#bllksae

[INT. PENTHOUSE SET – NIGHT]

The director barely calls “Action” before Sae is already storming through the penthouse doors, dragging you — Elle — in by the wrist.

The camera follows close behind as your heels stumble across the faux-marble floor, your champagne-soaked laughter cut short the moment he shoves you onto the velvet bed. The dress rides up perfectly. Your fur coat falls off your shoulders like it was choreographed. It wasn’t.

Sae doesn’t break character. Not even a flicker.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you breathe out, staying in role— though maybe not entirely. Your heart is thudding in a rhythm that isn’t just acting. “That was a Dior event—”

“You really couldn’t shut up about him, huh?” he snaps, voice low and clipped.

You blink. “...Who, Nathan?”

“Don’t say his name,” Sae growls — Luca growls. His voice is tight with restraint, but there’s a crackling edge to it that wasn’t in the script.  He steps between your knees, and the frame tightens around you both.

“I was making conversation,” you say coolly, trying not to react to the way his hand curls around your jaw.

“Bullshit.”

The crew is dead silent behind the monitor.

“I didn’t know complimenting a guy’s watch meant I wanted to fuck him,” you bite back.

Sae stares at you like you just confessed to a crime. His thumb drags slowly along your lower lip.

“I don’t give a shit how charming you think he is,” he says. “Or how fancy he dresses. Or how many fvcking languages he speaks.”

You freeze a little. Not because of the line. You know what’s coming. But the way Sae delivers it—flat, possessive, quietly unhinged—it cuts deeper than rehearsals.

“None of it matters,” he continues. “You’re mine.”

That wasn’t in the script.

Your breath catches. The camera inches closer.

“Oh?” you manage. “Didn’t realize possession was part of the marriage contract.”

Sae leans down. He’s still in character— probably. His eyes burn like a man who’s one second away from wrecking everything.

“It is now.”

The room feels thick with heat. Stage lighting? You're just making excuses at this point.

His hand trails from your jaw to your neck, thumb resting at your pulse, and your brain short-circuits. You’re not sure if the next words come from Elle or from you:

“This is all just for show anyway.”

Sae’s fingers flex.

“Doesn’t fucking matter.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Because you’re my fiancée. Because I don’t share. And because you wore this dress knowing exactly what it’d do to me.”

The silence that follows isn’t scripted. It’s real. The camera’s still rolling, but nobody yells Cut.

He drags a hand down your thigh, and the warmth of it spreads like fire under your skin.

Sae smiles. Just a little. But there’s no humor in it.

“Say something else about him,” he murmurs. “I dare you.” 

The camera catches every flicker of his expression, but you can’t even hear the crew anymore. Not the director. Not the clapperboard reset. Not the audio tech breathing into a mic.

Not when you’re staring into the eyes of your lover—actual lover— his deep teal eyes you know so well—and it’s difficult to separate the man from the character. 

He’s playing the role.

But nothing about his gaze feels fake. Especially the way it drops to your lips—like gravity itself bends around you. Like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

You're still in your gown, heels kicked off somewhere by the door, the silky fabric of your dress clinging to your skin after the long night. He’s ditched his tie, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, but he’s still in the tailored tux, lapels slightly wrinkled from the way he dragged you inside.

Your breath stutters. Everything feels too real.

Your thighs press together. Your skin prickles under the silk fabric of your dress. He hasn’t even touched you yet, and still, your body’s already reacting.

He’s Luca on paper.

But right now, you’d bet your entire life that this is Sae.

You stay seated.

He stops just in front of you, between your knees, close enough that you could count every individual lash on his eyes.

The script says you’re supposed to touch him now—gently. Hesitantly. A trembling hand to his chest, like you’re afraid of getting burned.

You do it. But when your fingers land against him, he exhales deeply, like he’s been holding it in for far too long.

You don’t remember if the script said his hand should slide to your waist. Or if he should tilt your chin like that, like he’s memorizing the shape of your face. 

It’s funny. You’re pretty sure he already does. 

You can feel it now—the heat of his palm against your chest, the way his thumb brushes against the corner of your jaw.

And when he leans in, just close enough for your noses to brush—your entire body goes still.

“Look at you.” He eyes you up and down. “All fucked-out and I haven’t even started.”

That isn’t in the script.

Your eyes flick to him. He’s watching you closely. Too closely. Like he’s daring you to break character. Like he’s testing just how much of this is still acting.

His hand trails slowly up the inside of your thigh—riding the slit of your gown—until it ghosts over the lace of your garter.

You feel it in your teeth.

“You don’t get to touch me like that,” you manage to say, the words shaky and half-choked. You forget if that's your line or just something you really meant.

“Tell me to stop then.”

Still not in the script. But you’re too into the moment to argue with him.

You don’t push him away.

His hands slide to your waist, and before you can think, he’s rising to his feet, pulling you with him. Your body crashes against his chest, all silk and heat and hard muscle. 

He tugs at the thin strap of your dress. It slips off your shoulder.

Then the other.

The gown pools at your waist, fabric heavy and glimmering in the low light, revealing the delicate lingerie underneath—black lace and bare skin. The lace snags slightly on one of his rings.

He’s still fully dressed.

You, meanwhile, feel practically naked.

His hands find your hips as he leans in and murmurs, “You wore this for me, didn’t you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He rises to his feet, tugging at his jacket, sliding it off in one smooth motion. Then the shirt—one button at a time, slow and deliberate. His eyes never leave yours.

By the time his shirt hits the floor, your breath is shallow. The silence buzzes in your ears.

Sae pushes you down the center of the bed. Your head falls against the pillow. Your hands fist in the sheets.

His eyes are unreadable.

Except they’re not. There’s heat. Hunger. And something else that makes your pulse skip.

There’s  something boiling underneath his eyes, and you know— with a bone-deep certainty— if the cameras weren’t here, this would be something else entirely.

Your breath catches.

He grabs both your wrists and pins them to the headboard.

Then he kisses you.

And it’s—

Not soft.

It’s all tongue and teeth and quiet desperation, as if he’s been holding back for weeks and finally gave up trying. You melt into him without thinking, the lace slipping further, his fingers digging into your waist like he’s trying to brand you through the fabric.

The kiss goes on too long. It’s supposed to be ten seconds. Maybe fifteen.

But you lose count around thirty-five.

When Sae pulls away, your lips are swollen, spit is dripping down your chin. Your breath is uneven. Your knees are weak.

He releases your wrists slowly, but only so his hands can trail down—fingertips grazing your skin—before he dips his head and starts licking along the thin skin of your neck like you’re drenched in syrup—sweet, sticky, and addictive. And he doesn’t stop there. He sucks on it. Doesn’t care if it bruises, he hopes it does.

Then you feel his teeth graze your collarbone—just enough to make you shiver—before he trails lower, mouth hot against your skin.

Sae pulls the covers up just enough to shield you both from the eyes behind the cameras, but you still feel him—pressed hard against your thigh, hot and pulsing with restraint.

You barely get the thought out before you feel him shift. Fingers trail along your inner thigh, then slip beneath the lace of your panties—dragging slowly and deliberate through your slit.

“So wet for me already,” he murmurs, voice low and sinful.

Your breath catches. Your legs tense, eyes widening as you look up at him. But he doesn’t stop. His touch only deepens.

Don't tell me he's actually going to—

“Shh,” he breathes, mouth brushing your cheek, “don’t say a word.”

Then he kisses you—slow, deep, and knowing. Like a secret he’s not ready to tell the world.

Two fingers push into you, and you moan into his mouth before you can stop yourself. Sae pulls them out and pushes them back in–knuckle deep. In and out, and faster. He curls them, just right, just how you like it. Like he’s done this a thousand times in the dark, and he remembers everything.

Your arms loop around his neck as the kiss grows messier—more desperate. You feel his breath stutter when your hips roll into his hand.

“Please—” you gasp, barely thinking.

He draws back just slightly, lips brushing yours. “Please what?”

You can’t form the words. All you can feel is him.

“I need you inside me—please—” you whisper, half plea, half demand.

He parts your legs further, knee pressing between your thighs, guiding you open like it’s second nature.

His mouth finds your ear. “What do you want, mi cariño?” he whispers, breath hot against your skin.

“You,” you cry. “Please. I want you.”

That’s all it takes.

His hands move like they know the shape of you by heart—one gripping your thigh, the other sliding to your waist. He holds you like you’re his to keep.

When he pushes inside, it isn’t rushed. It’s devastatingly slow—intimate. Like claiming something he’s already owned.

You arch into him, gasping. Fingers scrabbling for purchase. Eyes fluttering shut.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice dark and tender. “Eyes on me, mi amor.”

You look up—and he’s already watching you.

He moves—hips rolling with precision, pace building, breath falling into rhythm with yours. It’s practiced. Familiar. Dangerous.

He leans down, biting your ear gently. “You feel that?”

You can’t answer. You can barely think. All you can do is feel—the way he moves, the heat between you, the rising tension curling inside your belly.

Someone coughs behind the camera, “Holy shit, they’re so good.”

If only they knew what was happening underneath those covers .

Sae was fucking you too intense, letting you feel every inch of him in every thrust. It feels so goddamn good you start clinging to him. Nails digging into his back. Legs wrapped around his waist. 

“Ngnh-Sae-harder-” 

Your hands fly toward your mouth after realizing what you’ve done. 

Oh god. You said his name. Not Luca.

His.

The director stammers, “C-cut—cut!” but no one actually does.

Your eyes are wide. Face burning. You blink once… twice… and then the reality sinks in.

You groan, dragging your hands down your face and collapsing backward onto the bed.

And then you lose it. A full-on laugh bubbles up, and you bury your face in your hands as it escapes, half-mortified, half-hysterical. “Kill me. Just—actually kill me right now.”

You feel him slowly start to pull out. You peek through your fingers, face burning. Sae’s still in front of you, one brow slightly raised.

Then he does something unthinkable. 

He laughs.

Sae Itoshi actually chuckles.

It’s soft, barely audible—but that smug glint in his eyes gives him away. He’s entertained. Immensely.

You groan again, letting your head fall back on the pillows with a dramatic flop.

“Oh no. Don’t. Don’t say anything.” Still laughing, you throw a pillow in his general direction. It bounces off his shoulder, useless.

He doesn’t say a word, but that look on his face says everything.

You know him too well. He’s going to milk this for the rest of your life.

You try to recover some dignity as he pulls away, standing upright to grab the robe your assistant rushes over with. He hands it to you wordlessly, still smirking. You glare at him while snatching it from his hand. “Thanks, asshole.”

He shrugs. Not denying it.

Then, somewhere off-camera: “Reset. Run it back from the top. Same energy. Keep it tight, people—tight.”

The crew starts scrambling again.

Sae brushes your lower lip with his thumb like he’s trying to fix the mess he made.

You look up at him.

“You good for round 2?” he murmurs.

You nod, slowly. 

You are. 

You just don’t know how much of that scene was Elle and Luca—

Because the laughter, the slip-up, the way he looked at you?

That was all Y/N and Sae. And the cameras caught everything.