#no like leave the actors alone

[rsenicgirl]

can we stop talking about Luke's personal life it is getting weird and uncomfortable

[comatosebunny09]

2am | sylus

sum: your famous actor boyfriend takes you out for a drive, and then some. 2.6k words of cheesiness, vibes, and filth.

cw: actor!sylus au, female reader, fluff, language, p-in-v, pregnancy jokes, period mention, slight overstim, biting, marking, fingering, nipple-sucking, cheesiness, mdni

now playing: seoul city - jennie 0:01 ❍─────── 2:43 ↻ ⊲ Ⅱ ⊳ ↺

“Hungry,” you bemoan, rubbing your tummy. Your bottom lip juts out for good measure beneath the ambient wash of golden light in his bedroom. “I want chocolate.”

A light huff, followed by deft fingers closing around your wrist beneath the silken glide of bedsheets, answers you. “Late-night cravings again? You sure you aren’t pregnant?”

He chuckles and cringes away when you swat at him, expression not the slightest bit amused. 

“You know I’m not pregnant. And if I were, I’d kill you.” 

He props himself on an elbow and hand to study you, dragging the backs of his fingers down your exposed belly, tracking their lazy descent with smoldering, scarlet eyes. “I think you’d look beautiful carrying my child.”

Another smack, another laugh, another rustle of sheets. “Sylus, I swear to God—”

“Relax, sweetheart,” your boyfriend—God, it still makes you all warm and tingly calling him that—assuages, panning in for a taste of your lips. 

You groan into his mouth, a little lightheaded, a little breathless—a distraction. Of course. 

He draws back with a hand at the nape of your neck before you can fully surrender yourself.

“I’m merely teasing you. But you’ve had a sweet tooth nearly every night this week.”

You chew on your lip, sinking into the doughiness of his bed, toying with the stitching of his comforter. “My period must be coming on.”

He smooths his palm over your belly. The sheer size of it—how it swallows up the bulk of your flesh—makes your throat thicken. 

He’s contemplative, circling your navel with a short nail before exhaling slowly through his nostrils. “Would you like to go for a drive?”

You sit up faster than he can blink, the hem of his shirt brushing your thighs, radiating the energy of a golden retriever. “Can we?”

Sylus chuckles, an enamored sound, smile unguarded and wide as he boops your nose. “Sure, sweetheart. Get dressed.”

You don’t have to be told twice. And it���s comical, watching you fight the bedsheets for freedom, before you snatch your clothes from his armchair to race into the bathroom.

—

Sylus is territorial by nature. 

He’s not the biggest fan of people touching his things, especially the expensive ones. But you, being one of said things he covets, he gives a pass.

He lets you fill the cockpit of his car with your music, the sultry croon of R&B. It helps that he listens to everything. That you have similar tastes in music, and he’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time with it, bobbing his head, mouthing the lyrics.

You’re adorable, do you know that? So cute, he lets you roll down the windows and shove your head out, the summery, night air lapping over your cheeks and threading through your teeth and hair.

He grabs your thigh, gentle yet firm, kneading your warm skin. Can’t help the grin rounding his mouth, the warmth spilling through his chest. 

The street lights flanking the road glaze over the sleek outline of his car, the windshield, and he finds himself thinking he’d give it all up for a bit of normalcy with you like this every day.

—

It’s a quarter ‘til midnight when Sylus pulls his car into the convenience store’s parking lot. 

He parks on the side, tucked beneath the shadows and in the security cam’s blind spot. It’s alarming enough to see a luxury car at a store so quaint. He doesn’t want to draw too much attention to you—your relationship is pretty low-key, and he respects your desire to keep it that way, lest his fans and the press have a field day with your face.

After killing the engine, he tucks his hair into an obsidian baseball cap. Draws up the zipper of his leather jacket to his chin, slipping a mask over his nose and mouth. He contemplates putting on shades, but then he’d look too suspicious.

You follow suit, donning a matching hat—God, you’re both disgusting. He’d bought it for you when he got his, because, as he said, “couples should match.” 

You rolled your eyes when he presented it to you, accepting it with a smile, playful yet genuine.

You hold hands when you exit the car, fingers laced, tucked into his side, giggling and shoving against him.

The store’s motion sensor chimes when the pair of you duck inside, the cashier looking up from her magazine with a warm smile to greet you. 

He’s reluctant to, but he lets your fingers slip from his when you meander down the candy aisle, lost in your own little world. He shoves his hands into his jacket’s pockets, skimming over the various snacks and trinkets lining the shelves. Head on a swivel, on the lookout for anyone who might recognize him. Luckily, you’re the store’s only customers. 

He sidles up behind your bent-over form, a finger held to your chin in contemplation as if you’re defusing a bomb. He gives you a once-over, eyes crinkling. You fill your jeans to filth. He can’t help himself, molding his hand to the shape of your ass.

You give a start, casting a surprised look at him from your shoulder before narrowing your eyes. 

“Sir,” you clip, tone impish, haughty, “I’m a minor.”

Sylus scoffs, breath warm against the cloth of his mask. “If you’re a minor, then I’m an infant. Now who’s robbing the cradle?”

He stiffens, anticipating a smack. It never comes, but he winces when you brush past him, instead pinching his side, in pursuit of the freezers. 

He follows you like a watchful Doberman. Rolls his eyes at the junk food filling your arms, dropping his shoulders in defeat. He gives you wiggle room around this time of the month where he’d typically give you shit for eating like that.

When you’re done perusing nearly every aisle, you retreat to the front counter. You deposit your wares on the countertop, colorful bags spilling down the pile like lava. One of your candy bars slips, careening to the floor. He reflexively catches it, tapping you on the head with it before tossing it onto the counter.

“Would you like me to buy the entire convenience store next time?”

You pull a face, clearly sick of his shit. 

“I don’t know this man,” you say, turning your attention to the cashier. 

You tug your wallet from your back pocket to pay. But he beats you to the punch, that telltale black card held to the PIN pad with lightning speed. 

You exchange a look, a wordless argument, before your chin juts out defiantly. You gather your bags of processed junk before the cashier stops you, crow’s feet lining her eyes to match the mischievous cant of her lips. 

She slips something with a suspicious-looking rhino on its cover into one of your bags, sealing whatever drug deal she’s made with a wink. 

Sylus doesn’t miss the mortification sinking into your features before you zip out of the store, leaving him to blink bewildered at the trail of dust clouding in your wake.

—

He pretends to be annoyed when, on your way back to his penthouse, you fix him with those beseeching, puppy eyes, gentle fingers clasped around his wrist, begging him to stop at a drive-in restaurant for a milkshake. More specifically, a chocolate one.

“Are you sure you’re not pregnant?” he taunts over the quiet purr of his engine, garnering a fist to his chest.

He humors you nonetheless. He lives for these moments with you, free of the blaring set lights and scrutinizing eyes. Where he can adore you freely, have you all to himself, unhindered by your positions, your status. 

He watches you talk all sweet into the mic with his chin in his palm, elbow propped on the center console, ordering more than just a milkshake. 

You look back to ask if he wants anything, eyes round, face gorgeous, haloed by the halogen glow of the spotlight. He declines, figuring he’ll snatch whatever’s in your bag when you’re not looking. 

Food always tastes better when it’s someone else’s.

You swat at him when he digs into your carton for a mozzarella stick, blissfully munching on your spoils. 

“I asked if you wanted anything, and you said no.” You make a face, turning your chin up, mouth full of fried cheese.

The mild annoyance on his face transitions into something impish. And before you can blink, he pitches himself over the center console, kissing you nice and slow. Greedy, teasing, slipping his tongue into your mouth to milk a gasp from you. 

He draws back, fingers loose on the steering wheel, grin shit-eating. You’re gobsmacked, a half-eaten mozz stick pinched between your fingers, frozen halfway to your mouth. 

“Tastes better when it comes from you, anyway.”

You scoff, calling him a dork as he starts the car, trying to hide that shy little smile behind your hand.

—

It’s two in the morning by the time you’re back in his penthouse. Swathed in the soft glow of his cabinet lights, seated on the crisp kitchen floor in front of the fridge, legs entangled, laughter filling the tranquil atmosphere. 

You’re feeding each other chocolate-dipped strawberries. Your idea, donned in your bra and panties, Sylus in boxer briefs, as you try and fail to toss chocolate chips into his mouth. 

It’s sensual. Something like a dream. Two lovers untouched by the world, existing in each other’s presence without the fear of it being front-page news. 

Chocolate sauce drips down the swell of your cleavage while you’re halfway through a strawberry. He follows its languorous descent with ravenous eyes before pulling you, laughing and squealing, onto his lap. 

“Such a messy eater,” he drawls, smiling against your lips, your sides warm and doughy between his fingers. 

He kisses you, once, twice, the tang of strawberry intermingled with the flavor of your mouth. He then ducks down to seal his lips to your breast to swipe at the ganache sliding down with his tongue. Your giggles transition into a pleasured breath out, fingers automatically burying themselves into his hair, head thrown back. 

He growls low against your flesh, nipping it, sure to leave a bruise. You wind your hips against him, so deliciously out of your mind, so pretty, the apex of your thighs grinding pleasantly against his girth.

“Here?” he husks, moving to pay your unattended breast the same homage. “On the floor?”

You nod, biting your lip to contain your smile, your eyes closed. It’s increasingly difficult to focus with his mouth moving like that. With his teeth scraping your skin, with his cock bumping your clit just right, his arms wound tight around your waist, so thick, so reassuring.

He’s laying you down onto your back before you can think, slow and meticulous like an offering laid onto an altar, open-mouthed on your neck, voice thick and lustrous. 

You arch your back to let him unclasp your bra, lift your hips to help him slip your panties off. You adopt a look of innocence at the coquettish glimmer of his eyes. Trade it for a shaky sigh when he blisters your sternum with kisses, honey slow, maddening. 

He sucks one of your nipples into his mouth. Tortures you, circling it with wet precision, and when you bow into him, he closes a hand around your muff, two devilish fingers curling inward to test the stickiness of your opening. 

You lose it when they slip inside, slow and teasing at first, before splitting you nice and open. And you feel so full, complete, as he presses in, knuckle-deep, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit. Curls, pistons, scissors his fingers, maneuvering his mouth to seal around your other nipple, never once releasing you from the smoldering fire of his gaze.

When you’re writhing and begging in fragmented moans—more, please—pulling at his shoulders, his back, and you’ve thoroughly saturated his hand with your essence, he grants you mercy. Withdraws his fingers from the hot suction of your cunt, bringing them to his mouth for a sample.

You bear down on yourself, throb, at the sight, burning hot. He chuckles, watching you, voice smoky as mountain air, before reaching down, down, down to palm the intimidating swell of his cock beneath his briefs. 

Pulling himself free, underwear kicked off, he strokes himself, his massive hand swallowing up the bulk of his cock, the flared, angry-red tip. Your stomach pinches. Mouth waters. You sit up on your elbows, desperate to feel him stretching your jaw. But he pushes you back down with a hand at your belly, a flash of a furrow between his brows before that playful mask returns.

“Later,” he croaks as if reading your thoughts. Sensing your desire to please, to take care of him, much like he’s spoiled you from the moment he asked you to dinner some months back as you pressed concealer and powder beneath his eyes, to now.

You’re drawn from the cloud of your thoughts with a strained sound pushed between gritted teeth, as Sylus rubs his shaft between your labia, coating it with your slick. He’s pushing into you before you can think, blisteringly hot, thick, splitting you nice and open, the obscene squelch of your union luring twin groans from your throats. 

His biceps flex as he pitches himself forward, balancing on his hands on either side of your shoulders. And he eases fully home after a few agonizing strokes, buried deep, teeth gritted, eyes hooded as if struggling to keep himself from fucking you raw into the glacial, marbled floor.

He searches your gaze for any signs of discomfort. Offers you an out, a means to push him away in case you don’t want this. You smile fondly, tangling your fingers in his hair to draw him down for a kiss. Always so considerate, seeking reassurance, consent, despite having spread you open like this countless times before.

He takes his time breaking you down on his cock to build you back up. And it’s blinding white. Transcendental, how you leave your skin, your body, Earth, as your orgasm sparkles through you after what feels like hours of moving as one, your nails digging waning moons into the backs of his forearms, heels locked in the divots of his back.

He kisses you honey-slow. Loving, leaning on his elbows as you come down, thumbs swiping stray tears from your cheeks, before rocking into your shuddering walls in search of his own release.

He carries you, all boneless and spent, smiling like a fool, to his bedroom once you’ve both had your fill. Curls around you in his bed like you’re his primary source of warmth, his treasure, chin notched in the dip of your shoulder, hair ticklish against your cheek. 

“Sleep,” he tenderly instructs, exhausted, enamored. 

And as if under his command, you slink below the shadowy surface, heralded there by the evenness of his breath and the rigid safety of his body melded to yours.

—

You’re not at all surprised when you awaken the next morning to a suspiciously familiar, towering silhouette with a black cap plastered all over every major social media app. “With his mysterious lady friend,” reads every caption, your face luckily shrouded by the shadows of your cap in each grainy photo.

You groan, tossing yourself against his pillows. He grins sheepishly in your periphery, a naked Adonis beside you, winding those long arms around you to draw you back against him.

“Sorry,” he ruefully offers, blistering your neck and shoulder with apologetic kisses. “I should’ve known someone would recognize me.”

You plaster a hand over your face. Try not to smile. To laugh. Cry. You knew it was only a matter of time before someone spotted you together, before the rumors started, though you’re grateful your face was at least hidden.

You shake your head, stroking over the protruding bone of his wrist with a soothing thumb.

For now, you’ll risk your anonymity—continue to risk your career—if only to remain by his side. 

[gunsatthaphan]

something very lgbt is gonna transpire in that scene I know it 👁️

[andacherrycoke]

I do feel bad for all the buddie shippers that are normal and don’t put shit in their dms or show up to set or even worse, their fucking hotel but damn like if they’re as tired of it as they seem I don’t blame them at this point. They’ve had to deal with way too much over a ship

[rhaesaria]

I hate celebrity interviews where they’re forced to talk about memes or shipping or thirst posts. There needs to be a steel wall with barbed wire and armed guards to separate fandom and actors/writers.

[covertblizzard]

jaykyle au where they're theatre kids in the same school but they're not the actors jason's the scriptwriter/director and kyle is the prop manager (i don't know the official terms sorry) and they'd probably do an amazing job on the backstage setting if they could stop arguing for 5 whole seconds about their artistic visions and ideas and how "this would obviously work better this way"

[beif0ngs]

at this point, i'm just in awe at how they f*cked up a live action adaptation of ATLA twice... TWICE 🤦

[kalied0skull]

my dumb habits in art is always going "does it look right? i feel like it doesn't look like him :(" as if the character in question even has a 'look' when they're a book character

[talknerdytome18]

Anyone who is actively participating in that "Chop Campus" community on Twitter needs to go get a job.

No amount of dislike you have for the Off-Campus show casting will ever justify making fun of the actors appearances online. You're nothing more than a bully. Calling real people ugly all because you're upset your shitty TikTok fancast didn't get cast makes you look like a fucking loser.

Grow up, honestly. If you really don't like it that much, then don't watch the show. Nobody is holding you at gunpoint to watch it.

[thebigmtm]

how do we feel about michael being 6 feet 7 inches tall

[ingravinoveritas]

How did u feel with the age gap question was it pr or do u really think he meant it and this was the truth

This is referring to the question asked on The Assembly last night. I'll post the clip here, for those who haven't seen it yet:

A lot of what I felt while watching this was touched on in this incredibly thoughtful post from @body-face-words, so I encourage folks to give that a read. But I think for me, when it comes to Michael's answer, it's not a matter of whether he lied or told the truth. It's that his response was sweet, but it was also a version of the truth that sounded convincing because it needed to, because this was not a time or place where he could say what he actually felt.

I'm really not sure what people expected him to say, in all honesty, as he was never going to say anything that would make him or Anna look bad, and especially not anything that could potentially negatively impact the kids, so he instead gave a very perfect PR answer. This again does not come as a surprise because we know Michael has scripted his answers about AL/their relationship in the past, but I noticed how careful he was in his response, which seems to contrast with how off-the-cuff he normally is when discussing every other subject. Part of what so many of us love about Michael is how unfiltered he is and always has been, with the exception of how much he filters and edits himself when talking about Anna.

It also seemed like, at least from my perspective, that Michael answered the question without answering the question. What the girl asked wasn't so much about the age gap, but about AL being five years older than Michael's daughter Lily, and it would've been a perfect opportunity for him to mention her, or how the relationship with AL affected his and Lily's relationship. He could've talked about the falling out he had with her (and Kate) in 2019 once AL's existence/pregnancy came to light, and what has happened in the years since, or how Lily now gets along with Anna/her half-sisters. But instead Michael deflected from all of that and talked about everything while saying nothing at the same time.

It was also the things Michael didn't say that stood out as much as the things he did. In the entire answer to the question, Michael never once used the word "love." Prior to the show airing, I saw a lot of people online confident that he would say that he loves Anna, but he never did. He never praised her, never talked about the things he loves about her, or how glad he is to be with her. He never once mentioned her by name. The pivot and focus was on the kids, and there was a clear distinction made between how happy he is to have the family he does, rather than to be in the relationship that he is in. Michael's use of the phrase "very happy" was also identical to the wording of a comment AL wrote on Instagram the other day, which added to the whole "reinforcing a public narrative" feeling of his response.

I think what struck me most of all, though, was how somber and heavyhearted Michael sounded while saying how happy he is. It reminded me of the song "I Am a Rock" by Simon & Garfunkel, where the upbeat and cheerful music contrasts starkly with the fraught, angry lyrics. There was no sparkle in Michael's eyes when he said it, no enthusiasm for what he was saying (which is particularly jarring when we know Michael has the capacity for incredible enthusiasm), and his face never lit up while he was talking.

There was one specific moment (which is also highlighted in the body language post) where he seemed to visibly wince and the micro-expressions were in overdrive, and it immediately made me think of a moment from Good Omens:

Time and again, I have seen fans talk about Michael's micro-expressions as an actor and how he uses them to such devastating effect (especially in the role of Aziraphale). And while these two moments are not completely identical, the idea of ignoring how Michael uses those same micro-expressions in real life makes no sense to me at all. In this instance, what we're seeing could be either because he has put so much of himself into Aziraphale that we can now recognize those "Michael" moments...or it could be because in both clips he is performing, albeit for different reasons.

The difference between Michael when he is doing this vs. when he is being genuinely himself is made even more apparent by the question immediately following this one. Unprompted, he brings up David, and the change in his expression and demeanor is swift and dramatic:

Having the mention of David happen so soon after the AL question seemed to highlight so many things. I can't help but feel that David is a security blanket for Michael, something he hides behind when he is feeling anxious or sad or overwhelmed. I wondered if perhaps he was even already thinking of David while answering the AL question, which would explain why he named him so readily--as if his mind needed to drift to someplace else just to finish answering that question.

To me, this made it abundantly clear that David is Michael's safe place. Here was where we saw Michael's eyes sparkling. Here was where we saw him light up from the inside. And it was David he kept returning to and bringing up during the rest of the show in response to other questions. So if that doesn't speak volumes about where Michael's heart seems to be, I'm not sure what does.

So yes, those are my thoughts on Michael answering the age gap question on The Assembly. As always, this is just my interpretation, but I am glad to hear from my followers with your take as well. Thanks for writing in! x

[hazardpossum]

‘Hes so cute and innocent omg my baby boy’

THAT IS A GROWN ASS MAN WITH A HAIRY COCK AND BALLS

[djungleskogs]

i think analysing oliver’s facial expressions and social media to figure out whether or not he hates one of his coworkers is weird behaviour sorry ! i also think the insistence that the entire 911 cast hates lou and his cameos based on nothing but vibes is weird behaviour too !! it very much feels like a good chunk of the anti-bucktommy section of twitter has a weird parasocial relationship with oliver stark specifically.

also tbh who cares if oliver and lou hate each other they don’t write the show. it would have zero impact on whether bucktommy survives the next two episodes or not. like thank god i use tumblr because every time i open twitter its just people spreading absolute negativity and insisting that everything oliver does is a sign that he hates lou so much and that’s why bucktommy is bones like no wonder he deleted that app. if i were him i would be cursing them out all day every day

[bitchthefuck1]

"Kieran Culkin couldn't disagree with Jeremy Strong in person he only said he doesn't like when people call actors storytellers in a separate interview, they're literally Kendall and Roman 😭😭😭" first of all can we please not project characters' personal issues/dynamics onto their actors, and secondly, idk how to tell you this but if someone is being vulnerable about something personal that they feel really strongly about, particularly in a group setting, but you happen to disagree with a mostly irrelevant part of how they said it that isn't the primary focus of their point, not immediately nitpicking them about how they personally conceptualize something isn't a sign that you're afraid to contradict them or that you have childhood trauma or whatever, it's literally just reading the room and being polite. That's like common sense, I fear.

[demadogs]

i love yellowjackets you know i love yellowjackets but i cannot get over how fucking stupid it is that they cast new background actors for the wilderness

[inquirics]

a fairy loses its wings every time i see queer fcs (with very queer vibes) being written as het / in het ships …