that year after the photos were released. The outfits you two wore were the same as in the behind-the-scenes video.

At exactly 11:58 on February 14th, 2025, before the night ended, Tom posted another three stories about you. One is you guys on a real Valentine’s Day date from that day. You dolled up across the table from him, sporting the same dark-colored lipstick from that photoshoot.

Another was of you and him, red lipstick smeared across each of your lips again to mirror the original picture from the photo shoot.

Tom also had to make the caption Happy Messy Kissing Day, everyone!

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maybe-boys-do-love · 5 months ago

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Love You Teacher looks good, actually, and too many people are just jumping to conclusions.

Nowhere in the trailer does it suggest age-regression kink play, only a traumatic response exaggerated for dramatic purposes that, by all indications, inhibits the established couple’s sex life. (Let it be known, though, sexual exploration between consenting adults is chill.)

More casual age regressive tendencies is kind of the norm in relationships, and y’all y-series fans love it. There are so many edits with one part of couple acting cutesy and being taken care of by their supposed faen. ‘Baby’ is a common endearment for a reason! When we’re in relationships, we pout, we act more cutesy, more vulnerable. Love You Teacher looks to be dramatizing this element to spark conversations about balance, mental heath, and care, both for one’s self and in relationships.

This isn’t some weird romance trope that BL’s pulling from the shady corners of the internet cuz it’s kinkier than het romances. Traumatic regression that leaves one partner simple-minded to some extent has been a part of some really silly and also some really profound Western movies. You’ve got dubious films like Big with Tom Hanks or Adam Sandler’s approaches, but Elf, Thirteen Going on Thirty, or even something more indie like Lars and the Real Girl, with a young Ryan Gosling, (P’Dome seems to be a bit of a cinephile so I wouldn’t put it past him as a reference point) reveal the sweet sincerity that can emerge when these kinds of stories are done conscientiously.

Perth and Santa seem beautifully cast in this. Both have worked in BL for some time now (just with other companies—check out baby Perth in UWMA!) and are listed as one of three leads in Perfect 10Liners, so the accusations of them jumping the seniority queue are a bit misplaced. Even if that were the case, that point would be moot after what they delivered in the mock trailer.

Santa’s adorable energy finds great use in both the role of the ideal primary school teacher and the character’s reverted 7 year-old mental state, and it lends itself as a response to actor Barcode’s recent complaint regarding the infantilization and limited mature roles for those who are established as a uke in a partnership. I’m excited for the industry to address and push for conversations and roles that allow these actors to age. Sometimes that means letting them take on gritty characters that we might ignorantly assume are against type, but it could also acknowledge the youthful energy some of these actors and plenty of people in the world take into their adulthoods that shape their life. A kindergarten teacher is a prime example of job that attracts that kind of person!

I could not have imagined a character that used Perth’s disposition, simultaneously aloof and warm, so well. A teacher too-cool-for-school with no passion except for his partner? There’s our aloof guitar playing boy. Who must learn to roll with the punches of life and laugh at how ridiculous and precious it is? And there’s our warm cuddly teddybear.

The chemistry between the two in the trailer was eye-opening, too. They appeared spontaneous and familiar with one another, easily conveying live-in boyfriends in love. Even most of the naysayers for the show, admitted their initial excitement for the pairing’s intimacy. If the show plays well, it ought to be breakout success for both of them.

Give me ALL the Sammy. Everyday. Girl has been shining since BL day one (the og Love Sick, baby)!

The colors! This show looks lovely and lively. The primary school wall decorations. The costumes. The face paint in the trailer is so cute! Sammy’s hair color is genius! It just has so much vibrancy during a presentation when multiple dark, brooding shows were announced.

Director P’Dome has earned my trust. Peaceful Property was quirky, intricately plotted, and endlessly compassionate. I was crying almost every weak! I’m not surprised in the slightest to see him with a show like this. The premise of Love You Teacher is a bit out there, a bit provocative, and has the potential to have such a huge heart. The closest comparison tonally in GMMTV’s history I’ve seen so far is with the work TayNew did right before PP, Cherry Magic! Let me tell you about the boxes of tissues my happy tears went through for that series!

Basically, Imma be fighting tooth and nail for this show until it actually offers a reason for me to not support it. With what we received in the trailer, Love You Teacher has revealed only green flags, gold star stickers, and A pluses!

#perthsanta #love you teacher #love you teacher the series #gmmtv 2025 #dome jarupat #perth tanapon #santa pongsapak #sammy coates

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nottivagos · 3 months ago

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Hello, welcome! Was feeling fluffy tonight and wanted to write Rockstar!Daniel being all lovey dovey in an acoustic ballad for Popstar!Reader.

an: this fic is HIGHLY INSPIRED by Jacob Slater's solo album "Pinky, I Love You", and more specifically the song "One For The Pigeons" which I've linked if you want to listen to it whilst reading.

Pinky, I Love You. || DR3

The sun sunk low in the inky blue hue and hazy pastels of purple and red, basking in the laziness and lethargy of its excruciating heat. Summer’s days had been slow this year, the humidity creating snail-paced hours that made you feel like it had been forever since the coolness of the night.

The stillness of the early evening was eerie in your shared house. Whilst you'd been lounging through the humid rooms, Daniel stayed put in his air-conditioned private studio, trying to compose a new song.

He'd been stuck in a rut. Reusing ideas was unethical and he seemed to not have anything as a muse, nothing creative to allow the music to flow with ease and the lyrics to articulate easily.

Until he had his epiphany. His musical calling, perhaps. The heat had brought you closer together, despite cohabiting in the same house for over 3 years already, the love reciprocated and still pure to this day.

He'd curated a series of ballads, confessing his tender love, gratitude for your kindness and the gratefulness for the time and the blissful memories he shared with you, had been composed and messily scribbled on scraps of paper scattered around the room.

Fingertips sore from over-playing, he heard your faint footsteps walking down the long, dark corridor to his studio. He smiled contently, before speaking up.

“Pinky,” Danny called out, comfortably resting his back against the wall, acoustic guitar placed on his thick, tattooed thigh. “Come here,” he added, his tone softer than usual, “please?”

— ⟡ —

The nickname made you giggle. The origins of it humouring, though its use beforehand being more out of malice than endearment. You’d acquired such a name on one of your first encounters with Daniel, at a music awards ceremony, where you were both nominated. Danny, best known for his rowdy rock anthems, was a cocky thing in his prime. Rude, arrogant, messy, destructive— you name it, Danny was it.

You, on the other hand? Well, you were (and still was) an aspiring pop artist, nominated for ‘Best New Artist’. Timid and quiet, dressed in a fine, sequinned, pastel pink dress specially tailored for the event. A complete contrast to the cocky rockstar.

Maybe that’s what brought you two together. Daniel, thinking he was ‘above you’ in the music industry, spewed many drunken insults directed towards you that night, ‘Pinky’ being one. It wasn’t to his surprise that he scared you, no, it was intentional. But after a forced apology he had to make because of his PR team, the nickname stuck, and you didn’t mind one bit.

It was obvious to you that Danny maintained the mindset that he had to keep up this facade, the act of him being a ‘bad boy’ to the public, which allowed him to achieve his heightened fame. It was hurtful to witness, as down underneath that, Daniel was a sweetheart. A smitten one, truly, but overall he was a gentleman. Not a jerk who destroyed guitars for a living.

Danny liked the tranquility you brought with you, it was like the breath of fresh air he needed. However, his label disagreed. He became ‘too sappy’, his punk-like albums and singles becoming more powerful, love songs, all influenced by your presence in his life. Despite his anger, which he still had from his early days, he made the risky decision to go independent— breaking away from the shackles his angsty past had given him.

To his label’s surprise though, his independent solo record was a hit, many of his older fans now more mature, happily accepting his newer style with open arms. The day the statistics came in, you were overwhelmed with joy, (a tear or two being shed on the side) for him and for the career path which overall boosted his mental health.

— ⟡ —

“Hmm?” you hummed sweetly in response, walking over to where Daniel was perched on the floor.

“Sit with me, love,” he gently patted the space next to him, smiling warmly and loving as his brown doe eyes softened upon matching your gaze.

Happily obliging, you took your seat beside Danny, his empty hand locking with yours, fingers intertwining ever so tenderly. The moment was beautiful, a faint flush painting the apple of your cheeks as you smiled bashfully at him, like a giddy school girl.

“Pinky, my darling,” Danny began softly, “You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met.” Reaching over his guitar, he brushed a few stray strands of hair behind your ear ever so gently, before falling back to his original position.

You diverted your gaze away, cheeks flushing incredibly hot as it radiated off of them. “Stop being sappy, Dan,” you mumbled in response, slapping him playfully against his shoulder.

“Never,” he chuckled richly in response, eyes flashing back to your own.

There was something about you that Daniel couldn't describe. Was it the softness of your accent? The tender features of your perfect face? Your gentle morals? It was a fuzzy feeling, one so warm and homely, that he hadn't felt since he was a child.

Clearing his throat, “I just wanted to say thank you, I suppose.” His words were nervous, the tone slightly wavy.

“For what?” you questioned, voice as sweet as honey.

“For helping me..” he sighed, “you know.” His spare hand rubbing the back of his neck, “Be me, you know?”

“It's nothing, really,” you laughed off casually, “I only want what's best for you.” You added with a soft peck on the cheek, crawling over the guitar still in his lap.

You glanced at it for a moment, “Any luck musically?”

Danny's breath hitched slightly. The love ballad. “Yeah,” he answered with a quick nod, “Can I.. Can I play it for you?”

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” you answered with a smile. Following, Daniel let go of your hand, propping up his guitar properly on his lap.

Clearing his throat, you watched his Adam's apple bob for a moment as he gulped, burly arms coming to hug the instrument with care.

A simple strum followed, creating a melodic riff from the get-go, as his hands meticulously glided up and down the frets with ease. The guitar pick made the strings vibrate so angel-like, the instrumentals of the song calming and soft to your ears, like a soft lullaby.

Beautiful vocals pooled out of his mouth, rolling off his tongue like poetry. The lyrics were tender, very thoughtful, and overall endearing. He took quick glances at you between lines, those specks of hazel in his eyes becoming more noticeable in the sincere softness of them.

“Your love is a language beyond words..” he perfectly harmonised, his rhythm and tempo quickening for a short moment as he reached the chorus again.

Bashfully smiling, you felt your eyes begin to water slightly. The love ballad he was singing ever so gently made you emotional. It was raw. Pure raw emotion, true feelings not even written on a page, just spontaneously composed in what you could only believe was a day.

By the time you sniffled, the song was over. Your lip trembled slightly, Danny noticed this quite quickly, placing his guitar to the side before cupping your cheeks in his calloused palms.

“I'm guessing you liked it then,” he chuckled, thumb coming to brush a stray tear off the burning apple of your flushed cheek.

“You idiot,” you mumbled, sniffling as the tears ricocheted from your wide, loving eyes. “My make-up is going to be ruined.”

“I'll take that as a ‘yes’ then,” Daniel replied even softer, his voice barely heard as his lips tenderly brushed against your forehead.

You laughed through your childish blubbers, making Danny smile even more wider than he already was. He brought his face close, his nose touching your's slightly.

“Pinky,” Danny whispered against your lips, nose nuzzling closer to your own, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Danny,” you murmured as your lips softly met each other so tenderly. "Always."

i'm going to bawl so much i love rockstar!daniel it's not fair guys. it's. just. not. fair. WHEN WILL A ROCKSTAR LOVE ME?! anyways, lots of love - notti <3

#nottivagos #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 scenarios #f1 x reader #daniel riccardo x reader #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo fanfic #daniel ricciardo #dr3 x reader #dr3 #daniel ricciardo drabble #drabble

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ladykailitha · 11 months ago

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Icarus Part 10

Just a little metal band Steve while the poll for what do with boy w/a bat and werewolf Steve is ongoing. Here if you want to vote.

Corroded Coffin is almost done with their album when the shit hits the fan and Eddie soothes away some of Steve's insecurities (and accidentally creates one more.)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

****

Eddie was grateful that with the album ninety-eight percent done the label had released Jeff and him from their jail sentence so that they could go out and be people again. Brian had also been released for good behavior, but Dr. Owens suggested that Gareth stay away from the booze and parties for awhile, so Gareth had chosen to continue the exile willingly.

So to say he was excited to see Steve without all that shit hanging over his head. It was like a rare cool breeze against his skin on a hot summer’s day.

He got a table at the bar he told Steve to meet him at and ordered their drinks. He looked around the room as his knee began to bounce. He didn’t think Steve would stand him up. Steve wasn’t like that. But what if something happened? What the new studio they got was in New York or London or Chicago? How could he suggest that to Steve? He nee–

A warm hand touched his shoulder and all anxiety vanished as Steve murmured his hello.

Steve tapped the center of his forehead as he sat down. “What’s going on inside that head of yours? I can tell you’re spiraling, you’ve got this wide-eyed panicked look to you.”

Eddie rubbed his forehead and pouted. “Everything.”

Steve sighed and tenderly took his hand. He brought it up his lips and kissed each knuckle separately.

“The music business isn’t a forgiving industry at the best of times,” he murmured gently. “But it’s really rough on relationships. All kinds of relationships. Family, friends, lovers. But you’ve got me, okay?”

Eddie let out a low shuddering breath and then nodded.

“So tell me about your day,” he said with a slightly crooked smile. “You talk to Robin and your friends?”

Steve looked around the bar and nodded. “Robin says she’s working on the change of scenery, but she’s not sure how long it’s going to take. As for the other thing... we’re split down the middle. Me and Spence want June, while Simon and Shane want January.”

Eddie cocked his head to the side. “Why the split?”

“Spence and I have hope we can get the,” he lowered his voice, “album,” he raised his voice again, “done and want the time to finish it. While the other two are clawing at the walls, chomping at the bit, and just begging for a chance to travel again.”

Eddie sighed. “I’m sorry, Stevie. We’re pretty much into editing portion of the album and agreeing on the song order. But we can tour whenever. That’s the best part about being us. We can take six months to do five shows if we wanted to and our fans would eat it up. But if your guys want to wait until next summer, then we can do that. If your guys want to leave right after the New Year, fuck we can do that too.”

Steve sighed. “The record label is just pushing us to the limits and I think even Robin is beginning to crack. First there was the mix up with our contracts then this new thing, plus the touring and everything else. It’s a lot put on her and she’s starting to go mad.”

“They like to do that, unfortunately,” Eddie agreed. “I know Celeste is a good manager, but I think that The Fallen could use an actual agent, someone to take the load off of her back.”

Steve chewed his lip. “But won’t they have to be brought in on the secret if The Fallen were to get an agent?”

“Not if you don’t want them to,” Eddie said with a shrug. “A lot people use stage names they have to have contracts. So...” he waved his hand. “I’m assuming Celeste has control of all the fiddly business stuff for each member of the band?”

Steve shrugged. “Pretty much I guess.”

“They could work through Celeste if the band doesn’t want them to know,” Eddie said with another shrug. “But I recommend bringing them in. They can’t put out fires if they don’t know there’s more than just smoke.”

Steve rubbed his bottom lip. “Yeah...I don’t know. I’m not in the band so I couldn’t say for sure, I’m only a lowly peon.”

“Maybe, but they trust you,” Eddie scoffed. “Look I get that you don’t feel like you think the band can trust someone else with this, but agents are there to protect the band. They could lose all their business if they went around blabbing shit about their clients.”

“Maybe they should just get yours,” Steve joked. “Who is it?”

“Nancy Wheeler.”

The color drained from Steve’s face and he shook his head. “We’ll find someone else. I don’t–can’t trust her with a secret that big.”

Eddie tilted his head to side as he considered Steve’s odd reaction.

“Oh shit.”

Steve laughed weakly. “Yeah, oh shit.”

Nancy was another one of Hawkins High’s alums. Bright and powerful, smart and capable. Steve could see why Corroded Coffin had gone with her. Only he couldn’t trust her to hand him a knife, much less a secret as big as this one.

They had dated before she decided that he wasn’t ambitious enough for her and dumped him for Jonathan Byers. But not before cheating on him with the guy first.

Nancy had stabbed Steve in the back once, he had no desire to give her the ammunition to do it again.

Eddie paid for their drinks, and then took his hand to lead him outside. He pulled them into a small alleyway, barely big enough to fit them both, where they would have some privacy.

Eddie took Steve’s face in his hands and pressed their foreheads together, letting their breaths mingle. Steve’s fast and panicked, Eddie’s slow and calm.

Eventually Steve’s breaths matched Eddie’s and Eddie sealed their lips together.

“You’re okay, baby,” he soothed. “I’ve got you. You’re safe in my hands. You know that right?”

Steve gasped, taking in air as if coming up from the bottom of a vast lake and break the water for the first time.

Eddie combed his fingers through Steve’s hair as the other man fought to get his emotions under control.

Steve let out one more shuddering breath and Eddie smiled. “There you are. I was getting worried for a moment there, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Opening up our secret to other people is always terrifying, but Nancy? That’s monster level dread right there.”

Eddie continued to run his fingers through Steve’s hair. “I understand that, but do know what would happen if she did that? She wouldn’t just lose you as a client, she would lose her whole catalogue of clients. Corroded Coffin included. And not just because of who we are to each other. It would be such a serious breech of confidentiality that she would literally be scorch earth’ing her whole career.”

Steve let out a long breath. He knew that objectively. He knew that she also could just not take him as a client. Decide that The Fallen wasn’t worth the risk.

“What if we sent in Robin as Celeste Baptiste and see what she thinks?” Eddie suggested. “You know Robin’s instinct is killer. It’s why she’s such a good manager. Or even better, why doesn’t Robin meet with Chrissy and have Chrissy go over agents with her and see what Robin thinks? That okay?”

Steve smiled and brought their lips together. “You take such good care of me, Eds. I love you so much.”

“Back ‘atcha, pretty boy.”

Eddie’s phone rang and he picked it up.

“‘Ello?”

He pinched his nose and sighed. “Yeah. How long?”

There was brief pause as he listened to the other person on the line.

“I’ll check Mancharo’s and El Dios and you check out that strip of bars a few blocks south of the hotel.”

Again he listened, his brows furrowing deeper.

“Then I’ll just hit up El Dios and let you know if I find him,” Eddie muttered and then hung up.

“Fuck!”

Steve rubbed the wrinkles between Eddie’s nose until his pinched expression soften.

“That was Jeff,” Eddie murmured when he was calm enough. “Gareth stormed out of his therapy session today and hasn’t been seen since. They thought he was in his room, but when they checked, he was gone.”

Steve ran his hands up and down Eddie’s arms soothingly. “I’m sorry, Eds. Do you want me to go with you?”

Eddie wanted to answer yes, but if Gareth saw Steve he would absolutely pitch the biggest bitch fit outside of literal toddlers.

“Nah,” he murmured instead. “You’ve had a rough day. I’ll call you when I have news, okay?”

Steve nodded. “I love you, babe.”

“Back ‘atcha, darlin’.”

Steve sighed as he watched his boyfriend hail a cab.

He pulled out his phone and went right to Gareth’s Instagram. His location was off but Steve almost recognized the background.

He called Robin and sent her the picture. “We’ve been here before, right?”

“Uh...” she said. “Yeah! Dustin’s twenty-first! The Devil’s End!”

“If you weren’t a lesbian and I wasn’t dating Eddie I would kiss you on the mouth!”

“Eww...” she huffed. “You going to tell me what this is about?”

“Meet me at the apartment and I’ll fill you in.”

Then he sent off a brief text to Eddie.

-Try The Devil’s End. It’s where we had Dustin’s birthday bash.

The reply was almost immediate.

-God I love you.

-On it, babe.

Steve smiled to himself as he put his phone away. He couldn’t repay Eddie back for how kind he had been tonight, but at least he could help with this.

He just hoped Gareth was okay.

He knew that this business could and would chew up the best of people and spit them back out again without a single care.

Having a double life helped keep Steve and his friends humble. But he had no doubts in his mind that that could change at any moment.

Because if it wasn’t the business that would do the trick, it would be the isolation of not being able to tell anyone about what they really do for a living.

If he was being honest with himself, had it not been for Eddie figuring out who he was, Steve would have bet on himself being the first to fall to the Beast.

Both of his parents were raging alcoholics and he knew for awhile there when he was in middle school, his mom had gotten into some pretty heavy drugs.

It was why his high school days were so lonely. Because his dad was either hauling her off to rehab, or going on long trips where he would cheat on her and the cycle would begin again.

But now, with Eddie to keep him grounded?

His bet was on Simon. Hands down. The guy was very insecure outside of his alter ego Asmodeus.

If Steve only knew.

Trouble was brewing on the horizon, just not in the way Steve had thought it would go.

****

Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25

Tag List: @mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @emly03

@spectrum-spectre @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @gregre369 @a-little-unsteddie

@chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @danili666 @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach

@val-from-lawrence @goodolefashionedloverboi @i-must-potato @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

@justforthedead89 @vecnuthy @irregular-child @yikes-a-bee @bookbinderbitch

@bookworm0690 @anne-bennett-cosplayer @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon

@cinnamon-mushroomabomination @y4r3luv @dragonmama76 @scheodingers-muppet @ellietheasexylibrarian

@thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman @eyehartart @dawners

@thespaceantwhowrites @tinyplanet95 @iamthehybrid @croatoan-like-its-hot @papergrenade

@cryptid-system @counting-dollars-counting-stars @ravenfrog @w1ll0wtr33

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #rockstar steve harrington #rockstar eddie munson #rockstar au

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milkymora · 10 months ago

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✧ 5 dl boys - headcanons ✧

~NOTE: pictures used aren’t mine. credit to the respective owners on pinterest! all the headcanons are SFW & written just for fun. that being said, enjoy! xoxo, Mora

ꞝ Yuma M.

he has dyslexia & dyscalculia. he always had troubles with school for that, however ruki has helped him out since the moment he discovered his problem (indeed it was ruki who found out).

he loves his own hair to be long, for the looks of it ofc, but mainly because he is super sensitive on his neck and can’t stand the feeling of cold breeze touching his nape.

his favorite fruit is pomegranate, he’s obsessed with the taste of it and the texture of the little seeds.

ꞝ Azusa M.

loves pastel colors. especially on clothes! he has these huge cardigans & sweaters of all kinds of pastel colors (light blue and lilac mainly).

he likes birds. small, tiny ones the most. he finds them to be adorable and loves their singing.

draws little skulls on his notebook whenever he’s bored at school and likes to collect stationery stuff.

ꞝ Ruki M.

low key loves piercings and tattoos. he has both his ears full of piercings (his favorite is the industrial), silver jewelry with onyx gems in it is his go-to. he also has a labret piercing on his face.

he loves mathematics, physics and chemistry at school. the hardest other people find a subject, the easier it is for him. yes he’s a math god.

is a cleaning freak. if the walls and floors aren’t shining and he can’t see his own reflection on the table then the house isn’t clean enough.

ꞝ Shu S.

a fan of björk. he is an artist and although his blatant love for classical music, he fancies peculiar music too and finds björk’s style to be cool and unique.

loves reading. his favorite genre is detective/mystery stories, he has this huge collection of novels that has re-readed at least 3 times.

one of his favorite animals is the owl. white ones with black, huge eyes. he finds to have a connection with these animals for some reason.

ꞝ Subaru S.

believe or not, he had an avril lavigne phase. he also had a “nightcore” phase of emo songs & to this day listens to “hello kitty”.

leather jackets are his style. he’s a total black guy when it comes to clothing, and loves the look of leather in general. even more if they got studs here and there.

wears crystals. he does know each crystals’ purpose and low key believes their power. the ones he uses the most are apache tear & rose quartz, because it reminds him of his mother.

✧ (u guys can find the other boys in this post!)

~thank u sm for reading!! which one is ur fav boy? i love Yuma so much. also, i love yui too so i’m probably gonna make hdcs about her too soon. stick around if u like. reblogs are super appreciated (//＾◡＾//)

#diabolik lovers #diabolik lovers headcanons #diabolik lovers yuma #diabolik lovers shu #diabolik lovers ruki #diabolik lovers azusa #diabolik lovers subaru #diabolik lovers more blood #yuma my best boy #✧ mora’s dl.

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zedecksiew · 10 months ago

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TO PUT AWAY A SWORD

David Blandy + Daniel Locke's post-apocalyptic hopepunk TTRPG ECO MOFOS is back from the printers. Meaning it will soon be in our hands.

Am fairly hyped for it, because I wrote an adventure!

To Put Away A Sword is about the woes of building a home on poisoned earth. The terrible powers that hurtled us to the end of the world continue to bear bitter fruit in your garden.

You are villagers living under the shadow of a fallen giant mecha. Its reactors and warheads leak into your groundwater, poison your goats. What will you do about it? What can you do?

Mechanically it is a pointcrawl around your local valley. Not super complex, design-wise; but I was pleased with my gimmick solution for mapping both the adventure's dungeons:

Grab a mecha figure, pose it, place it on the game table; each part of the figure corresponds to a location in the dungeon key. Solves for stuff like relative orientation.

Easy!

To Put Away A Sword is me making a mecha adventure.

Disclaimer: I am not a mecha nerd. I am unfamiliar with most of the genre. Anything I know about Gundam I've absorbed by osmosis.

I was mainly into giant robots in childhood. Receiving a Macross figure for my birthday. Pouring over the manual for The Crescent Hawks' Revenge, which my brother left behind:

While I was not much a fan of mecha, I was very much a fan of Evangelion. I spent my middle teens obsessed with it. The biomechanical, pseudo-mystical stuff; the teen angst. I wanted to be Shinji. I thought trauma was so cool.

So cringe. Anyway:

One of the inspirations for To Put Away A Sword is the survivors-rebuilding-a-town-and-planting-rice sequence in Thrice Upon A Time; probably my favourite part of the whole franchise, now.

The joy and difficulties of trying to build your paradise in the weird ruins of the old world:

Yeah, the adventure has a lot of Evangelion in it. There's a Nerv HQ analogue to explore. There's a content warning for child soldiers.

The other inspiration for To Put Away A Sword is this piece of box art, an accessory set for Macross's iconic Stonewell Bellcom VF-1 Variable Fighter:

I don't know what this kind of arrange-your-missiles-in-front-of-your-fighter-jet photo is technically called. Hardware porn parade?

You see it often enough. Here's a real-life photo of the Lockheed Martin F35 Joint Strike Fighter:

Fairly or not, in my head I associate mecha with seeing copies of Jane's Defence in airport magazine racks. The genre feels like such a natural way to riff on the hyper-charged corpo-military-industrial complex.

After the brush war ends, and the natural resources extracted, and the ethnic cleansing concluded, and the profits announced, who gets to clean up after a Raytheon missile?

In To Put Away A Sword---you do.

Ultimately, as always, I am writing and designing from my lived experiences.

See that? The gas flare from the Hengyuan Refining Company? It is about 200 metres from my living room.

That gas flare surfaces constantly in the stuff I make. As I write this post I am breathing its acrid chemical smell. My nose itches. I was asthmatic as a child; I seriously worry about cancer, nowadays.

At night it lights up the sky like Barad-dur.

The plant obviously and continuously flaunts regulations. We've tried lodging complaints: with its corporate management; with the Department of Environment. Nothing has worked so far.

"A home on poisoned earth" is a visceral fact of my life.

To Put Away A Sword is wish-fulfilment, I guess? In the world of the adventure, at least, the forces that are poisoning your home are post-peak oil.

It is nice to imagine a reality where a kind of survival and flourishing is still possible. My partner Sharon and I talk a lot about imagining hope.

Last month she bought this small mecha-looking thing. A wireless camera! She built a little hut for it on our garden wall. It is trained, 24-7, at the gas flare.

Environmental activists we've met say video evidence of emissions is important. We'll see. We imagine it helping.

Anyway. David just sent me this photo of my adventure, in print:

Looking good. I hope folks play it and enjoy it.

Preorder ECO MOFOS and its adventure bundle >>>HERE<<<

#adventures #ttrpgs #eco mofos #writing #fantasies #mecha #real life #gas flares

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krissiefox · 6 months ago

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Blogs about horror media, metal music, and goth culture. List is below the divider!

image source

font source

https://www.tumblr.com/cryptblood Horror Images

https://monster-brains.tumblr.com/ Monster art galore! Lots of horror manga art, especially.

https://www.tumblr.com/necr0g0re Art, goth fashion, music, spooky stuff.

https://plastiboo.tumblr.com/ Horror & Dark Fantasy Art

https://pixelated-nightmares.tumblr.com/ Horror art (gore warning)

https://nickolashx.tumblr.com/ Horror games

https://horrorshocklolipop.tumblr.com/ Spooky gifs & images.

https://abstractfigure.tumblr.com/ Horror & monster art

https://wormzone.tumblr.com/ Spooky art, animations, game design

https://deep-dark-fears.tumblr.com/ Short comics about people's fears

https://corpse-dog.tumblr.com/ Animal themed horror art.

https://obscure-perversions-blog.tumblr.com/ Spooky images and black metal.

https://puppetcombo.tumblr.com/ Cool indie horror game dev!

https://www.tumblr.com/sweetstench Strange videos! cool!

https://invisiblestation.tumblr.com/ Horror game screenshots & Scenery

https://brokenightlight.tumblr.com/ Spooky & liminal photos.

https://crod.tumblr.com/ Strange and spooky art. Some nsft stuff.

https://shayneofthedead.tumblr.com/ Goth fashion

https://welcome2creepshow.tumblr.com/ Blog about horror merch & music

https://lindzriot.tumblr.com/ Official blog of Lindsey Schoolcraft from cradle of Filth

https://thatcreepyreading.tumblr.com/ A Youtuber who makes videos about things like monsters and horror games.

https://carpenoctem20-blog.tumblr.com/ Classic 90s goth magazine.

https://www.tumblr.com/tapehead-finalgirl Horror VHS and t-shirts!

https://orb-s.tumblr.com/archive Creepy photographs.

https://www.mysteryfleshpitnationalpark.com/ A mysterious pit of flesh

https://sofiassecretspot.tumblr.com/ Goth fashion & metal music.

https://gut-shoveler.tumblr.com/ Creepy photos, music and game screens.

https://morbidfantasy21.tumblr.com/ Horror & dark fantasy art

https://thepumpkin-queenn.tumblr.com/ Halloween and horror gifs

https://ancientmorbidity.tumblr.com/ Metal images, spooky photos and art

https://www.tumblr.com/cinemamind Horror art and animations

https://davidfirth.tumblr.com/ Creator of the Salad Fingers video series.

https://www.tumblr.com/meat-wall T H E W A L L S A R E M A D E O F M E A T

https://goryhorror.tumblr.com/ Horror art

https://mrcreepypasta.tumblr.com/ Spooky stories!

https://www.tumblr.com/chrispandres-blog Handmade monsters, demons, etc and Satanic art.

https://hottopic.tumblr.com/ Hot Topic blog.

https://www.tumblr.com/florescentlcvesickness Goth & horror images, gifs, etc.

https://receptorconsuming.tumblr.com/ Video game blog that seems to mostly focus on horror games. Lots of obscure Japanese horror games.

https://www.tumblr.com/nocontextanaloghorror Small analog horror blog, inactive.

https://brokehorrorfan.com/ Various horror collectibles

https://danielstalter.tumblr.com/ Reviews of R.L. Stine books!

https://www.tumblr.com/drew-melancholy A very RED horror art and photography blog.

https://www.tumblr.com/sinisterscribbles Horror art accompanied by short stories.

https://www.tumblr.com/urnot-safehere Creepy photos, art and liminal spaces.

https://www.tumblr.com/decatris Creepy photos and images.

https://www.tumblr.com/c-u-r-s-e-d-i-m-a-g-e-s more weird images.

https://the-unwanted-houseguest.tumblr.com/ Scary stories & songs.

https://www.tumblr.com/ruth-hill Spooky liminal spaces

https://doctorwolfula.tumblr.com/ Blog of Youtube horror host Dr. Wolfula!

https://deadstrangeblog.tumblr.com/ Spooky stuff

https://cryptrites.tumblr.com/ Spooky & Satanic art/gifs

https://jebberz.tumblr.com/ Horror games, movies, comics, and industrial music.

https://isisaacdead.tumblr.com/ Binding of Isaac blog.

https://knivpojke.tumblr.com/ Cry of Fear / Afraid of Monsters fan blog

https://www.tumblr.com/cryoffearvibes Photos that feel like Cry of Fear locations.

https://deadmeatjames.tumblr.com/ Blog of Dead Meat, a Youtube channel featuring kill counts, a horror podcast, and more!

https://evildeadtrilogy.tumblr.com/ Evil Dead gifs.

https://ashvsevildead.tumblr.com/ Gifs and screenshots of Ash vs Evil Dead. Sadly many images seem broken, but some are intact.

https://brucestacheappreciation.tumblr.com/ Bruce Campbell gifs

https://fuckyeahbruce-campbell.tumblr.com/ Bruce Campbell fan blog

https://killerklownsfromouterspace.tumblr.com/ Killer Klowns blog!

https://www.tumblr.com/killingfloor-fans Killing Floor fan blog.

https://www.tumblr.com/flash-some-cash Killing Floor fan blog focusing on DJ Skully.

https://schwarzewoelfin-blog.tumblr.com/ Marilyn Manson blog

https://www.tumblr.com/predatormovies Official blog about the Predator franchise

https://scpfoundationfiles-blog.tumblr.com/ SCP Blog.

https://scp-087-1-blog.tumblr.com/ Another SCP Blog

https://www.tumblr.com/teamsilenthills Silent Hill images and fan art.

https://frombrahams.tumblr.com/ Silent Hill Music Archive

https://dont-go-out.tumblr.com/ Silent Hill images, fanart.

https://fuckyeahericdraven.tumblr.com/ Blog about the 90s Crow movie

https://www.tumblr.com/jolly-pirate-nicknames-blog Another blog about the "The Crow".

https://cursedimages.tumblr.com/ I don't care for the term "cursed" but I do like weird and spooky pictures!

https://www.tumblr.com/dark-priest A cool blog with spooky photos, art, and animations.

https://www.tumblr.com/rhetthammersmithhorror Cool horror gifs!

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notiddygothgf · 1 year ago

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prologue

★ pairings: choso x f!reader

★ synopsis: World famous rock star Choso Kamo’s new live-in assistant is convinced that she can fix him – substance abuse issues and all. Tensions ensue, and as new feelings rise to the surface, the two find it difficult to maintain an appropriate workplace relationship (or; the one where an unstable musician struggles to keep it friendly with his assistant).

★ c.w.: none (more content warnings and tags)

★ a/n: don't be a stranger! leave some comments for me to read teehee

★ w.c.; 2.8k

smoke and mirrors; chapter index

THE MUSIC INDUSTRY BLEEDS YOU DRY. That’s just the truth. It takes every ounce of your creative passion and tramples on it. It takes everything from you, and then it takes more. I find myself reconsidering my career path on a daily basis. There’s only one thing, in fact, that keeps me grounded.

“Choso! Choso! Choso! Choso!”

That. The chant of the crowd. The endless bodies waving their hands over the venue, reaching for me, singing for me.

I leaned my head back, feeling the cool breeze of the backstage air against my neck, against my trembling skin. Crewmembers swarmed around me like gnats, tweaking little details of my outfit – one had a black eyeshadow palette up to my eyelid and another was messing with my hair. She had said something about needing to look intentionally messy.

The low hum of their conversation was only background noise to me. I blew a bubble with the wad of gum in my mouth – a nervous tic that clearly betrayed the calm exterior I was trying so hard to maintain.

The girl who was touching my eyeliner up snapped the palette shut. My mind was elsewhere – it was out there.

“Choso! Choso! Choso!”

I took a deep breath to steady my racing heart. The chant of my name reverberated through the walls, a frightening reminder of what lay just beyond the curtain.

People. Thousands of them.

“Choso! Choso! Choso!” The chorus of voices seemed to grow louder. I shut my eyes, visualizing the sea of faces, the outstretched hands, the passion in their voices. The crowd– my fans; they were my lifeline.

Another crew member informed me, “You’re on.”

I nodded solemnly, feeling that strange pit in my stomach. It was terrifying, it was familiar, it was… exciting.

I took another breath, then I stepped forward. With each step towards the stage, the chanting intensified. The noise was like this strange, palpable force, urging me onward. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins the moment I reached the edge of the stage. The anticipation was almost… suffocating.

I stepped out. Then, for a blissful moment, it all seemed to go quiet.

I took a moment to look at them, really look at them. All of them. The mass of humanity blurred into one collective wave of joy. From here, I couldn’t even make out faces. Only smiles, flashing lights, and limbs flailing. Signs with my name on it. People with love in their hearts.

Nothing but them and me, hearts beating in tandem. I wondered how nervous they felt – if they knew how nervous I felt standing here before them. If they knew I had been nervously chewing on a piece of gum only moments prior.

Thousands of people who all came together for one purpose – to see me. A mosaic of adoration.

I glanced down at my trembling hands, fingers clutching the edge of my guitar. The weight of the crowd’s expectations pressed down on me. The realization hit me a second time – they were all here for me. That both terrified and humbled me.

I licked my lips, gave my old guitar a strum, feeling those familiar vibrations amplified a hundred fold. It was loud, so loud that I could still hear it reverberating throughout the venue when I reached for the microphone.

I stole another glance at the crowd as a smile broke across my face.

Deep breaths.

I shouted, “What the fuck is up, Paris?”

The response was deafening. The crowd erupted in cheers. I could feel their energy merging with mine – the lights, the love, the screams. In that moment, I remembered why I endured the trials of my industry. I remembered why I was still living – what I was fighting for. It was all for them, the countless faces who found solace and inspiration in my music.

And with that realization, I felt my heart begin to race.

“How y’all doin’ tonight?” I asked.

They screamed back at me in response. I grinned.

“God, I love you guys,” I laughed. Strummed my guitar a second time. Looked at them. “I got a special show for you tonight!”

It was all for them. I do it all for them.

Life on the road was pretty crazy. I wish I could say that I had family to miss back home, but that wasn’t the case. I had been in and out of foster care for most of my life; had to grow up pretty fast so my brothers and I could stay off the streets. Other than the three of them, I never really had a family.

I turned to music as a crutch. I bought my first guitar with the first paycheck I earned – I was 16. I bandhopped for a while, alternating between the roles of lead singer, bassist, and rhythm guitarist. I found a passion for writing lyrics somewhere along the way. It felt nice, being able to put pen to paper and make my fucked up life sound appealing.

It was great.

I did basement shows right up until I turned 21. I would have been more than happy to keep on doing them – hell, sometimes I found myself wishing I could still fit those small, shitty little venues – but some big, music industry talent hotshot came and found me at one of my shows. He handed me a card. Told me he liked my sound, that I could be famous.

Who could have refused?

I never anticipated hitting it this big. Not that I’m complaining. It keeps a roof over me and my brother’s head – to say the least. I have more than enough money to live lavishly for the rest of my days. I found my new family in my music team: my manager, my coordinators, my publicist. All of them.

The music industry is notoriously blood-sucking. It’s not all sunshine and rainbows. I realized that rather quickly, though by the time I was hot enough to hire a whole team, I was in too deep. It all seemed so… superficial.

I grew to hate it.

My hatred only grew when I lost two of my beloved brothers – Eso and Kechizu. There was a shootout at the mall. They found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. I remember rushing to the hospital as soon as I heard the news.

It was too late by that point, though. They had bled out long before I was able to see them.

I didn’t sleep for a week after that – I developed insomnia that would last for years to come. I spent my evenings curled up on my shower floor, sobbing into my own arms. It was the same after that, and then the day after that. I found myself spending all of my time replaying the memories in my head, thinking about where I went wrong.

It didn’t take long for me to find comfort in the lifestyle of the rich and famous – the drinking, the partying, the drugs. I would go on week-long benders, drinking myself into a sickened stupor, rolling up two joints a day, popping pills I didn’t know how to pronounce. Doping myself up so I couldn’t think about it.

Ecstasy, Molly, Coke, LSD, Acid – I’ve taken them all. Shit, you could probably find trace amounts of them in my blood at any given point in time.

Or… however the hell that shit works.

I took Adderall every day to keep me grounded. That’s what I told myself, at least. No doctor in his right mind would ever prescribe someone like me 80 milligrams on a daily basis. Good thing I paid mine enough to forget his hippocratic oath.

I wasn’t completely lost, though. I didn’t feel good about it. Yuuji, my only living brother, told me multiple times that I needed to cut down on my consumption. He wanted me to go to rehab. Shit, over my dead body.

He stopped bringing it up, but I could see it in his eyes – I was breaking his heart. I had to remind myself that he had lost his brothers, too, that day. Probably felt like he was losing the only one he had left.

I try not to dwell too hard on it, though. Got better shit to do.

Fucking hate the music industry most days. Everyone expects you to be all put-together, even though you wake up feeling like you dragged your feet through a field of broken glass shards. Even though you wake up every goddamn morning feeling you’re reliving the same day over and over again.

It’s like a painful reminder that the only people I have in my life are paid employees. I have no one – other than Yuuji – who I could confidently say would be there for me if I no longer had the funds to compensate them.

It fucking blows. I drink to forget about it. Drink and… well, everything else I put in my body.

Never put a needle in there, though… at least not for drugs. I’ve got more tattoos and piercings than I can count.

Enough about my unhealthy coping mechanisms, though.

My “family” never let me put out music I like making. They stripped my creativity from me. I lost all enjoyment in songwriting along the way. They turned me into a husk – a shell of the man I used to be.

I couldn’t recall the last time I felt real happiness. You know, the kind you got from taking a walk in nature and not from snorting and ingesting copious amounts of illicit substances. You would think that someone would see me greened out on the couch and know I was crying for help.

Nah. No one ever listens.

They never noticed. The only reason they cared about whether I was dead or alive was because I kept them well-fed and their pockets full.

That’s the fuckin’ music industry, baby. Nothing but a bunch of soulless, drugged-up puppets pumping out music they hate making. Begging for help.

But no one ever listens.

My head hung low as I snorted a line of powder off the tray my housemaid – or some other woman I didn’t know – had brought me. As quickly as she had appeared, she vanished. In her absence, I relished in the rush that hit me all too fast.

I sniffed and coughed, shaking my head with remnants of the powder clinging to my nose. I blinked slowly, trying to make sense of my surroundings.

The studio’s walls were adorned with gold, platinum and silver records, a shark contrast to the disheveled state of the room. Empty liquor bottles littered the floor. The air hummed with companionable conversation and the distant echoes of a repetitive beat.

As I raised my head, the scene unfolded before me. Half-naked women, draped in a hazy glow from neon lights, raised their glasses in a toast. The shots went down smoothly, accompanied by the thumping bass of my latest creation, reverberating through the studio's speakers.

The instrumental was infectious, quick and catchy, resonating with a bass that seemed to throb in sync with the erratic pulse of the room. My eyes fell to the scattered papers on the coffee table in front of me – lyrics scribbled in messy script on lined paper that had been torn straight out of my composition notebook.

Cigarette smoke, a whiskey glass,

Fading memories, like shattered glass,

Every sunrise feels like the last,

Trapped in the echos of the past.

Stuck in the rhythm of a broken clock,

Every tick’s an echo, every tock’s a shock.

A carouse of monotony,

Lost in a loop, just try’na break free.

Guitar wails like a distant scream,

Reality blurs, just like a dream.

Drift through the hours, like a ghost,

In this eternal purgatory, I’m lost.

Pouting, I wiped my nose, feeling the dull burn of the coke as it tingled in the back of my throat. I was congested as all hell. Still, I tried to sing the bridge beneath my breath.

“Drift through the hours, like a ghost. In this eternal purgatory, I’m lost…” I hummed, pouting again when I realized I still didn’t like it.

The women in the back of the room continued their celebration, completely oblivious to my internal struggle. They were too busy shooting the shit with my friends.

More glasses were poured, and one was handed over to me. I took a sip without looking – because it honestly didn’t matter what was in the cup, could’ve been piss for all I knew. The familiar burn of bourbon warmed me momentarily. Humming in recognition, I traced my finger over the rim of the glass, lost momentarily in the verbiage of my own creation.

Something felt off.

Furrowing my brows, I stared down at the words on the page. I sniffled again. Then I downed about half of my glass of bourbon, standing up on unsteady feet. The room swayed slightly, especially when I walked over to the corner where the producer was set up – a lone figure surrounded by the chaos.

I nodded at him, muttering, “Play it again from the chorus. I’m try’na see somethin’.”

The producer – Chris, or some shit like that – nodded back. He pressed a button, and the beat started over. The room’s ambiance, fueled by laughter and friendly chatter, didn’t quiet down.

I tried my best to immerse myself in the rhythm, but the distractions were just… it was just too much.

‘Guitar wails like a distant scream,

Reality blurs, just like a dream.

Drift through the hours, like a ghost,

In this eternal purgatory, I’m lost.’

I hadn’t realized I had forgotten to actually sing the words until my producer looked over at me expectantly. I shook my head, huffing out an exasperated sigh.

“Shit, sorry, take it from… take it from the chorus again, please?” My voice cut through the noise – or tried to, at least.

The beat started over again, a few measures behind where I needed to be.

“Guitar wails like a distant scream…” I attempted once more. “Drift through the hours, like a lost– fuck, I fucked it up.”

The collective revelry around me was a wall – it fucked me up. I could feel a headache coming on.

“Can we pipe down a bit?” I groaned, massaging my temples. My ears began to ring a bit, growing louder with every passing second that the chatter continued. “Guys, shut the hell up.”

My pleas fell on deaf ears. The ringing persisted, drowning out everything else in the room.

“Yuki,” I directed at her, a little louder now. She seemed to have been leading the conversation. “Yuki, please.”

No one ever listens.

And they didn’t. They weren’t fucking listening. I tried to make eye contact with her, but I couldn’t seem to make out her face from the rest. The room was blurry, moving side to side, hazy around the edges. I held my forehead, groaning quietly.

They were so fucking loud.

No one ever listens.

Downing the rest of my bourbon in one go, I – in a fit of frustration – hurled the glass against the wall above the couch where my friends were comfortably seated. It shattered, sending shockwaves through the room as stunned silence replaced the previous chaos.

“Yuki,” I mumbled, swaying slightly on my feet. “Shut the fuck up. I’m trying to.. Try’na fuckin’...”

“Choso,” She began quietly, her mouth slightly agape. Had she always had a twin sister, or was I dreaming? “Your… your nose– are you okay?”

I put a hand up to my nose, feeling around for anything out of the ordinary. My fingers were red when I brought them back, painted with a viscous crimson fluid. Another fell from my nostril onto the pale skin of my wrist.

My nose is bleeding.

I wiped my nose, waving them off. “I’m fine,” I slurred – I wasn’t, least I don’t think I was, but the show must go on, or some shit like that. “Can we just… keep going, please?”

A thick, heavy silence enveloped the studio. With all of them finally keeping their mouths shut, I could hear myself think again. The ringing in my ears began to subside, and I, looking over my shoulder at Chuck– Chris, whatever the fuck– demanded, “Play that shit again.”

He swallowed nervously, clearly caught off guard by my outburst. Still, he pressed a button or two, and the song started all over again.

Drift through the hours like a ghost,

In this eternal purgatory, I’m lost.

a/n: hiiii! I hate the way this was written, but I always hate my first chaps hehe. NEXT ONE WILL BE SM BETTER I SWEAR!! this is gonna be a long, slow burn, smutty ass fanfic (loosely [very loosely] based on the show 'the idol'). and by based on ofc I mean I watched an ep and I was like damn I could make this better. Enter our beloved emo boy choso kamo. anyway!! comment your thoughts/wishes/etc!! I love an interactive community of loyal commenters and I loveee reading all of ur thoughts and lovely remarks!! keep them coming, and ill keep the chapters coming in retribution! love you bunches!

comments + reblogs are greatly appreciated!!

credits: @/2OARIN on twitter (cover art). If you know the other artist, please let me know, so I can credit them properly for their work! I obviously do not own jjk or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

taglist: @missphanosaur18 , @bontensbabygirl, @megumissunshine, @chocoyanchan, @littlelovebug98, @lucisimpongod, @xochyw, @jaegerstan222 , @electro-supremacy, @mellytheteddy, @clover0310 , @soraya-daydreams, @priussy, @insanehumantinker, @staygoldsquatchling02, @nonksity, @hinata7346, @chososwhoresblog, @ynjimenez , @soraya-daydreams , @nonksity , @hinata7346 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @sad-darksoul , @sasuke-slut , @yuunie135 , @bratkuna , @aydene , @mshope16 , @pretentiousteentrash , @galactict3a , @kokos-property , @moonriseoverkyoto , @lyn-soso , @arilostie , @violetmatcha , @markleeisdabestdrug , @erensdior , @hp-simp505 , @fushiguro-kyuuuuuu , @bontensbabygirl , @switch-godess , @honey-yuh , @ddotsie

wanna join the taglist? | smoke and mirrors; chapter index

#smoke and mirrors ☄. *. ⋆#notiddygxthgf ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚#choso kamo #choso #choso x reader #choso x you #choso x jjk #choso kamo x reader #choso kamo x you #choso kamo jjk #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #choso fluff #choso angst #choso smut #choso kamo fluff #choso kamo smut

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