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kunareads · 28 days ago

Text

brat | track two

talk talk featuring satoru gojo

producer!suguru x popstar!reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 7.2k

content: best friend + safe zone!satoru!!! drugs (implied)/alcohol use, club-hopping / SMUT (so much of it but it's necessary i promise), studio sex, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected p in v, voyeurism, exhibitionism, threesome / soft angst if you squint

taglist is closed! 18+ please <3

Buzzfeed Music — COKE, CROP TOPS, AND COLLABS: THE WILD NIGHT THAT MAY HAVE GIVEN US THE SONG OF THE SUMMER

Page Six — BRAT PACK SPOTTED: GETO, YN, AND GOJO HIT THREE CLUBS IN ONE NIGHT, LEAVE TOGETHER

Fader — TRIPLE THREAT: YN, GETO, AND GOJO TURN HEADS ON A NIGHT OUT. COLLAB INCOMING?

the first club of the night is designed to be documented. manicured skyline, hand-selected crowd, the kind of party that wants to be watched.

you arrive on suguru’s arm, late and camera-ready. there’s a lull when you enter—a breath of recognition that follows the two of you like smoke. you’re barely past the threshold when you see him.

satoru, lit up like a match.

white hair glittering, sunglasses on at 10 PM, wearing the same grin he’s had since you were nineteen. he ditches whoever he was charming mid-sentence and heads straight towards you.

you don’t wave, but your smile gives you away.

“look who finally showed up,” he calls, already too loud.

“had to give you time to clear out the influencers.”

“you’re welcome.” he winks. “been doing your job all night.”

beside you, suguru’s already sipping on something clear and expensive.

“hi, suguru,” satoru drawls, eyes bright with mischief. “you miss me?

suguru takes another sip. pauses. “not even a little.”

“so yes,” satoru beams.

suguru just huffs a laugh in response like he knows how this goes.

satoru grabs your hand and spins you like you’re in a ballroom. “you look fucking hot.”

you lean in like it’s a secret. “i know.”

he grins, delighted, and the three of you dissolve into it—feeding off lights and noise and attention you didn’t have to ask for.

satoru waves at photographers, blowing kisses and posing for anyone who calls his name.

people gravitate to suguru despite how little he gives them, caught by that amused attentiveness that makes them forget their own names.

you pause at a branded backdrop. someone with a ring light asks if they can get a quick shot for socials. someone else holds their phone up, already filming: “fit check?”

“gaultier,” you say sweetly. “my bag is dior, but i’m not really sure where the jewelry came from—you’d have to ask suguru.”

a neon-lit photo booth glows near the bar. satoru sees it first and grabs your hand, already moving. you catch suguru’s wrist as you go. the flash pops three times: your tongue out, then suguru flipping off the camera, then them kissing your cheeks while you squeeze your eyes shut and smile so hard it hurts.

a cocktail appears in your hand—too fruity, not nearly strong enough. you slap satoru's hand away when he tries to steal it. “mine,” you say. he pouts, so you feed it to him from your straw. suguru mutters something about children.

the “dance floor” is mostly mood lighting, camera drones floating like ghosts overhead. satoru pulls you into it anyway. you dance for one song before passing him off to someone more eager. suguru mouths something sarcastic from where he stands—traitor, maybe—and you twirl your way back to him, grinning.

@/cultgeto (story) 📸 : satoru sipping your drink from your hand 💬 : @/cultyn @/gojos

the next stop is haze and bass that hits your chest before your ears catch up. low ceilings, red lights, fog machines in overdrive. no branded ice buckets or polite spacing between bodies.

you love it instantly.

the three of you are recognized on arrival—cheers, waves, a group of girls jumping up and down—but no one asks for photos or signatures.

satoru finds an empty stool at the bar and slaps his hand down, offering it to you like a throne. he’s already unbuttoned two more buttons than earlier, hair wild like he’s been in wind or trouble. probably both.

you take the seat with a dramatic curtsy and blow him a kiss. he catches it, fake-swooning into suguru’s shoulder like he’s just been shot.

suguru just looks at him, mildly debating whether to let him fall. he lifts a hand instead, rings brushing the back of satoru’s neck, almost affectionate. his mouth twitches like he might be smiling.

with all the subtlety of a fire alarm, satoru flags down the bartender. nine shots of tequila are lined up quick, glowing under red lights.

“we’re celebrating,” he shouts.

“celebrating what?” you ask, resting your elbows on the bar.

he shrugs. “being hot and alive?”

you clink your glass to his, then to suguru’s.

the first shot burns. the second fizzes. suguru kisses your head before the third, and it goes down too easy. your skin starts to hum, like your body’s picking up signal. the room softens at the edges, melting just for you.

satoru’s gone a second later, pulled into the crowd by something shiny or loud or both.

your stool spins—suguru turning it until your knees slot between his.

“he’s already drunk,” you say, trying not to laugh.

“so are you,” he says, planting a kiss to your cheek.

you don’t disagree. the music shifts—heavier, sexier. suguru’s hand steadies you as you slide off the stool. the crowd presses in and you let it, head tilting back and shoulders going loose. no room to be shy. suguru steps behind you, one hand at your hip as the other traces up your side.

you turn your head, looking for satoru. he’s ten feet away, tangled in a group of strangers and dancing with a girl in silver boots, pouring liquor into someone else’s mouth. of course he is. he’s laughing, putting on a show, but his eyes find you. you match his rhythm, grinding back into suguru.

suguru leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“if i told you not to let him touch you,” he starts, “would you listen?”

you look back at him—oh?—and giggle. he doesn’t need an answer. he marks you anyway, teeth catching skin on your neck. it’s a brand, not a warning. you smile at the feeling. you knew he’d like that.

across the room, satoru observes, lips curled up like he knew this would happen. you keep dancing, arms outstretched and fingers flexing like you’re calling a puppy. the crowd parts as he starts toward you, drink in hand, grin pulling wide like he knows he’s walking into trouble.

when he gets close enough, you snatch the glass from him.

“this for me?” you ask, sipping slow.

“obviously,” he says. “i’m a giver.”

you hum, handing the half-finished drink off to suguru. he downs the rest without blinking, sets the glass on a nearby ledge.

“so obedient,” satoru coos.

he raises a brow. “you say that like you’re not worse.”

“i am,” satoru agrees brightly.

you smirk and shake your head, fingers curling into his shirt like you might pull him in—but instead you twist, catching suguru’s wrist in the same movement.

“bathroom break,” you announce, already walking. “come on.”

@/gojos (story) 📸 : mirror pic of all three of you in a bathroom—satoru taking the photo with a rolled bill tucked behind his ear, you fixing your lipgloss, suguru tying his hair back 💬 : band meeting

@/cultyn (story) 📸 : blurry photo of satoru and suguru smoking while walking toward the car ahead of you on a sidewalk

there’s a line down the block for the third club, but the bouncer nods the three of you in as soon as you exit the car.

it’s more intense here. strobes flicker slow enough to warp time, fast enough to keep you disoriented. bodies blur into one another. the floor feels like it’s bleeding.

you’re not sure who’s leading anymore.

suguru’s flushed, and your earrings are missing (he pocketed them twenty minutes ago). satoru’s shirt is fully unbuttoned now. his pupils are blown wide. so are yours. so are suguru’s.

satoru leans in to say something—and nearly crashes into a speaker. suguru catches him by the collar, steadying him with one hand and wiping under his nose with the other.

“you’re not cute enough to get away with that on camera,” he says, not unkind.

“yes i am,” satoru beams, eyes sparkling.

then he spins away like he’s proving it. disappears into the crowd for all of five seconds before materializing behind the booth, arms flung around the current DJ like they go way back.

suguru’s slower, tugging you along with two fingers curled into your belt loop. someone offers him a set of headphones and a password. he nods like he already knows.

you and satoru are already dancing. you’re in his arms before you realize—twirled into him, caught at the waist with his hands all over you like he forgot how to be subtle. the bass kicks up behind you—suguru’s doing it on purpose.

you're not sure how long it's been when you both reach for him. he resists for a second, makes you pull, but you end up caught between them anyway—hands at your waist, your ribs, your throat.

the lights shift: red to blue to violet. suguru’s palm curves around your stomach. satoru’s thumb drags across your bottom lip, smearing whatever’s left of your gloss. you lean back into suguru and tilt your head toward satoru’s mouth, not closing the distance.

someone calls your name. a flash goes off. none of it touches you.

“we’re gonna start a rumor,” satoru laughs.

“let them,” suguru murmurs, fingers skating past the hem of your top like a dare.

the bass shifts. your hand finds satoru’s jaw. the other curls into the chain at suguru’s neck.

satoru’s eyes flick down. he looks like he might do it—close the distance, taste you, start something. suguru’s breath ghosts against your throat like he’s already imagining it. you hold your breath, the moment hums with potential, and then—

“we should go,” suguru says, low and even.

automatically, you let go of his chain and reach for satoru’s hand. his fingers thread through yours as suguru’s palm finds the small of your back, guiding you both through the crowd.

the air outside is warmer than you expect—balmy and unbothered by the hour. the street hums low around you.

suguru finds a barricade like it was waiting for him, leaning back with his usual ease to light a cigarette. satoru slots behind you like a missing piece, arms over your shoulders, still bouncing like the music never stopped. you close your eyes and tip your head back into his shoulder.

“parle-moi, chérie,” satoru teases.

you giggle. “absolutely not.”

he pouts, swaying you side to side like a lullaby. “habla conmigo?”

“only if i get to use my secret made-up language.”

“doesn’t matter,” he says with a smile. “just talk.”

suguru exhales smoke. “no one understands either of you.”

you both laugh, and for a moment, everything holds. the three of you in borrowed warmth. smoke curling into still air. the city too preoccupied to interrupt.

then your phone buzzes in your hand—once, twice, then all at once.

a flash goes off. shouting.

“they found us,” satoru says, grinning like it’s a game.

the crowd closes in fast: paparazzi, a few screaming fans, a handful of quieter ones hanging back with their phones half-raised, like they just want proof they were here. the boys don’t flinch. the car’s already waiting.

suguru flicks his cigarette away. satoru’s hand finds your shoulder, calmly steering you like this happens every night.

halfway through the crush, someone gets too close. not aggressive—just a man with a phone, angling for a shot. you barely notice, but suguru's hand is immediate, pulling you a step back into satoru’s space. he moves forward, stepping between you and the outstretched arm with a look that doesn’t invite argument.

“don’t,” he says.

the man stammers something—sorry, maybe—but the moment’s already over. the driver opens the back door. satoru’s hand finds the small of your back, guiding you in without letting go. suguru slides in after, the door clicking shut behind him.

“studio’s closest,” he says, settling.

“let’s go,” satoru echoes.

you sink between them, breath catching up to your body. a laugh escapes you—quiet, stunned, not entirely sure why.

that could’ve gone differently.

“that was cute,” you say. “you guys almost looked coordinated.”

@/ynswife: do they know we can see them???

@/gojojojo: yn and satoru being besties is terrifying because neither of them has ever faced a consequence in their life

@/suguruowned: satoru is fun hot messy and suguru is scary hot mean and yn is all of the above

the studio is humming when you arrive, LEDs casting everything in soft pink. the three of you spill through the door, glitter-streaked and flushed, riding a high that’s more chemical than natural and definitely not wearing off anytime soon.

you kick your heels off by the door. satoru tosses his sunglasses onto the nearest surface. suguru sinks into his chair like he’s been missing it all night, the backlight from the boards catching on his rings as he starts scrolling through files.

a beat kicks up under the speakers, then dies. another takes its place—lighter, too slow. he lets it breathe. scratches it, then moves on.

you grab two mics and join satoru on the floor, sprawling out across cushions and cables. a stack of paper scraps sits between you—lyric fragments, setlists, a crumpled parking ticket. you’re already giggling, trading nonsense into the mics like they’re toys.

“talk to me in spanish,” satoru says, chin tilted back like he’s communing with the ceiling.

“hay una fiesta en mi casa,” you purr. “vengan, será muuuuy divertido.”

satoru nearly chokes laughing. “wait, wait—j'ai perdu mon téléphone,” he adds, deep voice turning airy. “mais tu sais quoi, ça valait la peine—”

you’re both laughing too hard to finish the line. satoru drops the mic onto his chest, grinning up at the ceiling. you lean back onto your elbows, breathless.

and then—unserious and perfectly on-key—he sings.

“are we getting too close?”

you snort. “shut up.”

he just winks at you. “you’re leaving things in my head.”

a lazy finger comes up to point at suguru. “i’ll be honest, you scare me.”

“my life’s supposed to be a party.” he pouts like he means it.

you toss your head back, giggling. suguru finally turns, amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth. “you done?”

“almost.” satoru sits up to dig through his phone. “i actually brought something.”

you blink at him. “like… to share with the class?”

he hands the phone to suguru, already playing. it’s rough. recorded in the back of a car, probably, but it’s there.

the more i know you, the more i like you can you stick with me, maybe just for life? and say what’s on your mind?

you sit up and grab your mic again. your voice slices through the air.

talk to me in french, talk to me in spanish talk to me in your own made up language doesn’t matter if i understand it

suguru lifts a scrap of paper while you sing and holds it up: talk right in my ear, tell me your secrets and fears.

you grin when you see it, saying the words without breaking rhythm.

from there, everything just… clicks.

satoru moves into the booth and gets the post-chorus down quick, making faces at you through the glass. you improvise your second verse. a lot of it’s nonsense that you’ll have to revise later, some of it hits.

you twirl barefoot across the room as you sing, eventually dropping into suguru’s open lap. he doesn’t react, just adjusts you with one hand on your waist, the other still working.

it plays back. you and satoru throw harmonies over each other and ad-libs where they’re needed. somehow, it works.

your high melts into something honeyed and warm. you curl up in suguru’s lap, mic abandoned somewhere behind you as you listen to satoru record one last take. his voice is lazy on the mic now, edges dulled by laughter. when it ends, he peels off the headphones and wanders back into the room.

suguru spreads his knees a little wider under you and tips his head back, eyes tracing your profile like he’s thinking about what to do next. you shift slightly, gaze trailing to satoru as he drops onto the couch with no urgency, legs wide, glitter clinging to his collarbones.

his eyes are half-lidded, but they don’t leave you—not when suguru’s hand starts to trail up your thigh, or when he brushes your hair back to kiss the spot below your ear.

you exhale slow.

suguru’s palm presses low on your back, guiding your hips into a slow roll. he's warm beneath you, just hard enough to feel. you follow, like you always do.

“you’re being mean,” you whine.

“am i?” he replies with a smirk.

you grind again, filthier this time—enough to tempt.

“you want him to watch,” he says, dragging his teeth against your throat. “or join?”

you tilt your head like you’re thinking about it. his teeth catch your jaw as you rock again, a little deeper. a little more obvious, like you want to be seen.

his hand tightens at your waist, the other in your hair as he pulls you into a kiss—deep and addictive, tongue and teeth and something filthy at the edge. he kisses you like he always does: like he owns you.

like satoru should know that already.

and you don’t stop. don’t even flinch when you feel satoru’s eyes burn hotter from across the room. you let it feed you, kiss suguru slow with your hips in motion, more intentional now.

when you finally pull back, your rhythm has slowed to a lazy, taunting grind. your forehead rests against suguru’s, gaze sliding sideways.

satoru looks like he’s buffering.

you hesitate just long enough for suguru to catch it.

“it’s okay, baby,” he says, quiet against your jaw. “go ahead.”

you didn’t think you needed his permission. but the second he gives it, something in you loosens. you kiss him once—tender, grateful—then slip from his lap.

he doesn’t stop you. just reaches for your zipper, unfastening it with one practiced pull. your skirt slips down your legs and his hand trails after it, light and reverent.

then he leans back with his arms crossed, watching you walk away from him like a gift he’s given.

you hook your thumbs into your panties as you go. they cling for a moment—slick stringing between your thighs—before dropping to the studio floor.

satoru’s eyes track every movement. “you sure?” he asks.

“are you?”

that makes him laugh. “come find out.”

without breaking eye contact, he pushes his jeans down like he has all the time in the world. he’s already hard, heavy and flushed against his abs.

your stomach flips unexpectedly, and you pause. not because you don’t want it, but because this is satoru. your enabler. your softest place to land. your favorite.

he sees it, hands finding your thighs. “hey,” he says, catching your eyes. “we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

“i want to,” you say.

and you do. you trust him. you always have. and it’s easy—so easy—to give that trust shape now. to let him hold it.

“how do you want me?”

his eyes snap up to yours like you broke something in him just by asking.

but it’s suguru who answers. “turn around.”

you do. without hesitation.

climbing into satoru’s lap backward feels obscene—deliciously so. you like it. you like the way suguru sits up straighter when you do, like you’re the show now. nothing hides the way your ass fits satoru’s lap, or the way you reach between your legs to guide him in.

satoru groans as you sink down—one long, steady exhale like he wasn’t ready. like he didn’t expect you to take all of him. you gasp at the stretch, gripping his knee to steady yourself.

“oh fuck,” he pants.

you grin over your shoulder. “you sound pretty.”

“don’t start,” he grits out, but he’s smiling through it.

you settle with a shiver, feeling impossibly full. he’s so thick and so deep that you can’t help the whimper that slips out. his hands trace up your sides, firm but patient.

across the room, suguru watches—silent, eyes fixed on the way you take him.

so you move. each rock of your hips draws a sound from satoru’s throat and a matching one from yours. he meets every grind halfway like he can’t help himself.

you keep your eyes on suguru. not for his approval, just to show him: look what you made.

“jesus,” satoru groans. “he’s gonna let me die like this.”

you moan, breathless and giddy. you can feel slick running out of you, every drag against your walls, the ache where he's stretching you.

“he’s making me earn it,” you whisper.

he presses a kiss to your spine. “you never had to.”

and at that—finally—suguru takes his time crossing the distance. your body stills when he drops to his knees in front of you, heart tripping in your chest.

suguru spreads you wider, palms firm, fingers digging in. then, his breath against you. you moan before he even touches you. your head falls back onto satoru’s shoulder, chest rising and falling hard.

“easy,” satoru murmurs, one thumb stroking your waist.

“keep going,” suguru murmurs. it’s unclear who he’s talking to.

and when he finally licks—a slow drag of his tongue where satoru stuffs you—you cry out, whole body jolting forward.

satoru catches you, groaning. “jesus—”

“oh—fuck,” you gasp.

suguru doesn’t ease into it. he eats you like he’s been thinking about this all night. like this was the point. he’s confident, focused, working your clit between thrusts, letting your slick smear across his face.

“shit—she’s—she’s squeezing me,” satoru chokes out. and you feel how hips jerk up without permission, how he pulses inside you every time you moan.

you’re gasping now. your body gets caught in the rhythm—rocking forward and back as they take you apart in tandem. satoru fucking up into you like he needs it, suguru’s mouth locked between your legs like devotion.

your mouth falls open, silent at first, then full of noise—moans, whimpers, babbled nonsense.

“he’s—fuck—he’s—”

“yeah, princess,” satoru laughs, half-mad. “we know.”

suguru doesn’t let up. not until your whole body is vibrating, until your moans give out into sobs, until you’re clenching around satoru with your nails biting into his thighs and your head thrown back.

“oh my god, i—”

everything seizes, then lets go—a brutal, blinding pleasure ripping through you like a flood. you come hard. loud. body arching between them—into satoru’s chest, into suguru’s mouth, into the heat of being seen.

“fuck—fuck,” satoru breathes, arms crushing around your waist. “you’re—jesus, she’s fucking milking me—”

suguru groans low into you, vibrations rolling through you. he doesn’t stop, just eases you down until he catches the last tremors with his tongue. soothes you, like he’s not half the reason you just came apart.

you collapse into satoru, skin flushed hot. he’s panting hard, forehead pressed to your shoulder like he’s trying to stop the world from ending.

“fuck, i’m—” he starts. “don’t move.”

his voice cracks. he’s holding it in.

and you can’t do anything about it. not yet. your legs shake, head spinning too much to move, let alone help.

but suguru can.

his hands trail up your thighs as he stands. he leans in, close enough that it forces you even further back into satoru, and kisses you. slow, claiming. a filthy, reverent thing that tastes like you. it hits you again that he just had his mouth on you while you were full of satoru.

the thought makes you gasp into it. he strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers.

“off, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “let me handle him.”

you nod and he helps you lift, easing you off of satoru. you and satoru both whimper at the drag.

“arms up,” suguru says.

you obey, let him tug your top off gently. he doesn’t even glance at your chest, just presses a final kiss to your temple before settling between satoru’s legs.

satoru stares at you now, eyes glazed. you’re still catching your breath, but you press close anyway—one hand on his chest, the other at his jaw. you kiss his cheek, trace the slick curve of his abs. suguru strokes him once, then again. his eyes flutter shut.

“don’t cum yet,” you murmur, lips brushing his throat.

his jaw clenches. “i’m not gonna last.”

“mm,” you hum, smiling against his skin. “you can take it.”

and then suguru takes him into his mouth.

satoru moans—loud, broken. his hips jerk, but suguru is already there, holding him still with one hand. he sucks him slow and deep, tongue pressing firm beneath the shaft. satoru tries to chase it, hips straining up against suguru’s hand, desperate for more.

“fuck—please—”

suguru pulls off. “stay still.”

“can’t,” satoru pants, flushed to his ears. “please—fuck, please, just—”

you lean in close, running a thumb over his lips. “you gonna cry for him?” you whisper. “gonna beg?”

his eyes flutter open to meet yours. they’re glassy. gone.

suguru licks the underside lightly. up and down.

“please,” satoru breathes, begging you now. “please let me cum. i can’t—i can’t take it, fuck, i need—”

you glance down, meet suguru’s eyes, and nod. “then go ahead,” you say to satoru, voice sugar-sweet. “let him taste it.”

suguru doesn’t hesitate. he sinks back down and takes all of him—and satoru’s eyes roll back, one hand flying to find your arm as he spills down suguru’s throat with a sound like he’s breaking.

you stay quiet, holding him through it, letting him fall apart the way you did. you stroke his chest and his hair. press slow kisses to the side of his face.

suguru rises slowly.

satoru's head is tipped back, still panting, lips parted like he’s tasting the afterglow. he doesn’t even flinch when suguru leans over him.

“open your mouth.”

satoru obeys instantly. suguru slides two fingers in, deep and smooth, curling just slightly against his tongue. satoru moans, eyelids fluttering.

“can’t believe how fucking good you look like this,” suguru mutters, shaking his head like he shouldn’t be surprised.

he pulls his fingers out enough to slap his cheek—once, twice—then pushes them back in, slower, watching satoru suck them down greedily, whining around them like he needs it.

and you can’t help yourself. you lean in and kiss him, right over suguru’s hand. hot and messy, tongues tangling over the taste of suguru’s skin. your moan gets lost in his.

suguru’s breathing goes shallow as he watches you pass him back and forth. you’re all too gone now to pretend you don’t like it—this quiet collapse into each other.

satoru lets go with a hum when suguru finally pulls away. you pull back too, heat pooling when you see him—flushed and debauched, white hair sticking to his forehead, blue irises intruded on by dark pupils.

and he’s staring at you like you hung the moon.

when you look up, suguru’s watching you too.

his gaze moves down your body like he’s replaying things—your moans, the way you came apart on his tongue, the way you kissed him after. and now, soft and open, you hold his gaze without flinching.

he hooks a finger under your chin. kisses you again—slow and sweet, like a promise—before stepping back to undress.

behind you, one hand finds your waist. when you turn to satoru with soft eyes, he opens his arms without a word. you crawl into him and he pulls you close, turning you in his lap until you’re comfortable with back to his chest and your thighs falling open.

“hi,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder.

your lips curve as you lean your head back. “hey.”

suguru steps forward.

his hand trails up your thigh, thumb circling your entrance, eyes stuck on the way it flexes under his touch. he strokes himself once, twice—then lines up and sinks into you with one smooth, claiming thrust.

you cry out from the stretch, head snapping forward before satoru’s hand finds your forehead to guide you back to his shoulder. “breathe,” he whispers at your ear. “you can take it.”

and you do. you take all of him.

he draws it out at first—deep, dragging strokes as he gives your body time to catch up. your hand drifts mindlessly to where he fills you, just to verify the ache.

“you missed him, huh?” satoru says, teasing and soft, pressing a kiss to your hair. “he missed you too.”

suguru groans, snapping his hips harder. the rhythm builds like ritual.

each thrust lands heavy—the wet slap of skin filling the room, obscene and constant. he fucks you like he’s putting something back where it belongs.

and he can, because he knows you too well. knows the spot that makes you gasp, the angle that makes you cry, the pace that makes you go stupid.

your thighs tremble where they’re spread. you can’t hold still—can’t even try. every thrust shoves you into satoru, rocking you like a ragdoll. your fingers claw for anything—his thigh, suguru’s wrist, the edge of the couch—but nothing holds.

“god, she’s taking it,” satoru groans, awestruck.

“she always does,” suguru growls. “she fucking loves it.”

and you do. you can’t say it, can barely breathe, but you do. every thrust punches a new sound out of you—choked moans, gasps, desperate little whines.

suguru spits into satoru’s hand. you barely register it until you feel it: slick fingers rubbing against your clit in tight, filthy circles that make your eyes roll back.

“don’t stop,” you pant. “please don’t stop—”

satoru’s mouth brushes your ear. “you sound so fucking sweet like this.”

you nod, frantic, but it’s not enough. you’re falling apart, and all you can do is clutch at them like they might keep you together.

“fuck,” you gasp. “fuck, please—please—”

you’re not even sure what you’re asking for.

suguru grits his teeth and drives deeper. satoru kisses your temple like a blessing, fingers unrelenting. your whole body writhes in their hands. too full, too raw, too much.

and satoru must feel it—how your muscles flex without rhythm, how your breathing breaks out of sync.

he looks up. “you got her?”

suguru doesn’t answer right away. instead, he stills. stays buried deep as he leans in, his chest pressed to yours, foreheads meeting.

the shift is jarring—your body clenches around him, desperate for friction, for something. but you freeze with him, pulled under. the world drops out as his breath brushes your lips. your chest heaves. your hands find their way around his neck like prayer.

when he speaks, it’s just for you.

“i got you,” he breathes. like a secret. like a promise.

and something in you cracks.

it’s rare, this softness between you.

and for a second—just a second—you almost pull away from it. not because you want to, but because that’s what you do with each other.

but he’s here, holding the tenderness. holding you.

because he knows. of course he does.

“hey,” he whispers, brushing his nose against yours. his thumb strokes your cheek like he’s trying to hold you there. “stay with me.”

you nod, barely. your eyes well up.

“say thank you.”

your throat tightens.

“thank you,” you breathe. quiet. shaking.

he hums, half-praise, half-moan. his hips roll once, just to feel you clench.

and then, so quiet you almost miss it, satoru whispers. “say it again.”

“thank you.” higher this time. fragile as you hold suguru’s gaze. “thank you, thank you—”

you’re not sure if you’re thanking him for fucking you like this, or for holding you here, or for the way he always, always, knows how to bring you back from the edge without letting you fall.

but it works.

suguru groans at the sound of it. kisses your cheek like you’ve ruined him.

then he moves again.

he fucks into you with intent now—like he needs to finish what he started, needs to feel you fall apart around him. his thrusts grow deeper as satoru’s fingers find your clit again, circling in perfect rhythm. they both know exactly how close you are. they’re pulling you under together.

“oh my god—”

“come on, princess,” satoru murmurs. “give it to him.”

suguru groans at the words. he’s close—so fucking close—but he’s holding it. waiting for you.

your breaths come short, whole body pulling taut now, like you’re being wound too far.

his hand finds your throat—not to choke, but to anchor. his thumb presses up under your jaw as he leans in, lips ghosting over your cheek.

“you’re right there,” he murmurs. “i feel you. give it to me.”

your heart squeezes. and when your head tips back, your mouth open in a moan—

satoru kisses him.

he slides his free hand behind suguru’s neck, pulls him down into it, and kisses him over your head. open-mouthed and frantic and needy.

it lands like a spark.

suguru moans into it. he kisses satoru back like he’s starving for it—biting at his lip, hips still slamming into you like nothing else exists.

your orgasm hits you so hard you go silent.

your body locks up—mouth open, no sound—until a sob breaks free from your throat, raw and desperate. tears spill over your lashes as you writhe, clenching so tight it nearly forces suguru out.

but he chases it. moaning into satoru’s mouth, fucking you through your orgasm and straight into his own. his pace falters, his breath catches, and then he’s spilling inside you, hips rocking through it like he can’t stop, like he wants to stay.

no one moves right away.

suguru's hand strokes your cheek. behind you, satoru exhales—his arms relax just enough to let you breathe deeper as his smile curves at your temple.

eventually, suguru pulls out slow, kissing you when you whimper. he stands, silent as ever, and slips from the room.

you melt fully into satoru, exhaustion settling as your eyes slip shut.

he brushes damp hair from your face and laughs quietly. “you two are so in love it’s disgusting.”

you swat at his chest, eyes still closed. “you’re projecting.”

“no, really,” he giggles. “you should see your face right now.”

“can’t,” you mumble. “sleepy.”

“mhm. poor baby.”

you would’ve hit him again if your arms worked.

the couch shifts. suguru’s back—barefoot, still shirtless—carrying three water bottles and two soft t-shirts over his shoulder. he sets them down, kneels beside you.

“gonna clean you up.”

he uses a shirt, dabbing gently between your legs like he’s done it a million times and will do it again. you flinch, but he hushes you immediately, murmuring praise you can barely hear. when he’s satisfied, he slides the clean shirt over your head, guiding your arms through like you’re delicate.

you slump back into satoru, half-asleep. suguru lifts a water bottle to your lips. you sip twice. he sits beside you, drinking the rest of his, and for a while, no one speaks.

then satoru, voice muffled in your hair: “we’re not sleeping like this.”

“we could,” you whisper.

“we shouldn’t,” suguru replies, already moving.

satoru stands and lifts you gently into the producer’s chair. you hear the soft clinks of the frame, the rustle of blankets pulled from the closet.

as soon as the couch is pulled out, you crawl into it. suguru slides in beside you, and you curl into him like you always do.

satoru groans dramatically when he joins, rearranging until he finds the perfect position: his head pillowed in suguru’s lap, one arm flung across your waist.

for the first time all night, everything is still.

you’re asleep first.

satoru’s not far behind—he mumbles something into suguru’s lap, then goes quiet. his breathing evens out quickly, mouth parted, fingers twitching once at your waist like he’s dreaming something warm.

but suguru stays awake.

he doesn’t know why. maybe it’s the weight of both of you on him. maybe it’s the part of him that always watches, always waits.

his fingers trace slow circles against your back. your cheek is warm against his chest, one leg draped over his. you look peaceful like this. like the sharp edges that usually cling to you have melted clean off for tonight.

part of him aches.

he doesn’t resent it at all. he knows how you are with satoru. he has for years.

how you lean into him without thinking. how you smile easier, laugh without checking yourself first. how your chaos and his collide in ways that never spark danger—only more light. you don’t guard yourself with satoru because you’ve never had to.

it’s not a competition.

he’s told himself that more than once.

but you’ve never given suguru that kind of ease without a fight.

and god help him, he likes it.

he likes that every soft thing you give him feels like a win. that you make him work for it. every laugh, every let-down guard, every tender moment—he’s had to fight you for those.

but tonight—

you gave it to him without the war first. like it didn’t cost you anything. he can’t stop turning it over in his mind, trying to understand what changed. what he did. and whether he can do it again.

his hand keeps moving along your spine, slow and steady. a silent tether.

because he can’t ask you. not without risking the quiet. and maybe he doesn’t need to.

because at the end of the day, you’ll flirt with the whole world. you’ll light up every room, throw yourself across stages and hearts. you’ll let satoru make you laugh until you’re gasping for air, let him be the reason you catch your breath instead of losing it.

but you’ll still end up here, in suguru’s arms.

you’ll still call him first.

that’s just the game.

he’ll keep playing for as long as you let him.

@/deuxmoi BLIND ITEM: a certain pop darling, a white-haired chaos agent, and your favorite producer’s favorite producer were seen stumbling into a studio after hours last night. security’s been posted up since 2 AM, and nobody has left ten hours later.

you wake slowly.

your body aches in that full, molten way—spent, sated, soft at the edges. you blink through the quiet, eyes adjusting to the haze bleeding through the studio’s curtains.

across the room, suguru is already up.

he sits in his chair, shirt on, sweatpants slung low. his hair’s messy, like he raked his fingers through it and gave up halfway.

he’s staring at his phone, thumbs moving: swipe. pause. tap. type.

you almost miss the tension at first. but then you catch it: something flashing across his face. gone too fast to name, but you saw it. not a frown, not quite surprise. more like confirmation. like he received something he knew was coming.

he doesn’t know you’re awake. tap. tap. type.

you stay still. your heart ticks up anyway.

it’s probably nothing.

probably some brand deal he doesn’t want. or an annoying scheduling conflict. some PR request, a time zone fuck up, a half-buried deadline. something normal.

you tell yourself all of that.

but it echoes anyway. lingers like static—soft but charged.

the spell breaks when satoru stirs beside you.

his arm flexes over your waist, searching until his hand finds the bare skin at your hip. his fingers curl there, loose and lazy, and he hums—eyes closed, voice rough.

“c’mere.”

you shift without thinking, curling into him. his nose nudges your shoulder, mouth brushing your skin.

suguru looks up. he softens at the sight of you relaxing, satoru smiling into your neck like he’s dreaming.

then satoru mumbles into your hair: “did we record something?”

you blink, your brain still syrupy. “…yes?”

suguru’s already moving. he sets his phone down—screen dark, face down—and reaches for his laptop. the screen wakes with a soft glow. a project is already open.

music bleeds through the speakers.

the intro is unfamiliar—then satoru’s voice, airy and laced with heat. a low beat that hits hard. your voice looping over it: talk to me in french, talk to me in spanish.

it’s better than you remember—sharp and sexy and fun. by the outro, you’re sitting up and grinning so wide it hurts.

“we sound fucking unreal,” you say, turning to face them.

suguru doesn’t look at the screen. he looks at you.

“you are.”

your stomach flips.

“get a fucking room,” satoru groans, dragging the blanket over his head like it personally offended him.

a laugh escapes you. and when you meet suguru’s eyes again, you’re still smiling.

so is he.

and the tension from before—whatever it was—doesn’t vanish. but it recedes.

579 notes · View notes

okay-j-hannah · 3 months ago

Text

The Kickstart | Smosh 💛

Smosh : Multishot

Spencer Agnew x Reader

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: slow burn, strangers to friends, friends to lovers, Spencer pining, reader is struggling in LA, not a lot of money, multiple jobs, poor studio apartment, inconsiderate boyfriend, lots of musical theatre talk, reader insert but a few things are already decided (last name is Bennett, favorite drink is Diet Coke, love the colors blue and green, artist, theatre nerd, etc.)

Request: This just came from my own head 😊

A/N: I haven't written for Smosh in years... but the current cast and crew has me sucked back into the fandom. And I am sorely in need of more Spencer content 😭

I was initially inspired by this incredibly well done fic "Late Night" by @simpingsavant Please give it a read because it's a masterpiece.

Part 1: The Kickstart {You Are Here}

Part 2: Mama Bear

It was nearly three in the morning. The witching hour, you think with a smile. There was a light flickering near the fountain drinks. You lean against the checkout counter, thumbing through an aged script.

You memorize the cue lines that signal when quick changes are supposed to happen between scenes. The current musical you are working on is Hairspray.

Going through the script and your production notes really help pass the time.

The small rinky-dink gas station you manage is your reluctant home most nights. It wasn’t your favorite place, but it helped with the bills. Trying to make a living on production design for musicals isn’t the money maker you hoped it would be in LA.

You barely made anything doing hair and makeup for the community theatre. But it was something you loved.

And wouldn’t you rather be doing something you love than being miserable in a high paying corporate job?

Sure, you think.

It had been nearly eight months since you started working at this gas station. The owner was as rinky-dink as the store itself, speaking in short, to the point sentences and avoiding eye contact. There were only two gas pumps out front that rarely attracted customers.

The biggest commodity are the cheap drinks and snacks inside. Many stop by for something quick on their way to and from work.

Normally working the night shifts from 10pm to 6am, you are quick to notice any regulars. Not many people are awake at this time of night, let alone on their way to the gas station for a drink.

The bell sounds above the door as a familiar face enters. It was Glasses.

That’s what you called him after seeing him for the third time in a week, back when you first started working here.

He usually came in late like this, looking exhausted. He has curly dark hair, gold rimmed glasses, and some scruff. Today he’s dressed in jeans rolled up at the cuffs, brown boots, and a gray sweatshirt.

He gives you an awkward, close-lipped smile as he passes. You watch him go for the drink fridges. Energy drinks are his specialty, maybe the occasional coffee or breakfast sandwich. He always bought them two at a time, taking the slight discount for buying a duo instead of a single.

About every other week he’s there three to four of those days. You’ve always wondered why – especially when he always looked so tired when he came in.

But you’ve never had a conversation that’s lasted longer than the cordial exchanges.

“Hello,” you say.

“Hello,” he replies with his awkward smile.

You scan his drinks, Mountain Dew Kickstarts like always. “Find everything you need?”

“Yep.”

The computer beeps. “That’ll be $8.56.”

“All right.” He taps his card on the machine in front of him.

“Would you like your receipt?”

“No thanks.” He grabs his two cans.

“Have a nice night.”

“You too.”

It had been like that for maybe six of those eight months. After that, your curiosity began to plague you. The next time he came in, you watch him browse for a Kickstart and a breakfast muffin.

Saying hello to him had felt routine. But it was clear that you both recognized each other. So you decide to say something a little more than usual.

“Getting breakfast a little early?” you joke in your quiet voice.

He smiles, pulling out his wallet. “I just haven’t eaten anything all night.”

“Sounds like a rough night. That’s $9.34.”

He scans his card. “It has been.”

With him looking down at the keypad, you take the time to look at the circles under his eyes. “You should try the croissant sandwiches. Much better than stale muffins.”

He nods his head, “Next time. Thanks.”

You watch him walk away, still at a loss as to why he’s always in there this late at night.

A couple days later he’s walking in and giving you a wave. You smile at him as he makes for the drinks again.

He’s dressed in those same jeans and combat boots. Now he wears a t-shirt with a denim jacket. If you had friends to talk to, you’d want to tell them how Glasses loves to wear the same jeans and jackets all the time.

He comes to the counter and clears his throat.

You scan his drinks and a breakfast sandwich. A croissant sandwich.

You chuckle, “You won’t be disappointed.”

“I’m counting on it,” he says, tapping his card against his hand while he waits.

“Haven’t eaten anything all night again?”

He hums, shrugging his shoulders, “Felt peckish.”

“Do you want your receipt?”

“No, that’s fine. Have a good night.”

You throw the balled up receipt into the garbage bin beside you. “You too.”

You’d love to tell a friend that Glasses seems shy. He seems nice.

A few weeks later, you’re drawing sketches for costume designs. You were doing Shrek The Musical at the community theatre. Papers were full of drawings depicting a white rabbit, a wicked witch, a wolf in granny clothes, and fairies with colorful makeup.

You were humming one of the songs when Glasses came in with a yawn. His eyes search for you and he waves, “Good evening.”

“Good night,” you say sarcastically.

He grabs his drinks and comes to the counter with wandering eyes. You try to move your sketches and pencils out of the way.

“Sorry,” you say, “That’ll be $8.56.”

He scans his card, but keeps looking at your art. “You draw those?”

“Yeah,” you say, abashedly. “Little project.”

“They’re really good,” he pops open one of the drinks and takes a sip. “Are they just for fun, or…?”

You shyly pull out a drawing of a person in a dragon scale costume. “They’re for the musical I’m a part of. Down at the local theatre.”

“That’s cool,” his face lights up.

Something warm tickles your stomach. You were actually having a normal conversation with Glasses.

“Are you the costume designer?”

“Assistant,” you bow your head. “I’m head of hair and makeup.”

He nods, clearly interested. “Have you been a part of production teams much?”

“For years,” you smile, “I love theatre. I’ve done almost everything. Acting, costumes, set design, lighting – you name it.”

He pockets the other energy drink in his jacket pocket. “Sounds like fun. Have a nice rest of your night.”

“Thank you, you too.”

If you had friends, maybe you’d tell them that Glasses might become a friend. The only person you have to text is your new boyfriend Aaron. But he wasn’t a fan of nonsense texts – texts that were unnecessary.

A few weeks go by, now seven months into your job at the gas station. Glasses was still making his almost daily visits. You caught him standing outside the window for a minute before coming in.

You have confusion in your face, but a smile on your lips. “You okay there?”

He raises his eyebrows and talks as he walks to the fridges. “What do you mean?”

“Was there something on that window or were you just making sure you weren’t a vampire?” At his knitted brows, you continue, “You know… checking that you still had a reflection.”

Heat floods your face at the poor attempt at a joke, but Glasses laughs, nonetheless. “I might be nocturnal, but no, I’m not a vampire.”

You smile, admiring him walking towards you. His fluffy curls were sticking out from beneath a green hat. In white embroidery it says, Smosh.

“How were auditions?” he asks, getting his card ready.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Good. I think we’ll have a good cast.” Earlier that week he asked about the latest Hairspray script that was on your counter. “The quick changes will be fun.”

He clears his throat, having paid but still standing at the register.

“I’m sorry, did you want your receipt?” you ask suddenly. “Normally you don’t so I stopped asking.”

“No, no – sorry. I’ve been trying to find some clever segway to introduce myself. But we’ve been seeing each other for months and it feels strange to do it now.” He rubs his forehead, struggling to maintain eye contact with you while he talks. “I mean, it’s not like I have a nametag like you.”

You look down at your chest to see (Y/N) printed on the laminated tag. “That’s true.”

He takes a deep breath and extends his hand. “I’m Spencer.”

You take his hand. It was very warm. “(Y/N).”

He smiles, “Nice to officially meet you.”

Maybe you’ll tell Aaron that Glasses has a new name now. Spencer.

One night at two in the morning, you were asked to do inventory while another employee managed the registers. It was strange to have a coworker with you on night shifts, but when things need to be restocked, it took a team.

You use a box cutter to break through packages, pulling out chip bags and candies. You roll them out on a dolly. Plastic wrappers crinkling as you restock shelves, you don’t notice who Eric at the counter is talking to.

But then a pair of glasses peek around the corner. “Hey!”

You smile wide, “Spencer!”

He smiles back, “I was worried when I didn’t see you at the registers.”

“Yeah, they need two of us here when we do inventory,” you shake a bag of doritos before putting it on the shelf. “How was your day?”

He sighs, opening his drink, “Long. Shooting weeks always are.” He tells you about the online comedy group he’s a part of. It was called Smosh.

“Oh, you’ve worn some merch that has that logo on it,” you say, moving a box out of the way.

Spencer nods, “Gotta promote whenever we can.”

“How large is the group?”

“Well, it’s more of an entertainment company. We have a huge production team and a cast. We film content for four different channels.”

“That’s impressive.”

He suddenly dips down to help hand you boxes of candy. “I guess. I think most of LA are internet personalities in one way or another.”

“I’m not,” you say quietly. “It is impressive.”

You learn about his directorial position on one of the channels. Being a head producer, he has a lot of sway on that content. You commend him on the responsibility, and he seems pleased, if not a little embarrassed.

He excuses himself not long after that.

You head towards the registers to restock the candy on the counters. Eric is there giving you a telling smile.

“What are you looking at?” you ask.

The middle-aged man scoffs, “That guy came in with the biggest smile on his face, but then he realized I was the one standing at the counter and he looked so disappointed.”

“I’m sure he was just in need of an energy drink.”

Eric shakes his head, “It wasn’t me that he wanted to see.”

Now in the present, you stand at the counter while Spencer leans against the other side. You had just revealed the fact that you have a boyfriend.

“H-How long have you been together?” he asks with much more nervousness than before.

You scrunch your nose in thought, “About two months. It’s been great though. He gives me rides to work and everything.”

“You don’t have a car?” Spencer asks, paying for his snacks.

You throw the receipt away, “No. I was taking the bus before I met him.” Noticing the awkwardness enter Spencer’s face, you say, “Rough I know. But I manage.”

“It’s nice of him.”

“Yeah, especially because I don’t really make enough to get a car right now.”

“Isn’t that why you have this job on top of the musical theatre stuff?” he offers you a package of your favorite candy.

It makes you smile, “Sure. But rent isn’t helping with my savings. Living paycheck to paycheck.”

“Does Aaron drive you to theatre too?”

Your gaze falls from Spencer’s, eating a piece of candy to give you some time before answering. “No, he’s not a big fan of musicals.”

Spencer scrunches his brow. Unsure of what was stepping over the line with this new friend of his, he tiptoes. “He won’t drive you because he doesn’t like theatre?”

“It’s kind of inconvenient asking him to come get me late after rehearsals. I shouldn’t ask for so much, he’ll think I’m dating him just to have a cab driver.” You snicker at your joke, but Spencer doesn’t seem to think it’s very funny.

He drinks from his can when another customer enters the store. That always meant he would excuse himself so you could get back to your job.

You start to expect Spencer each week. You wait for when you know a filming week was at Smosh. During that time, Spencer would visit for his necessary caffeine. He always stops to talk to you for a few minutes before leaving.

You always feel bad since he normally came in exhausted from work. He denies himself sleep just to spend a few more minutes with you.

It takes a couple more weeks, but he starts to stay even when more customers come in. He just steps to the side and waits for you to ring the customer up.

Then he comes back to continue your conversation.

“So do you prefer acting or production?”

You share the snacks that he’s purchased. “Production, for sure. I kind of developed stage fright a couple years ago. But I do miss being on stage sometimes.”

He looks at you while you talk. He’s an active listener. He zeros in on your face while you speak, ensuring he doesn’t miss anything.

But when he speaks, he tends to look elsewhere. “Did something happen?”

You shrug, “I just get nervous being in the spotlight now. I don’t like the attention much.”

“I get that. I haven’t always loved being on camera. It’s taken finding the right company to do it.”

You nod, “That sounds nice. To be so comfortable in the workplace. And to have everyone there as friends.”

He agrees, “Though a lot of them like to crack jokes about not seeing each other outside of work.” He chuckles as he remembers something. “It’s great being a part of a company where the goal is comedy content. You get to have fun with your friends every day.”

“And you’ve been there for so long,” you say, “You’ve definitely earned your place.”

“Thank you,” he feels warm around the collar, “It’s been hard at times, but well worth it now.”

You suddenly feel a warmth in your cheeks. “You know, um… my show opens next week. If – If you’re interested in seeing it. I’ll be there every night.”

“Helping Edna quick change into her fancy 60s outfit,” he smiles kindly. His eyes are soft and considerate as he watches your nervous gesture. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

You brighten, “Great!”

A week later you’re in the wings of the stage, sweaty with the heat the spotlights generate. A headset adorns your head, microphone near your mouth. You’re readjusting a costume onto a rack from the last quick change.

The last number of the show was currently playing: You Can’t Stop the Beat. You whisper the lyrics and subtly follow along with the choreography.

It was safe to do so with the curtains hiding you from the audience.

You listen to the applause as the cast bows. You imagine them gesturing to the tech booth, acknowledging the production team behind the scenes. You give a little imaginary bow to the audience.

Waiting in the dressing rooms, you help organize the costumes and clean up the makeup counters. Cast members thank you for your help, carrying massive bouquets and presents from the crowd.

You compliment the flowers and give your praise to their performances. It’s forty minutes later, having put the makeup and hairspray away, preening the wigs, and spraying down the character shoes, that you find your purse and head towards the front doors.

Outside on the sidewalk you’re met with an unexpected surprise.

Spencer.

He stands under the white lights of the theatre logo. He adorns his usual rolled up jeans and band t-shirt, denim jacket over it. His curls look extra defined tonight and in his hand are three colorful carnation flowers.

“Spencer? What are you…? I didn’t know you were coming tonight!” You walk towards him and for the first time since meeting him – you hug him.

Arms around his shoulders, smelling his clean, fresh scent. He seems timid to hug you back.

“Well… I did say I would come see the show.”

You shake your head. “I would have come out sooner if I knew you’d be here. I’m so sorry to keep you so long.”

“It’s no problem,” he offers the flowers. “Worth the wait.”

You give a smile, but your face is still regretful, “You shouldn’t have. I wasn’t even on stage.”

“Of course you were,” he says, “Your costumes and wigs and makeup were there.”

You hold the few flowers, completely endeared by him. “Thank you. This is really kind of you. You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs, shoving his empty hands into his pockets. “It’s kind of weird seeing you out of uniform. I’ve never seen you out of that polo and black pants.”

“Well, stage crew attire isn’t much different,” you laugh, gesturing to the long sleeve black shirt and leggings. “What did you think of the show?”

“It was excellent,” he says, “It’s such a fun show. I bet you loved teasing those wigs and picking out costumes with those crazy patterns.”

“And the quick changes?”

“I counted like 38 seconds,” he laughs, “That’s super impressive.”

You smile warmly, though the night air had a chill to it. “Thank you for coming, Spencer. It means a lot.”

“Of course,” he steps away, “I’ll see you later.”

You start to walk down the sidewalk, opposite the parking lot. Spencer suddenly has a thought. He runs up to you.

“Wait, how are you getting home?”

“Oh, I walk to the bus stop and take that.”

He looks down at your crossed arms trying to keep you warm. “Aaron really won’t come get you?”

“I don’t want to inconvenience him.” You wave away the look of worry in his face. “I do this every night, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Yeah, but… you shouldn’t have to.”

“Have a good night, Spence.”

You’ve never used a nickname with him before. He huffs a little before following your retreating figure, “Then let me give you a ride.”

You keep walking, “Really, Spence – I’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he says, “But let me help. I want to give you a ride. It’s cold.”

Your fingers feel like ice against your arms. You look in the direction of the bus stop before looking at the pleading in Spencer’s face.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

Relief floods his expression, “Great, this way.”

He guides you to his car and even opens the passenger door for you. It’s a kind gesture that you aren’t used to. He turns on the heater and your seat warmer before exiting the parking lot.

You direct him to your poor excuse of a studio apartment. The pair of you speak pleasantries the entire way. The lighting design of the musical, the strategic sets that move quickly, the realistic prop hairspray, and things like that.

He didn’t notice how you cower in the seat. He thinks it’s just because you’re still cold.

“Is the gas station good about changing your schedule so you can be there on show nights?”

“Yes, they’re so kind about it,” you say, playing with your fingers. It was a nervous habit of yours – pinching, rubbing, and picking at them. “I switch with a usual day shifter.”

Spencer nods, “I – I’ve missed seeing you at our usual time.”

“Our usual time?” you laugh, like your gas station hangouts were scheduled playdates.

He smiles, embarrassed, “Yeah, I mean… your customer service is so excellent. How am I supposed to get a Kickstart when you’re not there?”

“You know there are dozens of other gas stations and convenience stores around here.”

“Yeah, but they don’t have you.”

Something beats loudly in your chest. It sends a waterfall of warm, fizzing fireworks into your stomach.

Your apartment building is in a scary part of LA – but it’s what you can afford. Aaron was hinting at moving in together just for the ease of splitting the rent. It did sound appealing when you could actually save a little for a car.

“Thanks again for the ride,” you say, unbuckling your seatbelt.

He looks nervous again, “Anytime. And… maybe we could exchange numbers – in case you need another ride from the theatre?”

You look at him warmly, “I’m not going to ask you to come grab me when you could be in a filming week.”

He shrugs his shoulders, “I would still come.”

With a small smile, you take out your phone and open a new contact. In the name slot you put ‘Glasses.’ Spencer switches your phones and puts his number in.

You smile wider as you put your name in the contact and put a little theatre emoji after it.

“Glasses?” he asks, handing you back your phone.

“Yeah, that’s…” you brush warm fingers with him as you accept your phone. “That’s what I called you when I noticed you as a regular at the gas station. I didn’t know your name, so I gave you one in my head.”

He seems overly please about that. He has to look away from you and smile. “That’s funny, I like it. What would you do if you saw me without glasses? It would be a whole new identify to you.”

“Very Clark Kent of you,” you laugh.

He suddenly removes his gold rimmed glasses and looks at you all serious. “You’re right, during the day I’m fighting crime with the Justice League and at night I refuel at the gas station.”

“Superman refuels with energy drinks?” you laugh, causally reaching over to snatch his glasses. “I don’t know if Krypton would approve.”

“No, no – Kryptonians thrive off extra energy. Sun energy and now caffeine energy.”

His eyes are a dark green-gray color. Maybe that’s just because it’s dark outside. But you can’t decide what color they actually are. They’re definitely not brown.

You raise the glasses to your eyes and look at him. “I didn’t realize Superman was so blind.”

“It’s not that bad,” Spencer laughs, looking at you fondly.

You return the glasses, “Drive safe. Thanks again for the ride. Text me when you get home safely.”

He waves you off, waiting until you’re able to unlock your door before driving away.

Inside your apartment, you look at the chipped walls and cracked ceiling. The musty, uncomfortable couch in front of the small tv atop a table you got free off a lawn. To the right is the tiny kitchen with only one counter and no dining table.

Rummaging through a cabinet, you find a tall plastic cup to put your carnation flowers into.

The bathroom is straight ahead, where you go into to get ready for bed.

The porcelain of the tub and sink have rust stains around the handles. The tile of the floor is broken in places and the dim light above is giving off an ugly yellow glow.

You open the mirror cabinet to grab what you need to brush your teeth. Brand names are all obscure as you did get the supplies from a dollar store down the street.

If you had a little more money, you would buy a face wash and face towels. But the essentials were good enough.

You cross the hall to get to your bed. Being a studio apartment, there isn’t a separate room for your bed. It lies on the floor behind the tv stand and in front of the only window in the whole place.

The queen mattress was the one thing you spent a little more money on. It doesn’t have a headboard or support to keep it off the ground, but it was comfortable and had nice periwinkle blue sheets.

You change into sage green pajamas with little daisies on them, climbing into your bed and fumbling for the phone charger next to the mattress.

As you plug your phone in, a text message comes in from Glasses.

“Just got home. You did amazing tonight! See you later this week.”

You heart his message and give him a thank you in reply.

~~~

The end of the week is approaching and you’re at the theatre again. Headset on, you hang in the tech booth, grabbing a few more safety pins, mic tape, and alcohol wipes.

The oversized fanny pack you love to wear across your chest is open and full of supplies. You stuff the microphone items inside, watching the stage from the view of the booth.

Tracy was beginning the song Welcome to the 60s. You turn on the microphone by your mouth.

“Head to the wings for quick change pretty please.”

A muffled reply comes through the headset, “On the way, (Y/N).”

You leave the tech booth and walk out of the audience room to the side entrance of the wings. Waiting on stage right, you hold Edna’s new dress for the song. Two stage crew members help by holding accessories and waiting to take off Edna’s current costume.

“Go mama, go, go go!”

Edna comes running off to stage right, tossing their purse to the stage crew member. They wiggle out of their simple purple plaid dress and step right into the sparkly pink dress you have waiting open on the floor.

You pull up the fabric as you hear the lyrics continue on stage.

“Don’t let nobody try to steal your fun, ‘cause a little touch of lipstick never hurt no one.

The future’s got a million roads for you to choose, but you’ll walk a little taller in some high-heeled shoes.”

You zip up the dress and readjust the mic pack on the suit strap beneath. Stage crew throws a new necklace on and a sparkle to the lip makeup. The other stage crew snugs a fuller wig onto the actor, starting to pin it down onto the wig cap. You hand a feather boa to the actor and help pin the new wig in.

“Come on out, hear us shout. Mama, that’s your cue!”

Just in time, you think, sending the actor back onto stage. It always felt like a close call, but the audience shouting their surprise and praise always felt like a reward.

You smile at the stage crew members and wave them off to help with set pieces. You then take the old purple plaid costume to the rack to keep it from wrinkling on the floor.

While in the dressing rooms you meet the actress playing Penny Pingleton, “Hey, sis – I noticed your mic tape not sitting so good on your cheek.”

She smiles worriedly, the action making the mic tape unstick from her face and the microphone dangle from her ear. “Just a little.”

You pull out an alcohol wipe and roll of tape from your pack. “There might just be too much makeup in the way.” You wipe the spot where the microphone sits on her cheek, fanning your hand to make the alcohol dry.

Cutting two pieces of tape, you line the microphone and stick it in place. The actress keeps her face straight, letting it adhere.

“Thanks, (Y/N).”

“Anytime.” You leave the dressing room to find the man playing Seaweed. His mic belt kept twisting beneath his costume.

You track him down and use safety pins to secure the mic belt to his undershirt. Now as he dances and changes, the mic pack will stay in place. He shares his gratitude and runs off to the next scene.

The rest of the show goes without a hitch. The audience claps during the bows, and you give your imaginary bow to the curtains.

You begin to clean the dressing rooms when you get a text. From Glasses.

“Hey, I’m at the entrance by the concessions when you’re done in the back.”

A smile creeps onto your face. He saw the show a second time? You text back, “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

You’re quick to clean up and organize the costumes before heading out. The front was still packed with audience members trying to talk and take pictures with the cast members. You push your way towards the concessions table to see Spencer there.

He was wearing a black Creed t-shirt, arms full of silly tattoos on total display. Instead of holding flowers, he’s holding a Diet Coke from the concessions. You grin, falling out of the crowd and into him for a hug.

He catches you and hugs you back. You feel the cold soda against your shirt.

“I can’t believe you came again!” You pull away, eyes shining. You’ve never had someone to meet outside the theatre after a show before.

He extends the drink he got for you. “I told you it was an excellent show. And I wanted to bring a friend to see it too.”

A woman stands beside him, “And he misses seeing you at the gas station every day.”

You miss how Spencer nudges the woman with his elbow. You were too busy recognizing her face.

“Oh my god – oh my fucking god,” you accidentally shake the soda as you wave your hands. “You’re Angela Giarratana!”

Her brown eyes widen ridiculously, “Um… yeah, I am.”

“You were on Nerdy Prudes Must Die!”

A smile replaces the surprise on her face, “Oh, yes! I was in that show last year. You really scared me there for a second.”

Spencer licks his lips, watching the excitement on your face. “I wondered if you’d seen anything from StarKid.”

“Well, I’m a theatre kid, aren’t I?” you say, “I literally have a Hatchetfield Nighthawks letterman jacket. It’s so nice to meet you, Angela. I’m (Y/N).” You lean into a hug and Angela returns it kindly.

“I know, Spencer’s talked about you.” She steps away and compliments the show, “You did a great job with the costume design. Spencer and I were timing the quick changes.”

“I am very proud of those,” you say excitedly. “I’m sorry, I can’t stop smiling. Thank you for coming to our show. How do you know Spencer?”

Angela smacks Spencer’s arm, “We work together. He’s more behind the scenes and I’m more on camera.”

“At Smosh? That’s awesome!”

“Yeah, it’s all right,” she says, looking to Spencer and then laughing. “I gotta be careful or Spencer won’t put me in any of the videos on Games.”

You open your soda, drinking it like you were parched all night. “Are you working on any more theatre projects?”

“Eh, not at the moment,” Angela says, folding her arms. “I’m spending most of my time on Smosh sets.” She eyes you for a second before saying, “Do you have a portfolio by chance?”

“A portfolio?” you ask, wiping your lip of soda. “Of what?”

Angela rubs at her chin, “Sketches of your costume designs or makeup aesthetics. Maybe a performing arts resume. Pictures of your work on stage.”

“Um…” you pull awkwardly on the edge of your shirt. “No, not formally. But I could pull something together.”

“That’d be great. I’d love to see more of your work.”

Spencer looks incredibly pleased with himself, biting on his lips. “Would you let me give you a ride home?”

Your eyes are still shining, flitting your gaze between the two friends. “Um… yeah – that’d be great.”

All of you walk outside the theatre and towards the parking lot. Spencer is quick to open the passenger door for you and you give an awkward thank you.

Angela rolls her eyes and climbs into the back. “He’s such a doofus.” You watch Spencer walk around the hood of the car to get into the drivers side.

“A what?” you laugh.

“Just watch him – you’ll notice sooner or later.”

He climbs in and uses the seatbelt, “Watch who?”

You clear your throat, “Joey Richter. He’s another actor on StarKid Productions. He’s super talented.”

Angela snickers in the back. “What was the first thing you watched on StarKid?”

“A Very Potter Musical,” you laugh, “Way back in the day.”

“Classic,” Angela says, folding her arms and slumping into the seat. “What brought you to LA?”

You play with your fingers. “I wanted to move out of my home state. And I wanted to get more into the arts. But it’s been hard to find stable work.”

“You’re telling me. That’s the life of an actor – just jumping from one gig to another.”

“It would be the dream,” you sigh, “To do this full time. I just wish I had a little more security with it. A stable income. Not to be afraid with how I’ll afford food every month.” You awkwardly laugh as you realize you might’ve said too much. “But I’m doing all right.”

Angela agrees, “It’s hard to do well in the arts.”

“Hard to be recognized,” Spencer says. “(Y/N) already does well in the arts.”

You smile, your cheeks warm. “When is your next filming week?”

“Next week,” Angela sighs, yawning big. “Which reminds me – I gotta pick up that new pair of glasses for the office.”

“Angela is super blind and never wears her glasses during shoots,” Spencer explains. “Especially on the games channel. She’s always squinting super bad at the tv whenever we’re playing a game.”

“And I’ve been doing just fine!” Angela says loudly, “I’ve been training my eyes to see that far.”

Spencer scoffs, “Yeah, and the compilations of you squinting are growing at an exponential rate because of it.”

“Shut up!” Angela yells.

You laugh at their antics. “Are you allowed to yell at your boss like that?”

Spencer looks in the rearview mirror, “Yeah, Angela. As your superior you need to treat me with a high level of respect. I expect a full written apology and a certain amount of groveling before you’re allowed back on the Games set.” His tone was serious, but by the wide comical look in his eye, you know he’s using hyperbole as a joke.

“The heads of Smosh are actually Ian and Anthony, so don’t you even pull that superiority card!”

You keep giggling at this funnier, more outspoken Spencer. Proof that he was very comfortable with this coworker and their workplace.

It sounds nice.

~~~

Angela sits in the passenger seat now, slumped into the door and leaning her forehead against the window.

“She’s really nice.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says quietly, thoughts still lingering on you.

Angela looks over at him and smirks. “You like her so fucking much. I knew you did when you wouldn’t shut up about her at the office, but damn – seeing you with her was nearly painful.”

“What are you talking about? I’m so subtle about it.”

“So you don’t deny it!” she sits up stick straight, so fast that the seatbelt locks into place and stops her from moving anymore.

Spencer flounders, “I – what – no, that’s not what I said!”

“You totally did you little fucker! You like her so much it hurts. You like her so much your cheeks are going to burst into flames. You like her so much you can’t get a full sentence out.”

“Angela, shut the fuck up – you don’t know what you’re talking about!”

She bounces in her seat, “I’m so subtle about it. I can’t believe you. You’ve been talking about this girl for almost a year. Of course you have a crush on her!”

“Angela, I swear to god, don’t ruin this for me.”

“How would I ruin this? I want my little Spencey to have true love. You have to ask her out.”

“Yeah, genius – you’re forgetting about a teensy little detail. She has a fucking boyfriend.”

Angela freezes, sitting back. “Right.” She bites her lip, “Should have made your shot earlier.”

“And risk looking like a creep asking a girl out at a gas station? No thank you.”

“Is you considering her for the production team on Smosh an elaborate way to play the long game with her?”

“No!” Spencer grips the steering wheel, sounding like a bickering sibling. “She has real talent, and I think she deserves the position.”

Angela holds up her hands, “All right, okay.” She side eyes him with raised brows, “… but you wouldn’t be upset if she suddenly became available and you could ask her out?”

He refuses to meet Angela’s eyes. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction by answering that question.”

“You basically just answered it,” she folds her arms, “You know… I can’t promise I can keep this from Amanda. Or Shayne.”

Spencer puts his elbow against the window and holds his temple.

“Or Chanse.”

“I figured.”

Angela gave him a sympathetic smile. “For what it’s worth – I think she has a real shot. We should get her portfolio to Ian and Anthony asap.”

~~~

You’re cleaning the counters at the gas station. It’s nearing the end of your shift, almost 6am. And Spencer hadn’t visited you like he usually did. It was actually making you worried.

You had spent the last few days collecting every piece of art and experience you had to compile a portfolio. It didn’t feel like a very thick folder, but it had every ounce of hard work from the last few years.

It sits within a blue cover under the registers, waiting for Spencer to come.

“Hey!” there he comes through the door. “I’m so sorry, we had an overnight shoot, and I forgot to tell you.”

You look confused, “Spence, you didn’t have any obligation to be here. We didn’t make any plans.”

“I know, but I usually…” he looks flustered and upset. “You know, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

You smile kindly, “It’s okay. I’m not angry.”

He runs a hand through his curly hair, his eyes considering you as you clean. “This early in the morning, we both look exhausted now.”

“Aw, we have matching dark circles under our eyes!” You go under the counter to grab the blue folder. “Here’s that portfolio Angela was asking about. I wasn’t sure how to get it to her, so maybe you could take it to work?”

“Um… yeah, for sure. Thanks.”

The bell above the door rings, signaling the appearance of a new customer. Usually at this point in the mornings, customers would come in for their sustenance before work. You’re focused on Spencer, unaware of the person walking towards you.

“(Y/N), let’s go.”

You turn your eyes around and see Aaron beelining for your counter.

“Oh, hey,” you say quietly, “You’re twenty minutes early.”

“And?”

This man was over six foot, broad shouldered, and unkempt. His eyes are lazy and hard pressed, his jaw tense as you contradict him.

You wring your hands, “I’m not allowed to leave until six.”

“Well, I’m here now. Let’s go.”

“That’s…” you suck in a breath. He smells like stale beer. “Let me clock out and tell my boss.” You round the counter and are quick to enter the back rooms.

Spencer stays where he is, holding the blue portfolio, and looking at Aaron with an air of disdain. It was not the first impression he was expecting when picturing your boyfriend.

“You waiting to buy something?” Aaron asks, frowning at the way Spencer’s looking at him.

“No, I was just…” he swallows. “I was just talking with (Y/N).”

Aaron squints his eyes, hands moving to his hips. “And you know her because?”

“Because we’re friends.”

“(Y/N) doesn’t have any friends.”

“Untrue, because I’m standing right here.”

Aaron flexes his jaw, “She hasn’t mentioned you before.”

“Yes, I have,” you reappear without your nametag and your purse now around your shoulder. “I’ve talked about him a couple times.” You stand beside Spencer and instantly feel the tension.

Aaron extends his hand like he wants to take yours. “If you did talk about him, I would have remembered. We’re leaving.”

You go to hold his hand, but he moves his to grab your arm, pulling you towards the door. You turn your head to mouth, “Sorry,” towards Spencer.

Spencer waves at you, his face placid and upset. He watches out the windows to see Aaron let you go on the sidewalk to get into the car yourself. He slams the car shut, neglecting his seatbelt, and squealing out of the parking lot.

Still upset, Spencer gets into his car and contemplates his next move. His instincts told him that you weren’t completely safe. He wonders if you and Aaron have moved in together yet – he was trying to pull the ‘cheaper rent’ card on that account.

It was blatantly clear that Aaron was gaslighting you. Within three minutes, he was pegged as an asshole.

Spencer pulls out his phone and sends you a text. “Nice seeing you today, hope you get some good sleep.”

He rubs hard at his face before driving off. He plans to show your portfolio to Ian and Anthony tomorrow.

~~~

You’re sitting on the couch, playing on your PlayStation, when someone knocks on the door. Enjoying the day off, you wonder what door-to-door salesman is at your house.

You open the door and a giant smile envelopes your face, “Spencer! You didn’t tell me you were going to visit.”

He take a breath, “Um… yeah, I wanted to ask you something and I couldn’t wait until you were on shift.”

You lean against the doorframe, biting your lip. “Well, I would invite you inside, but I have to warn you… it’s not very nice.”

“I don’t care,” he says matter-of-factly. “I just want to talk.”

“All right,” you say shyly, opening the door wide. You watch his reaction, already feeling embarrassment brewing in your stomach.

Spencer looks around for a second, taking in the minimal furniture and all around lackluster state of the structure. He zeros in on the old tv displaying your video game.

“Are you playing Red Dead Redemption 2?”

“Uh… yeah,” you say quietly, holding yourself and you walk into the living room. “It’s one of my favorites.”

Spencer smiles, finding it amazing to learn something new about you that he loves. “Nice horse.”

You laugh, sitting on the couch and grabbing your controller. Your cowboy character was riding a white horse in the middle of a river. “It’s the White Arabian you have to tame by Lake Isabella.”

“Is that… like the best horse or something?” Spencer comes to sit beside you, sinking into the musty couch.

“It’s the only elite Arabian horse that you can find in the wild.”

Spencer leans against the couch arm, resting his face in one hand. “I didn’t realize you were a gamer.”

“The more you know me, the more of a nerd I become.”

“Nothing wrong with that, you big nerd.”

You giggle, “What did you want to talk about?’

Spencer clears his throat. “I uh… I took your portfolio to work.”

“What did Angela think?”

“She thought it was all great. But um… a few others got a look at it too.” He shifts uncomfortably on the couch. “There’s this job opening on the production team, specifically on the Smosh main channel. But they would help with all the channels.”

You pause the game again and really look at him. “What is the position?”

“An assistant art coordinator. They help the art directors with creating sets, costumes, and character looks.”

“And what are the responsibilities?”

“They’re looking for someone to manage hair and makeup for Smosh skits and any character work on other channels. Most of the cast do it themselves, but we do need someone who specializes in prosthetics makeup. And you seem to have done that a lot in theatre. We also need someone to manage costume work – the upkeep of them.”

You swallow hard, arms slowly moving to hold yourself. “Do you know what the salary is?”

“I think it’s around 50k-60k. You’ll make between $24 - $28 an hour.”

You bite your cheek. “That’s great.” You look at your surroundings. This new job would be paying you over $10 more than you’re getting now. “Are you saying Smosh is interested in interviewing me for assistant art coordinator?”

Spencer nods his head. “That is basically what I’m saying.”

“Did you show your bosses my portfolio on purpose?” You lower your eyes but look at him through your lashes.

He takes a deep breath, stretching out on the couch. “Maybe. Maybe I thought you deserved a chance.” He looks at you seriously, “I think you’ve got some real talent, (Y/N). You should go for an interview.”

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll do it.”

You look at him, “I’m suddenly super nervous.” A laugh escapes you, “I… I have to talk to Aaron about it.”

“Okay,” Spencer says with an edge. He tries to be respectful. “Have you two…”

“We’ve moved in together,” you say softly. “To make bills a little easier. And… and as a trial run, I guess. I’ll be able to save up for a car now.”

Spencer has a finger on the corner of his mouth. “Do you think you could make an interview this Thursday?”

You think for a second, “I’m sure Aaron would be okay with that. I’ll just talk to him about it tonight.”

He doesn’t seem happy about that statement. But instead of saying something he might regret, he points to the PlayStation. “Have you completed this game before?”

“Oh, yeah – maybe three times,” you pick up the controller again. “This time I’m trying to complete all of the side quests before finishing the main story.”

“You should be wearing a cowboy hat while playing.”

“That would be awesome,” you laugh. You look at him with sincerity, “Thank you for looking out for me, Spence. I appreciate the chance.”

He gives a close-lipped smile. “Always.”

~~~

You step off the bus and begin to walk down the street. Using your phone, you follow the directions that Spencer gave you.

The Smosh office was right around the corner.

You enter the building, pulling on the only pair of dress pants you own. You readjust the simple blouse to show off the single diamond necklace you wear around your neck. You hope it gives you a professional first impression.

The main entrance of the building shows a little receptionist desk and plush chairs to wait in. You advance the desk while noticing behind it are many tables and folding chairs – probably for lunches.

“Hello, how are you?” a nice lady at the desk says.

You wave shakily, “I’m good. I’m here for an interview with Mr. Hecox and Mr. Padilla.”

She seems to find you saying their surnames comical judging by the little smile on her face. But she gestures to the plush armchairs behind you. “Sure, just wait there and I’ll call them.”

You turn around and notice that behind the chairs is a large window showing a large kitchen. The lunch tables and folding chairs makes more sense.

“Thank you,” you say, looking down at the name plate, “Selina.” You sit down and holding your famously large fanny pack in your lap. It gives you something to hold with your fidgeting hands.

Now sitting, you can see the wide windows behind Selina’s desk. There’s a long conference table in there with a television and speakers on a stand. There’s a phone speaker in the middle of the table for any people that are being called in remotely.

Behind the conference table is a little sitting area with a couch and armchair. A couple tables and folding chairs are in the rest of the open space. It’s probably a big room for any meetings with teams or big groups of people.

“(Y/N) Bennett?” someone asks. You jump and stand to see two men coming around the corner.

One is taller with dark, wavy styled hair, a nose ring, and cool tattoos spidering up his neck. He has a great smile and just radiates a natural energy you like.

The other is slightly shorter with brown hair in a classic cut. He has a scruffy beard and black square glasses. He gives very much dad energy with how he’s dressed.

“Yes,” you say rather breathlessly. “I’m (Y/N) Bennett.”

“I’m Anthony,” the taller says, “And this is Ian.”

You shake hands with them, Ian gesturing to the conference room. “We’ll meet in here.”

The three of you walk into the room and take seats around the long table. “It’s nice to meet you,” you say quietly, “Thank you for offering me an interview.”

“For sure,” Anthony says, leaning forward in his chair. Ian sits and immediately starts spinning back and forth. “We saw your portfolio and were really impressed with your work.”

“Thank you,” you say eagerly.

Ian clears his throat, “Could you tell us a little bit about yourself?”

“Well, I’m living here with my boyfriend. I’ve lived here for about two years. Before that I was in Nevada, just outside of Vegas. My family is still there,” you say quietly. “I’ve been a theatre and fine arts student all my life. I’ve been doing community and school productions since second grade. I have experience in both stage acting and in tech behind the scenes.”

“Which do you prefer?” Anthony asks.

You hold onto your fanny pack, “Right now, probably tech. I really enjoy designing costumes and putting characters together. Sometimes I do miss acting though.”

“What do you enjoy about art design?” Ian questions.

You focus on his chair spinning back and forth. “I’m a fan of storytelling. I think one of the greatest talents a person can have is in telling a story, no matter the platform. If I can be a part of that process, I’d enjoy every second. I want to show the story in costumes, hair, and makeup. It’s the most expressive way to describe a person or character.”

“Well said,” Anthony nods. “How would you manage a set when coordinating those things?”

“I would need to see the costume closet to know how to care for it. Organization is key, ensuring you don’t lose any pieces. You’d need a costume rack on set and some essentials, like safety pins, apparel tape, a lint roller, things like that. Makeup vanities will need to be disinfected and cleaned after use, brushes clean and organized. Prosthetics and stage makeup would need to be cared for to make sure we don’t share any germs and possible infections. The same goes for any hair and wig essentials.”

Ian seems a little lost in your explanation, just impressed that you were on top of it. “You have a fine arts degree, is that right?”

You nod, voice still quiet with the nerves. “That’s right. I got a bachelor’s in fine arts at Utah Tech University in St. George, Utah.”

“Is that close to where you’re from in Nevada?” Anthony asks.

You smile, “Yeah, it’s just over an hour away. It has a well known outdoor theatre called the Tuacahn Amphitheatre. I helped with a few tech things during summer shows. And then I acted at the college.”

“What shows did you act in?” Anthony asks further.

You play with your fingers. “We did Footloose, Addams Family, The Drowsy Chaperone, Elf: The Musical, Measure for Measure, and Much Ado About Nothing.”

Anthony whistles, “You did Shakespeare?”

“I love Shakespeare,” you say. “Much Ado About Nothing is my favorite play.”

“You are a major theatre kid,” Ian says, “Why don’t you act anymore?”

You squeeze your fanny pack, “I’ve gotten a little camera shy the last couple years. I prefer helping with quick changes and fixing any mic tape mishaps.”

You take a turn asking some questions about their art department and typical filming schedule. You learn about their expectations for the job and what the salary would be. It was exactly as Spencer had said.

Ian and Anthony share a look with each other before leaning forward. Anthony looks at you kindly, “Would you mind if we conference for a minute? We want to give you an answer today.”

You widen your eyes, “Yeah, of course. Thank you.”

The pair stand and excuse themselves to discuss things outside the room. You’re left in the swivel chair, picking at your fingers and praying that the interview went well. It would be incredible to be given a job that grants you the security and stable income you wanted.

There was a chance to have friends here. Spencer and Angela would be here. You would be storytelling in little comedy sketches. You’d be a part of a team that designed characters. You’d be in charge of ensuring faces weren’t shiny on camera, hair was in place, and clothes looked good.

This could be a home for you.

It takes almost ten minutes for Ian and Anthony to return. They come back with two others that are introduced as Cassie and Erin. They are art director and assistant art director for all productions.

You would be working beneath them should you be offered the position.

More questions are asked by the newcomers, and you find them to be very kind and artistic like yourself. You agree on many fronts, having many things in common. You would be happy to be working in their department.

Ian and Anthony both have smiles on their faces when they say:

“(Y/N), we want to formally offer you the position of assistant art coordinator. Responsible for hair and makeup, and the costumes of the cast. You’ll be our main reference for any special effects makeup and prosthetics. And you’ll help coordinate for all four channels.”

Tears start to form in your eyes. “Really?”

Cassie and Erin had faces full of sympathy. Cassie was covering her face with her hands. Erin was folding their arms and smiling.

Ian was standing their awkwardly, looking at your emotional reaction, but Anthony was quicker to ask. “Is that a yes?”

You laugh tearily, “Yes! Yes, I’d love to take the position. Thank you guys so much. I’m so excited – I don’t know what to say other than thank you.”

They all clap momentarily, Ian announcing, “Then we should call everyone to the lunchroom and make introductions.”

“We’ll have Selina bring up contracts to sign,” Anthony says, gesturing to the door. “You want to follow us?”

You nod enthusiastically, shaking hands with everyone on the way out. There are lots of thank yous and congratulations.

Cassie, Erin, and Ian go to round up cast and crew to the lunch tables you spotted earlier. Anthony goes to speak with Selina at the receptionist desk.

You exit the conference room, wiping tears away and clutching your fanny pack.

Spencer was there, pacing by the plush armchairs you sat in earlier. He has his arms crossed, one hand at his mouth, tracing his lips in a nervous gesture.

At your arrival, his head whips to you, eyes wide at the tears running down your face. He looks so afraid, unsure of how the interview went. But he might’ve misinterpreted your tears.

“(Y/N),” he says softly, “What… what did they say?”

He didn’t even notice the other people gathering at the lunch tables.

You walk towards him, still trying to wipe at your face, “Spence.”

He wants to hug you desperately then. He wants to comfort you. And he wants to hurt whoever decided to make you cry.

You throw your arms around his neck, burying your face there. He holds you back, still at a loss as to what the final verdict was.

“(Y/N)!” you hear Anthony, “Get over here!”

Spencer still holds you as you whisper to him, “I got the job.”

He pulls away and holds your waist, “What?”

“I got the job,” you whisper more excitedly. “They’re about to announce it to everyone.” You flounce away to stand at a counter with a few mini fridges, addressing a group of cast and crew. You notice Angela standing in the crowd.

She gives you two thumbs up and you wave back.

Spencer walks over just as Ian begins to talk.

“Hey, guys! We wanted to introduce our newest member of Smosh. This is (Y/N) Bennett!”

Anthony continues, “She will be working in the art department as an assistant art coordinator. She’ll be our head of character design and management of costumes, hair, and makeup.”

The crowd begins clapping and shouting their congratulations. Spencer joins them, standing next to Angela and a few others.

Unbeknownst to the pair of you, some cast and crew were sharing looks. People you hadn’t met yet were winking at each other. They knew full well how much Spencer wanted you to get this job.

You wave at everyone, “Hello! I’m so excited to meet you all and start working on these projects.”

Everyone breaks apart to introduce themselves.

Angela brings over a number of people, “Hey, (Y/N).” She says, “Here are some of our castmates.”

A tall woman in a beautiful jumpsuit says, “I’m Amanda, welcome to the Smosh family.”

“I’m Shayne,” a fit blonde man shakes your hand, “And this is Courtney.”

“Hi,” a blonde woman then shakes your hand, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Angela sticks her head in, “Those two are married.”

You nod, giggling, “Wonderful.”

“I’m Chanse,” a curly haired man says, giving you a hug, “Welcome to the team.”

A tall man with a great mustache waves, “I’m Tommy!”

“Hi!” you say, “It might take me a while to remember all your names. Thank you for being so welcoming. I’m so excited to start.”

“Spencer’s told us a lot about you,” Amanda says with a cheeky smile.

You look toward Spencer’s rosy face. “All good things, I hope.”

“Oh, definitely,” Shayne laughs, “He has nothing but praise for you.”

Spencer ignores the immediate retort that the single worst thing about you is your boyfriend. “You guys need to calm down.”

“Can we give you a tour?” Amanda asks, taking your arm, “The office has a lot of sets and rooms.”

Courtney appears on your other side, “We can show you the art department and the costumes closet!”

“And the makeup vanities,” Chanse says, already leading the way, “There are a couple by the sets, but there is one in the green room where Angela takes her naps.”

“Hey!” Angela instantly retorts, “Hey, hey, hey… uncalled for!”

Amanda scoffs, “But true.”

Angela snorts, “Yeah, sure.”

You are dragged away by Amanda and Courtney, Chanse and Angela still bickering along the way.

Spencer stays where he is with Shayne. The latter having a very knowing smirk on his face. Spencer ignores him as long as he can.

“Have you ever been told that you shouldn’t make faces because you’ll be stuck that way?”

Shayne chortles, “I’m just curious how you feel about this.”

“Clearly you already have a theory.”

“I do, based purely on the last eleven months of you pining over this girl.”

“I am incapable of pining.”

Shayne wheezes, “Yeah, sure. What do you call bringing up (Y/N) whenever possible, talking through ways to introduce yourself to her, workshopping conversations with me to get to know her…”

“All of those things were in confidence.”

“And all blatant examples of pining over a woman you’ve grown attached to!”

Spencer licks his lips, watching you being dragged by Angela towards the pods of employee desks. “I don’t… I can’t do anything about it now.”

“I’ve never seen you like this, man,” Shayne chortles. “It’s kind of throwing me off right now. You don’t talk about girls much.”

“The dating apps have been seriously lacking the last year.”

“Because you’ve been talking up some chick at the gas station,” Shayne laughs again. “I have to commend you for playing the long game.”

Spencer shakes his head, “I have to be fine with being just friends.”

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to be your best friend.

#spencer agnew x reader #spencer agnew fanfiction #spencer agnew smosh #spencer agnew #spencer agnew imagine #smosh games #smosh fandom #smosh au #smosh x reader #smosh pit #smosh #okayjhannah #fandomfantasia

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oneafter909 · 3 months ago

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george harrison walked into that studio, did 4 lines of coke, texted paul mccartney “lol FAGGOT”, put his CLIT directly on the mic for an hour and hit record. 12/10 #WhileMyGuitarGentlyWeeps

#g #white album

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jezebelblues · 7 months ago

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live on tour (interlinked) | h.s | 2

pt 1, pt 2 (complete)

summary: we don't talk about it, it's something we don't do—cause once you go without it, nothing else will do.

cw: smut18+ unprotected (piv), degradation if u squint, choking, weed, alcohol, angst, sort of a slowburn idk, fem!reader, hs1rry

word count: approx 8.8k

| okay so here’s pt 2, smuts at the end LMFAO. sorry if u hate ! tumblr (right as i’m about to post) is like sorry too many words 🤪 so i had to SPLIT anyway

masterlist

Outside, rain drizzled. The show ended an hour ago, Harry was busy with greetings and photos. She stood in the doorway of the side exit, the breeze cool and carrying the scent of wet pavement and grass.

A cigarette hung loosely between her fingers, stains of her lipstick kissed against the filter. She thought it’d quell her nausea, the pins and needles in her fingertips—but all it did was make her chest feel lighter. Everything else stayed.

She’s heard the song a thousand times, rehearsals the entire summer, soundchecks, shows. But it was different this time. He pulled her to play with him for a reason, their unspoken games—it was a message.

Her breath hitched as she jumped slightly, a gentle hand against her shoulder. It was Harry, a quiet greeting as he settled beside her, along the wall next to the door. His eyes swept over her face, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her eyes slightly glossed over.

They had just stared at each other for a while, like their eyes held more words than their mouths could. She took her bottom lip between her teeth as she let the cigarette drift onto the gravel outside, watching the embers burn out under the rain. “Harry.” She sighed, her eyes soft, a frown on her lips. “This needs to stop.”

He leaned his head against the cement wall, his gaze unwavering. “What does?”

She swallowed hard, shifting to lean into the opposite side of the door frame facing him, the heavy door still propped open. The wind danced in her hair, goosebumps cascading down her bare arms. “Whatever this is. Us. This is just work, Harry, I don’t get it.”

“Just work?”

She paused, averting her eyes from his to glance back outside. There wasn’t much of a view, gravel, smooth pavement, a large chain-link fence that shook and sang in the wind. “I don’t get it. None of my other jobs have been like this. We tour, we play and it’s easy. Hell, half of the people on the Floyd revival were on coke and it was easier than this.”

He studied her for a moment, his breaths heavy although he tried to lighten them. His eyebrows knit together, a glint of light shimmering along the edge of his pupil that painted him a tragic work of art. “Easy.” He managed, his voice ragged, as if it was a struggle to get the words out. “This isn’t a gig, or a studio session—we’re a band. A team. It isn’t supposed to be easy.”

She clenched her jaw, snapping her eyes back to his. “Don’t. It’s not about the band, it’s about you. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“And what’s that?”

“You get under my skin, Harry! And then you just fucking stay there and pick pick pick until you avoid me again.”

“You do the same!” He was exasperated, his eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That night in Nashville. It was normal, it was easy.” He echoed the word, mocking. “And you just pushed it away. S’constantly a step fucking toward, two steps back.”

Her belly continued to twist, her frown deepening. “Cause I don’t know what the hell you want from me.”

“What I want—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair as his voice cracked slightly. “You think I know what I want? This isn’t exactly easy for me either, YN.”

The admission stunned her into silence, the weight of his words settling heavily between them.

For a moment, the anger in his eyes flickered into something else—something raw and vulnerable—but it disappeared just as quickly, replaced by his usual guarded expression. “You’re not the only one trying to figure this out.”

The silence between them thickened, pressing down like the weight of the rain-soaked clouds above. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. What was there to say?

Harry pushed off the wall, his movements deliberate but tense, his eyes still locked on her. For a moment, it looked like he might step closer, might reach for her, but his hands stayed stuffed into the pockets of his coat.

“You don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse, like it hurt to say the words. “You think I’m trying to mess with you? I’m just—” He stopped, jaw tightening as he looked away, toward the gravel outside. His hand raked through his hair again, his frustration palpable.

She crossed her arms tighter, trying to shield herself from the chill in the air—or maybe from him. “Then what? What are you just, Harry? Because all I see is you dragging me into something I didn’t ask for, and then acting like I’m the one making it difficult.”

His head snapped back toward her, a spark of anger flaring in his eyes. “You think I wanted this? You think I planned for this?” He motioned vaguely between them, his voice rising just enough to make her flinch. “Do you know how easy it’d be for me to just… not? To let this all go?”

“Then why don’t you?” she shot back, her voice sharp as she straightened up, uncrossing her arms.

The question hung in the air like a dare, but Harry didn’t take it. His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but whatever it was, he swallowed it down. Instead, he let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he looked away again. “That’s the thing,” he muttered, his tone softer now, almost to himself. “I don’t know how.”

Her chest tightened, the weight of his words sinking into her ribs. But she refused to let him see the crack in her armor. She turned her face toward the rain, her jaw clenched, her breaths slow and measured.

“Well, maybe you should figure it out,” she said, her voice quieter but no less sharp. “Because I can’t keep doing this with you.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep, uneven breath, his face unreadable as he started to turn. “Fine,” he said, the word clipped, bitter. “Guess I’ll figure it out.”

He didn’t look back as he walked down the narrow hallway, out to wherever he was going.

She stayed frozen in the doorway, her arms hanging limply at her sides, her heart pounding too loud in the quiet. The door swung slightly with the wind, creaking on its hinges as she leaned against the frame.

She bit down hard on her lip, a sharp pang of regret bubbling up inside her, but she shoved it down, stuffing it into the same corner where all the other unspoken things between them lived.

The cigarette embers had long since faded, leaving only the faint smell of ash and rain.

Once you go without it, nothing else will do.

The bassline thumped steadily, drowning out conversation and vibrating through the floor of the packed venue. Laughter spilled over from corners where small groups huddled close, their faces flushed with warmth and the buzz of alcohol. Fairy lights strung haphazardly along the ceiling flickered, giving the room an ethereal glow that blurred edges and softened harsh lines. It was October second, a free evening before they had to start gearing up for Toronto, and they had found themselves at this party—an impromptu gathering of familiar and unfamiliar faces.

They had a few days to rest before they geared up for the Toronto show.

YN moved through the throng like a thread of color in an otherwise monotone fabric. Her dress clung to her in all the right places, its silky material catching the light with every movement. Her makeup was immaculate, her lips a striking shade that dared anyone to look away. Heads turned as she passed, her heels clicking faintly against the hardwood floor beneath the relentless pulse of the music.

Across the room, Harry caught the glance of a mutual friend before his gaze settled on her. She hadn’t noticed him yet—or perhaps she was pretending not to. That had been their dynamic since the DC show—stolen glances, sharp words, and an undercurrent of something unresolved that simmered just below the surface. Tonight wasn’t much different. If she felt his eyes on her, she didn’t show it. Instead, she let herself be led toward the bar by a guy whose name she couldn’t quite recall but whose interest in her was overtly clear.

Leo—or maybe it was Geo— was tall, broad-shouldered, with a smooth voice and easy laugh. He leaned in close, brushing his fingers lightly against her arm as he spoke, and her lips curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It wasn’t that she found him unappealing—he was attractive enough, charming in a way that was disarming—but she was using him. His attention was a distraction, a convenient shield from the simmering tension she refused to address. She wasn’t about to let Harry consume her thoughts tonight.

“Another drink?” Leo–Geo asked, his voice warm against her ear.

She nodded, watching as he flagged down the bartender and ordered for her. When the drink came, he handed it to her, his fingers grazing hers deliberately. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned into him, tilting her head to laugh at something he said. She wasn’t entirely listening, but it didn’t matter. She let him lead her to the edge of the dance floor, where the music was louder and the lights flashed in dizzying patterns.

His hands found her waist as they swayed together, the rhythm of the music guiding their movements. She felt his breath against her skin as he leaned in, his lips grazing the curve of her neck. It was easy, his touch, his attention. It dulled the edges of her thoughts, made the heat of Harry’s gaze on her back easier to ignore.

For a moment, she let herself get lost in it.

But Harry was watching. He stood near the edge of the room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The muscles in his jaw worked as he watched her laugh at something the other man said, her hand brushing lightly against the stranger’s chest. His stomach twisted, anger and something else—something sharper, more possessive—flaring within him. He told himself to leave it alone, to let her do what she wanted. But then he saw them moving toward the door, her hand loosely clasped in the other man’s.

Something in him snapped.

He moved quickly, weaving through the crowd with single-minded determination. She didn’t see him coming, not until his hand closed around her arm in a firm grip.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice was low, controlled, but there was no mistaking the anger in it.

She froze, her wide eyes meeting his for the first time all night. Her companion, caught off guard, let go of her hand and stepped back.

“Excuse me?” Her eyebrows furrowed, her voice laced with irritation.

“I said, what the hell are you doing?” he repeated, his grip on her arm tightening slightly.

“Let go of me, Harry,” she snapped, tugging her arm free. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled her a step closer, his green eyes boring into hers.

“Do you even know his name?” he asked, his voice dripping with disdain.

Her lips parted, but no answer came. She didn’t know his name, and they both knew it.

“That’s what I thought,” Harry muttered, his jaw clenched. “You’re not going anywhere with him.”

“Harry what—no!” Her voice was louder now, drawing a few curious glances from the people around them. “You don’t get to decide what I do.”

He only ignored her.

“Harry—”

“Go,” Harry said sharply, cutting her off as he turned his attention to the other man. “Now.”

The man hesitated, glancing between them before holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, mate. She’s all yours.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving the two of them alone in a small bubble of tension that felt ready to burst.

“Are you happy now?” she asked, her voice shaking with anger, eyes threatening to gloss over.

“You were about t’leave with a stranger,” he said, his voice still low but tinged with frustration.

“So what if I was? What does it matter to you?”

“It—“ He paused, voice barely above a whisper. His hand finally dropped from her arm, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he leaned in closer, his eyes searching hers. “Forget it, YN.”

The music pounded around them, but neither of them moved. The weight of his words hung heavy between them, unspoken things simmering just below the surface. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

And then, abruptly, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the crowded room, her heart racing and her mind spinning.

After a while, she found her way back to the bar. YN perched on the edge of a high stool, her fingers wrapped around the cold glass of a freshly poured Midori Sour. She wasn’t sure why she kept ordering them—maybe because they were sweet enough to soften the edges of her mood. Maybe because the tang of melon lingered on her tongue in a way she liked. Or maybe because she knew it annoyed him.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Harry approaching, his strides long and purposeful, the faint clink of his rings catching her attention before anything else. He stopped beside her, leaning against the bar with an infuriating casualness, his profile sharp under the low-hanging lights.

“Another one of those?” he asked, his voice low but distinctly mocking. He gestured toward her drink with a tilt of his head. “You’ve got the palate of a teenager.”

YN didn’t even glance at him. “And you’ve got the personality of a Jack and Coke. Bitter, basic, and way too predictable.”

The bartender chuckled as he slid Harry’s drink across the counter. Harry’s lips twitched at the corners, not quite a smile but enough to tell her her barb had landed.

“Predictable, am I?” he asked, lifting his glass to his lips. His voice was softer now, dangerous in the way it dripped with quiet confidence. “At least I’m not clinging to a sugar high like I’m at prom.”

YN finally turned her head, meeting his gaze dead-on. Those green eyes of his were sharper than the whiskey he was sipping, and the way they pinned her in place made her chest tighten—not that she’d ever admit it.

“At least I’m not controlling your night to avoid saying what I really want to say,” she shot back, her voice steady but low, just for him.

Harry blinked, his brows raising slightly in surprise before he composed himself. He set his glass down on the counter, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And what exactly is it you think I’m hiding?”

The word love slid off his tongue like a taunt, curling around her like smoke. It wasn’t affectionate—it was a challenge, one that dared her to push back. And god, did she want to push back.

YN leaned in too, her face just close enough to his that she could smell the whiskey on his breath, warm and heady. “I think you’ve got a lot of things you don’t say out loud,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the noise of the bar. “But don’t worry, Harry. I’m not dying to know.”

The tension between them was suffocating now, thick and electric. She saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers flexed against his glass like he was resisting the urge to reach for her instead. Her pulse hammered in her throat, each beat daring her to stay in this dangerous little game they’d started.

“You think you’ve got me all figured out,” Harry said finally, his voice like velvet lined with steel. “But you’re wrong, YN. Dead wrong.”

Her name on his lips was her undoing. She stood abruptly, grabbing her bag and tossing a few bills on the counter. “Why are you here again, Harry?” She muttered, “Your jealousy, which you refuse to admit, is insufferable. You ruined my night and I want to drink.”

Silence.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not doing this.” Her voice was low, laced in anger as she spun on her heel and headed toward the back of the bar where the restrooms were tucked away.

But of course, he followed.

She could hear him behind her, the weight of his footsteps matching the rhythm of her pounding heart. She ignored him, turning a tight corner.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he shouted, his voice low and gravelly. He was close—too close—and she could feel the heat radiating off him, suffusing her skin like a fever.

“Go away, Harry,” she said through clenched teeth, still nearing the bathroom doors that seemed to get farther and farther away with every step she took.

He stepped in front of her, one large step he made quickly and without effort. “Not until you tell me what your problem is,” he snapped. His hands smacking against the walls abruptly, caging her in. His chest was barely an inch from her back, and she could feel the way his breath hitched, like he was struggling to keep his composure.

YN whirled around, forcing him to step back just enough to meet her glare. “My problem?” she repeated, her voice sharp enough to cut. “My problem is you. You’ve been a thorn in my side since June, and I’m sick of it. Sick of the looks, the comments, the—”

“The what?” Harry interrupted, his voice rising. “The fact that I actually give a shit about what you’re doing? The fact that I care if you’re about to make a mistake?”

“A mistake?” she echoed, her eyes blazing. “What the hell do you care if I—”

“What was his name, YN?” He spit, an echo from earlier, nostrils flared and jaw tight. He already knew the answer, she didn’t know.

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to keep her anger to a low simmer. “Fuck you.”

They didn’t just hold each other’s gaze. They gripped it. Like a rope stretched between them, fraying under the strain. Her scoff sliced the moment clean, and she ducked under his arm, her stride sharp, deliberate, toward the bathroom door.

Her fingers curled around the knob, twisting it with the kind of force that spoke louder than words. The door swung open, her heels clicking against the tile, a precise rhythm against the muted bass thumping somewhere beyond the purple-painted walls. She spun, gripping the edge of the door, and shoved it back with all the fury her body could muster. But it didn’t slam. It hit something solid—a thud, then a jolt.

His hand, metal rings against wood.

The door ricocheted toward her before she even registered what had happened. He stepped in, the breadth of him filling the space, his palm swallowing the knob as he pushed it shut behind him. The twist of the lock was a gunshot in the silence, louder than the music bleeding through the cracks.

“Are you fucking serious?” Her voice was a hiss, low and venomous, the kind of sound that cut through everything. Her chest heaved, each breath shallow and sharp, the thin sheen of sweat glinting along her collarbone like glass shards catching the light.

The room was alive, though barely. A flickering bulb above them glowed warm and harsh, its glass casing distorting the light into fractured halos. Yet, there were blues bleeding from LED's in the corner, washing them in warmth and cobalt—fire and ice.

His gaze dragged down her body like he couldn’t stop himself, like she was a work of art, damning and divine all at once. She was something out of a fever dream—wild, furious, her beauty distorted by the tension in the air. “We didn’t get to finish.”

Her laugh came hard and bitter, her nostrils flaring as she raked her fingers through her hair. “Finish what? This?” She threw her hands out, exasperation dripping from every gesture. “This isn’t fucking worth it!”

But he wasn’t looking at her hands. His eyes were on her lips, her eyes, back to her lips—then lower. Her chest, rising and falling. Anger looked good on her, he thought. Anger looked good enough to ruin him. “You didn’t hear me,” he said, quieter this time.

He stepped closer, and the air between them shifted. Compressed. Heavy. Her back hit the wall before she realized she’d even moved, the cool tile shocking against the heat rolling off her skin. She pressed her palms flat against it as though the room was tilting, threatening to spill her out into some uncharted void.

He loomed over her—it was foreboding, yet, it made a heat pool between her thighs.

“Get out.” She murmured, but her voice cracked under the weight of her own trembling breath. There was no steel in the words. Only rust.

“Say it like you mean it.” His voice was smoke, burning slow and low, roughened edges catching on her nerves. He was too close now, close enough that she could smell him—whiskey and spearmint, aftershave, and something deeper, earthier. The heat of him radiated against her skin.

Her eyes darted to his mouth, to the thin line of his jaw, then lower—to the silver chain around his neck. The pendant at the center gleamed faintly, catching the light like a drop of molten metal. It glimmered orange, blue—a ripple in the ocean bathed in harvest moon. “Harry—” she started, his name trembling on her lips.

But before she could say more, his mouth was on hers.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was raw, like barbed wire snapping, cutting deep and fast. She gasped against him, her hands clutching the fabric of his shirt, twisting it into her fists as if to keep herself upright. His body molded into hers, chest to chest, hip to hip, the press of him heavy and solid and absolutely inescapable.

“I hate you,” she muttered, the words breaking into his mouth, dancing onto his tongue. Her fingers were already tugging at the buttons of his shirt, feverish and clumsy, her frustration bleeding into every movement.

He moaned into her, guttural, reverberating from the bottom of his throat. “I know.” He breathed, his lips brushing along her jaw, down her neck.

Her head tipped back, hitting the tile with a soft thud, her hands shoving his shirt open. Her fingers traced his chest, dragging across the heat of his skin. “Fuck—you’re an asshole.” She bit out, her voice shaking with something between anger and desperation.

His lips curved into a crooked smile, amusement tugging at the edges even as his breath hitched. “Keep going,” he urged, his words strained but teasing, his hands finding the curve of her waist. His grip was firm, grounding her as if the tension might otherwise consume them both.

Her mouth crashed against his again, this time harder, rougher. Her fingers curled into his hair, tugging like she wanted to hurt him, to punish him for every maddening, chaotic feeling he’d pulled out of her. Every shiver. Every breath. Every ache.

“I hate how much I want this,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper, trembling with something raw and unfiltered.

“Yeah?” He sighed, his lips brushing hers, his voice cracked and ragged. He tilted his head, his dark eyes locking with hers, his gaze searing. “Hate me all you want, but you’re not stopping. Are you?”

Her only response was another kiss, pulling him closer, harder, until the line between them blurred. Until all the anger, the longing, the fire consuming them burned the world around them into ash.

Her fingers found his belt with a kind of determination that burned. Leather sliding through brass, sharp and deliberate. Her nails scraped his stomach as she pushed the belt free, her movements jerky, impatient. Every tug of her hands felt like a challenge, every drag of her fingers against his skin like she wanted to leave a mark.

"You think this is gonna fix anything?" she spat, her voice low and trembling, caught somewhere between anger and something that tasted sweeter. Bitter edges trying to cut through the heat swelling between them.

"Never said it would," he murmured, his voice rough, a rasp that settled low in her chest. His hands were already under her dress, sliding up the backs of her thighs. His grip was firm, too tight, bruising—like he was trying to make sure she wouldn't slip away.

When he bunched the fabric over her hips, the sound of it pulling free from her skin filled the air between them.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" she bit out, her words sharp and breathless, her desire, her anger tearing through her. Her hands shoved his pants down, knuckles brushing against him in a way that made her stomach twist.

His laugh was dark, rasping out like a rough scrape of metal. "Says the one tearing my clothes off."

"Don't flatter yourself," she snapped, but her voice cracked, betraying her even as she glared up at him. "This doesn't mean anything."

"Sure, it doesn't." His words dripped with mockery—a blade under silk. His mouth brushed against her neck now, teeth grazing her skin. "Keep saying it, YN. You're real convincing."

Her head tipped back as he bit at her skin, the scrape of his teeth followed by the heat of his tongue. "You're so fucking–“ she started, but her words dissolved into a sharp gasp when his hand slid between her thighs, dragging over the thin barrier of lace that still clung to her.

"What was that?" He hummed, his tone laced with dark amusement, his fingers pressing into her just enough to make her hips roll forward, chasing him. "Didn't quite catch it."

"Don't," she managed, though her voice wavered, her breath catching as he moved against her again, more deliberate this time.

"Don't what?" he teased, his lips brushing her ear now, his free hand gripping her thigh and pulling it higher around his waist. His body pressed against hers, the hard line of him undeniable, the heat radiating off him making her skin burn. "Don't stop? Don't touch you?"

Her hands tangled in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth. "Don't act like you have the upper hand," she shot back, though her voice was shaking, her chest rising and falling against his as though the air between them had thinned.

His laugh rumbled against her skin, low and rough. "Petal, l've had the upper hand since the second you let me touch you."

"You're delusional," she snarled, but her body betrayed her again, arching into him as his fingers slipped beneath the lace, her cunt slick with arousal. A broken sound escaped her throat, and her nails dragged across his scalp.

"Yeah?" he breathed, his voice darker now, tinged with something ragged, unsteady. His lips caught the corner of her jaw, moving toward her mouth but stopping just short. "Then why are you shaking?"

"God, you're insufferable."

"And you're not going anywhere.” Harry's hands found her waist with the kind of grip that could bruise, his fingers digging in as he spun her around without warning. The breath caught in her throat as her body collided with the edge of the sink counter, her palms bracing against the cool marble.

She caught his eyes in the mirror, dark and feral, locked on her like she was prey.

"Look at you," he muttered, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraping the edges of his throat. His hands moved to her hips, holding her still as he pressed himself against her. The solid heat of him burned through the fabric separating them, and she bit down hard on her lip to stop the sound threatening to escape. "Desperate for it, huh?”

"No.” she quipped, but her voice wasn't as sharp as she wanted it to be. Her reflection gave her away—her lips parted, her chest heaving, her thighs trembling just enough to notice. "You're so goddamn cocky. It's disgusting."

He ignored her, or maybe he loved it—she couldn't tell. His hands left her hips briefly, his fingers moving to his slacks, shoving them all the way down in a rough, impatient motion. The sound of the fabric brushing against his legs filled the space between them, quick and deliberate.

Harry's hand slid up her front, rough but with ease, fingers curling under her chin. His grip was firm, enough to keep her still, his thumb brushing just once over the edge of her jaw before tilting her head up. The mirror stared back at her, unforgiving and vivid, and his chest pressed hard against her back, pinning her in place. "Eyes up," he muttered, low and commanding, his breath hot against the side of her neck.

His fingers flexed under her chin, urging her gaze to meet their reflection. "You're gonna watch, yeah? Gonna see exactly what I do to you."

She didn't answer—couldn't. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her body shivered under his touch.

His free hand slid lower, over her stomach, down between her thighs, where his fingers paused, resting just above where she needed him most.

He tutted, staring her reflection down. "Dripping mess already." He smiled, slow and wicked, his lips brushing her ear. "You think that guy could do this to you? Hm? Think he could get you this wet?"

"Shut up," she bit out, though her voice lacked conviction, trembling just like the rest of her. Her hands gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white against the cool marble, desperate for something solid to hold on to.

Harry's laugh was dark, rich, vibrating against her back. "That's not a no.” He drawled, dragging his fingers down, brushing over her slick folds in a featherlight touch that made her legs shake. "What is it, then? You just don't wanna admit it?"

"Admit what?" she shook, her tone sharp, though her hips betrayed her by rolling forward, chasing his hand.

"That no one else could make y’feel like this." His fingers pressed in harder now, slow and teasing as they circled her clit. His other hand kept her chin steady, forcing her to watch as his fingers moved, dragging against her in slow, maddening circles. "Look at you, YN. Fucking dripping for me. You see that?"

Her eyes flicked to the mirror, catching the way his hand disappeared between her thighs, the glint of wetness coating his fingers as they moved. Her cheeks flushed hot, but she couldn't tear her gaze away, her body betraying her with every soft sound slipping from her lips.

"Harry—“ she gasped, but her voice broke into a moan as he pressed his fingers harder, rolling them against her with deliberate pressure.

"There she is," he smiled, his tone mocking but warm, like he'd been waiting for her to break. "That's it. Don't hold back. I want you t’hear yourself, yeah? Want to know what y’sound like when it's me making you fall apart."

Her hands shook against the counter, nails digging into the marble as his fingers slowed again, agonizingly teasing. Her body jerked, desperate for more, and he smiled, smug and lazy, like he had all the time in the world.

"H, please–“ she whined, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

"Please, what?" he tutted, his voice dropping lower, rougher. His fingers dragged down, slipping inside her cunt just enough to make her gasp, then pulling out again. "Use your words, YN. Tell me what y’need."

"I hate you," she muttered, but it sounded hollow, the tremble in her voice giving her away entirely.

"Not what I asked," he growled, and his teeth scraped against the curve of her shoulder, a sharp bite that made her head snap back. His fingers pressed into her again, this time deeper, curling just right, and a loud moan broke free from her chest, her body arching against him.

"Look at that," he whispered, his hand still steady on her chin, holding her in place. "Look at you, petal. Such a pretty little slut for me." His thumb brushed over her clit now, slow but deliberate, and her hips rocked into him, chasing every movement. "You like watching, don't you? Like seeing what I do t’you."

Her only answer was another moan, louder this time, her lips parting as her head fell forward—but his hand caught her, tilting her chin back up. "No," he murmured, soft but firm. "Keep watching."

Her reflection burned into her vision—the way her mouth hung open, her cheeks flushed and glowing, her body pressed tight against his. The sight of his fingers moving, disappearing into her before dragging back out, glistening with her arousal.

"Good girl.” He breathed, his voice rough now, almost reverent. His free hand slid to her hip, holding her steady as he shifted behind her, his body pressing closer. "Now, keep your eyes on me. I'm not done with you yet."

Harry's fingers slid out of her slowly, teasing the slick heat between her thighs, a deliberate rhythm that left her trembling. The pressure was enough to keep her on edge, never enough to tip her over.

Every moan she tried to swallow only fueled him, and he made sure she knew it. "Fuck, look at you," he muttered, his voice a low rasp against her ear. "Falling apart on my fingers, and I haven't even fucked you yet.“

"Shut up," she breathed, but the bite in her tone was fading, her resolve crumbling with every slow, maddening drag of his fingers. Her thighs quivered, her knees barely holding her upright, and her hands gripped the edge of the sink like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

"Thought so," he said, smug and soft, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a wicked grin. His thumb circled her clit, slow and firm, drawing a whimper from her lips she couldn't hold back. "No one else knows how to ruin you, do they?"

Her body jerked against him, hips pressing into his hand despite the defiance still burning in her eyes. She wanted to tell him off, to push him away, but her voice broke every time she tried, each sound melting into a moan.

"Thought you were tougher than this," he taunted, his breath hot against her neck, his chest firm against her back. "Guess I was wrong. Just a mess for me, aren't you?"

Her head tipped forward, a choked sound escaping her throat, but his hand was there again, his fingers curling under her chin, tilting her face up to meet the mirror. "Uh-uh," he snapped. "Don’t let me see you do that again.”

Her reflection was a blur of flushed skin and trembling limbs. Her lips were parted, swollen and wet, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

His chest, exposed by the open shirt still hanging from his shoulders, pressed against her back, radiating heat. The sight of his hand moving between her legs, glistening with her arousal, was almost too much to bear.

"Harry—" she gasped, her voice cracking, her fingers gripping the sink harder, her knuckles white against the marble.

"Say my name again," he growled, his tone dark and dangerous, his fingers pressing deeper, drawing a broken moan from her lips. "Go on, petal. Let’s hear it.”

Just as her hips bucked into his hand, chasing the pressure, he pulled his fingers away, leaving her empty and trembling. She let out a frustrated whimper, her nails biting into the counter's edge, but before she could snap at him, his hand slid to her throat, curling around it in one firm, possessive grip.

"Patience,” he murmured, though his tone dripped with mockery, his lips grazing the curve of her jaw as he pulled her tighter against him. "Want it so bad? I'll give it to you, but you better fucking take it."

She felt him behind her, his hard cock pressing insistently against her, the rough fabric of his boxers catching on her skin before she shoved them down. The anticipation coiled tight in her stomach, her breath hitching as he pushed them down just enough to free himself.

His free hand guided himself to her, dragging the head of his cock along her slick folds, slow and deliberate, just to make her squirm. He laughed when her hips rolled back against him, desperate for more.

"So fucking needy. Bet you'd beg for it if I made you."

She gasped, her voice shaking as her body pressed into his.

The words caught in her throat, tangled with the moan that escaped when he finally moved, thrusting into her with one hard, unrelenting motion. A cry tore from her lips, loud and unrestrained, her body arching against him as he filled her completely. He groaned low in her ear, his hand on her throat steadying her, his other hand gripping her hip so tightly it felt like he was branding her.

The stretch was slow, deliberate, the sharpness of it stealing the breath from her lungs as he filled her inch by inch. “So fucking tight—y’feel that? How perfect y’are for me?”

Her nails scratched against the smooth marble as he moved, each thrust deep and deliberate, pulling sounds from her she couldn't control. Her body arched into him, her head tipping back against his shoulder, her resolve finally shattering. "God, you're so fucking good like this," he rasped, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "Taking me so well. Look at yourself, angel. Look how fucking gorgeous y’are right now."

Her eyes fluttered open, catching their reflection again—her body against his, his shirt hanging loose on his frame, his hands commanding her as though she was his entirely. The sight burned into her, sending heat pooling low in her belly, her thighs trembling as he kept pushing her further and further.

And despite everything—her anger, her pride, her sharp tongue—she couldn't hold back the moans spilling from her lips, louder now, desperate and broken, as her body gave in to him completely.

Harry didn't ease up, not for a second. Each thrust was deep, rough, his grip on her hips bruising as he yanked her back into him, forcing her to take every inch. The slap of skin on skin echoed in the small room, mingling with her ragged breaths and broken moans, her body arching under his hands like it was built for this, for him.

"Love this cock, don’t you?" he growled, his voice gravel and heat, his chest pressing harder into her back. "Like how I fucking ruin you?"

"Please," she bit out, her voice sharp, defiant, even as it fell out as a moan. Her fingers clawed at the sink counter, nails scratching the smooth surface as her legs quivered beneath her. But still, she smirked, tilting her head just enough to catch his reflection in the mirror. "I’ve been fucked harder.”

Harry's laugh was low, a sound that rolled through her chest. "You're really gonna start with that?" he grunted, his voice a rasp of rough edges and heat. His hand slid up her back, the weight of it pushing her down until her cheek brushed the counter. The angle shifted, sharper now, and when he thrust again, a cry ripped from her lips before she could choke it back.

"And there it is," he moaned, his tone mocking, pleased. "That shut you up quick, didn't it?"

But she didn't give in. She never did. Her smirk twisted into something sharper, her breath coming in uneven bursts as she rolled her hips back against him just to prove she could. "Yeah," she slurred, her voice thick, daring. "What a waste–“ she paused, a moan emitting from the top of her throat. “–of a cock if–“ another pause, “if–if you fuck like this.”

His thrusts faltered, just for a moment—a slip that was more telling than anything he could've said. She'd gotten to him, and the flash of frustration in his eyes was enough to make her smirk widen.

"You just don't know when to shut that mouth, do you?" he snarled, his voice dripping with tension as he stilled entirely, his chest heaving against her back.

"Guess not," she shot back, her tone cutting despite the quiver in her thighs. "Maybe you're not man enough to–“

Before she could finish, his hand left her back, gripping her throat as he yanked her back up toward his chest again. He found her jaw with a force that made her gasp. His grip was firm, commanding, as his fingers pressed into her cheeks, forcing her mouth open.

"Open," he ordered, his tone low and unrelenting, the kind that left no room for argument. When she hesitated—just for a second—his grip tightened, his gaze locking hers in the mirror. "I said open."

Her lips parted, her glare defiant even as she obeyed.

"See? You do listen," he muttered, his lips curving into a wicked grin. His index and middle finger slid past her lips, pressing down hard on her tongue. Her eyes widened slightly, a muffled protest bubbling in her throat, but he just smirked. "That's better. Quiet suits you, angel."

Her teeth grazed his knuckles, her tongue squirming under the weight of his fingers, but she couldn't pull away—not while he still held her jaw firmly in place. His hips moved again, hard and unforgiving, each thrust making her body jerk forward against the sink.

He moaned, watching their reflection like it was some kind of twisted masterpiece. "Still trying t’fight me, even now. Stubborn little thing, aren't you?"

She glared at him in the mirror, her teeth biting down lightly on his fingers just to prove she still could. "Go on," he sighed, his tone amused as his fingers pressed down harder, making her gag slightly. "Bite me. Won't change a damn thing.”

Her body betrayed her-again. Her moans, muffled by his hand, spilled out in broken fragments, her hips pushing back to meet his thrusts even as her mind screamed at her to resist. The tears stinging her eyes weren't from pain, but from the overwhelming heat building low in her belly, threatening to swallow her whole.

He grunted, his breath hot against her ear as his fingers slid from her mouth, wet and slick—a mess of whimpers and moans escaping with it. "That's what you sound like when I've got y’completely undone. Maybe next time, think twice before y’run your mouth."

Her lips parted, a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, but it never made it past her lips. Not with the way he pulled her against him, harder, faster, his hand returning to her throat, keeping her flush against his chest.

Her hands left the edge of the sink, trembling as they reached up to find him. She gripped his forearm, her nails digging into his skin, desperate to feel the solid strength beneath her fingers. Her body jolted with every thrust, her movements uncoordinated, but her claws pressed hard enough to leave marks she knew he'd see tomorrow.

Harry didn't flinch. If anything, her desperation only made him smirk. His hand on her throat stayed steady, holding her firm, keeping her close. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the coiled strength under her palms, and she knew he wouldn't drop her. No matter how rough he got, no matter how far he pushed, he had her.

He growled, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice as rough as the pace of his hips slamming into her. "You begging for more?"

Her nails dragged down his forearm, leaving a trail of red crescents in their wake. She gasped, head tipping back against his shoulder, her teeth catching her bottom lip as a moan slipped free before she could stop it. "You'll tire out before I do."

His grip on her throat tightened slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to make her feel it, to keep her grounded against him. His other hand slid down her stomach, fingers pressing between her thighs again, circling her clit.

"Feel that?" he muttered, dragging his fingers in slow, deliberate circles, contrasting with the brutal rhythm of his hips. "That's not me getting tired, petal. That's me making sure you'll remember this tomorrow."

Her nails clawed deeper into his forearm, and her hips bucked forward, trying to escape the overwhelming sensation only to slam back into him. Her mind was fogged with heat, her body trembling under the dual assault of his fingers and the relentless thrusts that sent shocks up her spine.

"Fuck, Harry," she whimpered, her voice breaking in a way she hated, in a way he loved.

"That's it," he grunted, almost tenderly, though his actions were anything but. His lips brushed her temple, a cruel contrast to the way he dragged her closer to the edge.

Her grip on his forearm tightened, her nails biting into his skin hard enough to draw a hiss from his lips. But he didn't pull back. He wouldn't. His hold stayed firm, steady, a constant against the chaos he was dragging her through.

"You're so fucking close," he growled, his voice dark and ragged, his lips kissing her temple.

Her head fell further into his shoulder, her lips parted in a choked moan. The mirror showed everything—the way her body arched, her dress bunched high around her hips, his hand between her thighs. The sight of his fingers working her, his other hand wrapped firm around her throat, holding her steady as he pounded into her, was too much. It was filthy, mesmerizing. It was them.

"You're beautiful like this," he muttered, his breath hot against her cheek, his voice shaking with the effort to hold himself back. "Fucking perfect.”

Her hands clawed at his forearm, her nails raking over his skin as her body tensed, her thighs quivering against his. A sharp cry tore from her lips, unrestrained, as the tension inside her snapped all at once, her release washing over her in waves.

He slowed his movements just enough to drag it out, his fingers never stopping. His thrusts turned deep, deliberate, milking every last tremor from her body. "Good girl—just like that."

Her breath came in short, broken gasps, her body slackening in his arms as her hands slipped from his forearm to brace herself against the sink again. But Harry wasn't done—not yet.

His hand slid from her neck, resting briefly on her back to steady her as he pulled out. His release was a low growl, heavy with restraint, as he bent her forward over the sink again, her cheek pressing against the cool marble.

His hands tugged the bunched fabric of her dress, pushing it higher until it gathered at the small of her back.

She heard the wet sound of his hand stroking himself, the heat of him close enough to feel but just out of reach. He cursed under his breath, his voice rough and raw, his pace quickening as his own release built.

"Fuck, look at you," he muttered, his eyes glued to her reflection. His free hand slid down her back, his touch possessive, reverent.

The first hot spurt of his release hit the small of her back, a low groan tearing from his throat as he finished, his hand working himself through the aftershocks. He stayed there for a moment, his breath ragged, his chest heaving, the sight of her still bent over the sink keeping him rooted.

Harry let out a long exhale, his hand sliding up her spine in a firm, grounding touch as he leaned over her, brushing his lips against her shoulder.

The air felt thick now, heavy with the remnants of what just happened. The muffled bass of the music outside thumped distantly, but the bathroom was silent aside from their labored breaths. Neither of them spoke.

Harry stepped back, his hands dragging over her hips as if reluctant to let her go, before he turned his attention to himself. He pulled his slacks back up, the sound of the zipper loud in the quiet, followed by the faint clink of his belt as he buckled it.

She stayed bent over the sink for a moment longer, her forehead pressed against the cool surface, her chest heaving as she tried to steady herself. She could feel his eyes on her, burning into her back, but she didn't dare look up. Not yet.

Harry moved to the paper towel dispenser, yanking a mess of them free without a word. He returned to her, his footsteps deliberate, and she startled slightly at the first cool touch of the towel against her skin. He didn't say anything as he wiped her clean, his movements uncharacteristically gentle now, precise, careful, like he was undoing what had been rough and unforgiving moments ago.

When he finished, he tossed the crumpled towels into the trash. His hands returned to her thighs, sliding the lace of her panties back up, his fingers brushing against her skin as he smoothed them into place. He let his fingers linger there for a moment, his thumbs grazing the red marks he'd left behind on her hips.

Her thighs bore the shape of his hands, faint but unmistakable, and when she finally straightened and caught herself in the mirror, she saw the full extent of it. Her skin was marked—her throat faintly bruised from his grip, hickeys scattered along her neck and collarbone like splashes of color against her flushed skin. The swell of her hips ached where his fingers had dug in, and she knew the prints he'd left would bloom darker by morning.

The silence in the room wasn’t peaceful. It was thick, suffocating, a tension neither of them knew how to cut. Harry leaned against the wall like it was holding him up, his head tilted back, his shirt hanging open, and his chest still heaving like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. The air felt different now—charged and heavy, yet hollow at the same time.

She stared at him for a moment, at the way his jaw was clenched tight, his gaze fixed somewhere else. His usual arrogance was gone, replaced by something quieter, something guarded. He didn’t move to fix his shirt, didn’t even glance at the mirror to see what a wreck he looked like.

She didn’t think before stepping forward, her hands finding the loose edges of his shirt. His eyes flicked down to her, dark and unreadable, but he didn’t stop her. She tugged the fabric into place, smoothing it over his shoulders before starting on the buttons, working her way down.

Her fingers brushed against his skin, still warm from her touch, but she didn’t let herself think about it—couldn’t. The weight of what they’d just done hung between them, heavy and unspoken, something that felt too big, too raw to touch.

He stayed still, watching her, his arms limp at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to move. Like touching her again might unravel everything.

She didn’t dare look at him, her gaze focused on her hands as she reached the last button. Her fingers trembled as she smoothed the fabric flat, brushing out the wrinkles before finally stepping back.

They didn’t speak.

They wouldn’t speak.

It was something they didn’t do—not about this.

Her throat felt tight, her chest heavy, her pulse still racing from the way he’d made her feel. She smoothed her hands over her dress again, though it was already straight. The mirror behind her caught their reflection—two people standing too close but pretending the distance was enough.

Her lips parted, maybe to say something, maybe to breathe, but nothing came out. She glanced up, catching his gaze for the briefest second before dropping it again.

His chest rose and fell in uneven beats, and when he finally pushed off the wall, his fingers brushing through his hair, he let out a long, shaky exhale.

We don’t talk about it.

The words sunk into the hollow space between them like a quiet truth neither of them would ever admit out loud.

It’s something we don’t do.

Because if they did—if they said it, defined it, made it real—there’d be no going back.

And that terrified her almost as much as the thought of losing this, losing him.

Harry moved past her, his shoulder brushing hers as he reached for the door. He hesitated for a moment, his hand on the handle, his head tipping forward as though he might say something. But he didn’t.

She watched him go, her stomach twisting in ways she couldn’t untangle.

Once you go without it, nothing else will do.

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry edward styles #harry styles concept #harry styles au #harry styles smut #harry styles angst

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jazzthatonewriterchick · 26 days ago

Text

I'll Make You A Star, Baby (Toji x F!Reader 18+ One Shot)

Pairing: Sleazy Music Producer!Toji Fushiguro x Popstar!Reader

Synopsis: You are an up-and-coming pop girl who has dominated the charts with your hit song and is quickly moving into the world of stardom. As your popularity in the music industry grows, your manager and fans are foaming at the mouth for a new hit single. So you pair up with Toji Fushiguro, a hitmaker and a playboy in the industry, well known for his beats AND his dick game. And despite your resistance to Toji's seduction, you quickly learn that becoming a household name in the music world isn't that easy. Maybe fucking this man can make you a star...or is that just what he slipped in your drink talking?

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINORS DNI); No Curse AU; Music Industry AU; Celeb!Toji x Celeb!Reader; Sexual Tension; Coercion; Drugging; Rape/Noncon; Dubcon; Drug Use (Marijuana + Cocaine); DILF!Toji x Younger!Reader (Early 20s); Sex on Camera; Slutification; Objectification; Oral (Giving & Receiving); Spit Play; Degradation + Praise; Snorting Coke Off Toji's Dick; Facefucking; Face Slapping; Daddy Kink; Multiple Positions (Missionary + Doggy); Reader Cums 2x; Creampie

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer's Note: I hate The Idol with all my fucking heart...but "Popular" is a BOP. I can't believe I'm just now hearing it lmaoo! As soon as I heard it, I got this idea. Originally, this was one for Gojo but I haven't written about my broke ass DILF Toji in a minute lol. I hope you enjoy! PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS. -Jazz

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

Since you've been a little girl, you always wanted to be a star. And you know the man sitting across from you is capable of helping you with that. "So," Toji asks, taking a drag of his cigarette, "you wanna be famous, huh?"

You sit across from him on one of the comfortable leather couches he put in his studio in one of your "low maintenance" outfits: a white bralette, bra free, a cropped zip-up hoodie, low-riding jeans tight on your ass, and your favorite pair of pink furry slippers, your French manicure peeking out from the openings.

"I thought I was already famous," you chuckle. You sit-cross legged on the couch, a red solo cup in your lap. You've only taken three sips since you've been here for over 20 minutes now. It is some concoction of tropical fruit punch and vodka that explodes on your tongue with its sweetness and tastiness.

Toji Fushiguro, a single father and the top music producer in the game, sits across from you in his chair that he likes to wheel himself around on. He is a huge guy, taller than you even sitting down, sitting with his jeans spread eagle in his gray sweats. You advert your eyes from it.

"Well, yeah, but famous-er," he retorts. "Way more popular than you are now. You're still an upcoming artist after all." He smiles with his dark eyes, his lips curling up into a light smirk that causes the faint scar on his lip to become a bit more noticeable.

He is joking with you, you know, but even the mention of still being upcoming makes you want to bash your head into a wall. Hence while you're here. "Don't remind me," you sigh, taking another sip of the drink Toji whipped up for you. "My manager is on my ass about getting another song out for the summer." You grin at the man sitting across from you. "That's where you come in."

Toji raises his pierced eyebrow at you, giving him a very attractive look. He is truly a handsome man. He can make even the black hoodie and sweats combo he is wearing look like designer with his sexy features, dark eyes, and muscular robust. If he wasn't a producer, he would make a killing as a model.

If you are to Google him, Toji Fushiguro would come up as a top producer worth millions gracing magazine covers, a five-time Grammy winner, and someone who has worked with the top singers and rappers in the industry right now, including Megan Thee Stallion, The Weeknd, Rihanna, and Sexy Redd.

Everything he touches turns to gold. You knew that he would be able to give you what you want...and need. Your manager has been breathing down your neck for a new hit to knock your first one out of the water, but so far, his efforts have been failing. Every producer he has called can't give you what you're looking for.

So you took matters into your own hands. You hit Toji up on Twitter on a whim, asking him to do a beat for you. He responded to you a day later, apologizing for his lateness and agreeing to meet up while he was in town. You felt giddy, excited for this chance to possibly gain more popularity and get closer to your goal.

Since you've been a child, you always wanted to be famous. Watching Beyoncé and Michael Jackson on your mom's TV, you knew that your dream was to get on a stage and perform. Make a million dollars. Tour the world. See the sights that your small-town parents never have.

So in your teens, you started doing YouTube videos where you'd dance and sing covers. Before the fresh age of twenty, you were discovered by a talent agent who flew you out to sunny California to audition for your manager's agency. He adored your pretty face, powerful vocals, and moves, deciding that you would be perfect.

A year later, you popped out with your first single 'Rev Your Engines' which was a mixture of bubblegum pop and hip hop that woke the industry and general public up. Everyone suddenly started noticing you in public and inviting you to award shows. You were performing on TV and gracing magazine covers.

The thrust into stardom was a weird and intense one, like taking too many drugs...yet like a drug, you can't get enough. You need more. More money. More fame. More recognition. And you know for a fact that Toji is capable of all of that. "Me?" he asks, acting shocked.

"Well, you are one of the top producers in the game," you giggle, taking another sip of the cocktail. "You'll be my secret weapon."

The producer's smirk grows, widening on his cheeks where two dimple piercing glitter back at you. "Oh, I know." You suck your teeth, rolling your eyes. "Nah, I'm fuckin' witchu," he cackles. "But seriously, with your vocals and my beats, any song we put out is sure to be a hit."

You laugh, giddy and slightly tipsy. "I like that energy!" you exclaim. "Mmm, and this drink! It's loosenin' me up." Plus the red glow coming from a lava lamp sitting next to you and the soft R&B music he has playing from his Alexa Orb in the corner of the room with your Hello Kitty duffle bag. The ambiance is very seductive.

You are the only one in the studio with Toji right now. You are sure there will be other people coming in soon despite the late hour. Despite this being the first time you and Toji are officially meeting each other, you don't mind other people interrupting your studio session. He is a very busy man after all.

Your eyes flutter closed as the vodka begins to talk, your head tilting back against the couch. Unbeknownst to you, Toji's eyes trail up your body, stopping short on your stomach where a belly button ring glitters at him. "Just how I need you," he murmurs. "'Specially for the song ya had in mind. What'd you say? Somethin' sexy for the hot girls?"

You open your eyes to give him a playful wink, unaware of the hidden meaning behind his hot gaze. "And the gays," you giggle, swishing your ice around in your cup. "I want somethin' that made the same noise as 'Rev Your Engine', but bigger. I got the lyrics for it here."

You take a final sip of your drink and leave it on a coaster before strutting over to your duffle to retrieve your songwriting journal. You don't feel the producer's eyes on your shapely, heart-shaped ass as it jiggles and bounces in your Region jeans.

"Oh?" Toji asks, interested. "Lemme see. I didn't know you wrote too." You hand your strawberry-printed journal over to him, rolling your eyes when he snickers at the cover. He turns the pages to your new song and begins to read.

Sweating slightly, you stand there in suspense, watching his smile fade and his eyes widen an inch. You feel your body flush with embarrassment and anticipation. You know that your lyrics are more risqué and, quite frankly, slutty here: talking about bouncing on it at the club so everyone sees; being put on a leash; teasing him and his friend through a FaceTime call so they come over and cum in you.

Your lyrics aren't THAT blunt, but they are very "on the nose". And you know Toji knows that as he continues to read, silent. "C'mon, don't keep me in suspense, Toji!" you whine, wanting to snatch the journal away. "What'd you think?"

He finally turns to you, his face playfully deadpan. "I think you're a fuckin' freak," he replies, deadass. "Damn, girl, what do you do behind the scenes when you're not on stage or red carpets?" He passes the journal back to you, his eyes aglow with mirth.

"Wouldn't you like to know," you playfully murmur. You go to take your journal back, but Toji holds onto it, his calloused fingers nearly touching yours. The playful glint in his eyes fades, replaced with something hotter. More...personal. "Yeah, I would."

And it doesn't sound like a joke. His tone is too raspy and too serious for that. Your smile fades and your body feels like it has been put in a sauna, the temperature in the room spiking into the nineties now. The air between you throbs with tension and something that should not be transpiring the more Toji stares you down, almost as if he is trying to get you out of your panties.

Ding!

The sound of Toji’s phone pinging in his pocket cuts through the tension and stops whatever was about to happen from happening….which it wasn’t.

Toji, looking irritated, digs his phone out and puffs on his cigarette as he reads the message. “Oh, that's my plug," he announces, breaking out into a toothy grin. "Stick around. I'll be right back. Go in the booth when you're ready."

You nod and cradle your journal to your chest before he gets up and leaves you alone in the studio to recuperate and calm yourself.

Other than being a renowned and talented producer, Toji is also a total playboy. A whore, if you will. Always has a different girlfriend or fuck buddy every month. A model or stripper on his arm. Always photographed coming out of a sneaky link’s crib or a hotel. He gets around.

You have no time for any of that. Men like him will get you in trouble...though dating him would definitely up your popularity and boost your publicity. But you want to be famous for your talent, not being a famous man's girlfriend or side piece. No matter how hot Toji is...or how could he smells...or how wet his eyes make you feel.

When he returns, you've put down your cup and ventured into the recording booth. He smiles at you from behind the plexiglass, jiggling a baggie of weed around. "Ya want some?" he asks. He looks perturbed when you shake your head. "What, you don't smoke? In this industry?"

You scoffingly laugh, taking the headphones hanging off the mic. "I don't wanna fuck up my throat." Toji raises an eyebrow at this, catching onto the unintended sexual connotation. "You know what I mean!" you exclaim.

"Weed doesn't do that, sweetheart," he chuckles, sitting down in his chair with his legs spread once again. "Just say you're scared! It's fine!" You give him the middle finger, your French tips each printed with a gem. You always loved a good, cute set.

"Ya may need some of this green to sing lyrics like those," he whistles, giving you a wink. "I thought 'WAP' was nasty, but this takes the cake. Is your dad okay with his pretty little pop star singin' dirty shit like this?" He gives you a humored smirk through the booth.

You give him a tense stare, earning a raucous laugh in reply to the shots fired at your manager. It is public knowledge that your manager is very strict about who you involve yourself with...if he knows who you involve yourself with. He will never know about your meeting with Toji until the song is finished.

"My manager is fine with it," you reply. "He wants a hit, so I'm giving it to him. Now turn me up."

When you put the headphones over your head and hear the first threads of the beat, you already know what you want and how you want to sound. The best part of being an artist is recording. You love losing yourself in the music, closing your eyes and taking yourself away to a place where there is nothing but your voice, the beat, and the feeling you feel while singing.

But with this particular song, it doesn't go that way. At first, you feel sensational. Sexy. Liberated. The vodka runs through you and Toji's laser vision on you make you sing the salacious lyrics with conviction and all the heart you have in your body.

But after a while, when Toji asks you to do different cuts and you pause to get your mind right, you start to feel that self doubt creep in. That thought that you look and sound stupid saying all of this shit. At some point during recording, you stop, the words dying in your throat and the vodka's magic wearing off.

Toji wrinkles in brows in confusion, cutting the music in your headphones. "Hey, what's up, doll?" he questions. "You good? You stopped right at the chorus."

You slide the headphones off your head, biting your lip. "I-I don't know," you lamely admit. "I'm sorta second-guessing these lyrics. Maybe you're right: they're too dirty."

But Toji scoffs, waving a passive hand at your negative talk. "Nah, nah, nah," he protests. "Don't fuckin' do that. Don't get in that head. You're an artist, Y/N, and this is what artists do."

"Yeah, but..." You stare off to the side, still chewing on your bottom lip. Maybe this isn't a good idea. What if you lose your fanbase? What if people start to see you as a sexy gimmick and not a true artist?

Seeing you battle with yourself, Toji crooks a finger at you. "Here, come on out here and let me help ya out." He then gets up and walks over to the mini fridge sitting by his fish tank filled with aquatic wonders sitting adjacent to the other couch on the other side of the room.

You do as he says, leaving the booth to sit back on the couch next to it. As you get comfortable, he pours you another cup of the fruity concoction that you've come to love. "Sip on your drink a little," he encourages. "The vodka will help you." He gives you an encouraging smile, silently telling you to drink it.

You take a long sip, letting the sweetness explode over your tastebuds. "Mmm," you pleasantly hum. He nods in agreement, clinking his red cup with yours. "See? Nice and sweet, like you." He takes a sip of his, licking the red residue from his plump top lip. You ignore the way his tongue glitters with a piercing.

He then gives you some space and takes a seat in the couch across from you where he begins rolling himself a blunt. Maybe it's the vodka creeping into your brain crevices, but suddenly, Toji's veiny, calloused, and inked hands are very attractive. They seduce you with every twist, bend, roll, and pinch that his fingers make as he sprinkles in some shavings of marijuana and prepares his blunt.

He is an expert at this, focused and highly intriguing the more you watch him. Especially when his pink, pierced tongue slides along the brown paper to close the blunt, successfully rolling it. He then takes his lighter out and fights it, the flickering flame illuminating his son's name tattooed on his right collarbone: Megumi.

His plump lips wrap around the blunt and he takes a puff, smoke billowing in the air like tiny ghosts. You feel hot suddenly, like your entire body is throbbing, and your veins itch with some weird anticipation. Is it the vodka? It's making you feel so reckless.

"Can I have a hit?" you softly ask. The producer raises a brow, smoke billowing out of his nostrils. He blows an O in the air, bringing your attention to his mouth. He smirks and saunters over to you with the blunt, telling Alexa to play his 'Hotbox Playlist' as he does.

The sound of a Giveon song enters the air as he takes a seat beside you, nearly dipping the cushions because of how big he is. "You ever done it before?" You shake your head, making him laugh. "Don't worry, doll, I've got you. Start off slow when you inhale."

He passes you the blunt, instructing you to hold it between your forefinger and thumb. Trembling with nerves, you slowly wrap your lips around the blunt and inhale, the end of the blunt glowing red like a firefly in the summer night sky.

As soon as the weed hits your lungs, you're coughing, your throat burning. Toji stifles a laugh. "Easy, easy, baby," he chuckles, patting you on the back. "I said take it slow. Try again."

You take another sip of your cocktail and do it again, being extra careful to not inhale so hard. This time, it is easier and when the weed hits, it hits big time. You feel a warmth in your lungs and your chest, causing you to press a hand against your beating heart. "Ooh," you sigh. "Wow."

Toji grins at you, nodding. "Uh-uh," he agrees. "It'll kick in soon. Wanna get back in the booth?"

You lazily nod, feeling good and as light as a feather. So you take your cup into the booth and do another cut of the song. This time, your vocals are slow and sensual. Your eyes flutter closed as the vodka and weed take over, making your body feel heavy and light at the same time.

As you sing, you focus on Toji and he focuses dead on you, barely taking his eyes off of your face and body. They trail over you like you're a dessert plate...and for some reason, you like that. You enjoy him watching. It makes your body throb more and your breath come out short.

Not to mention the wetness in your panties. When did that happen?

After your session, Toji gives you a thumbs up and you sway out of the booth, holding onto the wall for support. Maybe you need to back up off of the cup for a while. The vodka is obviously hitting you, but you can't remember the last time you felt so disoriented and aroused. Could it be the weed too? You only took two puffs!

"We got a good take," Toji says, giving you a smile that illuminates his handsome face. "You're a natural at this, doll." His gaze is full of so much admiration that it makes you flush. You shyly giggle, unaware that your hand resting on the chair is close to his forearm. "I learned from the best."

You're not quite sure what that means, but Toji doesn't question it. Instead, he takes another puff of his blunt and taps it into the ashtray sitting next to him. His smile widens, a secretive playfulness in it. "Now let's celebrate."

And so you do. You drink more and you watch Toji puff on his blunt, becoming more aroused by the way he forms those smoke Os and wondering what his tongue piercing feels like. At some point, when the edges of your vision become blurrier and your panties grow tighter, Toji pulls another bag out of his pocket.

He sits next to you on the couch, the smell of his cologne and body wash smelling like ocean waves engulfing your senses. You watch intently as he takes a magazine and sprinkles white powder onto it. He also whips out a $100 bill and a Black Card from his wallet, no doubt flashing his wealth at you.

You stare at the white substance, your fuzzy mind processing things slowly but processing nonetheless. Cocaine. Toji notices your perturbed expression and gently nudges you. "Don't be so scared, baby," he chuckles. "We're havin' a little party, ain't we? I'm sure you've done it with the girls at the club before."

You only did it once at an industry party and vowed to never do it again after waking up in someone else's bed with no recollection of how you got there. But when you see Toji begin to cut straight lines with his Black Card and roll up the dollar bill, you start to wonder.

When he bends down to snort a line, he grunts slightly and sniffles, leaning his head back with his eyes closed and his throat exposed. He swallows roughly, his Adam's Apple bobbing. Then the expression on his face softens and he shudders, a look of euphoria on his face. Now you really start to wonder just how it feels.

He slowly turns to you, his smile lazy. "Wanna try?" he asks, passing you the bill. The alcohol and weed fumes make you more susceptible and reckless. More willing to try anything. Everything sounds like a good idea now.

So you lean down, stick the dollar bill up your right nostril, close the left with your fingertips, and tentatively snort a line of the coke. You can only explain it as a rush of fire going up your nose, leaving you to only do half a line. You gasp and grunt at the pain, pinching your sinuses. "Easy, mama," Toji coos, stroking your hair. "It'll pass. Once it hits, it'll feel real good."

And it does. A warm feeling spreads throughout your body like you are washed in light and you feel tingly. Your heart beats like a hummingbird's wings and everything seems sharper. You break into a smile, giggling. A weird light glints in Toji's eyes. "Yeah, it's workin'," he chuckles.

You lean back against the couch, the ceiling spinning slightly. Your body throbs with heat, your skin feeling as if lava has replaced your blood. "Mmm," you hum uncomfortably, wriggling slightly in your hoodie. Toji leans back against the couch too, his head just inches from yours. "Hot?" he chortles. "Yeah, it'll do that."

His fingers pinch the zipper of your hoodie, not unzipping it but not moving either. "Why don't you take it off if you're hot?" he suggests. So you do, letting the tiny piece of clothing fall from your arms and reveal the hard nipples under your thin bralette.

Now your limbs itch to move. You need to stand. So you suddenly stand, damn near scaring Toji, and your favorite Kehlani song begins to play. You hum in delight and start to sway to the music.

"Feelin' good, baby?" Toji asks. His voice sounds far away yet so close at the same time.

"Mmm-hmm," you hum. "I love this song." You begin to wind your hips to the slow beat, envisioning yourself as a wave. As your hips begin to gyrate in a circle to the beat, Toji watches from his spot on the couch, wanting you to get out of more of your clothes. You stick your hands out for his, giggling. "Dance with me, Toji," you request.

Toji's slick, slightly-red eyes stare at your dainty, manicured hands before he gives in and stands. Your heart lurches at the sheer size and height of him looming over you, though you don't feel intimated. If anything, it is all a major turn on. He takes his hand in yours and begins to sway with you to the music, the two of you in your own little world hazed with weed smoke and booze.

He then snakes one muscular arm around your waist and uses the other to turn you around so you're facing away from him. You breathe sharply through your nose as he presses himself against you...or are you pressing back into him? Either way, suddenly, your ass is brushing against the undeniable stiffness of his hard-on in his sweats.

"Dance for me," he whispers to you. He then takes a seat again and watches you as you begin to wind your hips to the music, flipping your hair and staring him down so seductively that his hard-on twitches in his sweats. He is but a fan in your audience as you glide along the stage.

You then place a hand by his shoulder to grasp the couch and hook a leg over his thigh. Then the other. And suddenly, with one yank from his hands snaking up your hips, you are straddling him. "This could be the single cover right here," he murmurs, eyes roaming up your body.

You shake your head, humming "mm-mm" is disagreement. His brows wrinkle. "Why not?" he questions, his hands still snaking along your hips and up your spine. "You'd make a million on a single if ya did, just sayin'. Maybe even with less clothes."

You remember when you were first starting out that a photographer in charge of snapping photos of you for your press tour tried to pressure you into posing topless. You refused. But now, sitting here with Toji, feeling his hot muscles under your fingertips and his even hotter cock throbbing underneath you, you think that maybe you were mistaken.

"Really?" you softly ask. The producer crookedly smiles at you, making himself look even more dangerously attractive. "Hell yeah. You have a beautiful body, Y/N. The talent is just a plus."

His hands trail up to grasp your breasts in your bralette, his palms pressing against your hard nipples through the thin fabric. "I can see these goin' viral on IG already," he dreamily sighs. "Goddamn, you're perfect."

In the back of your head, you are fully aware that your producer is groping you and this situation is very inappropriate...but you also don't care. Caring isn't even in the room with you right now. "You sure this would make me go viral?" you giggle, but you secretly mean it. Your back arches, pushing your chest farther into Toji's hold. "Wanna find out?" he asks, raising an eyebrow at you.

And so, Toji gets his phone out, the bright light of his camera washing over you, while you slip off your top. As you do, your pussy gushes in your panties and your nipples grow harder, hardening to peaks once the barrier of your top is gone.

You sit there on top of him, your heart accelerating and your blood pressure reaching the ceiling. Toji gapes at you, his large hands gently brushing your skin. "Shit," he swears. "Look at you, baby. The hottest girl ever."

He snaps a photo of you with your tits out, the flash making your eyes flutter and tear. One of his hands reaches out to gently fondle one of your pretty titties, the light touch making you tingle. "Toji," you whimper.

"Yeah?" he asks. "What is it, baby doll? You like posin' for me?" He takes another photo, this one catching the way your bottom lip catches between your teeth. Finally sick of taking photos, Toji tosses his phone asides and latches his lips to your neck.

You gasp as his soft lips latch onto your tender skin and throat, his inked hands groping your breasts, rolling and fondling them in his big palms. "W-We shouldn't...oh," you moan. You instinctively tilt your head back to allow more of his touch. His kiss. His everything. "What if someone comes in?" you weakly ask.

Toji looks up at you, giving you a rather irritated expression at the mention of a stranger interrupting your moment. "Nobody's comin', baby. It's 1 AM, plus I've got the key." He continues to kiss your neck, each one like a trail of fire licking across your skin. "Just relax for me. You'll love this."

"Toji," you mutter. "We shouldn't..." But your reasoning dies as soon as his tongue juts out to lick your neck and earlobe, his piercing cool against your hot, clammy skin. You moan again, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and neck, feeling his muscles underneath his hoodie.

He pulls away and gazes longingly at your tits in his hands, squeezing them gently. "Look at these tits," he groans. "So perfect. You can be a star with this body, baby." One of his hands snake down to your ass, creeping underneath your jeans to grasp your cheeks. Your moan is louder this time, leading Toji to swallow it with his mouth.

His lips are soft and taste of fruit punch, his tongue wetly sliding against yours. His kiss is just as addictive and dangerous as he is. You share moans and gasps as you continue to heatedly make out in Toji's studio, your body drawn to his like a moth to a flame. With every second of his lips locked with yours, you grow more impatient and aroused. Every part of you screams 'I am horny'.

As if sensing this, Toji wraps his arms around your waist and picks you up, standing up with you in his arms. He then lays you down on the couch and hovers over you, his handsome face swallowing up your sight of the ceiling. His hands, quick and skillful, reach for the fly on your jeans. You don't stop him when he starts to unzip them.

"I can make you a star, y'know," he continues as he peels off your pants. "You don't have to worry. With me, I can make you big." Your pants slide down your legs, revealing the pink G-string you're wearing underneath.

Toji smirks at this, pinching the thin waistband of the thong between his fingers and pulling it back to snap against your skin. Once your pants are off of you, he goes back to sucking on your nipples while one hand sneaks down to rub your pussy through your thong. You gasp at his touch, his thick fingers rubbing circles around the wet spot of your panties. "Oh, Toji!" you whine. "F-Fuck!"

"So pretty," he murmurs against your tits. He nuzzles them. Inhales your scent. Presses kisses to your chest as his hand continues to move in semi-circles against your soddened panties, feeling how puffy your pussy lips are sticking to your thong.

"So wet for me," he sighs. "Guess that little pill I slipped in your drink kicked in."

Suddenly, the world tilts on is axis and everything feels sharper now. You gaze down at him, confused and alarmed. "W-What?" you gasp.

He slipped you something? When? How? Why? Is that why you're feeling so weird?

Toji tilts his chin up to heavily kiss you, his stubble rubbing against your cheek. "Relax, doll. It's just an aphrodisiac." He smirks against your open mouth as you moan in his face, his fingers slipping between your slit. "Somethin' to get this body ready...somethin' make this little pussy wet for me."

He tears himself away from your tits, opting instead to be between your thighs. With his hands around your ankles, he yanks you down the couch so your legs are hanging off of the couch and he is kneeling between them. You watch helplessly as he drags your wet thong down your creamy, soft legs and places the tiny, soaked panties in his back pocket.

His eyes, laced with weed and lust, stare into yours, illuminating by the red glow of the lava lamp. "Just do what I want and I'll make you the brightest star in this fuckin' world," he softly growls. "Now open up for me."

You have no choice in the matter anymore once he is diving between your thighs and pressing them apart with his strong hands to get better access to you. Toji Munch Fushiguro should be his new government name because the man knows a thing or two about eating pussy.

"Toji!" you gasp, your hands grasping his black hair. "Oh, fuck! Oh, my God, yes!" You can't keep quiet as his tongue slithers inside of your wet hole, his pillowy-soft lips sucking on your puffy pussy lips drenched in your juices and his spit.

Speaking of spit, he likes to do that. He pauses a few times from tongue fucking you to spit copious amounts of saliva onto your pussy, letting it drip down your asscrack, and slurping it back up, making your throbbing clit hum and sing with pleasure.

You have never been eaten out in such a possessive, dominating, and eager way. His mouth is like Heaven and Hell mixed into one, each stroke of his tongue sending you further down the rabbit hole like little Alice. As he eats, you grip your titties, tweaking your nipples and fondling them in an effort to give yourself more stimulation.

"Oh, Toji, please," you whimper. "Please make me cum."

Your cute moans seem to awaken something in Toji because suddenly, he is roughly yanking you up and scooping you up into his arms. You gasp, wrapping your arms and legs around him. "You wanna cum, slutty girl?" he murmurs against your mouth. "Fine...I'll make ya cum."

You can only squeal when he kneels down with you hooks his hands under your ass to press your pussy against his face. You stay as still as a statue when he walks over to the nearest wall and presses you against it, still slurping your pussy like a starving man.

"Oh, fuck!" you moan, tossing your head back against the wall. You grasp his scalp, pushing him farther into your gushing cunt, your feet dangling off of his shoulders. "Fuck, Daddy, yes!" The name just slips out of you the tighter Toji holds you, the power in his fingertips making you gush and pour more honey into his mouth.

"I'm gonna cum!" you whine, your voice bouncing off of the studio walls. "Please, Daddy, make me cum!" Toji hums agreeably into your pussy, his licking growing more vigorous and eager, wanting you to cum all over his face.

And with a loud moan that could break glass, you finally come undone in his arms, your pussy quivering and shaking around his mouth. It could just be the cocaine paired with Toji's mouth, but it is an intense orgasm that leaves you shaking and your head fuzzy, not a single coherent thought in it.

When you finally come down from your orgasmic high, Toji carefully places you down on the couch and unwinds your jelly-like legs from his shoulders. He stares at you, his chin slick with your cum and his lips dripping in it. "That felt good, right?" he coos. He licks away your honey, keeping his eyes locked on you.

Slowly, you nod, still at a loss for words. His big hand shoots out to grip your chin, forcing you to keep looking at him. "Say thank you," he growls. You roughly swallow, doing your best to please him despite your mental being so fucked up. "T-Thank you, Daddy," you stammer.

Toji smirks, pressing a chaste, wet kiss to your lips. "Mmm, good girl. You listen so well."

Yes, you are a good girl. And as a good girl, you know you need more. So when you see Toji's hard cock outlined by his sweats twitching and throbbing, you crawl to him. He watches in awe as you press your cheek against his dick print and begin nuzzling it, your eyes fluttered closed.

"Watchu want?" he chuckles. "You want this here?" He takes a handful of his cock, gnawing on his bottom lip. You slowly nod, oozing wetness from your pussy that throbs insistently despite your recent orgasm. "Then come and get it," he demands. "Take my cock out if you want it, doll."

He watches you slink forward, your back arched and pretty ass tooted in the air for him. You eagerly untie his sweats, delighted to find that he isn't wearing underwear, and pull them down to reveal the long, hard, thick, throbbing, veiny cock dangling between his muscular thighs sinewy with hair.

You ogle at his hard dick and his lickable happy trail as he strips his hoodie off, revealing his tattoos and broad chest littered in black chest hair. You salivate at all of him, but especially his cock. The desire to feel it stretch out your mouth and throat fills you with a buzz.

"Nice, right?" he chuckles, a cocky smile on his face. "Needs a little bump though." He takes the baggie of coke off the coffee table and you watch, entranced, as he sprinkles some white powder onto his shaft.

Now you cannot hide your hunger anymore. Greedily, you wrap a hand around the base and take a lick of his cock, licking up the coke in the process. Toji moans at the sight, tilting his head back as you slurp up his pre-cum bubbling from his tip, moaning as you do. The coke sinks into your tastebuds and gums, giving you a zing that hits in a way the first line didn't. You feel alive, like you can walk on the moon.

It gives you the urge to swallow every inch of Toji's cock, taking him deep into your wet mouth and sloppily sucking on him. White residue from the coke sticks to your nose and the corners of your spit-covered lips as you greedily suck, hollowing your cheeks and bobbing your head up and down, up and down, your throat sliding around him.

"Ngh," he grunts, squeezing his eyes tight. "Fuck, that's fuckin' hot!" His face is flushed red, his Adam's Apple bobbing roughly as your throat flexes around him. "Go 'head, baby girl. Take me in that throat and suck me good."

Feening from the encouragement and praise, you wrap two hands around the base and suck what you can, sliding your sloppy, wet, tight throat around Toji's cock. As you do, a blinding light washes over you as Toji watches you from his phone, the camera shining on you.

"Thaaaat's my little star," he encourages, staring at you through the lense of his phone. "My good lil' cock slut. You take dick as good as you sing, baby girl."

His hand wraps around the back of your head and he pushes you deeper onto it, causing you to sightly gag as his bulbous tip brushes against the back of your throat. He begins to fuck your face, ruining your makeup and your throat, grunting as he does so. Your head feels fuzzy and dizzy, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he uses your mouth like a toy.

A buzz, indeed. Especially the way the man attached to the delicious dick in your mouth talks to you. "Such a pretty little bitch I've got," Toji murmurs. "You love this shit, don't you, slut?" His words are degrading and nasty, but his voice is sugary sweet, sending shivers down your spine.

You try to speak around his cock, but he stops you by pushing deeper, filling your nostrils with the scent of him. He is pressed flush against you, his heavy balls pressed against your chin. "Don't talk with your mouth full," he grunts. "Just keep suckin'. I want the perfect angle of you."

He turns his phone horizontal so he records in landscape. Your eyes, glassy with tears, stare up into his phone. “And don't worry; nobody's seein' this but me." He gives you a smirk riddled in sin and red-hot lust as he continues to fuck your throat off its hinges.

You have no choice but to sit on your knees and take it, breathing through your nose and letting spit drip from your chin down your tits, much to Toji's satisfaction. You place your hands on his hips, indulging in his firm ass and thighs as he thrusts into your mouth, groaning at the feeling of your tight-as-a-vice throat.

He then pulls away, dragging his cock out of your mouth and letting the saliva string stretch from his tip to your lips. “Open your mouth.” His tone is firm, serious. You do as you're told, opening your mouth wide and sticking your tongue out.

He leans towards you, tilting your face up by your hair, and spits a wad of saliva into your mouth. “Now put it back on my cock." You do just that, going back to sucking him dry as his spit drips from your mouth onto his shaft, drizzling down his balls. “Yeah, slurp it up, baby,” he groans. “Such a good fuckin’ girl!"

He watches you with an expression close to anguish as if he can't take the sight of you gagging on his dick. As he begins to throb and swell in your mouth, a guttural sound escapes him as if he is resisting. “No,” he growls. “If I’m gonna cum, I need to fuck you first.”

So he pulls out of your mouth and taps the wet tip against your lips, putting his phone away. “Do you want me to fill that pussy up, doll?” You feel your body tingle with excitement and need, the desire to be fucked, filled, and ruined taking over. “Yes,” you whisper.

A light flickers in Toji's eyes, exciting you further. “Then grab onto me.” You reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, allowing him to scoop you up so your legs dangle from his waist. He sticks his tongue in your mouth, sloppily kissing you as he walks you over to the control panel.

He plops you down on the edge of the panel, accidentally switching the 'ON' button for recording. Neither of you notice, even as Toji's voice echos throughout the studio as he speaks. “Up ya go,” he chuckles. “You’re so wet for me, baby.”

He slides his tip down to your pussy, gently prying your lips apart and swirling it around in your juices. You softly gasp as he nudges your clit, sending sparks of electricity throughout your body. “Toji,” you whimper. “Fuck me please.”

Between the way your eyes grow slick with unshed tears, your cute little French tips dig into his shoulders, and your simpering begging, Toji is helpless to resist you. He sticks his mouth to yours as he slides himself home inside of you, causing you both to gasp at the new sensations.

Sex off cocaine, vodka, and aphrodisiac pills is something you have never experienced before. There is nothing quite like it.

Toji must feel it too because his entire body is tense as if he can't take the pleasure. "Fuck, you're tight, baby," he grunts. "And so wet." He begins to thrust, rough and unrelenting, each word punctuated by a stroke that makes you gasp and your thighs shake.

"Such. A good. Fuckin'. Girl for me," Toji groans, driving his cock into you again and again. Your mouth falls agape on each moan and gasp that rattles your bones and drags unnatural sounds from you, each stroke of his cock taking you to a world far beyond this one (plus the cocaine helps).

Toji grabs your chin, mushing your cheeks together. "Say it!" he demands. "Say you're my good fuckin' girl!" He thrusts a little harder, making your pussy throb and tighten around his merciful cock.

"I'm your good fuckin' girl!" you sob, gripping him for dear life. Your feet dangle from his waist, your body wrapped around him like a koala bear as he fucks you dumb. "Yeah?" he chuckles. "You love this? You love bein' my little slut?"

Your desperate moans answer for him. Your head lulls against his shoulder, each thrust exhausting you. It is too much. Too intense. The sheer ecstasy is almost agonizing. "Such a tease," he growls. "Always teasin' me with this fuckin' body. I've been wanting you for so long, baby."

He leans you back against the buttons on the control panel, giving him a good view of your body. He fondles one of your tits as he fucks you, his eyes lecherously sliding across every curve of your frame. "Toji," you whine. "Harder."

The producer chuckles, his cock throbbing inside of you. "Harder?" he parrots. "You've got it, babydoll. You know why?" He begins to drive his hips harder against you, the sound of his thighs slapping against yours permeating the air. "'Cause you're mine now," he moans. "You're my little pop girl and I'm gonna give you everything you want and more."

And with every thrust, he does. He sends you on a rocket trip than you don't want to get off. You see stars as he fucks you, knocking all common sense and reason out of your pretty brain. You begin to deliriously smile as you moan, your pussy squelching lewdly around his cock. You love being his little slut. His little dancer. His whatever he wants you to be.

"C'mere," he demands in his deep, sultry voice. You sit up for him, eagerly staring at him as he you wait for his next request. "Tilt your head up." You do so and he leans forward, open his pretty lips for you...and drooling a string of spit into your mouth. "Give it back to me," he sultrily orders.

Wrapping a hand around the back of his neck, you grip him to you as you sloppily kiss him, serving his saliva back to him as you kiss. You begin to suck on his big, fat tongue, moaning wantonly as his cock massages your pussy walls.

Your moans and the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air, leaving nothing to the imagination, especially when you start to get close. Your body crackles with fire, your core tightening like a balloon filled with too much air. "T-Toji," you whimper, your toes curling against his ass. "Daddy, I'm gonna cum again!"

Toji frantically nods, slowing his pistoning thrusts down to slow, deep strokes. "I can feel it," he hisses. But then he stops and slowly pulls away, moaning at the sight of his cock slick and shiny with your juices. You gape at him, confused and desperate.

Why the fuck did he stop?

But the heated look in his eyes stops you short. "Turn around and bend over." He doesn't look like he's up for any protests. Though your legs feel like jelly, you slide off of the control panel and whisk yourself around, bracing yourself against the panel for more.

And Toji gives you so much more when he taps his cock against your pussy and glides in again, causing you to gasp. He is so much deeper in this position, his balls gliding against your clit as he begins to give you shallow thrusts. Pressing his lips to your ear, he nibbles on the lobe, sending you careening deeper into bliss.

"I'm gonna fuck this pussy until you cum all over me," he whispers. "And then you're gonna lick all of it off me when I'm done."

As you shudder, he grips your hips and begins to piston into you, pulling in and out, in and out, stroking your walls and stimulating your clit with his balls slapping against them every second. Your eyes roll back and your mouth lewdly hangs open as Toji fucks your pussy like it is his, drawing his throbbing cock into you with every intention of making you cum.

With every thrust, your ass bounces into his pelvis, creating a symphony of slapping sounds that mix with the music playing from Toji's playlist. You feel one of his big hands paw at one of your cheeks, roughly groping your behind. "Look at this fuckin' ass," he growls. "You drive me crazy, you little slut."

SPANK!

You moan at each harsh spank, his calloused hand causing your asscheeks to catch fire. "Nice little tattoo of my name would look good here," he chuckles, sliding his finger along the top of your ass. "Then you'd really be mine. Nobody could touch you but me."

His hand wraps around your throat, nice and tight, slightly restricting your airways and making you feel lightheaded. It makes his thrusts feel that more intense; that more good. Your mind is totally blank. You are thinking of nothing but the pleasure and the way your pussy feels being filled up and pounded senseless.

You are not a singer. You are not a dancer. You are not a star. All you are right now is Toji Fushiguro's slut and you are totally okay with that.

You can feel yourself tensing up as your core tightens, causing your moans to grow louder and your grip on the panel to get tighter. Toji's thrusts get faster and rougher, nearly causing you to fall into the panel and accidentally press buttons that you shouldn't.

His tongue licks at your earlobe, his piercing cool against your hot skin. "Just a little more, sugar," he groans into your ear. "Take a little more. C'mon, you've been doin' so well takin' this dick so far."

You whine in response, your pussy squelching and quivering with need. "Daddy, please!" you beg. "I'm gonna cum! I-I can't...can't..." Your body begins to give out on you, your limbs turning to mush. Toji wraps an arm around your waist and grips you to him, his other hand still tight around your neck as he draws himself into your cunt.

"You'd better cum for me now then," he demands, his voice rough and raspy. It makes you peak that much higher. "Cum for me, baby doll. Cum all around that fuckin' cock. Give it all to me."

And you do. With his voice in your ear and his tight, possessive grip on you, your moans and whines grow louder as that invisible string gets tighter and tighter...until it snaps. "Oh, sh-sh-shit!" you shudderingly whine, cumming all around Toji's cock.

This orgasm is just as intense as the first one. It leaves you shaking in Toji's arms, especially when he keeps thrusting into you so roughly. Your pussy has no choice but to continue cumming, all of your cream leaking out down Toji's shaft and your inner thighs. You start to feel the aftershocks like you're standing in the middle of an earthquake, your body shuddering and jerking through your orgasm.

This triggers Toji because he roughly bends you over so your ass is sticking out and proceeds to pummel your pussy as if you are a toy. A fleshlight. Nothing but something for his pleasure.

You grip the control panel for dear life, gasping as he draws himself into you, pounding into your hole over and over again. Your eyes weakly tilt up to look in the booth glass, watching Toji's jaw tighten and his muscles tense, each vein in his neck popping with restraint and concentration.

Finally, he stills, gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises. You feel his cock swell inside of you, warning you of his orgasm. Quickly, he pulls out and begins to furiously stroke his cock, his grunts and wet sounds the only things loud enough for you to hear through the blood pounding in your head.

"Fuck!" he bellows as a stream of cum escapes his cock and slaps across your ass. Strings of swears and moans drip from his lips as he sprays your ass with spunk, the warm, wet droplets making you gasp as they hit your skin.

With a sigh, Toji slightly stumbles away, whistling to himself. "Hold up," he tells you. You do so, making no effort to move. Your limbs are too tired and you feel the high from the coke and the pill he slipped you start to wear off. You just feel tired and used. You need a hot shower.

Click!

You blink at the flash of light from Toji's phone as he snaps a pic of you bent over naked with his cum coating your ass. "Such a dirty little girl," he sighs, giving your ass a feeble grab. "You'll look so good on my lock screen."

You say nothing in response. You know that tomorrow you won't even remember this night.

Toji sighs, taking a seat in his chair and scooping you up to sit in his lap. Your sweaty bodies press against one another, sharing in your lost highs and exhaustion. He suddenly laughs, his chest rumbling under your ear. "Oh, look, doll," he chuckles.

You weakly turn your head to where he points, blinking tiredly at the red light on the recording button. 'ON', it says to you. Toji smirks down at you, his hand possessively gripping your ass as he snuggles you in his lap. "We got a hit on our hands."

THE END.

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