#tag: gold star media

[famedfeed]

APRIL 13, 2023

#MIRAE #SIREN

MIRAE “SIREN” MV TEASER 1

2023.04.18 6PM

Copyrights 2023 ⓒ Gold Star Media. All Rights Reserved.

— POSTED BY GOLD STAR MEDIA

[leapdayowo]

What fandom introduced you to my art?👀

[joemama-2]

┊ ❛ ❛ 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬 ❜ ❜ ┊

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: as an ambitious journalist, you’re determined to keep your cool while interviewing Gojo Satoru, the entertainment world’s most magnetic star. but his playful smirks and flirtatious banter make it impossible to ignore the spark simmering between you. when he leans in and invites you to his private room, you tell yourself it’s all part of the job—until the dressing room door closes, and the air grows heavy with unspoken possibilities. his touch is casual but lingers just long enough to make your pulse race, and his whispered promises are as intoxicating as the man himself. tonight, you’ll learn there’s a difference between getting the story and being part of it.

wc: 9.9k

tags/warnings: smut, slight praise, vaginal penetration, pussy eating, cursing, missionary, nipple sucking

Tonight’s a night of luxury, fine wine, expensive clothing, flashes, kisses being shared, awards handed out, and best of all…the interviews. 

You’re up and coming, still considered a newbie in the world of journalism even though you have been doing this for almost a year now. But compared to your other counterparts who have years of experience, you understand why. A bright, young face with a compelling aura that just draws people in. Every celebrity you’ve met has come up to you afterward to just rave on about how nice it was talking to you, how authentic it felt. And that’s what you aim for all the time. 

At the end of the day, these are real people and a lot of the media seems to forget that. When you’re interviewing them, you don’t want it to seem like a forced meet-up with an intrusive journalist. No, you want it to be like they’re talking to a friend. You want things to just flow smoothly—naturally. You’ve even exchanged numbers with a few of them, waving and delivering a small hug as they pass you on the red carpet to pose for pictures. 

It’s a strategy that’s worked wonders for you, and tonight, you’re counting on it to carry you through what might be the biggest interview of your career. Gojo Satoru, the golden boy of the entertainment industry, is notoriously hard to pin down—charming one moment, evasive the next. The man oozes confidence, with his piercing blue eyes and a devil-may-care attitude that has the world wrapped around his finger. A brilliant actor, dancer, and singer. A literal triple threat. The man is good at everything he does. And he looks damn good while doing it. 

Your editor’s words echo in your head as you adjust your press badge: “Get something different. Something memorable. Everyone’s heard the same old answers from him.” Easier said than done when the man is practically untouchable, his responses carefully curated to keep people guessing. You would’ve assumed his media training would be on point, considering he’s been a household name since he was just an infant. 

A true nepo baby. 

There’s a microphone in hand, your camera man, Ito, stood beside you. You glance at him, having to lean in slightly over the buzz of other chatter, photographers telling whatever celebrity to move right or left, other interviews being conducted, the whole sha-bang. “You ready for this?”

The younger man nods with a goofy smile and throws a thumbs-up. “You know it.”

“Remember, get my good side.”

“Every side is your good side, Ms. Y/N.”

You wave him off and swivel your head back around. Titling it as you lift up on your tip-toes for any sign of the snowy haired man. Nope, not here yet. You sigh and drop back down to normal height, anxiously twirling the microphone in your hand. You’re wearing a simple, but elegant black dress. Silk with no sleeves and the back is cut out—still modest enough to now outshine the real important people of tonight. You’ve paired it with gold jewelry, your hair down and tamed, with tiny black heels. Fine makeup with a red lip to top it off. 

“He’s not here yet. Let me guess,” you murmur to Ito, keeping your voice low. “He’s going to be late, sweep in like he owns the place, and flash that million-dollar smile that makes everyone forget they’ve been waiting.”  

Ito snorts, adjusting the camera. “You mean the Gojo Satoru trademark entrance? Yeah, sounds about right. At least he’s consistent.”  

You roll your eyes, but there’s a flicker of nerves in your chest. You always get nervous but this time, it feels a little extra. He may not even stop for you, don’t get your hopes up.

Gojo’s reputation precedes him, and while you pride yourself on keeping your cool, you’re not immune to his charm. The last thing you need is to fall into the same trap as every other reporter who’s walked away from an interview with stars in their eyes and nothing of substance to show for it. 

Scanning the area, you catch sight of a commotion near the entrance, the buzz growing louder. And then you see him.  

He’s impossible to miss, standing tall and radiant in a custom black suit that hugs him in all the right places, his albino hair tousled just enough to look effortless. His sunglasses—because of course he’s wearing sunglasses to a fancy event—sit perched on the bridge of his nose, only barely hiding those infamous blue eyes. He’s laughing at something someone said, his presence magnetic enough to pull all attention his way without even trying. His manager, Nanami Kento, walks with him. Occasionally muttering something in Satoru’s ear with his certified stony expression. 

“Showtime,” Ito mutters, lifting the camera.  

You take a deep breath, straightening your posture. You got this, you got this. He’s not the only charming one. Plastering a big, warm smile. You begin your stride over, hellbent on capturing his attention. 

He and his manager are walking down the carpet, already ignoring the reporters that call out his name like he’s some sort of god. Satoru occasionally smiles for a few of the cameras as most of the other actors are silently making room for him on the red carpet. Once he’s done with his pictures, he’s heading inside the venue. Then you’ll lose your chance. So, you have to catch him before he does. 

You quicken your pace, moving with purpose. Weaving through the small crowd as Ito is practically stumbling over his feet to follow you. Chin tilting up and raising your voice loud enough so he can hear. “Gojo Satoru, a quick word, please,” you call out, your voice carrying through the crowd, smooth and confident despite the flutter of nerves in your chest.

And as if on cue, Gojo’s head turns ever so slightly in your direction. That was quick. Maybe it’s the fact that you reiterated your call out to him as more of a statement than an annoying plea. You don’t hesitate, smiling and judging Ito to begin filming. You can already see the glint of his pearly whites, the blue twinkle in his pearly eyes that makes women and men alike swoon. He lifts his glasses down slightly like he’s getting a better look at you. His manager is tugging a bit on his elbow to keep him moving, but he simply yanks it out his hold and strides over to you with that trademark grin. As he makes his way toward you, every step exuding confidence, you remind yourself of your goal: keep it professional, keep it memorable, and don’t let him get under your skin.  

Some of the other journalists must think they finally have their shot with him, only for their hopes and dreams to be shattered when he approaches you instead. You shuffle closer to him, sparing a quick glance at the camera to ensure it’s rolling before craning your neck up at the man himself. 

“Gojo Satoru,” you greet him, flashing your most practiced smile as he stops in front of you. “Thank you very much for taking the time to chat. How’s your night so far?”  

He tilts his head, the lopsided smile on his face nothing short of mischievous. “Even better now,” he says smoothly, his voice low enough to make your stomach flip.  

Oh, he’s good, you think, your grip tightening on the microphone. But so are you. So, this is how it’s going to be. Fine. You can play that game too. 

You force yourself to focus, keeping the conversation light and breezy despite the electric charge in the air between you. “Glad to hear that. I’m sure you’re used to all the attention by now, but do you ever get nervous before big events like this?” you ask, leaning in slightly as if you’re just two people having a casual chat.

He chuckles, a sound that almost feels too intimate for the public space you’re standing in. “I thrive on it,” Gojo replies, his eyes never leaving yours, his gaze both teasing and intense. “You know, it’s all part of the game. The bigger the crowd, the more I shine.”

You smile, impressed by his confidence but careful not to let it throw you off your rhythm. “And yet, you still manage to make it look effortless.” You tilt your head slightly, playing along, knowing how easily the conversation could turn into one of those meaningless exchanges. “Is there anything you don’t do effortlessly?”

His lips quirk upwards, that signature grin spreading across his face. “Maybe one thing,” he says, his tone dipping lower, sending a shiver through you. He pauses, his eyes scanning you briefly before locking back onto yours. “But I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”

The air between you two thickens, the words laced with double meaning. You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, but you refuse to let it show. He’s toying with you, but this is your interview, and you’re not about to let him steal the spotlight. Not just yet.

Clearing your throat, you switch the topic. “So, you’re being nominated Best Actor for your show ‘Jujutsu Kaisen’.”

He grins, clearly enjoying the direction you’ve taken. “I wouldn’t say ‘nominated,’” he teases, his eyes sparkling with that signature arrogance. “I’m going to win, obviously. But it’s nice to be recognized by the industry.”

You nod, the banter light, but the tension lingering in the air between you two keeps your mind spinning. You can’t help but wonder if he’s as confident off-screen as he is in front of the cameras. Before you can ask him to elaborate on his confidence, Gojo steps closer, his proximity sending a wave of warmth through you. “So you believe you’ll win this award, no doubt?”

“No doubt.”

“That’s very confident of you.” You chuckle. 

Gojo’s lips curl into a smile, his blue eyes never leaving yours as if he’s savoring the moment. “Confidence is key but also very underrated,” he replies, his tone playful but with an edge of something more intense. He leans in just slightly, enough that you can smell the subtle cologne he’s wearing, clean and fresh with a hint of spice. “Besides,” he adds, his voice dropping lower, “when you’re as good as I am, it’s hard not to be confident. And I mean, a lot of people are too afraid to show they know what they’re capable of. But me? I’ve got nothing to hide. I know exactly what I bring to the table.”

You bite your lip, fighting the urge to let your smile slip into something more flirtatious. But his words have an effect—something in you shifts, intrigued and undeniably drawn to his arrogance. "So, you don’t think anyone’s competition?" you ask, arching an eyebrow, testing the waters.

Gojo's lips curve tighter into a knowing smile, a flash of teasing flickering in his eyes. "Competition?" he echoes, his voice thick with challenge. "There’s no competition when you’re in a league of your own.”

You swallow, trying to maintain your composure despite the growing heat between you. “I can see that,” you respond, your voice just a little steadier than you feel. “But what’s your secret? How do you manage to stay so… sure of yourself?”

Gojo chuckles, the sound smooth and low, as he runs a hand through his messy white hair. He looks around briefly, as though assessing the situation, before his eyes lock back onto yours. “It’s not about being sure of myself,” he says with a tilt to his tone, his words carrying an underlying promise. “It’s about knowing I can make anything work. Whether it’s acting, dancing, or…” He trails off, his gaze flickering briefly down your figure before snapping back to your eyes. He chuckles charmingly.  

The moment hangs between you two, the air crackling with an undeniable charge. You feel your pulse quicken, but you force yourself to stay focused on the interview. “Well, I’m sure a lot of people would love to know how you make it all look so effortless,” you respond, keeping your voice neutral. “Any advice for those of us who aren’t quite as… naturally gifted?”

Gojo’s grin widens, and for a brief second, you swear you can see a flicker of something more in his eyes. “It’s not just about talent,” he says, leaning in a little closer, his voice dropping to a more intimate level. “It’s about owning the moment, owning the space you’re in. You have to make people believe in you, even if you don’t always believe in yourself.” His intonation is almost hypnotic, and you can feel the pull of his words.

Your breath catches, but you can’t let him see how he’s affecting you. “Sounds like a lot of pressure,” you reply, trying to keep the conversation light. “How do you handle all that weight?”

Gojo’s expression shifts, his playful grin faltering for just a second, his presence overwhelming. “Pressure’s nothing,” he says, his eyes scanning your face with an intensity that makes your skin tingle. “If you’re not feeling it, you’re not doing it right.”

Before you can respond, the sound of a camera shutter clicks in the background, reminding you of the reality of the situation. You’re still in the middle of a crowded red carpet, surrounded by flashing lights and the buzz of other reporters. But somehow, standing so close to him, it feels like it’s just the two of you in the world.

His eyes soften for a moment, like he’s sensing the shift in the air between you. “But hey,” he adds, his tone playful again as he steps back slightly, breaking the moment, “don’t worry. I’ll make sure to win this award for the both of us. Maybe then you can interview me again… under better circumstances.”

You smile, lightly huffing a small chortle as Ito lowers the camera and stops rolling. Nanami begins tugging on Satoru’s sleeve again, attempting to urge the man to walk forward. But Satoru doesn’t budge, leaning down close to your ear. The suddenness causes you to gasp a little, body tensing before leaning closer to hear what he has to say. 

“I have a room nearby. Take a left at the end of the carpet, then a right past the VIP lounge, can’t miss it. If you want, I’d be glad to answer more of your questions once I have my award.”

He’s pulling back and looking away, strutting down the carpet before you can even process what just happened. Eyes wide and lips parted, you slowly look over at Ito who gives you an equally baffled expression. “That was…something. I felt the tension even behind the camera.”

You shake your head and regain your bearings, hitting his arm. He dramatically lets out a huff and rubs the spot. “Don’t be stupid, that’s just how he is.”

“Well, yeah. But it seemed extra with you.”

Your lips purse, eyes flickering over to where an enormous space has been made for the man himself to pose for every single camera aimed at him in every pose possible. If you didn’t find him attractive, you would’ve been annoyed by his arrogance—his cockiness. But maybe that’s what you like about him, in some weird way. At least he has the looks to go with his loud personality. “Are you gonna…go?” Ino asks. 

You hesitate, unsure of whether yes or no would be the most appropriate answer in this case. Hell, that entire little thing seemed the exact opposite of appropriate. You remind yourself that that’s just how he is. However, you still haven’t gotten a good enough word from him and that tiny, maybe two minute interview will no doubt be overlooked from your boss. 

Something different, something more. 

And so that’s how you’ve landed yourself in this precarious situation in the first place. It’s late—around twelve in the morning. And this supposed ‘meet-up’ feels more like a booty call than anything else. You won’t voice that thought aloud, of course. He’s sitting on the cuck chair in the corner of his…dressing room? It feels more like a five star hotel room. You’ve taken purchase on the edge of the bed inside, hands tucked into your lap. You’ve opted out of the dress you wore for the event, landing on a simple tee and jeans. Your recorder beside you, with your notebook and pen placed underneath your hands. 

He’s just been eating. 

Eating carelessly. 

It’s already been close to twenty minutes and you don’t know when you should bring up the whole reason you’re even here for. After a few more grueling seconds, the air having been filled with his loud chewing far longer than you have patience for. You clear your throat. “Um…Mr. Gojo? Do you mind if we—”

“Have you ever had Mediterranean food?” He cuts you off, jabbing his white plastic fork in your direction. 

Your eyes flick to the fork in his hand, then back to his face. The man looks completely unbothered, leaning back in his chair as though he has all the time in the world. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, crossed casually at the ankles, and his tie is now undone, the top buttons of his shirt popped open. He’s the picture of relaxed arrogance, and it’s both infuriating and—annoyingly—endearing.  

“Uh, yeah,” you say hesitantly, thrown off by the abrupt change in topic. “Once or twice.”  

He hums, jabbing his fork into another piece of grilled chicken and popping it into his mouth. “Then you’re missing out. There’s this place down the street? Incredible. You’ve gotta try it. I’ll have them send some up next time you’re around.”  

You blink at him, unsure how to respond. Is he really talking about food right now? After inviting you here in the middle of the night and keeping you waiting for nearly half an hour while he scarfs down a late-night feast? And is he trying to hint at another rendezvous? Yeah fucking right. Your fingers tighten slightly around your notebook, the patience you’ve been clinging to starting to wear thin. “Right,” you try again, keeping your voice steady, “I appreciate the recommendation, but I was hoping we could get back to the interview. So may we—”

“But you get it, right?” he says, leaning back in the chair, his legs spread out wider, his posture entirely too relaxed for someone in the middle of an impromptu midnight interview. “It’s addictive. This hummus? Unreal. Whoever catered tonight deserves an award more than I do.”

You thin your lips, unsure whether to laugh or remind him why you’re actually here. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” you say diplomatically, gesturing to the plate in his hand. “But I was hoping we could, you know, get started?”

Gojo hums thoughtfully, scooping up another bite with his fork. “You’re right,” he concedes, though the mischievous glint in his eyes suggests otherwise. “But here’s the thing—you can’t do an interview on an empty stomach. Or when the food’s this good.”

You sigh, biting back a retort as he takes another slow, deliberate bite, chewing like he has all the time in the world. “Mr. Gojo—”

“Satoru,” he corrects, grinning as he sets the plate down on the small table beside him. He wipes his hands on a napkin and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees as he meets your gaze. “We’re not on the red carpet anymore. Call me Satoru.” 

His sudden shift in demeanor catches you off guard, the playful air taking on a more serious edge. You glance at your recorder, then back at him, your pulse quickening. “Alright, Satoru,” you say carefully, your fingers tightening around your pen. “Let’s make this count.”

He smirks, tilting his head slightly as if daring you to keep up. “Oh, don’t worry,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. “I always do.”

You nod and fumble for a moment before flipping open your notebook. “Ah, well, I was hoping to dive a little deeper into your creative process—how you approach roles and what inspires you.”  

Gojo leans back again, the smirk never leaving his face. “My creative process, huh? That’s such a professional way of asking how I make the magic happen.” He chuckles, his gaze flicking over you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. “But I’ll bite. It all starts with... you.”  

You freeze, brows furrowing. You don’t know if he’s teasing you or if he’s just being his usual cocky self. “Me?” you manage to say, trying to keep your composure.  

“Not you specifically,” he clarifies, though the playful glint in his eyes suggests otherwise. “But someone like you. Someone intriguing, who makes me want to figure out what makes them tick. That’s where I find inspiration.”  

The air in the room shifts, the casual atmosphere taking on a sharper edge. You’re getting a little annoyed at the fact that he’s answering the question but also trying to throw you off balance. Either way, you’re determined not to let him see you lose composure.  

“That’s interesting,” you respond, forcing a smile as you jot something down in your notebook, “Is there any way you can elaborate?.”  

His laughter fills the room, low and rich. “Isn’t that what I just did?” he teases, his tone dripping with playful arrogance. His fingers drum lightly on the arm of the chair as he watches you, a predator sizing up its prey. “I thought I was being pretty clear. Inspiration comes from people—complex, messy, fascinating people.”  

That sounds like an insult. You tap your pen against your notebook, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Right, but I was hoping for specifics,” you respond, doing your best to keep your tone professional despite his relentless charm. “How do you translate that into a character? What’s the first step you take when preparing for a role?”  

Gojo leans forward again, his elbows resting on his knees, and suddenly the air between you feels far too tight. “The first step?” he echoes, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. “I find the humanity in them. Even in the villains, the assholes, the broken ones. There’s always something real there, something raw. That’s what I latch onto.”  

You nod, quickly jotting down his words even as your pulse quickens. He’s finally giving you something substantive, and yet the way he’s looking at you makes it hard to focus. “That’s... an interesting perspective,” you manage, keeping your eyes on your notebook. “So you try to connect with the character on a personal level?”  

“Exactly,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “It’s like peeling back layers, you know? Finding the parts of them that no one else sees. The parts they try to hide.”  

The weight of his words hangs in the air, and you can’t help but feel like he’s talking about more than just acting. You glance up at him, and the way he’s watching you—like he’s peeling back your layers—sends a shiver down your spine.  

“I see,” you say, clearing your throat in an attempt to break the tension, “that certainly explains why your performances feel so authentic. You make it sound almost... personal.”  

“It is personal,” he replies, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. “Every role I take on, every scene I play—it’s all personal. That’s why people connect with it. They see themselves in it.”  

You can’t help but be impressed, even as his words unsettle you. He’s infuriatingly good at this—at keeping you on your toes, at blurring the line between sincerity and seduction. But you’re not about to let him derail you. Not when you’ve finally gotten him to open up.  

“Do you ever find it difficult to separate yourself from the characters you play?” you ask, leaning forward slightly despite yourself. He sees this, scooting his chair closer subtly.   

Gojo’s smile widens, and for a moment, he looks almost amused. “Now that’s a good question,” he says, his tone laced with approval. “But the answer? No. I don’t separate myself from them. That’s the whole point. If I did, it wouldn’t be real.”  

His response leaves you momentarily speechless, and he seems to relish the effect he’s having on you. “Anything else you want to know?” he prompts, his grin turning devilish. “Or are you ready to call it a night?”  

Your grip tightens on your pen, and you force yourself to sit up straighter, refusing to let him see you flustered. “I’ve still got a few more questions,” you say firmly, meeting his gaze head-on. “If you’re up for it.”  

“Oh, I’m always up for it,” he quips, leaning back in his chair with a smirk that’s equal parts infuriating and captivating. “Hit me with your best shot.”

With another nod, you look up from jotting your notes to see him sliding his rings off his slender fingers. For a moment, you do nothing but focus on the paleness of the digits. You remember him saying in an interview how his fingers were six inches long. You thought he was joking no doubt, doing it all for his thirsty fangirls. But now that you’re looking at them in person…he was actually telling the truth. Your gaze slides up to his forearms that are revealed from his messy, cuffed-up sleeves. Then they travel down his fingers to his small waist, finally to his thighs. Mentally cursing yourself, you glance back at his fingers that flex freely once they’re free from the constraints of the metal. You gulp down the dryness in your throat, an intrusive thought sneaking way into your brain—wondering about what it would feel like if they were—

“A little shameless of you.” He chuckles. 

His voice snaps your eyes back up to his. You recognize the playful glint in them, your cheeks heating with embarrassment. “I—sorry. That’s inappropriate of me.”

Gojo leans forward for the nth time, resting his elbows on his knees as his lips curve into a smug grin. “Oh, don’t apologize,” he drawls, his tone oozing amusement. “I’m flattered, really. Most people just stare at my face—nice to know my hands are getting the attention they deserve.”  

You let out a nervous laugh, gripping your pen tighter to ground yourself. “Um…it’s not like that,” you protest weakly, though the heat in your cheeks betrays you. “I was just... lost in thought.”  

“Lost in thought, huh?” He raises an eyebrow, his grin widening as though he doesn’t believe a word you’re saying. “Thinking about anything particular?”  

Your heart stutters, and for a moment, you forget how to respond. His gaze is too sharp, too knowing, like he’s reading the very thought you’d just shoved to the deepest recess of your mind. “Just about the interview,” you manage to say, your voice smoother than you expected. “I was trying to figure out how to phrase my next question.”  

“Sure you were,” he teases, leaning back again and sliding his hands into his pockets. The movement draws your attention to the way his pale blue button-up shirt stretches over his broad chest, and you quickly force your eyes back to his face before he can catch you staring again.  

“I was,” you insist, determined to salvage what’s left of your dignity. You clear your throat and flip to a fresh page in your notebook, desperate to steer the conversation back to safer territory. “Now, about your approach to emotional scenes—how do you tap into those raw feelings on set?”  

Gojo chuckles, clearly enjoying the way you’re scrambling to regain control of the conversation. “Ah, so we’re back to work now? Alright, I’ll play along.” He taps his chin thoughtfully, the playful edge in his expression softening just a fraction. “Emotional scenes are all about honesty. You can’t fake it—not if you want the audience to feel it. You have to find something real, something that hurts, and let it bleed into the performance.”  

His answer catches you off guard with its sincerity, and for a moment, you forget your embarrassment entirely. “Something real?” you echo, bending forward slightly. “So you draw from personal experiences?”  

“Sometimes,” he admits, his voice lower now, more serious. “Other times, I imagine what it would be like to lose something—or someone—I care about.” His eyes darken briefly, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his face before it’s gone, replaced by his usual cocky smirk. “But enough about me. It’s always about me, what about you, hm?”  

You blink. “About me? I’m sorry but… I only came here to ask you questions.”

Gojo leans back in his chair, scooting closer in his chair. “Exactly,” he says, waving a hand lazily. “It’s always about me. The questions, the cameras, the lights. Don’t you think that gets boring?”  

You tilt your head, once again caught off guard. “I... can’t imagine someone like you ever finding the spotlight boring,” you reply carefully, unsure of where he’s steering the conversation.  

He grins, a little too self-satisfied. “Fair point. I do wear it well, don’t I? But that doesn’t mean I don’t get curious. You sit here with your little notebook, all professional and serious. But who are you when the recorder’s off? What makes you tick?”  

The shift in focus has your defenses rising, and you straighten your back slightly. “I’m not the one being interviewed, Mr.—Satoru,” you correct yourself when his grin widens at your formality.  

“No,” he says, tilting his head and giving you a once-over that feels far too perceptive. “But doesn’t mean I can’t ask, does it?”  

You let out a nervous laugh, holding your notebook a little closer. “I don’t think that’s how this works.”  

“Rules are boring,” he replies smoothly, leaning forward just enough to close the distance between you. His voice drops slightly, his tone more teasing than serious. “Come on, throw me a bone. A favorite movie, a weird hobby, your go-to midnight snack. Something.”  

You hesitate, his gaze pinning you in place. It’s not like you have anything to hide, but the sudden spotlight feels unnerving. “Midnight snack?” you echo, deciding to humor him for the sake of moving things along.  

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes lighting up like you’ve just agreed to a game only he knows the rules to. “You know, since you’re obviously not here for Mediterranean food. What do you eat when you’re burning the midnight oil?”  

You press your lips together, trying not to smile despite yourself. “Popcorn,” you admit finally. “Plain, with just a little salt.”  

“Popcorn?” He raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely intrigued. “Huh. Kind of classic, but I can respect it. Guess I’ll have to stock up before our next late-night chat.”  

You roll your eyes, though your cheeks warm at his casual mention of a “next time.” “I wouldn’t count on that,” you say dryly, but he only smirks, clearly not taking you seriously.  

“We’ll see,” he says, leaning back again and waving a hand. “Alright, you’ve indulged me. Ask away again. I’m all yours.”  

The shift back to the original topic throws you off balance, but you take the opportunity and flip open your notebook, determined to keep the upper hand this time. “Great. Let’s get back to your latest role then—”  

“But popcorn, huh?” he interrupts, clearly not ready to let it go. “You don’t strike me as a plain kind of person.”  

Your pen pauses mid-note, and you give him a pointed look. “Do you always talk this much during interviews?”  

He grins, unapologetic. “Only when I’m having fun.”

You sigh, setting your pen down and narrowing your eyes at him, though the warmth in your cheeks betrays your annoyance. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be a professional, you’re awfully good at derailing conversations.”  

Gojo smirks, he fixes you with that signature, infuriatingly confident gaze. “What can I say? I like keeping things interesting.” His voice dips just slightly, low and teasing, and the way his eyes sweep over you feels more deliberate now, more pointed and slower. Like he’s appreciative. “But if I’m being honest… I don’t mind the view either.”  

Your breath hitches, his words make your stomach jump. “The view?” you manage, your voice more balanced than you. 

He cocks his head, his smirk widening. “You,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Sitting there, all serious and composed, trying so hard to keep this professional. But I see the way you look at me.”  

Your heart stutters, your cheeks flushing hot. “I’m not—”  

“Oh, you are,” he interrupts, his grin turning wolfish. “First my fingers,” he flutters his digits in a wavy motion.  “Then my thighs,” he pats his lap.  “Don’t think I didn’t notice, sweetheart.”  

Your jaw drops slightly, heat creeping down your neck. “I was not—”  

“Sure you weren’t,” he drawls, leaning back in his chair and stretching, his shirt pulling just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. His voice lowers, smooth as silk. “But if you want to keep staring, I won’t stop you.”  

You swallow hard, gripping your notebook like it’s a lifeline. “Mr. Gojo, I don’t think this is appropriate.”  

“Satoru,” he corrects, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “And who’s being inappropriate? I’m just making an observation.” He leans forward again, his voice dropping to a near whisper, intimate and teasing. “Besides, don’t you think it’s a little unfair? You get to ask me all these personal questions, but I can’t ask any about you?”  

You shift in your seat, your pulse racing. “That’s not how interviews work.”  

“Maybe not,” he murmurs, his gaze darkening slightly as it locks onto yours. “But we’re not exactly following the rules, are we?”  

The tension in the room thickens, his words hanging in the air like a challenge. You glance at the door, a small voice in the back of your mind warning you to cut this short, but another part of you—one you’re desperately trying to ignore—is drawn to the way his eyes seem to drink you in, the way his voice wraps around you like a warm, dangerous promise.  

“I’m here to work,” you say finally, your voice firmer now, though it betrays a slight waver.  

“And I’m here to have a good time,” he counters, his smirk softening into something more intimate, more dangerous. “Who says we can’t do both?”  

You stare at him, your mind racing as you try to find the words to put an end to this—whatever this is—but he leans closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper.  

“Tell me,” he says, his breath ghosting over your ear, “what’s the real reason you wanted to meet me tonight? Because I don’t think it’s just for an interview.” 

You force yourself to not visibly react and jolt from the way he’s reached into your personal space so nonchalantly. “Then you’re mistaken. Because I have no other reason to be here if you won’t comply.”

“Oh yeah?” He chortles, glancing down at his fingers that barely skim along your thigh. If possible, his smile widens at the little startled gasp that falls from your pretty lips. “You want me to comply? Comply in what way?”

“H-hey,” you reach out to grip his fingers, effectively stopping their ascent. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

When he pulls back enough, he stares into your eyes. It almost scares you just how blue they are up close. You don’t think you’ve ever seen something as majestic as them. Though saying that aloud will feed into his ego. 

He tilts his head slightly, his smile turning wicked, like a predator playing with its prey. “What do you think I’m doing?” he counters, voice dropping to a husky whisper. The air between you crackles, and despite yourself, your grip on his fingers falters, his warmth sinking into your skin like a brand.  

“Satoru,” you begin, your voice shaking ever so slightly, “this is highly inappropriate.”  

“Inappropriate?” he echoes, coming just a little closer, his lips quirking in amusement. “I was just trying to get comfortable. Didn’t realize I’d make you so flustered.”  

Your breath catches, his words striking a chord you’re not ready to acknowledge. “You’re awfully bold for someone who’s supposed to be answering questions,” you manage, your voice sharp despite the fluttering in your stomach.

“And you’re awfully composed for someone who’s blushing so much,” he counters smoothly, his eyes flicking to your cheeks.

“I’m not blushing,” you snap, your tone defensive.

“Of course not,” he replies, his smirk returning. “Just like you weren’t staring earlier.”

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you glare at him, attempting to regain control of the situation. “I’m not flustered either,” you retort, though your trembling fingers and flushed cheeks tell a different story.  

He chuckles, low and intimate, and it sends a shiver racing down your spine. “If you say so,” he murmurs, leaning back slightly but never taking his eyes off you. His fingers slip free from your grasp, but the ghost of their touch lingers, a reminder of just how easily he’s unraveled your composure.  

“You’re impossible,” you say, your tone sharp despite the unsteadiness in your chest.  

“And yet,” he counters, his grin softening into something more dangerous, “you’re still here.”  

You open your mouth to argue, to remind him that you’re here for work, but the words catch in your throat as he shifts again, this time resting his chin on his hand, his gaze trailing lazily over you.  

“You’re fascinating, you know that?” he says, almost to himself. “All buttoned up and professional, trying so hard to keep me in line. But I wonder…” His eyes flick to your lips, lingering for a heartbeat before meeting yours again. “What would it take to make you unravel?”  

You stiffen, the heat rushing through your body making it harder to maintain your composure. “You’re crossing a line,” you warn, though your voice is weaker than you’d like.  

“Am I?” he asks, his tone teasing but his gaze piercing, as if daring you to tell him to stop. “Or are you just afraid of what might happen if I keep going?”

Your eyes dart all across his face, heart rapidly beating, so much so you think it’ll pop out of your chest. And yet, you slowly look back down at the hand that was just touching you. You feel yourself giving in the longer you stare. 

He follows your gaze, then moves back up to your face. “You like them, don’t you?”

You nod, despite yourself. 

“Knew it,” he smoothly quips back. “Do you want to feel them again? Maybe for longer?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy with anticipation, and you can’t seem to swallow the lump forming in your throat. Your mind races, torn between the desire to pull away and the undeniable pull he has on you. His words—his voice—are like a drug, wrapping around your thoughts, clouding your judgment.

You force yourself to meet his gaze, but the intensity there makes it harder to keep your composure. “You’re... bold,” you murmur, trying to keep the tremor from your voice.

Gojo’s lips curl into a knowing smile. “Bold? Maybe. But I’m just asking what you want.” His tone is smooth, low, coaxing. “No need to be shy about it. You’ve been looking, haven’t you?”

Your eyes flicker briefly to his hand again before locking back on his face. His question seems almost too straightforward, too easy, and yet you can’t seem to lie. You feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the truth lingering just beneath the surface. “Maybe,” you admit softly, your voice a mix of hesitation and curiosity.

A soft chuckle escapes him, and his gaze sharpens. “Maybe isn’t an answer.” He leans in slightly, just enough to make your pulse spike. “Tell me, do you want to feel them again? Really feel them this time?” His voice drops to a near whisper, each word deliberate, measured.

You hold your breath, your entire body humming with uncertainty, but you can’t bring yourself to say no. The desire building within you makes your thoughts scatter, your defenses slipping away the longer you look at him. “I... don’t know,” you reply, the words barely audible.

Gojo watches you closely, his eyes darkening with something dangerous. “Mind if I find out for myself then?”

------

There’s a lot of things that you’ve never done in life. 

Skydiving, bungee jumping, going backpacking, and making out with an A-list celebrity who’s name holds so much power. Well, that last one you can cross off, actually. 

You really don’t know how things have changed so quickly and abruptly. One minute you’re writing down the answers to his questions and the next he’s on top of you. 

You don’t think you’ve ever made out with someone for this long. But it feels surpassingly really good. Maybe it’s the way he’s keeping things slow, but purposeful. His hands run along the sides of your body, occasionally gripping your hips or rising high enough to brush along under your breasts. His lips are expertly working your own, leaving you gasping for air when he pulls away for a few seconds before diving in like a starving man. His tongue prods inside your mouth, dancing along yours in a sultry dance. Rubbing it and sucking on it a few times. 

You feel him smile against your lips when the arms around his neck bring him in closer. 

The kiss deepens, and with each second, you're losing yourself more in the heat of the moment.

His body presses against yours, warm and firm, and the sensation is so overwhelming that you can't tell where you end and he begins. Every breath, every shift of his lips, ignites something inside of you that you can't ignore.

His hands are everywhere now, roaming with an insistent hunger, fingertips brushing over your skin like he's savoring every inch. The low groans he releases when you kiss him back only fuel the fire building between you. He's so confident, so sure of what he wants, and you're too far gone to stop him. The logical part of your brain—that small voice telling you to slow down—is drowned out by the intoxicating thrill of being here, of being with him.

Your hands find their way to his shirt, pulling it free from where it's tucked in, fingers trailing underneath and over the hard planes of his chest. You feel him tense for a moment, as if considering pulling away, but then his hands tighten around you, pulling you even closer. His lips are everywhere—on your neck, your jaw, your ears—each kiss leaving a trail of warmth that burns deeper into your skin.

You gasp when his teeth graze your collarbone, a quiet moan slipping out before you can stop it.

That sound, that reaction from you, seems to drive him even further. "God, you taste really fucking good," he mutters between kisses, his voice thick with desire, making you shiver beneath him. “Almost can’t get enough.”

The weight of his body on top of yours feels right, too right. There’s escaping it now, no turning back. His touch is electric and you wonder if you’ll ever be able to remember what it felt like to breathe without him. 

With one final, hard press against your lips, he pulls back. Shifting to his knees, looking down at your sprawled out figure beneath him, cheeks flushed a beautiful red, lips kiss-swollen, dilated pupils that match his. He grins and works at the rest of his buttons with one hand. “What happened to that pretty dress you were wearing earlier?”

“I…I changed.” You shakily mutter out, oblivious to the hint of rhetoric in his question. 

“Yeah, I see that. But why?”

“Because it was uncomfortable.”

You attempt to sit up and help him, but he promptly guides you back down. Freeing his shirt, revealing a chest that looks like it belongs to a Greek God. It’s lean, but muscular. It’s perfect, you think to yourself. And you really want to run your tongue along it. “Uncomfortable?” He asks. 

You nod. 

“That sucks. I would’ve liked to taste you in it.” He’s working on his belt now. “Maybe next time? Wear it again for me?”

“I don’t know if there’ll be a next time.”

He laughs out, tossing the leather to the side and unbuttoning his slacks. It’s only then do you realize the obvious tent in his pants. Your eyes widen momentarily, if it already looks this big…how will it look once he’s naked? “There’ll be a next time.”

He hovers over you again, his fingers deftly walking at the button of your jeans, lips sucking a small mark into the side of your neck. His other hand on your thigh slides up towards your hip, grabbing the hem of your shirt and slowly starts to pull it up. “Now I wonder,” he murmurs, his lips leaving your neck and moving back towards your ear, “if I asked, would I hear a ‘no’ come out of you?”

You’re shivering, breathing labored. Your hands are holding onto his shoulders to keep you grounded. “…no.”

He smiles, kissing your cheek in a gentle manner as his hands simultaneously unbutton your jeans and pull your shirt up. “So, I don’t suppose I’ll hear a ‘no’ for getting a small peek at you, will I?”

“No,” you breathe out, shoving your face into his neck. 

With a soft coo and ‘shh’, he’s removing your shirt from over your head. Then working on ridding you of your pants. “I hate jeans, makes things so much harder.”

Your legs tense up once they’re exposed to the cold air. He places his palms to your knees, carefully widening them enough to make space in between. “Have you ever been ate out?”

The question makes you feel more embarrassed—more vulnerable. 

You swallow, your heart pounding in your chest. The question catches you off guard, making your skin prickle with both unease and something else you can’t quite name. You hesitantly shift, trying to keep your voice steady. “I… I have,” you manage to say, your gaze avoiding his as your cheeks flush. 

“Good?” He licks at the inside of your knee. 

Your face scrunches, brows knitting in the middle. “Y-yeah, somewhat.”

“Liar,” he chides, placing small kisses to the spot he just licked, looking up at you. “Can I try?”

And how could you say no? “Yes.” You reply quietly, watching his grin disappear behind your heated center. Eyes fluttering when he breathes warm air against it. Jolting your hips up, to which he holds them down in a gentle grip. 

A wet spot has already formed on your panties. Unbeknownst to you, it boosts his ego. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.” He takes a taste through the fabric, silently simmering with enjoyment at the way you  squeal. Licking once more before nuzzling his nose against your heat. He inhales deeply, like it’s a sweet flower bathed in honey. Once he’s satisfied, the speed at which he sparingly removes your underwear startles you. 

But so does his mouth. 

“Ah..!”

Your hand instinctively grips his snowy locks. He makes a noise of approval, lips locking around your puffy clit and giving a soft, but also harsh suck. The air practically removes your lungs, back arching off the bed. Mouth hung open, grip tightening around his hair. After a few seconds, he moves down to your fluttering hole. 

His thumb and pointer finger spreading your folds to see you clenching around nothing. His cock throbs in his pants, begging to be released. Not yet, however. You first. His tongue swirls around your hole, licking up every single remnant of juice before digging in. Feeling out every ridge with his wet muscle, eyes closing in delight. His hands bring you closer by your hips, shoving your pussy in his face. The tip of his nose is rubbing against your abandoned clit in a teasing way that makes you hungry for me. 

All you can do is gasp and moan out, pathetically rubbing against his mouth before his hands grip you back down in place. Forcing you to feel every amount of pleasure he can give to you. And god, does it feel heavenly. Your free hand is holding onto the sheets below you, crumpling under your fingertips. 

Lewd sucking noises are coming from him. It’s obnoxious, just like when he was eating his food from earlier. It’s almost like he’s doing it on purpose. His tongue does a certain move that has you seeing stars, moving in and out at a rapid pace, then circling up to and around your clit before plunging back to your needy hole. 

His thumb decides to partake, rubbing heated circles into your clit. “Nnn..nrgh…w-wai—” The words slip from you, just like your orgasm does. You don’t even know you’ve done it before he’s lifting his face up, revealing the pearlescent traces of your release. He doesn’t bother wiping it, instead leaning down to your lips. You taste yourself. 

It’s a new taste, one you’re not entirely excited about, but the thrill of it all is making your clench. Shaky thighs being groped by his wandering hands before looking straight down at you. “I’m kind of jealous, you know?”

You’re too fucked out already, half-lidded eyes and mumbling back a simple “what?” to him. 

He tsks and easily slips two fingers in. Keeling in on yourself, grasping his forearm for support. “Hey, don’t get all dazy on me now. I’ve just started.”

“I-I’m not…” you protest back weakly, your effort to meet his stare goes awry when you notice him frustratedly pulling the button off and zipper down, yanking the slacks down. With it goes his boxers and you’re shown a thin and curved cock. An angry red mushroom tip. A couple of veins run up his shaft, zig-zagging. He’s already leaking, pumping himself a few times. 

A small groan leaves him, placing a hand beside your head. There’s a cinch between his white eyebrows, his face red and a tad bit sweaty. His lips are downturned slightly. After some heavy breathing, he looks back down at you. Silent seconds take over, nothing but the feel of your body against his, your short breathing, the way you look so ready but nervous at the same time. His face softens. “You can take it, yeah?” 

His gaze is intense, but there’s something warmer in his eyes now—something that feels almost reassuring, like he’s giving you a choice. The way he watches you carefully makes your heart race, unsure of whether it’s fear or anticipation that grips you. You swallow, trying to steady your breathing, your fingers nervously clutching his shoulders. 

The room feels charged with tension, every muscle in your body taut as you process his words. You can feel eyes stuck on you, oddly tender, and for a moment, everything feels suspended in time. 

"Yeah," you finally manage, your voice a little shaky but resolute. "I can take it." 

His eyes soften further, a trace of a smile tugging at his lips, as if reassured by your response. “Yeah, you can. You’re not a virgin, right?”

“No.”

“Mm,” he hums, nodding briefly before glancing down at his hardened cock, achingly close to where it needs to be. “How do you like it?”

You ponder his question in your mind quickly, not trying to drag out the moment any longer than it should be. “I…I like it hard. Fast, but slow too. I just want it to feel genuine, not like you’re only seeking your own pleasure.”

“Yeah?” The corner of his lip perks up, rubbing his tip along your cum soaked folds. He laughs softly under his breath. “Funny, that’s how I like to give it. Maybe we’re a match made in heaven.”

The humor of his you once found annoying—well, still annoying—feels strangely wholehearted. Like he’s trying to make you laugh and relax your tense muscles. And you do, he meets your look again. Bending down with a soft, saccharine kiss to your lips. The kiss feels more tender than before, like he’s trying to convey some hidden emotion to you behind it all. Or maybe it’s because he likes feeling you moan into his mouth as he’s slowly sliding his cock in. 

He mirrors your whimper, moaning out in relief. You feel so snug around him, so tight. “So warm.” 

For a minute, he doesn’t move, just basking in your heat. It feels like a warm blanket, he almost—almost—thinks he might cum right then and there with how good you feel. Satoru has had pussy before, good and not so good. “Fuck…oh fuck….y-you feel…really good…”

One thing that makes you the most weak…a vocal man in bed. You tighten around him, his whine gets a little higher-pitched. If this were a different situation, you think you would’ve poked fun at him for it. “Ngh…I—I am?”

“Mmmmnghm.” Is all he can reply back with before he’s moving back slowly, then back in. 

Your nails are now digging into the skin of his back, legs locked around his waist. “Be careful, mkay?” 

“W-what? Why?”

“Because I might cum faster with you holdin’—fuck—onto me like this.”

You can’t respond before he’s pulling out with a greater force and driving back into you with a harder one. The motion alone jolts your body up, causing your tits to jiggle from beneath their cups. You see the way he’s eying them hungrily, so you do him the favor of pulling them down beneath your breasts. They spill out and he’s immediately on them. Sucking and twirling a wet path around your perky nipple before showing the other breast the same excitement. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes…”

“A-ah! O-oh! Mmmngh!”

You almost feel baffled. He’s moaning more than you are. 

His mind is filled with the warmth of you. “Fit like…a f-fuckin’…ring….!” He grunts out, followed by a broken laughter. “I think I’m obsessed.”

He’s leaving marks on your chest, but you don’t protest or even feel them. You’re solely focused on the way his cock is hitting every single spot in your pussy that you don’t even know could be reached. Eyes rolling back, clinging him closer. His tip kisses your g-spot repetitively. His balls slap against your ass, the sound is skin against skin with squelching noises fill the room. It’s erotic, completely provocative. But he’s actually living up to his word, and it seems like he’s more worried about making you finish for the second time tonight than reaching the line himself. 

As the minutes go by, he’s moving harder. Barely giving you any time to breath from the force of it, but you’re not complaining. 

“S-sat…oru…!” You whine out, biting on his shoulder in an attempt to keep your noises lower. 

All that does is spur him on even more, his moans getting louder. The grip on your hip and tit tightening as he pounds his cock into your pussy with complete ease. “So wet, so wet, yeah…oh god, fuck…”

He’s mumbling at this point, but so are you. Each of you is blinded by the pleasure you feel, the passion that’s being emitted and the marks on your bodies that are carved in. His cock twitches, his pace relentless. 

The look he gives you feels manic, hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving up and down, nostrils flaring in and out. Your hair is messy, laid out beneath you. Mouth parted and dirty sounds exiting it. “I wish I could take a picture right now.” He comments slowly, feeling your thighs tighten. “It feels like your pussy is vibrating,” he chuffs. “Close?”

“Ngh…y-yes!” 

“Yeah, me too, pretty. You first, r-right…behind….you….”

You don’t need to hear anything else. Finally letting go, a whimper-whine coming with it. When he looks down and sees the white ring form around his cock, he’s done for. Quickening his pace, gripping your hips with both hands. “Yeah…yeah…yeah…” 

He moans in a pornographic way, an eruption of warmth fills you, leaving you in more of a blissed out state. A mixture of cum slowly dribbles out your spent pussy, he fingers it back in all the while his cock is still lodged between your folds. Slumping down on top of you, his face on your shoulder. 

The sounds of heavy breathing are heard next, no words. Your chest heaves against his and your legs are like jelly. Slowly loosening their hold from around his waist and falling down to the bed on either side of him. 

The silence is almost deafening, punctuated only by the sounds of your labored breaths. His hands move to your back, tender yet firm, as though he's holding onto the moment. The heat between you both is palpable, your bodies still connected in the aftermath of whatever just transpired. His thumb traces slow, soothing circles against your skin, and you can feel his breath matching yours.

You blink, trying to gather your thoughts, but everything feels hazy, like the world has slowed down just for the two of you.

Your body feels like it's still vibrating from the intensity, each breath a little deeper than the last as you struggle to regain some semblance of control. He shifts slightly above you, pressing against yours in the most familiar way, a warmth that you can't quite pull away from.

Slowly, you tilt your head to meet his gaze, your eyes locking with his with an unspoken understanding. He regards you with a tenderness, something different than before. 

His fingers lightly brush against your cheek, as if reassuring you that the silence, though heavy, isn't uncomfortable. "Are you okay?" His voice is low, rough, carrying more than just the weight of the question.

You nod, your lips curling into a small, uncertain smile as you lean into his touch. "Yeah, are you?" You don't know exactly what you feel, but in this moment, it's enough to be with him like this.

“Better than okay,” he proudly huffs, carefully sliding out of you, keeping aware of your facial expressions. “Stay here.”

He’s climbing off of you and standing up from the bed. His knees buckle a little, forcing the limbs to walk over to a cabinet in the other corner. His dick flapping as it softens makes you chuckle. When he looks over, you hide it with a cough. 

You hear him look for some things through drawers, glancing back over, it’s a rag that he wets under the sink with warm water. He comes back over, carefully opening your legs back up and cleaning up the sticky mess between them. He works gently and slowly, making sure his movements aren’t too hard or fast for you. 

A thought suddenly hits you. 

“Hey…” you take your time sitting up once he’s down, seeing him lick something off the tip of his thumb. “When you said you were jealous earlier, what did you mean?”

“Oh, that?” He leisurely asks, grabbing the water bottle nearby and taking a sip before holding it to your mouth. You oblige. “I meant I was jealous that someone else got to you before I did.”

“O-oh…” he swipes at the water drop at the corner of your mouth. “But…why?”

“Why?” He repeats, chortling. A sudden soft peck is placed on your lips. “Because I’ve seen you interviewing all those people and I’ve  been waiting for my turn. And if you didn’t already notice, I think you’re a very beautiful woman. Inside and out.” He pokes lightly at your thigh. 

You blink, as he’s once again managed to throw you off the railings. 

“So next time don’t bring all…this,” he lazily gestures to your notebook, pencil, and recorder, rolling his eyes. “Just yourself, that cute dress, and a smile. I’ll pick you up for dinner down the street.”

a/n: hope u guys enjoyed this :) i haven't written a smut piece in a while so im not toooo confident about my work in this. anywho, reblogs and comments are apprecaited <3 thank you all!

[wttcsms]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ do it softly now, baby !!

ᝰ.ᐟ if there's one thing every celebrity needs to master, it's the art of the soft launch. building up the anticipation by teasing your fans, leaving little easter eggs that only the two of you could possibly pick up on, playing coy whenever questioned about your relationship status... looks like you and him could write the how-to guide on this art form. alternatively: a headcanon post on how the two of you soft launch your relationship. ( sfw + fem!reader )

featuring sae itoshi, shuto sendou, shouei barou, rensuke kunigami, yoichi isagi author's notes haikyuu version here!

౨ৎ SAE ITOSHI. you are: a 2x gold medalist for olympic figure skating. just like how sae is the jewel of japanese soccer, you're the star of japanese figure skating. no one quite understands the pressure of having to carry an entire sport, to represent an entire country, on your back — except for sae. you're known to be a very serious athlete; you rarely cheat on your diet, you keep up with a strict training regimen even during the off-season, and you've never been in a relationship ever. you're stunning, but a little bit scary. something about you just feels so out of reach — like, no normal human being could ever match your caliber. you posted: a mirror selfie. for once in your life, you actually look fairly casual; no elaborate skating costume or athleisure in sight. instead, you're sporting a re al jersey. normally, this wouldn't be enough to spark too much speculation. the team's world famous, after all. what really gets people talking is the fact that sae itoshi, who infamously doesn't run his own social media, can be seen liking all your instagram posts. (little do your followers know [but the extra nosy ones will be able to find out], he's the one behind the camera for some of your posts 🤭)

you can't hold back your laugh as you stare at the notification that just popped up on your screen. itoshisae just reacted 😍 to your story! itoshisae: Nice jersey you: thanks, my boyfriend got it for me xx itoshisae: Do your little fans know that? you: they will soon 🤭 "what's got you smiling so hard, love?" your hairstylist is respectful enough to not look over your shoulder to take a peek at your screen, but you still hold your phone close to your chest, catching the dopey grin on your face reflected on the vanity mirror. "something silly." you tell her, feeling the gentle vibration of your phone signaling that you've got another notification. out of curiosity, you look down, and your smile only grows wider. namesofficialfanpage just tagged you in a post! namesofficialfanpage [name] just posted this on her story!! do we know anyone on re al who isn't in a confirmed relationship yet?

౨ৎ SHUTO SENDOU. you are: japan's favorite actress, even though you've quickly moved on from starring in j-dramas to gracing the big screen in america. you're hollywood's current favorite leading lady, and you're known for being the romcom starlet. when interviewed on why you haven't been in any public relationships yet, you've stated, "i guess i'm so used to all these perfectly written male leads that real life romance is harder to enjoy. when i meet a man who sweeps me off my feet, i promise, you will all know about it." you posted: a photo dump from your trip back home to japan; the pictures start off fairly innocuous. there's you posing with petals from cherry blossom trees flowing by you, you wearing a traditional dress and visiting a shrine, scenic photos... but the last photo is you being carried bridal style by a mysterious pink-haired man. your head is thrown back in laughter, and he's looking down, strands of his hair falling in his face so your followers can't clearly see him. your caption is telling — he sweeps me off my feet 🤍

"shuto!" your laughter is uncontrollable, and you squeal as he picks you up, sneakily giving the thumbs up for the old grandmother you two ran into to take the photo. "put me down!" "no way. i'm never letting you go." he's staring down at you, his smile infectious, and you can't help but think you are in so much trouble. somehow, shuto sendou has given you a romance that's even better than the movies.

౨ৎ SHOUEI BAROU. you are: barou's sisters' babysitter. you're literally the girl next door, and growing up, barou actually walked you to and from school. from the minute he joined blue lock, you've always been cheering for him wholeheartedly. watching him perform at the u-20 game was a bit of a reality check for you; barou is going outgrow you and this whole neighborhood. you never realized your crush on him was returned until he comes back from that game, cheeks flushed, forcing himself to "man up" and look you in the eyes as he tells you he'd like to see you again, once he's allowed a free day from the blue lock facility. ever since his confession, you two have been together ever since, even during his pro days. he posted: a picture of when he returned home during the off-season of the pro league. barou's not known to be a cute and cuddly type of person, either on or off the field. this post humanizes him greatly in the eyes of everyone. it's a picture of his sisters playing with your hair and makeup. your eyes are shut so his youngest sister can messily apply eyeshadow to your eyelids, and she's blocking more than half your face from the frame. his caption has everyone wondering who you are, though. My favorite girls. — that's what he said.

"how do i look?" you bat your eyelashes (which are coated with nearly three thick, messily applied layers of clumpy mascara, applied by his youngest sister). your hair looks a mess, courtesy of his other sister. the tennis bracelet he got you for your anniversary stands out against the beaded friendship bracelets you've made with his sisters. even with unblended foundation and lipgloss from a children's toy set, barou still thinks he's the luckiest man alive right now. "beautiful." he leans down to plant a kiss on your lips, effectively coating his own lips in the tacky, glittery gloss. his sisters shriek when they see the display of affection, but they're giggling, too. they love you just as much as he loves you. "you're always beautiful."

౨ৎ RENSUKE KUNIGAMI. you are: a lifestyle influencer. everybody loves your attitude, they're obsessed with your routine, and they want to live your life. you're recognizable by your signature stack of bracelets that you rarely take off, probably because the stack roughly costs about the same as a nice house. who said those tiktok grwm's wouldn't pay off? he posted: a gym challenge video. kunigami's not too active on social media, but his management team wants him to start posting the occasional tiktok in order to generate more hype and interest in him. this challenge is him curling dumbbells, but he starts at the weight where you stopped. as hot as it is to watch a shirtless kunigami curl 110lbs per arm, the girlies online can't help but recognize that bracelet stack on the wrist of the faceless "gym buddy" kunigami is featuring in his video.

"c'mon, baby, i know you can do more than that." kunigami's massive arms are crossed against his chest, and that damn smirk of his would make you shoot a glare his way; if only every muscle in your body wasn't already preoccupied with not collapsing. your arms are shaking, and you shake your head, letting the dumbbells clang to the gym floor. "this is torture. you do this for fun?" you point to the rack of dumbbells. "gotta keep up with the strength training, baby. and after i'm done with this, we can do some cardio together." the look he sends your way lets you know that the cardio he has in mind is one that you won't want to quit.

౨ৎ YOICHI ISAGI. you are: a popular idol, but in this country and this day and age, it's hard for some hardcore fans to understand that you would want your own life. frightened of how your fanbase will react, you beg isagi to let you keep your relationship a secret, at least until you're able to mentally prepare for the backlash. you've seen other girls in your group get ripped to shreds over dating rumors, and the last thing you want is to have your relationship with isagi being scrutinized by people who want to see you two break up. his friend accidentally posted: a video of you two. bachira genuinely means no harm! the video is quick, and you and isagi cuddled up together on the couch is barely seen for a millisecond until bachira flips the camera to his own face, with the caption "Thirdwheeling again 😔" your insane fans are quick to screenshot the one, singular frame you're barely visible in, but surprisingly enough, a majority of them are supportive of you being in a relationship.

"bachira, are you sure you're okay with me joining boys' night?" you're tucking your cold feet underneath isagi's body, and he's a good sport about it, so he doesn't complain. he actually pulls you closer to him, wanting no space to be between you two. he does correct you, though. "this was not a boys' night. bachira is lying. he invited himself over." bachira sticks his tongue out. "i can't hang out with my favorite people?" "you can hang out with us any time." you tell him, pleased that your boyfriend's friend actually likes you. no, he genuinely does like you. he's been streaming your latest single on repeat for the past two weeks since it released, to the point where his teammates are complaining about having to listen to it on the pregame playlist.

[astonmartinii]

no more ace to play [mamma mia part two] | formula one social media au

drivers: sebastian vettel, fernando alonso and jenson button

the investigation was fruitful but now y/n has a handful of drivers and a bucket load of criticism

general note: i answered an ask about this but i thought i'd reiterate here, this is a no wives or kids au, so seb and jenson's wives and kids do not exist in this !! thank you so much for all the lovely feedback on the last part, hopefully i remembered to tag everyone who asked x

part one | masterlist | ko-fi

yourusername

liked by sebastianvettel, jensonbutton and 1.405,605 others

tagged: fernandoalo_oficial, sebastianvettel, jensonbutton

yourusername: so i guess it's kinda real now and they're all lovely x

view all comments

user4: i know the bitter old people are going to find this now but i for one think it's fucking ICONIC

user5: the guys are way too chill for the situation

user6: they've not said anything, so how would you know?

user5: idk reeks of babytrapping

user7: be for real y/n doesn't need to baby trap anyone she has her own career?

yourbff: debrief needed STAT

yourusername: literally on my way to yours right now get the non-alcoholic wine READY

landonorris: do i like get a prize for my hand in this?

yourusername: here's a gold star ⭐️

landonorris: i was hoping for some monetary rewards

yourusername: ur literally a millionaire ?

landonorris: and?

user8: are any of them gonna like comment or?

user9: very odd considering they wouldn't shut THE FUCK UP on their own posts

user10: for real they were very proud of their 'accomplishments' but now it's the consequences of their actions and theyre silent ?

user11: have yall considered the fact that finding out you might be a dad is a bit of a shock, let them all process it?

jensonbutton

liked by lewishamilton, sebastianvettel and 302,889 others

jensonbutton: back to see the old rides

view all comments

user12: SPILL JENSON PLEASE

user13: so like what team is this kid going to support they've got so much to choose from?

user14: if they have any taste, ferrari 💅

user15: i mean their momma clearly has taste so ....

oscarpiastri: nice to meet you jenson!

jensonbutton: by how much mark talks about you i could've sworn i'd already met you

aussiegrit: bold of you to send shots my way considering your current predicament

user16: mark saying this like they aren't lucky to be with y/n ?

user17: bro we all saw that you met up with y/n and the baby daddy squad... wanna maybe share some thoughts?

user18: why would he want to publicise that he got with a slag?

user17: i know you're not calling y/n a slag when we're talking about f1 playboy JENSON BUTTON ?

user19: i have complete faith that this mamma mia summer WILL have a good ending but i NEED these men to maybe actually talk about it so people aren't just out here coming for y/n ?

yourusername

liked by fernandoalo_oficial, jensonbutton and 1,209,677 others

yourusername: got myself a sweet treat and did some meditation (i.e. listening to asmr roleplay) because life is crazy and morning sickness is a bitch

view all comments

user24: not to be sappy but i am emotional watching y/n go through this, she's been on the internet for so long i feel like i've watched her grow up, idk anything about f1 but i hope they're good for her

yourbff: gosh who knew you getting pregnant would lead to us having to go to the bakery every single morning

yourusername: but but but they have such good croissants and SHUSH I BUY YOU YOURS EVERYDAY

yourbff: i know you're like my sugar mama, please still buy me pastries when you have your actual child

user25: i think we're all being a wee bit dramatic about the whole "they haven't said anything" business. yes, they probably should say they're fine with it so people stop accusing y/n of baby trapping them but ALSO we don't know what they do everyday, maybe we should just let the adults go about their business

charles_leclerc: i am basically seb's kid so i shall be a character witness: that man is an ANGEL and believe me that took a lot for me to say in public lol

yourusername: why thank you charles, i have heard a lot about you. in fact on his "provisional dad cv", sebastian directly named you, some guys called max verstappen, mick schumacher and lance stroll as fatherly experience

maxverstappen1: LOL I KNEW SEB LOVED ME BUT WTF IS A DAD CV

sebastianvettel: this is a serious matter and i wanted to show that i'm serious about fatherhood

mickschumacher: soz max, charles and lance i think WE all know who his favourite is

lancestroll: i'm just happy to be recognised tbf

yourusername: well i kinda hope this real child will be his favourite...

charles_leclerc: boring 🥱

alexalbon: well i'm gonna nominate myself as jenson's grid kid and woah that guy is great 👍

jensonbutton: sounds kinda sarcastic but thanks for the effort alex

carlossainz55: seeing as we're all here i'll say that nando is the best grid dad sorry not sorry

yourusername: you're all here but idk who you people are ?

fernandoalo_oficial: chilli have i ever told you how proud i am of you?

stoffelvandoorne: do i mean nothing to you old man

user26: wtf is going on here

fernandoalo_oficial

liked by yourusername, sebastianvettel and 1,403,677 others

fernandoalo_oficial: what a race! thankful to finally be back on the podium this weekend and i'd like to dedicate this race to the soon-to-be new addition and my new family, here's to our future ❤️

view all comments

user27: HOLY SHIT THIS IS SO CUTE

user28: i'm sorry the THUMB IN THE MOUTH CELEBRATION ARE YOU KIDDING?

jensonbutton: proud of you, come home quick x

user29: i'm sooooo chill about this

fernandoalo_oficial: i'll make sure to tell the team that THE jenson button wants the meeting to go faster

sebastianvettel: do i mean nothing? that's literally my old team name drop ME

yourusername: just tell them i've gone into labour

fernandoalo_oficial: you've not even been pregnant two months yet...

yourusername: they don't know that

astonmartinf1: this is a public instagram comment section...

maxverstappen1: maybe when the little one is actually here i'll let you win for once

fernandoalo_oficial: how kind of you?

maxverstappen1: i need the little one to know that at least one of you is cool and that i should be their favourite god father

lewishamilton: now that is a bold assumption

danielricciardo: i have been quiet on this topic but if anyone is prime god father material YOU'RE LOOKING AT HIM

yourusername: you'll all receive an email and a god father application in the coming weeks

charles_leclerc: is this another seb idea?

yourusername: maybe... but idk yall so i think it's a good idea

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, mickschumacher and 1,509,874 others

tagged: jensonbutton, fernandoalo_oficial, sebastianvettel

yourusername: welcome to the crazy house

view all comments

user33: so we've confirmed the poly? yes or no?

user34: i'm gonna say yes but with them you literally never know

georgerussell63: so we all sent them a jellycat?

alexalbon: speak for yourself george that sick ass rocking bunny is all albon

user35: not to be weird but this kids is literally going to have the hottest parents of all time

user36: no cause if i'm a teacher and all of them walk in for parent's evening i'm passing out

jensonbutton: oh wow what a lovely crib i wonder who put that together

fernandoalo_oficial: don't you dare take all the credit

sebastianvettel: as if anyone other than the WOOD WORK KING put that together

yourusername: guys they are lying the delivery guy put it together and they all stood around watching like dads at the airport

jensonbutton: "like dads" so still getting the experience in

danielricciardo: so who is responsible for this grandpa ass nursery aesthetic?

yourusername: well this is awkward i thought it was cute

fernandoalo_oficial: it is don't worry honey, it matches seb's overall grandpa aesthetic

sebastianvettel: you guys agreed to move to mine don't switch up on my aesthetic now

jensonbutton: oh seb we all love your certain affinity for tartan and plaid

sebastianvettel: i'm not feeling this love right now :(

yourusername: cuddle pile incoming

note: ahhh okay this was very highly requested so i hope it met expectations. i'm thinking this could defo be a longer series (i am also working on into the arms of another dw) following the whole family if yall would like that? i'm gonna try and tag everyone who requested that, i am sorry if i missed anyone x

taglist: @boiohboii @vellicora @faithm120601 @raizelchrysanderoctavius @luv4kani @minkyungseokie @eugene-emt-roe @magical-spit @ironmaiden1313 @jaydaaasworld @whoreks @rainerax @nonsensical-nonsence @laneyspaulding19 @chelseyyouraverageluigi @lxclerc @gemofthenight @woweewoowa

[theetherealbloom]

IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - CH.4

Chapter Four: Everybody Wonders What It Would Be Like To Love You

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

Paring: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

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

Word Count: 6.4k

A/N: Heads up, there’s a bully in this chapter but dw, you got Pedro on your side hehe. Again, this is all fictional. To any Cecilia’s out there irl, no hate to you girl, I don’t even know you LOL.

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

Song: gold rush by Taylor Swift

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

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — MORNING  

The hum of set life surrounded you like a familiar melody—the rhythmic chatter of crew members, the distant clatter of equipment being adjusted, the occasional burst of laughter from someone off-camera. You moved through it all with ease, exchanging quick words with a fellow PA as you double-checked the last-minute details before call time.  

You didn’t notice him watching you.  

Pedro sat in the makeup chair, already in costume, his eyes drifting away from the mirror as Coco worked her hands through his hair. His body was still, but his mind was somewhere else. Or rather—on someone else.  

It was the way you tilted your head as someone from production rattled off instructions, your brows furrowing slightly in concentration. The way you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, nodding once before offering a soft, assured smile. You weren’t just hearing what they were saying—you were listening, absorbing every detail like you belonged here. Like you had always belonged.  

He felt something tighten in his chest.  

God, you made him feel strange.  

It was the words that stuck in his throat when you were near, the way his pulse stuttered for no damn reason. The way his thoughts—usually so steady, so controlled—felt unruly around you. It was dizzying. Unsettling.  

It had been a long time since he’d felt like this. Since he’d been caught so completely off guard by someone.  

And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from looking for you.  

In the crowd. In the moments between takes. In the quiet spaces where he thought maybe—just maybe—you were looking for him, too.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — AFTERNOON

Lunch break rolled around, bringing a much-needed lull in the day’s chaos. The crew scattered—some retreating to their trailers, others grabbing quick bites from catering, the energy shifting into something looser, more relaxed.  

Your phone buzzed just as you were sitting down at one of the outdoor tables, the screen lighting up with a message.  

Pedro: Wanna grab a bite later?  

You smiled to yourself, thumbs already moving across the screen.  

You: I do, but I kinda wanna hang with my friends for a bit too.  

His response came almost immediately.  

Pedro: Oh yeah, of course. Mind if I tag along?

You hesitated for half a second. Not because you didn’t want him there—but because you weren’t sure if he really wanted to be there.  

You: Are you sure? 

Pedro: Obviously.  

So that’s how Pedro Pascal ended up at lunch with you and your friends, settling into the group like he had always belonged there.  

He was easy to talk to, of course. He charmed his way through introductions, seamlessly jumping into conversations, laughing in all the right places, making everyone feel like they were the most interesting person in the room. But his attention always had a way of drifting back to you.  

The way you scrunched your nose as you tried to pick apart a joke someone had made. The way your eyes lit up as you talked about some old inside story with your friends. The way you were currently demolishing a cookie like it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.  

Pedro noticed.  

He didn’t say anything, but he noticed.  

His lips twitched as you took another enthusiastic bite, completely unaware of his amusement.  

There were other things, too—subtle things. The brush of his knee against yours under the table, lingering just a second longer than necessary. The way his fingers would graze your wrist when he leaned in to say something, as if testing the waters. The way his eyes would flick to your lips when you spoke before quickly darting away, as if he hadn’t meant to.  

And then, of course, there was the teasing.  

"Did you even taste that cookie, or did you just inhale it?" Pedro mused, finally breaking his silence, amusement lacing his voice.  

You swallowed the last bite, leveling him with a mock glare. "It’s really good."  

He smirked. "Clearly."  

"Don’t judge me."  

"Never." The word came softer than expected, a little too sincere for just teasing. His gaze held yours for a beat longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.  

Your heart stuttered.  

He looked away first, but not before you caught the slightest hint of pink creeping up the tips of his ears. It was such a small thing—barely there, really—but you noticed. And it made something warm unfurl in your chest.  

The conversation around the table carried on, your friends swapping stories and teasing each other between bites of food. Pedro chimed in here and there, laughing along, but every now and then, you felt his gaze flick back to you.  

You were hyper-aware of him now. The way his arm rested casually on the back of your chair, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel his warmth. The way his fingers absentmindedly drummed against the table, his other hand occasionally brushing against yours as he reached for his drink.  

Then, he sighed, pulling his phone from his pocket, frowning slightly at the screen.  

"Ugh, my phone’s about to die."  

Without hesitation, you reached into your bag, pulling out your power bank and a charging cord. "Oh, no worries, here—use this."  

Pedro blinked, momentarily caught off guard.  

You handed it over without a second thought, already turning back to your food. But he didn’t move to plug his phone in right away. Instead, he just looked at you, something unreadable in his expression.  

His fingers brushed against yours as he took the charger, his touch lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.  

“You just carry this around with you?” he asked, his voice quieter now, something softer beneath the teasing edge.  

You shrugged, popping another bite of food into your mouth. “Yeah, of course. Never know when you might need it.”  

His lips quirked, but he didn’t say anything right away.  

Instead, he plugged in his phone, then glanced back at you, shaking his head slightly like he couldn’t quite believe you.  

"What?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.  

Pedro exhaled a small laugh, tucking the power bank into his lap like it was something precious. "Nothing. You’re just—" He paused, searching for the right word, before finally settling on, "—thoughtful."  

Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip.  

You swallowed, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his gaze. "It’s just a charger, Pedro."  

"Yeah," he murmured, still watching you. "I know."  

But his expression said something else entirely.

You weren’t sure what to do with that look—the quiet weight of his gaze, the way he seemed to be memorizing you like you were something worth studying. So, instead of dwelling on it, you reached into your bag and pulled out your notepad and pen.

Doodling had always been second nature to you. Something to keep your hands busy while your mind wandered. While your friends continued chatting, their voices washing over you in waves, you let your pen glide over the paper in absentminded strokes.

Pedro, however, wasn’t nearly as distracted.

From the corner of his eye, he watched, his attention flicking between you and the small spirals and shapes forming beneath your fingers. It was mesmerizing in a way he didn’t expect. The way your brow furrowed ever so slightly when you concentrated. The way your pen tapped softly against the pad before committing to a new line.

He shifted in his seat, subtly angling himself so he could get a better look.

It wasn’t just mindless scribbles.

You were sketching. Really sketching.

A rough outline of the restaurant table, the glasses, the crumpled napkins. And just beside that, the faint beginnings of a face—strong jaw, slightly furrowed brows, lips curved at the edges as if they were on the verge of a smirk.

His lips.

Pedro’s throat tightened.

"That me?" he asked, voice pitched just low enough for only you to hear.

Your pen paused mid-stroke, and you glanced up at him, caught. He wasn’t teasing, not really. If anything, there was something almost—fond—about the way he was looking at you.

You shrugged, offering a sheepish smile. "Maybe."

Pedro huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "I didn’t know you could draw."

"It’s just something I do when I’m listening," you admitted, flipping the page like it was nothing.

But he didn’t think it was nothing.

He wanted to say something else, something lighthearted to keep you from looking so shy about it, but before he could, one of your friends called your name, pulling your attention away.

Pedro exhaled, leaning back in his seat, but his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer.

Thoughtful. Talented.

Yeah. He was absolutely in trouble.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — AFTERNOON

The shift in the air was subtle at first, almost imperceptible.

But you felt it.

It was the way certain conversations would quiet just as you approached. The way people who had once been warm and welcoming now exchanged knowing glances when they thought you weren’t looking. The way whispers followed in your wake, hushed giggles that felt anything but good-natured.

And at the center of it all was Cecilia.

She was the kind of woman people noticed when she walked into a room—stunning, sharp-witted, and utterly ruthless when it came to getting what she wanted.

And for whatever reason, she had decided that you were a problem.

At first, it was small things. A pointed look. A lingering smirk. A brush of her shoulder against yours as she passed by.

But then, it escalated.

"Did you hear?" one of her friends whispered just loud enough as you walked by. "She totally forced her way onto this project. Some kind of nepotism thing, I bet."

"Ugh, so cringe," another voice giggled. "She acts all sweet, but like, we know the truth."

You gritted your teeth, kept your head down, and moved along.

You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly what this was. Psychological warfare disguised as petty gossip. You’d seen it before, and you'd see it again.

The worst part?

You refused to let it get to you.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Pedro noticed.

It started with the way you brushed things off too quickly, like you were trying not to care. The way your usual smiles didn’t quite reach your eyes. The way your laugh—one of his new favorite sounds—had dulled just a fraction, too forced, too polite.

And Pedro wasn’t an idiot.

He saw the way Cecilia and her group slinked around set like vipers, the way their eyes always seemed to flick toward you before whispering behind manicured hands.

It pissed him off.

But when he asked about it, you just waved it away.

“Nothing’s wrong.” You shrugged, reaching for a prop clipboard. “Just tired. Long day.”

Pedro arched a brow. “Really? That’s it?”

“Yep.”

He studied you for a moment, then exhaled through his nose. “You’re a terrible liar.”

That made you scoff. “I am fine.”

“Uh-huh.” He crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly. “So, you’re totally cool with the whole… weird vibe around here lately?”

You hesitated. Just for a second.

It was enough.

“Pedro,” you sighed, shaking your head. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t care what they think, okay? It’s just… you know how some people are. They get bored.”

“They get mean,” he corrected.

You frowned, looking away.

He softened, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t suck.”

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the clipboard.

“It doesn’t suck,” you insisted. “Because I don’t care.”

Pedro’s stare was unwavering, but you held your ground.

Because if you admitted it did hurt—if you let yourself feel it—you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop.

And you weren’t going to let them win.

Pedro sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Fine. You don’t care," he murmured. "But if you ever do care… you’ll tell me, right?"

Something in your chest tightened at that.

You forced a small, teasing smile. “Wow, Pedro. That almost sounded like a serious conversation.”

He rolled his eyes but smirked. "Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it."

And just like that, the tension cracked, relief flickering behind his gaze.

For now, he’d let you pretend you were fine.

But he’d also be watching.

TWO DAYS BEFORE THE WEEKEND…

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — MORNING

The next two days were a slow, grating kind of miserable.

It started with small things—so small that if you weren’t paying attention, you might have convinced yourself they were nothing. The way conversations would quiet just as you walked past, the barely-concealed laughter from across the room, the occasional, suspiciously misplaced item that had definitely been right where you left it.

It was the kind of thing that chipped away at you in small, insidious ways.

Like the way Cecilia and her friends would conveniently stand right where you needed to go, their backs turned but their voices just loud enough.

“I swear, some people just don’t belong here.”

You’d walk past without reacting, even as the words burrowed under your skin.

Or the way your neatly organized stack of call sheets had been mysteriously scattered all over the breakroom counter when you came back from a coffee run. No one claimed responsibility, but Cecilia had walked by, tossing you a slow, syrupy-sweet, “Oops, was that important?” before sauntering off.

You clenched your jaw. Breathed through it.

Not worth it.

But then there were the more deliberate moments.

Like the wardrobe rack incident.

You had been helping move costumes between trailers when Cecilia and one of her friends conveniently brushed past, sending a precariously hung dress tumbling to the ground.

“Oh no,” Cecilia pouted, pressing a hand to her chest with mock concern. “You should really be more careful.”

You bent to pick it up, biting back the sharp retort on the tip of your tongue. The last thing you needed was to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

Still, your fingers trembled slightly as you smoothed out the fabric and rehung it.

Then, there was lunch.

You had been balancing a plate of food in one hand, your phone in the other, when one of Cecilia’s friends accidentally knocked your elbow in passing.

It was a tiny movement. Just enough to send your fork clattering to the floor, just enough to make you hesitate—because was it intentional? Or were you just being paranoid?

“Careful,” the girl sing-songed over her shoulder, giggling as she caught up with Cecilia.

You let out a slow breath. Swallowed back the lump in your throat.

Not worth it.

So you kept your head up, kept moving, kept going. You told yourself that if you didn’t acknowledge it, if you pretended it didn’t exist, then it couldn’t touch you.

Right?

But it did.

Because by the time you got back to your trailer that night, you had to sit on the edge of your bed and press the heels of your hands into your eyes, breathing slow, measured breaths to keep yourself from crying.

Because it was working.

Because no matter how much you told yourself you were fine, no matter how much you smiled and laughed and acted unbothered, the cracks were starting to show.

You barely had a moment to yourself.  

Between running last-minute errands for production, keeping up with the crew’s rapid-fire instructions, and dodging the subtle but constant hostility radiating from Cecilia and her group, you were stretched thin.  

The exhaustion was creeping in—settling in the space between your ribs, behind your eyes, in the way your shoulders sat just a little tighter than usual.  

But you wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.  

So you pushed through, past the carefully calculated inconveniences. The way they always seemed to cut in front of you when you were in a hurry, the stolen side-eyes and smirks exchanged whenever you spoke in a group, the way your things somehow always ended up in different places than you’d left them.  

You pretended not to notice when Cecilia’s voice turned just a little too loud whenever she spoke to someone near you.  

"Oh my god, you know what I hate? When people think just anyone can belong in this industry. Like… babe, you’re only here because they needed extra hands. It’s cute, though."  

You told yourself not to react.  

Even when Daisy—who had been standing beside you, her grip tightening on her clipboard—made a noise that sounded a lot like she was about to launch herself across the room.  

“It’s whatever,” you had muttered, tugging her back before she could make a scene.  

Daisy had narrowed her eyes. “It’s not whatever. She’s being a bitch.”  

You had only sighed. “I know.”  

Omar wasn’t as easily convinced.  

The next morning, when you found him loitering near Cecilia’s usual coffee spot, arms crossed and expression unreadable, you had to physically drag him away before he did something stupid.  

“Do not get yourself in trouble over this.”  

“She’s messing with you,” he seethed. “I hate people like her.”  

“She’s not worth it,” you said, but even to your own ears, your voice sounded too thin, too tight.  

Omar wasn’t buying it. “Okay, but are you okay?”  

You hesitated. The truth was, you weren’t sure anymore.  

The worst part wasn’t the pettiness or the whispered insults—it was the fact that it was working. That somehow, in all the noise and nonsense, they had managed to make you feel small.  

But admitting that felt too much like defeat.  

So you forced a smile. “I’m fine.”  

Omar gave you a long, knowing look before muttering something under his breath and stalking off.  

That afternoon, as you sat on a bench outside the studio, your notebook balanced on your lap, you felt a shadow fall over you.  

“Hey,” Pedro’s voice was soft.  

You glanced up, startled. “Oh. Hey.”  

His brows knit together. “You okay?”  

You blinked. “What?”  

“You’ve been… different.” His voice was measured, careful. “Quieter.”  

You tried to play it off, shaking your head with a small laugh. “I’m just tired. Long shoot days, you know how it is.”  

Pedro didn’t look convinced.  

For a moment, he just stood there, watching you with that steady, unreadable gaze of his. Like he was sifting through the words you weren’t saying, trying to make sense of them.  

Then, without another word, he sat down beside you.  

Close enough that his arm brushed against yours.  

You tensed, just slightly, before exhaling.  

Neither of you spoke for a moment.  

Then—  

“Can I see?” he asked, nodding toward your notebook.  

You hesitated.  

It was just mindless doodles—tiny flowers curling around the corners of the pages, half-finished sketches of set pieces, a rough outline of something that might have been Pedro’s profile if you hadn’t abandoned it halfway through.  

You felt a little embarrassed, but you handed it to him anyway.  

Pedro flipped through the pages, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “These are really good.”  

You rolled your eyes. “They’re just sketches.”  

“Still,” he murmured, fingers skimming over the paper. “They’re yours.”  

There was something about the way he said it—soft, sincere—that made your stomach tighten.  

For the first time in two days, something in you eased.  

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.  

And when Pedro leaned in, just slightly, warmth radiating from his shoulder where it rested against yours, you didn’t move away.

Pedro was still flipping through your sketches when a sharp, saccharine voice cut through the air.  

“Oh wow, there you are, Pedro. I was wondering when you’d finally come up for air.”  

Cecilia.  

You felt your whole body go rigid.  

Pedro barely glanced up, his fingers still tracing one of your sketches absentmindedly. “Hey.” His voice was flat, distracted.  

She took a step closer, her presence invasive in a way that made your skin prickle. “I was just telling the others how dedicated you are to your work. You know, always finding ways to get into character.” Her gaze flicked toward you, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Even off set.”  

You swallowed hard.  

Your chest felt tight, exhaustion pressing against your ribs, making it harder to keep your expression neutral. You were already hanging by a thread, stretched too thin over the last two days, and Cecilia knew it.  

Pedro, still looking down at your notebook, gave a vague hum of acknowledgment, barely engaging. It wasn’t the reaction Cecilia had been hoping for, and you could see it. The way her expression twitched for half a second before smoothing over again.  

She tilted her head, the corners of her mouth curling. “It’s sweet, though. That you take the time to entertain people. I mean, it’s not like everyone gets that kind of attention from you.” She let out a light, airy laugh that made your stomach turn. “Guess it pays to be in the right place at the right time, huh?”  

The implication was clear.  

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself not to react.  

But then—  

“Cecilia,” Pedro’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it now. His fingers tapped against the notebook, his expression unreadable. “What are you doing?”  

Cecilia blinked, all faux innocence. “What do you mean?”  

Pedro finally lifted his head, and when he met her gaze, something in his expression shifted—something sharp, something distinctly unimpressed.  

“I mean, what are you doing?” His voice was just as smooth as before, but there was weight behind it now. “Because if you’re here to talk about the shoot, you should probably be talking to the crew.”  

Cecilia’s smile faltered.  

It was subtle, but you caught it.  

She opened her mouth, probably to smooth things over, but Pedro was already looking back at you, tilting the notebook toward you slightly, as if she weren’t even standing there.  

“You should finish this one,” he murmured, tapping his finger against the half-finished sketch of his profile. “It’s really good.”  

You could feel Cecilia’s eyes burning into you, but Pedro wasn’t giving her anything to work with.  

Her lips parted, like she might try again, but then she seemed to think better of it. Instead, she let out a small, sharp exhale through her nose, rolling her eyes as she turned on her heel and stalked off.  

The moment she was gone, you let out a slow, shaky breath, your hands gripping your notebook a little tighter.  

Pedro glanced over, brow furrowed. “You okay?”  

You nodded, even though your throat was tight. “I just…” A deep inhale. “I think I need a break.”  

Pedro studied you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he reached out, resting his hand over yours where it lay against the bench.  

Warm. Steady.  

Grounding.  

“Let’s take one, then,” he murmured.  

And for the first time in days, you let yourself lean into it.

The evening air was crisp, carrying the lingering scent of rain on the pavement as the last of the crew wrapped up for the day. You were exhausted, your body aching from hours on set, but when Pedro leaned in—voice low and warm—you felt something in you unwind.  

“Wanna grab dinner before heading back?”  

You blinked up at him, a little caught off guard. “Like… out-out?”  

His lips quirked into a small smile, hands slipping into the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah. Out-out.”  

You hesitated, glancing around as crew members bustled past, some already heading toward the shuttle van waiting to take everyone back to the hotel. “But, like… what if people see me with you?”  

Pedro gave you a look. “So?”  

“So… you’re you,” you gestured vaguely at him, “and I’m just—”  

He cut you off with a quiet scoff, shaking his head. “Nope. We’re not doing that again. You’re you. And I wanna have dinner with you. End of discussion.”  

The finality in his tone made your stomach flip.  

You bit your lip, then nodded. “…Okay.”  

Pedro’s face softened, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he bumped your shoulder lightly. “Good.”  

By the time you both made it to the shuttle van, most of the cast and crew were already piling in.  

Vanessa was the first to notice. She raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across her face. “Ohhh, where are you two off to?”  

Before you could answer, Joseph leaned forward from his seat. “Are we witnessing a secret rendezvous?”  

Ebon chuckled, shaking his head. “A little late-night dinner date?”  

Coco, already buckled in, smirked knowingly. “Have funnnn,” she teased, dragging out the last syllable.  

You rolled your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. Pedro, for his part, was completely unfazed, flashing them an easy smile as he opened the door for you. “Don’t wait up,” he called, earning a chorus of laughter and whistles from the others as he shut it behind you.  

The restaurant wasn’t far—a quiet little spot tucked away from the main streets. The walk there was peaceful, the city buzzing around you but never pressing in too close.  

Pedro, dressed down in a hoodie, jeans, a baseball cap, and his glasses, was trying his best to blend in. But even like this, effortlessly casual, he still had a presence. He still walked like he took up space, like the world had to move around him.  

The height difference was almost comical. You felt it every time he turned his head down to look at you, every time his arm brushed against yours.  

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.  

You glanced up at him, caught off guard. “What?”  

Pedro gave you a look, one that made it clear he wasn’t buying whatever act you thought you were pulling. “Cecilia.”  

Your stomach twisted.  

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head. “It’s not a big deal.”  

Pedro stopped walking.  

You took two more steps before realizing, turning back to find him standing there, arms crossed, brows drawn together in frustration.  

He looked at you, really looked at you. “Of course, it’s a big deal,” he said, voice quieter now but firm. “If it’s hurting you, it’s a big deal.”  

You swallowed.  

The weight of his concern settled over you, warm and heavy. No one had ever really said that before. That what you were feeling mattered. That you weren’t just overreacting.  

Something in your chest cracked open, just a little.  

“…I just don’t want to make a thing out of it,” you admitted, voice small.  

Pedro’s features softened. He stepped closer, dipping his head slightly to meet your eyes. “You don’t have to,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to pretend it doesn’t bother you, either.”  

A lump formed in your throat.  

And then, just as easily as he had turned serious, he pulled back, tilting his head toward the restaurant. “C’mon. Food first, then we plot Cecilia’s demise.”  

A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it.  

Pedro grinned, pleased with himself, before nudging your shoulder with his own.  

And as you walked the rest of the way, some of the weight on your chest didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

The restaurant was dimly lit, warm and intimate in a way that made the rest of the world feel far away. Soft jazz hummed through the air, mixing with the quiet murmur of conversation and the occasional clinking of glasses. The hostess greeted you both with a polite smile, barely sparing a glance at Pedro—either because she didn’t recognize him or, more likely, was being professional about it.  

Pedro let you choose the table, and you picked one near the window, a cozy little booth that felt tucked away from the rest of the diners. As you slid into your seat, Pedro pulled off his cap, running a hand through his messy curls before setting it down on the table.  

He looked… comfortable. Relaxed. And yet, there was still something unreadable in his expression as he watched you settle in.  

“You know,” he started, leaning forward on his elbows, “I’m kind of mad at you.”  

You blinked, caught off guard. “What? Why?”  

“Because,” he huffed, “I’ve been trying to get you alone for days, and the first time it actually happens, it’s because some Mean Girls knockoff has been making your life miserable.”  

You snorted. “So dramatic.”  

“I am dramatic,” he agreed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “But seriously. I don’t like that it took this for me to get to steal you away.”  

There was something in the way he said it—lighthearted, sure, but laced with something else. Something quieter. More honest.  

Your stomach flipped.  

Before you could figure out how to respond, the waiter appeared, handing over menus. Pedro thanked him with a charming smile before glancing back at you. “What are you in the mood for?”  

You shrugged, scanning the options. “Something warm.”  

Pedro hummed. “Soup?”  

“Maybe.”  

“Or,” he wiggled his eyebrows, “we get a huge plate of pasta and reenact Lady and the Tramp.”  

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Absolutely not.”  

Pedro placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Wow. That was a little too fast. Like you’ve thought about rejecting me before.”  

You bit your lip, trying to fight the smile threatening to break free. He made it so easy to forget the exhaustion pressing down on you, the weight of the last few days.  

The waiter came back, and you both placed your orders—him getting some kind of hearty stew, you settling on a creamy pasta dish. The conversation flowed as effortlessly as ever, touching on everything and nothing all at once.  

At some point, Pedro leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out beneath the table. His knee brushed against yours, but he didn’t move away. Neither did you.  

“So.” His voice was softer now, less teasing. “Cecilia.”  

You sighed, slumping slightly. “Can we not?”  

“We can,” Pedro allowed. “But I still hate it.”  

You fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, tracing the fabric between your fingers. “It’s not like she’s saying anything outright cruel. Just little things. Looks. Comments. Stuff that doesn’t sound like much but still…”  

Pedro’s jaw ticked. His fingers drummed absently against the table. “That’s how people like her work. They know how to make you feel like you’re imagining it.”  

You swallowed, looking down. “Yeah.”  

A beat of silence stretched between you. Then—  

“Do you want me to talk to her?”  

Your head snapped up. “What? No.”  

Pedro tilted his head, eyeing you. “Why not?”  

“Because,” you exhaled sharply, “I don’t need you to fight my battles.”  

His gaze softened, a flicker of something fond in his eyes. “I know you don’t. But I also know that you’re tired. And I hate seeing you like this.”  

Something in you wavered.  

Pedro sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I just—God, I don’t get it. How could anyone not adore you?”  

Your breath hitched.  

The words were so sincere, so effortless, like he wasn’t even trying to be charming—just saying what was in his heart.  

Heat crept up your neck. You looked away, focusing on the flickering candle in the middle of the table. “You’re biased.”  

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”  

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”  

Pedro grinned. “And yet, here you are. Having dinner with me.”  

“Unfortunately.”  

He clutched his chest in mock agony. “You wound me.”  

The waiter arrived with your food, and Pedro’s dramatic antics were temporarily forgotten as the delicious aroma filled the air. As you picked up your fork, he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against the back of your hand—just for a second, just long enough to send a small shiver up your spine.  

“Hey,” he murmured.  

You glanced up, and for the first time all day, you felt seen.  

“Don’t let her get to you,” Pedro said, voice gentle but firm. “You’re worth so much more than whatever bullshit she’s trying to pull.”  

Something tightened in your chest.  

You swallowed, nodding. “Okay.”  

Pedro studied you for a moment, then smiled. “Good.”  

The weight on your shoulders didn’t disappear entirely, but it softened, melted into something manageable under the glow of candlelight and Pedro’s unwavering attention. You let yourself relax, let yourself exist in this small, intimate moment where it was just the two of you, where the laughter was easy and the warmth between you was something real, something steady.  

Pedro caught your gaze mid-conversation, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned in just slightly. “There she is.”  

You blinked, tilting your head. “What?”  

“That smile,” he said simply. “Haven’t seen it in a while.”  

Heat bloomed in your chest, warm and unfamiliar, something delicate but deep. You rolled your eyes, but it lacked any real bite. “You’re ridiculous.”  

“And yet,” Pedro teased, mirroring your words from earlier, “here you are.”  

You shook your head, lips twitching. “Unfortunate, really.”  

Pedro pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. “Wow. First, I get turned down for Lady and the Tramp, and now this? My ego is in shambles.”  

You laughed, a real, unguarded sound, and he grinned like that was exactly what he was hoping for.  

The conversation stretched long into the night, ebbing and flowing between playful teasing and quiet sincerity. The kind of talk that felt effortless, that felt safe.  

Somewhere between the last bites of food and the soft hum of the restaurant around you, Pedro reached across the table, his fingers skimming yours. The touch was featherlight, a quiet question rather than a demand. You could have pulled away.  

But you didn’t.  

Instead, you let your fingers curl around his, grounding, steady.  

Pedro didn’t say anything—he just squeezed your hand, a silent promise, and you squeezed back.  

Outside, the night air was crisp, carrying the distant sounds of the city with it. The restaurant door shut softly behind you, leaving you and Pedro standing beneath the glow of streetlights, his cap pulled low, his glasses perched on his nose.  

It should have felt different—stepping back into reality after the small bubble of warmth inside the restaurant. But somehow, it didn’t.  

Pedro rocked back on his heels, hands tucked into his pockets. “Still okay?”  

You exhaled, watching as your breath curled into the night air. “Yeah,” you admitted, surprising yourself. “I think I am.”  

Pedro studied you for a beat, then nodded, satisfied.

It turns out Vanessa, Coco, Joseph and Ebon got dinner somewhere else in town away from the two of you and they were waiting already in the shuttle and as soon as you both stepped inside, the teasing started. “Ohhh, look who finally decided to show up,” Vanessa sang, kicking her feet up on the seat in front of her, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Joseph smirked from his spot by the window, arms crossed over his chest. “How romantic was it, really? Scale of one to ten?”

Coco grinned. “I’m betting solid eight.” Ebon scoffed. “Nah, Pedro’s smooth—at least a nine.” Pedro sighed dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You guys seriously have nothing better to do?” Vanessa waved a hand. “Nope. Now spill.” You rolled your eyes, buckling your seatbelt as the van pulled away from the curb. “We ate dinner. Like normal people. And then we walked outside. Like normal people.” Coco squinted. “That’s exactly what someone who did kiss would say.” Pedro groaned, leaning his head back against the seat, while you fought the smile tugging at your lips. Joseph held out his hands. “Okay, okay, let’s be serious for a second. Was it cute at least?” You blinked at him. “Was what cute?” “The date—” “It wasn’t a date,” you and Pedro said at the same time. A pause.

Then Vanessa gasped, clutching her chest. “You’re already finishing each other’s sentences?” “Oh my God,” Pedro mumbled under his breath. The laughter rolled through the van, easy and infectious, and despite the relentless teasing, despite the way your face burned under their knowing looks, you couldn’t help but feel… good.

The knot in your chest—the one that had been coiled so tight these past few days—had loosened. Maybe not completely, but enough that breathing didn’t feel so hard. Pedro shifted beside you, turning his head so only you could hear him. “They’re never gonna let this go.” You sighed. “Yeah. I figured.” His shoulder brushed yours, a quiet reassurance, and when he spoke again, there was something soft in his voice. “You sure you’re okay?” You hesitated. Because truthfully, the weight of the past few days still sat heavy on your shoulders. Cecilia had made sure of that. The quiet digs, the passive-aggressive comments, the knowing smirks—it was a kind of exhaustion that seeped into your bones. But right now, in the warmth of this moment, with Pedro looking at you like he actually cared about the answer, you found yourself saying— “I think I will be.” Pedro studied you for a beat, then nodded, satisfied. It was a small thing—just a simple gesture, barely more than a shift of his head. But somehow, it carried more weight than it should have, like he was silently saying I see you. I hear you. You swallowed. It was nice to have a friend. But then—was that all this was? You glanced at him again, at the way he was sat with you so easily, like he’d always been meant to be there. At the way he felt beside you, like a quiet anchor in the storm of the last few days.

End Notes:

I told you there would be drama O_O

Again, no hate to any girlie named Cecilia, everyone calm.

Don’t worry girlies… it will turn out fine, mostly… I think… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

YA'LL SEEN THE TEASER TRAILER!?!?!? IM UNWELL AND DYING AND SO EXCITED AND I WANT TO MELT AND DIE VANESSA KIRBY YOU LUCKY WOMAN I WANNA KISS HIM TOO T^T

TAGLIST: @comfortzonequeen @christinamadsen @liciafonseca @greenwitchfromthewoods @iqr-x @southernbe @maryfanson @brittmb115 @klajmekk @taytay0403 @whimsiwitchy @zymiii @sarahhxx03 @leilanixx @lilasskicker-23 @https-murdock @barnescamboy

[themareverine]

hello!! have never tried asking yet so hope this is fine with you, but old man logan! oh my days, domestic life with old man logan makes me so weak in my knees

oh absolutely, I could write domestic Old Man all DAY. ✧˚ · . ˚

A King & His Castle | Under Daylight | oldman!Logan x fem!wife!reader drabble

series summary: Breadwinner. Bring-Home-the-Bacon. King of the Castle. He's heard it all before, but it's never been true of the Wolverine. Until her. Coming home to her is the only thing to live for, the only thing keeping the heart behind his ribs spinning.

synopsis: Logan's wasted too much time — and that's right, wasted. Alive a century without purpose, floating in and out of perceived "callings," looking for meaning and direction that only really ever came years before this moment, this heartbeat. Logan — the Wolverine — had found everything he'd never truly been looking for. Wrapped up in bows and curls, swaddling clothes and blood.

warnings: drabble series, day-in-the-life, dad!Logan, mutantwife!reader, angst, domesticity, pregnancy, babies, children, Logan is a boy dad because I said so, reader has curls, slight ⚠︎

navigation | series masterlist | previous let me know if you want added to my tags! ♡！

Fuck daylight savings.

Sun begins to slip away the same time it always does, these days — too early before he arrives home, he misses that glorious little span when it gets cool. The sun sinks, sunlight more like ethereal gold as it stains the sky colors bold enough to make God blush. Years before, fading sunlight would kiss his face, taking him by the hand to say goodbye as hours tick closer and closer to the witching hour, to nightmares.

Countless hours he'd spent under the fading light of the sky, magnificent canopies of colors. All of them spent with her, mostly smiling. Always radiant. In years before the poison slipping through his veins stole more than he'd be willing to admit, they'd walked hours in the genesis of stars, the cool air of coming darkness. He'd held her hand, she'd whispered sweet everythings. They'd danced, fought — made a spectacular kind of love that was as wild as the earth, as free as the sky.

Today they did little of that. Such conveniences lost in the modern world of the concrete jungle, the age of social media. A plague not soon to die, if you asked Logan. Nobody did. A rotten cancer eating away at humanity's finest qualities, it demanded more than creation was ever designed to give. Relationships more anorexic than ever. Pressure of the grind was a mere diagnosis of a time bomb counting down years, eras, to explode. Logan saw the writing on the wall, it wouldn't be long.

He doesn't dwell there, in that hell of thoughts, often, though.

It's enough to kill a man, adamantium bones aside. A poison of another kind, he staves off the wolves of the world beyond his four walls at arm's length, away from the things that matter — what has become, for the first time since his youth, his home. His life. An unspoken, largely undeserved reward for a life under God, chasing graves and death that never arrives. Of spilling blood and cursing air in his lungs. Those things he cherishes, holds as close as a paralyzed, shell of a man with boneless, spineless fingers, can.

Logan's wasted too much time — and that's right, wasted. Alive a century without purpose, floating in and out of perceived "callings," looking for meaning and direction that only really ever came years before this moment, this heartbeat. Logan — the Wolverine — had found everything he'd never truly been looking for. Wrapped up in bows and curls, swaddling clothes and blood.

Their life together wasn't beautiful. Farthest thing from perfect — the kitchen floor was stained with refinery oils and grease, the linger scent of smelt and steel carved deep into the fibers holding the place together, old appliances hobbled together. Their windows were broken, spidering cracks taped over and draped with Look, Lo! This is perfect! tapestries discovered along the way. Stains on thrifted rugs, chipped plates. Bathroom facilities lacking everything to make it more than an industry standard, but somehow perfect for fucking her in the way he loved. Constantly on the alert for trespassers, prying eyes — wolves looking to steal away the "two Wolverines," the myths and logos had popularized.

She was like him in every physiological way, — right down to the bones they gave her. And that was a responsibility Logan had never taken lightly, would never stop fortressing. Stalking the lines like a snarling guard dog, slavering away at the world pressing into what is his, he'd never let her see the world for what it is, what it has become. What she fears in nightmares it will be, but already exists —

What, at some genetic and fearful level, Logan worries his child, in days coming soon, will enter.

Headlights cast milky beams of light against the chain link caging the front door, seven-odd foot sentinels that he knows she's already unlocked for him. It's the same routine every dusk — she unlocks the cage, the front door. Turns on the light above the doorway, waters the plant she's inevitable forgotten, but loves, potted beside the entry to their humble, dark castle.

He kills the lights on the Chrysler. Pops the shift into park a breath from the gate, Logan slips out, goods from his stop at the store under arm like the proud bring-home-the-bacon, breadwinner he isn't.

Slipping into his home with a practiced phantom years of peacetime can't quite shake, he shrugs off his suitcoat. Draps it over the makeshift foyer table and cracked mirror she took such pride in at that garage sale the first year they'd lived here. Bright, passionate roses give him pause, quaintly organized into a makeshift Campbell's soup can vase, giving the space a sort of color that makes the muscle in his jaw twitch with amusement.

If she didn't at least try to make this place theirs, a home, she'd be damned. He's sure of it as he makes his way in, groceries at hand, stepping into the low lights cutting across the kitchen floor. It smells good, like food — like bread. Meat. Protein. His gut spins at the thought, suddenly ravenous despite the junk he'd consumed on the road an hour ago.

Passing by the makeshift island, which is not ironically, a welding table, he spots dinner. Salad, warm bread. Chicken. Logan could chuckle at the bowl of Jell-o, if the idea of it being scratch-and-dent clearance didn't roil his blood. It's dinner, provisions — in some ways, better than they've had in beforeyears. They'd survived together on much less, much, much less.

But the idea doesn't quite land like he wishes it to — she deserves so much more. His child deserves a life out from the confines of hideaway secrecy and the stay-alive, a chance at life. To taste independence and experiences not those of the one's who gave it life.

Logan pops a crouton from the salad into the pocket of his cheek, the zing of dressing just enough to make his entire mouth salivate with hunger. Setting his wares on the table, his gaze cuts around the open floor — it's quiet. She isn't here.

The air doesn't move and crack like a whip with her presence, his entire body isn't on fire like it is when she's near. Weird.

But then, movement down the corridor, where their room is located, produces a nod from him. Of course. Naturally she'd be there, either room or bathroom, the two places she hadn't been able to stay out of since the start of this trimester. Throwing up or nesting, that's what the doc had called it, occupied most of her business hours. He was relegated to mere appointment appearances, sidebarred in her otherwise gestational state.

It's easy to slip into the room when she's not looking — one would think an impending child would heighten a mother's senses, but it doesn't. Not truly. Maybe for some people, maybe even for animals but not things. Creatures, like them. Science experiments clawing their way through freedom, a special kind of torture that doesn't land them in either camp. Forever limbo between fully human and fully thing, today she's more human than he ever remembers. And Christ alive, is she stunning.

Logan had never fully come to terms with the idea of being a father, of the responsibility of rearing another human being. If you'd have told him it was the best decision of his centuries of life, settling into fatherhood, breeding, he'd have laughed in your face. Drank away the idea, maybe. Drowned it in his own sorrows of survival and displacement. Lobotomized that idea right out of him, the labs had.

Hell no I don't want kids, it was a common question when courting the interests of the opposite sex. Earned him his fill of meaningless fucks and tit, that was fact. It was only ever until he'd met her that he'd high-tailed away from the idea of peace, of life not so unlike this one. There'd always be an element of danger, of suspect — even if he weren't what he was, if she weren't what she is.

And she'd come along and knifed him between the ribs, carved into him the idea of living that didn't hurt. Didn't rip apart his guts. She'd shown him what it meant to be alive, what it meant to be human — how being more than human was not the curse he'd made it to be. Loving the ugly parts of him, the raw and bleeding animal of the Wolverine, had stitched back together his soul. His purpose, his reason for walking under starlight.

She'd given him hope, faith. Purpose.

And now, a child.

Standing in the doorway of what is the farthest thing from a master suite, but suits him fine, he leans against the doorway. Watches the pretty of her across the room, rooting through opened bins on the floor for clothes.

Spiral curls pulled lazily into a clip, fallen pieces wild around her shoulders in a way that stirs fire in his belly that is so far from hunger it hurts, but produces a smile. And it isn't uncommon, seeing her this way — an oversized shirt and underwear small enough to be sinful. So few of her clothes fit, anymore. He'd never bothered to notice. Enjoyed look at her.

As natural as God designed, especially these days.

If she notices him, she doesn't say, but allows him to slip up behind her all the same. At one time, Logan trembles to think how this would've ended for him — on the floor, adamantium claws in his guts, blood on the floor. Pre-maternal her. Since Texas, since the swell of his seed filling her to a plump round that drove him within an inch of his composure, she'd become so much more docile. Content, at peace. Domesticity had changed her, a child had knit her back together.

What had once become a weapon had been reborn, became living, again. And that, Logan thinks, is the purpose of life — watching the ones you love become whole, again. Watching life restore purpose, rebirth that which once had died. Maybe not life in the general sense, but the purpose of his life.

His hands land at her hips, squeezing lovely the softness of her curve that feels so right, familiar in a way that should be frightening. And may she has been aware of him all along, because she doesn't jump. There's no spike of adrenaline in her blood, just a soft gasp of surprise. A giggle, as her hands find his on her hips, the little graze of her nails a kind of lovely he can't find words for.

"Logan," her airy laugh carries through the space brightly, lands right at home in his chest. "You're home," she leans back until her head rests against his chest, tucked securely in the frame of him. "Dinner is parked, if you're hungry. Chicken and salad."

He chuckles, lips twitching into a faint smile. Brushing a kiss to the shell of her ear, "Well stone the fuckin' crows," his taunt isn't genuine, but filled with mirth and sarcasm as he tuts over her ear, "What else is new?"

It's been chicken and salad every day for the last week, a craving he will never understand. "You're such an ass!" She swipes at his hand, trying not to laugh. It makes him smile against her skin, angling his head to gently suckle at the pulse in her neck, "I can't help it. I swear, if this kid doesn't come out feathered —"

Wrong kind of coat, Wolverines don't have feathers. The idea is, at its base, amusing. Lights him up in a way Logan isn't sure he can ever surrender. He's been enchanted with this entire journey since the moment she'd popped, and low parts of him haven't reconciled that he can't keep her this way, not forever. There will come a time she isn't swollen with his seed, fat and pumped fill of him.

Makes his cock ache in a way that will haunt him, probably forever. A high he'll only ever chase.

Tugging her back against him, his hands dip forward, fingers splayed over the curve of her belly. Warmth he can't describe slips from him, a yearning to feel snaking deep into his bones. He felt this child, his child, a dozen times. More, probably. Never had stopped feeling like the first time, he was high on it. Her scent, her heat, didn't help matters.

He could salivate just thinking about her wrapped around him, tight and so, so full.

Logan's not sure if it's the open-mouthed kiss to her neck or his hands lifting away weight of her belly that pulls a trembling, filthy grown from her chest. She falls back against his chest, slack like a doll, and his world spins for all of a heartbeat, accepting her weight. Her mewling little cry, the breathy gasp — her hands finding his, encouraging him not to let go. It all works together to take him apart in a way he isn't sure he wants to recover from.

"Oh my god, yes," he nuzzles his nose into her hair, that wild smell of peach and flowers so there, it makes him a little breathless. Adding a little more pressure into his hands, he lifts more, and the way she all but moans is just short of pornography. He wishes it was captured, somehow, for replay. "Logan, baby — oh, god." Hips bucking forward, her back arching so far, he feared she'd break.

His chuckle is low in chest, fingers gently kneading against her belly, probing. "Feel good, baby?" His hand grazes up her hip, knuckles kneading at the pulled muscle and heat absolutely buried into her softness, the curve of her.

"Mhmmmm," Nodding, Logan doesn't miss the sparkle of relieved tears behind her lashes, brow knit together in a ball of tension that makes him almost break. "Feels incredible," her nails dig into his hands, encouraging more, "shit, I could almost —" laced with wonder, it falls away under a shaky breath. "Oh, Logan —"

"I know, darlin'," he smiles against her skin, pressing a desperate kiss to her cheek, "I know." It's only a few more weeks, he knows. By their guess, by gut instinct from everything he knows about babies. It can't come soon enough, but it could be farther away.

If she never stopped loving him like this, it would be too soon.

Relishing in her warmth, in the tremble of her muscle, Logan finally releases, slowly. Hands on her shoulders gently coax her to face him, lazily. Bliss on her face pinks up her cheeks, has her eyes hung to half mast, and she almost glows as her hands find his face.

Fingers tease through his beard, encouraging him into a deliberate, slow kiss.

He lowers his forehead to hers, his lips brushing against hers in a tender, unhurried way. She asks him if he's hungry, and truthfully, he could eat. Food, of her, of this — he's a starving man for anything she'll provide, forever well fed but also never enough.

"Okay," her whisper is soft, a hand lowering to cradle their child. "It's conditional, though," she chastises, pulling back to quirk a brow at him. "Entirely dependent on what you're about to say, Lo."

He'd pull the moon from orbit, if she asked. "What's that?"

"We talk about what you're actually hungry for, after supper."

He doesn't need told twice.

taglist: @sidkneeeee @thevoicefromanotherworld @misscrissfemmefatale @eternallyfrustratedwriter @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @laaadygisbooornex3 @itsafullmoon

[martinluvrr]

NUMBER ONE | KATE MARTIN ( II )

⋅˚₊‧ kate martin x actress!reader

⋅˚₊‧ summary: the actress, the rookie and the media circus.

⋅˚₊‧ part one || part three || nav

✩

liked by badgalriri, kehlani, sydney_sweeney and 1,034,561 others.

y/ny/l/n vegas i love you. had so much fun last night, thank you @lvaces <3

kehlani made for vegas

usera fit ate

userb she's so wag material

userc we need kate and y/n reunion pics

houseofdragonhbo from dragonstone to las vegas ♡

lvaces 🩶🩶🩶

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x.com ↙

scar 🌠 @scarrrrracesssss Y/NNNNS AT THE GAMEEEEEEEEE OMFG #y/ny/l/n #lvaces

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instagram.com↙

liked by y/ny/l/n, houseofdragonhbo, wnba and 12,786 others

lvaces y/n is in the house 🚨 we love the facial expressions 😭 @y/ny/l/n

userd she's so courtside coded idk how to explain it

usere kate and y/n reuniting????

y/ny/l/n girl u did me sooo dirty i can't 😔

↪ userf DEADDDDDDDDDD

↪ userg WE NEED YOU AND KATE PICS PLEASE

userh mogged everybody there

useri adriana lima got nothinggg on her

-katemartin reposted a post by lvaces-

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x.com↙

brea @breaces y/n reportedly cheered the most when kate scored🤔🤔🤔iship them so hard omg

↺ mia @miascardoni eating this info uppp

↺ kiki @kianaklarck this is just y/n being excited yall 😭😭

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instagram.com↙

liked by userj, userk , userl and 32.459 others

deuxmoi DEUXMOI EXCLUSIVE… y/n y/l/n and kate martin had shared a hug with a brief conversation in the locker room, reportedly flirting with each other 😶😶😶

userl you never let anybody have anything

userm this is so sad omg

usern AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

usero ship them so hard brooooo

userp i didn't even know y/n was gay...

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newyorktimes.com↙

OLD BUT GOLD?

Y/N Y/L/N IS REKINDLING WITH HER OLD "FRIEND" LAS VEGAS ROOKIE , KATE MARTIN.

In August of 2022, while on the press tour of HBO’s House of the Dragon, picture started circling around of Kate Martin and Y/n Y/l/n. While the photo looked like a normal photo between two high school friends, insiders told us “They weren’t friends” Hinting of something more.

While the actress didn’t label her sexuality, many assumed she was gay or bisexual when she was spotted with nepo baby, Lily Rose Depp.

Kate Martin, is a 24 year old, fan favorite rookie of the reigning WNBA champions, Las Vegas Aces. The player is recognized for her years in Iowas Women’s Basketball, who came in second in the NCAA Tournament. She was the 18th pick in 2024 WNBA Drafts.

When Y/n was asked regarding the photos, she denied claims of anything hinting in relationship and confirmed they were just friends. Martin, when asked , didn’t answer.

According to gossip site Deuxmoi, the pair was spotted sharing a hug while also having a flirtation conversation in the locker room of Michelob ULTRA arena. Y/n and some of her co stars, were invited for the game. After the win, their interaction happened.

After a post of Y/l/n was shared on the official instagram account of the Las Vegas Aces, Martin reposted on her story, tagging the actress who then reposted it on her story. It looks like the pair is in contact again.

Between the actress and the rookie, it seems like history is repeating itself.

✩

thank you for reading<333333

[iamquiantrelle]

SO INTO YOU ────── iamquaintrelle

# pairings: aurelien tchouameni x black reader (✨💕) # wc: 5.9k

# tags: @sucredreamer @snowseasonmademe @jessnotwiththemess @rougereds @judectrl @mufasathatniggatho @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @ayeshami @greyishbach @haartemis @goldenngt @solidbriii @sailurmewn @bbgkoo @mauvecherie-writes @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

# summary: you’re a multiple grammy winning artist with a record breaking single based on an embarrassing crush on a footballer & when that single demands visuals who else do you ask to be your video vixen besides said footballer crush? but is he also willing to blow your back out too? ♡ masterlist

You were never drinking tequila again. Ever.

The tequila bottle sat empty on your coffee table like evidence from a crime scene, mocking you with memories of last night's social media bravery. Your Grammy awards caught the morning light, their gold surfaces throwing judgmental sparkles across your living room walls. You'd really done it this time - slid into Aurélien Tchouaméni's DMs like your verified check mark gave you the right to disturb his peace at 2 AM.

Your manager Carmen sat in the armchair across from you, tablet in hand as she went through tomorrow's flight details to Madrid. But your attention kept drifting to your phone, to that cursed Instagram conversation where you'd actually typed out "hey, random question but would you maybe want to be in my music video? no pressure lol" - asking him to star in your video for "So Into You," a song that lived in that dangerous space between confession and plausible deniability.

“Earth to lovergirl,” Carmen's professional tone carried just a hint of amusement. “You good? Or still having flashbacks to drunk-texting one of football's finest?”

His response still sat there in your DMs, casual as anything: “The song that's breaking records? I'd be down. Though I have to ask - any particular reason you thought of me? 😉”

You'd screamed into three different pillows after reading that.

“I still can't believe he said yes,” you mumbled, sinking deeper into the couch as Carmen scrolled through your embarrassing Instagram activity history with restrained glee. The evidence was damning: every single post liked within seconds, story reactions that probably made you look unhinged, the way you'd set notifications for his account months ago after that first video blessed your FYP.

It had been innocent enough at first - a clip of him in a post-match interview, fresh taper fade catching the stadium lights. Something about the way he carried himself, that quiet confidence wrapped in genuine humility, had you hitting that follow button before the video even finished. The way he'd laugh with his whole chest in interviews, how he could switch from intense focus on the field to the sweetest smile off it - you were gone before you even realized you were falling.

Your best friend had watched your descent with barely contained amusement. “Not you making a whole Tumblr shrine," she'd cackled one wine night, scrolling through @tchouamenithoughts. “Day 43 of manifesting Aurélien Tchouaméni to ruin my life’? Girl...”

“Listen,” you groaned now, watching Carmen pull up the same account on her phone, “we all cope differently.”

“Cope? You wrote a whole chart-topping song about how he 'controls the game like he could control your heart.' That's not coping, that's down catastrophic,” she said, maintaining her composure even as her eyes danced with mirth.

She wasn't wrong. You'd lost hours to The Bridge episodes, team interviews, even compilation videos of his best plays. You'd lost count of how many times you'd woken up hot and bothered from dreams featuring that TCHM chain of his dangling above you, his knowing smile as he– nope. Not going there. Not when you were about to meet him in person.

Your phone lit up with a text from an unknown Spanish number:

“Looking forward to finally meeting tomorrow. Been keeping those 2AM DMs for motivation during training 😊 - AT”

“Oh my god,” you breathed, showing Carmen the screen. “He saved the messages.”

“Of course he did,” she said, checking something on her tablet. “You really think he didn't notice how you watch every single one of his Instagram lives? Even the 3 AM ones after matches where he's just vibing to Afrobeats in his gym? Those thirst traps?”

The way he moved to those beats had no business living rent-free in your head like it did. Neither did the way his eyes got soft when he talked about his family in interviews, or how that dangerous half-smirk would appear after a particularly clean tackle. You'd documented it all on your Tumblr, built whole theories around his personality based on how he interacted with teammates, analyzed every public appearance like it was your job.

“What if he found it?" The thought hit you suddenly. “The Tumblr account?”

Carmen's composed expression cracked slightly with a knowing smile. “Girl, if he has, he still said yes to the video. What does that tell you?”

You didn't want to think about what that might mean. Couldn't let yourself hope that maybe he'd noticed you too, that perhaps those quick likes on your Instagram stories weren't just courtesy, that the way he'd immediately responded to your drunk DM meant something.

Tomorrow you'd be in Madrid. Tomorrow you'd see if that confidence you'd analyzed in countless videos translated in person, if his smile was really as dangerous as it seemed through a screen.

“Make sure you pack some lingerie,” Carmen said as she gathered her things, a slight smirk playing at her lips. “Just in case those Tumblr manifestations worked.”

You buried your face in a throw pillow, but your heart was already racing at the possibility.

**************************************************

The Madrid morning sun painted the makeup room in ethereal hues, casting everything in a dreamlike glow that did nothing to settle your nerves. You sat still as the artist perfected your look - soft glam that highlighted your warm brown skin, each baby hair laid with precision, curls falling in a carefully crafted cascade. The "effortlessly gorgeous" aesthetic you'd aimed for had, ironically, required a 5 AM start.

“He's here,” your assistant's voice cut through your reverie, and your heart performed a gymnastics routine worthy of Olympic qualification.

Here's the thing about Aurélien Tchouaméni - all the 4K footage in the world, every professional photograph, every high-definition broadcast couldn't capture what he was in person. The way he commanded space wasn't something a camera could translate.

He had to duck slightly entering the room (had he always been that tall?), the morning light catching him like it knew exactly what it was doing. The fitted white tee and designer jeans he wore were deceptively simple, the kind of casual that required serious thought. That signature "TCHM" pendant caught the light as he moved, the diamond Cuban link chain you'd written dissertations about on Tumblr proving worthy of every analysis. You'd watched enough matches to know his height, studied enough footage to know his build, but something about him actually being there, all 6'2" of him absolutely dominating the space, had your carefully constructed composure threatening to crumble.

“So," he said, that dangerous half-smile playing at his lips as he approached, “you're the one who slid in my DMs at 2 AM?”

The ground could swallow you whole any minute now. His French accent in person was a weapon that should be classified as illegal. “Listen, about that–“

“Nah, don't apologize," he laughed, the sound rich enough to drown in. "It was cute. Especially that part about my ball control being 'unfairly hot.'”

"Please tell me you're joking," you groaned, but you couldn't help smiling. His presence was magnetic - that quiet confidence you'd analyzed through screens somehow even more potent in the flesh.

"Three fire emojis and everything," he grinned, and you noticed his taper fade was fresh, clearly done for the shoot. The chain caught the light again as he leaned slightly closer, shortening the considerable distance between you. "But for what it's worth? Your voice is unfairly hot too.”

Your cognitive functions ceased entirely. The proximity brought his cologne into focus - something expensive and intoxicating that absolutely wasn't helping your ability to form coherent thoughts. The height difference hit differently in person, requiring you to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

“Five minutes to places!” the director's call pierced through your haze, saving you from having to remember basic language skills.

The shoot itself was a study in sweet torture. For the first time in your career, you found yourself flubbing takes - missing cues, getting lost in moments. You, who prided yourself on one-take perfection, needed multiple runs at the simplest scenes. But how could you focus when he kept looking at you like that? The way his eyes would drift slowly down your body between setups, how his hands would rub together - a tell you'd seen in dozens of post-match interviews when something particularly caught his interest. But then again, Aurélien was known for giving everything his complete attention. You'd watched enough footage to know that.

He played his role perfectly - too perfectly, really. Each take had him hitting his marks with the same precision he showed on the field, but there was something else there. Something in the way his hand would linger just a moment too long when helping you up, how his eyes would catch yours in the monitor playback.

“Last setup!” the director announced, and you silently thanked whatever higher power was listening. Your heart could only take so much.

“So," Aurélien said during the lighting adjustment, his voice dropping to a register that did dangerous things to your pussy. “Since you're such a football fan now... maybe you'd want to come to my match this weekend? VIP seats?”

Your heart stuttered. “Yeah? What if someone recognizes me?”

"Let them," he smiled, and that chain glinted again as he shifted closer. "Maybe I want people to know, especially about that DM.”

You couldn't help laughing despite your burning cheeks. "You're never letting that go, are you?”

"Never," he agreed, then added more softly: "But I'm glad you sent it. Been trying to figure out how to slide in your DMs too, especially after seeing all those likes on my gym posts.”

You looked up at him (way up - seriously, the height difference was doing things to you), catching that dangerous glint in his eye. “Oh….”

"Front row seats," he continued, voice dropping lower. "Right behind the bench. That way I'll know exactly where to look after I score.”

Your heart did another full gymnastic routine. “Pretty confident about that goal, huh?”

"I'm confident about a lot of things," he smiled, and that chain caught the light once more as he leaned down slightly. “Like how good those likes looked on my notifications.”

You were going to pass away on the spot. But then his hand found yours, and that smile softened into something more private, more real. “Sure I’ll go.”

Maybe drunk you had known exactly what she was doing after all.

******************************************

Thank god for these VIP seats because the view? Immaculate.

Grandpa Ancelotti finally put Aurélien in his rightful position and oh my god, watching him command the midfield in person hit so different. TV did not prepare you for this. At all.

The way his orange kit stretched across those shoulders when he'd gesture to teammates? Criminal. And those calves? You'd seen them in videos but in person they were actually unreal. The entire package was just unfair - whoever said football kits weren't flattering had never seen Aurélien Tchouaméni in one. His body was sculptural, all lean muscle and perfect proportions, like god really sat down and took extra time crafting him specifically to ruin your life.

You watched him talk tactics with Jude, all authority and focused energy, and the way he carried himself on the field had you feeling some type of way. His whole demeanor shifted during matches - all business and pure power. The intensity in his eyes when he'd call out positions? Yeah, you were definitely going to need a glass of water.

When he made that assist - a perfect pass that had the crowd screaming - you jumped up cheering before remembering you were supposed to be playing it cool. But how could you when he glanced your way during the celebration with that smile?

Every time he'd body someone off the ball, the way his muscles flexed with the effort... Lord have mercy. You'd really thought writing a song about him was peak down bad but watching him work in person? Your brain was absolutely short-circuiting.

During a water break, he caught your eye and adjusted his shirt - a move you'd seen in countless matches but this time it felt deliberate, just for you. The stadium lights hit his dark skin just right, making him look like he was literally glowing. And that jawline? Sharp enough to cut glass.

The final whistle had you watching his post-match routine like you hadn't already memorized it from videos - the handshakes, the quick interviews, the way he'd run his hand over his fresh fade when downplaying how good he was. But then he looked up at your spot again with that private little smile and yeah... you were absolutely screwed.

Because watching Aurélien Tchouaméni absolutely own the soccer pitch? That wasn't just attraction anymore. That was straight up ruination.

You made it to the designated area and only had to wait around 30 minutes before Aurélien showed up, fresh from the shower, dressed casually but still somehow managing to look like a walking problem. A clean black tee stretched across his chest, showing off the definition of his arms, paired with dark jeans that sat just right on his waist. And the way his chain rested against his collarbone? Yeah, this was dangerous.

“You waited long?” he asked, a lazy smile on his lips as he approached, exuding the kind of confidence that came naturally to him.

“Not really,” you said, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

His eyes dragged over you in a way that felt intentional, like he was cataloging every detail. “Good. Would’ve hated to keep you waiting.”

The way he said it sent a shiver down your spine, but before you could overthink it, he tilted his head. “You hungry?”

You blinked. “Yeah.”

“Come on, let’s get something to eat,” he said, nodding toward the exit.

You followed him out, keeping pace as he led you to his car — his matte black Lamborghini Urus. Of course. He opened the passenger door for you, stepping back just enough to give you space but still managing to be close, like his presence was a gravitational pull.

“You good?” he asked, one brow lifting as you hesitated before getting in.

You nodded quickly, sliding into the plush seat, inhaling the faint scent of leather and his cologne —clean, expensive, and entirely him. He shut the door gently before walking around to the driver’s side, settling in smoothly before starting the engine. The deep purr of the car filled the quiet, and when he rested one hand on the wheel, the other on the gear shift, your eyes traced the veins in his forearm, the way his fingers flexed slightly.

Yeah, this was setting you off.

Aurélien drove with an effortless confidence, maneuvering through Madrid’s streets like he’d done it a million times — which, of course, he had. As he looped around the Bernabéu, he nodded toward the stadium. “You should come back for a tour.”

Your head turned sharply toward him. “What?”

He glanced at you, amused by your surprise. “You liked watching me play, right?”

Like was an understatement. Watching him on the pitch, commanding the game with precision and strength, was one thing. But now, seeing him here, driving through the city with that same quiet control, his jaw flexing as he focused on the road, his fingers tapping against the wheel — it was too much.

You were obsessed. Fully.

Your crush was sitting mere inches away, effortlessly charming, looking stupid good behind the wheel, and here you were, acting all timid. No. You needed to snap out of it. Because if you didn’t make a move now, when would you?

“You like tacos?” His voice cut through your thoughts as he stopped at a red light, glancing at you with a knowing smirk.

Of course, you liked tacos. But right now? Food was the last thing on your mind.

Because tomorrow night, you’d be on a flight back to LA. Who knew when you’d see him again? Your lives were on different continents. And after everything —after DMing him, after him actually showing up for your video — didn’t you deserve this one night?

Your heart pounded as you turned toward him fully, a slow smile curving your lips. “Tacos can wait.”

Aurélien’s lips curved into a smirk, the kind that sent heat rushing through you. He tilted his head slightly, feigning innocence. “Oh? And what are you in the mood for?”

The way his voice dipped on the last word made your breath hitch. He knew exactly what you meant. And judging by the way his fingers flexed against the steering wheel, he liked where this was going.

“Maybe we can go back to your place?” you suggested, trying to sound casual despite the thrum of anticipation running through you.

He hummed, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip like he was weighing his options. “For something to eat…or?”

“Definitely or,” you giggled, the boldness surprising even yourself.

Aurélien let out a deep chuckle, shaking his head slightly as he turned onto a quieter road. “Alright. So, UberEats later. Sounds good.”

Your stomach flipped at the ease in his tone, like this was the most natural thing in the world. Then his eyes flicked to you, warm and dark with something unreadable, and he bit his lip. “You’re so beautiful.”

The compliment was soft, unprompted, and it caught you off guard. Your chest tightened, heat creeping up your neck. “Thank you.”

He didn’t rush the drive, taking his time maneuvering through the streets, letting conversation flow easily between you. He asked about your time in Madrid, what you’d done so far, if you liked the city. And the whole time, his voice had that smooth, rich quality that made every word feel like it was meant just for you.

When he finally pulled up to his house — a sleek, modern place with clean lines and warm lighting —you barely had time to take it in before a low bark caught your attention.

Ocho.

The Belgian Malinois trotted toward the door as soon as you stepped inside, his dark eyes locked onto you with curiosity. Aurélien placed a reassuring hand on your lower back, his touch warm and grounding. “Let him sniff you first,” he murmured.

You extended your hand slightly, letting Ocho inspect you. The dog’s ears twitched before he gave a small huff, seemingly satisfied.

Aurélien grinned. “Good boy.” Then, switching to French, he said, “Va dans ta chambre.” (Go to your room.)

Ocho obeyed immediately, padding off toward what you assumed was his designated space.

“He’s well-trained,” you noted, impressed.

Aurélien shrugged, closing the door behind him. “Had to be. He’s my best boy.” Then he turned to you, his gaze softer now. “You want anything to drink?”

The fact that he even asked — so polite, so sweet —made your heart squeeze a little.

You shook your head. “I’m good.”

Still, he grabbed a bottle of Gatorade and a water anyway, tucking them under his arm before reaching for you. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you in just enough to make your breath hitch. “Come on.”

As he guided you upstairs, his lips found the side of your neck, pressing slow, lingering kisses against your skin as you walked. His goatee tickled, the warmth of his mouth sending shivers down your spine.

By the time you made it to his bedroom, you were already gripping his arm, steadying yourself against the dizzying effect of his touch.

Aurélien smirked as he nudged the door shut behind you. “Still thinking about tacos?”

Not even a little bit. “No.”

He placed the Gatorade and water bottle on the bedside table then Aurélien’s hands were warm against your waist, fingers pressing into your skin as he pulled you in. His lips found yours, soft at first, tasting, teasing, savoring. The kiss started slow, a gentle exploration, his lips moving against yours in a way that had your heart thudding in your chest.

But then his hands slid lower, gripping the curve of your hips, and something shifted. The kiss deepened, turning hotter, messier — needy. His tongue met yours, stroking, claiming, pulling soft moans from your lips that he swallowed greedily.

The room was quiet except for the sounds of your mouths working against each other, the wet slide of tongues, the occasional breathless sighs escaping between kisses. His fingers trailed up your back, making you arch into him, pressing your body flush against his. The heat between you was dizzying, his scent — fresh, clean, and something uniquely him —wrapping around you like a drug.

Your hands roamed, exploring the hard planes of his back, the ridges of muscle beneath his skin. He groaned into your mouth when your nails scratched lightly at his nape, the sound vibrating through you and making your thighs clench.

His hands moved with purpose now, sliding under the hem of your top, pushing it up, breaking the kiss only long enough to strip it from you. Then he went for your bottoms, peeling them away, leaving you in just your underwear. His dark eyes roved over you, taking you in, heat flickering in his gaze.

“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself, before his hands were back on you, caressing, exploring, like he needed to feel every inch of your skin.

You didn’t hesitate, your fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward. He let you pull it over his head, and your breath hitched when you got a full view of him — his abs looked even better in person, all taut muscle and definition, a masterpiece carved in 4D.

Your fingers traced along the ridges, relishing the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

Aurélien groaned, low and deep, his head tipping back slightly. “You’re really testing my patience, bébé.”

You smiled, dragging your fingertips lower, teasing along the waistband of his jeans. Your fingers worked at the button, then the zipper, easing the denim down his hips. He helped, pushing them the rest of the way until they pooled at his feet, leaving him in just his Aime boxers.

Your breath caught.

He was hard.

The thick outline of his length strained against the fabric, the sight making heat pool low in your belly.

Your hands ghosted over his erection, barely grazing him, but it was enough to make him suck in a sharp breath.

“Shit,” he hissed, his hips jerking slightly at the contact.

You muttered an apology, but he just shook his head, eyes dark with heat. “It’s okay, bébé.”

Then his lips were on yours again, stealing the breath from your lungs, guiding you toward the bed. You barely registered the feel of the mattress beneath you before he was pressing you down, his body hovering over yours, his heat surrounding you.

And from the way he looked at you — like he was about to ruin you — you knew you were in for it.

His hands skimmed down your body to unclasp your bra then his fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down your legs with agonizing slowness. His gaze roved over you, hungry and heated, before he lowered himself between your thighs.

His mouth found your skin, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses from your navel downward, making you shiver in anticipation.

And then — oh.

Aurélien’s lips, his tongue, the warmth of his breath against your pussy had you gasping, your fingers tangling in his curls as he worked you over with a skill that had your thighs trembling.

He was deliberate but messy, completely focused on you, his lips wrapping around your clit while his tongue moved in slow, devastating circles. When he slipped two fingers inside, curling them just right, a strangled moan escaped your lips.

“Tu prends si bien, bébé,” he murmured against you, the vibration of his voice making you whimper. His fingers stroked inside you, matching the rhythm of his tongue, and your hips bucked instinctively. He just chuckled, holding you in place as he kept going, kept building you higher, until—

And then he pulled away.

A whimper of protest left your lips before you could stop it, and he smirked at your pout, his thumb swiping at the corner of his mouth like he was savoring the taste of you.

“Be right back,” he said, pressing a final kiss to your inner thigh before moving toward his dresser.

You pushed up on your elbows, watching as he pulled out a condom, then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down. Your breath hitched at the sight of him — thick, long, and impossibly hard.

Aurélien caught you staring and smirked. “Like what you see?”

You swallowed, your cheeks heating. “Obviously.”

That made him chuckle as he rolled the condom on, then returned to the bed, his hands guiding your legs further apart as he settled between them. One arm reached behind you, grabbing a pillow and tucking it under your lower back, another small but thoughtful gesture that made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with arousal.

His lips found your neck as he nudged himself against your entrance, teasing you with shallow strokes, making your body crave him even more.

And as he finally, finally pushed inside, a deep moan left your lips, because — oh. Oh.

This was happening. Your crush, your fantasy, your dream — was now your reality.

His thrusts were slow at first, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you, filling you, but it didn’t take long before the teasing gave way to something deeper, more urgent. He kissed you through it, all tongue and heat, swallowing your moans as his hips found a steady rhythm.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with pleasure. “So wet for me.”

The chain around his neck swung forward with every movement, the cool metal brushing against your skin, dangling just above your face, and god, he looked beautiful like this — face twisted in pleasure, jaw clenched, brows furrowed, dark eyes locked on yours like he never wanted to look away.

“Tu es si belle,” he groaned, dropping his head to your neck, dragging open-mouthed kisses along your throat before moving lower. His tongue flicked over your nipple before he took it into his mouth, sucking just enough to send a sharp jolt of pleasure through you. Your back arched off the bed, hands tangling in his curls as you whimpered his name.

Aurélien pulled back slightly, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before he released you with a wet pop. His eyes met yours, dark and full of intent.

“Turn over for me,” he said, voice like gravel, thick with desire.

You swallowed, your body already obeying before your mind could catch up. He sat back, watching you get on all fours, his large hands smoothing over the curve of your ass, squeezing each cheek once before dragging up your spine. The way he looked at you, eyes burning with hunger, sent heat pooling low in your stomach.

“You’re perfect,” he muttered, almost to himself. Then he ran a hand through his curls, exhaling sharply before gripping your hips and lining himself up again.

And when he pushed back inside, deeper than before, a broken moan fell from your lips.

“That’s it, bébé,” he murmured, his fingers digging into your skin as he started to move, slow at first, teasing. “Taking me so well.”

His pace quickened, the sound of skin on skin filling the air, along with the low, guttural groans spilling from his lips. His chain swung again, the rhythmic clink of metal adding to the mix of sensations that had you spiraling.

“Feel me?” he rasped, dragging a hand up your spine to fist your hair gently, pulling just enough to make you arch. “So deep inside you. Fuck.”

You whimpered, barely able to form words, barely able to breathe with how good he felt, how he filled every inch of you like he was made for this.

“Talk to me,” he urged, voice raw. “Let me hear you.”

“I’m—” Your words broke off into a moan as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.

“Yeah?” he taunted, a smirk in his voice. “Right there, huh?”

You could only nod frantically, your body trembling as he picked up the pace, chasing both of your releases. His angled his hips once more and that made you let out something primal.

“Damn, yes fuck me back,” he crooned just before you felt his lips touch the middle of spine. You shivered at the sensation, moaning out his name like a prayer.

“Aurélien….”

He rocked into you harder, faster and it made your toes curl. He was relentless and you loved every second of it. The sounds you both were making was the perfect lullaby of lust and pleasure.

“Mm…shit….Aurélien.” You couldn’t stop from moaning his name and judging by the way his hands gripped your hips each time, you could tell that he liked it.

Soon, you both were pushed over that edge, moaning as your orgasm overwhelmed your entire body. After awhile, you felt him slip out of you and then the bed shifted as he moved to throw out the condom.

Your body still hummed with the aftershocks of pleasure, limbs heavy, breath slowly evening out. You were probably a mess — hair wild, lips swollen, body still flushed with heat — but Aurélien? He looked unfairly good.

He was leaning back against the headboard, his chest still rising and falling steadily, dark skin glowing under the dim light. The chain that had been dangling in your face minutes ago now rested against his collarbones, catching the light with each small movement. He reached over to grab his Gatorade, unscrewing the cap and taking a long sip before setting it on the bedside table.

Then, he turned to you, dark eyes scanning your face, something soft in his expression. “You want some?”

You shook your head, not because you weren’t thirsty, but because you couldn’t stop staring at him.

His lips quirked slightly. “You must really like me.”

The way he said it wasn’t cocky or teasing — it was knowing, like he’d been piecing it together all night. And maybe he was right, because you couldn’t help the dopey-ass smile that spread across your face.

Aurélien chuckled, shaking his head before exhaling through his nose. “I like you too. Wish you didn’t beat me to sliding in the DMs first, though.”

You lifted a brow. “You really mad about that?”

He made a little face, scrunching his nose slightly, which was unfairly adorable for someone who had just rearranged your insides. “Not that much,” he admitted. “But I would’ve liked the chase.”

You scoffed, rolling onto your side to face him. “The chase? What are you, a lion?”

That made him smile, a real one, warm and lazy, like he was letting his guard down completely. “When a guy likes a girl, he usually asks her out first,” he said simply. “You were in my likes, I was in yours… I was about to slide through, but yeah, you beat me to it.”

Your stomach did a little flip.

He reached out then, running a hand down your arm before linking his fingers loosely with yours. “But I’m gonna do the rest, okay?”

Your breath caught, your heart stumbling in your chest. This was Aurélien Tchouaméni, your crush, your dream, and now, here he was — holding your hand, looking at you like this wasn’t just some one-night thing.

“Okay,” you whispered, squeezing his fingers lightly.

His smile widened, and then he tugged you closer, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before settling beside you, keeping your hand in his like he wasn’t planning to let go anytime soon.

You couldn’t help but stare at him — at the strong lines of his face, the sharp jaw softened by the faintest hint of stubble, the fullness of his lips, the way his lashes rested against his cheeks when he blinked. He was so beautiful.

“What?” he murmured, catching you staring.

You shrugged, biting your lip. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

How crazy it was that you were here. That this wasn’t a dream. That your crush — the man who dominated the midfield with an effortless cool, the one you’d written lyrics about, the one you’d been too shy to DM for the longest time — was lying next to you, holding your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“About how wild this is,” you admitted.

Aurélien chuckled, his dimples flashing as he turned onto his side, propping his head up with his free hand. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “I mean, this time yesterday, I was just hoping you’d even notice me at the game. Now I’m in your bed.”

That smirk made a reappearance, but his voice was soft when he said, “I noticed you way before the game, bébé.”

Your stomach flipped. “Yeah?”

“Of course,” he said easily. “You think I wasn’t watching whenever you posted on Instagram? When you DM’d me?”

Your face warmed. “You didn’t answer right away.”

He grinned, teasing. “Had to make you sweat a little.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Wow, so you really are a lion.”

“Gotta keep things interesting,” he mused. Then, more seriously, “But I was always gonna answer.”

Something about the way he said it made your heart squeeze. Like he wasn’t just saying it to make you feel good. Like, in some way, he’d been waiting for this too.

You swallowed. “And now that I’m here?”

Aurélien’s eyes darkened slightly, but there was something tender in his gaze as he squeezed your fingers. “Now,” he murmured, shifting closer, “I’m making sure you come back.”

Your breath caught, and before you could think of a response, he kissed you.

It was slow this time, unhurried, like he wanted to take his time tasting you. His lips moved against yours with an intoxicating rhythm, deepening the kiss little by little until you were completely lost in it. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheek as he kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

And maybe he did. Maybe this wasn’t just for tonight.

Maybe, just maybe, this was only the beginning.

Aurélien pulled back just enough to search your face, his lips still brushing against yours, his breath warm against your skin. His fingers traced slow, lazy patterns along your arm as he studied you with that knowing smirk that made your stomach flip.

“That song,” he murmured. “It’s about me, isn’t it?”

Your heart stuttered.

For a second, you thought about playing coy, maybe teasing him a little, but what was the point? He already knew. You could see it in the glint of amusement in his eyes, the confidence in his voice.

You sighed, defeated but grinning. “Yeah,” you admitted softly. “It’s about you.”

Aurélien chuckled, shaking his head like he’d known it all along. “I knew it,” he said, his voice rich with satisfaction. “You should write another one.”

You huffed out a laugh. “Another song?”

“Mm-hmm.” His fingers brushed down your back, tracing the curve of your spine. “One about tonight.”

Your breath hitched at the implication, at the way his voice had dipped lower, rougher.

You bit your lip. “Might have to.”

Aurélien grinned. “Good,” he murmured, kissing you again. “Make it a love song.”

[famedfeed]

APRIL 10, 2023

#SELENE #HYOJUNG named new Korean brand ambassador for @Gucci

Gucci Gift with Hyojung Campaign Film: gucci.com/kr/ko/ca/gifts/hyojung-campaign-aria-c-hyojung-aria

[creatchie8]

The First Daughter

Summary: Hopelessly in love with the agent assigned to protect you, you devise a plan to reveal his true feelings

Pairing: Secret Service!Robert Floyd/First Daughter!Fem!Reader

Warnings: Minors DNI! Oral (F receiving), alcohol consumption

A/N: I got obsessed watching the 2004 film, First Daughter, and took lots of inspo from that movie. I'd love to have him sworn to protect me ;) (Not proofread, I wrote this speedy fast)

Word Count: 3,500ish

The two of you had been playing eye tag the whole night. 

And with every sip of the red wine you took, the more bold you became. Your cheeks felt warm as the alcohol slowly made your body buzz with excitement, ankles wobbling just a bit on the dancefloor in your red-bottomed heels. The orchestra that was hired played absolutely magnificently, the music changing between jazz and waltz, filling the (already full) large ballroom. 

Marvelous gold chandeliers basked everything in a soft, warm glow. The regality of it all took you back in time, you imagine this is what it would look like if you were a princess in the 1920s. The paintings of your forefathers adorned the walls along with rich brown velvet curtains, a perfect contrast to the light walls and columns. 

It was the second New Years with your mother as President, the first with Agent Robert Floyd by your side. 

Robert was younger- mid thirties, some modest Navy man looking to change his career path when he got assigned to you after completing his training at the JJRTC in South Laurel, Maryland. He was incredibly unassuming, following you around quietly as you went about your day at Harvard or home. 

How you ended up here at your mother’s party in DC trying to get a reaction out of the man, you don’t know. Maybe you were delusional, somehow you had convinced yourself that he felt something for you (love or lust, you didn’t know). It was the man’s job for god sakes, to follow you around and make you feel safe. You were not special to him in any way. 

Within the last five months though, it felt like one of those steamy romance slow burn books you are always hearing about on social media. Lately, his gaze lingered longer than it should have when the two of you were in private. He opened up more, responding in detail when you would ask him questions about his life instead of the short one word answers he used to give before analyzing your surroundings again. 

His voice was soft when he spoke to you, his hand finding your lower back like it was his own personal polar star when the crowd around you thickened. It was like the longer he was assigned to you the more his shell melted. Robert of course had time away from you, even as your agent he must eat and sleep. But when he would return and replace whoever was watching you before, he would ask to be caught up on when he was away. 

No agent had ever had interest in you like that before. 

You were probably just incredibly horny, being the President’s daughter doesn't get you much action, or at least not the kind you want. And you knew it was bad to want Robert Floyd, but somehow that made you desire him even more. 

The dress you were wearing tonight may or may not have been picked out with your agent in mind. Floor length and velvety black, the soft fabric smooth against your middle. A neckline that was perfectly flattering of your chest, a simple necklace sitting on top of your collarbones delicately but also working to help draw eyes to your cleavage. Surely modest enough for the gathering but eye catching for sure. 

He was stationed near a pair of opened doors, pressed against the wall in a neat black and white tuxedo, a metal american flag pinned neatly on his left lapel. It was standard dress for every agent that was there, but to you Robert stood out as by far the most handsome one. Light brown hair combed perfectly to the side. His blue eyes scanned the crowd in a zig-zag motion, stuttering and stopping on you when you were in view, his unique glasses glinting in the light. 

The whole night you had been inching closer, using the excuse of mingling to hop from table to table (intermittently being taken to the dance floor by your father or some diplomat's son) and closer to his door. At one point you looked up from where you were leaning on a table, catching his eyes. 

A few times tonight that had already happened only for him to look away swiftly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he straightened his shoulders. But this time he held your gaze, almost defensively as his brows furrowed the tiniest bit. He probably assumed you would take one for the team and back down first this time. But that second glass of wine you were halfway done with was leaving you valiant, his determination causing the side of your mouth to tick up the tiniest bit. 

The muscles in his jaw twitched as he admitted a silent defeat, flicking his eyes elsewhere. 

Never a rude host, you turned your attention back to the guest you were chatting with, letting her finish her story before politely excusing yourself elsewhere. With your clutch in hand and your wine abandoned at the table, you set off to the open door. With this newfound confidence you strut (albeit somewhat off balance) like you had every intention in the world to just leave for the bathroom and come back with no ulterior motive. 

But you like to think Robert knew you like the back of his hand, watching him bring his right arm up, speaking into the microphone in his sleeve. An agent still had not relieved him as you passed by, eyes forward even though in your peripheral you noticed his head turn to you. 

It wasn't until your heels hit the magnificent marble staircase that you heard his footsteps following you, echoing through the hall. Your left hand grabbed the front of the dress, hiking it well above your ankles as you climbed the stairs. Shockingly, there was no one loitering in this part of the building. Passing by a grandfather clock on the opposite wall you squint to make out the thin arms, concluding that it was in fact, almost midnight. The smell of pine lingered outside the ballroom, drifting into almost nothing the further you got. 

You had already passed by two bathrooms as you led Robert on a wild goose chase through the building, trying to find the perfect spot. He was beyond patient with you, finally caught up and only a few short steps behind. 

When you finally found what room you were looking for, you stopped short, letting his muscular body bump into yours before spinning around. Robert looked mortified, already stuttering beginnings of apologies as you grabbed the lapels of his jacket, thumb accidentally turning the pin askew before pulling him into the empty room (with remarkable force you might add). 

In a whirlwind of moving bodies you suddenly found yourself back against the closed door, that same mortified look on his face as he stood there trapped in the room. In the shuffle you had dropped your clutch near your feet, the beaded satchel slumped against the dark mahogany floor. 

The room was simple, a pool table in the center and a few chairs nestled close to the unlit fireplace. There was a bookcase somewhere in the room, hidden by the veil of darkness. The moonlight showed through two good sized windows on the wall facing you, his back illuminated by the light. 

“I thought you needed to go to the bathroom.” He stated, clearly confused as his brows furrow. You could barely see his face and it might've been the alcohol but you were falling hard. 

“I changed my mind.” You crossed your arms, body heavy against the great door. 

“You wanted to play…” He turned towards the pool table then back to you, “pool?” His eyes continue to search the room, mapping out his surroundings like he always does. 

Huffing at his lack of interest in you, you get straight to the point, “Robert, do you think I’m attractive?” It comes out brattier than you intend and you close your mouth with an audible click.

“What?” His attention is back to you in an instant, eyes wide behind his glasses. 

“I asked, do you think I’m attractive?” Repeating yourself, biting your bottom lip hard at your own boldness. It takes a few seconds for him to respond to you, opening and closing his mouth a few times while he processes your question. 

“Y-You're incapacitated, please let me help you back downstairs.” He says calmly, but you can see right through it. The mask he is putting on causes you to roll your eyes dramatically. Robert steps forward, hands outstretched to presumably grab your shoulders so it's easier to guide you back to your parents. The action makes your stomach light up in excitement, your first reaction is pushing yourself off the door and away from his reach, further into the room. 

“I am anything but ‘incapacitated’. I’m tipsy.” You declare matter of factly, cheeks burning in the warm room. Now your back was to the window, your positions switched. 

“That still falls under the definition of incapacitated.” 

“I think you're attractive.” Your voice was suddenly much quieter, now toe to toe with a man visibly sweating bullets. “I've thought about it since I met you-” The sober part of you shuts your mouth, a nonsense love confession pushing against your teeth. He refused to respond, still as a statue sans his blue eyes tracing your face.

“Why were we playing eye tag from the moment the party started?” You press, determined to not back down until your question was answered. 

“My job is to look after you.” A very real explanation to your question. The opposite of what you want. 

“Is it your job to clench your teeth when I dance with other guys?” Just the mere mention of it has his upper lip twitching, and you know you've got your answer. You look up at him through mascaraed eyelashes, sweaty hands reaching up (surprisingly more shaky than you thought) to clutch at his black lapels. 

You would've thought he’d stop you, it would be easy in your impaired state to grab your wrists and haul you down to the party in a cloud of shame. But he watched as you focused on his pin, pinching it between your forefinger and thumb to adjust it.  

You don't process that he’s moved his hand up until he is brushing the hair out of your face that escaped your modest updo. His fingertips are gentle, and you begin to worry that this is the end before it has even begun, that he’s about to open his mouth and let you down easy. Pressing your hands firmly against his warm chest you weakly try to push back, the fear of rejection drenching your whole body.

He caught you unexpectedly by the shoulders, fingers wrapping around your bare upper biceps. Holding you close firmly, you gave up pushing away and dropped your arms to your side. Robert was searching your eyes before letting a long sigh out his nose. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that-��� You close your eyes and tilt your head back to the ceiling, “I guess I am a little incapacitated.”  Placing emphasis on the word to lighten the mood, not wanting to look at him to save yourself from embarrassment. 

You were aware of everything on your body with your eyes closed. The tickle of your hair on your neck, the way your dress hugged your body, you could even feel the way your heels teetered on the hardwood. Worst of all, you felt his warm, calloused hands smoothing down your naked arms. 

Then you felt one of his hands leave your arm, trailing up and up to your neck and cradling the back of your skull. Robert pulled your head up but still you kept your eyes closed. 

“You don’t understand what you’re asking." A quiet waltz played from the floor below, accompanying his words that stung like rubbing alcohol in a cut. Your eyes snap open in an instant, rapidly blinking to clear them from the blurriness. You could barely think coherent thoughts between his hand still on the back of your neck and his painful words. 

“I do know what I’m asking-” You exclaimed defiantly, “and I’m not stupid-”

“I never said you were stupid.” He cut you off abruptly, his warm breath fanned across your face in short puffs. You clenched your fists by your sides, your body itchy with annoyance.

“Robert. I swear to god if you interrupt me aga-” 

And then he kissed you. And all you could do was rip yourself away from him in vexation, opening your mouth to hiss something at him about fucking interupting you again. 

As you stumbled back you realized something. He was looking back at you like you had sprouted a third ear, and the disbelief in his eyes made you want to go search for a mirror to see if you actually did. 

“Oh.” You touched your lips, desire starting a low buzz beneath your skin. He had kissed you. And it felt good. 

“Yeah.” Robert said, almost sheepishly. 

“Ohh-” Was all you could get out before he was on you again, his hands connecting with your waist while yours cupped his cheeks and jaw, pulling him closer. 

It was frantic and messy, you felt light headed by the lack of oxygen. Your lipgloss had smeared all over your lips and his, the soft vanilla flavor all you could taste when you licked into his open mouth. Warmth blossomed in your chest as his hands sank lower to cup your ass through your dress, his lips migrating from yours to your jaw, leaving a light trail of saliva in their path. 

Hands trailing up to rest against the nape of his neck, the short hair tickling your palms as you bit your bottom lip, stifling whines as his lips worked against the sensitive parts of your neck. It was too much yet not enough as his hands roamed over your body and yet managed to miss everywhere you needed him the most. 

“S-Stop teasing me.” You managed to pant out, a gasp leaving your kiss-swollen lips as Robert’s cold glasses pressed into your neck. You grab his hand from where it was resting under your breast, walking backwards blindly in search of the pool table. Your other arm was outstretched behind you, acting as a buffer in case you trip and fall. 

Robert stumbled along like an obedient dog, reaching up with his unoccupied hand to yank the earpiece from his ear so it just dangled from his button up collar. When your bum hit the pool table he lifted you up and set you upon the edge with no hesitation, making butterflies kick up in your stomach. You were still in awe over his strength that you didn't even realize he had delicately slipped your straps from your shoulders and his hands were behind your back, pinching your zipper.

“May I?” He asked softly, awaiting your response. He was absolutely gorgeous, the moonlight illuminated only one side of his face. His hair was tousled and his lips were red from the kisses. Fine lines carefully etched into his features, the only sign of his age. 

Your stomach flipped as you nodded, inhaling a deep breath through your nose as he invaded your space, slotting himself between your thighs. Robert looked over your shoulder and pressed a few soft kisses there as he carefully unzipped your dress. Your hands drifted up and grasped at his belt, the silver metal burning your fingertips with cold as you clumsily fought with it. 

His lips returned to your mouth as he slowly pulled the dress down over your breasts, urging your hands away from his now unzipped slacks and through the arm holes of your dress. Although the air was warm to your cheeks and back, it made goosebumps rise along your chest, nipples perking up as the top fell to your lap. 

You hardly noticed his lips leaving yours until you felt him push on your left shoulder, guiding you back so you were propped up on your elbows on the deep green baize. A protest died in your throat as his lips wrapped around a nipple, his warm tongue lapping at the stiff peak. A startled cry left your mouth as you felt his hand tweak your other nipple, pinching and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

You let your head drop back as his mouth switched to your other nipple, his fingers pinching the other. The black dress still was around your legs, thighs straining the fabric as you silently begged for him to touch your now aching core. You lifted up a heeled foot, pressing one of his thighs closer to your center.

Robert takes the hint, much to your relief and slips his hands down your body. You can feel every callous, every fingernail as he presses them into your soft skin and eventually grips his fists into the dress gathered near your knees. 

 You try to focus on the ceiling, which looked like it stretched miles above the both of you, crown molding decorating the edges and hand painted vines adorned the flat space between. 

Slowly, just as Robert lifts your knees up and over his shoulders and sinks to the ground, you lower yourself flat against the green, arms outstretched above your head.  

Your lower half was bare, save for the midnight black dress pooling around your waist. Robert’s breath huffed against your clothed core, drawing your attention back to him. 

“Fuck…” You hear him whisper hoarsely. And only then can you feel his fingers drawing your panties to the side, a sharp gust of cold air drifting over your dripping pussy. The praise heats your cheeks, a swell of shyness bubbles within your chest. The panties are placed over your core and Robert presses his face against the silky black fabric, startling you. 

You start to sit up on your elbows again, a moan caught in your throat as you watch him bury his nose and mouth in the damp silk, taking a deep inhale with his eyes closed. Savoring your smell as he mouths against you. It was tortuous, his blunt fingernails digging into the meat of your thighs. His cheeks are red, his groans vibrating against you as his glasses begin to fog. 

“Please, Robert. I can’t-” Is all you can get out before he is ripping your panties to the side and licking you whole. With that one motion your thighs are already quivering on either side of his head. His flush trails down to his neck, hiding under the tight collar of his button up. 

Your stomach tightens as the tip of his tongue circles your clit, sucking it into his mouth and savoring it like a piece of hard candy. With your mouth open, all you can do is stare with blurry eyes. Robert was consuming you like a man starved, his ministrations relaxing your muscles and turning you into jello before him. 

“Robert, I-” You begin, outstretching your arm to grasp at his hair.

“Hmmm?” He hums, his mouth still working against you, jaw clenching as you attempt to push him back. Robert looked up at you through long eyelashes, eyes glazed over as if he was the one getting the most pleasure out of it. 

“Please more- oh god do not stop.” You were not above begging. And thank god because that was all it took to convince him. At once he returned to your needy pussy, his right hand slipping from the top of your thigh to your juncture. His middle finger prodded at your entrance, slipping in with little resistance. 

Back arching, you drop down to rest fully on the soft baize. Gasping as he managed to press another finger in. They were big, stretching you. The sensation bites but is quickly soothed as he curls them, beckoning an orgasm out of your body. 

Your chest heaves as your body tightens, moaning nonsense as you get closer and closer. The man between your legs doubling his efforts as if you had told him you were almost there. 

And then your body snaps. It’s like submerging yourself in a warm bath, you cannot breathe, in fear you might drown in the water. But weightless nonetheless. 

He rises to his feet, and you are still boneless on the table. Pussy pulsing, only to be covered up again by your wet panties. The feeling is terribly uncomfortable, drawing a whine from your chest. 

Even more shockingly, you do not even get a moment to revel in the afterglow before he is pulling you up by your elbow.

“Hey! What are you doing?” You huff in half hearted annoyance as he is already pulling your straps up and attempting to zip your dress.

“It is almost midnight-” He finishes zipping up your dress, “I suggest we go celebrate it with your guests.” 

You blink and look up at him, reaching up and fixing his hair as a soft smile graces his features. Your cheeks heat as you remember the party downstairs, how only the two of you know that his face was between your legs just moments ago. 

“Y-Yes.” You clear your throat and adjust your straps, offering him your hand, “I suppose we should.”

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Eddie Munson's royal scandal

Written for @astrangersummer, week 15

Words: 1,633 (also on AO3)

Prompt: Royal and/or Modern AU

Relationship: Steve/Eddie

Rated: T

Tags: Modern AU; Royal AU; Rock star Eddie; Royal Steve; Secret relationship; Fluff and angst

Notes: Previous part | Part 1

The fucking photo is everywhere. 

Eddie knows he should stop checking, should probably delete all his social media accounts and drop his phone in the ocean, maybe throw himself right after. Maybe he would, if that would change anything. He groans, slamming the phone down on the table and burying his face in his hands. 

They've been so careful, and for what? 

One second of weakness, one stolen moment by the backstage entrance of Eddie’s last gig, and everything is falling to pieces. He should’ve known better. You're never really alone, no matter how safe you deem yourself. Steve even less than Eddie. 

“I mean, not to be a smartass,” Chrissy’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. She's seated on the opposite side of his kitchen table, laptop in front of her. “But you do realize you could've just waited until you got to your hotel room?” 

Eddie stops pulling at his own hair to give her a tired look. 

“I missed him, okay? Between my Europe tour and his stupid state visit to Asia, it was the first time in months that we saw each other. It was literally just one kiss.” 

Chrissy gives him a look.

“Eddie, I love you,” she says flatly. “But it looks like you're trying to suck out his tonsils with your tongue.” 

Eddie’s forehead joins the phone on the table. 

“I know,” he groans. “Fuck. What do we do now, Chris?” 

She doesn’t answer right away, and that scares him more than anything. Chrissy always knows what to do.

“Maybe it won't be as bad,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “I mean the picture is quite grainy. You're pretty recognizable with your stage outfit and the tattoos, but Steve? He could be just some guy, really.”

“Yeah, no,” Eddie huffs, picking up his phone again. His private messages are blowing up, but he doesn’t find it in himself to open them. “Have you met those royal fangirls? Batshit crazy, man. They have the shape of his moles memorized and all.” 

“You have the shape of his moles memorized,” Chrissy provides. 

Eddie glowers at her, and her face goes soft.

“Hey,” she says, shutting her laptop and taking his hand. “We'll figure it out, I promise. I know it looks bad now, but-” 

She's interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. 

“That'll be the pizza,” she smiles. “I'll get it, you stay seated. Let's talk about this after dinner, I'm sure things will look a lot less dire on a full stomach.”

Eddie has half a mind to ask her how pizza is supposed to fix a single one of their problems. But he knows she's only trying to help, so he doesn’t say anything and shoots her a tight smile as she flounces out. 

The door opens.

“Oh, hi,” Chrissy says, and Eddie knows from the way her voice goes strained that it's not the pizza. “Eddie didn't mention you were- hey, wait, you can't just-” 

Eddie is already out of his chair and halfway around the table when Hopper comes stomping into the kitchen. He looks intimidating as ever in his shades and dark suit with the royal sigil pinned to the lapel. Today, he's also looking particularly pissed. 

“You!” he barks as soon as he spots Eddie. “You're coming with me. Move.” 

Behind him, Chrissy hovers in the doorway, wide-eyed and pale. 

“I can't,” Eddie says lamely. “I have pizza on the way.” 

Hopper looks at him like he's silently regretting all career choices that have led him to this moment.

“What you have,” he says,” is an appointment at the palace. Now c’mon, or you're paying for my parking ticket.” 

*

Eddie hasn't been to the palace more than a few times, and as on all of his previous visits, the paintings and the chandeliers and the gold and brocade of it all make him feel uncomfortable and on edge. So what if he's been secretly dating the crown prince right under the nose of the public for months? He's still allowed to think that the exaggerated splendor surrounding everything royal is a remnant of a long dead feudal system and a waste of tax money with no place in the modern world. It's called nuance, thank you very much.

Hopper nudges him into a lavish salon or drawing room or whatever the fuck they're called - one with a crackling fire and plush armchairs and a small fortune in antiques lining the walls - and wordlessly pulls the door shut behind him. In one of the chairs, gazing at his phone, side profile lit by the golden firelight, is Steve. 

“Remember all those times Munson said fuck the monarchy?” he says without looking up. It takes Eddie a very confused second to realize he's reading from the comments under the damned photo. “Never realized he meant that literally. Charming. They even got creative with the emoji, look.” 

He flips the phone around. Eddie sinks into the armchair across from him and winces. “I know, I know. So, on a scale from one to ten, how bad is it?” 

“Hm?” Steve says. He's in jeans and a cable-knit sweater, thin wire frame glasses perched on his nose. He looks utterly biteable. Except that's what got them into this mess in the first place. “Oh, very bad. Apparently, you've brainwashed me with some sort of satanic magic to overthrow the monarchy. Either that, or this is a slandering campaign against you, involving a carefully picked doppelganger and-” 

“Steve,” Eddie groans. 

Steve finally lowers the phone, putting it down on the small side table sitting between them and folding his hands in his lap. 

“Eddie,” he says. 

Eddie winces. He knows this tone, this aloof, barely interested drawl. Knows the way Steve holds himself - spine straight, shoulders slightly pulled back, chin up. Eyes so much dimmer than what he's used to. Distant and detached.

This isn't Steve. It's Prince Steven. 

Eddie hoped he'd never have to see the fucker again. 

There's a pile of documents lying on the stupid, fancy side table, right next to the phone. Eddie squints at them, catching the royal sigil at the top, the words non-disclosure agreement below, and his stomach fills with lead. When he manages to speak, his voice sounds hollow in his ears.

“So this is it, huh?” 

Steve sighs. “Father would've loved to speak to you personally.”

The heavy, molten thing in Eddie’s guts twists. 

“Would he now?” he grits out, trying to match Steve’s bored tone and knowing he's failing. Unlike some people, he hasn't been drilled into burying his feelings under a layer of ice all his life. 

Steve nods.

“He had more important things to attend to, though” he says. “Instead, he told me to have you sign this.” 

“Did he now?” Eddie says. It comes out hollow, words snagging in a too-dry throat. 

Steve picks up the documents, leafing through the smooth, white pages. Even the fucking paper is fancy in this place.

“He's instructed our PR team to get me a watertight alibi for the night of the concert. Said we'd deny any acquaintance with you. Forbid you from ever so much as speaking my name in public. I told him to go fuck himself.” 

“Did you no- … Wait, what?” 

Eddie snaps his head up just in time to see how Steve tosses the papers into the fire. The rage on that pretty face is pure, unbridled and undisguised, and Eddie’s heart tugs painfully in his chest. 

“I'm not gonna put a muzzle on you. You can damn well say whatever you want about me. I trust you, and that won't change. Not even if you don't want to continue this-” 

“Woah, woah, wait,” Eddie blurts. “Hold on a sec. You think I'm breaking up with you?” 

Steve blinks at him. “Um, yes? Are you not?”

Eddie can't stop the laugh that bubbles out of him. The weight that has been tearing at his insides ever since the damn photo dropped is gone. He feels like he needs to tether himself to something or he'll float off towards the ugly painted ceiling with the chubby, winged babies. 

“No, you stupid dickhead,” he says, and finally, finally takes Steve's hand in his. “I thought you were breaking up with me.” 

Steve gapes at him. “Why would I- … I'd never do that!” 

“Well, good,” Eddie says. “Cause neither would I.” 

Steve chews on his bottom lip, hope and doubt warring in those lovely eyes of his. 

“I don't think you understand what's at stake here,” he mutters. “If we make this public, it'll be the greatest scandal this country has seen in decades. The press will be all over us, your fans will hate you, my family will tell you to give up your career, they'll-” 

“Honey,” Eddie interrupts him, not bothering to hide the grin that's threatening to split his face in half. “If there's two things you should know about me by now, it's these. One, I'm terrible at taking instructions. And two, I don't give a rat's ass about what anyone thinks about me.” 

Steve's eyes are large and round behind his glasses, but Eddie imagines the hope is winning over the doubt. 

“I wanna be with you,” he says, squeezing Steve’s fingers a little tighter. “And to be frank, I think the system could do with a good shaking-up. Don't you agree?” 

Steve snorts a reluctant laugh, and his entire face lights up with it. “You can say that again.” 

Eddie thinks he's never seen anything as beautiful as Steve’s smile as he slowly lifts their entwined hands to his lips. 

“If it's a scandal they want,” he murmurs, holding Steve's gaze and pressing a long, lingering kiss to his knuckles, “I say let's give them a scandal to remember.” 

[dontbelasagnax]

OMG CAN I DO A PROMPT FOR THE KISS ROULETTE???

No pressure BUT I number 35. Kiss against a wall would make me go FERAL.

Bonus points if it's in some hidden corner and they're trying to sneak away after a hard won battle because the codywan brain rot has GOT ME. I CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING BUT THEM

Please pretend like you sent this ask recently and I haven't been sitting on it for months waiting for my eggs to hatch @why-cant-turtles-fly 😂 As requested, here is codywan kissing against a wall... though it's actually a pillar (oops). I was inspired by this artwork I did!

Pairing: CC-22224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 2,330

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Tenderness, Making Out, Introspection, and by that I mean Obi-Wan is mentally ill and thinks too much, Implied Sexual Content, POV Obi-Wan Kenobi

Summary:

    "Missing something?" Cody wiggles a certain lightsaber in his hand as he closes the distance of only a couple meters.

    "More than one thing, it seems," Obi-Wan replies.

    [ OR: Obi-Wan and Cody steal away some precious time after a victorious battle which of course results in a makeout session against a pillar. ]

(fic under the cut if you wish to read here on tumblr)

This morning Obi-Wan finds himself in the ruins of a long ago abandoned castle, high in the mountainous region of Bestoon's northernmost continent. However difficult the altitude makes it to breathe unassisted, it's worth it for the view. There isn't much he loves looking at more than a sunrise in the clouds.

The sunrise after a well earned victory in battle has become one of Obi-Wan's favorite moments to find peace these last few months or... has it been years? Time has melted together through this dreary drudge of a war.

He's watched this sky transition from dusky purples splashed with rays of golden sunlight to a pale blue canvas with clouds shadowed with purples leaning grey and highlights of soft pinks and yellows.

"Sir," a very familiar voice calls from behind. 

Obi-Wan turns towards the voice. 

'Ah,' Obi-Wan thinks, a smile already beginning to emerge on his features, 'my dearest commander.'

The light of the sky washes Cody in diffused golds and pinks. He is delightfully dressed down, forgoing his armour from the waist up. The tight, ribbed fabric does his physique all the favors the way it clings. A stray curl drops onto his forehead. The lighting does wonders for his complexion. It's as if he's glowing.

Yes, Cody bathed in the light of a new day is the most breathtaking, glorious view of them all.

"Missing something?" Cody wiggles a certain lightsaber in his hand as he closes the distance of only a couple meters. 

"More than one thing, it seems," Obi-Wan replies as he takes the lightsaber held out to him. The metal is heated from the rare touch of Cody's bare hand. Energy thrums from the kyber, a slow pulse that nearly sparkles, sending the residual heat of skin and life up Obi-Wan's arm, straight to his ever beating heart. 

So helpful his kyber crystal is, giving fuel to the flame of his infatuation that, once a slow burn, is steadily alight.

Cody leans back against the pillar, looks at him with those warm, big brown eyes of his and oh…

Obi-Wan steps into Cody's space.

Cody's sharp inhale and the way his hand comes up to touch Obi-Wan's belly is exactly what he wanted. 

Obi-Wan rests his arm beside Cody's head on the stone, bringing his face close enough to just feel Cody's breath on the whiskers of his beard.

Thick, black lashes fluttering downwards then back up. The want in those gorgeous eyes is magnetizing.

Obeying Cody's gravitational pull, Obi-Wan kisses him. The catch of their lips slow and tender, just a hint of saliva and suction, loving the warm nudge of Cody's nose against his cheek, and the bloom of Cody's Force presence like flowers turning to the morning sun. 

"Well done," Obi-Wan murmurs as he pulls away, chasing the wounded noise Cody makes with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Your performance was stellar today, as always. Always."

Obi-Wan clips his lightsaber to his belt and cups his darling's jaw with his newly freed hand. He sighs into the meeting of their lips. The soft warm comfort of Cody's mouth is offset by the rigidity of his armour below the waist. It’s as accurate a representation of Cody’s true self as it gets: compassionate and sweet while still deadly and unwieldy.

Though, as much as Obi-Wan adores this version of Cody—so delectable in only his codpiece, cuisse, and greaves—he’d selfishly prefer him stripped even further. 

Alas, he's getting ahead of himself.

Cody's arms curl around him, hands clenching in his tabards. Their lips make smacking noises with the separation of each slow, deliberate kiss.

It's with a bittersweet ache in his chest that Obi-Wan cherishes these moments for he never knows what the next day will bring. The reality of war is that any second of any day he could lose Cody and he'll never know another day painted warm and vibrant by Cody's dry humor and barely-there smiles, the rare times when Obi-Wan can make him really laugh and hear joy spring from his soul, the quiet steady companionship of his presence, and the compassion he shows his brothers. One day he'll never know another kiss, another pleasure coated sigh of his own name, or feel the needy way Cody curves his entire body into Obi-Wan’s to get what he wants. 

It is possible that Obi-Wan would be the one to go first but… he knows deep down, and has accepted it with peace, that he's meant for infinite sadness. 

He already nearly lost him that first time- the time Cody first kissed him.

However long Cody is willing to share these hidden pockets of love with him, he will cherish every second they have together.

He emphasizes this thought with a purposeful tug and suck of Cody’s bottom lip before pulling away to breathe. The thinner air at this altitude has them panting against each other, lips grazing slightly, a sensitive tingly, ticklish tease.

Cody rubs their noses together, as if trying to grasp any sort of intimacy he can while recovering his breath.

Obi-Wan’s heart squeezes painfully.

Never let it be said lest Cody try to kill him in his sleep… but Cody is not just a sweet, sweet man but adorable.

 Natural as the mist of cloudy mornings, Obi-Wan kisses him again. 

Everything about this is intentional. From the way he slowly draws their mouths together again and again, pace languid and savoring, to the way they've chosen each other- chosen to find these moments to do nothing but love. It's not a choice, really, that they will choose duty over each other if that's what it comes to. That's simply the reality of their existences. Those priorities will never change, not with how the war has molded them into thinking. 

No, the choosing is in the love. 

He does love Cody and perhaps always will. It's not been said. Nor does he know with absolute certainty that Cody feels the same.

Cody's presence in the Force has always been a bit of a comfort for Obi-Wan since they met. Through all the uncertainty and pain in the galaxy, Cody is sturdy and shines. He's not certain when Cody’s signature began emanating a warmth that curls into his chest and makes him feel at home. It could be that with time and the development of Obi-Wan's own feelings, every aspect of Cody became beyond endearing.

Or… it could be the manifestation of Cody's own feelings for Obi-Wan.

He's not certain. And he's very well not going to ask.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't.

Still, he catches quick moments sometimes out the corner of his eye where Cody looks at him with an impossibly soft look on his face and Obi-Wan thinks, 'Maybe-’

Really. It doesn't matter. 

He has Cody so readily in the cradle of his arms, drinking up every milliliter of affection bestowed upon him.

And, well, his train of thought falls to the wayside when Cody moans into his mouth and tries to drag him even closer between the v of his legs. 

He's not sure exactly what he’s done to make Cody react so positively but he goes with the motion as heat burns deep in his abdomen.

He teases at Cody's lips with his tongue and realizes his fault when Cody instantly opens his mouth and deepens the kiss. The inside of Cody's mouth is hot and wet and his tongue- licking all those spots that make Obi-Wan shudder into him. 

Not that it's not lovely—because it is, really—but this is not how he intended things to go. 

Cody's insistent against him, pressing for more, hotter, faster, harder.

With difficulty, Obi-Wan pulls away, dodging Cody's attempts to meld their mouths together. 

“Cody, dearheart,” he says, out of breath, thumb gently stroking the skin by the corner of Cody's mouth, “you don't need to devour me.”

Cody doesn't quite pout but it's a near thing. The way his eyes are glued to Obi-Wan's lips make tooka-eyes impossible. “Remains to be seen.”

Obi-Wan huffs a laugh and kisses his cheek. “Please, my-” he catches himself almost saying ‘love’, “dear. Just for now. Let me treat you softly.”

Cody considers this solemnly. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

He nods.

Obi-Wan smiles. “Good man.”

The bob of Cody's throat at his words is gratifying. 

He closes his eyes and leans back in to capture Cody's lips for a few slow, lingering kisses. 

“That’s it. Easy goes,” Obi-Wan murmurs between kisses. Cody melts underneath him, pliant and accepting. 

He'll take every rare opportune moment to treat Cody like the indulgence he is– truly savor him. Hot plush lips between his own, a smooth glide aided by saliva. Slow and steady. Discovering how electric and titillating the simplicity is. Just Cody's warm body against his own. Cody's lips. Cody's sighs. Cody…

He's the sweetest of luxuries. And he should be cherished accordingly. 

Obi-Wan plants a path of kisses up Cody's cheek, right to the end of his brow, following the raised skin of his facial scar.

He's wondered if anyone else has gotten to love Cody like he has or if he's the only one to ply him with tender affection. He's wondered if, in a kinder universe, Cody would be left free of the scars Obi-Wan has gotten to know so intimately. If there were a universe as such, would Obi-Wan be given the chance to love Cody all over again or if another is destined for him- someone closer to his age and able to devote their life to ensuring his happiness.

He's tied himself into knots over this. The hypotheticals. 

He loves Cody. He loves him easily, unhurried and unconditionally. He loves him with every breath he shares loving the Jedi Order—his family—and this wonderous Force-filled world they live in. 

It's just that. He does not love Cody more than the order, more than his faith and his family. Cody is a part of his life. Whatever comes next, may it be death or freedom or- well, Force knows what, Obi-Wan hopes Cody remains a constant. Selfishly. More than a little lovesick. He wants Cody in his life. But he will accept whatever comes their way, as it is the will of the Force. 

 And if that means-

“Where'd’ya keep going?” asks Cody, big brown eyes of his gazing into Obi-Wan's soulfully. A deep brown that melts into a warm, rich amber. Beautiful.

“Nowhere of consequence.” He rubs his nose along Cody’s cheek. Breathes him in. 

“You sure?”

Obi-Wan drags his lips down Cody's jaw, smiling to himself and settling in once Cody shudders and angles his head out of the way.

“Absolutely certain,” Obi-Wan murmurs against his pulse point then kisses that very same spot.

A sigh from Cody is just the encouragement Obi-Wan needs to continue on. 

It's a gift having Cody so sensitive and wanting under him. An entirely different side of his commander than the stern, regal demeanor their troopers see day in and out. 

He kisses and sucks and nips the column of Cody's neck, delighting in the small, pleased noises he draws from Cody with every pass of his mouth over salty skin. 

He only leaves a couple of marks by the time Cody tugs him upwards. He's not too dismayed to leave the warm crook of his love’s neck because the expression on Cody's face is nothing short of wanton, absolutely debauched. 

Cody’s lips are still plump and kiss bitten. 

Obi-Wan can't resist. He traces the pad of his thumb across Cody's bottom lip. Breath shakes onto skin and Cody's mouth closes around the digit, suctioning him in hot, wet heat. 

He draws in a sharp breath.

His gaze darts to Cody’s eyes where he meets pupils blown wide with desire. Cody stares unflinchingly, daring and, oh… 

Cody has bewitched him, utterly and completely. Try as he might to retain composure, Cody is his undoing in these moments. The fragile strings of his heart (and… other parts of his anatomy…) pulled taut and ready to spring forward.

He wanted to keep it slow and soft, but Cody knows just how to arm him into an arrow ready to spring forth.

He pops his thumb from Cody's mouth and fixes his mouth and lips there instead, letting him know just how affected he is. He tastes Cody’s own desire echoed back to him in his moans and tongue and the needy press of his body that Obi-Wan keeps caged to the pillar. The fists that grab at his tunic and hair to try and get him even closer.

The high altitude forces them apart to breathe sooner than either of them would like but they don't go far, nuzzling noses and panting against one another's lips. 

“We’d better take this back to The Negotiator,” Cody says quietly, still out of breath.

Obi-Wan nods his agreement, sure that if they stay here a minute longer he'll be on his knees.

Hand in hand, they hurry away and the sunrise grows only brighter, pink tones making way for the brilliance of the full sun. Clouds drift with the breeze and all is as it will be.

[paracosm-draw]

It is there, at last. The pillowbook AU that has from the movie just the name, really. Here's 6K of smut and idiots and love, solely based on that picture I saw during Christmas. Took me a long time to finish it but here we are ! Enjoy ♥

Rating : Mature Archive Warning : Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Category : M/M Fandom : Star Wars - All Media Types Relationship : Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker Characters : Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi

Additional Tags : Smut, Getting Together, Slightly intoxicated Obi-Wan Kenobi, Body Paint, lots of licking, Nipple Play, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love

Language : English Summary : After they crash on an unknown system, Obi-Wan and Anakin hands up being saved and sheltered by a local tribe while their ship in on repair. The night of their arrival, strange symbols are painted on Obi-Wan's skin and Anakin seems to know more than he wants to say.

Thank you @camiemorgan8 for taking a look !!

[astonmartinii]

i don't wanna be funny anymore | daniel ricciardo social media au

pairing: daniel ricciardo x fem podcaster!reader

i don't wanna be funny anymore, i got a too short skirt, maybe i can be the cute one. is there room in the band? i don't need to be the front man, if not then i'll be the biggest fan

based on i don't wanna be funny anymore by lucy dacus (this song speaks to me, i love lucy (she's also AMAZING live))

MASTERLIST | TIPS

yourusername

liked by danielricciardo, maxverstappen1 and 341,203 others

yourusername: hey girl hey, new ep coming at you fast this friday all about rotting. as the twilight weather rolls in and it becomes the season of all too well, we'll talk about rotting, how we can do it right and how not to lose your mind this october (a cautionary tale, i've already lost mine)

view all comments

user1: my queen hands down five stars already

user2: the bag is so real and the way i know it's a tote that does NOT stay on your shoulder

yourusername: it's the enchante tote, shameless plug for my man

danielricciardo: you singlehandedly sell out my totes every time baby

user3: not this actual fan erasure 🤨

user4: babe be real, she has a massive platform and there was a direct correlation between the first time she plugged a tote and the fact that they sold out that day you guys just love being mean

user5: i'm mean cause i don't want some leech taking credit for dan's hardwork and his fans?

user6: he fucking said it? you guys grasp at straws every time so try and justify your agenda against her

maxverstappen1: idk what rotting is but i'll still listen to every second

yourusername: thanks maxy, though i'd say going on the sim for up to 14 hours of the day is bordering on rotting

maxverstappen1: productive rotting !

yourusername: yes, i guess your sweet little treats are trophies?

maxverstappen1: that would make sense (don't tell my trainer but i do enjoy the little fruity drinks from starbucks)

user7: yall wanna say we're mean but she's literally invalidating max, saying he's rotting on the sim is so invalidating to everything he went through when he was younger

user8: how did we get there? this grasp on straws has to be studied... from a joke about the sim to invalidating abuse?

user9: i honestly thank the lord for dan and max because they're so supportive no matter the shitstorm that yall throw at y/n everyday

user10: literally max is even listening to podcasts... real friends, i hope one day she feels confident enough to come to races

danielricciardo

liked by maxverstappen, georgerussell63 and 1,034,239 others

tagged: yourusername, enchante

danielricciardo: buckle up, enchante is going to the rodeo 🐎

view all comments

user13: i shall be breaking the bank

user14: dan so smart, he looks like a good boyf for including y/n but didn't include her face

user15: yall ever listen to yourself talk, you need to be put in time out for real

yourusername: we all know the phrase, save a horse, ride a...

danielricciardo: daniel?

yourusername: YUP

user16: ugh there are children who are fans of daniel, she's so gross

user17: do you ever get tired of doing all of that mental gymnastics?

yourusername: can't wait for the tote drop for this collection, yall WON'T be disappointed

user18: yes, i will always trust mother's tote recommendations

user19: anyone who carries that much shit knows what makes a good tote

yourusername: this one has survived two dostoevsky book, an unreasonably large water bottle, a laptop and microphone

user19: thank you ma'am

maxverstappen1: real love is dressing as a cowgirl for your needy boyfriend

yourusername: the things we do for love (i actually had so much fun)

user20: here y/n goes doing all the publicity, but never going to races, clearest gold digger attention whore wag of all time

user21: surely a real attention whore would go to every race to get the screen time and papped and all that jazz?

excerpt of y/n y/ln's podcast where she addresses her absences in the paddock.

yourusername

liked by danielricciardo, maxverstappen1 and 412,349 others

yourusername: life recently lol, the enchante tote is taking a beating

view all comments

user24: she's such a crybaby making dan use up an entire portion of his interview to coddle her

user25: she doesn't come to races cause of people like you invading her privacy and being rude and here you are ... proving her point

danielricciardo: pretty lady i can't wait to be back in your arms

yourusername: waiting outside the airport now

danielricciardo: we haven't even taken off yet babe

yourusername: i know i just miss you and can't wait to see your handsome face

user26: dan must be saying this shit at gun point cause there's no way he actually thinks she's pretty

user27: are you clinically blind? cause we must not be seeing the same girl

maxverstappen1: the aperol rawdogging the bag, you are SO brave

yourusername: living life on the edge, is this that thrill all you drivers talk about?

maxverstappen1: i may drive at over 200 kmh but i'd never risk my tote like that

yourusername: is it worse that i have a jar of olives in there as well, one drop and it's so over for me

maxverstappen1: OLIVES? remind me NOT to hug you when you pick us up

danielricciardo: if you want that hug you gonna have to get in line boy

user28: she picks them up from the airport? that's so cute

user29: someone tell her the gross girl aesthetic isn't cute

user30: babe don't worry no matter the aesthetic you have daniel will never want you x

maxverstappen1

liked by charles_leclerc, christianhorner and 982,344 others

tagged: yourusername, danielricciardo

maxverstappen1: finally went on my bff's (no 1 in the world) podcast after i finally convinced her yall ain't shit - oh and dan was there for emotional support x

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user31: SO ICONIC

user32: ep on repeat forever, they're so funny

yourusername: for a man who hates podcasts, you were a star i think the memes hit you hard

maxverstappen1: i enjoy the PROFESSIONALS could you imagine doing a podcast with lando

landonorris: why am i catching strays

danielricciardo: i wouldn't say that too loud, i got about 20 texts as soon as you posted this demanding i ask y/n to be on the show

yourusername: oooooooooo the girls are fighting

landonorris: so can i come on?

yourusername: i'm sure we can schedule something

maxverstappen1: don't say i didn't warn you y/n

user33: ugh now she's going to whore around the rest of the grid

user34: for real wasn't dan enough? she's not even pretty enough to whore herself out

user35: you people have no reading comprehension cause you see how dan says yall are insane and yall keep proving him right

danielricciardo: i'm so proud of you pretty girl

yourusername: i love you cowboy

danielricciardo: forever obsessed with you

user36: i'm living for y/n basically telling all these insecure weirdos to fuck off

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, christianhorner and 603,451 others

tagged: danielricciardo

yourusername: who was gonna tell me these cars are loud as shit irl

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user39: someone tell sky to stop zooming in on her i don't pay to her her ugly ass

user40: cry your heart out bro everyone else is happy

danielricciardo: oops i think you're my lucky charm you now have to come to every race ever sorry not sorry

yourusername: gosh i think that might be true - i'll be there! (but for real you are so so talented and don't need a lucky charm)

danielricciardo: i'm just so happy to share this with you, i love you so much, i'm sorry people have been so cruel

yourusername: people are passionate about you and rightly so, but i appreciate you protecting me baby

user41: imagine being this irrelevant and demanding protection in the paddock ... the audacity

user42: you finally came to the paddock and this is what you wore?

user43: she's wearing danny merch? if she didn't yall would have a problem with that as well so please just be quiet

maxverstappen1: i need you to come every weekend cause you're the only one drunk danny will listen to

yourusername: we had practice with all the wine tasting we did for his wine line

danielricciardo: i am NOT that bad

maxverstappen1: tbf it's usually him just crying about how much he loves you

yourusername: AWWWWWW (i also cry about how much i love you)

user44: gosh this is my favourite f1 couple

user45: hopefully now she has her dose of fame she'll fuck off

user46: HAVE A DAY OFF

danielricciardo

liked by maxverstappen1, yourusername and 1,451,677 others

tagged: yourusername

danielricciardo: as we're nearing our two year anniversary i wanted to say a couple things. one. i love you so much. when you came into my life i was in a bad place and you truly taught me to love myself again and how to love my sport again. you're the most amazing woman ever, the kindest soul and the most beautiful girl ever. two. i am so thankful for the support i have, i do not allow the disrespect some have given y/n. you guys have no real perception of relationships between athletes and fans. you do not have the right to comment on y/n in the way you are. you take extremely low blow and have the gall to confront her in public as well. do not call yourself a fan of mine when you treat the people i love like this. my team will now begin to monitor comment sections and will seek to block and report accounts doing this. thank you and i love you y/n.

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note: hope yall enjoyed!! i love danny and i saw the danny ric honky tonk this morning and had to write about him. i'd also had this idea for a while but didn't know who to write for lol. please listen to the song i love lucy so much and the song is so relatable xx

also anyone who has requested - i am working on them (but as per some questions in my asks, as for right now i do not write for footballers, if i become less disillusioned with the sport (thanks chelsea) this may change)

[toppamplemousse]

not ENTIRELY sebchal but you know how seb is going to be in australia in March for roc? and you know how ausgp is just a week after? and how mark webber is also in australia? anyways i think there's something great about the tension of having your somewhat toxic ex lover, your (gestures at sebchal) whatever that is, and possibly even mick if you're into that. all rancid dynamics all of them after one middle aged twink I think there's just a lot of potential

thank u for this thought. there are many sebchal scenarios to address but while waiting for my flight i was struck by inspiration:

there’s not even anything to tag here like. sebchal. real (to me).

—

“Don’t look at him like that.”

Seb snaps his head, recognizing that gravelly voice anywhere. Mark walks over to the railing, leaning out over the track next to Sebastian.

“Don’t look at who like what?” He asks back. Mark was always fucking annoying. Sebastian’s older now, more relaxed, able to put the fire of his past behind him. But Mark was annoying when they were teammates, during races, on podiums, even when he had his dick shoved halfway down Sebastian’s throat.

“It doesn’t suit you, Seb,” he says, continuing to look below them.

Sebastian’s not stupid. He knows Mark is talking about the red figures below them, milling about before practice. One red figure, in particular. The one that haunted him for a decade, bright eyed and eager and bashful and naive. Everyone read into everything back then, fabricating stories from nothing. From bad moves on track, from misunderstood translations of second, third languages. From weddings and girlfriends and wives.

“Why are you here again?” Sebastian taunts. “Surprised Red Bull security let you through, now that you’re fraternizing with the opposition.”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Mark cuts back. “You’ll always be Red Bull’s golden boy, but don’t act like you don’t have eyes for the red garage.”

Charles looks up at them at that moment. His bright green eyes lighting up the moment he catches Sebastian. It’s the same horrible, star struck smile he carries every time he sees Sebastian. Always trying to talk with him during Sebastian’s environmental events, pretending like he gets some special pass as the only remaining teammate of Sebastian.

He knows Charles waits for scraps, would still get on his knees for an ounce of recognition. He knows Charles waited after Abu Dhabi three years ago, wondering if he was going to receive a text, a call, anything that said congratulations for doing what you were meant to do, what everyone thought I could do, until you came along.

Mark waves at him. Sebastian does too. Charles’ cheeks flush pink, visible from up on the balcony. Years have passed; Charles has more facial hair, more lines around his eyes, less of the baby fawn face that everyone fell for. Next to Charles stands Ollie, Ferrari’s latest victim. Lanky, boyish, stuck to Charles’ side. It leaves a bad taste in Sebastian mouth. The gold band on his finger burns.

Sebastian pushes away from the railing. Years of therapy, years of a happy marriage, has helped simmer the emotions that used to overcome him. The wrath, the ire, the way Charles would get under every crevice of Sebastian’s skins. He would drive, get pole, outperform Sebastian as a fucking first year Ferrari driver, and then he’d turn to him at the end of the race, doe eyes big and wide and eager for feedback.

Or worse — the days where he felt robbed. Because that’s how Charles works: the win is always his, unless you pry it from his hands. Those days, where Charles would get out of the car, icy and silent and seething, giving this textbook answers to the press and then self-combusting behind closed doors. Talk to him, Mattia had always said, like it was Sebastian’s fucking fault that he wanted to win too. That he could win too. And there the media would be, gushing over Charles, fawning over him, placing his photo first, placing it bigger.

Sebastian takes a deep breath.

“Thought you were over all the ire from racing?” Mark quips. Sebastian is going to bash his head in.

“Yes, well, not all of us fuck our protoges about it,” he spits back. Mark visibly stutters, brain coming to a halt behind his weathered eyes.

“It’s not— that’s— that’s not the same,” Mark whispers, grabbing Sebastian’s hand. As if it’s some secret, as though Oscar doesn’t walk around the paddock with Mark following him like a lost puppy. Like an old dog on a limping leg, days numbered. Sebastian has caught glimpses of milky thighs photographed on Mark’s phone, of skirts and lingerie left lingering in his room.

“You’re married,” Mark reminds him, like it wasn’t at the forefront of his mind every day in 2019 and 2020. “Oscar just— he’s— I don’t need to explain it to you.”

Sebastian huffs. There’s a reason he avoids coming to races these days. Mark is just one of them. The green-eyed siren outside is another.

There’s no avoiding him for too long. World Champions have this unspoken duty, pass on their wisdom, all that bullshit. Charles stands in the middle of the group, looking up at Sebastian with stars in his eyes.

It’s tempting, really, to see how far Sebastian could push it. To find out once and for all if Charles was willing to give everything for Ferrari, to fall to his knees for it, take what Sebastian had to give him. Ten years ago, there would have been no question. Charles would have looked so beautiful like that, red-faced and whimpering and cheeks streaked with tears. The thought haunted Sebastian every fucking day of their time together, to know how it would feel to truly put him in his place, surrendering completely to Sebastian.

But he knows, Sebastian would not have come out on top. No, Charles would have squirmed his way into every crack Sebastian had and held all the power. Would have begged for it, pathetic and needy and desperate, and would still come out ahead of Sebastian.

He shakes his head. Sebastian doesn’t need it anymore, he doesn’t. And Charles doesn’t need Sebastian for that now — there’s a more than willing participant glued to his side, the same wide-eyed admiration oozing out of his pores. If Charles wants to feel power, to feel like he’s in control, dominating — he has his own rookie to torture. It’s not Sebastian’s business anymore.