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cuzxai · 1 month ago

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challenger - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: need this real bad… spence fucking the smart out of you in the bureau bathroom

You’re exhausted but sharp. The kind of exhaustion that lives in your shoulders but doesn’t quite dull your brain. It’s the third day of a case that’s left the team running in circles—three abductions, two confirmed murders and a ticking clock no one can afford to ignore. The fluorescent lights in office hum above your head like a warning tone. You’re all gathered around the case board and Spencer is talking.

“There’s a pattern here,” he says, eyes flicking across photos and timelines like they’re just numbers on a chalkboard. “All of them were taken on a Tuesday, between 5 and 7 p.m. Each one from a public area—a park, a parking lot, a bus stop. I think the unsub’s operating in a comfort zone that’s tied to routine. He’s not escalating, he’s repeating.”

You shift your weight onto your other foot, arms crossed. “Or,” you counter, “he’s desperate and trying to regain control by mimicking his own methods. The injuries aren’t the same. Look at the restraint marks on the last victim—they’re erratic. Sloppier.”

Spencer’s head turns slightly, jaw tightening. “That could be due to external pressure. Media coverage, police presence—there are other variables.”

“Sure,” you say, voice even, “but you’re assuming external pressure. What if the pressure’s internal? What if this guy’s unraveling and trying to hold it together by copying his own process?”

Morgan leans back in his chair, muttering something like “here we go,” but you don’t look away from Spencer. He’s bristling. You can see it—subtle but there. His fingers twitch near his temple like he’s restraining the urge to rub at it.

“I’m just saying,” you add, “you’re so focused on the statistics, you’re ignoring the behavioral inconsistencies.”

“And you’re so obsessed with profiling the emotions,” Spencer says, turning toward you now, “that you’re missing the quantitative signs. You can’t draw a conclusion from three data points and call it behavioral science.” Your heart rate ticks up—not from the argument but from him. From the way his voice raises half a decibel, from the way he always assumes he’s right until you force him to consider otherwise. It’s infuriating. It’s also kind of hot. But you’d rather die than admit that.

JJ glances between the two of you with raised brows and Emily mutters under her breath, “This is getting academic.”

“No,” you say firmly, stepping toward the board and pointing at the newest photo. “This? This is him slipping. The duct tape placement here is completely different. Look at the angle—it’s hasty. Rushed.”

Spencer steps closer too, too close really but neither of you move away. “That doesn’t prove unraveling,” he replies. “It proves a change in circumstance.”

“You mean the same thing.”

“I mean exactly not the same thing.” His tone is clipped, your glare sharp. It’s quiet for a beat.

Then Hotch looks up from his tablet and says dryly, “You two. Step out, now.”

Your eyes widen just slightly, heat crawling up the back of your neck. Spencer’s brows shoot up like he didn’t expect to be reprimanded. Morgan smirks into his coffee. Emily lets out a low whistle, not even trying to hide it. “Go cool off,” Hotch adds.

You both leave the room in tense silence, walking too fast, too stiff. The door clicks shut behind you and you’re in the hallway—alone, fluorescent lights buzzing again, echoing against tile and drywall. Spencer’s breathing is tight. Controlled. “You didn’t have to challenge everything I said.”

You blink at him. “I wasn’t challenging. I was correcting.” That’s when it turns. His head tilts slightly. His voice drops low.

“You’re incapable of letting me finish a thought without interruption.”

You raise a brow. “Maybe if your thoughts weren’t so half-formed.”

“Oh, that’s rich—coming from someone who once claimed impulse control was a myth while eating licorice for breakfast.” You step into him without realizing, your shoulder brushing his chest.

“That was one time. And I stand by it.” Spencer exhales, sharp and disbelieving like you’re somehow both beneath and above him. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something but then he doesn’t.

He just looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s trying to study you, like you’re suddenly not the opponent but the hypothesis. Like he’s trying to profile you. And that’s when you both notice the door to the staff bathroom is half open. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say a word. He just turns and walks in. And you follow.

The door clicks shut behind you and the silence is thick. Spencer’s already facing you, his expression unreadable—tense, a little breathless, like he’s not sure who’s going to make the next move. So you do. You step up until there’s barely space between your chests, your chin tilted just enough to meet his eyes. “You were saying something about impulse control?” you ask, soft and taunting. His eyes flick to your mouth, fast. Like he didn’t mean to, like it betrayed him.

“You’re impossible,” he breathes, but his voice has lost all edge.

You smile slowly. “You don’t sound like you hate me.”

Spencer exhales a shaky breath through his nose. “I don’t.” There’s no more talking.

His hands are on your face, your waist, your back—everywhere at once. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been biting his tongue for years and now it’s all spilling out, heat and frustration and something deeper. You grab the front of his button-down, half pulling, half clawing at it, and he groans into the kiss like he’s starving. You spin him until his back hits the stall door. It creaks under the weight and he barely manages to flick the lock shut before you’re pulling at his belt. Your fingers are frantic, fumbling but he stills them with one of his own—curling over your wrist, grounding you. “Let me,” he says, low. “You’ll stretch the leather.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter but you let him. And when he works it open with those long, practiced fingers, you barely notice that your back is now pressed to the wall, cold tile seeping through your clothes. Then Spencer drops to his knees. You gasp. “What are you—”

“Don’t stop,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up as his hands move to the waistband of your pants. “You’re always so good at talking back. Keep going.” You open your mouth to say something smart, something biting—but all that comes out is a breathy moan as he pulls your pants down your legs with precision, lips brushing your thigh on the way. His mouth is warm. Skilled. Unrelenting.

You slap a hand over your own mouth, back arching, one leg trembling against his shoulder as he holds it steady. His fingers dig into your thigh, hard enough to leave bruises. And when his eyes flutter shut, he moans like this is about him, like you’re his favorite meal and he’s been starving for weeks. You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging hard and he groans again—like praise. “God,” you pant. “I—I should’ve—”

“I know,” he whispers against your skin. “You should’ve argued with me earlier.” You let out a shaky laugh. He smiles, going back down. You slap a hand against the tile behind you, the other gripping his hair like a lifeline.

“Fuck—Spencer—” His hands grip your thighs, spreading you just enough, holding you steady as his tongue laps slow, then firm, then teasing again. He shifts a little, then locks eyes with you as he seals his mouth around your clit and sucks.

Your head knocks against the wall. You bite down on a moan so hard your lip might bleed. He doesn’t stop. If anything, the sounds you make just fuel him. He’s greedy with it—licking like you’re a problem he’s solving, a theory he’s proving, something he won’t give up on until you’re falling apart in his hands. One of your legs starts trembling.

“Spencer—God.” your voice breaks as your hips buck against him. He groans again, mouth dragging slow and wet over you, nose brushing where you’re most sensitive. His grip tightens. You can barely stay upright. And just when you think you’re about to come—he pulls back. You whimper, flushed and panting and glare down at him.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, lips glossy and red, smirking like the bastard he is. “You’re not getting off that easy,” he says, low and smug. You barely have time to curse him before he stands, kisses you rough and lifts you back into his arms like he never left his knees at all.

He kisses you hard—sloppy and eager, like he can’t decide whether to savor you or consume you whole. His tongue finds yours, tasting the echo of you still lingering on his lips, and you moan into his mouth because god, he’s not playing fair. You barely register the way he lifts you until you feel the cold counter under your ass. His hands are firm on your thighs, dragging you forward until your legs are bracketing his hips. The friction makes you gasp. Your shirt’s still on but your bra is shoved up, his button-up hanging open, his belt clinking with every shift. It’s messy and loud and rushed but the tension between you has been simmering for months—this was never going to be slow.

“You still think you’re smarter than me?” he growls against your neck, nipping hard enough to leave a mark. “Still think you can walk around acting like you know better?”

You choke out a laugh, tilting your head to give him more access. “I am smarter than you.” He bites down harder. You yelp but it turns into a moan as he lines himself up, pushes in—slow, deep—you both gasp. “This is so,” you whisper, breath caught in your throat, “so inappropriate.”

He grins, eyes wild. “Technically we’re on a mandated break.”

The thrusts start slow. Deliberate. Like he’s memorizing the feel of you, like he wants to make this last longer than he knows it can. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in and his breath stutters when you bite down on his jaw. “You’re so—” he groans, “God, you’re insufferable.”

“You love it,” you whisper.

He replied without hesitation, “I really do.” It’s a rhythm then. Heated, sloppy, completely unprofessional. You both know someone could walk in. That there are voices in the hallway, that the lock isn’t strong—but none of it matters. Not when he’s like this. Not when you’re like this. And not when every thrust makes the wall groan behind you. “Oh my—fuck, Spencer.”

“Say it again,” he grits out, hips snapping into you. “Say you’re smarter.”

You’re breathless, half-laughing through the haze of it all. “You—fuck— need me to stroke your ego that bad?”

He slams into you harder in response. “Need you to shut up before someone hears you.”

“I don’t think you care if they do.”

He doesn’t deny it. His hand snakes up between your bodies, thumb dragging over your clit in tight, perfect circles. You jolt in his grip, hands flying to his hair, your thighs trembling where they’re locked around him. It’s dizzying, relentless, the heat curling low in your stomach growing unbearable. And just when you’re sure you’re about to unravel again—he pulls out.

You blink, dazed. “Huh—?”

He turns you around before you can catch your breath, bending you over the counter. His hand flattens between your shoulder blades, holding you there as he kicks your feet apart and sinks back in from behind. You can see yourself in the mirror. You cry out at the stretch, fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth surface.

He’s fucking you now—deep and fast, every thrust knocking the breath out of you, every slap of skin against skin echoing loud in the small bathroom. His hand slips around, rubbing your clit again in sync with his thrusts, you see stars.

“Spencer—” Your voice is shaking, half-strangled with need as he pounds into you from behind, every slap of his hips sending jolts of pleasure down your spine. Your hands are braced on the counter, knuckles white but it’s not enough to keep you steady. Not with the way he’s fucking you like he’s got something to prove. And maybe he does. Maybe this is him trying to one-up you in the one arena where he knows he doesn’t have to compete—because you’re already falling apart under him. But he doesn’t let you go over that edge. Not yet.

“What’s wrong?” he breathes low and smug. “You were so confident before and now you can’t form a sentence? Thought you had all the answers.”

You jerk your body up to meet him, head spinning, breath coming in sharp gasps. “Shut up,” you bite out, muscles tightening as you force out a laugh, defiant even as his dick keeps dragging that perfect angle.

“Don’t want to hear me talk, huh?” he mocks. “But you can’t help but listen, can you?”

You try to move your hands but his grip is too tight, fingers digging into your wrists as his pace quickens. His thumb slips under your chin, lifting your face just enough for him to look at you with that insufferable smugness, his own arousal written all over his features.

“Are you really going to argue with me now?” he mutters, voice thick with want but still that level of condescension. “Because last I checked, your body’s telling me everything I need to know.”

“Fuck you,” you manage to snap, even as he angles his hips to hit deeper and it knocks the breath out of you. You almost choke on your words. He doesn’t let up. Instead, he pulls your hair just hard enough that your head tilts back and your throat is exposed.

“You’re dripping for me and you want to tell me you hate me?”

You don’t even know why you answer but you do. “Yeah, I fucking do. I hate you.”

“You don’t,” he mutters, tugging on your hair again, forcing you to look him in the eye. “You can’t hate me when your pussy’s telling me otherwise.” Your jaw clenches, a frustrated growl escaping your lips. You’re so fucking close but he’s pulling back just enough that you can’t come. He’s in control now. He’s always in control. And you hate it. Spencer leans in, his breath brushing against your ear. “I know what you want. Don’t act like you’re not dying for it.” He shifts again and suddenly you feel his fingers slide into your mouth—uninvited but not unwelcome. It’s messy as you suck on his fingers, the taste of him coating your tongue but the position he has you in—helpless, needy, at his mercy—makes it hard to care.

“Still hate me?” he asks again, the words almost teasing.

“I’m so close,” you breathe, and your voice is breaking. “Just let me—”

“You need to ask for it, don’t you?” He pulls his fingers from your mouth, wiping them on your cheek as he watches you, his mouth falls open slightly. “You can’t finish without me telling you to.”

“Let me,” you almost whimper, your body shaking, on the edge of something. “Please. Please.” He grins like he’s won, his grip on your wrists loosening just enough.

“You’ve got such a dirty mouth, I kind of like it,” he mutters, then he finally lets go, his fingers back at your throat, not quite choking, just keeping you where he wants you. “You don’t get to finish just because you ask,” he says, thrusting hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. “Not yet.”

It’s a mix of sweet relief and pure frustration, your body writhing under him. Every angle is perfect, every inch of him dragging you closer to something you can’t control. He’s fucking you through your angry little comments, through the way you fight him even as you beg for more. Spencer leans in to bite at your neck, growling in your ear as he pulls your hair again, tighter this time.

“God, you’re so fucking stubborn,” he hisses and suddenly, he’s fucking you harder, faster, like he’s punishing you for every dumb word you’ve ever said to him.

“I hate you,” you gasp, hands desperately trying to grip anything to steady yourself but it’s futile. He’s the one in control and you’re too far gone to care about anything else. But when his hand snakes back between your legs, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision, you lose it. You’re falling apart and you don’t care that you’re still supposed to hate him. You don’t care that you’re both too stubborn to admit it.

“Don’t come yet,” he growls. “Not until I say so.” You bite back a scream, his voice still ringing in your ears.

“Fuck, Spencer.” His grip tightens again, fingers digging in and you know he’s close too. He’s holding you, using you and in this moment, you have no power. And you fucking love it.

You don’t know if you ever hated anyone this much. You don’t know if you ever wanted anyone more. Spencer’s breathing is shallow now, hot against the back of your neck as he drives into you from behind, both of you falling apart together—his hand spread over your lower stomach to keep you from moving, his other hand tangled tight in your hair.

“Jesus, you feel so good like this,” he groans, low and rough. “So fucking wet. You gonna come for me now?” You barely manage a response—something choked and shaky, some version of his name that sounds like begging. Your face is red, mouth parted, flushed and panting and he doesn’t slow down. He wants to ruin you. “See?” he murmurs, his voice shaking with effort but his mouth still so fucking smug. “I knew all that attitude was just overcompensation. You were dying for this.” You shake your head weakly, more from the overwhelming heat and pressure than actual disagreement.

“You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore,” he says, thrusting deeper, harder, one hand sliding up your body. “Just so cock-drunk.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe but it comes out weak. Your legs are trembling, fingers scraping against the counter, mind clouded by nothing but the pace of his thrusts and the filthy rhythm of his voice in your ear.

“Mm. You are.” His lips brush the edge of your jaw, voice dark and breathless. “You’re so fucking close, I can feel it. You’re pulsing around me. You wanna come, sweetheart?” Your head nods instinctively, a small sound tumbling from your lips. “You need it, don’t you?” he keeps going, fucking into you like he’s trying to mark his territory, like he wants to fuck the fight right out of you. “You’ve been giving me shit for months and now you’re so dumb on my dick you can’t even talk.”

You’d hit him if your arms weren’t shaking. You’d argue—tell him to shut up, tell him he’s full of shit—but all that leaves you is a needy, whimpering sound. “Come on,” he mutters, his hand sliding down to your clit again, rubbing rough, desperate circles. “Come for me. You want to.”

It only takes a few more thrusts before you’re unraveling, your body arching back into his, a sharp cry caught in your throat. Your orgasm hits you hard, hot and fast and blinding and you’re squeezing around him so tight it forces a moan from his chest. “Fuck, just like that,” he groans, slamming into you once, twice more before he follows, burying himself deep as he spills inside you, panting through clenched teeth, his fingers bruising your hips as he holds you still.

The only sounds for a few seconds are ragged breathing, your heart pounding, and the faint, distant hum of a case still happening outside that locked bathroom door. Then he slumps forward slightly, letting go of your hips and leaning his forehead against your shoulder.

“Well,” he breathes, hoarse and wrecked. “That escalated.” You don’t say anything for a moment—still catching your breath, still trying to convince your legs to hold you up.

And then you mutter, “I still think your theory was bullshit.”

Spencer lets out a laugh, soft and disbelieving. “Jesus Christ.” His hands are still on you. You don’t move. Neither of you do. Because as much as you hate each other, neither of you wants to stop touching. It takes a moment before either of you move again.

You’re still pressed up against the counter, legs shaking, heartbeat trying to slow down, when Spencer finally steps back. He’s quiet about it, gentle even, his hands catching your waist like he’s afraid you might tip over. You tug your pants back up, spine still curved, bracing yourself with one hand against the counter. He fixes his pants with shaking fingers, running a hand through his hair like it’ll make any difference. It doesn’t.

You glance over your shoulder, your voice still raw when you say, “You’ve got a scratch on your neck.”

He gives you a look—half amusement, half disbelief. “From you.”

“You were asking for it.”

He huffs. Rolls his eyes. Tries not to smile but fails anyway. You grab some paper towels to clean up, stealing glances in the mirror over the sink. Your mascara’s slightly smudged, your lips kiss-bitten. He’s worse—hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes a little too glassy.

“We look insane,” you mutter.

“We look like we just had sex in the Bureau bathroom,” he says flatly.

“Same thing.”

He catches your eye in the mirror. For a second, it’s awkward. Just enough for the realization to hit—you just fucked Spencer Reid. During work. In the middle of a case. He clears his throat, straightens his tie like that’ll fix anything. “We should get back.” You blink at him. “You think we’re not gonna get ripped to shreds the second we walk in there?”

He shrugs. “We’re both excellent profilers. We’ll gaslight them.”

You smirk despite yourself. “You’re the most unhinged person I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re the most competitive person I’ve ever had sex with.”

You tilt your head. “That wasn’t a competition.”

“It was absolutely a competition.” He opens the door first, checking the hallway. When it’s clear, you both step out like two spies post-mission—subtle, casual or at least trying to be. The bullpen is busy again, everyone preoccupied.

You walk in together, acting natural and you swear no one’s paying attention—until Morgan looks up from his desk with a slow, knowing grin. “Ten bucks says I’m right,” he mutters to JJ, who groans and rolls her eyes.

“Children,” Hotch calls from across the room, not even looking up from his file. “Back to work.” You slip into your chair. Spencer sits beside you, flipping open the nearest file like nothing happened. And maybe nothing did—except now you know exactly how good he sounds when he falls apart for you and he knows exactly what you look like when you’re coming on his cock.

You cross your legs under the desk and he glances at you sideways. You don’t speak. But the tension’s not gone. It’s just different now. And you’re not done fighting yet.

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blueeyedgirll · 1 year ago

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i feel like bakugo would treat you riiightt.. like

(note that this is post character development and probably ooc. also fem reader)

- NOT a scrub if ur a tlc fan

- “my girl” kinda fella

- if he was into pda i feel like around anyone especially other men he’d keep an arm on your shoulder/waist or a hand on your opposite hip just to be like “mine.”

- overall i feel like he’d be pretty possessive. not like TOXIC possessive but like “i want you and no one else, i want to be the only one giving you romantic attention”

- also rejects attention from other women. like you know that one clip of him saying like “YOU TOUCH ME AND YOU DIE” maybe not that exactly but like… he’s YOURS.

- def likes it when you check him out. like “yeah i know you like this”

- his voice sounds sooo nice when you’re pressed against his chest/neck area, like you can feel it rumbling through his chest and it just sounds so deep and yummy from that angle especially cause he’s likely talking directly to you in that hot ass boyfriend way like the “mmhm?” AUCJNHEK

- not necessarily a relationship thing but i feel like he dresses nicely. like nothing too fancy but his clothes match and look nice so he always looks put together outside of school hours.

- workout photos. that’s it.

- sarcastic little shit. like you know he’s always gonna give you a hard time about stuff (it’s out of love i promise)

- he really does care what you have to say. like say you’re telling him about something while he’s preoccupied so he seems like he doesn’t care so you stop talking. homeboy quite literally drops whatever he’s doing and is just like “yeah? go on.”

- i feel like if he had socials rather than putting like your user with a lock or whatever it would just be like “hers” or your initial or smth

- trust he goes bonkers if anyone even DARES to insult you. like idk if you’ll ever see that person again…

okay that’s it

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meleeyz · 7 months ago

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ekko enemies to lovers? literally metal flowers was SO! GOOD! where reader is a pilte and she goes down with cait and vi in s1?

┈﹒ ꒰ 𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗧𝗧𝗬 𝗣𝗜𝗟𝗧𝗜𝗘꒱

ekko 𝒙 fem!reader

୨୧ English is not my first language, so I'm sorry in advance if something reads strangely or is poorly written.

୨୧ Hello darling! Maybe this isn't exactly your idea (?), but I thought it would be fun to have a tension-filled conversation when the reader is supposed to be... you know, kidnapped. Tell me what you think! I'm also glad you liked the metal flowers one-shot 💞💞

୨୧ THANK YOU VERY VERY VERY MUCH FOR THE SUPPORT, THIS IS THE FIRST REQUEST I HAVE AND THAT MAKES ME VERY HAPPY, YOUR NICE COMMENTS ARE ALSO GREAT, THANK YOU VERY MUCH AGAIN 💓

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

It all happened too fast: Vi shouting warnings, the blue-haired lunatic and her sick laughter had been the least of your problems.

And now you were here, restrained in a damp, dimly lit room, the sack over your head smelling of grease and mildew. Caitlyn’s muffled voice called for you, distant and strained.

You tugged at the ropes binding your wrists to the chair, teeth gritted. The door creaked open, and hurried footsteps approached. The sack was pulled off. A Vastaya man loomed over you, his bat-like ears curling inwards as he studied you for a moment. Then, wordlessly, he left, closing the door behind him with a resonating clang.

Blinking against the sudden light, you glanced around, your gaze landing on someone seated across the room. He wore an owl mask, his posture lazy yet somehow threatening.

Your stomach churned. You’d seen him earlier—watching from the shadows as Silco’s men attacked. He hadn’t intervened then, just observed with unnerving intensity.

“Got something to say, or are you just going to keep staring?” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended.

The masked figure tilted his head, amusement evident in the way he leaned back.

“Staring at people like that? Kind of counts as harassment, you know,” you continued, forcing a smirk despite the pounding of your heart. “But hey, let me go, and we can settle this properly. I promise I’ll be… kind.”

The voice that responded came distorted through a modulator, low and mechanical. “You should learn to take care of that mouth. If it weren’t for the other two, you’d already be dead.”

Your eyebrows shot up, and despite yourself, you let out a sarcastic laugh. “Oh, I see how it is. Big bad owl man is bothered by my mouth? Then why didn’t you just kill me outright?”

His laugh echoed back at you, though his tone remained clipped. He stood, his figure tall and imposing as he stepped closer.

“Believe me,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “It was tempting.”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze—or what you assumed were his eyes—through the owl mask. “Oh, I’m trembling,” you deadpanned. “What a scary owl.”

His movements stilled for a moment, the tilt of his head indicating surprise. You pressed on, determined to keep the upper hand in this strange game.

“Let me guess,” you said, smirking again. “Sitting around in a mask all day makes you feel tough, huh? What’s next—dramatic monologues about justice?”

He chuckled, stepping even closer until he was towering over you. “You’ve got guts. I’ll give you that.”

“Oh, please,” you shot back, craning your neck to meet him. “You think this is guts? I just call it basic survival.”

For a moment, silence filled the space between you, tension crackling like static. Then, slowly, he reached up, his gloved fingers curling around the edge of his mask.

Your breath hitched, the weight of the moment sinking in as he pulled it away.

The first thing you noticed were his eyes—sharp, golden-brown, and filled with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. His features were striking, all sharp angles and raw intensity but softened.

You blinked, momentarily speechless, which was enough to make him laugh again. This time, it was unmodulated—rich and almost boyish, a stark contrast to his earlier demeanor.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, his grin wide. “Cat got your tongue?”

Your mouth opened, then closed as you struggled for a response. The sheer absurdity of it hit you like a freight train. For all your mother’s warnings about suitors back in Piltover, none of them could hold a candle to him.

And, of course, he knew it.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said smugly, stepping back.

You clenched your fists, suddenly grateful for the handcuffs keeping you from doing something you’d probably regret.

“Don’t look so smug,” you said finally, recovering enough to glare at him. “You still kidnapped me, remember?”

“Kidnapped?” he repeated, feigning offense. “Rescued is more like it. You’re lucky I was watching.”

“Lucky?” you shot back. “You’ve got a twisted sense of gratitude.”

“Stick around. You might just learn something.”

You scowled, your cheeks warming despite yourself. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, as you sat there under the sharp gaze of the boy—no, young man—in the room. But his attention was no longer casual. His gaze was razor-edged, appraising.

“Enough games,” he said finally, his voice steady, though it carried an undertone of curiosity. “What do you know about the hextech gemstone?”

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, you were caught off guard. Hextech? You wracked your brain, recalling snippets of overheard conversations.

“It’s… like an energy booster,” you said hesitantly, your brows furrowed. “Anyone can use it to build pretty much anything. Something about it being ‘limitless potential’ or whatever.”

Ekko tilted his head, clearly not expecting you to be so forthcoming.

“You just told me, just like that?”

“Why not?” you replied with a shrug. “You didn’t kill me, which is already better than everyone else we’ve run into today. If you’re not trying to gut me on sight, you can’t be that bad.”

His laugh came low, warm, and rough, as if you’d surprised him again.

“You’re either really brave or really stupid.”

“Bit of both,” you admitted, flashing a quick smile “So, what’s next? We keep playing twenty questions?”

He chuckled dryly, though his next words were serious.

“Alright, let’s talk about your friends. What’s their deal? And what’s your relationship with the Enforcer?”

You clamped your mouth shut, trying to suppress the laugh bubbling in your chest. But the harder you tried, the more it broke free, until you were shaking with quiet.

“Enforcer?” you finally choked out, wiping the corner of your eye with your shoulder. “Caitlyn’s more like… I don’t know, a girl playing dress-up as an Enforcer. Her mother would die if she let Cait face real danger.” You tilted your head toward him, smirking. “Like this.”

Ekko raised an eyebrow, waiting for you to finish.

“Oh, and don’t leave the lovebirds alone too long,” you added, voice dripping with mock seriousness. “It seems like Cait’s taken a liking to the pink-haired one.”

That earned another huff of laughter from him. His gaze lingered on you, sharp yet tinged with reluctant amusement, as though trying to figure out whether you were always this reckless or just putting on a show.

“Alright, alright. My turn. That’s how this works, right?”

“That’s not how this works at all.”

“Sure it is,” you shot back, leaning forward as much as the restraints allowed. “If you were a conventional kidnapper, I wouldn’t have said a word. You’d have had to torture me for information—and, frankly, I don’t think you’d do it. Too soft.”

Ekko’s brow twitched, though he said nothing.

“Anyway, this isn’t a conventional kidnapping, right?” you added, your grin widening.

For a moment, he studied you, clearly debating whether to humor you. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he gestured vaguely.

“Fine. Ask your question.”

You leaned back, feigning nonchalance.

“What’s your name?”

He hesitated.

“Ekko.”

“Ekko,” you repeated, testing the name on your tongue. It suited him. “Alright, Ekko. Next question.”

He crossed his arms, his brows lifting in mock exasperation.

“I said one question.”

“You really need to loosen up,” you teased. “I want to learn how to ride that hoverboard of yours. That thing looks incredible.”

His lips twitched, but he kept his expression neutral.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah,” you said. “My wrists are starting to hurt. Being handcuffed is not exactly comfortable, you know.”

Ekko sighed, dragging a hand down his face, though you could see the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Pretty Piltie can’t handle a pair of handcuffs? I’ll free you when the time comes.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

“Don’t push it.”

“When the time comes,” he said again. “I’ll free you.”

“Ekko!” you called after him, frustration bubbling to the surface. “You can’t just—hey!”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even glance back. The door creaked open as he stepped out.

Outside, Scar leaned against the wall, his arms crossed and a bemused look on his face. He watched as Ekko adjusted the straps of his owl mask, preparing to slide it back into place.

“Something on your mind?” Ekko asked, his tone sharper than intended.

Scar raised an eyebrow, glancing toward the door where you were still yelling.

“Didn’t realize we were starting a dating service for Pilties now.”

Ekko shot him a glare, the owl mask concealing the faint flush creeping up his neck. “What?”

Scar smirked, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

With a sigh, Ekko adjusted the mask, his thoughts lingering on the strange girl tied up in the other room. A rich Piltie liking him? The thought was… well, distracting.

But he pushed it aside. There was work to be done.

“Where’s Vi?” he asked, his voice low.

Scar gestured down the hall. “Waiting.”

Ekko nodded, his mind shifting gears as he prepared for what would undoubtedly be another tense conversation.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

#ekko x reader #arcane x reader #caitlyn kiramman x reader #vi arcane x reader

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hongcherry · 14 days ago

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fed up || j.yh (m)

You know just how to rile up the usually sunny CEO.

💛 Pairing: ceo!Yunho x employee!Reader 💛 Rating/Genres/AUs: M(18+)/Smut/Office au 💛 Word Count: 2.2k 💛 Warnings: Yunho is MEAN, bigDick!Yunho, dirty talk, rough oral (m. rec), face fucking, gagging, nicknames (pretty girl, (fuck)doll, baby, slut, toy), sir kink, size kink if you squint, secret exhibitionism, crying, very brief restricted breathing 💛 Author's Note: A WIP I've had in my drafts for too long 🚬 *sigh* also, hi 🥺 it's been a long time sorry :c

ateez masterlist | main masterlist

this blog is 18+. minors do not interact. plz & ty! (ageless/minors/blanks blogs will be blocked)

“Mr. Jeong?” your voice rings out from the other side of his cracked door.

“Come in,” he replies, attention drifting away from his computer screen. He watches as you enter and close his door. You seem fidgety like you’re nervous or eager. He figures it’s the latter.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” you question, stepping up to his desk, hands clasped together politely in front of you.

Yunho stands and rounds his desk languidly. His heart races knowing your innocence is fake. Your little mouth has been running all day, spewing flirtatious conversations with nearly everyone who stops at your reception desk.

“Did anyone see you come here?” he asks. He glances behind you at the door as if expecting someone to barge in.

You shake your head and reply, “No, sir.”

Yunho’s gaze shifts to yours. You’re staring up at him with those pretty eyes—eyes he loves seeing rolled back into your head as he ruins you.

He’s not dumb. He knows you’re playing with him, riling him up until he snaps. While Yunho’s frustrated with your need to test him, he’s also excited to give you what you want. He loves knowing you like it rough like him.

So with that thought in mind, he suddenly grasps your jaw and angles it upward. Your eyes widen as a small gasp falls from your lips.

“Want dick so bad you’ll talk up every man you see, hm? What? My cock isn’t good enough?” he taunts, eyes narrowing.

“It is! I want you. Just you,” you whine.

Yunho smirks at your true colors showing.

“Then come get it,” he replies. He releases your jaw and sits back down in his chair.

You stare at him, dumbfounded. He finds amusement in knowing you had expected—hoped—for more of a fight. You shouldn’t worry, though. He hasn’t even gotten started.

When you stand between his legs, he lowers you down and shuffles you back until you’re under his desk. He adjusts the height of his chair to make sure you have enough room to please him.

“Well, baby?” he prompts, giving one of your thighs a gentle nudge with his foot.

Yunho leans back while you begin palming him through his slacks. He’s not completely hard, but he knows he’ll be so soon.

“This all you gonna do?” he huffs. “I thought you were eager for dick.”

You frown and reach for his zipper. Though before you can touch it, he grips your hand.

He gives you a pointed stare. “You better make this good after the shit you did.”

Nodding, you reach for it again, but his grip tightens.

“You forget your manners, pretty girl?” he asks.

“No, sir.”

“Then respond,” he says with a clipped tone. “Are you going to make this good?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll make up for what I did,” you answer.

He hums and lets go.

You wait a second to see if he has anything else to say before unzipping his pants and pulling them and his underwear down.

Yunho suppresses the sigh he wants to emit when you free his semi-hard cock.

This time, you don’t waste any seconds as you lean in and kiss along his thick shaft. Your eyes find his when you lower your mouth, engulfing his fat cock as much as you can.

Yunho watches your mouth stretch. He loves how big he is between your lips. He hopes your jaw aches when he’s done with you, reminding you of his size.

Your eyes close to focus on your movements while you bob your head. Your cheeks are hallowed, tongue massaging the underside of his length as you suck.

Yunho releases a throaty moan. While it feels good to have his cock sucked, he needs to remind you why he really called you into his office.

Yunho grabs your head before he abruptly thrusts his hips as he brings you down.

You gag, eyes flying open briefly, then squeezing shut as you try to endure it; however, you’re not able to. You begin to pull away, but Yunho brings you down until your nose touches his skin. He moans at feeling his cock down your tight throat.

You dig your nails into his thighs and try to lift up again.

“Ah ah ah, no you don’t, baby,” he chides, gripping your head roughly to hold you still. “Bad mouths like yours need to be punished.”

You whine, but it only makes him moan from the vibrations. He stays still for a second before he rolls his hips up continuously.

“This is what you wanted, though. My cock fucking this filthy mouth,” he grits while he keeps sliding down your throat.

Your hands on his thighs tighten, tears running down your cheeks. You try hard to focus on breathing, but he’s fucking your face so roughly you can’t even focus on that.

You’re on the verge of tapping his thigh thrice, an indicator to stop, when he pulls out. You inhale too quickly and choke on your spit.

“Easy there, doll,” Yunho hums. He relaxes his hold on your head and gives you gentle pats. You appreciate the gesture, smiling up at him with reassurance.

Yunho opens his mouth to reply when a knock interrupts him.

“Mr. Jeong, I have a quick question. Can I come in?”

Yunho recognizes the voice to be Wooyoung, one of his department heads and a friend.

Yunho glances down at you, panic evident on your face.

“Make a sound and we’re done. Understood?” he questions sternly.

“Yes, sir,” you whisper.

Yunho sits up straighter and places a hand on his mouse to appear like he is working. He leaves his other on your head.

Yunho clears his voice before calling out to Wooyoung, who enters with a smile.

“Hey, boss,” he chirps.

“What can I help you with?” Yunho asks, returning the smile.

“So, San’s team says they need another week to gather the data for the presentation that’s supposed to happen in four days, but we’ve already delayed it by five, and I don’t know if the investors are going to be happy with another reschedule. What should we do?”

All the while Wooyoung’s talking, Yunho forces your head closer. He can feel your resistance and your tightly closed lips against his tip.

Yunho moves his hand to pinch your nose, cutting off your breathing. Fuck, does he wish he could see your face. He bets you look so cute panicked.

“Why does San need more time?” Yunho questions.

The moment Yunho feels your lips part to inhale, he pushes his tip inside and releases your nose. You make a small gasp that catches his friend’s attention.

“—aren’t giving him the info he needs—you okay, Yunho?” Wooyoung asks.

“All good, Woo. I just remembered we have that company dinner later this month,” Yunho answers and taps your cheek to indicate for you to move.

Wooyoung laughs. “That has nothing to do with this issue.”

Yunho holds back his moan as you bob your head on his tip. Your tongue swirls and licks his slit heavenly.

“Sorry, man. Busy day.” Yunho chuckles.

Wooyoung nods in understanding. “So, what do I do?”

Yunho sighs, but it’s more as a response to you taking a little more of him in your warm mouth than Wooyoung’s dilemma.

“Try to get San some backup. We can pause projects that don’t have immediate deadlines. Let’s try to shorten the—” Yunho inhales sharply when he feels your teeth graze his shaft teasingly. He almost shoves his cock down your throat in retaliation, but he knows that’ll surely alert Wooyoung of your presence. And while the thought of getting caught is thrilling, he doesn’t actually want that to happen. He wants you all to himself.

“What else did you remember this time?” Wooyoung jokes.

Yunho shakes his head and forces out a laugh. “Nothing you need to know.”

He feels you smirking as you continue to silently suck him off. Fucking brat.

“Okay,” Wooyoung answers, seemingly not needing Yunho’s advice anymore. “I’ll get San more help, so if we have to delay the meeting again, it’ll only be for a day or two.”

Yunho nods, glad Wooyoung understood where he was going.

“Sounds good. Thanks for the update,” Yunho says, rubbing your head gently.

“Anytime! I hope you get some rest soon,” Wooyoung replies as he walks toward the door.

“I will.” Yunho smiles.

Wooyoung leaves with a wave, plunging the room into an eerie silence. Your movements begin slowly.

Yunho lets the clock tick a few seconds to ensure Wooyoung doesn’t return with a forgotten trouble. When he decides the coast is clear, he yanks your head forward—forcing his cock to shove down your throat.

Your yelp is muffled, and your hands claw at his thigh.

“Thought you were real smart, huh, doll?” Yunho huffs.

He slowly rolls his chair back to get a better view, keeping your face against his pelvis. You stare at him with big eyes while crawling forward.

Yunho snaps his hips up once, causing you to gag and squeeze his thighs more.

“Bet you’re soaking through your panties, hm? Want my cock in your pussy too?” he asks almost mockingly.

You nod enthusiastically, watery eyes filled with hope. He scoffs.

“Greedy fucking slut,” he grunts and bucks his hips roughly once again.

You sputter, yanking from his cock so you can fill your lungs with oxygen. He slaps his dick against your face as you pant, permitting you a moment to rest. Some of your spit that coats his dick lands on your cheek. Yunho doesn’t bother to wipe it away.

“Come on, doll,” Yunho says and pulls you closer again. “You can take this.”

Yunho doesn’t give you a chance to respond or prepare before he sinks your head down again. His movements are swift and rough, moving your head however he pleases.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans, feeling his tummy tighten with how close he is. “That’s my good little slut.”

You grip his thighs more, either for encouragement or as an attempt to pull away, Yunho’s not entirely sure. His brain is too foggy, and his only objective is to fill your small mouth with his seed.

Yunho still grips your head, but instead of moving you, he starts snapping his hips into your face. Your eyes sew shut, new tears flowing over your cheeks.

“You’re p-perfect. My perfect fuckdoll. Letting me use you how I want. Holy fuck, baby,” he rambles through frantic pants.

Yunho suddenly pulls out of your mouth and drags you up to your feet. His plan to come into your mouth changed when he got an idea.

Your hands fly back to grip his desk from the abrupt change.

He hastily lifts your skirt, pushing it into your hands until you get the message. Then, he yanks down your underwear slightly and holds it open as he rapidly pumps his cock.

White hot cum spurts onto the inside of your panties seconds later, some landing on your pussy. It pools on the fabric and dampens the material. Yunho bites his lower lip to quiet his moans, but they still rumble in the back of his throat louder than intended.

He curses and releases your underwear, the band snapping against your skin.

He falls back into his chair with his head thrown back as he lets his orgasm course through him.

You watch, unsure and overflowing with need. You want to let him have his moment, but you’re so eager to feel him inside you that you can’t wait any longer.

You take a step closer and begin to slide down your underwear.

Yunho grabs one of your hands to stop you.

“You don’t get to come.”

“W-What?” you stammer.

“I’m giving you what you want,” he coos in faux innocence. “Punishment.”

“No, please, Yunho. Please,” you beg, hands reaching out for him.

Yunho grabs both your hands but keeps you at a distance. His chest still rises and falls quickly, but when he speaks, his voice is steady.

“When you leave, you go straight back to your desk. Don’t even think about touching yourself.”

“Please, Yunho! I’m sorry I got you mad,” you say desperately. “You can do whatever you want with me—use me like your personal toy. Just let me come!”

Yunho makes no attempt to move.

“I expect you to be in my office an hour after closing. Maybe if I see you being good, I’ll fuck you nice and dumb,” he bargains and drops your hands.

You remain still, probably debating whether to beg more or accept your fate.

“You’d like that, right?” Yunho hums when you don’t answer. “No thoughts in that silly head of yours, just my cock filling your tight cunt?”

You nod with a slight frown. Your legs subtly rub together from the imagery he put in your head.

“Then go back to work and behave,” he demands.

You gulp, lingering in front of him as if he’ll change his mind.

Yunho tears his focus from you. He readjusts his clothes, raises the chair, and shakes his mouse to wake up his desktop.

In the corner of his eyes, he sees you hesitantly move away. Your walk is a little funny—no doubt from feeling his cum in your panties. Knowing he’s sending you back like that makes him smirk as he types in his login.

A/N: How do you guys like ATZ's new comeback????? I LOVE it so much! Lemon Drop is so refreshing, and do I even need to mention the visuals? Stunning. My fave song besides Lemon Drop is Castle. What's yours? ;o

©️hongcherry // DO NOT REPOST OR MODIFY Please consider reblogging if you liked this work to show your support. Feedback/commentary is always welcomed.

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agatharkn3ss · 9 months ago

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Rio's flower theory (contains spoilers!)

Some people have noticed how Rio's flower kept making appearance in the last episode, so naturally I re-watched it for the 100th time, and made note of every moment we see the flower because I have a theory...

First appearance - Rio presents it to Agatha when she crawls out of the ground

Agatha pushed it out of her hand, but it's unclear what happens to it - I thought maybe it looked like she put it in her coat pocket, but actually I think she just threw it to the ground, she would be too angry to keep it. And so we see the flower back in Rio's hands when she merrily hops along the Road. She doesn't stop playing with it even when they stop to look at the trial house.

The flower (and also her knife) is also present in the trial. As we saw with Agatha's locket, amulets and Joe's spell book, the trial seems to let the witches keep things that are important to them.

When they exit the trial, frantically trying to save Teen, Rio is back playing with the flower again, silently observing Agatha.

This continues until the campfire. Seriously, why is this girl stimming so much?

The interesting bit is when Agatha returns from Teen. Her hands are in her pocket, so we can't see whether she's holding something in her hands or if she's taking something from her pocket. But in the next frame, as she sits down to join the coven, she has that flower in her left hand! I think Rio must have put it on the seat, waiting for her. There are some interesting looks!

Finally, when Rio gets up to go after Agatha, the camera pans out and we see the flower has actually been left back on the log, where Agatha sat... What is the meaning of it?....

So in summary, the flower has some deeper meaning to Rio and she seems to really treasure it, maybe even use it as a stimming device, maybe trying to control her emotions?

Enter the Marvel promo for Death tarot card!

In one hand, we see Death holds her dagger (looking familiar?), in the other hand she holds an object that people believe to be Death's black heart. But it also reminds me the shape of a flower. So what if Rio's flower IS her heart? That she keeps offering to Agatha?

But I wonder if Agatha realises the meaning of the flower yet. In ep.1 she looked a little surprised when Rio says she does have a heart, that it's black and beats for her. It would be hard to believe that if these two were an item for centuries, that they wouldn't end up knowing everything about each other. So Agatha's "you don't have a heart" could just be a snarky, hurtful comment to reflect Rio's possible betrayal (the "job" she had to do) or a more literal fact that she doesn't believe Rio can be truly human in any physical way (no heart, no scars), because she's Lady Death. Or both. So maybe Rio hid that part from her? They certainly seem like they didn't even talk and reconcile after the dramatic events because Agatha seems surprised at Rio's hurt and regret when she tells her "scar story".

Anyway, I digress... In short, I think flower is (or at least symbolises) Rio's heart.

Bonus content - we actually get a glimpse of that flower in ep.1 as it makes its appearance even in Agatha's fake reality. Even though the camera angles make it impossible to see it most of the time, there are scenes when Rio moves her head just enough that we can see a bit of her her clip - which looks eerily like the flower!

While there was no actual flower in their ep.1 fight scene, Agatha is wearing a flowery robe and the wallpaper is all flowers. So I think there is a deeper symbolism there that the show is trying to subtly incorporate - does it all link to the Green Witch powers? Or the language of flowers?

Even Teen places a flower on Sharon's grave, where would he even get it from in that dark place? And finally, Jen uses blue flowers when they summon the green witch (Lilia offers a rock, Agatha adds a leaf and it's not clear what Alice adds - some dust or fruit?)

So... after all that, I don't actually know anything about plants or gardening. So does anyone know what type Rio's flower even is? I mean, there literally is a flower called Rio, could that be a hint or is it too simple?

EDIT: My bad, Rio is a proprietary company name who sells those flowers. But what about this flower called Surprise Lily? (also called Resurrection Lily!) Doesn't look quite like Rio's but I like the name as it would be quite funny if it was true...

#agatha all along #agatha harkness #kathryn hahn #aubrey plaza #rio vidal #agatha all along spoilers #agathario #agatha x rio #vidarkness #flower #agatha all along theory

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leighsartworks216 · 9 months ago

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Puppy

Sylus x gn!Reader

Inspired by the quality time work/study animation when he looks up from cleaning his gun and he just looks so soft and sweet 🥺 And also from the in-game phone call "Crow"

Warnings: swearing, pet names, biting, teasing, fluff

Word Count: 1,142

Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

“Where’s Sylus?”

The temperamental crow looked at you with one glowing red eye, beak turned away coyly. You have to wonder what kind of programming went into making him have so much attitude. It’d probably go right over your head, anyway.

“Wanna make a deal?” You keep an eye on Mephisto as you reach into your pocket, rooting around until cold metal touches your fingers. You lift the shiny metal nut like a prize. “Hm? A nice shiny trinket for you if you show me where Sylus is? What d’ya say?”

His metal wings fluttered at his side, feet stepping unsurely on his perch. But all crows are alike, mechanical or otherwise. He swoops down and snatches the metal from your fingers. You feel the brush of talons, barely escaping having your hand sliced up by an overeager metal chicken.

His caw sounds like a laugh as he leads you down the many halls of the mansion. When he stops to wait for you to catch up, he croons at his shiny new knickknack, pecking at it and staring at it from every angle with his red eyes. He glides through the open crack of a door.

You peek in first. It’s a study, with shelves lined with old paper books and vinyls. There’s a desk with guns neatly laid out on top. Mephisto perches on the accompanying chair. And on the couch, head tilted back and eyes closed, is Sylus.

You wonder if he’s really asleep this time. He’s tricked you before, but as you listen closely you hear the soft snores giving him away.

How cute, you think. A little midnight nap.

The door doesn’t make a sound as you push it open enough to slip inside. You don’t close it back all the way, and Mephisto’s wings nearly clip your head as he flies back outside of the room. That damn bird will always have it out for you, you’re sure of it.

You creep along the elegant carpet to your target, slowly lowering yourself to sit on the other end of the couch. As much as you love messing with Sylus, you didn’t actually want to wake him up now. So, being very careful, you lay down and rest your head in his lap.

“If you want to cuddle, you don’t need to sneak around for it.”

You smack his chest. “You’re such an asshole!” Your heart was racing from the scare, but you don’t get up from your new position. Sylus rewards you by beginning to comb his fingers through your hair. “Were you actually sleeping?”

He hums. There’s a gravel to his voice you didn’t notice before. “Yes, I was.” He finally lifts his head from the back of the couch to look down at you. “Until someone gave Mephisto a shiny new item for his collection.”

You chuckle despite the unimpressed look on his face. “He told on me again?”

“You’re all he seems to talk about these days,” he sighs. He brushes some hair away from your forehead. “At least it’s positive, this time.

“Did you need something from me?”

“Not really. I was just… lonely.”

He smiles slightly. “Well, I’m always happy to keep you company, sweetie.”

It’s easy to doze while he plays with your hair. He seems to know all the right spots, all the right techniques to ease your troubles away. In his care, your hair doesn’t tangle or get caught. It’s heaven.

When you wake up, you’re exactly where you were. Sylus’s lap was warm under you, and you wondered if his legs fell asleep at any point during your nap. If they did, he’d suffered through it for your sake.

His hand was nearly still in your hair now. It didn’t move in those perfect ministrations as before. Instead, it was almost completely still, moving at a snail’s pace along the crown of your head. You blink your eyes open to figure out why, maybe even pout and whine about it just to annoy him, but you can’t stop from just staring.

If he notices you’re awake or watching him, he doesn’t say anything. His thumb scrolls through his phone, probably looking at the latest underground news on shady deals or skimming over messages from desperate people wanting to deal with him. Something that drew his attention away from you, at least.

So you take your time drinking him in.

He’s pretty, there’s no arguments there, but it’s his own kind of pretty. It’s sharp and multifaceted, like a crystal. His eyes are intense, lashes so dark and thick it looks like he’s wearing makeup. You wonder if he does. He’d look even more gorgeous with dark red eyeshadow and sharp cat eyeliner. His lips are pressed into a thin line, soft pink drawing your eyes to them. You quickly turn your attention to the slope of his nose before he catches you.

With a sigh, Sylus closes his phone and sets it aside. His hand in your hair goes back to a normal speed, his fingers scratching at the nape of your neck as he finally looks down at you, And just like that, all that sharp beauty is replaced.

Instead of his usual intense gaze, his eyes are soft around the edges, just a little bit wider, relaxed. His lips quirk up slightly at the sight of you, softening his cheekbones. He tilts his head playfully, eyebrows raising as though asking if you’re enjoying the view.

“Puppy.”

He blinks, and it’s gone. His brow furrows, his lips dropping into a frown, eyes sharpened with suspicion. “What?”

You smirk. It’s rare to feel like you have the upper hand. You reach up and touch his cheek. He leans into it, though his expression remains.

“Sometimes you get this look on your face,” you tell him. Your thumb runs under his eye. “It makes you look soft, like a little puppy.”

He scoffs, but his lips quirk up again. “Just how long have you been waiting to use that on me?”

You hum, running your fingers down his cheekbone to his jaw. “Since I asked you to join me while I study a few days ago.” You traced the sharp cut of his jawline, tracking the movement with your eyes. “I looked up for a minute, and you were looking at me like I’d just promised to scratch you behind the ears.” To emphasize your point, you reach to do just that.

He catches your hand before you can, thumb pressed to your palm to keep your hand open. He brings your fingers to his lips, eyes watching you intently as he bites down on them, one at a time, nipping at the tips and knuckles with a smirk. “Careful, kitten,” he warns. He bites at the soft skin on the back of your hand. “This puppy bites.”

#fanfic #fanfiction #sylus #sylus x reader #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads #lads x reader #lnds #lnds x reader #gn reader #x gn reader #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader

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conclaveyaoi · 1 month ago

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The Ashtray — Queer-coding and Intimacy Subtext between Aldo Bellini and Giulio Sabbadin

an analysis of the ashtray in Bellini's suite, the chess match in progress, shot compositions and adding my interpretation that Robert Harris uses queer-coded phrasing to imply an intimate connection between them beyond what we see on the surface.

Grab your tinfoil zucchetti. But not really. Jokes aside, I don’t want to “prove” anything, just to point out the potential significance of this and how it relates to the two characters in question. This is based on Robert Harris' phrasings in his book, classic queer-coding in literature, the long-lasting history of gay men in the Catholic church and shot composition analysis. My credentials are a summer course on film at NYU, former member of the chess club at school and being gay with an autistic brain.

This post was what made me notice the ashtray, credit to OP for pointing it out. I thought it was a cool detail. When editing a random clip, I noticed how the ashtray is then revealed to us in this scene. This is the first shot from the angle where we see Bellini sitting next to the chessboard and you can see Thomas is covering the rest of the table:

It is only when Thomas moves that we see the ashtray:

[this covering/uncovering technique is also seen when they all turn to look at Agnes in the cafeteria and Tedesco is blocking Benítez sitting in the back until he walks and we can see him]

We then get another angle of Bellini and the table and this shot includes the chair on the other side of the table that we also couldn’t see in the first shot:

Talking to my tiktok pal @tomwambsgansdarkglasses about this, I took a closer look at the chessboard and wondered: Did Bellini memorise and preserve the last chess match against his friend the late pope, keeping it there as a reminder? Has Bellini been playing chess against himself during the conclave? Why is the ashtray there and what does it represent? Does the chessboard represent the late pope/the papacy/Bellini’s inner turmoil? The table features quite a lot in this sequence (covered, uncovered, stared at by Bellini at one point, next to him in the wider shot and blurred in the end). Here’s a clip:

I. The chess match

I returned to the first scene where we see the last match against the late pope and I don’t think this is the same match preserved. There’s enough to assume this is a different match. Different pieces have been taken. Not to mention how impractical it would be to preserve the last match and take it with him for the conclave. Considering what Bellini says to Lawrence in the beginning, we can also assume the late pope was winning, playing with the white pieces and Bellini playing with the black pieces.

II. Is Bellini playing against himself?

It’s not uncommon for chess aficionados to play against themselves so that was my first assumption. Of course the ashtray may be just a meaningless addition by the set design, same as the extra chair and he was playing both sides. But if we assume the ashtray was put there for a reason, taking into account the table features in nearly every shot of the entire sequence, there’s a chance the implication is that he isn’t playing against himself. Another thing my pal pointed out was: Why would he be placing the pieces taken differently, some organised, the others dropped? And more, wouldn’t it be more practical to be placing the taken pieces on the side so he doesn’t have to reach for the other side of the table? Wouldn’t it be easier to remove the ashtray to get more space? The chessboard has already been introduced to us as an accessory associated with Bellini’s chess interest/his grief/friendship with the late pope/papacy. The chessboard could be on the table by itself and it would make no difference. There’s no need for the chair on the other side too. We can see this is a suite and a bigger room than Lawrence’s through other elements in this sequence. Why the ashtray?

III. The ashtray

Around 10 minutes before this scene takes place, we see Bellini, Lawrence and Sabbadin in the stairwells, where we see Sabbadin smoking. This is his fourth scene (auditorium, bus, breakfast, stairwells) and the first in which he’s smoking. So far we’d seen Bellini and Sabbadin often side by side and surrounded by others but never in an intimate setting just the two of them. To me this can be interpreted as a glimpse into all that we haven’t seen, those two characters being closer than what we had previously seen. There’s an ongoing match happening, perhaps started when the conclave began, perhaps because Bellini relaxes through playing. Where did they go after the auditorium? Where were they before knocking on Lawrence’s door before the stairwells? If they’ve been playing chess since the conclave began, they might have been in each other’s company, just the two of them, every night in Bellini’s suite. There’s intimacy in that. While we see it’s common for the cardinals to be visiting each other in their rooms for canvassing or socialising, this is a level beyond that once you consider Bellini’s queer-coding and the subtle implication of intimacy this brings, using their dynamic in the book as foundation. In a story about the Catholic church, widely known for having a gay subculture and being a common destination for gay men, it seems like an oversight not to make a single nod to homosexuality and queer-coding, in my view. This piece of visual subtext seems to mirror the queer-coded phrasing chosen by Robert Harris in the book to describe their dynamic and the characters, which we’ll revisit soon.

Moreover, if he’s been playing against Sabbadin, he’s playing with the white pieces and winning. Sabbadin, sitting on the side of the ashtray, is playing with the black pieces (emo “undertaker” core). Bellini’s taken pieces are all organised on his side. The few white pieces taken aren’t equally organised, some are dropped near the ashtray.

If the chessboard represents Bellini’s inner turmoil, the late pope, the papacy, the grief, wanting and not wanting, the ashtray represents Sabbadin and his intimate connection to the man himself and the papacy, since he has an interest in becoming Secretary of State in a potential Bellini papacy. The chessboard and the ashtray, side by side. The potential relationship between the two as an added factor in understanding both characters. When Bellini looks at the table, frustrated and not knowing what to do about the simony discovery and what this will mean for the election, he looks at the chessboard and the ashtray. Sabbadin’s point of view is one he has been taking into account throughout the entire narrative and stands next to his inner turmoil and his grief. We had seen that proximity but here we see a potential glimpse into exactly how close their relationship has been through some visual subtext of queerness and intimacy. Watching the film after having read the book, it seems like a visual way of adapting dialogue and descriptions from the book that didn’t make into the movie.

— Further queer-coding in the book (or why I interpret them as being together, in the book at least and don’t think that’s any reach)

I had pointed out before the moments between them in the book are more personal than professional. I like this one where Bellini snaps and brings up his father + first name:

And my favourite being the line that shows not only that Sabbadin has been to Bellini’s suite but also that he chooses to point this out to Lomeli when there was no reason to do so and he could have simply said “I have a suite” or “some of us have suites”:

The book also brings the information Bellini had been Archbishop of Milan before him and of course Sabbadin is introduced in the book as Bellini’s praetorian guard, which, again, is very unique wording:

And Harris doubles down on the description by making Lomeli say in the next page:

In conclusion, I just find this all very interesting and my intention is to explore this visual detail in the cinematography with my interpretation of the queer-coding of Bellini/Sabbadin as a couple in Harris’ book. Thanks to OP for pointing out the ashtray in the first place, thanks to @ tomwambsgansdarkglasses for going through this with me at 1am last night.

PS: If you think my tinfoil zucchetto is too big already, just wait till you find out that I went to sleep trying to discover what that blue led display in the right corner of the shot/on the other table in his suite is. A minibar/electric kettle/coffee maker that each cardinal has in their suites? I’ve checked the tutorial of Tremblay’s coffee machine and that one seems only his own. I’m trying to find the exact match. This is my idea of fun.

#aldo bellini #conclave analysis #giulio sabbadin #cardinal sabbadin #sabballini #conclave robert harris #conclave 2024 #conclave #queer coding #queer #conclave meta #meta analysis #jacopo lomeli

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onlypinkslut · 6 days ago

Text

🎀 warning 18+ 🎀 golden retriever!with!a!dick!toji x kitten who!thinks!she’s ugly

you learned early how to make yourself smaller. not just your voice or your presence but your body. the way it was shaped. the way it unfolded. the way it responded. you learned how to close your legs just right so nothing showed. how to tilt your hips up, to keep everything tucked away and pressed shut, to move like you had nothing extra, nothing hanging, nothing wrong. you learned how to arch for a man in a way that kept his eyes from drifting too low. how to pull his mouth up when it wandered. how to keep him from ever seeing you fully, completely, exposed. because you knew what they liked. what they said when they thought no one was listening. the threads and clips and porn titles and filtered bodies. the trending surgeries and reaction videos. the screenshots of “ugly” ones passed around like warnings. you knew. and you weren’t stupid. you looked in the mirror and saw what they’d call excessive. too much. messy. wrong. and the worst part was no one ever said otherwise.

you used to think about getting it fixed. not even for yourself, but so you could finally breathe. labiaplasty ads found their way into your feed like little claws offering newness, neatness, invisibility. the dream of not worrying. of being “fuckable” in silence. of never again seeing a pause in a man’s face when his hand slipped too far. you saw the before and afters and wondered if that could make you worth staying for. if maybe with a few cuts, a few stitches, you’d finally be enough to be looked at without hesitation. touched without hesitation. loved without shame.

you didn’t ask to carry that. you didn’t want to feel disgust curling in your stomach at the thought of letting someone go down on you. it wasn’t dramatic it was learned. taught by every zoomed-in thumbnail, every high-def angle, every softly lit studio shot with the same delicate foldless silhouette. and maybe you could’ve fought it, if it wasn’t everywhere. if boys in school didn’t whisper about loose ones. if girls online didn’t giggle about looking like Barbie. if every example of beautiful didn’t also mean edited. bleached. barely there.

but you were there. you existed. you felt the softness between your legs and you hated it. the fullness. the darkness. the warmth. the way it wasn’t symmetrical or pink or shy. the way it looked when you sat a certain way. the way it stared back at you in the mirror, not dainty, not cute, just real. and that was the worst sin of all being real.

so you kept it hidden. let the lights go off first. kept your panties on longer. turned your hips away when they reached down. gave them just enough to keep going but never that. never you. not really.

because if they saw it, if they really saw it, they’d leave.

you were sure of that.

and now there’s him.

you weren’t looking for anyone. you’d learned not to. your body was a thing you kept under your clothes and in the dark, and love was always hanging by the edge of a dim lamp switch. nothing good ever came when the lights turned on.

but then there was him.

toji fushiguro.

the man who looked like someone you’d never speak to in your life. too tall. too strong. too broad. and yet somehow not like the others. not in the way he carried himself. he had that face. the kind of handsome you expect to come with cruelty. thick scar splitting his smile. lazy, predatory eyes that made your heart drop the first time they met yours. you assumed he was like the rest some ex-boxer asshole, or worse, the kind who knew he was hot. but he wasn’t. not even close.

he didn’t flirt. he didn’t brag. he didn’t even seem aware that people looked when he walked into a room. he was usually just rubbing the back of his neck, grumbling about a sore muscle, eating chips he crushed at the bottom of the bag with one hand. he wore tank tops in winter and slept with a fan on even when it was cold. he watched dumb tv shows with the subtitles off. he called you brat when you teased him and then tried to cover his smile with the back of his hand like it meant nothing. like you didn’t notice.

you tried not to fall. but it didn’t take much.

he didn’t treat you like someone he’d just sleep with. he treated you like something he wanted to keep. not with words but with small, stupid, quiet things. like running ahead just to rip a flower off some stranger’s garden and thrusting it at you while pretending not to care. or holding your wrist lightly when you crossed the street, even though no cars were coming. or showing you random things on his phone and then grinning like a little boy when you actually laughed.

he’d stare at you sometimes. not in a sexy way. just… like he was thinking. forgetting to blink. caught in something he didn’t know how to say.

you were waiting for him to get bored. to realize you were a little awkward. a little weird. not the type he probably used to pull. not long-legged or glowy or perfect. just you. plain and nervous and too soft in the wrong places.

and then one night, after a slow evening of nothing no dinner date, no candlelight, just a late movie, a bowl of cereal, and you curled up in one of his shirts he kissed you. slow. deep. no music, no noise, just the feeling of his body sinking into yours like he belonged there. like he’d waited.

and he touched you like he was scared to go too fast. like he knew what you were used to and wanted to undo it. his hand found your waist. then your hip. then slid under your thigh to press your legs open just slightly, but when he reached further when his knuckles grazed too close to where you knew the shame lived you froze.

and he noticed.

you didn’t say anything. just kissed him harder. pulled his hand up to your chest instead. made him forget the detour. but he didn’t forget.

he tried again the next time. lower this time. slower. mouth trailing down your stomach, tongue flicking warm circles into your skin. he slid his hands under your thighs again and kissed the softest parts, and when he started to shift lower pressing his nose into the place between them you tensed.

again.

each time, a new excuse. not tonight. too tired. too sore. already came, babe. no need. and he didn’t push. he just blinked, rubbed his face, and let it go.

but you could feel it.

he liked it. loved it. missed it. his hips always rolled harder after you said no. his cock twitched like he needed more. and he never said anything, but he started jerking off more than usual. you noticed. when he stayed the night, when you heard the soft grunt in the bathroom with the shower running. or when he’d come back to bed breathing different. less satisfied. like he didn’t want to tell you why.

you knew.

and you told yourself it was fine.

it was better this way.

he didn’t need to see it.

didn’t need to see you. not all of you.

because in your head, you still weren’t built for that kind of intimacy. you’d always imagined sex as something you gave. something done to you. not something you offered. not something someone could worship. not something someone like him could lose himself in.

and he was beautiful. even if he didn’t know it. even if he groaned about the mirror and never noticed the way his shirts clung to his biceps, or how girls looked when he walked by. toji was the kind of man those girls got. and somehow he wanted you.

but that didn’t mean he wanted all of you.

and you didn’t realize how much it haunted you until the day you opened his phone and saw it.

you hadn’t meant to look through his phone.

you weren’t checking anything. you weren’t being suspicious. he was in the kitchen making coffee, muttering about how someone stole his last protein bar, and his phone buzzed on the nightstand. nothing serious. just a message from yuji, probably another dumb meme. and you smiled to yourself when you tapped it open to forward it to your own chat, because sometimes you liked saving the things he showed you, the moments that felt easy. light.

you didn’t even mean to swipe up. not on purpose.

but his browser was open. and it was there. still fresh. still loaded. still glowing.

and for a second, your brain didn’t register what it was.

it looked like a million other tabs you’d seen before. a homepage. a title. something about blow job or whatever the fuck they always pushed. and a thumbnail. close-up. glossy. pink. surgically bare. no folds, no depth, no shadow. the kind of body you’d seen a thousand times and never once thought belonged to anyone real.

you didn’t move.

you just stared at it.

watched the preview loop over and over, five seconds of a girl moaning and pulling her lips open like a biology lesson. perfect, symmetrical, tucked. so neat you couldn’t even tell where it started. a pussy designed to be swallowed in one breath. toji’s breath.

your throat closed.

you didn’t scroll, but you saw there were more. tabs stacked. different positions. different angles. but all the same.

not like you.

not even close.

you locked the phone and set it down like it burned you.

he walked back in a minute later, carrying your coffee with his sleeve over the handle like he always did so it wouldn’t burn your fingers, and you didn’t say anything.

you smiled.

you took the cup.

you kissed his cheek.

and you spent the whole day trying not to fall apart.

because it wasn’t that he watched porn. you weren’t naive. you knew men did. you knew he did. he’d mentioned it in passing once with a shrug. didn’t make a big deal about it. it wasn’t a betrayal. it wasn’t some great sin.

it was the type.

the body.

the reminder.

the confirmation.

because you’d always wondered. always feared. always known. and now it was proven.

this wasn’t just insecurity. this was fact. this was evidence. this was what he came to when you didn’t give him what he wanted. when your thighs clenched too tight, when you flinched, when you said not now. he turned to the ones who didn’t make him pause. the ones who looked better. the ones who didn’t have to hide.

you couldn’t stop seeing it.

couldn’t unsee the comparison.

you stared at your own reflection that night with your thighs spread on the bathroom counter, hoodie shoved up, phone light shining down, and your stomach turned. it didn’t look like theirs. not at all. it wasn’t pink. it wasn’t tiny. it wasn’t smooth. it was real. soft and dark and full. textured. folded. visible.

you felt sick.

you hated yourself for checking.

you hated him for making it true.

and when he came in later, sleep-eyed and slow, dragging his shirt over his head with a lazy smile and that same stupid soft voice asking if you were coming to bed, you just nodded. climbed in next to him. turned off the lamp. curled away when he touched your hip.

he didn’t notice at first.

he was tired. kissed your shoulder. knocked out fast.

but your eyes stayed open.

your knees pressed together.

your mouth tasted like metal.

and in your chest, a voice started whispering the old things again.

he wants what you’re not. he wants what you’ll never be. he only loved the lights off. he only wanted you because he hadn’t seen the truth yet.

and that night, you didn’t sleep.

you just held your breath and waited for morning.

he notices three days later.

you don’t say anything. you’re not dramatic. you still kiss him back when he leans in, still nod when he asks if you’re hungry, still curl up beside him at night like nothing’s changed. but it’s in the little things. the way you don’t look at him for too long. the way you let his hand rest on your thigh but don’t guide it higher. the way you smile like you’re tired. even when you’re not.

you won’t let him eat you out. again.

you’d let him do everything else. he could kiss you. fuck you. hold your face and tell you you were perfect. but as soon as his mouth dipped lower, his shoulders pushing your thighs apart, his tongue warm and open and starving you’d shift.

stop, you’d whisper, barely breathing. just fuck me instead.

and he would.

but tonight he can’t.

tonight he pulls out of you halfway through, chest heaving, cock dripping, eyes wild.

what is it?

you blink.

what?

he leans back on his knees, hands still resting on your waist, body still warm between your legs.

what’s wrong?

you shake your head, but he doesn’t let go.

brat.

his voice is softer now. rough, but quieter. like it hurts him to ask. like he’s scared of the answer.

you okay?

you look up at him. his hair is messy. cheeks flushed. sweat glinting along his jaw. he’s beautiful in the way no man should be. too big, too rough, too casually wrecked. and yet right now, he looks… unsure. small. like he knows he fucked up, but doesn’t know how.

your throat tightens.

you don’t answer.

he drags his hand up your ribs slowly, thumb brushing your skin.

talk to me, please.

you bite your lip. not to flirt. not to be cute. just to stop the shake.

i saw it..

his brow furrows.

saw what?

your voice breaks before it even fully comes out.

on your phone

he freezes.

and you know he knows.

because his face doesn’t twist in guilt. doesn’t flush. doesn’t flare with panic. it just stills. like his heart skipped and never restarted.

you look away.

i wasn’t looking for it. i didn’t mean to. it just popped up. the tabs were still there.

he says your name. quiet. almost inaudible.

you shake your head again. your chest is starting to ache.

i don’t care that you watch it. it’s not that. it’s just… i saw the kind of girls you watch. and i just… it made sense.

he stares. his mouth parts. no words come.

you breathe in sharp. your voice cracks.

i knew it. i knew it, toji. i’ve always known. you’re not the first guy to want it, you’re just the first one i didn’t want to disappoint.

his hand flinches like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t move.

disappoint you how?

your laugh is bitter. quiet.

you don’t want me to say it.

yes i do.

no you don’t.

yes i fucking do.

he grabs your hand, presses it flat against his chest. his heart is hammering.

you say it now. or i swear to god i’ll go crazy trying to guess what i did.

you finally look up at him.

your lips tremble. the words taste like blood.

my pussy doesn’t look like that.

silence.

i know what they look like. i’ve seen it. the ones you watch. the ones all guys like. small, tight, pretty. pink. invisible. mine’s not like that. mine’s not small. or neat. or the right color. and i know you’ve noticed. you don’t have to lie. it’s fine. i’m used to it.

his face shatters.

you laugh again, but your eyes are full of tears now. everything about you feels soft and defeated.

you’ve been nice. you haven’t said anything. but i know why you’ve been jerking off more. why you don’t push when i say no. i know i’m not what you’re used to. and it’s okay. i get it. i just wish i didn’t have to see it to be reminded of what i’m not.

he doesn’t speak.

he doesn’t blink.

he just stares at you like he’s watching you bleed out.

and when he finally moves, it’s not to touch you. not to apologize. not to speak.

he drops his head.

and groans.

not out of frustration.

but out of pain.

like he’s the one breaking.

fuck, baby. fuck.

he pulls away from you not in rejection, but like he’s scared he’ll fuck it up worse if he touches you the wrong way.

you think i’ve been jerking off because of that? he breathes, laughing dryly. no. no, babe. i’ve been jerking off because i can’t stop thinking about your pussy. yours. you don’t let me taste it. you don’t let me see it. and it’s driving me fucking insane.

your lips part.

he finally lifts his head. his face is flushed, mouth parted, jaw tight.

you think i want those girls? those fake-ass plastic studio-lit girls? you think i’m watching that shit because i want it?

he leans closer, hands gripping your thighs now. firm. real.

i can’t cum to anything unless i’m thinking about you. and i mean it. i tried. believe me, i fucking tried. but every time i close my eyes, it’s you i see. that little moan you make when i rub you through your panties. that shake in your thighs when you get close. that whimper you do when you almost let me go down. and i’m so fucking desperate, brat, i’d lick your pussy until my jaw locked and my cock fucking burst if you just let me.

your breath stutters.

his voice drops. low. reverent.

you think it’s not perfect. i think it’s gonna ruin me.

you sat back slowly, legs trembling as you leaned on your palms, breath caught somewhere between fear and something hotter. your cheeks burned. your thighs twitched. your fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties and for a second, you hesitated.

but then you tugged them down anyway. slow. cautious. peeled the thin cotton past the curve of your ass, down your trembling thighs, and off your ankles exposing the part of you you’d spent years hiding, folding, denying. trimmed but soft, full, warm, already glistening from the ache he’d built up in you. not bleached or tucked or invisible. you. wet and puffy and swollen from the way you’d clenched your legs shut all week trying to ignore how badly you needed him. your folds kissed open slightly with every breath, soft and sweet and shining in the low bedroom light, pulsing just from anticipation.

he didn’t even react at first.

not in the way you feared.

he didn’t flinch. didn’t squint. didn’t shift awkwardly or pause to analyze it like some dissection. he just sat there knees on the bed, body tense, shoulders broad and still staring. lips parted, green eyes blown, chest rising in shallow gasps.

holy fuck.

you looked away instinctively, body folding in on itself, but he reached out and gripped your thighs with both hands wide, hot palms grounding you against the sheets.

nah. don’t do that. don’t you dare fuckin’ hide from me now.

his thumbs slid up the inside of your thighs, slow and reverent, like he was handling something holy. not even touching your pussy yet. just tracing where your heat spilled out, feeling how your slick had already started to pool how soaked you were just from the act of being seen.

jesus fuckin’ christ. you smell so good. you know that? can smell your pussy all the way up here. fuckin’ sweet. better than any of that tasteless bullshit they film with studio lights and bleached holes. ain’t got nothing on this.

you swallowed, shaking. your thighs tried to close.

his grip tightened.

nope. you keep ‘em open for me. you let me fuckin’ look. please, baby. please. just let me have this.

you nodded, lips parting. and then you sat up, hands sliding over your own skin, tugging your shirt up over your head, letting it fall behind you.

his breath hitched.

your tits bounced softly with the motion, flushed and sensitive, your nipples already stiff. your stomach rolled as you adjusted your posture, soft and real and curved the way you always hated. but he looked at you like he was witnessing divinity. like you were laid out for worship.

fuck. look at you. real woman. fuckin’ gorgeous. tits out, pussy glistening, thighs spread. fuckin’ perfect.

you laughed a little. it wasn’t fake it cracked and trembled, laced with tears, but it was real. because he sounded genuine. wrecked. possessed.

he ducked his head low and inhaled hard at the apex of your thighs, groaning like he’d just opened something forbidden.

this is what pussy’s supposed to smell like. sweet. warm. fuckin’ alive. not like those dry-ass clips. all that shit looks like it’s filmed on fuckin’ mars. no flavor. no real woman. just lighting and filters and air. but this..

his tongue licked up one thigh, just barely grazing your outer lips.

this is mine.

your breath stuttered.

his mouth hovered above your cunt like he was holding back tears.

i don’t wanna hear you compare yourself to that shit again. ever. i swear, brat, i see this pussy and i get lightheaded. i ain’t even inside and my dick’s aching. it’s painful. you did that. just by sittin’ there.

your head fell back.

he finally leaned in.

his lips kissed the very top of your mound. not even touching your folds yet. just the soft upper skin. then again. then lower. his nose bumped your trimmed hair. he groaned again.

gonna make out with her. i don’t care. don’t care if it’s messy. don’t care if i look stupid. you let me taste and i swear i’ll die right here a happy man.

his tongue dragged slowly along the curve of your inner lips and you gasped, thighs quivering, fingers tangling in his hair before you could even think. your other hand came up, covering your own chest for a moment, then rubbing soft circles around your nipple unconsciously seeking more stimulation.

you were already moaning.

toji. fuck. oh my god.

his eyes rolled back slightly.

that’s it. yeah. lemme hear you. fuck. she’s pulsing already. can feel her throb on my fuckin’ tongue. never seen anything prettier in my life. never tasted anything like this.

he licked again, slower, deeper. his lips sealed over your clit and sucked softly, then kissed it like it was fragile. his tongue traced every swollen fold, sliding into the grooves, making out with your pussy like he had all the time in the world and no shame left in his body.

you were crying and giggling now, hand buried in his thick hair, nails dragging down his scalp, grinding your hips softly onto his face.

you’re so fucked up

you moaned it like you loved him for it.

he pulled back just enough to breathe, eyes glazed and cheeks flushed, chin already wet.

you let me do this. you. after all that. after hidin’ from me. after thinkin’ i wouldn’t like it. baby, you got me feelin’ like a fuckin’ animal. don’t even need to fuck you right now. i could nut just like this. just from eatin’ you. just from the fuckin’ honor of gettin’ to see what other men couldn’t.

you whimpered.

he dove back in, hungrier this time, sucking and slurping and moaning into your cunt like he needed it to live. your body shook. your stomach tensed. your fingers clutched his hair so tight your arm ached.

you’re perfect. perfect. warm. thick. taste like heaven. fuck, brat, i’ll never watch porn again. i don’t need it. they don’t smell like this. don’t sound like you. don’t cream like this. i got a real woman. my woman. mine.

he rubbed your thighs like you were something edible and sacred, and as your orgasm built slowly, painfully, beautifully he kept whispering into your cunt with a voice full of filth and gratitude.

thank you. fuck. thank you for lettin’ me taste her. i’m a fuckin’ bastard, i don’t deserve this. but i’ll take it. i’ll take it all. i’ll spend the rest of my life between these fuckin’ thighs if you let me.

you came with a choked cry, sobbing and laughing, rubbing your tit, nails scratching his scalp while his mouth stayed glued to you, drinking it down like proof that he was right. that you were everything.

and he never stopped smiling into you.

you should’ve been embarrassed.

the way your thighs were still shaking. the way your pussy was glossy and red and swollen from how hard he’d made out with it, the way his jaw was soaked and his eyes glazed like he’d been drugged off you. but you weren’t.

something cracked open in you. something old and bitter and hidden. something that used to ache when you looked in the mirror but now it was burning.

you sat up slowly, dragging your slick cunt across his face just to feel it again, to hear him groan into it. and when he opened his eyes, you were smirking.

you like that?

he laughed, voice wrecked and low.

you’re fuckin’ evil

you just giggled and turned around knees planting on either side of his head, your soaked pussy now sitting on his chest as you leaned down between his legs and wrapped your hand around the thick, veiny cock twitching below.

mm, so hard for me. didn’t even touch it, daddy.

you spat on the head, just to hear him groan. started stroking it slowly, watching the way the veins pulsed, how the precum spilled down thick and warm as your fingers played in it.

you licked a fat stripe up the underside, tongue teasing the tip while his hips lifted off the bed. he was growling now, muttering fuck fuck fuck while his hands gripped your thighs again, pulling your ass down on his mouth.

you wanna taste while i suck it?

his only answer was a moan. a filthy, needy, animal moan.

you lowered your hips again, your pussy flattening over his face while you wrapped your lips around his cock. thick. heavy. pulsing on your tongue like it missed being inside you. and god, it had. you could feel it. taste it.

his hands spread your ass wide while you bobbed on him. his nose buried in your folds, tongue tracing messy, hungry circles around your clit while he ate you from below and choked on your slick. you giggled through a moan, lifting yourself just enough to grind in circles on his face, twerking on his tongue while your hands stroked his shaft.

daddy like that? huh? pussy feel good now that you finally got a taste?

he slapped your ass so hard you gasped around his cock and drooled.

shut the fuck up and ride it, slut.

you moaned. eyes fluttering shut. this was his fault. he made you this way. cocky. soaked. shameless. and you didn’t want to stop.

you bounced. you fucked his face like you wanted to break him, while your mouth worked his dick like you were starved.

he came the first time like that. without warning. hot, thick ropes painting your throat while he growled and dragged his nails down your thighs, your name spilling out like a curse and a prayer at once.

and you didn’t even stop.

you kept sucking.

milking.

you tasted it, moaned into it, swallowed it and sat back with a smug little smirk while his cock was still twitching.

and then you turned around.

spread your legs.

and sat on it.

toji growled so loud the bed shook.

fuck fuck fuck. you tryin’ to kill me?

you giggled, already bouncing, pussy clenching tight around the overstimulated head.

you said you wanted it. you said you wanted to ruin me.

he grabbed your tits, slapped them together, spit between them and shoved his face right into your chest like a fucking animal.

i did. i do. gonna fill this pussy so full you forget your fuckin’ name.

he fucked up into you hard, and you screamed.

not from pain. not from fear. from the shock of how much you needed this. the pounding. the stretch. the ownership.

he gripped your hips and started thrusting from below, hard and deep and ruthless, your ass clapping down on him with every bounce. you cried out his name, hands grabbing your own tits, pulling them up while you rode him like a cock-hungry bitch.

this is yours, daddy. all yours. look how wet it is. look what your mouth did.

he slammed up into you so hard your body jumped.

you think i’m ever lettin’ you hide this again? no. fuck no. this cunt belongs to me. you ride me when i say. you twerk on my face when i tell you. you sit your wet fuckin’ pussy on my dick until i cum again.

you nodded, eyes rolled back.

say it.

my pussy’s yours. my pussy’s for you, daddy.

he groaned and flipped you over onto your stomach.

spread.

you obeyed without hesitation. chest to the sheets, ass arched, cunt glistening. and he slammed back into you like he was claiming property.

he fucked you so hard your legs gave out. so hard your cries turned to gasps, to whimpers, to filthy praise.

thank you daddy thank you for making me feel pretty thank you for loving my pussy thank you for cumming for me

he reached around and slapped your clit, rubbed it hard, laughed at the way your ass bounced.

you hear that? she’s squelching. she’s leaking. she wants to be filled. say it. say you want me to cum inside.

please cum in me daddy. please please please breed me. i want you to. wanna be full. wanna be yours.

he slapped your ass again. gripped your hips. fucked harder.

i’m gonna breed you, baby. fuck you so deep it won’t matter what porn looks like. you’ll be full for days. full of me.

you clenched. screamed. came again. and he fucked through it.

and then..

he pulled out. grabbed his phone.

you want porn, baby? huh? wanna see what real porn looks like?

you looked up through hazy eyes.

he was already recording.

you on all fours. face fucked out. tits swinging. ass red.

pose for me.

you smiled. giggled. spread your cheeks with your manicured hands.

he groaned.

that’s right. fuckin’ slutty girl. prettiest cunt in the world. say hi to the camera, baby. show them what real pussy does to a real man.

he slapped your pussy.

you gasped and smiled bigger.

and that’s when he pushed back in, hard, and filled you to the brim. for real this time. thick and hot and overflowing, his cum leaking down your thighs while you cried and thanked him and rode it out in shivers.

and he kept filming.

he never wanted to forget this.

he wanted to watch it every time he missed you. every time you weren’t home. every time he needed to remember that he turned a shy girl into a filthy, perfect, confident slut.

his slut.

you didn’t even know how you ended up like this half on his chest, one leg tossed over his thigh, your cunt still dripping with his cum, flushed and glossy and twitching with every lazy rub of his fingers.

his arm was under your neck, thick and warm, the inside of his bicep pillowing your head while he kissed your cheek again. and again. and again. no rhythm, no reason. just soft presses of his lips to your flushed skin like he couldn’t stop reminding himself you were his.

his other hand was between your legs, dragging slow, heavy circles into your spent folds like it was the most natural thing in the world. his touch wasn’t focused, wasn’t trying to make you cum again it was aimless and gentle, like he just wanted to feel you. his thick thumb slipped between your swollen lips, parting them lazily while his middle finger tugged at your folds, spreading them just to watch them glisten under the dim bedroom light. he hummed like he was admiring a painting. his fingers stayed low, patting your pussy softly, tapping right above your hole like he couldn’t believe how soaked you still were. every now and then he’d drag his thumb up again, spreading your lips wider, then rubbing slow circles into your clit until you flinched, and he’d smile not to tease you, but because he was genuinely obsessed.

you were giggling softly, face still fucked out and sticky with sweat, holding his phone in both hands like it was precious. the screen was lit up. the video was playing. no filters. no edits. no cuts. just you. bent over, legs shaking, tits bouncing with every slap of his hips while your cunt swallowed his cock like you’d been made to ruin him.

fuck, you breathed, cheeks hot. i look like such a whore.

he chuckled into your skin, kissing your cheek again, his stubble rough but sweet against your face.

you are a whore. my whore.

you smacked his thigh weakly, giggling harder.

shut up.

nah. can’t. not after that. not after i just watched you ride my face like it owed you rent and beg for my cum like you were gonna die without it.

you moaned softly, your thighs twitching around his fingers again as he dragged them up and circled your clit with lazy, open affection. his thumb slid back down, parting your pussy lips again and pressing right into the creamy mess he’d bred into you. he didn’t push it in just stroked it. slow. back and forth. like he was petting something sacred.

your breath hitched. he kissed your cheek again. then your jaw. then your temple.

you really like it?

he snorted.

baby, i’ve never liked anything more.

you smiled. eyes still on the screen. your own face crying and laughing, back arched, voice wrecked while you screamed for him. you. the girl who used to fuck in the dark. now on camera. showing him everything. owning it.

toji whispered against your skin.

we’re keeping it. i’m jerking off to this for the rest of my life.

you rolled your eyes.

you’re so gross.

he kissed your cheek again. and again.

love you too, pretty brat.

you’re tired.

your feet ache, your back hurts, and your belly is stretched tight with the life he put inside you. your tits are swollen and sensitive, your thighs stick together when you sit too long, and sometimes you cry over things like oatmeal or laundry or the way your shirt rides up too much now. but he never laughs.

toji just watches you with that same dumb smile, hand already sliding down his sweatpants by the time you walk past.

fuckin’ knew it, he mutters like a prayer. knew that pussy was built to take my cum. look at you.

and every now and then especially when you’re laying on the couch, dozing off with your hand resting over the curve of your stomach he sends you little clips. old ones. the video. that video. the one where you were bouncing on him, tits clapping, mouth open and crying his name like it was the only thing you knew.

he’ll text you a clip of your ass riding him in slow motion, followed by a message that just says:

gonna fuck you like this when i get home. knock you up again.

you usually groan and roll your eyes, but your cunt clenches anyway. especially when he calls you.

you pick up half-asleep, voice soft and whiny.

toji…

his voice is already thick, low, breathless.

watchin’ the vid, baby. the one where you ride me like a fuckin’ pornstar. god. you were so cockdrunk. remember that?

you don’t answer.

he grunts. strokes louder.

your tits were bouncing so fuckin’ much. i slapped your pussy like five times and you thanked me. you made me cum so hard i got lightheaded. and look at you now. belly full of my brat. tits leaking for me. fuck.

you whimper, rubbing your swollen belly softly.

toji. you just fucked me last night.

he groans again.

and i’d do it again right now. i don’t care if you’re pregnant. i fuck you pregnant. this pussy doesn’t stop being mine just ‘cause it’s full. if anything, i want you more now. look at what you gave me.

you roll onto your side, breathing heavy, thighs rubbing. his voice in your ear, the video still playing in your mind…

you gonna let me film you again, baby? huh? get another one for the collection? you pregnant, tits dripping, moaning while i breed you again?

you laugh softly.

you’re disgusting.

he chuckles. and he’s still jerking off.

yeah. and you love it.

you smile. hand slipping between your legs.

yeah. i do…

（＾ν＾）thank you for reading. this one’s for the girls who’ve ever turned the lights off, hid, or wondered if they were “too much” down there. your body is not something to fix. you are not lacking. you are not less. you are soft, warm, sensitive, and so fucking desirable💗

i hope this made you feel seen.🎀

and if anyone ever made you feel like you weren’t enough just remember: our daddy toji likes it🎀

onlypinkslut

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loveabunbun · 23 days ago

Text

; CAMBOY!WOOYOUNG 🦊 & CAMBOY!BEOMGYU 🧸 hard thoughts . . .

— includes; starting out, streaming routines, audience interactions, where you come in, and favourite kinks 🤍.

— cw; pornstar au, sex worker reader (wy), dom top amab reader (could be seen as strap), sub bottom woo, sub bottom gyu, brat tamer reader, light bd/sm, uhh specifics under the cut.

; STARTING OUT

— camboy!wooyoung

woo was no stranger to, well, strangers. one too many guys on grindr told him he could sell his nudes. and so he did. first it was pictures, then it was selling short audio clips and videos of him spilling on his soft stomach, then came the longer productions: lighting, camera angles, and action plans. welp. the money came rolling in fast. he doesn't bother hiding his trade much, it's fun and he's sexy. not hurting anybody! also,, i said action plan, but there's not really a plan — wooyoung started with his physical desires leading the way, and they haven't betrayed him yet!

— camboy!beomgyu

def started in uni. he's tall and hot, not to mention extremely charming, but hookups didn't really work out for him. instead of getting validation from randoms on a dating app, why not get validation, and money, from anonymous randoms on a porn website? (🤓☝🏻 <- how he felt explaining the logic to his friends). took a couple of months for him to get a dedicated audience going because he's not very consistent… but it’s an incredibly welcome surprise for his fans when they get the alert for a late-night live. caters to quite a niche audience due to the way he prefers to run things.

; STREAMING ROUTINES

— camboy!wooyoung

literally born to do this i'm not joking. it makes him feel good, confidence overflowing as the comments and cash roll in. likes to tease real bad: feels himself up when the camera starts rolling & rarely begins fully clothed — there’s always a sliver of skin to entice. his viewers fall right into his claws, hoping to see more of his beauty marks. obviously wooyoung loves keeping them on their toes: muses about his day, complaints about the coworkers from his primary job, or other noteable life events.

does all of this while either stroking himself, or perched on a vibe and slowly rolling his hips. it's his favourite way to wind down. just when they start losing patience, he's whimpering and shaking as his orgasm catches him off-guard. although they appreciate woo sharing about himself, moan-ridden and all, their entitled grumbling quickly turns into applause. and that is just the warm-up. he locks in after the first and really gets down to business, with the audience commanding his full attention.

— camboy!beomgyu

was incredibly shy at the start of his camboy streaming n didn’t even show his face for a while, until he put more effort into his chosen platform and security. even with his humble loyal fan base, beomgyu is still timid minutes in, but as the comments flow — calling him handsome, praising his soft skin and his strong, defined muscles — his confidence grows.

teases himself for a bit, knowing the audience likes it when he gets worked up. blessed with a naturally deep voice, gyu’s whines of pleasure gets the audience emptying out their pockets liberally. but he doesn’t play around too much since everyone knows what he’s there for (himself). yet while he gives in to his needs pretty quickly, beomgyu can go for a long time! switches up positions and toys often in one stream, so there's plenty of content for his starved fans. gets so sleepy and lethargic after he's put his body to the test, makes his viewers wanna baby him. takes care of himself with a well-deserved shower and nap.

; AUDIENCE INTERACTIONS?

— camboy!wooyoung; PLENTY

woo can put on a show, oh my god. has hella fun getting requests and fulfilling them (thinking of those tiktok lives and emotes,,). his audience always returns because, on top of being dastardly sexy, wooyoung knows how to handle the crowd. face the other way? bounce faster? take this off and put that on? on good days, he plays along well. his favourites get a little daring with their wishes and money when they notice his generous mood (the chances of success are zero if you never try). other days, he holds the cards. and his prices are not low.

— camboy!beomgyu; SPARINGLY

as said, beomie prioritises himself and his own needs. the money comes later. that's not to say the correct amt won't push him out his comfort zone... as his fanbase gets bigger and it's harder to maintain 'close' relations and remember usernames, the veil between them gets thicker. he's also reminded camming was always temporary employment. nonetheless, beomgyu also knows how to perform, and that always keeps them coming back. even if they didn't, he's more than happy with you alone. speaking of you...

; WHERE YOU COME IN

— camboy!wooyoung; COWORKER

you also make explicit content and have definitely seen his before. got in contact through a mutual friend who knew of your side hustles and suggested a collab off-handedly. so the first time you met was over a drink at a bar to sus out the vibes and determine compatibility. you quickly learnt that the talkative cutie was hilarious, and charismatic too. his apartment was the next location, a surprise for both your viewers. maybe it was watching him spit on your dick and deepthroat you with sparkling eyes, or his sweet offer to stay the night after the camera switched off but you were whipped.

— camboy!beomgyu; CAMERAMAN

you were friends first. good friends actually. you knew about his side hustle from basically the start (one of the friends responding with -> 😯🤨) but never mentioned it unless he did first. doesn’t mean you weren’t curious tho… at some point, you ended up stumbling across his account. and like any person with functioning eyes n ears, just couldn't swipe away. you eventually confessed and beomgyu, after his mortification passed, went "oh! my tripod broke recently! and i know you're broke." it was good money fr. soon enough, you were streaming your bestie impaled on your fat cock and moaning for you instead of some shitty toy (his plan all along ♡).

; FAVOURITE KINKS

— camboy!wooyoung

brat taming. the Brat. like i said, he knows how to tease. you, especially. you’re an open book to woo and he takes advantage: responding to your polite requests with snark or sarcasm; embarrassing you to his (and yours!) viewers (or ‘discouraging the competition’, but jokes on him bc everyone loves a hot loser); just being vexing in general. and you’re patient! but not that much. you know he does it for your attention, and you’re more than happy to give it to him. punishments cover impact play, sensory deprivation, and plain old orgasm-denial the worst one iho. maybe all three. often you’ll let the audience choose. they’re meaner than you are ;)

role-playing. LOVES a cheeky little scene. anything with clear power dynamics: professor/student, doctor/patient, police officer/offender, supervisor/intern, even owner/pet. watching you get into character kinda reminds him of the first time you met and introduces him to another side of you. it's also just hella fun. the viewers get a kick out of your improv and enjoy being involved in the world-building. favourite scenarios are definitely recycled.

size queen. wooyoung loves to get stuffed. swallows your dick like he was made for it, and i'm not just talking about his mouth. his ass could be designated a black hole if you didn't know any better lmfao. beads, plugs, beaded plugs… he's taken them all. gets sooo fucked out and moans so pretty when he's filled to the brim. once got sent a dragon didlo n had one of the best nights of his life. it’s his most viewed live and many people have asked for a recreation. this time they wanna see how far woo can stretch with you in the picture…

manhandling. push him around. throw him around. pls. even non-sexual occasions where you pick him up and toss him onto a surface, woo is alr opening his legs and ready to let you do as you please. really likes chokeholds where your arm is wrapped around his throat and holding him against you when you fuck. pin his legs open when he’s being a brat or keep him still when he tries to squirm away from the pleasure, tears in his eyes and moaning like a girl. he can take it.

praise kink. woo likes to act like he doesn't care abt what others think and pushes that narrative constantly. bc, shit, haters are gonna hate and in a vulnerable industry like sex work where depravity runs high, he protects himself. but who's gonna protect him? 🫵🏾. tell him he's perfect, tell him yk how hard he works and how much you appreciate him for all of him, for his authenticity in everything he does. he doesn’t need/want it often during sex but it’s a guaranteed way to make him fall apart below you ♡.

— camboy!beomgyu

soft dominance. beomgyu's more often than not pulling your strings bc he likes riling you up. but it's never really that deep for you, hence no punishments. he gets off with a slap on the wrist, a.k.a. being tossed around a bit more, spoken to a little more harshly, fucked a touch harder. s'not long before he's crying and begging you to be nicer. so spoilt. sometimes you leave it up to the viewers if they think he's learnt his lesson. usually it’s not until he's drooling & incoherent, and can only think of you. they rarely get to see him in such a mess and he gets off to the humiliation.

soft sex. most of the time. his intentions for recording are for a relaxing time: gyu hates feeling rushed and likes to take things at his own pace. prefers it when you fuck slow, but not too slow, and deep. hard thrusts where it feels like he’s drowning in ecstasy really make him lose his mind. soft kisses on his face, back, shoulder, chest, ankles, whatever's close enough to your lips when you're inside him, balance out the firm snap of your hips perfectly. orgasms the hardest like this, shaking and gushing copious amounts of cum all over himself with how full both his heart and his ass is.

pet play. duh. will sometimes put on the puppy or bear ear headbands his viewers send. he’s down to play the part, esp if there's a matching plug! beomgyu really ups his game when you're involved, panting, grunting, and growling in your ear as you make him feel good. enjoys his pet names (puppy, pup, beomie bear, teddy, etc.). fucking LOVES getting mounted, like 'ass-up-face-down-your-full-body-weight-pounding-him-into-the-bed-like-dogs' mounted. he'd never admit it (doesn't need to w the way his dick leaks) but submitting to you in this way turns him on so fucking much. and confirms the love and trust he has in you as his friend turned lover. his viewers EAT. IT. UP.

marking. goes hand in hand with the pet play. likes when you leave a couple of bite marks and bruises on his body. he loves the sight of the dark marks against his pale skin; something like the dragon tainting the prince(ss) in his tower. the marks also remind his viewers that he's spoken for, esp during solo shoots. likes pressing on them and feeling the burn, or running a finger over their edges in recollection. even in the moment, he fucks heavy with the idea of you claiming him and him claiming you too (biiig biter).

phone sex. when the camera isn’t on, and there’s distance between you, gyu’s calling late at night bc he misses you. both his body and his mind. sometimes he’s ranting, sometimes he’s bragging, other times he just needs to hear your voice. after conversing he craves more, a physical connection. you’re the same. direct his thoughts and tell him where to touch, let him hear how he makes you feel too: hot and wet. always on his best behaviour for these calls, like a love-sick puppy. get back to his side quick, okay?

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karvokr · 12 days ago

Text

unscripted

it was all for show– until it wasn’t. now the lines are blurred, the feelings are real, and no one remembers who’s cast in what role.

pairings: actor!gojo x actress!reader x actor!geto content warnings: mdni, smut and angst, unprotected piv sex, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), infidelity/cheating themes, love triangle, fake dating/pr relationship, secret relationship, they did NOT rehearse their lines << episode five • series masterlist

S1, E6: final cut

The day it leaks, you’re at your apartment two weeks before the Oscars. Not in the middle of an interview, not in the middle of a fight, not even on set. Just sitting there, phone buzzing against the coffee table like it’s having a seizure. One missed call. Then another. A load of texts in your friends’ groupchat– nothing helpful.

Shoko [3:05pm]: you seeing this??? Shoko [3:05pm]: what the fuck happened Utahime [3:05pm]: PLEASE tell me that isn’t satoru’s jacket. am i hallucinating?? Yuki [3:06pm]: tell me these are old pics.

You don’t open the links. You don’t have to.

You feel like you’re choking on your own reflection. It’s not even nine a.m. when the masterthread drops– anonymous, unsourced, terrifyingly thorough. A 40-part Twitter compilation of every interaction you’ve ever had with Satoru that looked just a little too familiar. Every red carpet glance. Every behind-the-scenes clip. Every paparazzi photo where your body language leaned a fraction too close, where his hand lingered a second too long.

The worst ones never come with captions. Just headlines. Screencaps. Zoomed-in candids from hotel lobbies and parking garages and that one godforsaken restaurant in Manhattan he took you to last week that you knew the tables were too close to the windows.

The thread spreads like wildfire. By noon, it has its own hashtag. You scroll through the comments even though you shouldn’t.

@/popculturecryptid: wait. WAIT. isn’t that the hoodie Satoru wore in Brazil??? why is she wearing it in LA like 3 weeks later @/chaoticneutralfem: that’s also his chain. i only say this bc i zoomed. i ZOOMED. ↳ @/convincednumb: you need to go outside. ↳ @/chaoticneutralfem: he’s my roman empire. @/sugururealwife: if i was suguru i’d be in the woods with no phone service rn @/satoruburner69: the fact that no one has denied anything is making me physically ill ↳ @/softforsato: i would also shut up if i was getting piped by both @/parasocialdisaster: i’ve seen cheating allegations with less evidence in actual court cases @/popculturetwin2: where is her publicist. where is her PR team. where is GOD ↳ @/verysanecommenter: i know her manager chain-smoked through lunch @/bitchesbewatching: “we’re just close friends” CLOSE FRIENDS DON’T DO WHATEVER THAT WAS IN THAT PARKING GARAGE ↳ @/angelcoreliar: do we… have that clip ↳ @/bitchesbewatching: check part 23. it’s on the body language analysis tiktok too @/satorutruther: imagine cheating on suguru geto with satoru gojo. girl i get it but also. jail.

You don’t talk to Suguru for a week. Not on set, not in transit, not in passing. Not even when your chairs are next to each other during press or when you’re handed mics for the same segment. You answer questions with practiced smiles, keep your shoulders angled just enough to suggest closeness, and hope no one notices how stiff it all feels beneath the surface.

He doesn’t look at you unless the cameras are rolling. Doesn’t nod when you say good morning. Doesn’t sit next to you unless he’s forced to.

The silence isn’t loud– it’s surgical. Precise. Like he’s decided that giving you nothing is the only power he has left– and you can’t blame him.

When you finally do see him again– when you walk into the green room before a talk show interview and find him alone, scrolling through his phone, legs crossed, unreadable– you hesitate in the doorway like a stranger.

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even acknowledge your presence. But you step inside anyway, because pretending you can wait this out forever would be the real lie. And even if he won’t say anything first, you owe him something. Maybe not an apology he’ll accept– but something.

The studio’s quiet. No shouting, no chaos. Just the buzz of a half-broken overhead light and the faint echo of your own heels across the polished floor. He’s seated in one of the production chairs– composure so intact it’s almost eerie. He doesn’t look up when you sit beside him.

You clear your throat. “They’re all wrong, you know.”

Silence. The kind that isn’t passive– no, it’s purposeful. A fuse waiting for the spark of a match.

You shift in your seat, suddenly too aware of the space between you. Of the fact that he hasn’t looked at you once. That his fingers are still swiping slowly across the screen.

You try again. Softer this time. “It’s not what they think.”

He lets out a breath. Not a laugh, not a scoff– just air, sharp and drained. “They think a lot of things,” he says finally, voice low. “That I’m being strung along. That you and him have been together for a while.”

That last part lands between you like a brick. Your throat closes up, but you force a response. “Satoru and I–”

“Don’t.” His voice doesn’t rise. If anything, it dips into something quieter. Rougher. “Please don’t insult both of us with whatever comes next.”

You look down at your hands, suddenly unsure what they’re even doing. Resting. Fidgeting. Guilty. He sets his phone down with a quiet click and finally turns his full attention to you. His expression isn’t angry. It’s worse. It’s wounded.

“I don’t care what people say online,” he says. “I care that you lied when you didn’t have to. That you did string me along– made me believe I had a chance.”

You blink. “That was before–”

“No.” He shakes his head, slow. “Don’t give me timelines or excuses like I’m your fucking lawyer. I’m not asking for an alibi.”

“Why haven’t you ended it yet?” The question comes out before you can stop it. Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s cruel. But you need to know.

Suguru leans into his hand, rubbing his eyes. “Because I wanted to believe it was just noise. Just fandom delusion– that we were still something real behind all of it.” His jaw flexes. “I didn’t realize I was the only one hoping.”

You want to apologize. You want to defend yourself. You want to reach for his hand and say something soft and sincere and cinematic. But you don’t.

Because Satoru’s cologne still lingers faintly on your coat. And Suguru notices. Of course he does.

The silence sits between you– thick, rancid, almost sentient. You open your mouth, then close it. Try again. “Suguru…”

“I’m not asking you to explain.” He leans back in the chair, folding his arms like it’s the only thing keeping them from shaking. He still hasn’t looked at you. “I’m just trying to understand how I missed it.”

You shake your head. “It wasn’t like that.”

He huffs a humorless laugh. “Wasn’t like what?”

“Me and Satoru–” you wince at how wrong his name sounds on your tongue right now. “It didn’t mean– I mean– me and you weren’t even really together.”

That’s when he snaps. His head whips toward you, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted in disbelief. “Oh, don’t do that.”

Your spine straightens. “Do what?”

“Rewrite it just because it’s convenient now.” His voice cuts clean, no volume but all edge. “We weren’t together? Really? You wore my ring to four premieres. Slept in my bed almost every night for the past eight months. Gave an entire quote to Vanity Fair about how I felt like home. You told me you loved me.”

“I didn’t lie about any of that,” you whisper, even though part of you wants to take it all back.

“No,” he says, bitterly. “You just left out the parts that would’ve made it messy.”

You open your mouth, but he’s not finished.

“You want to know the difference between me and him?” he says, quiet and mean. “I loved you and stayed silent. He fucked you and smiled for the cameras.”

That one lands like a punch to your gut. You feel your throat close. Your face flushes hot– guilt, shame, maybe something like pain. But he’s not wrong. You earned every sharp syllable.

He sighs, runs a hand down his face. “I’m tired, okay? I’m so fucking tired of pretending like this didn’t hurt.”

You swallow the apology rising in your chest, thick and half-formed. “I didn’t want this to happen,” you offer, and you hate how fragile it sounds. How small.

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes on the floor. “But you let it.”

For a moment, neither of you says anything. Then– quietly– he stands. But he doesn’t walk away. Instead, he takes your coat from the back of the chair. Holds it up. Sniffs once, subtly. The corner of his mouth tightens. Still, he helps you into it anyway.

He lets his hands fall once the coat is on, fingers brushing your shoulder like muscle memory.

You don’t thank him. You can’t. It would feel cheap. Instead, you both stand there– two people in the wreckage of something neither of you wants to name.

Then, with a breath that sounds heavier than it should, Suguru nods toward the door. “We should get to set. They’re probably holding for us.”

And just like that, it’s back on. The script. The rhythm. The fake smiles and real silences.

Your publicist puts out a statement. So does Suguru’s. And Satoru’s. They all say roughly the same thing: that sometimes, cast chemistry gets taken out of context. That it’s all part of the job. That you and Suguru are stronger than ever.

You doubt anyone really believes it. But it buys you time. Puts a band-aid on the bleeding.

You still arrive together when the cameras call for it. Still pose for press junkets, still say the right things in interviews: how emotionally demanding the project was, how lucky you feel to work with such a “tight-knit, supportive cast.” Things almost return to normal.

Suguru stops sitting across the room from you. He even starts making eye contact again– brief, restrained, carefully rationed. On the surface, it looks repaired. But you feel the difference everywhere.

He still doesn’t laugh with you like he used to. Doesn’t linger after wrap, or walk you to your trailer, or ask if you’re okay when you space out in the makeup chair.

It’s not cold. It’s careful.

Suguru's presence becomes measured down to the breath. Every interaction a decision. Every gesture a transaction. Like he’s still in it, but only with one foot. You’d do the same, if the roles were reversed.

You see Satoru more now. Carefully. Quietly. Never when Suguru might notice– and especially not when paparazzi might notice.

Sometimes it’s five stolen minutes between press calls. Sometimes it’s two hours at a bar across the city where no one recognizes you, where he buys you a drink and pretends you aren’t unraveling. Sometimes it’s just a knock on your hotel door at midnight– light, like he’s not sure he should be there– and the two of you curled up on opposite ends of the couch, doing absolutely nothing and everything all at once.

He never asks what Suguru said. You never bring it up.

You try to compartmentalize. To split yourself clean down the middle. But it never works that way. Because when Suguru touches your hand on set– just once, for a scene– you flinch before you melt into it. And when Satoru kisses your cheek too close to a window, your heart stutters like it already knows you’ll get caught.

You're not back together with Suguru. Not really. You’re not sure if you even were in the first place. But to the press, you are.

Maybe that’s the worst part. Because now, you’re not sure if he’s pretending to protect himself or pretending to protect you. And you’re not sure which one would hurt more.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. That this tightrope won’t snap if you just balance a little longer. That you can keep Suguru without really having him. That Satoru won’t ask for more than what you’re already giving.

But then there’s a moment. It’s nothing, really– just you and Suguru on set, waiting for lighting to reset. You’re seated beside him, hands folded in your lap, and you lean your head on his shoulder without thinking. And he goes still.

You realize it immediately. You’re not supposed to do that anymore. Not unless the cameras are rolling. And that’s when it hits you– you don’t even know what you’re doing anymore. Who you’re trying to protect. Who you’re trying to keep.

He leans in eventually, rests his head on yours for a second before turning and placing a soft kiss on your head. You try to not cry. Because you know what it looks like. To anyone watching, it’s tenderness. Reassurance. A silent signal that everything’s still intact. But to you, it feels like a goodbye you weren’t ready to hear.

It clings to you as the final night looms. The Oscars– the end of the awards run. The night it all culminates. You’ve made it through months of interviews, panels, photoshoots, seat fillers, and subtle betrayals– but this is the finish line… or the cliff.

Publicists are circling like sharks. Wardrobe fittings double as damage control. Suguru’s team is banking on elegance. Satoru’s betting on chaos. And you? You’re the image of balance. The careful center between two opposing forces.

Until the cameras start flashing, and all you can think about is how you’re standing between them again. Not by accident, not by design. But by consequence.

It happens in a green room backstage. You’ve only just stepped off the stage– your heels still echoing with the memory of applause. Someone handed you a glass of champagne you didn’t drink. The envelope with your film’s name printed in bold is resting on the makeup counter, half-forgotten. The room smells like hairspray and nerves. Outside, you can hear the tail end of the orchestra playing someone else off. Someone’s asking for touch-ups around the corner.

No one sees it happen. But if someone walked by, they’d feel it.

You’re fixing your makeup in the mirror. Satoru’s stretched out in a velvet chair like it’s his. Suguru stands by the door– arms crossed, jaw tight, like he’s holding something back.

Then, so quiet you almost miss it, “how long?”

You freeze. Your lipstick pauses mid-swipe. But he’s not looking at you.

Satoru sighs. “Seriously? Now?”

“Yeah.” Suguru doesn’t blink. “Now.”

Satoru shrugs. “Does it even matter anymore?”

Suguru’s eyes narrow. “It does if it started while I was still stupid enough to think it might be real.”

Your stomach twists. Satoru lets out a dry laugh. “Then that’s on you. She wasn’t yours just because you wanted her to be.”

“You always think you know better,” Suguru snaps. “Like you’ve got some right to her.”

“You think you do?” Satoru fires back. “You were fake. I didn’t have to lie.”

“You didn’t lie?” Suguru laughs, cold. “You kept her hidden. You fucked her and still let everyone think she was mine.”

Satoru stiffens. “You don’t know anything about that.”

“I know enough.”

You want to say something– step in, slow it down– but they’re already too far in.

“She came to me,” Satoru says, voice sharp now. “You wanna be mad at someone? Be mad at yourself for not noticing she was slipping.”

“She wasn’t slipping,” Suguru says. “She was choosing. And she still looked at me like maybe it meant something.”

Satoru stands. Slowly. “You act like you were some safe place for her. But you never made room. You just waited around hoping she’d do all the work.”

“At least I didn’t make her a secret.”

“At least I didn’t treat her like a prop.” Their voices rise with every word– closer to something dangerous. “She didn’t pick you, Suguru,” Satoru says. “You’re pissed because you had her first and still lost.”

“I didn’t lose,” Suguru growls. “You just jumped the line and took what you wanted the second it felt easy.”

That hits. Hard. The room goes quiet for half a second. And then they both look at you.

It takes a second to register that they want you to chime in. “I never promised either of you anything,” you say, voice shaky but rising. That silence again. You should’ve stopped there. “I thought maybe– maybe it could still be real with you, Suguru. Even if it started as a lie.”

Suguru’s jaw tightens. “Funny. You still can’t say it was real. Just that it might’ve been.”

You flinch. Satoru doesn’t move. Just stares at you, like he’s bracing for the part that hurts most. And you give it to him– quietly. “I didn’t know what I wanted, ‘Toru. And you… you felt like the only thing that didn’t ask me to decide.”

“Right. Because God forbid I ask you for something real.” His voice cracks, just slightly. “Glad I could be the fucking placeholder while you made up your mind.”

Suguru doesn’t even laugh. He just nods like that was exactly what he expected to hear. “At least now we all know where we stand.”

You open your mouth. Regret already sitting in your throat. But it’s too late.

Suguru turns. “Hope it was worth it.”

He’s gone before you can stop him. Satoru lingers. For once, no smirk. No fire. Just something heavy in his eyes.

“Next time,” he says, voice flat, “don’t say you want someone if you’re still weighing options.”

He walks out too. You’re left in the quiet. Your words still hanging in the air like smoke– thin, curling, impossible to take back. Your eyes sting. You don’t even realize you’ve been holding your breath.

You hesitate only a second before moving. Your heels click down the hall after him, fast and uneven. You don’t even know what you’ll say when you catch up– just that you can’t let him leave like that.

“Satoru.” He doesn’t turn around. “Satoru, wait!”

He stops. Doesn’t face you. Just stands there in the hallway, back rigid, jaw tilted up like he's bracing for impact.

You catch up slowly. Careful. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He lets out a short laugh. Cold. “You did.”

You shake your head. “No. That’s not fair–”

“No,” he snaps, turning to face you. His expression is blank, but his eyes aren’t. “You don’t get to decide what’s fair anymore.”

You falter. “I was trying to be honest–”

“And I’m telling you it sucked to hear,” he snaps. “Congratulations. You said the truth. You still made me feel like a fucking stand-in.”

“I didn’t use you.”

He steps in closer. Just enough to make it hurt. “You sure? ‘Cause it felt like I was what you settled for when the PR fantasy got too fucking messy. Like I was good enough to need– but not good enough to want.”

You shake your head. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it?” His voice drops, quiet and mean. “Bored? Lonely? Wanted to see if the rumors were true?”

That one stings. He sees it. Of course he does.

“I waited. For things to sort themselves out. For something to get easier.”

“And when it didn’t, you just thought you could have both? Got it.”

“That’s not fair,” you say again, voice rising.

He stares at you– really stares. Like he’s trying to find something in your face that’ll make any of this hurt less. “Yeah? You know what’s not fair? Falling in love with someone who can’t let the other guy go.”

You stare back at him. “Do you think I don’t care about you?”

“Oh, no, I do think you care.” He looks at you like that’s the saddest part. “Maybe not enough to choose.” That’s when he steps back. “I’m not your in-between. I’m not your maybe.”

And then– so quietly it almost doesn’t register: “Probably would’ve been easier if you’d just picked him, movie star.”

He doesn’t wait for your reply this time. He walks.

And you don’t follow. Not down the hallway. Not through the maze of handlers, stage managers, and security. Not even when someone calls your name– soft but firm– to line up just in case you win.

You stand there too long. Too still. Eyes fixed on the space where he disappeared, like if you just wait, he’ll come back. Like he’ll turn around and say this was just one more fight, not the end.

You should go after him. Say something. Fix it. Try.

But your feet won’t move. Because what if he meant it this time?

Another voice breaks through. A woman with a headset and kind eyes. “You’re on deck, sweetheart. They’re calling Best Actress next.”

Your heart lurches. Not from the nomination. Not from the moment. From him– because this isn’t how you pictured any of it.

You nod. Barely. Move when they gesture. Sit when they guide you to the wings. You let them touch up your face, adjust your dress. You let them lead you like you’re sleepwalking.

You don’t hear them say your name. You only hear the applause. And suddenly, you’re being pushed toward the stage, heart pounding, everything too bright and too loud. You don’t know if either of them clapped. You don’t look.

You just breathe. Smile for the cameras. Take the statue from someone whose face already blurs in your memory. It’s colder than you expected. Heavier, too– like it knows it doesn’t belong in hands this unsure.

“Um…” You laugh, soft and a little breathless. “I don’t really have the words, which is wild, considering how many I’ve had to memorize lately.”

Polite laughter. A few warm smiles. You don’t look toward either side of the room. You can’t.

“But this… this means a lot. More than I think I’ll be able to understand for a while. So thank you. To the Academy. To the cast, to the crew. To the people who believed in this story even when it was hard to tell.” Your voice wavers. You steady your breath. Swallow. “Some stories ask more of you than you expect. And some people carry pieces of you, whether you meant to give them away or not.”

The words nearly catch in your throat. But you keep going– barely.

“This performance– this role– it asked a lot of me. And I wouldn’t have made it through without the people who reminded me who I was underneath all of it. The ones who saw the story in me long before I knew how to tell it.”

You pause. Just for a second. Just long enough for those who know you to know.

“I hope I honored what we built. I hope it meant something.” A shaky breath. Your fingers tighten around the statue as you glance down, trying to hold yourself together.

You can feel the tears now– warm and certain, slipping down your cheeks no matter how hard you try to stay steady. “Thank you for letting me be part of something real.”

The music swells, and the lights begin to shift, and the world pulls you offstage. You barely make it through the curtain before you see him. He’s standing just off to the side, out of view from the cameras, arms crossed over his chest like he’s holding himself together with tension alone. No handlers. No press. Just him.

Your grip tightens on the statue. You don’t know if it’s your pulse or the lights that are still making your head spin.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you. And the way he looks– like he’s still trying to decide if the speech was meant to heal something or if it just picked the scab– is enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

Finally, he speaks. “That was sweet,” he says, voice low. “Really vague. Real poetic.”

“Satoru–”

“Was that for me?” he asks, tone flat. “Or do you just want me to believe it was?”

You open your mouth. You don’t know where to start. “I–”

“No, it’s fine,” he cuts in. “I really liked the part about being part of something real.” He huffs a bitter laugh, shakes his head. “Hell of a way to say everything and still not say what you want.”

“That’s not–”

“No?” He steps in a little closer. Not enough to touch you. Just enough to make you feel how far apart you really are. “You said it meant something. That you hoped you honored what we built.” He tilts his head. “Tell me something– what did we build, exactly?”

You blink against the heat behind your eyes. “You know what we built.”

“Do I?” he asks. “Because lately it just feels like I built something alone and you were just passing through.”

Your fingers curl around the base of the statue. You wish you could put it down. It feels obscene to still be holding it. “I was trying to tell the truth.”

“Yeah?” he breathes. “Then say it. Say it here. To me.”

You look at him– really look. And it breaks something in your chest to realize he’s not angry anymore. Not really. He’s just tired. So you say the one thing you know won’t fix it, but might make him understand.

“You were the only place I ever felt like myself.” His breath catches. Just barely– but you see it. “With everyone else, I was pretending. With you, I didn’t have to be brilliant or likable or perfect. I could be a mess and still feel like I was wanted.”

You swallow hard. The words feel like glass in your throat– sharp, clumsy, but honest. Maybe the most honest thing you’ve said all night. Silence follows. Not soft. Not forgiving. It stretches long enough to feel like punishment. Satoru’s still. Too still. His stare pins you, unreadable. You can’t tell if he’s about to speak or walk away for good.

Finally, he does speak– not kind. No– now he has bite. “You think that makes it better?”

You flinch. He sees it.

“You think saying the right thing now erases what you did?” His voice cracks, just a little. “I asked for reassurance so many fucking times. And you fed me crumbs. You looked me in the face and said it wasn’t what I thought– when it was exactly what I thought.”

Your breath catches, but you say nothing.

“I hated myself for not hating you for it,” he says, quieter now. “Still do.”

And it breaks something in you. You nod. “I know.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for you. But his jaw flexes, and his eyes flicker– hurt, anger. A myriad of other emotions you can’t even begin to filter through.

“You ruined me,” he breathes. Not accusing, but broken. “And I still wanted you.”

He takes one step forward. Pauses. Another. Then he reaches out, slow and hesitant, like he’s expecting you to disappear. Fingertips brush your jaw. You don’t pull away.

And that’s when he caves– just a little. “Don’t make me regret this,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. You just lean in. When he kisses you, it’s like he’s still fighting it. Like he’s punishing you with the way his hands grip too tight, with the way his mouth parts against yours like he resents needing it. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. But it’s real. And it’s the only thing left between you that still feels alive.

Your hands find the front of his shirt, twisting in the fabric like if you let go now, it’ll all disappear again. When you pull back, both of you are breathless.

“I meant it,” you whisper. “Every word.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes you in like it might be the last time. Then his eyes flick to the side– past your shoulder, down the corridor.

You don’t have to turn to know who’s there.

He rests his forehead against yours. “Go. You have to.”

You turn– and there he is. Suguru. Standing at the far end of the hallway, near the service exit. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders squared like he’d been standing there long before Satoru said a word. His eyes meet yours. Not angry. Not pleading. Just resigned.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

And then– he turns. Walks away without a word. No pause. No hesitation. Just his back to you and the sound of his footsteps fading into the noise of everything else.

You take your time getting back to the hotel. The walk feels longer than it should. Every hallway too bright, too quiet. The statue in your hand is heavier now– like it's mocking you.

By the time you reach the suite, your throat is tight. Your chest is worse.

You open the door slowly, half-expecting the lights to be off. Hoping, maybe, that he didn’t come back. That he’d let you leave this one thing unfinished. But he’s there. Sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket off, dress shirt untucked, tie loosened around his neck. Somehow he looks like he’s aged five years since the awards show ended.

He doesn’t look at you when you step inside. Just stares at the floor like it might offer him something you couldn’t.

You close the door behind you. Carefully. The click feels too loud in the silence. “You came back,” you say, barely above a whisper.

He still doesn’t look at you. “Wasn’t sure if I should,” he says quietly. “Didn’t really see the point.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t know if you’re more ashamed of how much that hurts– or how much you understand. You set the statue down on the desk beside the minibar. It lands heavier than it should.

“I don’t know what I should say,” you whisper.

Finally, his eyes lift to meet yours. And for the first time in hours– maybe days– he lets you see just how wrecked he really is. His voice is rough. Tired. “Just tell me what part was meant for me.”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t. You just stand there in the too-bright hotel room, dress wrinkled from hours of wear, lashes damp, mouth dry. You want to move toward him, to reach for the part of him that still might want you back– but you don’t.

Because what if he doesn’t? Because what if he does?

“The part about seeing my story before I could tell it.”

A humorless breath leaves him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. He leans back on his palms, head tilting toward the ceiling like he's trying to keep it together by sheer force. “I watched you kiss him.”

You wince. “I know.”

“Yeah.” He swallows hard. “And that’s the worst part– you knew I’d see it. And you did it anyway.”

You want to deny it. But you don’t. Because he’s right. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Didn’t stop you, though, did it?” He says it without heat. And somehow, that’s worse. Like he’s past the point of anger– past the point of yelling or pacing or begging you to say something that’ll make it make sense. He looks at you again. “Just tell me it mattered,” he says, voice low. “That I wasn’t just wasting my time.”

You step closer. “You weren’t,” you whisper. “You were the one who stayed. That meant more than I ever said.”

That lands. His eyes close, and his shoulders sag like your words physically undo something in him. “Then why wasn’t I enough?” he says.

You don’t answer. You can’t. But you move again. Sit beside him on the bed. Close enough to feel the heat of him, not close enough to touch.

He doesn’t pull away. You look down at your hands. Your voice cracks when it comes. “You were enough,” you whisper. “I just wasn’t ready for it.”

Something in him breaks then. Quietly. And when he reaches for you– hand on your thigh, forehead to your shoulder– it’s not lust. It’s grief. It’s need.

“Don’t say anything else,” he murmurs.

And you don’t. You just unbutton his shirt with shaking fingers. Slide to your knees in front of him like you’re praying for something you know won’t come. His hand finds the back of your head– gentle, shaking.

It’s not forgiveness. It’s not closure. It’s just sadness, dressed like love. Or maybe it is love– just not the love it needs to be.

You undo his belt. You can see he’s already hard– painfully so– and you don’t ask why. You already know. Your mouth replaces your apology.

Suguru lets out a shaky breath. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pull. Just sits there with his eyes shut and jaw clenched, like if he feels anything more than this, it’ll break him. When he opens them again, they find yours. And there’s something in them you’ve never seen before. Not even on your worst nights. It’s not anger. Or jealousy. Or even heartbreak.

It’s knowing. Knowing that he was never yours. Not officially. But he loved you like he was. And you let him.

You take your time– like he deserves every second of reverence you never gave him before. Your fingers work slow, easing him out of his slacks, letting the fabric whisper against his skin. You drag his briefs down just as carefully, brushing your fingertips along his thighs, your mouth ghosting over the sharp line of his hipbone like a goodbye you don’t know how to say.

He sucks in a breath when your lips press to the inside of his thigh. Then again, a little higher. He’s already half-hard, twitching with every kiss, and when your tongue grazes just beneath the base of his cock, he shudders. His fingers clutch the comforter. White-knuckled. He’s almost silent.

You wrap your hand around the base of him and drag your tongue up the underside, slow and soft, like the first time. Like it means something more now. When you finally take him into your mouth, he gasps. Not loud. But wrecked. Like the air’s been punched out of his lungs.

He leans forward instinctively, his hand moving to cradle your cheek, thumb pressing gently beneath your jaw– more to ground himself than to guide you. You take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet and open around him. You suck him in slowly, purposefully, like he’s breakable. Like this is a prayer and he’s the altar. His hips twitch once, restrained, like he’s trying not to ruin it with greed.

You hum against him. The sound vibrates through your throat and into his skin, and he groans– long, low, and drawn out like something’s cracking open in his chest. His hand slides back into your hair, not tugging, just holding, like he needs the anchor.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You don’t have to–”

But you pull off with a soft pop, eyes flicking up to meet his. “I want to,” you whisper. And then you take him back in, deeper this time, until your nose almost brushes the soft skin of his stomach and his whole body trembles.

You breathe in slow, swallowing him inch by inch until he’s buried in the heat of your mouth. His thighs tense under your hands, a low curse falling from his lips like it was dragged out against his will.

His hand tightens in your hair, not guiding, just gripping. You start to move again, slow and steady, letting your lips slide down, then back up with a soft suck that makes his stomach twitch. Your tongue flattens along the underside of his cock, tracing that vein you know makes him shiver.

He exhales sharp, head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut. His chest rises with each shaky breath, every sound he makes like a fracture deepening.

You moan softly around him– part instinct, part apology– and it wrecks him.

“Fuck– don’t do that,” he chokes, like it might push him over the edge too soon. But he doesn't stop you. He never could.

You pull back just enough to tease him with your tongue, lapping at the tip, tasting him. His hand fists the sheets now, the one in your hair trembling slightly as you swirl your tongue around him, then ease him back into your mouth with aching, deliberate care. It’s quiet except for the wet sounds of your mouth and his breathing– unsteady, uneven, and full of something you both know will leave a bruise in the morning.

When you look up again, his eyes are open. Glassy. Desperate.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he says, voice low and frayed at the edges.

And you don’t stop. Because maybe you already have. Because maybe you're already ruined too.

When he cums, it’s quiet. No warning. Just a breath caught in his throat, the sharp twitch of his hips beneath your palms, and the way his fingers curl into your hair like he’s holding onto the last piece of something slipping away. You feel him pulse against your tongue then taste salt and heat and heartache. You swallow it all.

And when you finally pull away, you do it gently. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Sit back on your heels, dress rumpled, knees aching against the carpet. You watch him. You wait.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak. Just leans forward, elbows on his thighs, both hands clasped like he’s praying or begging or trying to keep from unraveling entirely. His head drops. Shoulders tense. The silence stretches too long.

You shift, but not closer. Not yet. Your voice barely breaks it. “Suguru–”

When his eyes finally meet yours, the light catches on them– catches on the wet shimmer streaking down his cheeks. Tears. Not loud, not shaking. Just… there. Like they’d been waiting. The kind of tears that don’t ask for comfort. That exist because the body has no other way to hold the ache.

You feel your heart twist, ache ricocheting through your ribs like something broken loose. You want to move to him, to touch him, to say all the things that might make it easier– but you don’t.

He doesn’t wipe them away. Doesn’t hide. Just looks at you. And in that look, you see all of it. The hurt. The want. The part of him that waited even when he said he wouldn’t.

You don’t even realize you’re crying too until he moves to kiss you. Not sudden. Not rushed. Just leans in, slow and searching, like he’s asking for permission even as he’s already giving you forgiveness. And when his lips brush yours– soft, wrecked, trembling– you feel the wetness that isn’t just his.

The kiss doesn’t deepen. Doesn’t lead anywhere. It just is– an ache in the shape of closeness. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, not possessive, not desperate. Just steady. Familiar.

You kiss him back like you’ve done it a hundred times. Like you’ll never get to do it again. And when he pulls away, just barely, breath mingling with yours– he doesn’t speak. His eyes search your face like he’s memorizing the parts of you he knows he’ll have to forget.

Then, softly– like it’s the last thing he has left to give– “Stay.” Not a command. Not a plea. Just a single, breaking wish.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe against his mouth, again and again, like it might undo the fact that you’re leaving. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry–”

He kisses you harder. Because he doesn’t want to hear it. Because he already knows. Because he’s sorry, too. His hands are on your face, cradling you like you’re something fragile. Something irreplaceable. His eyes are red when he breaks away to look at you. “Why does it feel like I’m losing you?”

“Because you are.”

That’s when it breaks. Both of you. You feel his fingers tighten against your cheek like he can stop it from happening. Like holding you tighter will freeze time. Like love is enough. It isn’t.

You move to sit next to him, your hands tangled in his hair, mouths pressed together again so tightly it hurts. Every breath is a sob you’re trying to swallow. Every kiss is a word you’re too scared to say.

He leans his forehead against yours. His hands are trembling. “I used to think about telling people. Saying it out loud. But I was scared you’d leave.”

“I never would’ve left,” you whisper.

“You’re leaving now.”

You don’t correct him. Because it’s true. Even if your body’s still here, your heart is already packed up and standing at the door.

You don’t get to be his. Not in public. Not where it counts.

But God– he made you feel like you were. Every night you cooked dinner barefoot in his kitchen. Every time he tucked your legs over his lap on long flights. Every lazy morning when he kissed your shoulder before he was even awake.

You feel it all at once now. And you realize– this wasn’t almost a relationship. It was one. Just quiet. Unclaimed. Unspoken.

And now, unsalvageable.

He kisses you again, softer this time. Like it’s already goodbye. Like it’s always been goodbye. “I don’t want this to end,” he breathes.

“I don’t either.”

“Then why are we letting it?”

Because loving each other wasn’t enough. Because it never got named. Because you both waited too long to ask for more.

So you kiss him once more, and it’s the kind of kiss that ruins every one after it.

The kind that tastes like what you could’ve had.

And then you stand. And walk to the bathroom to wipe your face. Because you already know you’ll be gone before he wakes up.

Suguru’s already asleep when you move to leave. You watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, hesitate in the doorway, and tell yourself it’s better this way. Downstairs, Satoru’s waiting in the lobby. Of course he is.

White shirt, sleeves cuffed to the forearms. He’s leaning against a column like he’s trying to be casual, but he stands straighter the second he sees you.

You don’t say anything right away. You just stop in front of him and let the silence do the talking. He scans your face once– eyes catching on the smudged eyeliner, the glassy sheen you haven’t managed to blink away. “So,” he says softly. “That bad, huh?”

You nod. And then you crumble. The strength leaves your spine. Your eyes fall to the floor because looking at him, right now, is too much.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press. Just moves toward you and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in tight, tucking your head under his chin like he’s done it a thousand times before. And maybe he has. But, not like this– not after everything. But the shape of you fits there like it remembers anyway.

“Did he say anything?” Satoru asks eventually, voice low, cautious.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “He said he didn’t want it to end.”

A pause. “And you?”

“I said I didn’t either.” You let out a breath that barely counts as a laugh. “Then I left.”

Satoru swallows hard. You feel it in the way his chest rises against yours. “So… you chose me.”

You pull back. Just enough to meet his eyes. “I didn’t choose anyone.”

That hits him harder than it should. He looks away. Stares out the revolving doors like they’ll offer an exit from this conversation. “Right. Of course.”

“But I showed up.” You wrap your arms around him, grasping the back of his shirt in your hands. “And that has to count for something.”

“It does,” he whispers, brushing a loose piece of hair from your face.

“Satoru,” you say, voice thin, wrecked. “I’m not okay.”

“I know,” he breathes. “Neither am I.”

You look at him for a long moment. “Can we go up?” you ask finally, voice cracking.

He hesitates. “Is that a good idea?”

You shrug. “Probably not.”

But he follows you to the elevator. It’s quiet the whole way up. His hand brushes yours, then stays there. Intertwined. Familiar. Safe. And when the door clicks shut behind you, when the suite swallows you both in a too-clean kind of silence– he turns to look at you.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says. “If you want to cry, or scream, or lie down and say nothing at all– I’ll still be here when it’s over.”

You believe him. You do cry. Not just because of Suguru. Not just because of what never was. But because of what could’ve been. What might be.

And Satoru, for once, doesn’t fill the silence. He doesn’t try to fix it. Doesn’t ask for more than what you’re able to give. He just sits beside you on the bed, takes your hand, and waits.

and thats a wrap on unscripted! hope you enjoyed the season finale <3 ty to everyone who read and liked and reblogged and supported this fic!! i had a blast writing it.

season 2 is in the works :p

comment to be added to the taglist for season 2!: @twilightsumu @aizzon @jabulile @jadeisthirsting @1satoruu @nombakugoswife1 @feelya @goonforgeto @bandomonia @aftersnrise @wvnkoi @von-studios @roseyjoo @m0rgui @saoirses-things

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