#ask spooky

you know you shouldn’t be watching it again – but it’s late, your apartment’s quiet, and your body’s already decided for you. your dress was already unzipped, one heel kicked off somewhere under the coffee table. you’re half-drunk on good wine and the high of surviving yet another mixer full of glossy business cards, hollow compliments, and names you’re supposed to recognize. but this?

this is the real show.

your phone rests delicately in your palm, brightness turned low. the video’s already queued up, and you don’t need to scroll. it’s… bookmarked. categorized as “for emergency use only” – though let’s be honest, it’s been a very horny week and you’ve hit play every night since monday.

the frame opens the same every time: low light, dark velvet couch. a.p. steele, propped up in his own bed, thighs spread like sin, the muscles of his chest flexing with every slow stroke of his hand across his shaft.

“…y’know,” he grumbles, that thick english accent so much filthier when he’s tired and worked up, “i had a really long day.”

a deep inhale. a subtle shift in his wrist. “and y’know what i need? to cum. hard.”

your fingers slip beneath the lace of your panties like a prayer answered. because god, those thighs. his tattooed arms, that wide chest, and that heavy, lazy smile. his eyes, hooded and hungry, staring straight into the camera like he knows you’re watching. like he knows exactly how many times you’ve mouthed his name into the curve of your pillow, sweating, shaking, spent.

he starts slow as always. a.p. doesn’t just touch himself; he makes love to the tension that builds. his strokes are long and measured, his hips subtly shifting beneath the weight of his own hand, and his voice is a wrecking ball.

“you want this?” he murmurs, thumb dragging over his leaking tip as he pants. “wanna watch me lose it for you?”

you’ve watched this video so many times that your body moves with it. your back arches just as his jaw clenches. your breathing syncs with the pace of his strokes. your fingers circle faster, tighter, deeper.

and right when he groans – raw and beautiful and broken, “fuck, i’m gonna –” he spills hot across his stomach in thick, brutal ropes.

your orgasm crashes into you at the exact same moment, a stuttering gasp ripping through your chest as you bite your lip and try not to moan too loudly into the empty room.

you lie there for a long moment after, still trembling, legs twitching, shame mingling with euphoria in that all-too-familiar afterglow.

you hate how many times you’ve cum to the same damn video. and more embarrassingly, you know you’ll do it again tomorrow.

but the funny thing about fate is that she’s a bitch.

because not even 24 hours later, you’re at a private party downtown, invited by a friend of a friend, sipping a ginger beer with your back against the kitchen island, when you feel him walk into the room.

you feel him before you see him.

that same energy from the video: calm, deliberate, heavy. it rolls in behind you like smoke and syrup and sin, curling up your spine. then comes that voice curling against the shell of your ear. “evening.”

you freeze. and not in a figurative way. not like wow i’m stunned. like your body’s been flash-frozen and your soul has just exited through your ankles.

because standing three feet behind you in an olive-green jacket, black shirt, and jeans that deserve their own movie credit, is a.p. steele in the flesh, in your immediate vicinity, looking at you like you’ve already failed to hide every filthy thing you’ve ever thought about him.

you turn slowly. blink. swallow. do not choke on your drink. play it cool, you tell yourself. smile. say hi. pretend he didn’t make you cum so hard last night you had to change the sheets. but of course, your mouth betrays you. “holy shit.”

he lifts an eyebrow, amused. “that’s one way to say hello.”

you’re already shaking your head, flustered beyond repair. “no – i mean, yes, hello, hi, i just – i wasn’t expecting –”

“to run into me?”

“to run into you,” you echo, cheeks burning. “like. in real life.”

his mouth tilts, crooked and devastating. he knows. and he’s enjoying this. “have we met before?” he asks, that voice dripping like warm honey, smoothed out by a lazy smirk.

“no,” you squeak. “no, we’ve definitely – um.” you clear your throat. “we haven’t met.”

he sips his drink, casually. unbothered. built like the devil but patient like a saint. “but you know who i am.”

you stare at the label on your ginger beer like it might open a portal to save you. “i mean…” you murmur. “who doesn’t?”

he laughs, sitting low in his chest. it was deep. way too familiar.

and you feel it behind your knees. “you watch my work?” he asks, like he’s asking if you caught the game last night.

you consider launching yourself off the balcony. instead, you grip the counter like it might save your soul. “okay. i think i need to go lie down in traffic.”

“don’t,” he says easily. “it’s a compliment.”

you whip your head up. “excuse me?”

he shrugs, finishing his drink. “you’re flustered. which means i did something right. or several things. depending on which video.”

his hand lands beside yours. pinky just barely brushing against your skin. intentional. measured.

“i don’t usually come to these things,” he murmurs, voice lowering a shade. “too many names. too many people pretending they don’t know who i am.”

you glance up – big mistake. his eyes are locked on you, dark and so sure. like he already knows how you taste.

“but you…” he continues, voice velvet-wrapped and dangerous. “you’re really quiet now. not like you were last night.”

your breath catches and your lips part. “wha – how do you –?”

you’d sworn it was just for the film. that whatever heat sparked between takes would die quietly once the cameras stopped rolling.

but here you are – three countries and countless interviews into the sinners press tour – and he still manages to find you in every room.

and sometimes it’s subtle: his shoulder brushing yours backstage, his hand lingering a second too long when he steadies your waist as you step onto a red carpet, a mumble of your name behind the hotel door you didn’t lock. 

you don’t sit next to him during panels anymore – and not because you don’t want to, but because you can’t. not after the rome incident. not after your knees touched beneath the table and you couldn’t look each other in the eye for the rest of the segment. 

wunmi didn’t say anything when you’d asked her to switch seats with you before the next one; she just gave you a quiet look like, girl.

miles keeps smirking every time michael passes you a drink without asking what you want.

jayme stopped pretending not to notice the way you breathe a little deeper after he walks by wearing that cologne.

and ryan… ryan watches you both like he’s plotting nosey conversations in his mind. he hasn’t said a word, but he knows. 

they all do. but of course, no one talks about it. because honestly, no one needs to.

but it’s there, wrapped tight around every too-long glance, every soft laugh no one else gets, every early-morning press call where michael shows up looking wrecked and you’re just a little too quiet.

you think maybe you’re fooling people, that your silence is armor, that secrecy is safety.

you’re sitting on the patio, legs draped across his lap, sipping slowly from your iced coffee while your phone plays something forgettable in the background. the breeze is lazy, golden hour’s brushing over your shoulder. And michael’s scrolling silently, phone low in his lap, thumb moving slow.

you don’t think anything of it. he’s always quiet like this when you’re together. still, grounded. you’ve never needed to fill the air with conversation just to prove something. it’s always been… comfortable.

your phone vibrates once on the table beside you. then again. and again.

you glance over, expecting a missed call, maybe a spam text. only to see tati lighting your phone up like it’s on fire.

you blink, brows furrowing as you reach for your phone, confusion thick in your chest. you click over to michael’s profile, thumb hesitating for half a second before the feed loads.

and there it is.

a photo you sent him a while ago. one you didn’t even know he still had – your hand in his, sunlight catching on your bracelets, the curve of his watch, his sneakers in the background. 

no tag of your username – on purpose, of course. but he just posted straight to his grid, and pinned it, dropping it like a quiet bomb in the middle of the day.

you look over at him slowly.

he doesn’t say anything. just glances over at you with a little smile that he does when he’s feeling proud of himself but pretending he’s innocent.

your head tilts. “we’re really doing this?” is written all over your face.

he just blinks at you – it’s cool, casual – and taps his phone screen off.

later that evening, once your pulse has returned to normal and the group chat’s texts have stopped rolling in, you post your nail set. crisp black french tips, and MBJ in clean cursive along your ring finger. you’d added a simple caption: xoxo