#one of the most romantic films of all time and they barely touch

[anotherfallenchild]

This is aziracrow to me if you all even care

https://youtu.be/m8GuedsQnWQ?si=A1W5_vMd89gV9GNe

[hvlcy0n]

SAY IT (PT. 1) . . . hayato suo x fem!reader

+ you’ve never reciprocated any of suo’s confessions of love, but a chance to eavesdrop on a conversation among you and your friends grants him all the insight he needs.

+ 4.2k words

+ NSFW (MINORS DNI) // UNEDITED // brief mentions of sex // mentions of edging at the end // brief mentions of overstimulation // mentions of past heartbreak/insecurities // established relationship // manipulation // i got all the big stuff but i’m definitely forgetting some minor stuff i’m just tired of looking at this

+ this is my first time writing suo so plEASE cut me some slack, i got tired of seeing it every time i opened google docs. i left any descriptions/names of your friends extremely vague on purpose so you can fill in whoever. the NEXT part of this will be centered around smut, but this one was more just kinda the build-up to his decision to push you out of your comfort zone.

suo has always been able to see right through you.

granted, that was his area of expertise—the ability to pierce through people’s defenses as if they were nothing more than a gossamer film and unearth whatever information he resolved to discover. he was regarded as dangerous by both allies and enemies, capable of sinking his fingertips into peoples’ psyches and peeling back the layers until their self–control began to fracture and ruby welled beneath his touch and trickled down to obscure his opponents’ vision in an all–consuming bloodlust that left them vulnerable and uncoordinated. 

he had a critical eye and a terrifying intuition; and while his friends wouldn’t trade him for the world, they were also aware of the uncharted territory of suo’s complex character—not to mention the existence of a small distance between them that had been discreetly established by suo himself. while he genuinely enjoyed the presence of his friends, he valued his privacy and space, and he often kept information about him restricted. he was more enigmatic than anything else. 

so, when suo offhandedly mentioned having a girlfriend, they were shocked. although emotionally intelligent, none of his friends pegged him as a romantic, his secrecy and manipulative tactics seemingly too insurmountable an obstacle in a relationship. generally, he was kind and respectful, but his demeanor could flip on a dime in the face of discourteous behavior. he could be mean—unfair.  it wasn’t uncommon for him to mask his slick tongue and cruelty behind refined language and his gentlemanly composure as he subjected his targets to public humiliation. sometimes, his emotions could get the better of him, and he could be frightening when they do. a gentleman? maybe. but there’s more nuance to him than that.

unbeknownst to them, suo was remarkably softer with you. warmth and genuine kindness emanated from every content smile and careful dance of his hands over your skin, calloused fingertips bearing an ardent reverence that would cause even aphrodite to flush. the sharp edge to his tongue smoothed, his teasing light-hearted and devoid of the faint, underlying drip of venom that could sometimes be heard punctuating his words if someone listened closely enough. when he observed you, his eyes glowed with innocuous curiosity and rather than distant analysis. 

the more time he spent with you, the more he could read you like an open book, deft fingertips tracing over even your most tattered, weathered pages and the most smudged ink to wholly bare the contents of your soul to him. he sought to know you in your entirety—your likes and dislikes, how you like to be touched, how you react to certain things. after all, the more he knows about you, the better he can protect you. 

the better he can love you.

love.

that’s a tricky subject for you to navigate, he’s learned.

you were never one to shy away from his affection. in fact, you clearly delighted in the attention he lavished you with. there was never a question as to whether you would hurry to lace your fingers with his if he reached out to you, if you would lean into his caresses, or if you would let him pepper kisses across your cheeks. you were so receptive to his ministrations, so much so that it was almost natural for your body to drift toward his in search of some sort of closeness. whatever he doled out, you returned, and that included the light banter and flirtatious remarks you two often exchanged. you fascinated him, kept him on his toes. 

the only area of your relationship that you fell short in was verbal confessions of love. suo knew that you were fiercely protective of your heart, already having subjected it to enough bruises and scrapes throughout your life to make you want to guard it to the best of your abilities. he was fortunate as it was that you had trusted him enough to relinquish it to him.

he knew that you were still learning to navigate the choppy waters of vulnerability—true vulnerability. it was easy enough to bask in suo’s attention and rely on his ability to comprehend the unspoken, but to say the words aloud would be to speak it into being, to charge the universe with the magnetic force that will bind your fate to his, to make it real. you never said anything that you didn’t mean, and suo understood that after all your hard work fortifying your emotions, to openly admit it would require you to let down your guard entirely and let him in.

there’s no doubt in his mind that you love him. he can feel it in the way you pour every ounce of heartfelt emotion into the kisses you press to his lips, your dedication toward memorizing and analyzing all of his microexpressions so that you can understand him on a deeper level, and the adoration that pools in your eyes like molten honey as you observe him when you think he isn’t paying attention. only a fool would mistake the depth of your feelings. 

he can read you like a book, that much is true, but it’s much more enjoyable to have it read to him line–by–line than to flip through the pages on his own. 

it’s quite endearing, actually, the way your skin would warm and your brain would stall whenever his lips would brush a saccharine “i love you” over the shell of your ear, or the way goosebumps would scatter across your skin and you would clench around him whenever he’d pair the words with a well–timed thrust inside you. he thrives off flustering you and witnessing your demeanor crumble into a delightful shyness that never fails to cause a small smile to tug at the corners of his lips.

even so, he sometimes finds himself yearning for that reassurance that you’re as irrevocably enamored with him as he is with you—that you crave him the way he craves you. he understands that it’s greedy of him and that he should tamp down such self–centered emotions. he knows what your feelings toward him are; it would be inconsiderate of him to pry you out of your shell until you’re ready in order to satisfy his own desires. the concept of love operates differently for different people, and he can accept that. 

it always slips his mind how swiftly things can change.

it was a complete coincidence when he’d stumbled upon you in the outdoor seating area of a restaurant, accompanied by a few  friends of yours. he recalled you telling him that you were going out for lunch with them, but he had no idea that his outing in search of a new pair of shoes to replace his worn ones would cause your paths to cross. he hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on your conversation, only to simply greet you and then continue about his business, but he paused when he heard his name leave one of your friends’ lips.

“so, are you and suo still together?”

oh? before he can even acknowledge the gravity of contravening your privacy, his body is sparked into motion all on its own. he’s quick to retreat, melting into the slanted shadow proffered by the slim alleyway he had been poised to exit, just beyond the scope of your view.

he’s well aware that this is an infraction of the trust you extended to him, but he forces himself to disregard the prick of guilt aside in favor of potentially learning valuable information about the inner workings of your brain. it may not be ideal, but it’s for the best, he reasons. what if you reveal to your friends ways that he could better serve as your boyfriend? what if you feel more comfortable explaining to your friends your reservations about returning his heartfelt confessions? besides, the conversation is technically also centered around him, so surely it would be rude to bar him from listening in.

“of course,” the thought of you denying your relationship was never a concern for suo. you both trust each other implicitly, but to hear you stake such an immediate, explicit claim over him rouses a ticklish spark of delight in his stomach all the same. you scoff, as if the idea was so improbable it was ridiculous. “i’ll tie that man up in my basement before i let him just leave.” suo chuckles gently to himself. perhaps you truly are as invested as he is, after all.

“the dick must be fucking life–altering, if that’s the case.” she laughs. “come on, tell us. is it?”

“wh—” suo’s lips settle into a small, amused smile as he watches you flounder under her questioning, eyes feverishly flitting to your other friends for help, only for each one of them to leave you to drown with their own wide–eyed, inquisitive stares. “oh, my god, i’m not telling you that!” nervous laughter wracks your chest. suo’s shrewd gaze can practically perceive the memories flickering through your brain as you try to maintain your composure, each one spliced together in a salacious collage that has blood thrumming beneath your skin. suo has always been one to fine–tune his craft, and his perfectionism extended to the bedroom as he used his meticulous attention to detail and acute awareness of your reactions to guide you to your peak over . . . and over . . . and over again until he was satisfied.

and of course, you knew that.

“but seriously,” another girl props her elbow on the table and rests her chin on her palm, observing you closely. “i’ve never seen you like this before. before him, you were all ‘ew, gross, men’—not to say that isn’t still valid, but y’know. maybe suo really is a good match for you.”

“do you love him?” the first girl pipes up ecstatically.

now we’re getting somewhere.

it requires significant concentration for suo not to laugh outright when a jolt of surprise grips your body, your muscles visibly tensing and eyes rounding. your lips part to speak, but the words remain wedged in your throat. “i—uh . . .”

“wait, for real?” the third girl, who had remained quiet this entire time, finally speaks up. “do you not actually love him?”

this time, when you don’t at least make an effort to deny their claims, suo’s smile begins to wilt. from suo’s angle, your expression is sapped of the typical bashfulness he had been anticipating. rather, your features are murky with conflict, brows furrowed pensively and fingertips drumming against the chilled glass of the untouched beverage sitting between your palms. for the first time in a while, he can’t read you, and while he’s always enjoyed a bit of reticence and mystery, he doesn’t want it like this—not when such uncertainty is founded on the future of his relationship. did he misunderstand you somehow? was he wrong? no, there’s no way that you’d have done everything you did if you didn’t harbor some type of love for him. it’s simply not plausible. right? 

the silence is unnerving, causing a chasm of apprehension to split his stomach and swallow up the candlelit flicker of warmth that once resided in his chest. he’s never been an anxious individual, typically collected and level–headed under pressure. in fact, he’s always prided himself on his ability to remain composed; but now, as he stands here, body stiff and heart thumping as he waits for you to continue, he figures that love really is one hell of a drug. only the wideness of his eyes betrays his usual poise, but even that would be enough for any of his friends to notice that something is amiss. well, mature as he may be and as far above the fragility of human nature that others believe he is, he’s still only human. and it’s times like this that remind him that he’s still weak.

god, how far has he fallen? how much power did he give you?

“all this time, i thought you guys were in love.” the second girl gasps, hand flitting up to cover her mouth. “so, what’s going on? what’s wrong with him?”

“nothing!” you’re quick to find your voice to defend him, but for some reason, it doesn’t ease the tightness in his chest or the worried spin of his mind. “he’s wonderful, it’s just—”

“is he mean to you?” the second girl presses. “because if he is, i can—”

“he’s obviously not mean to her if she’s still with him.” the first girl retorts, silencing her with a dismissive wave of her hand. before the second girl can argue, she continues. “it could just be that it’s too early for her to know if she does.”

“it’s been months.” the third girl points out. “something has to be up if she doesn’t love him—”

“i do!”

suo’s fingers twitch.

your friends fall silent as the words burst from your chest, unwavering and aflame with conviction. your voice quiets as you fold your arms over your chest and lean back in your chair, eyes still fixated on the cup in front of you. “i do love him, it’s just . . . i’ve never felt like this for anyone, and i don’t know what to do. it feels so real and intense, and it’s scary.”

your words reverberate through suo’s mind as he expels a breath he didn’t notice was wedged in his chest. “i do love him.” his entire body seems to decompress, the tension in his muscles alleviating. “i’ve never felt like this for anyone.” suddenly, your hesitance makes sense. not only were you protective of your heart to begin with, but the magnitude of the importance of this was much larger and therefore more frightening than he realized. suo’s heart swells in his chest at your confession, pride licking up his sternum to grace the apples of his cheeks with a feather–light kiss of ruby. he’s honored to be the first person you’re entrusting with such a privilege—well, even if he’s not supposed to know about it yet.

“what do you mean, you don’t know what to do?” the first girl stares at you as if you’ve sprouted a second head. she flips her hands over with her palms facing toward the sky. “tell him?”

“i can’t just do that!” this time, it’s your turn to look at her like she just told you she ran over a family of five with her chevy tahoe, and suo chuckles.

“and why not?” she flops back in her seat incredulously.

“i just told you, it’s scary!” you insist matter–of–factly. “you remember the last guy i was with? it lasted one month, and in that amount of time, i aged thirty years and had stress levels that would’ve gotten me sent to the emergency room.”

suo hums softly in surprise. you didn’t tell him about that. of course, he had suspected that someone had dragged you through the trenches prior to accepting him as your boyfriend, but he felt as though that was a topic that would be better left to your discretion. you would tell him if you wanted him to know, so he never questioned you.

“yeah, but suo is way better than him.” the third girl reminds you. “at least, i think so. i only met the guy like twice.”

“helpful.” the second girl remarks dryly.

“no, he seriously is so much better.” you insist. “he’s everything i could’ve asked for, but it’s just . . . exposing myself like that would mean he has everything he needs to hurt me, and if i end up flat on my ass again, i don’t know what i’m gonna do. and i know he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, but . . . ugh, this is impossible.” you let your head loll back. 

there’s a brief stretch of silence before the second girl speaks up again, and this time, her voice has flattened into a deadpan. “girl.” she blinks at you. “that’s the issue?”

clearly not anticipating that reaction, you stare blankly at her for a moment, searching for the right words. “i—what?” you bristle defensively. “what’s that supposed to mean? is that suddenly not a good reason to bare my heart and soul to this man?”

“no, it’s actually really not.” the third girl joins the second’s campaign. she scoots forward in her seat and folds her hands delicately on the table. “let’s reflect. this is suo we’re talking about. this is the same man who stayed the night and took care of you religiously when you were sick with food poisoning from your first date, the same man who gave you earrings similar to his for your birthday, and the same man who showed up at your house in the pouring rain with nothing but the clothes on his back to accompany you when that storm knocked your power out—as a ‘friend.’” 

“why did you use air quotes around the word ‘friend?’” the first girl narrows her eyes at the third.

“because he was playing the long game, okay? he was plotting. stay with me now.” she answers quickly, placing her hand on the first girl’s knee. 

suo chuckles, raising his brows. he has to admit, your friends are impressive.

“so,” the third girl continues. “those are just a couple examples, but it’s crystal clear that suo is devoted. like he’s in this to stay.”

“or he’s some sort of supervillain.” the second girl interjects.

“don’t say that!” the third girl snaps, aghast. “no, yeah, you’re right. the ‘untouchable’ furin graduate who took a bat to the ribs just to keep her safe is definitely here to create lifelong trauma for her. anyway, as i was saying,” she turns back to you, “if that’s not enough, think about it this way. suo is really private, right?”

“right.” you nod.

“well, he was probably in a similar boat as you, then. i mean, you said that you were worried that you’d be giving him what he needs to hurt you, but the inverse is also true, and he already told you he loves you. he trusted you not to hurt him with that information, so you should be able to trust him not to do that to you, either.”

“that’s . . . wait,” the wheels rotate in your brain as you mull over her advice, and your hand drifts up to conceal your mouth in a moment of clarity. “oh, shit. no, wait, yeah, you may have a point. i didn’t think about it like that.”

“that’s what you have us for.” the third girl grins.

“so, does that mean you’re gonna tell him?” the second girl quirks a brow at you. “maybe? probably? hopefully?”

“uh . . . probably not . . .” you wince, only to jump when you’re promptly subjected to an onslaught of groans and complaints from your friends.

“dude, what the fuck?” 

“i know, i’m sorry!” you yelp.

“did you get nothing out of the conversation?”

“no, i did, i swear!” your desperate attempts to defend yourself against your friends are fractured by bouts of laughter. “trust me, i did.”

“so, what’s the problem now?” the second girl drags her palm exhaustedly down her cheek.

“the issue is that it’s still embarrassing!” you whine. “you literally said it yourself earlier. i’ve never been like this—ever! just thinking about saying it makes me wanna crawl in a hole. it makes me feel, like, exposed or some shit, i don’t know—quit looking at me like that! i don’t know how else to explain it!”

“don’t piss me off.”

 “what?” your lips pop open in indignation. “but—”

suo’s slender fingers settle delicately over his lips as he chuckles to himself and steps completely behind the alley corner. his eyelids flutter low, gaze soft with contentment, as he listens to you scramble to defend yourself against your frustrated friends. it’s alright, they’ve done plenty. he can take it from here.

the conversation bounced around between the four of you has certainly altered the circumstances, providing you with the clarity needed to shed your reservations about setting yourself up for a potential heartbreak and unfurling the remaining layers of your defense to reveal the lingering issue still barring you from being honest about your feelings. at this point, it seems to no longer be about you being ill–equipped and underprepared to handle such a divulgence, which he could certainly accept. now, it appears to be about disentangling yourself from the binds of shame and embarrassment. about you requiring a little push in the right direction—well, less of a small nudge and more of a guiding hand that you would trust to unravel you down to the strings of your heart.

fortunately for you, there is no one more aware of what loose threads of yours to tug on in order to achieve his goal than suo himself.

maybe it’s unfair of him to change his mind and concoct an excuse to denounce the leniency and understanding that had been fueling his patience thus far. maybe it’s unfair of him to take the initiative to strip you of the protective cocoon he had previously been more than prepared to allow you to reside in. maybe it’s unfair of him to press you, to utilize his silver tongue and honeyed words to draw out your rawest and most vulnerable state.

but when the opportunity has practically tripped and fallen into his lap, how could he not? it isn’t as if it would be a detriment to you. he has never led you astray, and he certainly isn’t going to start now. 

a venereal plan is already brewing in the back of his mind as he mulls over how to best extract such a confession from you. no matter what type of attitude you may acquire or how sturdy you believe your resistance to be, pleasure has never failed to whittle and melt you down into a pliant puddle that’s all soft edges and hazy, trusting eyes. an even trade—a release only he can provide for the secret you’re trying so hard to keep from him? this evening, perhaps, if he plays his cards right. you don’t have plans tomorrow, which means you certainly can’t be too angry if he keeps you awake into the darkest hours of the night. 

he can practically feel the ghost of the warmth of your skin under his fingertips as he keeps you pinned so that you can’t escape his ministrations, taste the salt brimming in your tears of frustration as you war between your pride and surrendering to the pleasure he plans to dangle in front of you, and hear your whines and moans as he keeps you just barely balanced on the precipice of release. he can already predict how you’ll label him as mean—manipulative, even. and maybe he is.

he’s only human, after all. 

and what would humans be if not flawed? if not a bit cruel? if not a bit . . . selfish?

[yansolivan]

Between the Lines — Caleb x Reader/MC

summary : Caleb had loved her for years - decades, maybe. Quietly, carefully and always from a distance. He let her do anything she wanted with him: leaning on him, using him as a swatch for her lipsticks, holding his hands - even kissing him on the cheek during his graduation in front of everyone. And he didn't say a single word. Five times he almost confessed, but immediately took it back or brushed it off - until he didn't hide anymore.

setting : alternate universe - canon divergence (no explosion, no EVER)

contents : 5 + 1 times, love confession, romantic tension, sexual tension, oblivious reader, mutual pining, yearning caleb, childhood best friends, first kiss, no use of y/n.

3,5k words – one shot

The first time where Caleb almost confessed his was during their Sundays' film nights. She invited him over, as always, to watch their favourite show.

They were both sitting on the couch, lights off except for the soft glow coming from the television. Caleb had one arm wrapped around her waist, his thumb mindlessly rubbing in circles while she had her head nestled on his shoulder. Caleb slowly shifted in his seat, trying to make her feel more comfortable by resting her head on his firm chest, her hair tickling his chin as he rested it on her head.

Except for his heart beating a bit faster than usual, he was feeling fine; yes, maybe not completely focused on the show, but no strange feelings or needs to confess his love to her. That is until she unconsciously gripped his shirt in her sleep. That was enough for him to stop breathing for some seconds. He didn’t move, not for a long time, scared that if he did she would wake up and see how much of a mess he was.

His eyes were on the screen, but he couldn’t hear anything but her soft breathing, his mind spiralling with all the things he wanted to confess right there, when she was deep asleep and not able to hear him. Hesitating, he reached down enough to place a featherlight kiss on her head, his lips not moving from there as he closed his eyes, slowly inhaling her scent.

It made his body shiver as electricity rushed through his veins. His grip on her waist tightened just enough for him to realise he was losing control, so he pulled back enough to grab a blanket, shifting her so delicately that she could swear she was on a cloud and covering her.

After looking at her with a hint of a smile on his lips, he turned off the television and went back home, the cold air of the night helping him to calm down his racing heart.

The second time happened because of alcohol. Caleb wasn’t someone who drank too much, he barely touched the glass, and most of all he didn’t really like parties. That time he was there because she asked him, and how the hell was he supposed to tell her no? Especially when he knew guys would try to hit on her.

The party was too loud, too hot, and Caleb was already calculating how long he had to stay before he could leave without looking rude. He was halfway through nursing a warm non-alcoholic drink when he heard her laugh — that particular laugh she only did when she was tipsy: too loud and too bright.

Then she spotted him.

“Caleb!” she called out like she didn’t see him in weeks, even though they texted less than an hour before. She stumbled over, drink sloshing a little in her hand, cheeks flushed and eyes shining. She was a mess. A beautiful mess. A mess that Caleb loved with every fibre of his being.

Before he could say anything, she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him in. Thankfully his reflexes acted before his mind could think, catching her instinctively as his hands found her waist like second nature. Her body was soft and warm against his, smelling like vanilla and vodka and something distinctly her which always made his head spin.

“You’re my favorite person,” she mumbled, her lips grazing the shell of his ear. And his pulse stuttered. Her perfume was dizzying enough for him, but those words only melted his brain.

“Someone’s had fun tonight,” he said anyway, trying for lightness, trying not to read into the way she’s pressing into him like she belonged there. Like she wanted him even half as much as he craved her.

“Mmm,” she hums. “I missed you.” And he laughed under his breath, raising a brow at her. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him — barely inches between them. Only then Caleb realised how close they actually were and he had to physically contain a groan. Her pupils were blown wide, her gaze unfocused but soft. For a second, he let himself wonder. If she leaned in just a little more. If he closed that tiny gap. The words were ready in his throat, but that single second where he wondered if it could work was enough for her to change subject.

She giggled and said, “You’d be so good for Tara.” probably not even realising how stupid she sounded. He didn’t even speak to Tara that much.

His smile faltered, just a single second. She would have been able to notice it, if only she was sober. “Yeah?” She nodded, then rested her head on his shoulder like she had done it a thousand times. “You’re nice. You’d take care of her.”

He wrapped his arms around her more securely, holding her like she wasn’t unknowingly shattering him. “Thanks,” he said quietly. This girl really was an idiot. An oblivious idiot. And he loved every inch of her, even if it was infuriating sometimes.

Later, when she started to drift and her words slur together, he took her back home. He grabbed her a glass of water and some painkillers, knowing that the next day she would be tired and hurting. He made sure she ate something before tucking her up, ready for bed.

And when she texted him the next morning — “Thanks for looking out for me, Caleb. You’re the best” — he just replies:

— “Anytime, pipsqueak.” —

The third time was on the rooftop bar: loud, strung with fairy lights and buzzing with Friday night energy. Caleb was nursing his drink, half-listening to the conversation around him, when she sat beside him, effortlessly close. “Hey,” she said, nudging his shoulder with hers. “Come meet Jenna from work!”

He followed her across the rooftop, weaving through bodies and laughter, and landed in front of a tall girl with cool eyeliner and sharper face features. “This is Caleb,” she said, turning to introduce him, already grinning. “My best friend.”

Just like that.

Not “my favorite person” or “my partner in crime.” Just best friend — simple, easy, devastating. He smiled, though. Of course. He always did. And of course he knew that was exactly what they were, but it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

Jenna smirked, as if she sensed something in Caleb’s behaviour. “Best friend, huh?” There was a hint of suggestion in her voice, the kind people always thought was harmless. Which it wasn’t, since Caleb’s heart stopped every single time.

“Oh my god,” she laughed, waving it off. “We’ve literally known each other forever. He’s like—family.” Something in Caleb’s chest tightens. Just enough to notice. But he quickly rolled his eyes playfully, if only his jaw didn’t tighten.

Jenna looked him over again, eyebrows raised. “You single?” And Caleb was caught off guard for a second, then recovered. “Yeah.”

“You should meet my roommate,” she said, probably innocently. “She could be kind of your type. Quiet, but cute and soft.” He catch her glance out of the corner of his eye — the one who called him family five seconds ago — but she was just sipping her drink while looking away, uninterested. He internally sighed before turning half his attention back to Janna.

Later, when they were walking back to the car alone, she looped her arm through his like she always did. Warm, casual, possessive in a way that doesn’t mean anything, of course.

She leaned in close, just enough for her hair to tickle his jaw, and whispered, “Jenna’s roommate’s not actually your type. Don’t let her set you up.” That made Caleb’s heart falter.

“Yeah?” he asked, not looking at her. His eyes were fixed in front of them, or otherwise he would have jumped on her right there and then. “No,” she said casually and smiled. “You don’t like soft, perfect girls.”

She didn’t know that it was her he had always been measuring everyone against. Didn’t know that, to him, perfection looked a lot like the way her voice dipped when she was sleepy. Or how she still waited for him to unlock the passenger door before getting in, like some kind of habit he never asked her to form.

He didn’t say any of that, of course. He just smiled like it didn’t matter. But his eyes spoke volumes, and he hoped that she wasn’t looking at him too closely.

After that, she leaned her head on his shoulder like nothing was wrong. And Caleb thought he was foolish for thinking that might mean anything.

The fourth time started like most nights did — casually. She texted him something dumb around midnight:

Pipsqueak <3

Why do all the guys I like turn out to be emotionally stunted or mildly cursed

Pipsqueak <3

Not you though. You’re the blueprint.

He grinned at his screen in the dark, lit only by the glow of the conversation. Of course he was; she just didn’t like him back. And he was fine with that.

You

Lucky me.

Pipsqueak <3

Unlucky me.

You’re the only one I can actually talk to and you’re not allowed to be THIS hot. It’s rude.

He typed out three different responses and deleted them all. How the hell was he supposed to answer to that. Finally, he simply decided to change subject.

You

Go to sleep.

Pipsqueak <3

Make me.

He knew she was laying in bed right now, messy bun slipping out, one leg under the blanket and one out, probably squinting at her phone with that half-drunk-on-sleep smile. The thought made his body shiver and a sigh escape his lips, closing his eyes as his mind was filled with scenarios where he finally shut her up like he really wanted to. But he had to regain control over himself quickly.

You

Seriously, you’re gonna pass out mid-sentence.

Pipsqueak <3

No I’m not. I’m not even tiredddddsdds

That was the last one for a while. He watched the typing bubble appear and disappear a few times, like something was on her keyboard. Probably she was trying to stay awake for him, but she didn’t succeed.

He hovered over the keyboard for way too long before typing something.

You

Sometimes I think I’m in love with you.

You

And sometimes I know.

He stared at those for a long, long time. Then deleted them. It was stupid and reckless and only the gods knew what could happen if she woke up and read them. Instead, he sent another one.

You

Night, trouble. Talk tomorrow.

The message marked as delivered, but not read. He sighed deeply as he placed his phone on the bedside table, groaning and biting down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. He was going insane. He felt like he might explode anytime soon.

She texted back the next morning, bright and chipper. As if he didn’t literally confess his feelings.

Pipsqueak <3

Sorry if I passed out lol. You still there for brunch?

And of course he was.

The fifth time was probably his last straw. It started innocently, as it always did with her in his life.

She was getting ready for something — dinner with friends, maybe even a date (Caleb didn’t ask, not sure if he wanted to know the answer) — and her vanity was cluttered with open lipsticks and makeup brushes. He was sitting on the edge of her bed, scrolling aimlessly and pretending he was not watching her more than his screen.

She turned around suddenly, holding two lipstick tubes like a challenge. Caleb knew that look only meant troubles for his soft heart. “I need your face,” she says.

He lifted a brow, the phone already forgotten on the bed. “That’s… not terrifying at all.” She just grinned. “Don’t be dramatic! Your skin tone is close to mine, and I need to see which one looks better in natural light.”

Before he could even think of arguing, she straddled his legs and settled on his lap like it was the most normal thing in the world and not the hottest thing on earth. Caleb’s breath stopped, heart not beating anymore in his chest and, before he could realise it, then her hand was under his chin, tilting his face to the light. “Stay still.”

She swiped on the first lipstick on her lips — a deep red that made her look dangerous and impossible — and leaned in without hesitation. Her lips pressed softly to his right cheek, a perfect print blooming against his skin. She pulled back slightly, examining her work like a painter checking brushstrokes with a thoughtful look.

“Too harsh,” she murmured.

And Caleb? He was still frozen, trying to will his heart rate into something survivable. He was fighting the urge to grab her waist, pull her down and let her know how fucked up he was and how fucked up he was going to make her and–

She leaned in again and kissed the other cheek, this time slower, more thoughtful, more like she knew what the hell was happening inside Caleb’s head. He didn’t dare moving, too afraid that his body would betray him.

“This one’s better,” she said, eyes flicking to his with an innocent smile on her lips, and he was on the verge of biting that bottom lip so hard to draw blood. There was a pause. Not long. Just enough for him to come back to his senses. But of course she had to add gasoline to the already burning fire.

Her thumb lingered near his jaw, smudging the edge of the kiss. She was close enough for him to count the gold flecks in her eyes and the freckles on her cheeks. “You’re a really good swatch,” she added, voice too light for how loud everything felt suddenly.

He meant to make a joke, deflect like usual — but his mouth was dry, and she was already standing again, wiping the lipstick off his skin like it never meant anything. He gulped, inhaling deeply through his nostrils as he bit his inner cheek.

He watched her walk back to the mirror, not even caring to look back and him and see the mess she just made with such a simple action. He was on the verge of whimpering, if he had to be honest with himself. His lap now felt cold and empty.

But instead of doing anything, he didn’t say a single word, scared that if he opened his mouth something would betray him.

The only time where he didn’t hide his feeling was a late night. The kind of late that made everything feel softer. Like the world had finally gone quiet enough for honesty to slip in.

They were sitting on her living room floor, backs against the couch, legs stretched out in opposite directions. There were two mostly-finished drinks on the coffee table — hers was emptied and refilled only once, strangely enough — and a playlist humming low through the speakers; one of hers, all slow indie and warm, aching chords.

She had her head tilted back, eyes half-closed, a throw blanket draped over her shoulders like a cape. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine, but not enough to make her sloppy. Just enough to loosen the edges.

“Can I ask you something?” she said, voice low and close, as if she wasn’t so sure about it. He glanced over, catching her gaze. “You just did.” He mocked her with a chuckle. She kicked at him gently under the blanket. “I’m being serious.” His smile softened. “Okay. Ask.”

She paused. Not for drama, but because she was picking her words carefully, which was rare for her. She was nervous this time, Caleb could feel it.

“Have you ever been in love?”

The question hanged there for a second. Not sharp. Not accusatory. Just… open. She was genuinely asking; and his breath caught, but only slightly. He didn’t look away. She was watching him — really watching. Like maybe she already knew the answer and was waiting to see if he would lie.

He considered it. The lie would have been easy. Safer. Something deflective, like “maybe once” or “nothing serious.”

But he was tired. Of hiding, of being considered just family, of swallowing things just because she never asked. “Yeah,” he said. Quiet. Certain. It was happening this time, and Caleb didn’t have the strength to lie a single time more.

She shifted, tucking one leg underneath her, giving him her full attention now. “Yeah?” He nodded just once, eyes still on her beautiful face. “Yeah.”

“Who?” she asked. The word was barely above a whisper, and it landed heavier than it should have. Was she even aware of the effects she had on him? His fingers tightened slightly around his glass. Other than that, though, he didn’t move. It was now or never.

“You,” he said. It wasn’t dramatic. Not whispered like a secret. It was just true.

She blinked — slowly, like she wasn’t expecting that. Or maybe she was. Maybe she hoped and didn’t dare believe it. “How long?” she asked, voice even smaller now.

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head once. Not bitter. Just tired. Honest “You wouldn’t like to know, pipsqueak.”

There was a beat. A long one. The kind that stretched and breathed on its own. She didn’t look away. Her mouth opened, then closed again. She was stunned, not because she didn’t think he could feel this way — but because he finally said it.

“You should’ve told me,” she said softly, and he just shrugged. “You were always dating someone. Or not looking. Or calling me your best friend like that was the end of the conversation.”

“And now?” He looked at her, studying her face, searching for any signs of discomfort or rejection. Her knees were brushing against his. Her lip was caught between her teeth — making him crave it even more, and her eyes were so wide it hurts.

“Now I’m telling you.”

She leaned in slightly, like her body was moving before her mind catches up. The space between them becomes charged, unbearable, and Caleb wasn’t sure it was a good idea anymore. His heart just wanted to explode.

“I don’t want to ruin this,” she whispered, and Caleb couldn’t help but lean even more forward, his lips brushing hers. “Neither do I,” he said, and he said it like he meant it. Because he did. He was so scared that he would run away and never be seen again, if only he could.

Her hand found his knee under the blanket. Fingers brushing slow, unsure. It felt like permission, or maybe a question. Her hand tightened slightly on his knee.

His forehead rested against hers, both of them still, breathing each other in like they didn’t want to break the moment. And gods did Caleb want that moment to never end.

“This feels like a dream,” she whispered and he almost smiled. Almost. “Then don’t wake up.” It was cheesy. Stupid, even, but she laughed — soft and real — and it was the kind of laugh that cracked something open between them. The sound that made him crazy over her.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, and his heart tripped over itself at the sight.

But before he could even think of anything, she did more than he would have ever thought, and kissed him. Not hurried. Not dramatic. Just soft — a quiet press of her lips to his, like she was testing something she already knew would change everything.

Caleb didn’t move at first, stunned by the fact that it was really happening. That she was the one doing it. She took the first step, not him.

But then his hands found her waist, pulling her in gently, and he kissed her back — deepening it without really meaning to, but years of holding back were unraveling in a second and he couldn’t stop himself. Her fingers slid up in his hair. She made a soft sound in the back of her throat, barely audible, but of course Caleb noticed it, snd it sent a spark down his spine straight to his core.

It was not desperate, nor rushed. It was full of everything they never said out loud.

When they parted — barely, just enough to breathe, but their lips still touched — she kept her eyes closed for a moment longer. “You could’ve told me sooner,” she said again, this time like it was a regret.

Caleb brushed his thumb along her jaw. “I wanted to. A hundred times. I was starting to go insane.” He whispered, lips brushing against hers.

“Then say it now,” she said, opening her eyes, voice barely there. “Say it like you mean it.” This time he didn’t hesitate, didn’t waste a single second.

“I’m in love with you.”

And this time, she believed him, immediately jumping on him as they kissed once more, ready to explore their feelings together after years of insecurities and tension.

[whatsupsonnyboy]

Drunk in my mind | Joseph Quinn (part II)

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Joe and you (actress!reader) met during the filming of a romantic thriller, you two struggle to keep your undeniable chemistry professional. But when intimate scenes push your limits, the line between acting and reality begins to blur.

wc: 5.1K

warning: fluff, slow burn, co-stars to friends, friends to lovers, mentions of sex, swearing, overthinking, angst

a/n: sooo here its part II for drunk in my mind, it's kind of angsty soooorry, i just cant help writing messy Joe, its absolutely captivating for me idk. Hope you enjoy this one (plus, there's obviously gonna be a next and least part)

Feedback is welcomed <3

request are open  | masterlist

part I | part II | part III

Joe barely slept. Again.

He had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, thoughts running in circles, replaying every word, every second of last night’s disaster. He had hurt you. That was the only thing that mattered. He hadn’t meant to, not in a million years, but that didn’t change the fact that he had. And now, there was no way to fix it. Not when today was another workday. Not when the only thing he could do was push through, pretend nothing had happened, and get this over with.

The worst part was knowing that you would be there. That he wouldn’t be able to avoid you. That he wouldn’t even be able to talk to you properly—because how could he? What could he say? Sorry I shut you out? Sorry I ruined everything? Sorry I want you so much it’s ruining me?

No. It didn’t matter. None of it did. The only thing that mattered was getting through the next few hours without making things worse. The only way to do that was to switch off, keep his head down, and be professional. That’s what he told himself as he got up, showered, and got dressed. That’s what he repeated in his head all the way to the set. That’s what he told himself when he saw you.

You were already there, talking to the intimacy coordinator, going through notes, nodding at whatever Edith was saying. Your body language was careful, measured. Professional. You didn’t even glance in his direction.

Joe forced himself to look away, to keep walking. No lingering glances. No hesitations. No what ifs.

Just work.

The scene was unavoidable. Production had no choice but to pick up where they left off.

A love scene. One of the love scenes. The one that was supposed to be raw, desperate, consuming. The one that should have felt like two people unable to stay away from each other any longer.

Instead, it felt impossible.

Joe was hyper-aware of you. Every movement, every breath. He had promised himself he wouldn’t let it show, that he would be professional, but as soon as the cameras rolled, he felt the hesitation. The way his hands hovered for a second longer before touching you. The way he stiffened when he should have softened.

“Cut.” Mark’s voice rang out almost immediately.

Joe exhaled sharply, stepping back. He didn’t dare look at you.

“Alright,” Mark sighed, rubbing his forehead. “We need more… connection. More need between you two.”

Joe nodded, forcing a tight-lipped smile. More connection. If only they fucking knew.

They went again. And again. And again.

Each take was just as difficult as the last. Every time Joe’s hands traced your skin, every time your breath mixed with his, it felt like walking a tightrope. It wasn’t just awkwardness—it was something else, something dangerous. Like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing one wrong step would send them both crashing down.

By the fourth take, something shifted.

Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was the sheer force of muscle memory, maybe it was the fact that neither of them could afford to keep messing this up. But suddenly, the scene started to flow.

Joe stopped overthinking. He stopped hesitating. He let himself sink into it, into you.

And for a moment—just a moment—it didn’t feel like acting.

It felt real. The heat. The pull. The way his hands gripped your waist, the way your fingers tangled in his hair.

And that was the problem.

Because for a split second, Joe forgot. Forgot the cameras, the script, the fact that this was a scene and not something he could actually claim as his own. It was the way your body pressed into his, the way your breath hitched against his lips—it was everything. Too much.

Panic hit him like a train.

His body betrayed him first, his muscles tensing, his pulse hammering against his throat. His fingers curled involuntarily, his grip on you momentarily faltering before he forced himself to let go. He stepped back too fast, severing the connection in a way that felt brutal.

"Fuck, sorry," he muttered, already distancing himself, already forcing his mind into lockdown.

But it was too late.

The moment was gone. The scene was ruined.

The set was dead silent, and the weight of everything—everything that had just happened—pressed heavily on both of you. Joe’s eyes flitted to the floor, unable to meet yours, his breath shallow as though he’d just been caught in the act of something unspeakable. You didn’t know what to say, what to do. Your body felt stiff, frozen in place as you stared at him, but inside, it was all unraveling.

It wasn’t just about the scene. It was about everything that had been building up, the tension that had been hanging between you two for so long. And then, in that moment, everything felt more complicated than it ever had before. You’d crossed a line. He had crossed it. Neither of you had intended it, but there it was, unspoken yet undeniable.

“Fuck,” Joe said again, quieter this time, almost as if to himself. His hands fidgeted, as if they didn’t know where to go. He was torn between apologizing again or pretending it hadn’t just happened. His whole posture was tense, defensive, like a man on the edge of a breakdown.

You weren’t sure what to feel, how to react. Everything in you wanted to lash out, to scream at him for doing this to you, for making you feel something you shouldn’t feel in the middle of all this. But nothing came out. No words. No anger. Just confusion.

"Is everything alright?" you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. 

Joe didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, his eyes filled with a mix of apology and frustration, like he wanted to say so much more but couldn’t. Finally, he took a deep breath, looking like he was preparing to speak but unsure what words would make it better.

Mark’s voice broke through the tension. "Cut!" he called, clearly frustrated by the pause. “We need a break. Everyone, take five.”

You didn’t know what to do. You couldn’t look at Joe without feeling your chest tighten, your breath coming in short bursts. He had pulled away so quickly, as if the moment had disgusted him. And maybe it had. But why had it happened in the first place?

The space between you had never felt so vast. And it wasn’t just the physical distance. It was something far more complicated. The emotional distance. The boundaries you’d been trying to ignore for so long had suddenly slammed into reality.

Joe didn’t move, didn’t say anything more. He stood there, staring at the floor, his fingers running through his hair in frustration. He focused on breathing, on grounding himself, on pretending that the past two minutes hadn’t just thrown him into complete fucking turmoil. He couldn’t afford this. He couldn’t let this happen.

Not again.

He heard your footsteps behind him, hesitant. Maybe you were about to say something, maybe you were about to ask if he was okay—but he couldn’t. He couldn’t look at you, couldn’t meet your eyes and risk unraveling completely. So he took a step further away, putting more space between you, a boundary neither of you had needed before.

The silence stretched on until it became unbearable. The set felt colder, more sterile, and the walls between you felt thicker than ever. 

“Five more minutes,” he said, his tone flat, detached. “We need five minutes, and then we’re finishing this.”

You didn’t know what to say. The words didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. But you couldn’t let the scene stay ruined. You couldn’t let it fall apart because of this. You had a job to do.

With a stiff nod, you turned away from him, walking towards the side of the set where they were setting up for the next shot. Joe didn’t follow, but you could feel his gaze burning into your back.

The five minutes passed in silence. You barely moved, barely thought. You just breathed, trying to collect your thoughts, trying to block out the way your heart was hammering in your chest.

Joe squared his shoulders, forcing every ounce of emotion out of his system. When he turned back, he wasn’t Joe anymore—he was his character, detached, composed, ready to finish what he had started. 

The second take began.

And this time, he made sure it was nothing more than a performance.

Joe came back to his position, his face set, his eyes distant. He was a professional, and he was determined to keep it that way, no matter what it cost him. He stayed rigid, focused entirely on the task at hand, keeping his distance. The touch, the heat, the closeness, all of it—he forced it all out of his mind.

You did the same.

And somehow, the scene went on. He acted, and you did too. Every movement was calculated, each touch forced, but the cameras were rolling, and the show had to go on. There was no room for mistakes now.

As the scene finished, the tension in the air was palpable. Mark called cut, and everyone immediately scattered, avoiding eye contact, not wanting to acknowledge the unspoken tension that still hung between you and Joe.

He didn’t speak to you. Neither did you. There was nothing left to say.

-

You had never felt the weight of silence quite like this.

The distance wasn’t just physical—it was everywhere. In the moments between takes, in the breaks that used to be filled with effortless conversation, in the absence of his presence when you turned your head expecting to find him watching.

Because that’s what Joe used to do.

He used to sit behind the camera when it was your turn to film, watching, always watching. You’d grown used to it, to that silent but constant support, the way his presence felt like an anchor amidst the chaos of filming. But today, his chair was empty. He had scenes of his own to shoot, yes—but that had never stopped him before.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Maybe this was for the best. But the ache in your chest told a different story.

It was pathetic, really, the way you kept looking for him. How you still expected to turn a corner and see him waiting, how you half-expected him to fall into step beside you between scenes, making some dry comment about the ridiculousness of whatever you had just filmed.

But he wasn’t there. And you hated how much you noticed.

It was infuriating, this version of Joe you were seeing now. The cold professionalism. The single-minded focus. Like nothing that had happened between you mattered at all. Like you weren’t worth even a fraction of the consideration he had so easily given before.

Maybe that was the worst part—not just the absence, but the realization that you had been wrong about him.

You had believed he was different. That he was kind, thoughtful, the kind of person who cared about more than just the job. But maybe that was just another illusion. Maybe he was no different from every other actor who smiled for the cameras and left the wreckage behind when the scene was over.

And maybe that was on you.

Because you should have known better. You should have kept your distance, maintained the boundaries that would have made this easier. But you hadn’t. You had let yourself trust him, let yourself believe that whatever had been growing between you was real. And now, you were paying the price.

The worst part?

He wasn’t.

Joe was moving on like nothing had happened. Like you were nothing more than another scene, another line to be delivered and discarded.

And that? That hurt more than anything.

- 

Joe had told himself—convinced himself—that this was for the best. That if he kept his distance, if he forced himself to be professional, to be cold, then maybe things would settle. Maybe the weight in his chest would lessen. Maybe he’d stop wanting you so fucking much.

But it hadn’t worked.

If anything, it made it worse.

The absence of you was unbearable. The silence, the lack of your voice filling the gaps between takes, the missing glances you used to share—it all felt like a punishment. And he knew he deserved it. But fuck, it was getting harder to breathe.

You weren’t just keeping your distance—you were freezing him out. Completely. And he couldn’t blame you. He had drawn the first line. He had built the first wall. But he never expected you to build one even higher, even thicker, impenetrable in a way that made his chest ache.

Days passed, and the realization settled like lead in his stomach.

He had been selfish.

At first, his fear had been simple: that you didn’t feel the same. That this pull between you was something he had imagined, exaggerated in his mind. That maybe you were just friends, that maybe he was just another coworker to you.

But then, he saw the way he had hurt you. Saw the anger in your eyes, the disappointment, the pain. And it hit him like a fucking freight train.

Of course, you had felt it too.

And instead of talking about it, instead of giving you the chance to decide what to do with those feelings, he had made the decision for both of you.

That was the worst part. The unbearable truth.

He had convinced himself this was for your sake, for the sake of the film, for the sake of professionalism. But deep down, he knew it was a lie. He had done it for himself. To protect his own heart. His own fears.

And now? Now he had no idea how to fix it.

You wouldn’t even look at him anymore. Wouldn’t speak to him unless it was strictly necessary. And even then, your voice was devoid of warmth, clipped and controlled, like you were barely tolerating his presence.

He wanted to fix it.

He just didn’t know if he had the right to.

Because if he had been the one to break everything apart… how the hell was he supposed to ask you to put it back together?

-

Joe had told himself that he could fix this. Maybe not entirely—maybe not in the way he wanted—but at least enough to make things bearable again. He had spent days carrying the weight of his own selfishness, his own fear, and now, faced with the wall you had built between you, he realized something even worse.

He wasn’t the only one who had made a choice. You had, too.

You weren’t playing along anymore. The kindness, the warmth, the easy understanding—you had shut it all off. And why wouldn’t you? He had been the first to pull away, to decide what was best for the both of you, and now you had done the same. Except this time, he was on the receiving end of it, and it fucking hurt.

Still, he had to try.

So he made an effort. Small things at first. Little acknowledgments, nods when you passed by each other, polite comments about the scenes. He didn’t push, didn’t expect anything in return. He was just trying to remind you that he was still here. That he wasn’t avoiding you anymore.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because you weren’t meeting him halfway.

You weren’t cruel, not exactly, but you weren’t letting him in either. When he spoke to you, you answered, but only in clipped, neutral sentences. When you had breaks between scenes, you no longer spent them anywhere near him. And when it came to the actual filming, you were professional—so professional it was almost unbearable.

Joe could handle the distance. What he couldn’t handle was the fact that you wanted it.

And it was fucking up everything.

The more he thought about it, the more distracted he became. He fumbled lines, missed cues, stepped in the wrong place. Tiny, stupid mistakes—mistakes he never made. He could feel the irritation creeping in from the crew, from Mark, from you.

Especially from you.

Your frustration was palpable.

At first, it was just little things—tightened shoulders, tense jaw, the way you let out sharp breaths whenever the scene had to be reset. But then, after the fourth take was ruined because he hesitated before delivering his line, you snapped.

"For fuck’s sake, Joe," you muttered under your breath, but loud enough for him to hear. “Can you please focus for once?"

He flinched. Not because of your words, but because of the way they sounded—tired, exasperated, like you were done. Done with him, done with the whole damn thing.

He wanted to apologize, to explain, to say anything to make it better.

But what the fuck was he supposed to say?

That he was exhausted, but not from the long days of shooting? That he had spent every second of the last week thinking about you, about how badly he had handled everything? That standing next to you, knowing he had ruined whatever was between you, made it impossible to focus?

None of that would fix anything.

So instead, he swallowed it down. Forced himself to breathe. Forced himself to focus.

And when the cameras rolled again, he delivered the line.

Perfectly.

Because if there was one thing he could still do, one thing he had left, it was pretending.

- 

You didn’t have to look at him to know when he entered the set. You felt it. The weight of his presence, heavier than before. It was as if he’d been trying—no, he had been trying, and that was what pissed you off even more. You hadn’t wanted to see it, hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it, but you knew he had been doing his damned best to be cordial, to rebuild whatever mess of a relationship you had left.

The tension between you two had been thick, but you kept your eyes fixed on your script. You forced your body to stay rigid, not even glancing in his direction. His attempts to be professional, to give you a nod or some small, respectful gesture, didn’t go unnoticed. And it annoyed you to no end.

He had been the one who messed this up. He had been the one to pull away. And now, after all that, he expected you to just... let it slide? No. Not this time. Not after everything. You had built walls higher than you ever thought you could, and there was no way in hell you were letting them crumble so easily. Not for him.

As the scenes had unfolded, the weight of the unfinished tension from the past days had pressed down on you, turning every moment into a battle to maintain composure. He’d been trying, you could tell—he’d been trying so hard to fix things, to show that he cared—but all you felt was a cold bitterness creeping in. He didn’t get it, did he? He’d thought he could just pick up the pieces and act like nothing had ever happened. Like everything had been fine now just because he suddenly cared.

You had watched him stumble through his lines. His movements had been all off, as if he hadn’t been quite present, as if his mind had been somewhere else. It had been infuriating. Why did he have to make everything so difficult now? Didn’t he see that you were the one trying to push through this, that you were the one who just wanted to get through it without falling apart?

Every time he misplaced his mark or hesitated on his lines, you felt your frustration boil. You couldn’t help but sigh loudly, a sharp exhale through your nose that was loud enough for him to hear. You didn’t care anymore. It wasn’t your fault he was distracted. If he had cared about this as much as he said, he wouldn’t have been falling apart like this. It was like you were filming with a stranger—someone who didn’t even have the decency to put in the effort.

His eyes had darted to yours, and there had been that brief flash of guilt, of self-awareness, but it had only made you angrier. He had been doing this on purpose, hadn’t he? Trying to make you feel something again, trying to bridge the gap you had both built, but you hadn’t been interested in falling for that. Not now. Not after everything.

As the day had dragged on, you had begun to realize just how tired you were. Tired of the tension. Tired of him. Tired of pretending that you weren’t dying inside, that you weren’t resentful of every moment you had to spend in this space with him. He’d been messing up more than ever, and it had been hard to watch and even harder to ignore.

But even worse had been that little voice in the back of your head, the one that still cared, that still wanted to reach out. You hated it. You despised it. But no matter how hard you had tried to shut it up, it had lingered there, mocking you, making you wish for a simpler time when things hadn’t felt so complicated.

But then, after the fourth take had been ruined because he had hesitated before delivering his line, you had been done.

You had thrown your hands up in frustration, your voice snapping as you muttered, "For fuck’s sake, Joe, can you please focus for once?"

He had flinched. But it hadn’t been the words that had hit him—it had been the tone. The weariness in it. The frustration. You hadn’t even realized how much of it had seeped into your voice. You had felt a little bad, but not enough to stop the words from coming out. He had made this hard for you. So why shouldn’t you make it hard for him, too?

He hadn’t said anything, though you could feel the tension in the air. You had known he had been wrestling with something, but what could he possibly say? It wouldn’t have mattered, would it? You hadn’t wanted to hear any explanations, hadn’t wanted any half-hearted apologies. You were past that. You had just wanted to finish the scene, finish the day.

You saw him there, standing still, like he was trying to pull himself together, but you couldn’t figure out what he was doing. He seemed lost, but what could he possibly be struggling with? Maybe it was all in your head. Maybe you were just overthinking it.

But then, as the cameras started rolling again, he took a breath. You watched him steady himself, as if he was trying to shut everything else out. And when he spoke—when he nailed that line, just like nothing had happened—you felt your chest tighten.

As the final scene wrapped, you gathered your things, moving quickly, not wanting to linger. You could feel his presence behind you before you even heard him step closer.

“Hey,” Joe’s voice was tentative, careful, like he was testing the waters. "Sorry I kept messing the scene up. It 's been hard to focus lately"

You didn’t turn around. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking him in the eye. The tightness in your chest felt unbearable, but you weren’t about to let him see it. What was he exactly doing? What did he pretend?

“Yeah… it’s okay, Joe,” you said flatly, your voice colder than you wanted. You didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to feel the tug of something still there when all you could think about was escaping. "See you." 

You could hear him hesitate, then take a step back. And even though you felt a flicker of something—maybe regret, maybe pain—you didn't care. Not enough to turn around. You didn’t want to give him a chance, you weren’t feeling like talking.

Despite everything, despite your anger and the wall you had built, a part of you still ached when you saw him looking at you like he was genuinely trying. Like he wanted to fix things. But no. You wouldn’t let him. Not then. Not after what he had done. So you turned away, and the emotional distance felt as real as the physical one that had been between you two for days.

You wanted it to be over. You wanted it to end. You wanted the tension to disappear, but you were afraid that if you gave him an inch, he’d tear down everything you’d worked to build. So you kept your distance. You kept your anger. And maybe, just maybe, you’d get through it without losing yourself.

- 

You had known this scene was coming. You had read it a hundred times, rehearsed it in your head, told yourself it was just another day at work.

It was a fight. A breaking point. The moment where your characters—two people caught in an inevitable downward spiral—finally let the dam burst. It was raw, emotional, the kind of scene designed to leave a mark.

But nothing could have prepared you for how it would actually feel.

It started fine. You exchanged the first lines with the usual sharpness, slipping into your role with ease. Joe did too, his delivery solid, precise. But then something shifted.

His voice. His expression.

The anger in his eyes wasn’t just acting—it was him.

And suddenly, you weren’t just saying the lines. You were there, locked in an argument that felt too real, too close to everything you had been trying to ignore.

He stepped toward you, a muscle in his jaw twitching as his voice rose. “Don’t do that. Don’t stand there and pretend like it doesn’t matter.”

You felt it—an almost imperceptible tremor in his voice.

It made your pulse stutter.

You forced yourself to hold your ground, to push back like the script demanded. But his energy was suffocating. His eyes burned into you with a desperation that made it impossible to look away.

And then it happened.

His breath hitched. His voice broke.

And a tear slipped down his cheek.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t in the script.

You felt something twist violently in your chest.

Because in that moment, you knew.

This wasn’t just about the scene. This wasn’t just about acting.

He was breaking in front of you.

"Cut!"

The room exhaled all at once. There was a beat of stunned silence, then Mark’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Wow. That is what I wanted to see. That was incredible.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the set—crew members nodding, sharing glances of admiration. Someone clapped Joe on the shoulder.

He barely reacted.

He just stood there, breathing heavily, blinking rapidly like he was trying to pull himself back together.

And all you could do was watch.

Watch as he wiped a hand over his face, as he swallowed hard, as he tried—and failed—to shake it off.

Something inside you cracked.

For days, you had let anger guide you. You had let pride build a wall so high that you convinced yourself it was the right thing to do. You had blamed him. Resented him. Refused to let yourself care.

But looking at him now, hurting in a way that was so real, you realized the truth.

You had been wrong.

Not for being upset. Not for feeling hurt. But for pretending like it didn’t matter.

For acting as if walking away from him was easy, when the truth was—it wasn’t.

Because no matter how much you fought it, no matter how much you wanted to be done, there was one undeniable fact staring you right in the face.

He still mattered to you. More than you had ever been willing to admit.

- 

Joe lay alone in his room, sprawled on the bed after another long day of filming. The scene still echoed in his mind, like a painful reverberation. He felt exposed, vulnerable, embarrassed for having shown so much emotion in front of the entire crew, especially in front of you. Everything he had been avoiding, everything he had repressed, had surfaced. And now, with the knot in his stomach that wouldn’t go away, he knew he couldn’t keep ignoring what he felt.

He felt powerless. He had been unable to make things better between the two of you, and the fear of losing whatever was left of any kind of relationship consumed him. Yet still, he didn’t know how to take the first step. The distance between you two was palpable, his pride wounded, and the fear of being completely rejected paralyzed him.

He closed his eyes, feeling a pressure in his chest. How did it come to this? he asked himself once again. What else can I do if every time I try to get closer, she pushes me away with a coldness that leaves me speechless?

Meanwhile, you walked down the hallway of the set, alone, after another exhausting day of filming. The sound of your footsteps echoed in your mind, but it was the silence around you that made you think the most. At that moment, something shifted. You realized what was happening inside you. For days, you had been looking at Joe as someone who had simply let you down, as a person who had played with your emotions. But now, after that last scene, after seeing him so broken and vulnerable, you realized he had also been suffering—not only because of what had happened between you two but because all of this had affected him deeply.

A strange sense of guilt washed over you. For a moment, the pain and resentment you had kept inside mixed with a new perspective. Why have I been so blind, so determined to protect my pride at all costs? you asked yourself. It hurt more than you expected to see Joe like that, so vulnerable, so real.

You stopped for a moment. You knew you had allowed your own pain to cloud your judgment. All this time, you had been thinking it was only him who had let you down, but the truth was, you had played a part in this too. Maybe it wasn’t the best decision to shut yourself off so much, to hide your feelings behind walls that kept growing taller. Maybe neither of you had been brave enough to face what you were really feeling.

But the truth was that neither of you knew how to take the next step, how to break the silence that had settled between you without everything spiraling out of control again. Joe continued to be tormented by his own fears and lack of courage, while you kept resisting, knowing that opening up wasn’t easy, especially after everything you had been through.

[be-my-ally]

A Little More Action Please

woah it's been a while. I won't pretend this is anything more than simple smutty fic - it's not the same universe, but not dissimilar to my suspicious minds one-shots - stand alone p without plot one-shots.

Here's a 1969-70 Elvis fic about the opening night parties for Nancy Sinatra's shows - either occasion can be imagined here but I've placed it within the '69 party. OC reader - 'you' x Elvis in an established relationship.

warnings: afab reader x elvis, p in v sex, fingering, slightly cringy arguments.

wc: 4103

I've used my last taglist from the last fic I posted, but since that was literally months (a year???) ago it may be way outdated now! - I deleted any that seemed to be deactivated - idk how much I'll be posting but if you desperately want to be tagged whenever I upload lmk.

Las Vegas 1969 

Elvis’ been stressed lately. It didn’t come out at you, so much as it seemed to just come out all the damn time, and it was made worse by the fact he wouldn’t share what it was that was so displeasing him; hurried talks with his father and the Colonel that didn’t ever seem to be shared. He’d had a lot on his plate, the rehearsals for his own show, the last minute concerns about how his serious film would be received.  Yet despite the rough edge to him he’d been more like how you remember him being described before you knew him - self-confident and assured. He was worried about how the film or show would be received - sure, but not how he would be. Totally unlike the nerves that have been festering in the background of the past few years.  Even though tonight has literally nothing to do with him he’s somehow made it feel like a celebration; a culmination of the week, of the month, of the reintroduction of Elvis at his most confident. His own performances have been a glorious success, those first few audiences lapping up the palpable relief in the atmosphere, a giddying sort of joy found in everyone - and most of all, him.

You watch him working the room, effortlessly it seems, and you wonder how he does it; he’s so good at it, naturally too - there’s nothing false or forced about it. He laughs just the right amount, even when it’s clear the joke isn’t funny, knows exactly when to interject, when to move on. It spins your head watching him and you’re envious of his ease. It’s not as easy for you - it’s still a fairly new environment; you’d barely been out of Tennessee before this month and with it comes all the nerves and anxiety of the first time. It reminds you of the first time you’d been invited into Graceland, being so very unsure of what to do - what the protocol was, and yet thrust in - excitement fluttering in your stomach dancing with the nerves. The last few nights had been fun, he’d barely left your side and it had all felt so romantic, so exciting, as he took you to the other shows, showing you Vegas, showing you off to what felt like the whole world. 

You glance over at him again across the room, where his palm still rests on her back, her delicate laughter echoing across to you. She looks like a fairy in white, bright blonde hair dazzling in the light. His thumb moves on her back, and you can feel it as if he’s touched you himself. You blink, considering the situation. Perhaps you can blame the alcohol, you don’t normally drink this much. Maybe there’s no need to blame anything. Maybe it’s just understandable that with your boyfriend ignoring you you’d take the opportunity to talk to interesting people without him hovering over you. Yet as you loudly laugh again at her father, drink spilling out of your champagne flute, you feel the slightest tendril of guilt take hold around your chest. 

Elvis turns, as if sensing you, with that look of mild distaste that you’ve grown accustomed to making your stomach twist even though it’s not normally aimed at you. Eyes narrowing even as the smile remains on his face. Your giggles subside, and you regretfully remove your hand from where it was daintily resting on Frank’s elbow. You act as if you didn’t notice or feel his glare, smoothing the soft cling of your dress down and politely excusing yourself. 

The bathroom, as always at these kinds of events, is not the place of solitude you would like it to be, girls patting their already poreless pale faces with more pale powder, and gossiping to one another, lips sticky from touch-ups pressing kisses onto coupe glasses. Yet, eventually, they file out and with a pointed look and nod from you, and a tiny bit of cash, the bathroom attendant follows - shutting the door behind herself. You lock the door. 

You look at yourself in the mirror, heavy makeup under strangely bright lights for a powder room making you look like a child that had stolen their mother’s make-up. It was all far, far more than you’d usually apply. Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you tremble, biting your lip - desperate not to cry and ruin it more than the sweat already has. You don’t even know why you’re so stressed - nothing had been said, you’d not made a fool of yourself but it was like all the days and nights out of your comfort zone were catching up at once as you stood there. 

“Get a grip,” You sing-whisper to yourself, “he won’t invite you next time, if you don’t get a goddamn grip,” as you lazily splash cold water onto your wrists. Wondering if you pretended to be nonchalant for long enough that you might actually become it. The doorknob rattles and you pause, still as a statue - like the prey of a predator, as though the intruder could see you through the door unless you stood still enough. 

You breathe a sigh of relief when it stops before an insistent knock takes it place. You stay silent, hoping they’d just go away. It wasn’t like there wasn’t another bathroom option just down the hallway.  That fails and after another aggressive knock your voice shakes when you shout back that you’ll be right out. 

“It’s me.” You feel your eyebrows rise in surprise at him coming to find you, had you really been that long? You struggle to think if he’s ever come to find you if you separated away from the main crowd at a gathering. 

“I’ll - I’ll be out in a second.” 

“Just let me in - quick, ‘fore someone sees.” The last half of the sentence is muffled, as if Elvis has placed his face to the door, keen not to be overheard. The panic his whisper inspires was enough for you to unthinkingly throw open the door, even though a rational part of your brain was telling you there was no need to stress, and wondering what the issue would be with someone seeing him waiting in a hallway. He saunters in as if he was never worried anyway, peering around like he was curious to see the inside.

“What’re you doin’ all holed up in here?” He frowns, looking at you like you were a child who’d wandered off.  You laugh, attempting to mimic her delicate way - like something bouncing off glass, but it falls flat and you internally flinch.  

“Noth-nothing, I was just, it was just a bit overwhelming s’all. I needed a break for a minute. I was just on my way out again.” You feel the redness creeping up your chest to your cheeks; you don’t even really understand why you’re so embarrassed but you are. He shakes his head, clicking his tongue, and it annoys you enough that somehow you become brave enough to stutter out the rest of your thoughts, “I don’t much like you lookin’ at me like that though.” 

He shuts the door behind him, locking it again, “What’dya mean?” He says in a tone that means he knows exactly what you mean, “I’ve not been in here, why would I be lookin’ at you like anything?” 

“You know what you’re doing.” He has the same face that you were just describing, a kind of patronising bemusement. “You’re looking at me, and making me feel like I’ve done something wrong when I haven’t.” You repeat yourself when he doesn’t respond,”I haven’t!” He hums ignoring you, and steps forward to examine his own face in the mirror. He shakes out his collar, straightening it back against his neck. “Elvis, I’m serious! You’re not, you’re not being nice - it’s not fair to make me feel like I’m in the wrong!” He sighs, turning to look at you rather than at your reflections, tugging you towards him with a grip on your wrist. He looks down at the counter while his thumb strokes your pulse-point like a little boy scuffing his shoe across the floor. 

“Y’were laughing.”  You feel like laughing now, it’s all so predictable - that’s what he was glaring about?

“Elvis, that’s…that’s ridiculous. I thought you were way past this - this weird hang up you have with him.” He scoffs, 

“What?” You hope he acts better than this in his new film, “I don’t care who! But, jus’, you never laugh with me at the moment.” You roll your eyes at his very obvious lie, 

“Oh my lord Elvis, he’s… he’s very charming - you know that! But he’s, he’s, I don’t know,  fifty or something!” He pulls you in closer, 

“Y’sayin’ you don’t like old men baby? Forgettin’ how old I am?” Elvis rubs both of his hands up your arms, making you sink into the sensation even as you internally laugh at his predictability. 

“You’re barely thirty Elvis. Don’t be silly.” 

“ ‘m thirty-four baby.” You roll your eyes, used to his over exaggeration of his age. 

“Exactly.” 

“Well, yeah, but you’re just a young lil thing ain’t ya?” His fingers crawled up your arms, to tickle under your chin, “Just a little bitty baby. Lil’ bitty baby girl.” 

You can feel yourself melting into the baby talk, exactly as he intended it, can sense the unlikely but underlying apology. But, he’s riled you up enough that you don’t want to just accept it. You tut, shaking your head away from his hand. 

“Well sure, but so’s Nancy. You weren’t wasting time ‘catching up’ with her were you?” He’s stunned for a second, blinking at you, and if you were going to back-track, now is your last chance. 

“Now hold on a moment,” He shakes his head, tone hardening, “It is her party, baby. I gotta be pol-” 

“I mean, the whole time you’re there with Nancy - I’m there with Frank, being polite. It’s a double standard El!” He leans back, 

“No, no, no, because she invite-“ 

“You oughta be thanking me! Keeping him distracted from having to watch you sniffing around her! And God, fuckin’ Tina too! and who knows who else!” He steps back, dropping your arms completely. 

“You gonna talk to me like that?” 

“If the goddamn shoe fits Elvis.” 

“I’m just doin’ what I gotta do, and you have no right,” He’s talking through gritted teeth, hissing it at you, “No fuckin’ right to tell me what I can or can’t do. I knew you couldn’t handle it - knew this would all be too much for you out here. But you insisted! You promised you’d come out here and behave for me.” He shakes his head, “I swear - I’ll fuckin’ send you back home to Memphis,” You roll your eyes and he jabs a finger at you, “I swear to god you needta stop being so, so - fucking naive.” He’s really getting going now, “I swear, you’re just -” You cut him off before he can say anything else, muttering, 

“Yeah well - maybe I want to go.” 

“If you’re gonna talk like that to me, you can at least be brave ‘nough to make sure I can hear you -“

“I said! Maybe it ain’t a threat if I wanna go.” He sucks a breath through his teeth,  “Maybe I’m sick and tired of you gettin’ all the fucking fun” He flinches - hates it when you swear, “Tired of watching you gettin’ to fool around and now I want my turn? You ever consider that?” You think about stopping for a brief second, sensing his quiet wasn’t because he was calming down, but now that you’re having it out you really can’t help wanting to push that tiny bit further now. “Maybe I was flirting with Frank fucking Sinatra. Maybe! Maybe I was doing it to make someone else jealous - you ever consider that El?” He opens his mouth and you speed up talking, the rest of the words tumbling out of your mouth at record speed before he can interrupt you, “That maybe that wasn’t even you. Maybe there was someone other than you lookin’ at me.” 

You jump as his fist makes contact with the countertop. You manage to gain enough control of yourself despite your jackhammering heartbeat to watch impassively as his fingers rapidly begin to swell up from the dense tile. “Now look what you’ve done.”

“Goddamn, look what I’ve done?” He’s roaring at you, and you wince at the finger jabbing into your chest. “You- you stand there, humiliatin’ me, lookin’ like that and I swear to god above baby, I’ll kill whoever was lookin’ at you I swear to god, we go out there and you point ‘em out to me, and I’ll fuckin’ kill them.” You don’t point out the irony that he had dressed you for this evening, he’s rubbing his swelling fingers as seems to lose steam “And, and - I’ll, I swear -  you thinkin’ about leavin’ me?” You think about keeping it up a little longer, and really you know you should be considering it more seriously, but you also don’t want to leave him. 

“No.” He nods, self-satisfied, fingers still caressing his bruised knuckles. He takes a breath in. 

“See - exactly. You’re just tryin’ get a rise outta me. ‘S not nice. That’s not - nice girls don’t do that baby, they don’t do that.” You hum, 

“Maybe I’m not nice.” He snorts, 

“Nah, you’re not bad jus’, jus’ all riled up,” He turns you with a grip on your upper arm to be leaning against the counter, pushing you to the edge until you get the message and hop up onto it. His hands knead your legs, and the metal of the bands around his fingers brushes you, his sleeve tickling the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “Getting me all riled up, s’not nice.” He huffs it as he leans into you, gripping the back of your neck to pull your lips onto his. It’s intense and hungry, and you can’t remember the last time you felt desperation like this, craving more of him. Your hands come up to finger into his hair, clutching at the slippery-soft strands as he takes total and absolute control of the kiss, of your mind and body. Your head falls back when he pulls away, breathless. 

He’s grinning at you when he leans back - that smug little smile on his face that makes you want to storm off or smack him, but instead you give in to your other urge. Gripping the pointy edge of his collar in one hand, your other comes up to clutch at him, freshly trimmed sideburns tickling your palm.

 He lets you kiss him, pressing kisses onto his chin, his cheek, his lips. You can’t seem to get close enough to satisfy yourself, and your legs wrap around his waist, the skirt of your dress rising up. Elvis’ fingers press into your thighs as he holds you down onto the counter, and you squirm as the heat builds. He huffs a little laugh even as he leads the kiss again, biting down on the edge of too hard on your bottom lip. You slide back with the force of it until you’re leaning, head against the mirror, and he leans against you while he unbuttons his jacket - roughly throwing it open as much as possible, and you try to lean forward, to shove it down his arms - get it off now. But you’re distracted by the way it pulls his already unbuttoned shirt lower down, and by him moving to rapidly finger open another several buttons, his chest unveiling itself. He’s tan and lean, and you can’t do anything but stare for a second. There’s a thin layer of hair leading lower and you find your hands moving of their own accord. They explore his chest and you feel it move with each inhale and exhale of breath he takes, feel how his intake stutters for a second when you twist his nipple. 

Your hands get in the way of him taking anything off further, and he has to shove you off of him to hastily unbuckle his belt and untuck his silky shirt. He doesn’t bother to take it off - leaving it hanging off of him. Elvis leans back, bitten lips slightly puffy, lipstick smudged across his cheeks and you can’t imagine what your own face looks like or how he’ll go back to the party, but most of the red seems to smear across your own skin as he brings his head back down to your chest, sucking a bruise that you already know your thin halter dress, that’s currently been so carelessly pushed to one side, won’t cover. 

Elvis’ hands roam over you, long fingers of one hand gripping your neck to hold you steady, the other shifting to brush against your skin until his fingertips are dancing over your breast. He sinks down further, light kisses pressing onto you - past his own hand to your lower sternum, before leaning back for a moment.  You gasp as he suddenly tugs you to be barely balanced on the edge of the counter, his hands holding you up as much as they hold you down. Your own hands have to fly back to support yourself to be upright enough to watch him, resting on your elbows. He bends down and you can’t help the whine coming from your mouth at his fingertips inching closer to your inner thigh, how he shoves your dress even further up and out of the way. Elvis moves lower, crouching further down until he’s eye level with your spread legs. 

“Gotta be quiet, honey,” He mutters it against your thigh, his breath tickling as he mouths at your sensitive skin there, “Keep quiet baby, you can do it, that’s it, that’s right -” You can feel him grinning at you, at the way your leg twitches and your attempts at stifling the noises coming out of your mouth, 

“That -oh fuck, Jesus - that tickles - god Elvis,” He shakes his head, knocking against your knees, 

“Gotta watch that mouth, honey, … haveta wash it out if you keep that up.” You can feel him grinning against you and you groan, swearing again, “The mouth on you baby,” You roll your eyes at the irony considering where his was currently nibbling at the crease of your inner thigh, cheek against the lace of your underwear. He leans back for a brief second and you find the words to respond, 

“The mouth - El - the mouth on me?” He chuckles, and he moves forward, head disappearing between your thighs and you tense as you anticipate his lips, his tongue, his breath, anything, on you. You tremble, relaxing and tensing again in quick succession, hips moving at the damp feeling of his hot breath against the fabric, waiting for him to touch. But it never comes. “Elvis!” He moves his hand further up to nestle in the fold of your hip as he stands himself upright again. 

“Don’t have time for that, honey, not right now, gotta - we gotta get a move on,” You nod, resigned, about to stand up yourself, “Where d’ya think you’re going?” You blink, a little dazed and confused - heart pounding. 

“Y-you said we hadta -”

“I can’t go out there like this,” He gestures down at himself, his shirt undone, belt unbuckled, and his trousers straining to hold the bulk of him.  He makes it sound so obvious, and then delicately, like a tease, “But we can’t stay here all night -“ You shake your head, playing along;

“So - So, what should we do?” Elvis doesn’t respond with words, but he moves closer again, spreading your legs further apart to accommodate the bulk of him between them. 

Finally, finally, his fingers slip up to the apex of your thighs. He presses against the damp fabric of your underwear, pressing the sticky lace against you, there’s a slight irritation as it catches on your hair and you squirm at the sensation. At the feeling of the slide and the stickiness. 

“Fuck baby, you’re… fuck, s’that what…thats what he’s done to you?” You shake your head, even as his eyes twinkle at you, 

“No, no, it’s, god - it’s you El, Elvis, it’s - I’ve never felt like this for anyone else.” 

“That right, huh,” He’s slimmer than one, or two years ago, and it’s weird that you can feel the difference in his fingers, but he’s sure of himself oh so sure of himself as he uses a single finger to stroke down the centre of your labia.  He presses his finger against your folds, his thumb rapidly moving higher up and your hips jerk with it, grounding circles though you can’t move far with his grip on your thigh and you whine as he shoves your underwear to the side, undoubtedly stretching them beyond repair and slides his pointer and middle finger in to you, bending them just so.

He pulls away and you pant, but at last he’s unbuttoning his trousers, the last button holding his body from yours, and there’s nothing delicate about it anymore as Elvis slams into you. Your eyes close in anticipation as you expect to bump your head on the mirror, the force of him pushing you to slip across the smooth tile of the counter, but his hands pull you back to him, rocking you back and forth onto him. You’re embarrassingly close, and a swipe of his fingers, along with a slight change of angle is enough to make you shudder satisfactorily if not overwhelmingly. 

He’s evidently close too as he jack-hammers into you, and your hands, now knowing you don’t need to support yourself, clutch at his shoulders, watching the dim lighting bounce across his glistening bronzed chest and face - mouth open as he finishes. He stays curled over you for a moment as he catches his breath. 

Elvis pulls away, grabbing the hand towel from the side and wiping himself off. He does it so matter of factly that it’s almost humiliating, making your tummy flip. 

He rinses his hands, shaking them out before buttoning and buckling himself back up. 

“Yer being foolish out there. Makin’ a scene.”  He gathers himself further, slicking his hand with a little running water and pushing back his edges. Other than his bitten lips and hint of red high on his cheekbones he looks astonishingly put together again but you’re still in a daze on the counter, your legs spread next to him, panties aside. He looks over at you. 

“I’m goin’ back out.” You nod shakily, 

“I’ll, I’ll be out in a minute.” 

Elvis’ face hardens, lips pressed tightly together again. He shakes his head, “You’re going to bed.” You’re outraged, legs slamming shut as you sit upright. 

“Well yes sir,” you salute sarcastically, “You can’t just declare that I have to do something and I have to jump to d -” He smirks, eyebrow raising and you can feel the heat rising again up your face in annoyance at his patronising expression, “I’m not a child - you can’t send me to my room like a child Elvis.” You make it a statement as if that will stop him from debating it further. His whole facial expression changes, clearly no longer finding your dissidence amusing. 

“I fuckin’ can. You ain’t goin’ back out there lookin’ like that - so you can either go to bed, or you can go straighta the airport.” He roughly pulls you off the counter, turning you to stare in the mirror and you have to take in the image of yourself, bruises bitten onto the skin above your neckline, skirt hitched and thighs marked, your eyeliner running, lipstick smeared. 

“I’ll..I’ll go to bed.” He nods satisfied, slapping your ass, 

“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls you into his arms, “I’ll be up soon, you just hang tight till then right?” You nod back at him, and he takes a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at your cheeks. “Just, just gotta - there. Try not to be seen?” You nod in agreement again, having seen yourself you had no interest in a photo being taken of your current state even if you dread him going back out there alone, the inevitable photos of him laughing, looking at someone else. 

taglist: @lookingforrainbows @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen  @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny, @doll-elvis @18lkpeters @prompted-wordsmith @richardslady121 @meetmeatyourworst @marriedtopresley @elvisabutler @eliseinmemphis @literally-just-elvis-fics @livelaughlove-talia @angelborn1 @amydarcimarie @peskybedtime @shakerattlescroll @i-r-i-n-a-a @saintomie @missmaywemeetagain @ooihcnoiwlerh @from-memphis-with-love @dkayfixates

[iimplicitt]

I WAS ALL OVER HER PT. 3 — O.P.

pairings: oscar piastri x reader (romantic/platonic) | lando norris x reader (romantic)

part three of three, link to part one and two here

summary: tensions are at an all time high between the mclaren drivers. y/n makes a choice. lando gets punched, both by reality and a friend.

warnings: pining, missed opportunities, cheating (mentioned), cheating towards the end, 18+ smut, jealous!oscar, toxic!lando, mirror sex, fingering + oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex sorta (stay safe), technically a HEA for oscar x yn? bumpy road to get there, though. lando, i apologise.

word count: 5.5k

authors note: this in no way speaks on my opinion of lando and what his personality may be like, i love him this is purely for the plot <3

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

The Italian sun was warm and for the most part, all you could see was a sea of Ferrari red in the crowd. Not a surprise given it was Monza. The last twenty four hours had been a bit chaotic. Lando got on pole position, and despite everything you were still happy for him. That annoying part of yourself that was a touch too sentimental. Of course it wasn’t that simple, though. McLaren locked out the front row, Oscar starting on P2.

It was obvious to anyone he was hungry. For more, like any other driver but there was simply something different about the way Oscar had been carrying himself lately. After the complicated first win he had in Hungary, the world knew he still felt like he had to prove himself. That wins didn’t have to be handed to him.

You watched, nervous and hands sweating with the heavy headphones over your ears. The drivers had just finished their warm up lap, filing into position. Your eyes flicked between the two McLaren’s, a whole range of complex emotions eating you up inside over the pair of them.

Those red lights lit up one by one, then pouring out of the headphones the infamous words “It’s lights out and away we go!” Engines roared, your jaw fell open.

Oscar overtook Lando’s lead into turn one.

Charles had won, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t happy for him. A Ferrari driver on top of the podium in Monza was always a sight to behold.

Your breath was held tightly in your lungs however as you watched the Tifosi flood onto the track because there was a bit of commotion going on after the initial post-race interviews of the top three drivers. Oscar finished P2, Lando finished about six seconds behind him and landed P3.

The two McLaren drivers had come to an abrupt stop in the hallway that lead up to the cool down room, their shouting could be heard in the garage despite the roar of the crowd outside. Your stomach dropped, you could barely see them but that didn’t matter. Lando was the main one yelling, Oscar on the other hand had a calm rage about him, his voice sounding more cold than you had ever thought him capable of.

The team looked around awkwardly for a few moments before someone ran to go get Andrea Stella. Not a moment later the team principal threw off his headphones and ran to try and diffuse the situation.

You stood there against the wall, acutely aware of all the cameras that may be filming into the garage. Knowing Netflix was about to have a field day with this. The season had been so messy, and that wasn’t even in regard to your own issues with the drivers but the grid in total.

Messy. What a simple word for such fucked up situations.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

A WEEK AGO, ZANDVOORT

He couldn’t keep his hands off you. Not as he had recklessly driven back to the hotel, not as you rode up the elevator, not as you two stumbled down the hallway to his hotel room. The moment it was in sight he had pushed you against the door, forgetting he was supposed to unlock it first but his mind was on other things.

The feeling of your mouth against his, your nails dragging against his scalp, the way your chest pushed against his in an attempt to get closer. He was consumed by you, not quite believing this was real. Years, he had dreamed about this moment for years. The longing he had felt about getting to touch you like this had driven him to the brink of insanity. He was terrified if he took his hands off you, you’d disappear. That he would wake up alone again in bed, hating what his life had come to despite the building success of his career.

Oscar pressed your body onto the door further, completely covering you with his own body, every nerve ending on fire with a desperate need to be close to you. His hips pressed into yours, a hand cupping your throat while the other tugged at your shirt in a fit of desperation to get at your skin.

Call it demented or sick, but at that moment he wanted to consume you. And he wanted you to do the same to him, to devour him in any way you so pleased.

His tongue danced against yours, teeth hitting and the sounds being made were vulgar but only sent him into a further frenzy. You were right here, giving in as well and he felt like his heart was about to explode.

“Bed,” you gasped out in between kisses barely finding a moment for air.

He didn’t take his mouth off you as he haphazardly dug in his pocket for his wallet, shoving it against the sensor and hoping it would pick up on the hotel key. Not a moment later there was a click and he pushed the door open, one arm wrapping around your waist as he backed you into his room, kicking the door shut behind him. He picked you up, a surprised gasp leaving your lips as he did so. Instead of depositing you on the bed, he sat you down on the desk, arm swiping out and not caring what he knocked over.

His strong hands grabbed at your waist, yanking you to the edge of the bed and his erection pressed snuggly into you. He shuddered at the contact, feeling delirious.

Oscar needed to see you, all of you. Now. His fingers found the hem of your shirt and began to lift. “Arms up,” his voice was soft but commanding, and the blush dusting your face was something he wanted imprinted in his mind for forever.

You did as told, the fabric sliding up and over your head. The shirt fell to the floor soundlessly, his hands resting on your hips as he marvelled at you. Your bra was white cotton, no padding and due to the rain the fabric was practically see through. Hiding nothing and making your hardened nipples stand out. He groaned, not being able to help himself as he lowered his head and pressed a kiss to each one.

“Oscar,” your voice was shy, timid and shaky. He looked up at you, watching with apt attention how you bit your lip and your hands came to rest on his shoulders. “Listen, I know I might not look like a lot of the other-“

He cut you off, grabbing hold of your chin and forcing you to meet his eyes. His expression was stern. “There’s no one else I want this with. Okay? No one, not even as I’m rotting in the earth will there ever be anyone else.” His calloused hands cupped your face, his thumb wiping away a tear that slipped out of your pretty eyes. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, taking in every minuscule detail that made up your face.

You tugged on his shirt this time and he quickly rid himself of it for you, the cool air of the hotel room hitting his skin. He watched as your eyes raked over him, every line of muscle that adorned his stomach, to his neck, then his face.

“This is wrong.” You said quietly, even as your fingers hooked into his belt loops and tugged him into you again.

“Probably,” he said in return, sliding the straps of your bra off your shoulders before undoing the clasp at the back, watching in adoration as it fell away from you. “But I’ve dreamt of this for years and it’s going to take a nuclear bomb to stop me from fucking you, Angel. I hope you know that.”

Your breath hitched and he blinked before you were pulling him down to meet your wanting mouth again, moaning into the kiss as he began to undo the button and zipper on your pants. The moment felt so surreal. If this did turn out to be a dream, when he woke up he was genuinely considering killing himself. He wouldn’t be able to live with the torment any longer.

He smacked your ass lightly and you yelped, getting the hint and lifting your hips for him so he could slide your pants off. Oscar fell to knees and he tugged off your shoes, then your pants, looking up at you like a deprived man seeking salvation at the altar. You chest was heaving and he watched in fascination the way your breast moved and your ribs expanded. Your pupils were blown wide and hungry.

He placed a hand on each of your knees, slowly pulling them apart as he kept eye contact. Oscar placed hot, open mouthed kisses as he danced up your thigh, closer and closer to where he knew you needed him most. The white cotton of your panties giving off a twisted sense of innocence that made him even more hard, if possible. The white fabric made it easy to tell how wet you were and he could hear his heart beat pounding in his ears knowing that it was all for him. Moving closer, he pressed a warm kiss on your navel, taking in the sweet smell of your perfume and he knew he would die a happy man after this.

Next, he placed a kiss right onto your clit, finding it blindly through your underwear.

You yelped at the contact, hips thrusting up into his face and he couldn’t help but smile. His grin surely wicked as he looked up at you through heavy lidded, lust filled eyes.

You swallowed roughly, “Oscar, please.”

He kissed you again, savouring the taste of you and how drenched your panties were, working you through the thin cotton as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs.

“Oh my god,” your voice was a whine, your nails digging into his scalp. The pain of it quickly fizzled into pleasure though as he moaned into you, mouth following along with your desperate thrusts.

“Please.” You panted, “I need you, Oscar.”

He pulled back, feeling hazy and in utter bliss. “How badly?”

“So fucking much.”

Oscar ripped your underwear off you, leaving red marks where the fabric had snagged against your skin. With one hand splaying against your stomach, he pushed you backward until your back hit the window, neither of you caring who saw. Fuck, you were stunning. Swollen and glistening for him, practically dripping out into his lap with how wet you were.

He could feel your heart beat as he got closer before looking up at you, watching to see your face when he finally tasted you. Lowering himself, he licked long and flat up your cunt, moaning along with you as you trembled violently, your hands digging into his hair to pull him closer.

One arm reached around your thigh, fingers dancing across your hip before he pulled the skin above your pussy taught, exposing you to him fully to get unobstructed access to your clit. With his other hand, he pushed your other knee up and out, wanting you as exposed as possible. He knew there was a mirror behind him, so before he dove back in like a man starved, his rough voice carried out around the room. “Look at yourself.”

You shook your head, clearly embarrassed. “Oscar—“

“If you stop or if you close your eyes, I’ll stop.”

You pouted, the sight devastatingly adorable and he wanted to bite at your lip but he had other things on his list first. He didn’t move until your eyes hesitantly moved to the mirror behind him, breath hitching at the sight of him kneeling between your thighs.

Oscar’s mouth latched onto your clit, sucking harshly but slowly, the paired strokes of his tongue deliberate, and without warrant a shout left your lips. You had smacked a hand over your mouth, but he quickly tugged your hand away, he wanted to hear you.

Hands returning back to his hair, he watched you as you watched yourself come undone against his mouth. Your jaw falling open as two of his thick fingers sunk into your pussy, instantly clenching around him. He must really have amazing self control because he felt like he could cum in his pants then and there.

“So fucking warm,” he said against you, lapping at your clit as your thighs trembled. “And tight, for me.” His fingers set an unrelenting pace, curling up in a come hither motion and he knew he was dragging the pads of his fingers against your g-spot with the way you were screaming his name.

“Oscar!” You threw your head back against the window, still obeying him and keeping your eyes on the mirror. Your hips rutting into his mouth and fingers, desperate for a release.

Your voice sounded like church bells to him and he added another finger, three digits fucking you at a relentless pace. He felt your stomach tighten, fingers clenching around him. You were breathless as you forced the words out, there was even some drool starting to leak from your lips. “I’m— I’m going—“

“Come for me, Angel. Give me all of it.” He didn’t stop, not even as liquid started to spurt out of your pussy, coating his lips and chin as he continued his relentless licking and sucking on your clit, not stopping the thrusting of his fingers and you screamed and clamped your thighs around his head, being sent into absolute overdrive as you twitched against him. Your orgasm was violent, and he wasn’t letting up.

“Oscar, oh my god.” Your voice was hoarse and rough, followed by another orgasm that completely shattered you as you convulsed against him. He was a moaning mess, pre-cum soaking through his boxers and trousers. You yanked his head back by his hair and he let go of your clit with a resounding pop.

“Greedy.” You teased through panting breaths, a delirious smile on your face and he couldn’t help but share it.

“You taste like heaven.” He leaned in again, gently licking a long stripe up your entrance, collecting whatever wasn’t on his face or on the floor. You shuddered against him as he placed a light kiss against your clit.

He watched as you stood up on trembling legs, his hands coming up to rest on the back of your thighs as he stared up at you from where he was, still on his knees. Your fingers brushed his hair back from his eyes, taking in his face and swollen lips, but his brows started to furrow as your eyes began to water.

“What’s wrong?” He said quietly, pulling you to him so he was hugging you around your legs, resting his chin on your stomach as he looked up at you.

Shaking your head, you wiped the tears away and smiled. “I’m happy. And I’m mad we waited so long.”

“Yeah,” Oscar said softly, giving you a warm smile as he slowly stood up, his fingers dragging up your body as he went. He cupped your throat with both hands as he got to his feet, pressing his thumbs up under your chin to tilt your face to him. He kissed you gently, yet there was still a rough desperation underlined in it. “It’s a good thing I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

Your eyes glowed, “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” he hummed, turning you and backing you up slowly till the back of your knees hit the bed and he lightly shoved you onto the mattress. He watched you carefully as he began to undo his belt, watching as your eyes traced down his toned stomach, down his happy trail, and to the obvious bulge in his trousers.

“What do you have in mind?” Your voice was timid, but clearly excited as you then sucked in a sharp breath as he took off his trousers and boxers in one go, his cock twitching at the cool air in the room and the tip was glistening and red.

“Oh, Angel.” He walked forward, slowly climbing over you and parted your thighs with his knee. He lowered his face, nipping at your neck gently before his hot breath danced over your ear. “I’m going to ruin you.”

He took hold of himself, dragging the tip up and down your entrance and he just about came undone there and then. This had to last, he needed it to last.

Oscar’s eyes locked onto yours before he sunk in, burying himself to the hilt and a loud groan left him while you moaned, throwing your head back against the sheets. You were devine. Warm, wet, already spasming around him. He was losing his hold on his sanity as he slowly pulled back out, then slammed back into you with a brutal thrust.

“I hate that he got to fucking touch you.” The words had slipped out before he realised what he had said. But he meant every syllable.

“I know,” you gasped out, nails dragging against his back, surely leaving red streak marks but he didn’t care.

Oscar had driven himself mad knowing that Lando got to see you like this. Got to feel what it was like to have you wrapped around his cock. Haunted by the thought of his teammate making you cum. Horrified by the thought of you screaming Lando’s name.

He didn’t realise it, but a hand had wrapped around your throat, choking you as he fucked you with next to no gentleness. Bottoming out each time, his other hand taking hold of one of your legs to drape it over his shoulder, needing to go deeper.

You cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure as he hit your cervix over and over again.

“I thought of you every time he touched me,” the cruel admission left your lips. Both of you were horrible, awful people. Yet neither seemed to care as your teeth sunk into his forearm that was next to your head, tears slipping out of your eyes as you screamed. His pace was brutal, unrelentless. The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin echoing in the room and an animalistic groan left him and you clenched around his cock.

Oscar turned you both so you were facing the mirror, his hand that was choking you tilting your head back so you could watch him fuck you upside down. “I’ve gotten myself off every week to thought of fucking you like this. Anywhere. Of bending you over the sink. Fucking you in the shower. In my driver’s room before a race. I’d fuck you in front of the whole paddock if I could.”

You choked out a cry, blood rushing to your head from the lack of oxygen. He knew you liked the filth he was muttering due how hard you were clenching around him, your hips going up to meet his thrusts.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you? Coming around my cock as everyone watched. Knowing Lando would be watching as I made a mess of you.”

“I’m going to come,” you cried, coughing violently afterward. He may have gotten ahead of himself as he pulled his hand away, noticing a red hand mark on your throat. But the sight only spurred him on further, his hand dancing between your bodies before finding your clit, rubbing tight circles into it.

He felt your orgasm before he heard you. Your cunt clamped down onto his cock, screaming his name as you convulsed. God, you were ethereal.

His thrusts became sloppy and unorganised, one hand holding your hip and yanking you down onto him as the other continued its agonising circled on your clit.

Oscar cried out your name as he came, yanking you all the way down on his cock as his cum spilled hotly into you, filling you up in such a primal way it made another wave of pleasure shoot through him.

He collapsed on top of you, both your bodies sweaty and he began peppering kisses across your face. Kissing your tears away and muttering mine between each.

Oscar was still buried deep inside you, holding his release in and he never wanted to move. Your chest heaved, slowly coming down from your high. He felt your arms move before your hands gently took hold of his face, bringing his eyes up to meet yours.

Messy trails of mascara ran down your cheeks, painting a beautiful picture of ruin in front of him. If his muscles weren’t so tired, he would’ve reached for his phone to take a picture.

“Oscar,” your voice was a whisper.

He hummed, lifting a hand up to gently tug at your bottom lip with his thumb. You seemed hesitant, searching his gaze for something. But he didn’t need to be given any hints.

“I love you,” he said the words against your lips. He said them again against your forehead. Again as he kissed each of your eye lids. Your nose.

You started to cry again, a grin stretching at your lips as you spoke the words that sealed his fate, “I love you.”

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

MONZA

You shut the door softly behind you, looking at his back as he leaned over to untie his shoes.

Clearing your throat, Lando sat up and turned, raising a brow at you. “Yeah?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you considered how there was no hello. No smile, though you weren’t expecting much of one. Sure, he scored a podium, but it wasn’t enough.

You stood there and stared at him for a moment. Genuinely wondering why he had even asked you out in the first place. What was the point? Then again, you shouldn’t have said yes in the first place.

Sighing, you brought out your keys and took off the one he gave you to his flat in Monaco.

His eyes widened, realising quickly what was happening and he stood up, crossing the room and taking hold of your hands to halt the finality of your actions. “Hey, what’s going on?” Lando cupped your chin, bringing your eyes up to his. “Talk to me, baby.”

Despite everything, you still felt guilty. Your mind couldn’t help but wander over all of his sweet moments with you. Because he could be, he could be really fucking sweet. Romantic even. But he was also really fucking awful sometimes. Mean, even.

Your brows furrowed, taking hold of his wrist. “We both know I’m not what you want.” You looked at his eyes, how stunningly green they were and curious how he was able to look at you in such adoration sometimes. “And we both know I know about the other girls.”

Lando clenched his jaw, his eyes flickering shut as the words were finally out. Sure, he may actually want you. He just didn’t only want you. Besides, you knew you were in no place to pass judgement anymore. With your other hand, you brushed a thumb over his cheek bone, his eyes then opening. Looking at you in confusion, not understanding why you weren’t angry. Not understanding why you were being so… understanding.

With a small sigh, you kissed him softly on the cheek before dropping his key into his hands. He didn’t stop looking at you, and maybe you were reading too much into it, but he nearly looked sad.

“Bye, Lando.”

And you left.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

AZERBAIJAN, BAKU

The thick rug that ran down the middle of the hallway muted your footsteps as you walked. You had flown home during the small break between the last race and the one that’s tomorrow. You hadn’t been able to see Oscar, though you had texted a few times.

You came to a stop outside of his door, you hadn’t told him when you were coming back. He understood you needed a break.

Stealing your breath, you knocked on the door once. The sharp sound echoing down the long hallway. Muffled sounds came from the other side of the door before it opened, Oscar blinking at you in surprise before he grinned at you.

He was so effortlessly handsome, wearing a white t-shirt that hugged his muscles perfectly and a pair of grey sweats. You licked your lips, mouth feeling dry and looked down at your shoes.

“Angel?”

“I broke up with Lando.”

There was a moment of silence before you heard him step forward, his warm and rough hands holding your face, tilting your face up to his. The look on his face, it was hard to put distinct words to it but the look of hope in his eyes made your knees weak.

“What?”

“I broke up with him.” Your breathing was uneven, and despite everything, doubts still lingered in your brain. “And you’re under no obligation to—“

Oscar pulled you to him, kissing you with such urgency your head spun.

You smiled into his mouth, “I’m all yours.”

He picked you up, looking at you with heaven in his eyes, carrying you into the room and shutting the door behind him.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Lando watched as champagne sprayed out and over the podium, watching Oscar laugh and smile as he got drenched with the Australian flag glowing above the top step. Despite his annoyance, he couldn’t hate him. His teammate was a good driver and a good person.

All of Lando’s karma was finally catching up to him, but he clapped anyway. Smiled for photos. Patted Oscar on the shoulder in congratulations, who in turn looked at him sceptically before eventually giving him a small smile.

A tiny truce.

After the crowd had died down, Lando had grappled with his consciousness for a while before forcing himself to go to Oscar’s room. He could at least try to make some sort of amends. They were going to be teammates for a while; they might as well try and get along. Water under the bridge.

He knocked on the door, he didn’t hear a response but slight muffled shuffling. He rolled his eyes, they needed to get this conversation out of the way or else Lando wasn’t sure he’d pluck up the courage again. Plus, he was sure Oscar was in a good mood after a win.

Testing the handle, the door clicked and he pushed it open, mouth opening to say something when he suddenly froze at the sight before him.

You were sitting up on the dresser, Oscar standing between your legs and his hands under your shirt, kissing you as if his life depended on it. Your desperation was palpable, hands buried in the Aussie’s hair and moaning into his mouth.

Lando blinked a few times, his mouth dry and feeling as if he’d vomit. Quickly and quietly, he shut the door and started to walk away. His pace brisk, trying not to cause a scene and run.

He knew he was in absolutely no position to feel upset over this, but he couldn’t help it. He did. He knew he had fucked up. Fucked up a wonderful opportunity you had given him. You were perfect in every sense of the word, but he had been too caught up in his ego to give a shit if he fumbled one of the best things life had tried to offer him. Right after you left his hotel room in Monza, he sat there staring at the key he had given you for a pathetically long time as a cold wave of reality slammed into him.

Not sure why, but his feet brought him to Red Bull’s section of the paddock, eyes searching desperately for Max. He was always someone he could talk to, even in the worst circumstances the Dutch man somehow always knew what to say.

After a few frantic minutes of searching, he finally found Max and called out to him. His friend turned, raising a brow at the look on Lando’s face. He probably looked insane. Max crossed his arms as he approached, not looking all too thrilled at seeing him. Which wasn’t a surprise. The entire grid wasn’t a fan of his behaviour in regards to women, Max especially given everything that had happened with Kelly and Daniil.

“Can we talk?” He asked.

Max eyed him over for a moment before nodding, guiding him back to his room. He sat on the edge of the counter, not saying anything but looked at Lando expectantly.

Lando bit the side of his cheek, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I fucked up.”

Max let out a long breath through his nose, his eye brows rising. “You’re realising this now?”

Sighing, Lando considered how to move forward. “Look I know it was dumb but can you really blame—Fuck!” His eyes began to water and his hand went up to cover his now bleeding nose. Staring at his friend in bewilderment as his head began to pound with pain.

Max had just punched him.

“You are such a fucking dumbass, Lando.” Max was practically yelling at him, not caring that the sound hurt the Brit’s head.

“I just walked in on her and Oscar practically fucking! They’ve probably been doing it behind my back all this time, anyway—“

Max looked like he wanted to deck him again. “Get over yourself! How does that even begin to justify the countless women you were screwing around with behind her back all these months.” Lando went to open his mouth but Max held up his hand. “I have never in all my years even considered doing that to someone, let alone Kelly.”

Lando grew quiet, slumping against the wall, not caring that blood was dripping down his face and he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes till stars appeared. “I know, I fucked up,” his voice cracked as he spoke. “I can’t justify it. And I can’t explain it, but I really feel like I’ve had a wake up call, mate.” He laughed ruefully, looking up at the ceiling. “She’s so perfect and I just— I fucked her over.”

Max considered his friend for a long moment. He hated him for what he did to you, but he still cared about him. “I’m not saying you can fix this, nor do I think there is anything to even fix. But you need to apologise to her. But I need you to understand this,” he stepped towards Lando, placing a hand on his shoulder. “She doesn’t need to forgive you. I don’t even think she should. But she deserves a proper apology from you. Get down on your knees and cry for all I care.” With one last pointed look, Max walked over to his door and gestured an arm out. “Now get the fuck out of my room.”

That night at the club the team had picked to celebrate Oscar’s win, Lando couldn’t take his eyes off you. He held his drink, still full and ice long ago melted as he watched you dance. The multicolour lights painting you in a beautiful image.

He waved off multiple girls who approached, not even an inkling of interest igniting in his chest. His heart for some reason set on torturing himself as he watching how Oscar held onto you possessively, never letting you go and with stars in his eyes.

He had known the whole time Oscar was in love with you, and it gave him a screwed up thrill to know you were with him instead. He didn’t know what was wrong with him sometimes, but he regretted everything. Not like it mattered. You looked properly happy for once and Lando realised you had never looked at him that way.

Another girl came up to him, resting her hand on his shoulder and smiling seductively.

All he could see was you, though. Looking at him one last time before kissing him on the cheek and leaving. Shrugging the girl off, he called it an early night and left.

Despite everything, how he treated you, Lando came to a crushing realisation and he felt his lungs stop working.

He was in love with you.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

landonorris

liked by youruser, oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1 and 1,436,097 others

landonorris smile. 🏆

*tap to load more comments*

userone: LESGOOO

usertwo: singapore looks good on you!

userthree: anyone find it odd how unhappy he’s looked lately? even when he wins

userfour: anyone see those leaked photos of oscar and lando’s ex?

| userfive: YESS they were making out in front of some pub in london

| usersix: WILLDDDD

youruser: congratulations lando 🥳

❤️ by author

landonorris: thank you, love ❤️

| userseven: i’m so lost 😭

[merakiui]

Adding onto step bro Skully (✦ ‿ ✦) imagine step bro needing to talk himself in and out of peeking into the wash room while she's bathing. That would be creepy right??? B-but seeing the outline of your naked form would be really nice. Putting a body image into that lingerie would quell just enough...surely. And finally he sneaks a peek, just opening the door enough to see in without you noticing too much, to see you in the submerged in the bath chest barely covered and legs propped upwards out of the bath only bubbles covering part of your body while your head is laid back clearly enjoying your time.

WAAA YES!!! >w< he thinks it’s such a delightful sight. The bubbles allow his very vivid imagination to fill in the blanks, providing him with all kinds of lewd thoughts. You look so peaceful relaxing in the warm bath. If only he could be there in the bath with you… aaa,,, but maybe that’s too weird. You’re both grown and he’s way too tall. >_< he’d take up too much space with his awkward, lanky limbs. But it’d be so romantic to bathe together, to take turns washing the other, to enjoy floral scented baths, to have you lean against his chest and fall asleep right there, comforted in his embrace!!!! AAAAA OTL he has to turn away from the door before he accidentally falls in or makes any sounds from the amount of swooning he’s doing. ;;;

Skully doesn’t intend to become a thief, but he can’t help swiping some of your panties for himself. You’ll never notice they’re gone. He just,,, needs them. He likes how soft they are wrapped around his dick; he likes thinking about how these same panties definitely touched that soft pussy of yours…… in a way, isn’t this just indirect sex?!?! \(//∇//)\ sometimes he’ll spray your perfume on his sheets or pillows just to fall asleep in your pretty smell, imagining you spread out on his bed, inviting him to join you…. it’s a dream that’s so delightfully intimate that he wakes with an aching hard-on. :( the sad reality is that it’s only just a dream.

Sometimes he creeps into your room just to watch you sleep. Maybe he even sleeps under your bed or in the closet… tucking himself away so that when morning comes he can watch you do your daily routine. He can watch you dress yourself, do your makeup, bend over to pick up dirty laundry……… he knows it’s poor manners and he knows you’ll think he’s a gross, pathetic creep, but sometimes he gets hard watching you and one time it was so bad he just had to slowly pump himself to the sight of you going through pretty outfits for a night out with friends. The lacy panties, the lewd bras, the dresses and skirts, the cute tops… you’re so pretty,,, such a beautiful darling. His dear stepsister… he could admire you forever, burn this image into his brain and let it remain there for all of eternity.

Skully wants nothing more than to plaster you to the bed and fuck into you slow and sweet, watching your tits jiggle with every thrust, watching your hazy expression twist with pleasure, listening to the soft gasps that spill from parted lips!!! He has to bite down hard on his lip so you won’t hear his whimper when he cums into an old pair of panties he found lying haphazardly in the back of your closet.

Or when the two of you watch movies together!! These are the moments Skully looks forward to the most. Movie nights with you are special, sacred times. You bond over horror films and, of course, the nightly rewatch of his favorite: The Nightmare Before Christmas. But sometimes you’ll watch a movie and a sex scene will come on, and he’s so incredibly awkward throughout the entire thing. He keeps stealing glances at you, wondering what you’re thinking about. If he lets his mind wander, it’s you he sees on the screen. He imagines himself in those positions with you: pressing you against a window, bending you over a surface, lying back and watching you lower yourself onto his dick…… he fidgets with the pillow placed over his lap. He’d die if you saw his erection straining against his trousers. >_<

But sometimes he just wants to take you to dinner and court you properly like a gentleman from Victorian times. He probably writes lots of poetry about you. You’re his favorite thing next to Jack Skellington and everything NBC. He idolizes you. <3

[phoenixblaze1412]

Mr reca with an actress reader who first appeared very professional on set and unaffected by reca’s light flirting only to be incredibly dominant and flirtatious in private :> (reca would be stunned, trust)

Mr. Reca was no stranger to being in control. As a director, he dictated the way a scene unfolded, his hands shaping every movement, his voice orchestrating every beat. He thrived in command.

But you…

You were something else entirely.

The first time you walked onto his set, you were all business. Polite yet detached, you took direction with ease, never wavering under his signature teasing remarks.

"Ah, our star," Reca had purred during the first rehearsal, leaning against the back of his chair as he watched you adjust your mark on set. "I hope you don’t mind my guiding hand."

You barely spared him a glance. "I take direction well, Mr. Reca. I expect you to do the same when I’m in front of the camera."

His grin had flickered, just for a second. Most actresses either blushed or batted their lashes at him. But you? You were ice-cool, immovable. He had a game on his hands, and oh, how he loved a game.

He tested you. More flirtation, more casual touches—nothing inappropriate, but enough to see if he could get a rise out of you. A flicker of amusement, a hitch in your breath, something that indicated you weren’t as immune to him as you appeared.

But scene after scene, you remained unaffected. Perfect. Poised. Practically untouchable.

And Reca? He was growing obsessed.

By the second week of filming, Reca was practically restless. He threw in more casual flirtations, knowing that the crew would write it off as his usual antics.

“Tell me, do you rehearse that sharp tongue of yours, or does it just come naturally?” he mused one afternoon after yet another witty rebuttal from you.

Without missing a beat, you met his gaze and responded, “If I did rehearse, Mr. Reca, you wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

Laughter erupted from the crew, and Reca could only chuckle, though inwardly, he was seething. Not with anger, but with frustration. He had flirted his way into and out of every kind of reaction imaginable—but you? You were unreadable.

Even in moments that required close contact—like the romantic tension in the film’s pivotal scene—you stayed in character, never faltering under his gaze.

And yet, when the cameras weren’t rolling, you had this knowing glint in your eye, as if you were playing a game he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

Late one evening, after an exhausting day of shooting, you found Reca alone in the production room, watching playback footage.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "Still working, Director?"

Reca turned, expecting the same playful professionalism you gave in public. Instead, he found you watching him with a smirk that made his pulse stutter.

"You know, dedication is—"

"Reca." You cut him off, sauntering toward him.

His mouth went dry.

You plucked the remote from his hand, stopping the footage. Then, slow as sin, you leaned onto the table, your lips mere inches from his ear.

"I’ve been patient," you murmured. "I’ve let you play your game. Now it’s my turn."

He barely had time to process your words before you kissed him.

And oh, stars above, you kissed him like you had all the time in the universe to break him apart.

Your hands found their way into his hair, your body pressing against his just enough to feel his heartbeat stammer against your own. He responded instinctively, hands gripping your waist, but the moment he tried to deepen the kiss...

You pulled away.

Reca nearly whimpered.

"What’s wrong?" you teased, dragging a thumb over his lower lip. "Not used to being the one left breathless?"

He stared at you, dazed, lips kiss-bruised and eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

"You’re dangerous," he whispered.

You smiled, slow and knowing. "And you love it."

From then on, every private moment between you was a power play.

You would brush past him in the hall, your fingers barely grazing his, and he would stiffen like he’d been burned. You would lean in too close when discussing a scene, your lips ghosting over his ear, and he’d completely lose track of what he was saying.

During one particularly tense editing session, you leaned over his chair, resting a hand on his shoulder as you whispered, “This shot… don’t you think it deserves a closer look?”

Your breath against his skin sent a shudder down his spine, and for the first time in his career, he forgot how to speak.

Reca, the ever-confident, ever-smooth director, was coming undone at your hands.

And you loved it.

It all came to a head one evening when Reca finally tried to take back control.

After a long day, you were in the dressing room, touching up your lipstick when you caught his reflection in the mirror.

He looked determined. Like he was finally going to win this little game of yours.

“Enjoying yourself?” you mused, dabbing the excess color away.

Reca stepped forward, hands braced on either side of the vanity, caging you in.

“Immensely,” he murmured, his voice lower than usual.

You hummed. “Good.”

Then, before he could make his move, you turned in your chair and pulled him down by the collar, kissing him so fiercely that he gasped against your lips.

His knees nearly buckled.

You deepened the kiss, savoring the way he melted against you. His hands trembled at your sides, caught between pulling you closer and surrendering completely.

And then—you pulled away.

Reca let out the softest sound of protest. You traced his jaw with a single finger, tilting his chin up so he had no choice but to meet your gaze.

“Oh, Reca,” you purred. “You really thought you could turn the tables on me?”

His breath hitched. His pupils were blown. He was completely wrecked.

You smiled, pressing a final, teasing kiss to his cheek before walking away, leaving him standing there—dazed, undone, and utterly at your mercy.

From then on, Mr. Reca was a changed man.

On set, he was still the same smug, flirtatious director everyone knew—but the moment you were alone, that facade cracked.

Now, you were the one he looked at like a man on the verge of ruin.

Now, he was the one left weak in the knees after every encounter.

And stars help him, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[chrisspirategirl]

On camera ────── ★ C.S.

@chrisspirategirl

IN WHICH (💌)… drug dealer!chris wants to savor his moment with party girl!reader recording their intimacy for his eyes only.

WARNING: use of drugs, pet names, f!receiving—unprotected p in v (DONT do that), consensual recording!!, breeding, all that smut stuff!

“Stop looking at me with those eyes..”

The apartment complex reeked of weed not even the small candles scattered around can help with the musk but it didn’t matter since you were high off your ass with Chris. Oh, Chris, what an exception for your behavior.

He was hard to say no to, not in a forceful way but because he was so incredibly attractive saying no to him was like saying no to random cash being sent your way. And hey.. who would say no to free money? Chris handed you practically anything you wanted all you had to do was say the word and it was already in the palm of your hands.

His way of seeing you obviously wasn’t free money like you think he is—he sees you as someone he craves to keep in his life. Didn’t matter if you were with him romantically or not he needed you by his side physically, mentally, emotionally. He was addicted to you like you were addicted to his drugs.

He looked over at you catching the perfect timing of when you tilted your head slightly back to exhale the smoke. His eyes lazily trailed down your neck picturing it covered his hickey’s in an instant his dick hardened—painfully. But it didn’t stop him from continuing to eye fuck your form resting at your breasts that sat beautifully inside your tight fitted tank top, nipples hard like diamonds begging for Chris to suck on them.

His throat goes dry. He was horny by just looking at you, that was how much power you had over him and you didn’t even know that. The way he’d do anything for you just to see you whimper while bouncing on his dick, moaning his name begging for all of it. It was embarrassing honestly.

When you turn to look over at him something inside of him snapped and he’s quick to find your lips taking you by surprise, did you stop? No.. why? Because you fucking wanted that to. You were quick to kiss him back earning a low groan from him when your hands fly around his neck pulling him closer—you needed this just as badly as he did.

“Look at you..” he softly praised as he gently laid you on your back hands roaming appreciatively down your body before continuing, “all high on my drugs, such a fucking turn on.”

His hands hook under your shorts waistband tugging them off in one swift motion, he almost loses it when he sees your panties—pink with lace the most sexy thing a woman could wear in his opinion. “So pretty, I almost don’t wanna rip them off you.” He whispered but before you can say anything they’re tugged down to your ankles and thrown to the side, no longer the focus of his attention.

“Fuck..” he mumbles looking down at your glistening cunt, puffy and wet. “So pretty” he moans allowing a finger to lazily trace the slit of your entrance causing your body to shiver at his delicate touch.

“Take a picture it’ll last longer” you teased the blunt still rested between your middle and pointer finger finding its way back to your lips.

He looks down at you a small smirk forming at the corner of his lips at the mention of that idea.

“Maybe I will” he responded before taking out his phone prompting it against a pillow, both your forms perfectly in frame. He looks down at you seeking a form of consent to being filmed, “only if you’re comfortable” he says to which you nod your head “you’re not showing anyone though?” You asked curiously.

He shakes his head quickly “fuck no, no one else can see this but me.”

Pressing the big red record button Chris wasted no time in starting his hands are roaming freely all over your body memorizing every dip and curve as his lips find yours once more kissing your hungrily.

His clothed bulge rubs against your bare pussy spilling out a moan from your lips, “mhm. Lemme hear those pretty noises baby.” He whispers against your lips that are now trailing down to your neck licking and sucking gently on the sensitive flesh. Your fingers play with the hem of his hoodie bunching it upward to reveal his skin hidden underneath. That happy trail.. definitely happy!!

Chris pulls back completely removing his hoodie and tossing it to the side like it was nothing. His jeans and boxers are removed as well in one go and tossed aside. His hard cock standing proudly against his lower abdomen.

He leaned back down connecting back to your lips exchanging saliva and swallowing each others moans, both of your look over at the camera tongues dancing with each other both pulled together tightly that your boobs squish against his chest in a delicious manner. You let out a small chuckle watching yourselves make out he soon after chuckles as well.

He lets out a small hiss when examining your body “mama..” he hummed “God you feel so good against me.”

You straddled him slowly, the warmth of your body enveloping him inch by inch, until he was fully inside of you. The camera was still positioned where Chris had left it capturing the intimacy of you riding him. Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering as you adjusted to his size savoring the stretch and the way he filled you up. Your hands flew up towards his chest to balance yourself as you began to move—hips rolling in a rhythm that was yours alone, steady and hypnotic.

His hands found your waist then slid down to your hips guiding you but still letting you take the lead.

The sight of you above him—head thrown back, lips parted, quiet gasps escaping with each motion.

It sent a heat wave surging through his veins, you were in control and the power in your movements the way you chased your pleasure without hesitation was intoxicating to Chris.

Chris bites down on his bottom lip watching your tits bouncing in his face the small whimpers you’d let out riding his dick. He was only letting you now have that power but it was tempting to not switch the roles and break you underneath him.

He noticed in how sloppy your moments were getting tiring yourself out on his dick, you poor thing.

“Keep going mama, you can do it” he said

Small whines poured out from your pouty lips “I can’t Chris” you whined slowly your pace even more. His hands slid down towards your ass gripping firmly as he thrusted up to meet your movement making you cry out in surprise and pleasure.

“O-oh—fuck! Right there yes.” You cried feeling your walls tighten around his the familiar knot forming in your lower abdomen, “I’m s-so close” you warned chris is quick with his movements flipping the both of you over now on top of you.

He pistons his hips against yours, balls slapping against your ass with his bruising force, your head tilts back, lips parted once more as ghostly moans threaten to pour out of your half open mouth. Your brows furrowed in sweet frustration the need in your voice is so raw, vulnerable it only makes it more intoxicating. Every time he thrusted into you tip kissing your cervix deliciously, another choked out whining moan slipped free.

“Oh my—yes! Don’t stop..” your voice broke as you cried out his name, breathless and whimpering.

Chris smirked through a low groan, burying himself deeper inside of you, “that’s it,” he growls “take it all, just like that. You’re mine.”

“Look at you..” he continued. “So wet and needy for my dick.” He groaned watching you unravel for him, dumbed by his dick. “You love the way I fuck you don’t you baby?”

You only nodded your head your mind too foggy to form words but it wasn’t enough for him.

“Say it ma”

“Say how good I fuck you”

“S-so good Chris p-please I’m so close!” You whined nails embedded into his shoulder blades drawing out blood.

“You wanna cum?” He grunted “you want me to fuck my cum inside of you baby?”

“Chris please!!”

“I want to watch the way my cum drips out of your pretty pussy”

All his dirty words fumed your need to cum, your gummy walls tightened around his dick more before that knot unraveled coating his dick in your juices, Chris wasn’t far from his release the sensation of your walls tightening around him sent him over the edge. His warm seed filling you up nicely. He stood there for a minute letting out a shaky breath.

He looks over to the phone that’s still recording, grabbing it to get a closer look at the mess he made inside of you, slowly he pulls himself out watching his semen drip out of your pussy.

“Fuckkk” he cursed softly, cutting the video soon after to help you clean yourself up.

“I’m gonna beat my dick so hard to this” he laughed before claiming your lips once more.

I’m sat! I’m a slut! I want to devour this man now. Anyways hope you guys like this and give me some recs for new writing 🙏

Dividers —> @bernardsbendystraws

Tags 🏷️: @courta13 & @heartsonlyforchris

[rafecamerons-national-anthem]

𝒞𝐻𝐸𝑀𝐼𝒮𝒯𝑅𝒴-𝒟𝑅𝐸𝒲 𝒮𝒯𝒜𝑅𝒦𝐸𝒴

𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪 Drew Starkey and Y/N’s romance ignites the moment they meet at an audition, each drawn to the other by a magnetic connection that feels like fate. As they’re cast as romantic leads in Love Amongst the Lines, their on screen chemistry mirrors the real bond blossoming between them.

✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮

The moment their eyes met across the crowded room at the audition, it was as if time had stopped. His heart skipped a beat as he took in her radiant smile and the way her eyes sparkled with excitement. She felt a warmth spread through her body, the kind she had only read about in her favorite romance novels.

Drew, a rising star in the film industry, had seen countless faces in his auditions, but none had ever captivated him quite like hers. Y/N, on the other hand, was a newcomer to the world of acting, her passion for the craft burning brightly and her nerves jangling like a thousand bells.

Their hands trembled as they reached out to shake for the first time, the electricity between them palpable. "Hi, I'm Drew," he murmured, his Southern drawl sending shivers down her spine. "And I'm Y/N," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's so nice to finally meet you in person."

Drew couldn't help but feel that this was more than just a chance encounter. The chemistry between them was undeniable, a force that seemed to pull them closer together despite the chaotic environment. They exchanged nervous laughs as they talked about their shared love for the art of storytelling and the thrill of bringing characters to life.

As the audition process rolled on, they found themselves stealing glances at each other between takes, each one more meaningful than the last. It was during a break in filming that Drew mustered the courage to ask her out for coffee, hoping to get to know her better outside of the intense pressure of the audition room.

"You know," he began, his voice a little shaky, "I think we could really make a great team." Y/N felt her cheeks flush at his words, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. "I'd love that," she replied, her voice filled with hope and excitement.

Their first date was nothing short of magical. They talked for hours about their dreams, their fears, and the movies that had inspired them to pursue acting. The connection grew stronger with each shared laugh and secret revealed. It was as if they had known each other for a lifetime rather than a few short hours.

As they walked back to the studio the next day, the air was charged with anticipation. They had both received the news that they had been cast in the lead roles of the upcoming romantic comedy, "Love Amongst the Lines." Their hearts raced as they thought about the journey they were about to embark on together, not just as co stars, but as a couple whose love had blossomed in the most unexpected of places.

The first day on set was a whirlwind of activity. The director, a seasoned veteran with a keen eye for talent, noticed the palpable energy between them and knew that their real-life romance would translate beautifully onto the screen. As they rehearsed their scenes, Drew couldn't help but feel a thrill every time he was close to Y/N. Her touch, her scent, her laugh, it was all so intoxicating.

Their on screen chemistry was undeniable. The way their eyes met, the way their fingers brushed against each other's, and the way they delivered their lines as if they had been written just for them. It was clear to everyone on set that this was more than just acting, it was true love unfolding before their very eyes.

But as the days turned into weeks and the script grew more intimate, Drew and Y/N began to feel the weight of their newfound feelings. Was it possible to keep their personal lives separate from their professional ones? Could they handle the scrutiny of the media and the demands of the film industry? Or would their love story be nothing more than a fleeting moment in the spotlight?

Their conversations grew more serious as they grappled with these questions. Yet, every time they looked into each other's eyes, all doubts disappeared. They knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they had found something special, something worth fighting for.

And so, as the cameras rolled and their characters fell in love, Drew and Y/N couldn't help but feel that their own love story was playing out alongside the script. With each kiss they shared, each tender moment they created, they fell a little deeper. The lines between reality and fiction blurred, leaving only the raw, unfiltered emotion that came with falling in love for the first time.

"Cut!" the director yelled, snapping them out of their daze. They pulled back, their faces flushed and their hearts racing. The crew around them applauded, but their minds were elsewhere.

"That was…amazing," Drew whispered, his gaze never leaving hers. Y/N felt a blush creep up her neck. "You really brought it to life," she said, her voice trembling slightly.

Their relationship grew stronger as the filming progressed, each intimate scene only serving to strengthen the bond between them. Off screen, they found themselves rehearsing their lines together, discussing character motivations and plot points, but mostly just lost in each other's company. It was as if the universe had conspired to bring them together, and now they were inseparable.

But with every public appearance and interview, the pressure mounted. They had to be careful not to let their real feelings show, to keep the magic of their budding romance contained within the confines of the set. The paparazzi were relentless, searching for any hint of scandal or a juicy storyline to sell to the tabloids. Yet, they remained steadfast, choosing to keep their love a secret from the prying eyes of the world.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of shooting, they found refuge in a quiet corner of the set. The lights had dimmed, and the only sound was the soft hum of the air conditioning. Drew took her hand in his, his thumb tracing circles on her skin. "You know," he said, his voice barely audible, "I never thought I'd find this kind of connection on a movie set."

Y/N looked at him, her eyes filled with emotion. "Neither did I," she confessed. "But here we are."

They leaned in, their lips meeting in a soft, tender kiss, a kiss that spoke volumes about the depth of their feelings. It was a moment that seemed to exist outside of time, a secret shared between the two of them amidst the chaos of production.

As the weeks turned into months, they grew more comfortable with each other, their love story weaving itself into the very fabric of the film. And though they knew the end of filming would bring an end to their shared secret, they were determined to make the most of every moment.

But little did they know, the universe had more surprises in store for them. As the final scenes were shot and the director called for the last take, the cast and crew gathered around to congratulate them. The whispers grew louder as rumors of their off-screen romance began to spread. And when the cameras stopped rolling, it was no longer just their characters who had to navigate the choppy waters of love and fame, it was Drew and Y/N themselves.

Their gazes held, filled with a mix of excitement and trepidation. They had taken a chance on love in the most unlikely of places, and now they were about to find out if their love story could survive the glare of the spotlight.

The premiere of "Love Amongst the Lines" was a star studded affair, with the who's who of Hollywood eagerly awaiting the debut of the film's dynamic new couple. Drew and Y/N walked the red carpet together, their arms entwined, every step a silent declaration of their feelings for each other. The flashes of cameras and the screams of fans only served to amplify the butterflies in their stomachs.

As they took their seats inside the theater, Drew leaned over to whisper in Y/N's ear. "Remember, we're in this together." She nodded, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. The lights dimmed, the film began, and their love story played out before an enraptured audience. Each shared glance, each tender touch, each whispered "I love you" resonated with an honesty that could not be faked.

After the credits rolled and the applause died down, they held their breath as the reviews began to pour in. Critics raved about their on screen chemistry, dubbing them the new "It" couple of the industry. But amidst the glitz and glamour, they held onto each other tightly, knowing that the real magic was in the love they had found off screen.

Their relationship became the talk of the town, with fans eagerly following every detail of their blossoming romance. Interviewers threw in sly questions about their real-life counterparts to the characters they played, hoping to catch a glimpse of the truth. Yet, Drew and Y/N remained professional, always giving just enough to keep the mystery alive.

Through the press junkets and the award season, they grew more in love with each passing day. Their secret had become their shield, allowing them to keep their relationship pure and untouched by the often harsh realities of the entertainment business.

But as the whispers grew louder and the rumors more insistent, they knew they couldn't hide forever. The time had come to decide if they were ready to take the next step, to share their love with the world and see if it could withstand the scrutiny of the public eye.

Their hearts pounding in unison, they made the choice to go public. Hand in hand, they faced the media, their love for each other shining brighter than any Hollywood spotlight. The announcement sent shockwaves through the industry, but Drew and Y/N only had eyes for each other, their bond unshakeable amidst the chaos.

The journey ahead was uncertain, fraught with challenges they had never imagined when they first met in that crowded audition room. But as they looked into each other's eyes, they knew that together, they could conquer anything that came their way.

Their love story had become a real life fairytale, and as they stepped out into the world as a couple, ready to face whatever came next, they had one thing in common with their on screen counterparts, they were ready to write their own destiny.

[holybibly]

i’m literally so obsessed with your work 😭

could you possibly do some sort of shiburi/toy play with san?

i would literally die if you did 😩

Bunnies, I haven't been as active lately as I'd like to be, but today I'm here and Unholy Hours are back on the air.

Hmm, I haven't tried shibari yet, but San is too attractive for me to give up the idea.

"Tied up like that, you look so divine. I can't take my eyes off you, my angel; the way the ropes leave marks on your delicate skin is driving me insane." San practically purrs into your neck before he pulls away from you. No matter how tempting you look at the moment, he is going to have to be patient. He has the whole of the night in front of him, and you are completely in his power.

The soft rope whispers and snakes across your bare skin, hot as sin, each intricate loop pressing tightly against your body, leaving exquisite marks. Through the soft lace of your blindfold, you couldn't see the pattern that San was creating today, but you could imagine each intricate knot being wrapped around your body, all of them evenly spaced and perfectly tied.

In San's eyes, you were nothing less than a work of art.

San left your hands free, but you didn't dare move them. You knew that if you started to squirm or tried to rub your throbbing clit, the slow glide of the rope over your skin would stop immediately. San didn't like it when his princess was disobedient, especially when he was making her beautiful for himself. Of all the dolls he so desperately wanted to play with, you were the most beautiful.

You could feel the rope sliding down just below your chest and then tightening around your rib cage. The slight tension of the rope around you makes your breathing harder and more labored, and heat begins to build in your lower abdomen as you feel the rope digging into your skin. It starts to get wet between the folds of your pussy and you know that soon you are going to start dripping.

The tension of the ropes is perfect; there is nothing to put you in any danger. San always knew how to treat you properly.

"Black is your color, my angel." San purred again, but this time his voice was a little more husky and sultry, like that of a big, contented cat. "But you already had that knowledge, didn't you?"

"Yes, I know that, Daddy."

"This is my angel, all mine." He circles around you like a predator on the prowl.

You smile shyly at his praise as he gently runs his fingers over your round, flushed cheek and then leans down to give you a kiss. You lift your face to meet San's soft lips halfway.

You can hardly remember how it all started. You just woke up one day with the thought that you had to have him, even if you had to hide all the delicious marks on your body that San kindly left on your skin after each 'game'. It's so stupid, such a terrible cliché, like in the most naive of romantic films: a rich, gloomy boy and an innocent nerd who was supposed to be his tutor, but instead San ended up being the one who taught you.

And if San wanted to get you tied up and exposed in the most vulgar of ways tonight, you'd obey whatever he wanted. He would be able to throw you down on the floor and fuck you into the parquet, and you would be grateful to him for it.

San pulls away from your lips, leaving you wanting more, and you lean forward as if in pursuit of his love. He just chuckles at you and holds your cheeks as he straightens up. His feline eyes are soft, but they hide a dark desire.

"You're so in need of me, angel." He coos in a loving way. "Do you want my lips, my fingers, or my cock so badly, little princess?" San muses and uses his thumb to smear some saliva over your plump lower lip. He lifts your head up again, and you give him a kiss on the thumb.

"I'll take anything you give me, Daddy." You whimper softly.

"Such a good girl." San senses how much you need to be touched, worshipped, and played with, and he is more than happy to satisfy your needs.

His warm hands begin to slide down the length of your body. San runs his fingers along the textured rope, just feeling and enjoying the sensations, gently rubbing against your skin under the tight tangle of ropes, leaving ghostly warm marks where they touch your skin.

Your skin tingles where the hot texture snakes into a pattern, and you feel another loop begin to slide across your body. You still can't make out what kind of pattern San is tying around you, but you can tell he's creating something like a corset. Each loop of rope lies directly under the previous one, with the knots neatly tied in the center of your torso. Each knot is more intricate than the one before it, and it probably frames your body in the most beautiful way possible.

There will be a brief tug on the rope before the pressure is released and the next knot is tied around you.

San's hot breath kisses the skin of your bare shoulder, and you moan softly, rubbing your thighs lightly against each other in the hope that it will ease your excitement.

"You are so beautiful, my angel." He whispers in your ear in a low voice. "I love seeing you like this—all bound up and just for me. You were made for this—to be adorned and decorated by my hands. You are my very own little masterpiece, Princess."

The praise licks over your body like fire and pools in a liquid, viscous warmth between your thighs. You have the feeling you're even wetter, if that's even possible. Your breathing is getting harder; the thought of how beautiful you look to San turns you on, and perhaps it might not last as long as you'd like, but right now you're perfect for him, and that's all that matters. These thoughts cause you to rub your thighs against each other again, desperate for any kind of friction that might help you ease the aching excitement in your cunt.

San digs his hands into the soft flesh of your thighs and spreads them apart with a growl. He doesn't want you to cum too soon; you've just started playing. His strong, slightly rough hands slide over your thick thighs and then brush lightly against the wet, slippery folds of your pussy, allowing you to enjoy some pressure where you need it so much, your hips rocking as you ride his palm. Excitement drips from your hole like a waterfall and spreads over San's palm.

You whine pitifully as his hand leaves you and San goes back to tying knots on your body, and you stay like that—horny to the max and in need of some relief.

"Shhh, angel, it's okay. You are a good little princess, and Daddy will give you anything you want. Now sit still and let me make you beautiful. Let me make you so perfect for me, my angel."

You obediently freeze in place, the world around you blurring as you melt under his praise. San's voice is so deep and calm, but you hear those hot, dark notes in it that tell you he is just as horny as you are. In his arms, you always feel like sex personified, as San does whatever he wants to your body, molding it to suit his own desires and kinks.

You feel the last loop around your waist before the remaining rope runs down your soft belly, the slightly rough texture rubbing nicely against your skin. The tightness of the rope prevents you from thinking; all thoughts fade as you let the fuzzy sensation in your stomach from being bound spread through your mind. Your fall into subspace is slow and gradual, and your breathing is deepening as if you were on the verge of sleep. San is skilled at luring you deeper and deeper into a web of lust and depravity.

San's hot hands squeeze your thigh, lightly scratching it with his nails before he wraps the rope around it. It's so hard for you to maintain any kind of coherence, so far down, especially when you hear the quiet whisper of a hoarse, purring voice: "my beautiful angel" and "sugar bunny" on your thighs, along with wet kisses and long, slow licks, which literally make your pussy literally dripping with arousal.

San pulls another length of rope through the center of your makeshift corset. You're not quite sure what to expect from him when he slips the loose end of the rope between your legs as they are spread apart. He moves around you and kneels down behind you, pressing his hot body against your back. San was wearing nothing but a pair of ripped black jeans and a leather belt with a heavy metal buckle. He preferred to feel the coolness of the room against his skin, and he refused to wear a shirt or t-shirt. It's wonderful to feel the warmth of his smooth, golden skin and the pulsing muscles that stretch and contract as he moves. His hard, massive cock presses against the softness of your plump ass, rubbing lightly against you, trying to ease the painful arousal. You can't bear to look at him with the lace blindfold that is tightly fastened over your eyes, but it makes you feel good to know you've had such an effect on him.

San stretches the rope between your beras, and you shiver a little as the rough texture of it slides between your labia. His fingers part your wet folds so he can place the rope where he wants it. San gently pulls the rope upwards, watching as the knot rubs directly against your clit, causing a burst of stars to explode from behind your closed eyelids as you finally get the stimulation that you so desperately need.

As San attaches the end of the rope to the back of your exquisitely woven corset, taking his time tightening it to tease you while keeping you safe, the intricate knot continues to rub against your swollen clit in the most delicious way.

He finally finishes tying you up and makes sure all the loose ends are securely tied to the back of the corset. San rises to his feet again, and you feel a chill run down your spine as his hot body moves away from you. He walks around you in a circle, like a graceful cat of prey, admiring the work he has done.

"Do you have any idea how bloody perfect you look, my angel? A perfect little toy for me to play with. I want you to see yourself, Princess." San helps you to your feet and guides you closer to the mirror. Then, in one swift motion, he unties the lace blindfold over your eyes, allowing you to see how beautiful you are right now.

As soon as you caught sight of your reflection in the mirror, you let out a long, drawn-out moan. You looked much more beautiful than you could have imagined, the black silk rope wrapping around your body like a smooth snake, contrasting perfectly with the soft pale tone of your skin and leaving bright scarlet marks on the most sensitive and delicate areas.

You were right—the pattern San had created on your body did indeed resemble a corset—the rope, tied in exquisite loops, ran from your chest to your waist. The tightness of the knit made your breasts look astonishingly voluptuous and lifted them up in the most seductive way possible. The rope goes down to make it look like you're wearing sexy lingerie, wrapping around your hips like a garter belt. Another piece of rope is placed between the labia of your pussy. The tight knot of the rope presses perfectly against your clitor and stimulates it with your slightest movement.

You look and feel absolutely beautiful and safe with the black silk rope tied around you and the warmth of San's large body behind you. His handsome, sculpted face is rubbing on your shoulders and neck like a contented cat, and he is purring admiringly in your ear. You were truly his perfect little plaything—the sweet plaything of a big, feline predator.

San's hands trace the intricate pattern of the rope, enjoying how it feels to wrap around your body, sometimes gently squeezing your sides.

"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever owned, my little angel. You look like a beautiful fallen angel, but that won't stop me from destroying you." San whispers in your ear like velvet. You turn your head to look at San and fall into the dark, magnetic trap of his eyes in an instant. Never before in your life have you seen someone who looked so much like a real cat in the form of a human.

Everything about him—from his mesmerizingly sharp eyes, high cheekbones, and chiselled jawline to his purring voice, sensual personality, and elegant movements—was the embodiment of a little predator. And you—you were his little mouse, the one he could play with whenever he felt like it.

San grabbed your chin with his fingers and turned your head back towards the mirror. With his other hand, he pulled on the rope between your wet folds, the tight knot rubbing against your swollen clit. You almost choked at the sudden pull of the rope as its thick texture slid over your sensitive cunt.

San moves away from you and sits down on the bed in an elegant manner, leaving you standing alone in front of the mirror. At the moment you are so confused that you don't understand at all why he has left you standing there - tied up and excited. You look over your shoulder and see San sitting on the bed, legs spread wide, stroking his thick, hard cock lazily as he watches you. He enjoys the way your body looks wrapped in his ropey silk masterpiece.

You moaned loudly, you were so excited, you want to cum right now, and San's hot, dark eyes sliding over your skin didn't make it any easier. You knew that you weren't allowed to use your hands to ease the tension between your thighs until San gave you permission to do so.

A seductive smile spreads across San's soft, plump lips as he watches you from where he sits on the bed. He slows the movement of his hand on his cock, running the pad of his thumb over the wet head. His eyes roll back in his head, and his mouth opens in a soft, sweet moan.

He nods gently in the direction of the mirror behind you, indicating that you should turn to face the mirror once more. You obediently follow his silent instructions and turn to face your reflection. You look at yourself once more and feel your pussy throbbing with desire. It only seems to increase the intensity of the stimulation as the juices flowing from you are absorbed by the rope stretched between your labia.

You feel so empty and so desperate to want San to use you, for him to sit you on his cock, to pull the ropes around your body as he fucks you deep and slow. From these thoughts, your hands begin to slide down your thighs in an unconscious way, and even this light touch makes you let out a sigh of pleasure.

"Don't you dare touch what is mine." San hisses. "If my little rope bunny wants to come, it'll be from the rope between those thick, juicy thighs or nothing at all."

You're moaning at his words, both enjoying his praise and completely disappointed that he didn't let you touch yourself. But you know San better than anyone else, and you are not going to try to awaken his dark side. You begin to squeeze your thighs together, and thick muscles tense with the effort, causing the rope to stretch tightly between the soft folds of your wet cunt. Your hips begin to rock seductively, the tight knot of rope clinging deliciously to your clit with each successive movement of your hips. Completely overwhelmed by the sensation, you throw your head back in ecstasy and let out loud and long moans. You can feel the viscosity of the moisture starting to flow out of your hole.

"Look at yourself in the mirror, angel, as you try to cum. Don't you want to see the rope sliding down your sweet little cunt while you are desperately humping it like a needy little whore?"

San is absolutely right—you do look like one. On the silver surface of the mirror, your reflection is completely depraved. Your hair is dishevelled, and your eyes are clouded with lust. Your skin is red from the tension of the ropes that are tied around your body, and it glistens with sweat. All in all, it can feel as if you've been fucked for hours on end, but San hasn't even touched you the way you'd like him to.

You begin to rub harder and harder against the rope between your legs, your face contorting in pleasure every time the knot of the rope presses against your clit, the rough texture sliding over your sensitive folds. A particularly strong movement and a tight squeeze on your thighs brings you to your climax.

"Oh God, San…" You moan loudly as you literally fall forward onto the mirror, your hands shooting up into the air as you grab hold of the massive frame to keep yourself on your feet as your whole body shakes with orgasm. Your juices flow copiously down your thighs and drip onto the floor, some being absorbed by the rope still pressed tightly against your pussy.

You barely have time to catch your breath before you are pushed forward by San's rough touch, causing you to literally press your chest against the mirror. The coldness of the reflective surface on your nipples makes them harden in an instant, making them more sensitive to any kind of touch.

"My pretty Angel..." San's voice is silky as he whispers into your ear when he presses his naked chest against your back, trapping you between the mirror and his hot body. "It was so hard for me to stop myself from cum while I was watching you enjoy yourself, but there is a better place for my load of sperm, isn't there, angel?" San emphasises his words by stimulating your clit, still throbbing from the previous orgasm, with a sharp tug on the rope between your labia. You let out a loud cry and squeezed your fingers together on the heavy frame of the mirror until your hands were white.

His tongue begins to slide slowly down the length of your neck, pressing lightly on your pulse point, which is why he can feel how fast your heart is beating at the moment. San leaves hot, wet kisses on your skin, gradually turning into dark hickeys as he continues to stimulate your pussy with a rope, sometimes pulling hard, then releasing. You feel San rubbing his big, thick dick against your buttocks, smearing pre-cum all over the tender, plump flesh, and you want to get down on your knees in front of him and lick that bittersweet wetness off his hard length. You want to hear him moan, and you want to enjoy his beautiful face as it is contorted with pleasure.

But right now you're desperate for him to fill that void inside you, and the thought of him stretching you and stuffing you with his thick cock until you can see the bulge of his length against your belly makes your pussy throb and contract, spouting fluid. The textured knot of the rope continues to press against your kitor every time San pulls on the rope, but even this delicious sensation is not enough to satisfy you. You need him to fuck you so hard. Fiercely.

You're on the verge of another orgasm when San pulls back and unties the rope from your corset. He presses you harder against the mirror with his body, biting the skin on the back of your neck, and you feel the swollen head of his dick slide between your wet folds until it is pressed against your quivering hole.

San enters you in one smooth motion, his pelvis touching your ass as his whole thick, hot length ends up inside of you. He lets out a low moan as he feels the rope garter belt around your hips, brushing against his hips with every move he makes. He loves fucking you like this—bound, helpless, completely controlled by him. San immediately picks up the pace and starts fucking you hard and fast—just the way you want him to do it.

He grabs hold of the back of your rope corset and uses it as leverage to fuck you even harder. You look at yourself in the mirror once more and lock eyes with San as he fucks you from the back. His eyes are too dark for you to understand the emotion that is hidden behind the black, gleaming irises, but you are sure that it is something deeper and more dangerous than just ordinary lust.

Your breasts bounce with each hard thrust, and your breathing becomes heavy as San's hand clasps your throat, cutting off some oxygen. This action only serves to push you even closer to your orgasm.

You can feel San's hot length pulsating inside of you as it rubs against your sensitive, smooth walls with every powerful thrust of his hips. The sound that fills the room is sickeningly wet and loud, intertwined with your screams and moans and San's deep, purring groans. It sounds like fucking porn.

The tension inside you is growing with each passing second, and the walls of your pussy are beginning to shrink as you try to hold his dick in and make it harder for him to move. Every time you squeeze his cock, bringing him closer to his own orgasm, San hisses behind you. For a second, you're completely lost in what's happening. San's hand is squeezing your throat so tightly that black spots start to dance in front of your eyes - while the head of his cock hits your G-spot every time he enters you. Tears begin to flow from your eyes, and your mouth opens slightly, either to catch your breath or to try and moan his name. You're so close to cum.

San tightens the rope loops of your corset even further and pulls you against his body before his teeth sink into your shoulder, and he pushes into you with a rough, powerful thrust. He growls like a cat as he clenches his teeth on your skin, making it bleed as he fills you with his thick, warm cum. Such an animal act of power pushes you over the edge, and you come on his cock, your eyes rolling back in and choking on your moans.

San watches your orgasmic expression through the mirror, lazily licking the bleeding wounds of his teeth on your skin. Your sensitive walls tremble with stimulation as he continues to thrust weakly into you. Some of his cum, mixed with your juices, begins to leak from your used cunt and drip onto the floor.

You remain in this position for a few more minutes as you catch your breath from the intense orgasm you have just experienced. San pulls out of you, and this causes even more of his cum to flow out of your hole. He turns you over so that you are facing him, tangles his fingers in your hair, and tilts your head back so that you are looking into his eyes.

"You're absolutely beautiful, my angel." His lips are soft and too tender as he plants a kiss on you. This is the kind of kiss that can make you fall in love, and falling in love with San is as dangerous as a voluntary refusal of oxygen. Fatal. When he leaves your lips, the look in his eyes is dark and utterly evil, and you don't know what else to call him if he's not the devil himself. "You still look too pure and sweet for me; it seems I'm going to need to work harder to get you destroyed, my princess."

[gimmethatagustd]

call me baby | kth + jjk

Amidst a heartless divorce, Taehyung, a renowned film director, desperately tries to hold himself together. Enter Jungkook, the Kim family's devoted nanny, who has had his eye on Taehyung for years.

Pairing: DILF Taehyung x Nanny Jungkook

Rating: Explicit

Genre/Trope: Sugar baby/sugar daddy, age gap, domestic fluff, smut, angst

Word Count: 8,461

Content Warning: Divorce, infidelity, phone sex, hand jobs, anal sex, daddy kink, sex toys

A/N: Happy 1-year anniversary to this fic! This was supposed to be a standard little PWP and then I made it lowkey depressing. 🥲 (and everyone asked, are we supposed to be surprised??)

Soundtrack: Isabel LaRosa - older

The most fucked up part about being a film director married to one of the most prominent actresses in mainstream cinema is having to still cast her in films after already signing the divorce papers. Second on the fucked-up list would be the forced joint attendance at premieres, galas, and other red-carpet events, with all the reporters asking the same goddamn questions:

Was their split amicable?

Have they told their daughter yet? Their goddamn six-year-old daughter who can barely tie her shoes and has never heard the word divorce before in her life?

How do they manage to work on set together?

Is Taehyung upset about the fact that his soon-to-be ex-wife is already in a relationship with the lead actor of a film he fucking directed? Amidst allegations that she was cheating on him with said actor during filming? 

Of course not! Why would Taehyung be upset? It’s only that he is the reason Eunji and Sunwoo ever met each other. He chose to pair them as the main love interests in what critics have referred to as the catalyst for a new era of the modern love story, and he encouraged Eunji to take the lead role despite her belief that she wasn’t talented enough. 

Of course, Taehyung isn’t upset. He’s a romantic! How could he possibly be upset about true love? The scowl Taehyung wears as he rips off his suit jacket and kicks off his black leather Louboutin Chelsea boots in the foyer of the mansion, which he still shares with Eunji, isn’t from being upset. He just has to sneeze. 

“Taehyung,” Eunji calls to him as she gingerly tiptoes toward the grand staircase across the foyer, heel straps threaded through manicured fingers adorned with thin gold rings on all but the one that matters. “Can you pay Jungkook, please? Cash, this time. He said he was having issues with KakaoPay.”

She doesn’t bother looking up from her phone as she climbs the staircase. She had barely looked Taehyung in the eyes all night, aside from during their obligatory photo op on the red carpet, this time for the premiere of a film he hadn’t directed. 

They’re gorgeous together, Taehyung and Eunji, tall and lean with angular faces and piercing eyes that they’ve passed on to their daughter, Yuri. Growing up poor and raised by a single mother, Taehyung was taught the value of hard work and humility. Still, even he knows that he and Eunji are the film industry’s power couple—that they were the film industry’s power couple. Everything the Kims touched turned to gold, except for each other. Eunji shines just as brightly as she did when they met fifteen years ago, but now Taehyung crumbles like ash between her fingers. 

Taehyung waits in the foyer until the creak of the floorboards tells him that Eunji is in Yuri’s bedroom. Only then does he follow in Eunji’s footsteps up the stairs, taking the opposite direction down the hall. 

Taehyung’s bedroom reminds him of a mouth full of missing teeth, with white walls and empty crevices around every corner. One half of his king-size bed is made. The double sink in the attached bathroom is bare on one side. Only one robe hangs on the hook beside the shower. 

He likes to poke at the empty crevices just to feel how groundless and gummy it makes him when he does. Lately, he has made a habit of running his fingers across the ornamental dresser next to the door of the walk-in closet. There are shapes in the dust that covers the dresser’s surface, one rectangle where Eunji’s antique jewelry box used to sit, others small circles and squares where she threw rings and makeup compacts whenever she was too tired to properly put them away. Taehyung links each shape with his finger, drawing little crossroads between them, and doesn’t think about how Eunji has left him with the dust—in the dust.

In the kitchen downstairs, Jungkook is washing dishes. He’s wearing loose sweatpants and a black hoodie with the sleeves folded past his elbows because Eunji keeps the house freezing in the summer. On the island counter is his laptop and a tattered leather-bound journal flipped open to messy notes. When Taehyung leans his hip against the counter, he reads the English alphabet repeated in Jungkook’s swooping handwriting in the journal and notices a podcast in English paused on the laptop. Beginner’s language learning may seem trivial, but it’s more than what most twenty-two-year-olds Taehyung knows are doing with their time.

Jungkook’s hair is a weak shade of green, pale like the mints Taehyung enjoys flicking around his teeth with the tip of his tongue when he’s trying to mask the smell of cigarette smoke on his breath. It never works; the minty burst a scent as weak as its color. Taehyung thinks if he sucks on multiple, it’ll make a difference, as though a minty smile is a bandage strong enough to clot the bloody wound in his marriage. 

That part of him has been amputated now. The only thing worse is knowing that other people know how miserable this has made him. 

Jungkook knows, probably better than anyone else. The nondisclosure agreement he signed before Eunji hired him prevents him from ratting Taehyung out for being lonely, but he knows, probably even more than Taehyung does. 

“Welcome home, Mr. Kim,” Jungkook greets as he dries his hands on a towel. They own a high-end dishwasher that Jungkook refuses to use. “Are you hungry?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Taehyung holds up his hand when Jungkook opens the refrigerator to reveal the leftovers from his dinner with Yuri. “How was she tonight?” 

“Perfect, as usual, though she’s still doing that weird picky eater thing,” Jungkook says what Taehyung already expects. 

It feels domestic, Jungkook putting away the remaining dry dishes while Taehyung fiddles with his gold cufflinks. They often end up like this at night when they cross paths, Jungkook getting ready to leave and Taehyung finally coming home, both needing a quiet moment to wind down from their uniquely stressful days. 

Few people in Taehyung’s life don’t expect him to do something. Life is a performance, even if he isn’t an actor. Everyone expects something interesting, something worthwhile. Jungkook expects nothing from Taehyung; nothing feels better than the relief he feels when so much weight is lifted off his shoulders. 

“She gets the picky eater thing from her eomma.” 

Jungkook hums in acknowledgment of Taehyung’s comment but doesn’t respond. 

Taehyung should tell Jungkook that he doesn’t need to finish cleaning the kitchen when it’s far past midnight on a Monday night, and he’ll need to be back at the Kim residence to take Yuri to school in the morning. He doesn’t, though. Just watches and fiddles and ignores the ache in his hip from the edge of the counter pressing against his hip bone.

“Do you need help with that, Mr. Kim?” 

“Oh, no, I—” 

Jungkook gently swats Taehyung’s hand away and grabs the sleeve of his white button-up shirt. Taehyung wonders how touch-starved he must be to shiver when Jungkook’s fingers brush his inner wrist as he removes Taehyung’s cufflinks. They’re elegant little gold pieces Eunji bought him for their first wedding anniversary. There’s no way for Jungkook to know that, but Taehyung feels judged when Jungkook drops the cufflinks in his open palm with a hard stare, as though he does know. 

“There,” Jungkook says quietly, and Taehyung wonders if he imagines Jungkook’s fingers lingering against his palm just a second longer than necessary. 

It’s been two years, yet not enough time for Taehyung to have learned how to read Jungkook, especially when they spend such little time together, just these little moments of gentle small talk and light touches that Taehyung ignores with the expertise of an acclaimed actor. 

“You should go home,” Taehyung replies when Jungkook lifts his tattooed hand to his face, covering a yawn. 

Jungkook shrugs with a cheeky grin that makes Taehyung’s body grow warm. 

“Sometimes, I feel like I might as well ask to become a live-in nanny, considering I’m here all the time.” 

The corner of Taehyung’s mouth twitches, a swell of affection making his body betray the melancholy muddling his brain. 

Rolling his cufflinks around in his hand, Taehyung considers whether they need a live-in nanny. Between Taehyung and Eunji traveling for work and Taehyung’s habit of locking himself in his home office for weeks at a time while he juggles conference calls and passion projects, he knows Yuri’s family life is unlike most children’s. She doesn’t care, has never known any other way of life. Between kindergarten and Jungkook, her time is well-structured and enriching.

“Would you want to be one?” Taehyung doesn’t know why they’re speaking so quietly. The house is massive. No one can hear them. 

Jungkook wets his lips, the tip of his tongue brushing over the metal hoop pierced through his bottom lip. Taehyung drops his gaze to focus on rolling his loosened sleeves. 

“Well, I actually wanted to talk about—” Jungkook is interrupted by Eunji’s shrill voice slicing through the quiet. 

“Taehyung!” 

Cringing, Taehyung twists to face the kitchen doorway, his back to the counter and his hands at his hips to squeeze the edge of it. 

Eunji is still wearing her wine-red dress from the premiere like a porcelain doll dipped in blood, but now she’s in sandals and carrying one of her many designer purses Taehyung never remembers the names of. She runs her fingers through her jet-black hair and fluffs it over her shoulder. 

“Yes?” He tries not to breathe in the sweetness of her perfume. 

“I’m going out,” Eunji tells Taehyung but looks at Jungkook, “I’ll be back before Yuri’s ballet class in the afternoon.” 

It’s nearly one in the morning. 

Taehyung inhales to speak, but Eunji is gone between blinks. Her goodbye sounds like the front door’s lock clicking once it’s shut.

“She’s going over to Sunwoo’s.” 

When Taehyung turns his head, Jungkook seems closer. He mirrors Taehyung and leans his hip against the island counter. He’s slightly shorter than Taehyung but bulkier in his upper body. Something about Jungkook’s physique reminds Taehyung of how much older he is. His late thirties haven’t been unkind, but he misses his youth now more than ever. 

“I know.” 

“They’ve been fucking for almost a year, Mr. Kim. Sometimes here, but normally in other places.” 

Taehyung twists to face Jungkook once again. Their hands slide into each other as he readjusts his grip on the counter. 

“I know.” 

Now. 

He knows now. 

Tension builds like anxiety washing over Taehyung’s nervous system, an almost electrical feeling that sparks from where Jungkook’s fingers drag along the back of Taehyung’s hand. They follow a protruding vein up his exposed forearm before he hooks his index and middle fingers in Taehyung’s sleeve, right at the inside of his elbow. 

“You deserve better,” Jungkook tugs lightly, but Taehyung’s arm easily gives, letting Jungkook pull him forward. “You realize that, right? That Eunji noona isn’t worth the bullshit?” 

What’s the bullshit? An arduous divorce procedure that Eunji will pretend won’t turn into petty arguments over whether Taehyung gets to keep all the jewelry he bought her or if she gets more time with Yuri since her schedule isn’t as busy? Or does Jungkook think Taehyung will try to win Eunji back? 

The thought makes Taehyung laugh, dark and shallow. 

“I appreciate your concern, Jungkook,” Taehyung pulls his arm out of Jungkook’s grasp, “But what goes on between Eunji and I isn’t worth the bullshit, either.” 

“I know that,” Jungkook snorts and Taehyung thinks it’s stupid that it hurts his feelings. “But you’re so… Respectfully, Mr. Kim, you don’t pay attention.” 

Taehyung doesn’t, apparently. If this divorce has taught him anything, it’s that he doesn’t. 

Sighing, Taehyung squeezes his cufflinks until their corners bite his palm and pushes himself away from the counter. He’s tired, and thinking about Eunji before bed is the best way to prevent himself from sleeping. 

“I’ve told you, you don’t need to be so formal with me,” Taehyung runs his free hand through his hair, ruffling the strands, thick with gel, until they fall across his forehead. 

Chewing his piercing between his front teeth and bottom lip, Jungkook watches him intently enough to make Taehyung’s stomach flutter. 

“I could give you something better, hyung,” Jungkook whispers, his fingers hooking through one of Taehyung’s belt loops. 

Taehyung knows a proposition when he hears one, but he struggles to comprehend this one. Jungkook is young, with a good head on his shoulders and a future of possibilities. He has a life beyond the Kim home that isn’t tainted by divorce and abandonment. 

“I do not doubt that,” Taehyung murmurs, unable to look Jungkook in the eyes. He drops his gaze to watch Jungkook twist his belt loop between his fingers to tighten his grip. 

“Okay,” Jungkook’s tone is mocking, with a twinge of amused curiosity. 

Taehyung shouldn’t be surprised when Jungkook cups his jaw to force him to look him in the eyes. 

It’s been years since anyone looked at Taehyung the way Jungkook does now, with a gaze that slithers down his body, just to flit back up and remain steady on his mouth when he parts it slightly, suddenly breathless. Jungkook’s fingers tug on his clothes harder than before. 

Taehyung has no reason to follow Jungkook’s lead—except that he hasn’t been touched in so long, and Jungkook is pretty. His eyes crinkle, and his nose scrunches when he smiles, exposing prominent teeth that give his face an innocence that starkly contrasts with the rest of him. There’s something soft about him despite his hard edges. Funny, how Taehyung initially thought Jungkook, with his tattoos and facial piercings, would be more of a bad influence on Yuri than her own parents.

“Okay?” Taehyung doesn’t know what he’s asking and gasps because Jungkook has him backed against the counter. 

He should be more intelligent. Isn’t he? He can’t think with Jungkook’s thick thigh slotted between his legs, his mind too foggy from the draw of Jungkook’s cologne to consider how suddenly this has escalated. 

“Will you let me?” Jungkook seeks permission for something Taehyung doesn’t understand. 

He gives it to Jungkook anyway. 

Despite how rough Jungkook is as he digs his fingers in the hair at the back of Taehyung’s head to hold him steady, his whimper when he slots their lips together is so soft that Taehyung feels dirty from how the sound makes his cock twitch. He’s noisy as he sucks Taehyung’s bottom lip into his mouth, nipping and flicking his tongue over it. 

It isn’t difficult for Taehyung to remember the last time he was kissed, though the memory quickly spirals because it begins with a kiss and ends with, “Taehyung, I want a divorce.”

Kissing Jungkook won’t end in divorce, but Taehyung can’t keep himself from thinking about Eunji’s words, how they flayed him open with sharp precision, each syllable slicing off a piece of his heart. He thinks about them whenever he smokes his cigarettes, a more frequent occurrence now that he and Eunji live separate lives, Eunji hardly around enough to pester him about the smell. 

Taehyung wonders if Jungkook tastes cigarettes when they part their lips to roll their tongues over each other, flicking and pressing back against each other until their lips are slick with spit. 

Cigarettes and kisses, water and oil in Taehyung’s failed marriage. The less time his lips spent kissing, the more often they curled around a cigarette butt.

“Stop it,” Jungkook hisses into Taehyung’s mouth, “Stop thinking about her.” 

Taehyung wants to tell Jungkook that he can’t. They’re in his kitchen, in the house he still shares with his soon-to-be ex-wife and his daughter, who is fast asleep upstairs. 

But his words melt into moans as Jungkook grinds his thigh against Taehyung’s cock. 

“Oh, fuck,” Taehyung tilts his head back to let Jungkook leave wet, hot kisses along his throat. 

“You sound so good, hyung,” Jungkook grabs a handful of Taehyung’s shirt to untuck it with a hard yank so he can slide his palm against the warm skin of Taehyung’s waist, “Feel good, too.” 

Jungkook’s fingers dip lower, brushing along the edge of Taehyung’s Calvins and leaving goosebumps in their wake. 

“Can I touch you?” Jungkook pants against Taehyung’s lips while he fumbles with the button of his slacks. 

The sound of Taehyung’s cufflinks clattering onto the marble floor gets lost beneath his moans.

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Taehyung’s stomach swoops and dips as Jungkook unzips his slacks and wiggles his hand down the front of his underwear. His cold touch makes Taehyung’s cock twitch and jump, just as unsteady as the rest of his body. 

“Always knew you were big,” Jungkook smirks, his teeth pressed against the curve of Taehyung’s jaw, and strokes his cock in one long, smooth movement that gathers the slippery precum that dribbles from Taehyung’s slit and drags it down to the base. 

Taehyung can hardly appreciate the praise and can’t come up with a single coherent thought. He quivers. Jungkook has to force his legs farther apart with his thigh because Taehyung’s knees buckle by the third stroke. 

It’s a tight fit because neither of them pulls Taehyung’s slacks down far enough to get his cock out, but he likes the restriction for some reason. It feels wrong, like something quick and dirty, too secret to risk getting comfortable. 

It is wrong, quick, and dirty, a secret Taehyung has no option but to keep. 

But Jungkook is pretty, and he watches Taehyung with innocent doe eyes that shine brighter than the polished gold cufflinks sprinkled on the floor as Taehyung moans and pants, the build of his orgasm turning his insides to lava. The innocence is a facade, but Taehyung thinks they’re both getting off on pretending. 

Taehyung slips his hands under Jungkook’s hoodie and the t-shirt beneath it to rake his nails across his skin, searching for the perfect section of smooth skin to dig into as his orgasm shudders through him. 

“Jungkook,” Taehyung panics, bucking up into Jungkook’s hand. 

“Already?” 

No one has touched Taehyung like this in nearly a year. He rarely touches himself like this. 

Taehyung cums with Jungkook’s mocking laughter huffed along the curve of his ear. He nearly bends backward over the counter, dragging Jungkook with him. He pulls back, like he's trying to run from the pleasure. 

Unphased, Jungkook cups Taehyung’s balls with one hand to stroke them while they pulse, keeping his other hand rolling tight circles with his palm over the head of Taehyung’s cock. It does nothing to contain the mess, but neither of them cares.

Once Taehyung calms, Jungkook wipes his cum-slicked hand on his thigh. Taehyung’s brain is too floaty to be upset about cum getting on slacks that cost over a million won. 

“I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever made someone cum,” Jungkook looks over his shoulder as he teases Taehyung on his way to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. 

Jungkook’s comment makes shame curl in the pit of Taehyung’s stomach. The level to which Taehyung enjoys it concerns him. 

If Jungkook is bothered by how mute Taehyung is, he doesn’t show it. If anything, Taehyung thinks the whole situation seems funny to Jungkook, like he’s getting a kick out of making Taehyung cum on himself and regress into a fumbling, breathless, mindless version of himself fueled by the desire to be touched in a way no one wants to touch him anymore. 

It’s rather pathetic. 

Cheeks burning and body still suffering an occasional tremor, Taehyung is afraid to speak when Jungkook returns to stand between his legs with his hands gripping the edge of the counter at Taehyung’s hips. 

“I can’t believe Eunji is going to miss out on that,” Jungkook prods Taehyung’s clothed, soft cock with his knee. 

“Shit, don’t,” Taehyung curls inward from oversensitivity, “I, she—” 

Jungkook’s lips are pillowy and smooth when he isn’t biting and sucking Taehyung’s. They shut Taehyung up and make him melt against the counter. Jungkook is hypnotic, his presence somehow all-encompassing, all-consuming when it usually isn’t. 

Or is it? Taehyung thinks he can’t remember what it was like to know Jungkook before this. 

The difference twenty minutes make. 

Taehyung’s eyes fly open when Jungkook breaks the kiss to pluck Taehyung’s wallet from his back pocket. He’s got that cheeky, lopsided grin that makes Taehyung feel weird as he counts the bills inside, pulling out just a little more than what the Kims owe him for the day. 

“A little extra won for the additional services,” Jungkook winks, tossing Taehyung’s wallet on the counter, “I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Kim.”

Taehyung sees Jungkook in the morning, hardly five hours later, but only briefly.

They squeeze past each other through the front door. Jungkook, with his backpack slung over one shoulder and his hair tousled from little sleep, and Taehyung, with a suitcase in one hand, a duffle bag strapped across his chest, and the rim of a disposable paper cup of English breakfast tea clenched between his teeth. At the same time, he tries to stick a wireless earbud in one ear.

“Hey, I know you forgot, but I have to be in New York for the next two weeks,” Taehyung snaps once he takes the cup from his mouth.

Taehyung gives Jungkook an apologetic look when he realizes it sounds like he’s getting pissy at him, and not Eunji complaining in his ear that he is so inconsiderate of her time, like as if Taehyung should schedule his life around Eunji’s extramarital affairs. 

There’s little time to feel embarrassed by the memory of the night before when Taehyung needs to get on a plane and Jungkook needs to prepare Yuri’s breakfast before school. Still, Taehyung’s stomach dips so low that his groin pulses when Jungkook grabs his waist to steady him after he nearly trips down the stairs leading from the house’s front door.

“Eunji, listen, no—Listen to me. I told you a month ago that I need to tour the premises before I can just sign off on the—”

Taehyung is scouting the perfect location for his upcoming movie; shouldn’t she be excited for him? Instead, the beep of Eunji ending the call ricochets in Taehyung’s skull.

“Do you need help, hyung?”  

How many times in the past two years has Jungkook asked that question? 

Taehyung holds his breath when Jungkook presses his palm flat against his chest, curls his fingers around the strap of his duffle bag, and lifts it over his head to carry it on his own shoulder. Their fingers brush on the handle of Taehyung’s suitcase, and his body remembers the pleasure in the kitchen, their hands intertwined against the counter. 

Late, the Kim family’s chauffeur finally pulls up to the house in a nondescript black car. He rushes to help Jungkook with Taehyung’s luggage, carrying it as if it’s precious cargo, not two weeks' worth of underwear and a high-end camera that Taehyung could buy a billion times over. 

“Tell Yuri I said I love her,” Taehyung grabs Jungkook’s wrist when he turns to jog back up the driveway, “She didn’t want to wake up when I went into her room.” 

Jungkook’s gaze lingers on Taehyung's lips, his eyes lidded and heavy with sleep. Unsettled, Taehyung tries to divert his attention elsewhere. 

“You’ll call?” Jungkook asks.

The air around them is tainted by the smell of car exhaust, but Taehyung is engulfed by the fruity and sweet aroma of Jungkook's shampoo. His chauffeur has already slipped into the driver's seat, and the heavily tinted windows make it difficult for Taehyung to tell if he and Jungkook are being watched. The question hangs in the air, soft and warm, like Jungkook's breath brushing against Taehyung's cheek. 

They're standing too close.

“Yeah, I’ll call,” Taehyung squeezes Jungkook’s wrist before he lets go to open the car door. 

As the chauffeur drives away, Taehyung leans against the window, watching Jungkook standing at the end of the driveway until they round the corner and he can no longer see him. With a heavy sigh, Taehyung lets his head fall back on the seat and wonders why it feels like he has just made a promise he can’t keep.

Contrary to what most people assume, Taehyung hates traveling. He likes to travel, experience the world, and live beyond what he’s accustomed to, but he hates the act of traveling—planes, cars, buses, etc. Taehyung hates it all. He can’t stand transitory spaces, moments in time when he’s not quite where he once was but not yet in the next place he needs to be. 

“Oh, so like your marriage,” Namjoon points out in the middle of Taehyung’s rant, much to Taehyung’s disliking. “Divorce proceedings are like a liminal space. You’re still married, but you’re not together. One foot in the door, the rest of your body out. Or, well, your body is still in the door. Eunji just barely has her big toe still across the threshold.” 

“Can you shut up?” Taehyung glares at Namjoon over the rim of his glass before taking a sip, hissing once the amber liquid washes over the back of his throat. Bourbon isn’t Taehyung’s drink of choice, but Namjoon said it’s “distinctly American” and thus a requirement for their trip. 

Were multiple glasses of Bourbon a requirement, though? Taehyung distinctly thinks not. Yet here he is, both forearms crossed against the sleek, black marble counter of some high-end cocktail bar, with rosy cheeks and an open tab. 

“Am I not wrong?” Namjoon slams down his glass, empty aside from melting ice cubes.

“For as long as I have known you, you are always wrong.” 

Ignoring Taehyung, Namjoon beckons the bartender and asks her for another round of drinks in Korean. The woman’s gaze slides from Namjoon to Taehyung, who kicks Namjoon in the shin and nearly throws himself off the barstool he’s perched on. 

“Sorry, it’s a mess up here,” Namjoon laughs as he taps his forehead and tries ordering in English this time, his smile all sweet and dimpled. 

Namjoon’s entire face is red, and sweat beads along his hairline. Despite the chilly air outside, it’s hot and stuffy inside the bar. Crowded yet calm, the bar patrons respect the quiet atmosphere, with its dim lighting and dark furniture, that seems to mute conversations. Even Taehyung and Namjoon, both easily boisterous, are subtle in their playful bickering. 

“Did the rest of the crew leave already?” Namjoon asks as he looks over his shoulder at the booths and tables. 

“Didn’t you hear Wonho say they’re going back to the hotel?” 

It takes a second for Namjoon to react. Taehyung wonders if they’re both too drunk to properly communicate with each other anymore. His lips are beginning to tingle, and that’s never a good sign. 

“It’s not even that late,” Namjoon pouts. He hands his credit card to the bartender in exchange for the next round of drinks anyway. 

Taehyung doesn’t want another drink. He’s exhausted from the jetlag that a fourteen-hour time difference triggers, and he’s spent the past few days talking nonstop. There’s always something. As Taehyung grows older, he realizes he desperately wishes for less. 

“Are you even listening? Did you hear what I said?” Namjoon shoves Taehyung’s shoulder hard enough to tip his barstool. 

With a panicked yelp, Taehyung clutches the edge of the bar counter to hold himself upright as the stool wobbles. 

“You’re going to knock me on the fucking floor,” Taehyung grumbles.  

Namjoon watches Taehyung with glossy eyes when he asks, “What are you thinking about, Tae?”

Namjoon waits for a response with a sense of earnestness as if he genuinely cares about what’s made Taehyung so quiet. He does care; he’s not only Taehyung’s colleague as a fellow film director, but he’s also one of Taehyung’s dearest friends.  

“Yuri hasn’t wanted to talk to me since we got to New York. She has only called me a handful of times,” Taehyung admits with a sigh. He runs a shaky hand through his hair as he speaks, “We spoke on the phone two days ago, briefly, and she told me she blames herself for everything going on with Eunji, as though she thinks she has done something to make Eunji and I no longer love each other.”

Taehyung reaches for the receipt and pen in front of Namjoon to sign for the expenses. He doesn’t bother paying attention to the cost; he only mentally processes it enough to calculate a tip before he tosses the pen on the counter. 

“Six years old, and she’s already carrying the burden on her tiny shoulders. This is exactly why I said I didn’t want to fucking tell her about the divorce.” 

“Taehyung…” Namjoon clasps Taehyung’s shoulder, digging his fingers into the tense muscles through his shirt. “Yuri just doesn’t fully understand what’s going on. She’s trying to make sense of it in her own way. Kids don’t understand how life can just… change like this, with no warning, no reason apparent to them.”

Namjoon is correct, but that reality doesn’t make Taehyung wrong. Yuri is young and impressionable, and she doesn’t understand, which is why she’s vulnerable to such terrible thoughts. Taehyung insisted that these things be kept a secret, but Eunji had other plans. 

Before Namjoon can say anything further, Taehyung’s phone vibrates loudly against the bar counter. 

“It’s Jungkook,” Taehyung mutters, reaching for his coat hung on a hook below the bar counter. He doesn’t wait for Namjoon to follow him as he shoulders past the other bar patrons until he can step into the chilly night. It’s still noisy. New York always is, but Taehyung feels less distracted when he can lean against the cold brick at the corner of the building and focus on accepting the incoming video call. 

“Appa!” Yuri shouts, her little voice cutting through the sirens ringing in the city streets. 

“Hi, baby. How are you doing?” 

“Good! Jungkookie oppa took me to the park! There was a doggy named Mouse, isn’t that silly? We should get a puppy and name it something silly. Like, well, um, I need to think about it.” 

Taehyung smiles as Yuri rambles on, waving her arm in every direction as she shows Taehyung the park they’re at. He can’t see Jungkook in the video, but he can hear him giggle with Yuri when she says something particularly amusing. 

Yuri is dressed cutely, with her hair in evenly parted pigtails, and wearing a sky blue puffy dress she refers to as her “princess dress.” Sometimes, Taehyung thinks Jungkook does a better job raising Yuri than he does. 

As most children are, Yuri is easily distracted. She quickly loses interest in describing every special rock she finds at the park and eventually passes the phone to Jungkook so she can “make new friends” and test out how many spins on the swingset it will take for one of them to throw up.

“Hi, hyung,” Jungkook’s smile shines in the midday sun, his eyes sparkling with the warm rays of light. Taehyung can’t stop himself from smiling, too. 

“Jungkook-ah,” Taehyung nearly whispers his name, still too aware of their secret. “How is everything?” 

“I know she’s been kind of stubborn, but she misses you,” Jungkook says. The wind ruffles his minty hair, lifting his bangs and giving him an angular look. “I miss you, too.” 

“Jungkook…” 

“Hyung,” Jungkook rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling, and Taehyung is, too. “Just tell me you miss me.”

“I do,” Taehyung obliges, and it isn’t a lie. 

Every business trip away forces Taehyung to remember the fact that his days are better when he gets to spend those sacred quiet moments with Jungkook at the end of the night. In that transition period, the two of them come and go. He misses that, even without the handjob.

They’ve been through this already, earlier in the New York trip. It’s wrong to talk to Jungkook like this, someone so much younger than Taehyung, someone who works for him. 

It’s also wrong to deposit a little extra money in Jungkook’s bank account every time he leaves Taehyung little reminders of how much more Jungkook could do to remedy the lonely ache in Taehyung’s chest every night he goes to bed alone. 

It’s so, so wrong, but Taehyung doesn’t put an end to it—and he could. He could ignore Jungkook’s call later, when he’s back in his hotel room and Jungkook has put Yuri to bed for a nap. He doesn’t, though. He could end the call when Jungkook tells him again how much he misses him. He could tell Jungkook to stop when Jungkook moans into the phone and tells him that he’s touching himself to Taehyung’s rich, smooth voice. 

Taehyung could end all of it because it’s wrong, but he doesn’t. 

Instead, when Jungkook calls Taehyung during the New York trip, Taehyung lies in the dark hotel room as warmth spreads from his chest lower until he can’t ignore his cock stirring in his boxers with each of Jungkook’s moans. 

“Hyung, I can’t stop thinking about how incredible you sound when you cum,” Jungkook whimpers later when Taehyung and Namjoon have returned to the hotel and gone their separate ways. “I’d fucking listen to that all night, every night.

The cool air in the hotel room blows against Taehyung’s chest, making him shiver, but the heat pooling in his stomach is enough to keep him warm. 

“Where are you, Jungkook-ah?” Taehyung can hear rustling in the background. 

“In your bed. Eunji noona took Yuri out shopping.” 

Taehyung lets his head fall back on his pillow as he closes his eyes and imagines Jungkook sprawled on his bed, the one he’d shared with Eunji for so many years. He wonders if Jungkook would be even prettier than she was when Taehyung had her underneath him. 

“I don’t believe you,” Taehyung lies because he knows Jungkook will send him a picture. He doesn’t directly ask for one, though. He hopes that makes him less bad. 

Taehyung’s cock is a heavy burden fisted in his hand. Slowly spreading precum, he runs his thumb along his slit and thinks about the heat of Jungkook's mouth. He can practically feel them engulf his cock, stretched lips swollen and bitten red. He wants to know what Jungkook tastes like, what his name sounds like as a whimper or a moan spilling from Jungkook's needy mouth. 

“Ohh, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Jungkook moans through the wet, sloppy sounds echoing over the phone. “Please, daddy, let me cum. Tell me I can cum.” 

“Daddy?” Taehyung nearly chokes. Shame tightens his chest when his cock twitches at the pet name. 

“You like that, daddy? Do you like when I call you daddy while you imagine you’re fucking my mouth? God, I wish I could taste your cock.” 

Jungkook is cheeky and mocking, even when he’s praising Taehyung. Taehyung likes how shameful that makes him feel, too. He lets out a breathy sigh and draws his bottom lip between his teeth as he pumps himself harder, slightly picking up the pace. 

“Tell me,” Jungkook hisses in what sounds like an attempt to hold back a whimper. 

“You can cum, Jungkook-ah. You can—” 

Taehyung presses his palm against his mouth to keep quiet when he cums, knowing Namjoon’s hotel room is right next door. 

The rub of Taehyung’s meaningless wedding ring, which he still wears out of depressing habit, dragging along the throbbing veins of his cock is what finally sends him over the edge. He cums into his hand as he imagines what it would feel like to sink inside Jungkook. In reality, his cum is messy and hot as it drips down his pulsing cock and between his fingers, making his useless ring stick uncomfortably to his skin. 

Taehyung is so fucked.

If someone told Taehyung he’d become a renowned film director, get married, have a child, get divorced, and become a sugar daddy before he turned forty, he would have laughed in their face. 

Now, his bank statements from the past few months reveal an embarrassing pattern of purchases of children’s toys, payments to his lawyer, and seemingly random purchases that always end up in the hands of Jeon Jungkook. 

Taehyung’s money isn’t endless, but the likelihood of it ever running out is slim. He supposes he could live off of royalties alone and never pick up another film project for the rest of his life. It’s not about the money, though. For other people it may be. Capitalism destroys art, though, and Taehyung prefers to keep thoughts about his finances separate from his film passion projects. If he considers his art his paycheck, he’ll never want to create anything again—and what kind of life would that be? 

Money is different for a twenty-two-year-old with dreams of making it big. The English language learning and desire to brush up against fame aren’t just for fun. After nearly two years, Taehyung finally learns that Jungkook’s true passions lie in acting and film production. Jungkook has goals, and Taehyung, as the seasoned professional between them, can’t possibly sit back and not help. 

If Namjoon looks at Taehyung funny when he asks him to babysit Yuri while he attends yet another obligatory celebrity event, this time with Jungkook, well, there’s nothing Taehyung can do about that. If Taehyung is going to be a proper mentor, he must ensure that Jungkook ends up in the right rooms with the right people. 

The fact that they have phone sex practically every night because Taehyung is too afraid to fall asleep alone and Jungkook likes the money he gets out of it is beside the point. Ever since that night in the kitchen, nothing physical has happened between the two of them. Taehyung and Jungkook maneuver with and around each other as though they don’t practically fall asleep to the sound of each other coming. Jungkook is sweet and caring to Yuri, as always. He gets along well with Eunji despite the tension that Eunji brings with her into every conversation. When he’s with Taehyung, he’s polite and cheerful. 

It’s strange, living a double life. It makes Taehyung feel even slimier, but he doesn’t stop. 

The thing is, Taehyung should have known that what's done in the dark always comes to light. 

Taehyung’s desk is littered with to-do lists. Some are on looseleaf paper, others on sticky notes or scrap paper ripped from notebooks or crumpled in the back of desk drawers. An artist type in the most terribly stereotypical way, Taehyung has yet to master the arts of time management and organization. He even maintains a digital to-do list attached to his work email account calendar. However, that one is a bit more successful than the physical to-do lists that get accidentally thrown out or left in the pockets of his slacks to disintegrate in the washing machine later. 

The digital to-do list is ideal because it’s more reliable and makes a cute little sound whenever Taehyung marks an item as completed. The application cheers him on whenever he completes more than five daily tasks. 

Five may not seem like much, but when Taehyung spends half his office days on conference calls, arguing about salaries and film sets, he needs something to motivate him. 

For now, he clicks through an old list of tasks on his to-do list to watch the virtual confetti rain down his computer screen while two of his colleagues argue over the phone. Taehyung is working from his home office, so he keeps his wireless earbuds in rather than put the call on speaker phone, not wanting the loud conversation to carry out of his office and disrupt anyone else who may be home. 

Barely five minutes into the phone call, Taehyung already wants to hang up. He has more important matters to deal with, like buying a new condo in the city so he can have a good excuse to get out of this goddamn house. 

Too distracted by his colleagues, Taehyung doesn’t hear the knock at the door, nor does he notice someone slip inside his office until they’re picking at the stray papers scattered across his desk. 

“Hyung, your office is a disaster,” Jungkook says, amusement flickering like sun rays in his eyes and with a twitch of his mouth when he holds back a smile. 

Muting himself on his phone and removing one earbud, Taehyung slightly tilts back in his desk chair to stare at Jungkook. 

“I’m on a call, Jungkook. Do you need something?” 

Jungkook rolls his eyes. Nightly orgasms and a little more money in his bank account have turned Jungkook bratty. Taehyung hates that he likes it. 

“Eunji noona brought Yuri with her to her halmeoni,” Jungkook reaches for the removed earbud, but Taehyung pulls his hand back before Jungkook can snatch it.

“So?”

“So,” Jungkook rolls his eyes again, “I’m bored.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to—” Taehyung cuts himself off as he scrambles to unmute himself when his colleagues address him on the call, “Yes, Seojoon, I already sent those documents to Bogum last week. The executives at Park Enterprises said security clearance wouldn’t be difficult to obtain once the cast is finalized.” 

Returning the earbud to his ear, Taehyung gives Jungkook a stern look before focusing on pulling up the documents on his computer. They’re highly technical, with lots of legal jargon that even Taehyung wasn’t well-versed in, so he has to review the document with his colleagues. 

“I assume they’ll all have valid passports?” Taehyung scrolls through the files, searching for the correct section to review. 

Determined to make his problems Taehyung’s, Jungkook maneuvers around Taehyung’s arms until he can forcibly sit in his lap. On another day, it could be cute and maybe even send Taehyung into a little panic attack, but Taehyung isn’t in the mood when he has frustrated coworkers in his ears. 

Get off, Taehyung mouths to Jungkook because his phone is out of reach now. 

Jungkook leans with his back against Taehyung’s chest, and his legs spread to rest on the outside of Taehyung’s thighs. When he turns his head, his lips brush against the base of Taehyung’s throat. 

“No,” Jungkook whispers before giving Taehyung's throat a gentle kiss that makes goosebumps spring across his skin. 

Jungkook’s weight feels nice, even more so if Taehyung just sits back and lets Jungkook get comfortable. Taehyung is too on edge for that, though, especially when Jungkook wiggles to get comfortable and inadvertently grinds his ass on Taehyung’s crotch. 

Hissing quietly, Taehyung squeezes Jungkook’s hip to still him, but Jungkook giggles and does it again. He leans forward to grab the edge of the desk and gyrates his hips, grinding down on Taehyung in slow circles.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung whispers, fingers digging into Jungkook’s skin to tighten his grip on his hip bone. When he tries to reach for his phone to mute himself, Jungkook snatches it and sets it near the corner edge where Taehyung can’t reach it. 

“Are you mad at me, daddy?” Jungkook asks quietly. “I just want to spend time with you. Real time with you, not just on the phone.” 

Jungkook is wearing skimpy athletic shorts just like his homemade crop top, which exposes the toned expanse of his abdomen. It’s a shame that Taehyung can’t even appreciate it since Jungkook isn’t facing him, but he does have a full view of how firm Jungkook’s ass is as he rubs Taehyung’s now fully hard cock through his slacks. Each roll of his hips hikes his shorts up further until they’re at the crease of his thighs, putting his legs on display. 

“You’re always so busy,” Jungkook whispers against Taehyung’s throat when he leans back again. 

“It’s on page fifty-eight,” Taehyung’s voice cracks on the last syllable when Jungkook grabs his hand off the mouse and presses Taehyung’s fingers against his ass. Taehyung feels something round and knobby between Jungkook’s cheeks, not needing to see what it is to know that it’s a butt plug. 

Taehyung takes a deep breath as Jungkook curls his fingers around the waistband of his athletic shorts and uses both their hands to pull them down his thighs so Taehyung can see the diamond nestled between his cheeks. 

“I thought you might want to know where your money is going,” Jungkook smirks when he looks at Taehyung over his shoulder. 

Taehyung thinks he might start crying if his coworkers don’t stop asking him to read parts of the legal document out loud to them. 

It’s clear that Jungkook has turned this into a game. He twists around in Taehyung’s lap to rub his palm against the hard bulge in Taehyung’s slacks and grins when Taehyung tries not to look at him while he reads off the computer screen. Every time Taehyung opens his mouth to answer his colleagues’ questions, Jungkook squeezes his cock. 

“Can I have it, daddy?” Jungkook rubs the head of Taehyung’s cock through his slacks as he pulls down the zipper, “Please?”

Taehyung shouldn’t do it. He’s already struggling to breathe properly on this phone call, and his forehead and the nape of his neck are damp with sweat. He can’t even put himself on mute. Jungkook is twenty-two. Jungkook is their nanny. Taehyung shouldn’t do it. 

Jungkook leans forward to brush their lips together as Taehyung lifts his hips so Jungkook can pull his pants down far enough to release his cock. If having Jungkook half-naked in his lap wasn’t enough torture, when Jungkook turns back around, he guides Taehyung’s hand to the jewel sitting pretty between his cheeks. The plug makes a wet, squelching sound when Taehyung pulls it from Jungkook’s stretched hole, lube dripping from it in sticky strings that smear Taehyung’s desk when he puts it off to the side. One of his colleagues asks him a question, but he’s too mesmerized by how Jungkook’s shiny hole flutters now that it’s empty. 

“Give it to me,” Taehyung thinks he hears Jungkook whine. 

Taehyung swipes his thumb over a glob of lube that leaked down the inside of Jungkook’s thigh and uses it, along with his own precum, to slick up his cock. He takes too long, though, and Jungkook swats his hand away to grab his cock and line it up himself. 

Rather than go slow, Jungkook drops onto Taehyung’s cock with all his weight, making his ass slap against Taehyung’s thighs and ripping a moan out of his throat so loud that Taehyung immediately ends the phone call.

“What the fuck, Jungkook?” Taehyung wants to be stern and wants Jungkook to understand that he can’t just fuck around like that with Taehyung’s job, even if Taehyung encourages it. 

But then Jungkook leans forward to lift his hips and drop back down again, enveloping Taehyung’s cock in his wet heat. Taehyung’s other complaints immediately morph into moans so breathy and pathetic that he shocks himself. 

“I feel good, don’t I?” Jungkook whimpers as he fucks himself on Taehyung’s cock even harder, using the desk to give himself momentum. “Tell me, daddy, tell me.” 

“Fuck, baby, you do,” Taehyung flings his head back and bucks his hips to meet Jungkook with his own thrusts. 

“Mhm, you wish you had me sooner, don’t you?” Jungkook’s voice takes on a higher pitch, something whiny and cute. “Could have been fucking me instead of wasting your time being sad about noona.”

The chair creaks and scratches against the floor as Jungkook bounces on Taehyung’s cock, filling the office with the sound of their moans and wet skin slapping together. 

Taehyung nods fervently, his head rolling and lolling as Jungkook uses him, drawing breathy moans from Taehyung, little “ah, ah, ah’s” that make him feel lightheaded because he isn’t inhaling. 

“Yes, fuck, yes, yes,” Taehyung’s arms fall limp at his sides as he lets Jungkook control the pace.

“You like when I fuck you, hyung?” Jungkook sounds so smug as if he knows he has Taehyung right where he wants him. Taehyung can’t even care to feel ashamed of how easy he is. 

Taehyung nods, his voice caught in his throat. 

“Touch me. I wanna cum, please.”

“Yeah? Fuck, baby, fuck,” Taehyung reaches around to fist Jungkook’s cock as he feels his own orgasm build. It dips and burns the pit of his stomach almost as quickly as it had that first night, all those months ago. 

“I could give you something better, hyung,”

As touch-starved as Taehyung is, he holds off until after Jungkook cums with a cry that makes Taehyung glad there’s no one else home. 

It’s messy and loud, and it takes too long for Taehyung to come down from his high. He feels sluggish, even after Jungkook climbs off him and strips his shirt, using it to clean himself off before tossing it to Taehyung. It’s been so long since Taehyung has felt so content, not just satiated from physical pleasure, but from shared intimacy—even if it will make him feel slimy later. 

“If I didn’t work out so much, that position would have been too hard to maintain,” Jungkook mumbles against Taehyung’s chest when he climbs back into his lap. 

He’s unfazed by their current physical state and never seems shy about the fact that he’s fucking his boss, the father of the kid he cares for. Taehyung wants to be free like that, unashamed, unapologetic. Eunji is; she’s even worse. It’s a bunch of bullshit, just like Jungkook said. 

“How are you so casual about this, all the time?” Taehyung asks quietly, eyes closed so he can try to think through the fuzz in his brain. 

“I don’t know,” Jungkook shrugs, “I like you, you like me. What else is there?” 

It feels too simple, but Taehyung likes it. He thinks back on how much of a hopeless romantic he is and how his films revolve around finding love, or at least acceptance and intimacy. Does Jungkook love him? Taehyung feels too silly to ask, but he thinks if this were one of his films, he’d want it to end just the way they are, cuddled up despite the mess they’ve made of each other, without shame. 

“I’m not like her,” Jungkook likely mistakes Taehyung’s pensiveness for sadness. “I won’t do you the way she did you.”

“The thought never crossed my mind, Jungkook-ah,” Taehyung murmurs against Jungkook’s forehead, lips brushing a light kiss that can’t begin to convey the swell of affection Taehyung feels for the man he cradles against his chest.

@rkiveslibrary @mar-lo-pap @remmykinsff @likecrazy22

[okwonyo]

memories of heart.

ᙏ̤̫ 엔하이픈 ( 형들 ) + femreader （ ？） fluff established relationship warning not-proofread skinship kissing & 500 —⠀ bookshelf

notes. i'm so sleepy T^T

heeseung

arcade date: has always dreamed about going to this kind of dates; especially as the hopeless romantic as he is and how much he loves video games, the thought of playing a bunch of these with the one he loves makes him become red from cheerfulness. proud smile on his face, he is the type to win a plushie a prize for a game and offer it to you— “thank you for being here with me”

photobooth date: is beyond annoying about which poses you should do, claiming he wants the set of pictures to be perfect. ‘sit like that’s and ‘put your hand over here, baby’s before each flash, he makes you sit on his laps and hold you by the waist firmly. giving up on posing perfectly, he always and up giggling when you look at him for a slip second— hand slipping from the top of your thigh to right before the knee, you can see his cheeks growing red in the photography.

jongseong

stargazing date: prepares a whole picnic for the night, with your favorite flowers and dishes— made sure to put on the most romantic songs he has ever heard, with a couple of scented candles as-well.. whispers; “i think i love you too much, because..” he squeezes your hand, “in a sky full of stars, i will only ever see you” while you both watch the stars shining in the sky, he only watches them through your shiny eyes.

baking date: lets you tie the bow of his soft pink floral apron you bought for him for your six months anniversary. dots on you during the whole time, hand placed on your lower back as you put on glazing on the cute cake just made— leaning in as you does too, he might fall into it if he keeps on going. his favorite part is when you feed him some red and sugary strawberries.

jaeyun

lantern festival date: he takes you there after you told him you always wanted to go to one, mainly inspired by reponzel but also because you find the concept beautiful— and he is willing to do anything to make you happy. he holds the lantern as you put the candle in it, thinking you look so cute with that focused expression of yours. finds himself enjoying the rise of all the lanterns in the sky.

beach date: initially wanted to take a walk; claiming that the summer's warmth and clear sky was too beautiful to be missed. hand in hand, bumping shoulders when one of you says something funny, walking away from each other and coming back when the distance threatens to make your hands let go of each other. you end up both in the water at some point, clothes still on but barely even caring— he helps you float on your back, tries to kiss you under the salty water..

sunghoon

biking date: has spent weeks trying to find the perfect place to go biking together and made sure to do it when the weather starts being nice again. at some point, he starts biking close to you and with one single hand; trying to reach you with a stupid smile on his face, he loves cliche, you reach his hand and your fingers touch.. you hold hands for ten minutes before he almost falls.

auquarium date: running around the almost empty walls of the aquarium as you booked for the night session, looking at the fish wide headed as you swear it looks exactly like your boyfriend, holding hands while the blue hue kisses your skin tenderly— everything that makes an aquarium date one and are one your ‘date to do’ list, are the things you and him would do instinctively.

nets @k-films @kflixnet @/k-labels taglist open! @manooffline @ibsysbsfsunsbs @oldjws @lilriswife4life @alaezasmystery235 @teddywonss @tyussday @cholexc @flickqr @yuviqik @wvnrqs @strawberrywonz @y-ves @isawritesss @filmofhybe @ikeucakes @gweoriz @yunabi436 @ashtxrie @soul-is-a-strange-kid @jaelaxies @jwonsluvr @lynniebearrr-blog @bobabunhee @sunghoonsarmpit @ynsvnte @wonifullove @luvieden @shalkeren @thesunoosshining @smouches

[smiggysmoggy02]

Alrighty folks! Get your forks ready cuz I was hard at work cooking

Just another reminder that this one’s spicyyy

🔞NSFW🔞

Mr. Ring-a-ding/Lux X Male reader

First time feelings, hot kissing and some grinding to start🤭

If y’all like this one I’ve got a part two for those who reallyyyy liked it

The booth in the old picture house was cold tonight. Quiet, tucked away behind moth-bitten curtains and the dull drone of dusty reels. Mr. Ring-a-Ding lounged as usual, one leg thrown over the other, hat tipped low. You were close — closer than most ever got to him — and yet tonight, something different shimmered between you like cigarette smoke.

You’d been chatting — half about nothing, half about the flickering black-and-white film he couldn’t stop mocking — when your hand accidentally brushed his. Not a big thing. Not really.

But he stopped.

And stared.

Brows up, eyes gleaming like theater lights.

“…That,” he drawled slowly, “made your heart jump.”

You blinked, unsure what he was getting at. “Yeah, I guess it did.”

A beat. Then a grin. “Why?”

You gave a soft laugh, trying to play it off. “It’s just—touch, y’know? People react.”

He leaned in then, just slightly. The glimmer of mischief shifted into something almost… inquisitive. His fingers reached for your wrist, deliberately now. He held it lightly, letting his thumb drag across your pulse point. Your breath caught.

His eyes narrowed — not cruel, not teasing. Just observant. “There it is again.”

“It’s nothing,” you tried, though your cheeks burned. “It’s just—sensitive.”

“Sensitive,” he repeated, tasting the word like a new flavor. “Humans get flustered over the oddest things.”

You didn’t answer, and that silence made his smile grow even more smug.

“Show me where else,” he said, like it was a joke. “Where else I can touch that makes your heart do that.”

You swallowed. He was still holding your wrist — warm even though the cold air around you, thumb now ghosting up your inner arm.

“I’m serious,” he murmured, voice gone velvet-soft. “This is all very… amusing.”

Amusing. Like it was an experiment. A joke. But there was something too focused in the way he was looking at you now — less like a prank and more like a puzzle he was slowly unraveling.

He leaned in, his nose nearly brushing yours. You had been subconsciously rubbing your neck a little as he looked at you.

“Is it the neck?” he asked playfully, letting his mouth hover just there. His breath was hot, and you shivered.

A pause.

“That’s a yes,” he chuckled, “judging by the way your thighs just tensed.”

His tongue flicked out, barely grazing your skin.

Your whole body jerked.

“Jesus—”

“Oh, that again,” he purred. “Another funny reaction.”

You were panting now, the space between you rapidly collapsing. And still, he didn’t stop. You didn’t seem to know why he was doing this — only that your responses fascinated him. Like pressing a piano key to see what sound came out.

“You’re flushed,” he whispered. “Why?”

“…Because,” you breathed, barely able to focus, “it feels good.”

His brow creased, genuinely perplexed.

“Good?” he echoed, like he didn’t quite know what to do with that. “It’s just touch.”

You reached up then, brushing his jaw — fingertips trailing up to his sharp cheekbone. He twitched, eyes fluttering closed for a fraction of a second. His lips parted, a quiet sound slipping out.

“See?” you said quietly. “You feel it too.”

Silence. The kind that prickled.

Then—

“…Oh.”

He laugh this time. That laugh that drove you crazy.

His eyes snapped open, pupils wide, glinting now with something hungry. He surged forward, lips catching yours, like in those romantic movies he watched, in a kiss that started clumsy — curious — but deepened fast, heated, wet, possessive.

Your back hit the velvet seats of the booth.

One hand grabbed your hip — firm, shaking a little now. The smug god mask was gone, replaced by something raw and overwhelming.

His hips pressed forward instinctively, grind aligning with yours in a slow, grinding drag that made you both gasp. He moaned against your lips, shameless, needy now. Something clicked — whatever idea he’d had of being above it all crumbled in an instant.

“This—this is ridiculous,” he panted, grinding again. “Why does this feel—ohhhh—”

You’d never heard him moan before but oh did It make you throb.

He kissed you again, sloppier this time. His hands were everywhere — decency long forgotten, fingers digging under your shirt, desperate for skin. It was frantic now, sloppy and breathless.

He broke away just enough to speak, voice hoarse:

“I didn’t know—this is—this is maddening—you’re maddening, Dollface—”

You grinned, dazed and swollen-lipped.

“Told you it feels good.”

He growled — actually growled — and dragged you onto his lap.

“Then let’s feel more.”

Hope you liked the tasting~

Part two will come just as soon as Ring/Lux does~💜

[insanityclause]

“It’s the fifth play I’ve rehearsed here,” says Tom Hiddleston, looking round a bare, bleak room at a studio space in Southeast London with a broad smile and a surprising amount of pleasure. Hayley Atwell peers past an office desk and a stack of plastic chairs to look out of the window.

“And have you worked over there?” she asks, pointing at the building opposite. “That’s where Cate Blanchett and Tom Burke are doing The Seagull? And next door here, Jonathan Bailey is working on Richard II. That to me is so indicative of the romance of the theatre community. Everyone is doing their thing, but all together in a shared space. I find it so exciting.”

The pair’s enthusiasm is infectious. Both are movie stars who command cinematic franchises. Hiddleston is Loki, the trickster of the Marvel universe. Atwell plays Grace in the two most recent Mission: Impossible films. Yet both seem genuinely excited to be back on stage for the first time since 2019 in a new production of Much Ado About Nothing directed by Jamie Lloyd.

“I feel like I won the lottery,” says Hiddleston. “I absolutely love Loki. I got cast as this extraordinary character, this ancient archetype who represents mischief and chaos and then I get to do this too. What my whole journey through being an actor has taught me is I love it when it’s honest – it’s thrilling to watch and it’s thrilling to play when there is deep commitment in the work.”

He pauses a little. He has already made his mark in Shakespeare, notably as a memorable Coriolanus on stage at the Donmar in 2014, and as Prince Hal in the BBC’s adaptation of the history plays, The Hollow Crown. “If I had good fortune, I’d love to play Shakespeare for the rest of my life. I really love doing it. The plays are so deep, and they contain such wisdom about being alive.”

Atwell is also a fine classical actress, most recently in a devastating production of Ibsen’s Rosmersholm (costarring Burke). But Mission: Impossible has dominated her life for the past five and a half years: she has been combining rehearsals with shooting additional scenes for The Final Reckoning, which comes out in May. As the mercurial Grace – “she’s her own version of an agent of chaos” – she has, like the rest of the Mission: Impossible cast, signed up to do her own stunts. “I’ve brought quite a strong plank into rehearsal,” she laughs.

The actors met in 2002, on their final audition for RADA. “He did this improvised thing called the status game, and I was so impressed by it,” Atwell says, laughing. “And then he got in and I went to Guildhall instead, but because we were peers, there was always this social crossover.”

They stayed in touch, but even though they both appeared in Avengers: Endgame – Atwell as Peggy Carter and Hiddleston as Loki – they have never been on set together or interacted as characters. Planned joint projects have also fallen through. Playing Shakespeare’s warring lovers Benedick and Beatrice in one of his greatest comedies is their first experience of actually sharing a space.

Much Ado About Nothing is one of Shakespeare’s funniest and most resonant comedies. Its story of a group of men returning from war to sunny Messina to party and adapt to civilian life has just about everything: old lovers meeting and rekindling desire; new lovers being torn apart by suspicion and doubt. It is full of great comic set pieces and marked by near tragedy. Hiddleston and Atwell are the latest couple to take on Benedick and Beatrice, following in the footsteps of actors as various as Mark Rylance and Janet McTeer, David Tennant and Catherine Tate and Simon Russell Beale and Zoë Wanamaker.

They are having a good time. “It’s so lovely,” says Atwell, sitting back in her plastic chair. “It’s easy because there’s a lot of trust and a natural shorthand between us. The ice is already broken and so we can just try different things, and I know that if I try something Tom’s going to respond and give me something back.”

“You just dive in,” says Tom, smiling as he interrupts. This is the nature of their conversation; they spill over one another’s words, finishing sentences. It bodes well for their performances as a couple whose surface banter disguises a deep love for one another. “So much of what Benedick and Beatrice do is listen to each other and then use one aspect of what they’ve said and weaponise it. It means as actors we have to be very active in our listening. Every time Tom bats something to me, I have to keep the ball in the air. It’s so exhilarating.”

Atwell rattles on. She is a great and articulate talker. “They are bound by this chemistry that they don’t fully control and are keeping each other at arm’s length because of their fear of being vulnerable with each other.” Hiddleston smiles again before continuing the thought. “It’s genuine magnetism, a very intense attraction. And they think they are the smartest people in the room, until they’re not.”

Rehearsals have been marked by a lot of dancing. Much Ado is set at a family gathering during which a wedding is arranged. “And when old friends get together, people dance,” says Hiddleston. “’90s house music,” chips in Atwell with a grin. “It’s a very different kind of show.”

It sounds like a very Jamie Lloyd style of show. The director is famous for his stripped-back, direct style which is introducing classic plays to new and younger audiences. “The thing I love about him is his courage in honouring the plays. He asks us to engage very deeply and very personally with the material,” says Hiddleston.

The last time Hiddleston worked with Lloyd was in 2019 on a production of Harold Pinter’s Betrayal in London and on Broadway, where he met his now wife Zawe Ashton. “It was an extraordinary life-changing time,” he says. “Hugely resonant. I talk about it every day. There is so much fondness in that experience and we all really enjoyed the work as well.”

Ashton has worked repeatedly with Lloyd down the years. “It feels like family,” Hiddleston adds. “I think really good work can come from this deep friendship. We hold each other to account and keep each other honest in the work. I love it.”

Atwell, who is married to the music producer Ned Wolfgang Kelly, has also collaborated with Lloyd three times. “I think he likes actors as a species,” she says, thoughtfully. “Not every director particularly does. We might be an odd kind of bunch, and we are slippery, mercurial things, playing like children do. He loves that. He wants rehearsals to feel like a playground.”

With that, the couple smile warmly and leave the room. Ready for another day of dancing.

[lenalenouilleisblogging]

2024 feminist movie retrospective ~ day 10

It's RAPID FIRE REVIEWS TIME !! ROUND 3

I don't have enough to say about these next films to write full reviews, but i still want to mention them, these are some of the ones i watched in theaters in May/June of 2024.

Sooooo fucking fun. Also the romance is actually, like, good?? Romantic subplots are always a chore in action movies but this was so sweet and cute?? It's barely a subplot actually, it's pretty important to the narrative. Which is probably why it works. I've loved every David Leitch feature that I've seen (so, everything but the Fast & Furious spinoff) and this one is no exception. Great dynamic camera work, fun editing, just a really entertaining good time. Will put you in a good mood. You can tell all the cast is having a lot of fun. Also this movie pays homage to stunt work and stunt workers and that's needed! These people rock. Loved that this had BTS footage in the end credits, I missed that. My little brother has a crush on Winston Duke AND Ryan Gosling AND Aaron Taylor Johnson so needless to say he had the time of his LIFE at the cinema 😹😹

trailer

The most successful film of the year in french theaters. I can see why, this is exactly the kind of simple thing the french public just eats up. The movie fulfills its mission pretty much perfectly. It's about being heartwarming, funny, and to give visibility to people with certain disabilities. Apparently non-profit organizations for disabled adults (like the one we see in the film) saw a massive increase in support, donations and volunteers after the release of this film. That's great, I hope it keeps going! There was a bit of a scandal at Cannes film festival because not a single brand wanted to sponsor the cast on the red carpet, but the director got pissed off. Not only did they end up getting their haute couture sponsor, they ended up being the biggest sensation on the red carpet! Look at them! 🩵🥹

Watching this in theaters was sooo fun. Fullest showing i've seen all year. I've also never seen so many people in wheelchairs at my theater at the same time?? The crowd was laughing at every joke, such a fun community moment. I cannot believe some people are calling the movie insensitive because there are mean jokes towards the characters. THIS IS A FRENCH COMEDY. Of course it's gonna be mean as fuck. AND ALMOST THE WHOLE CAST IS DISABLED. Saying that mockery is fine except for some groups because they "can't take it" is fucking insane especially when no one from said group agrees with you. Performative "activists" are so annoying.

trailer

Japanese humor usually works well on me so I expected a good laugh. What I didn't expect were the feels? Right in the kokoro omg. Loved the editing, loved the rhythm. Very dynamic and full of fun, entertaining ideas. On top of that there's a layer of commentary about (japanese) work culture that's very interesting and works SUPER well with the concept. The characters are very archetypal but they're also very interesting and watchable. The two female characters in particular stayed with me. The third act was so touching and original. Completely unexpected but so sweet and profound. A great time. I LOVE TIME LOOP STORIESSSS

trailer

A bit like Das Lehrerzimmer, this feels like a 2 hour long panic attack. So claustrophobic, so effective. The whole cast is acting its ass off. The dialogues and the interactions feel so real. That ending too! One of the best endings of the year lol. Such a competent, tightly-nit project! What a ride. I ate my fingers to the bone watching this x)

trailer

I low-key expected to hate this 😭 I only knew that this is supposed to be like, THE "polyamorous" movie. But it's not that at all, it's much more interesting??? Everyone who watches this film has an opinion on which ship is endgame, I'm in the gay team 💪 I love the female character but I don't like the vibe between her and either of the guys. The two guys tho??? Immaculate chemistry I NEED them to fuck on-screen. That being said, the story wasn't fascinating to me. The writing is great, but it's just not my style at all. If that story had been in any other film I would have forgotten everything about it a week after seeing it. BUT it's not the case.

This was one of my FAVOURITES film of the year in terms of film-making. Like, top 5 maybe. This is EXTRAORDINARY. The soundtrack is fucking balls to the walls insane and it's unlike anything I've heard before in a movie. It's great to listen to by itself but in the film it's just... It's perfect. I never would have thought i'd ever see homoerotic tennis matches set to trance music in theaters but there's a first for everything lol. The editing, the shot composition, the pacing ARG I WANNA EAT THIS MOVIE IT SCRATCHES MY BRAIN SO PERFECTLY. Watching this in theaters with my mom (a huge tennis fan) was one of my best experiences last year. I KNOW that 10 years from now i will still remember that final match point scene. Hoooooolyyyyy shit go watch this.

trailer

You can definitely tell it's a novel adaptation. I don't say that as a compliment unfortunately. Way too much explanation and talking from beginning to end. It feels like the exposition never stops. That being said, the movie has some great design ideas, some beautiful shots and beautiful photography. Also it's cool that one of the main characters is an older woman. I also REALLY admire the film for its commitment to its own narrative. It's very trendy right now to make horror/somber movies as cryptic and nonsensical as possible just for the sake of it. This film has a very detailed lore and wants you to understand it. Not the film of the year, but will appeal to those of you who like interesting fantasy concepts and spooky vibes. A pretty fun watch.

trailer

I was told this was THE lesbian film of the year. Is it? Well, maybe… 😳 Be warned tho ! This is first and foremost a violent revenge film. Drugs are also a big theme, which made this a bit of a hard watch for me. (I have my personal issues with this subject and I generally avoid it. I didn't know it was in the film. But oh well.)

In yesterday's review, i said that i LOVE when SSA characters are in stories that aren't specific to "gay cinema". And this film is exactly what i like! This story COULD have been about a straight couple, but it isn't. Very cool 😎

It's horny, it's violent, it's weird, it's original, it's super satisfying. I loved the use of color in this. The actresses are GREAT. And also, I happen to have a thing for super buff women. So.... Mamma mia.... 😳🏳️‍🌈 It's a destructive and toxic love story told in a super interesting way, all wrapped up in a great 80s aesthetic. Not for the faint of heart.

trailer

My mom really wanted to go see this because she had heard good reviews and she loves the main actress. This is THE WORST thing I've seen this year, bar none 😭😭😭 My brother and I just couldn't take the film seriously and we kept laughing. That put my mom in a SUPER bad mood and she pouted the rest of the evening...

More thoughts here.

Holy shit Disney. Fucking yikes. This is genuinely embarrassing. The quality drop of the animation is fucking insane. This looks so much worse than the previous one, the textures are worse, the movements feel more clunky and the facial expressions aren't as dynamic. Why were some members of the cast replaced by less famous actors? Did the Walt Disney fucking company run out of budget to pay the original ones? Literally one of the only things i was excited about was hearing Bill Hader and you took that away from me!! Where the fuck is Michael Giacchino?? His soundtrack for the first film is beautiful and super iconic!!

Narratively it's a clone of the first film, but with less stakes. It feels like an AI generated sequel. It doesn't even make sense in the universe of this story, because those concepts SHOULD have been introduced in the first one!! Ayo Edebiri's character serves NO purpose in the film. If you remove her from the script NOTHING CHANGES. She just exists to look cute on the poster and so they can say they got Ayo Edebiri in the film. I love her as much as the next lesbian, but this is fucking awful. The only thing i liked was Adèle Exarchopoulos's character. She was cute. It's funny that one of the emotions is french for no reason. She made me laugh. But apart from that it was all just fucking cancer. Sure it has fun and heartwarming moments, but it's so cynical and disgusting.

And OF COURSE, this broke the record for most successful animated film ever. I hate hollywood. Thank glob the record was broken again 7 months later. This is the quality of a straight to DVD sequel. Like in the good old days 🤪🤪 Except it came out in theaters. AND IT MADE 1.6 BILLION DOLLARS. I'm gonna kms. If you wanna watch a good film, watch the first one. It's not perfect but almost. It was fresh and original, it was genuine and emotional. THIS one is just... What if capitalism was a movie?

That's it for May/June! I also saw The Dead don't Hurt, Le Deuxième Acte and the Bikeriders but I got nothing to say about those