˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ belle | 19 | 11.16 | she/her. filo, eng/tag ok !! | bi | games: genshin, lads, obey me, twst, enstars, pjsk | faves: satoru<3, rafayel, marius, kazuha, scara, satan, natsume | byf: i'm not the biggest fan of any same-sex ships so i'm sorry if i don't/can't entertain any discussions of said topic T^T
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ please feel free to send me asks talking about anything and everything if we happen to have the same interests!
NAVIGATION: ꕤ masterlist ꕤ ko-fi link
NOTABLE WORKS:
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ❝ a change of pace ❞ [scaramouche x gn reader]
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ❝our sweet adorable child…? wait- ❞ [scaramouche x gn reader]
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ❝how does natsume sakasaki speak?❞
blog started: may 30
please do not plagiarize any of my written works! if you happen to see one, kindly report to me with proof.
𝒞ospℓαყer!𝐵oყfriend (𝒮cαrαmouche & 𝐿ohen) x AFAB!𝑅eader
꒰ 𝑀ODERN 𝒜U ꒱
🕸️️๋࣭ ⭑ Summary: Your boyfriend looks exactly like Scαrαmouche in real life, and he's built a massive TikTok following from cosplaying him. One day, while he's filming, you see Lohen's burst animation leak and lose every functioning brain cell you have. He notices. So he does what any normal, well-adjusted person would do… fucks you in the Scαrαmouche cosplay until you forget Lohen's name. And when that doesn't fully work? He shows up in a Lohen cosplay you didn't know he ordered, in your bedroom, just to prove he can still be the one you fall apart for.
Warnings (cw) .ᐟ cracking in cosplay ꒰ roleplaying ꒱, blindfolding, degradation, rough sex, near-blackout from choking, creampie ꒰ a lot... ꒱ , oral ꒰ f and m receiving ꒱, mild cnc undertones ꒰ consensual roleplay framing ꒱, established relationship, manhandling, suspended 69 position, aftercare, lohen nation vs scaranation...
Word count .ᐟ 16k+
𖦹.`` ꉂ🕸️ Author's note: This is a concept I had for a fat while (like years, not just months) bcuz of those TikToks of ppl dating a cosplayer and they'd flex about it, and I finally, finally put a cosplayer x reader into writing. Thank you to my wonderful, smart, gorgeous bestest friend @vvalentiqq, who helped me with this, especially with the crazy ass sex positions, so props to her!! And this, as always, is cross-posted onto AO3.
"Ugh, quit blinking, you keep making me mess up, Kuni!" You snap, yanking your boyfriend by the jaw closer to you.
He opens his right eye, the one you already applied eyeliner on, and glares, his eye rolling before closing back again. "I'm not blinking, and I'm staying perfectly still. It's your fault if you mess up, not mine. Don't get mad at me that you're shitty at this."
You take a deep breath, repressing the urge to slap him hard in the face, because you know it's useless. Your boyfriend lives to ragebait the shit out of you. You don't say anything in response; you scoot closer to his standing frame, your feet dangling off the bathroom counter as you continue working on his left eye.
"Do you want the wing straight up or straight out?" You ask, pausing with one hand on his jaw, and the other on his cheek, with the eyeliner hovering right above his lashline.
Kuni opens both of his eyes this time, stares straight at you, and rolls his eyes at your question like it should be obvious, "Neither? Obviously." He narrows his eyes, crossing his arms as he adds, "When have you ever seen me with that? You're my girlfriend, you're supposed to know that it goes out slanted. Not up, not straight. Slanted."
You narrow your eyes back at him, tightening your grip on his jaw in retaliation, "How am I supposed to know when you're ultra specific about everything and change your answer every time I ask? Two days ago, you told me to make it straight."
He flicks his eyes to the side like he's side-eyeing some invisible camera, and his eyes look annoyingly perfect when he does it. With the base shadow on his lids and the dark smudge along his lower lash line, and the contacts he doesn't need to wear.
His natural eyes are blue, but he insists on wearing indigo colored contacts because it's "more accurate", and you've learned not to argue with him about Scaramouche lore because you will lose. Every single time.
He glances back at you, his tone dry, "I told you that because last time was Xiao, not Scaramouche like today. Obviously. How many times do I need to say it for you to understand?"
You glance at him, copying his dry tone, "Just one more time, and I'll poke this pen through your eyelid. You wouldn't need someone to do your eyeliner by then."
He gives you a challenging smirk in response, "Do it, then. You wouldn't get that far to do any actual damage. I'll sue you and use the settlement money to hire someone who can actually do eyeliner."
You don't dignify that with a response. You tilt his head back with your grip on his jaw, angling it so you can drag the liner across his lash line in one smooth stroke.
You smile involuntarily when it comes out clean and matches the other side perfectly. It always comes out good when he stops being a little bitch about it… which is never, but today sufficed that never.
"The other side matches," you say, leaning back to check your work, watching as his eyes open slowly like he's unsure if you're done or not. "Perfect, like always, because I did it. Not you."
He scoffs, stepping back and moving toward the bathroom mirror, examining just what you're calling 'perfection'. You watch as he tilts his face to the left, then right, and as he leans in, he narrows his eyes.
The eyeliner is actually the last step of a much longer process. This part, the eyeliner, takes ten minutes tops. The puppet joints took an hour.
Every time he cosplays Scaramouche, Kuni sits in front of his vanity mirror with a palette of dark shadow and a thin, angled brush that he uses to paint puppet joints onto his own skin.
Knuckles first, every finger, dark, then his wrists, then his belows. He does his shoulders himself too, twisting in the mirror to get the angle right on the backs of them, and the concentration on his face while he does it is almost scary.
He's already head-to-toe in cosplay, minus the hat. As cringeworthy as it is to say, your boyfriend does look like Scaramouche reborn, and it's not just because of how accurate the clothes look on him, or how invested he is in cosplaying him. He looks exactly like Scaramouche would if he were real and not 3D.
The height… the weight… even his fingers match Scara perfectly. Skinny and long, the puppet joints make him look more biblically accurate.
He hates wigs, absolutely despises them, and as any person who finds their 'celebrity lookalike', or any 'lookalike' in general, he dyed and cut his real hair to match Scaramouches.
His hair is naturally black, and after an abnormally long hair appointment, the hairdresser was able to cut and style Kuni's hair to match Scaramouches without looking like some botched bowlcut.
"It's not a bowlcut," Kunikuzushi told the hairdresser, probably 4 times, just to get his point clear, "It's a mullet, mixed with a hime-cut in the front, and don't you dare forget the lighter colored streak in the back."
You remember being told that day to stick around, not in the waiting room, but in a chair beside the table your boyfriend was getting his hair done at. You had to get up at least 9 times to reassure Kuni that the hairdresser was getting the back right.
And after that day, after every time he put on his cosplay for this character that he's so obsessed with… he didn't look like your boyfriend anymore.
But you don't really complain.
"It's… acceptable," Kuni says to his reflection, the tiniest praise for the war you just went through, while doing his eyeliner.
You hop off the counter, tossing your hair back, while holding eye contact with his gaze in the mirror, "It's perfect, actually. You're welcome." You poke his arm from behind, giggling at the way he makes a disgusted face in response. "I love you too, you ungrateful man."
He doesn't respond to that; he just walks out of the bathroom and into his room.
He's already in the corner when you step in, adjusting his tripod and ring light, and you know the drill by now. Stay out of frame, stay quiet during takes, and entertain yourself until he's done being internet famous.
You grab your phone off his nightstand and settle onto his bed on your stomach, feet up, pulling up Genshin Impact. It feels like a chore to open this game up now, but you have to, for that stupid free constellation event where you have to complete your commissions and spend 120 resin.
You spawn in Nod-Krai, already moving your joystick to run towards the crafting bench, planning to craft your resin into condensed resin, but to your dismay, you already have 5 crafted resin from the previous days you tried this trick.
Domains it is.
You can hear your boyfriend in the background recording the same TikTok, over and over, trying to get the perfect take while you're teleporting to a random domain. It's annoying, and all you can focus on while you wait for people to join your world.
Once people join your world, and you start the domain, you move on autopilot. You don't really pay attention, probably fighting air every now and then, until a notification pops up from the top of your screen.
Even though you're in a co-up domain, your thumb his the notification before you can even finish reading.
The video loads, and it's what seems to be some sort of POV shot. It's like you're some enemy Lohen just knocked flat, because the view is from below, on the ground. His hand reaches down and grabs you, or the camera's face, dragging you to his height, and you spot his other hand raising a weapon, but you aren't even focused on the weapon… you're focused on the face he makes.
A grin with manic eyes, the expression of someone who doesn't just enjoy violence… someone who's aroused by it.
It happens so quickly that you watch it again, on loop. You watch the jaw grab again, the way he yanks whoever it is upward, the way his grin widens before the hit. You screenshot the maniac grin on the 4th loop… then watch it play through again.
Your thighs press together.
You scroll to the comments after the 7th rewatch, needing to see if everyone's losing their minds as hard as you are.
@scaramouchewho okay so we're all in agreement that lohen is what scaramouche COULD have been if hoyo let him be unhinged, right?
@kuniscaraworshiper everyone in the lohen tag better remember who paved the way. Scaramouche is the ORIGINAL unhinged short king… y'all are so disrespectful
@touchinggrassfearsme i just want lohen and scara to kiss… then me at the same time next… then they can kiss each other again after THEN THE SAME THING AGAIN
@mpreglover6769angie GET PREGNANT GET PREGNANT
You laugh seeing this comment, and when you tap on it, you're left with…
(This comment has been deleted.)
@lohennation BREED ME LOHEN. BREED ME. TEASE ME. USE ME. DEGRADE ME. oh and scara can watch ig… (yes i changed my user because of this video)
@wanderermybeIoved, you people don't know one thing about Scaramouche, and I don't want people talking about him when you clearly don't care about his character development or lore. He's more than just a "hot angry guy." Lohen fans (who just became fans of him less than an hour ago, mind you) wouldn't survive 5 minutes of scara's actual story because their reading comprehension is lower than a 4th grader's due to their goon-rotted brains.
@fatuiworshipper the way Lohen is just Scaramouche if he wasn't busy being sad all the time. he's happy to be evil… that's so hot
You scroll back up and watch the burst animation again. Your thighs squeeze together, and your bottom lip is caught between your teeth. You've watched this video at least 20 times now, and around the 10th time, your underwear became a wet, sticky mess.
"Hey."
You don't hear him, you don't even flinch.
"… Hello??"
Nothing.
"Did you actually die? Should I call someone or check your pulse first?"
You don't hear your boyfriend because you're still on that Lohen video, grinning at some dumb comment of yet another person leaving scaranation for lohennation.
"You've been ignoring me for like ten minutes," Kuni says from across the room, and you can hear the shift in his tone, the way it goes from casual annoyance to genuine irritation, "what is so interesting about your phone that you can't look up for even a second?"
You look up from your phone before he can accuse you of cheating, which technically, in some tiny way… You kinda were.
He's standing by his setup, ring light off, his phone in his hand with his arms crossed. His expression looks like he's in between choosing to be mean about it, or letting it slide. He looks annoyed enough that he won't let it slide, and 10 minutes is a long time, unless he was just exaggerating.
"…Hi." You say, sweet and innocent, still lying on your stomach, still with the phone in your hand as you glance at it just once, like a random comment, before looking back at him, not fully engaged.
His gaze drops to your phone in your hand, then lifts back up to your face. The corner of his mouth lifts with slow, unbelieving amusement, like your delayed little “hi” is almost too stupid to be real. "Welcome the fuck back. Where did you go?"
"Remember Lohen from that one quest in Mondstadt?" You don't wait for a response, voice breathier than intended because your brain is still stuck on that video, "His burst animation just got leaked…"
You watch as your boyfriend's face changes into reluctant curiosity that fights with the irritation of being ignored. He walks over to his bed and drops down next to you. "Really? Show me."
You sit up, holding your phone out, and he just takes it, angling the screen toward himself. You watch his face as the animation plays, how his jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly, and his gaze cuts back to you once it's over. "It's okay." He says, tone devoid of any emotion you can pick up on.
"Just… okay? Kuni. Did you see the grab, the way… the way that the angle is like a POV, like that's you, he's grabbing… the way he just, his hand goes like-" You mimic the way Lohen's hand, holding the weapon, goes from behind and towards who he's about to stab.
Kuni glances at your hand, then back at your face, your phone still in his hand. "Mhm. I saw the exact same video as you." His tone feigns nonchalance.
You drop your hand, continuing to yap while not reading the room, "And the grin… Kuni, the grin? It looks like he's about to-"
"I said I saw it." He hands your phone back, using his own to open TikTok, scrolling through his feed with such focused intensity that it doesn't do a good job of hiding how little he cares about this. "People are going to lose it over this."
"They already are, have you seen the comments?" You're already scrolling through them on your phone, looking for one that doesn't say anything about Scaramouche, but it's practically impossible. "Everyone's saying-"
"I know what they're saying, I don't need to see the comments to know." His thumb flicks through posts, and you can see his jaw working, yet again. "Same shit that infected my feed when Lohen was in that quest, and people barely had info on him. 'Scara's done.' 'We're switching.' Like their loyalty has a shelf life of milk."
He keeps scrolling through his TikTok feed, and annoyingly enough, every video that comes up is about Lohen. He's talking, ranting about character depth versus surface-level hype, something about Scara's arc having actual emotional complexity while Lohen is, "just a boy with a violence kink." He is making good points, but you aren't fully paying attention.
You're still scrolling through Twitter, lying back against the pillows, reposting mindlessly on fan art that already exists of Lohen, and trying not to laugh at the posts comparing Lohen to Scaramouche.
He turns his head to you, and he stops talking, because he notices your attention is elsewhere. You don't notice the sudden silence because your brain is so far inside your phone that the real world doesn't exist right now.
His lips touch your neck, a soft, tiny kiss with the warm press of his mouth against the spot below your ear, and he shifts closer. His hand lands on your thigh, his thumb drawing a slow line along the inside where the hem of your sleep shorts sits.
You tilt your head up slightly, giving him access without giving him your attention, as your gaze is still on your phone. Your body just responds to him on autopilot because of months of this exact pattern, him kissing your neck while you doomscroll, except this time you're scrolling through posts and posts of his… replacement.
His tongue touches the skin at your neck, a quick and wet drag followed by his teeth grazing that same area. His fingers itch higher under your shorts, pushing the fabric up your thigh.
"Kuni, not right now, I'm looking at something-"
He cuts you off with a "Mmhmm," not stopping at all because just a second after, he's sucking on your neck. His fingertips graze the edge of your underwear, tracing the elastic back and forth, back and forth. It's light enough that it could be an accident, but what he's doing to you is clearly intentional.
You're still scrolling even as your boyfriend, in cosplay, is practically making love to your neck, and his fingers… they slide down from the hem of your underwear, to where your slit is, through the fabric.
You let out a soft, quiet, "Mm…" moan, still not looking up. The only reply he gets is the little sound you make and the wetness between your legs.
His middle finger traces your clothed slit in a lazy back-and-forth, that's designed for teasing and nothing else. His mouth is still at your neck, and he bites softly at it while that Lohen video coincidentally pops up on your feed again. Involuntarily, your hips shift up against his hand while your eyes are still glued to the screen.
His fingers slide up from your slit, back up to your waistband. You let out the tiniest whine, but that whine turns into your breath catching when his fingers dip beneath your underwear and make direct contact through your folds.
"You're so soaked," he says against your neck. His tone makes your thumb pause just as you're about to click on the comment section. His cadence shifted into something that sounds less like your boyfriend and more like the boy he's currently cosplaying as. "And it's not because of me. It's hard to believe a pixel on a screen could make you this turned on… but I guess anything's possible with someone like you."
You feel his middle finger circling your clit, slow and teasing, not giving you anything that you want while you watch that video on loop, again. The pattern of it doesn't stop, but the desperation and need to have him stroke you properly makes your hips twitch, and your focus shifts from your phone to his hand, and only his hand, at an alarming rate.
"It must be embarrassing," he starts, the same condescending drawl Scaramouche's voice has, and it fits in his mouth uncannily well, "getting this worked up over a character animation. Over something that can never," the same index that was teasing at your clit pushes inside you, knuckle deep, and you clench around it, "touch you."
He's quick to add a second finger, his ring finger, because one isn't ever enough for you. He curls them upward, finding that spot he mapped ages ago. Your phone screen goes dark from inactivity.
He doesn't leave any achy part of your cunt unoccupied, especially if his thumb is currently being useless. His thumb finds your clit, and he rubs in circles while his fingers curl inside you. The dual stimulation makes your mouth fall open, and your phone falls out of your hand. Your phone hits the side of your stomach and falls down face-first beside you.
"There it is," he says against your skin, pressing a kiss to the mark he left on your neck. "Phone's finally down. Took you long enough."
He pulls his fingers out, and before you can even whine about it, he shifts on top of you, sliding down between your legs. You look down at him, and the visual of Scaramouche slipping under the covers and pulling at the waistband of your shorts is doing something to you that ten replays of Lohen's burst animation could never replicate. Because this is actually real.
He's sliding your shorts down when you mistakenly whimper out, "Kuni…"
He stops, hands pausing on the fabric at your knees. "Mm… no. That's not my name tonight." He pulls the shorts off completely, tossing them wherever without looking in his room, and his fingers hook into your underwear next.
"It's Scaramouche. That's who you're looking at… That's who's touching you. And, that's the only name I want to hear coming out of your mouth. Not Kuni, and definitely not Lohen. If you even try saying his name, I'm cutting your tongue out." He drags your underwear down your thighs, his eyes never leaving your face. "Scaramouche. Understood?"
You nod, too distracted by what he was saying to even realize you're bare from below, and you realize that the moment his mouth is on you.
His tongue drags flat across your clit, and you let out an involuntary, unfiltered moan at the contact. You'd care about his neighbors hearing if his mouth wasn't making you forget that other people exist.
It feels like he's reformatting your brain as he eats you out. Like every lick is deleting thoughts about Lohen and replacing them all with himself. His tongue works on your clit in patterns that make you let out dumb, uncontrollable moans. Two fingers slip inside you without warning, curling against your spot, and you can't help but grab onto his hair, that perfectly styled, dyed Scaramouche hair, and hold on.
Your hips twitch up, grinding into his face while your head tips back. "H-aah… f-fuck… Sca-"
He pulls back from your clit, fingers still working inside you, but at an even faster rhythm, "Louder than that."
You listen, brainless, doing whatever he says, "Scara… Scaramouche, I'm… hah… s-so close…"
He dives back onto your clit, mouth sealed on it, making you cum embarrassingly fast with his fingers curling inside your spongy walls. Your thighs shake around his head, and your grip on his hair tightens as you grind onto his face, clenching around his fingers. He goes slower once the aftershocks are over, and when you finally let go of his hair, completely out of breath, he pulls his mouth off your clit with a wet pop.
He wipes his chin with the back of his hand, the cosplay sleeve dragging across his face from his cosplay. The sight of that is so absurd and so hot that you almost cum again from that visual alone. The puppet joints look slightly faded on the two fingers he was fucking you with, and somehow that makes it worse.
He grabs one of the detached sleeves and slips it off his outfit. You watch him, brain still sluggish from the orgasm, fold it into a thick band, and you furrow your brows, confused. "What are you…"
"Scaramouche wouldn't let you see him lose composure." He slides up from between your legs, wrapping the fabric around your eyes, tying it behind your head before you can even protest. You can't see anything now, just darkness, and the sound of his breathing close to your face. "So you don't get to either."
You feel him move back and settle between your thighs, sliding them apart. You're still so sensitive from your orgasm that feeling his cock suddenly press against you makes an involuntary whimper slip out. He wastes no time slipping in, but he does it slow, stretching you open inch by inch, and you grab fistfuls of his sheets because the fact that you're missing one of your senses is making everything amplified.
"Oh my god…"
"Say my name," he says, and he feels deep enough inside of you that you can't tell how much more of him there is. You only know the stretch, the pressure, and how full you already feel.
A faint moan slips out of you before you manage, breathless, "Scara…"
"Yeah?" He says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, he knows you can barely think. "Too full to say it properly?"
Your fingers curl helplessly in the sheets. "Sc… Scaramouche…"
He starts moving, and because of the blindfold, every thrust feels amplified tenfold, so much deeper. His hands are gripping at your hips hard enough to bruise. You feel him closer, by your ear, voice still in character, "You think some new character is going to replace me?" He puncuates the end with a hard thrust, and your mouth hangs open with a gasp.
"Some battle maniac with a grin? Pathetic. I've been your favorite since 1.1," another thrust, and it hits you deep, he grinds into that same spot, "and no amount of leaked animations is going to change that."
"I know… hah… I know-"
He pulls back just enough that you feel the loss of him even though he's still inside. Your hips chase him up, a needy whimper spilling out because you don't feel him moving anymore, and you wonder why. You feel his hand leaving your hip to pull the blindfold off your eyes.
Light hits your pupils, and you squint, disoriented, and the first thing you see isn't him. It's your phone, held inches from your face, bright and open on the password screen. In a flash, your phone's unlocked from just your face, and just as fast as that happens, he turns your phone back to him.
"Wha… what are you doing?" You're still catching up, blinking through your vision that's trying to adjust, even more now that a phone was shoved up in your face. He's swiping through your apps with one hand while the other pins your hip to the mattress. His cock is still inside you, not moving at all, and it almost feels painful with how much you're craving him to.
He pulls up Twitter, looking at your feed first before checking your reposts, because of course, the first thing that comes up is someone reposting that Lohen burst animation for the millionth time, like people haven't seen it already. He scoffs, tapping on your profile picture on the side, and looking through your reposts.
"This one says," he starts, scrolling with his thumb, his tone almost bored as he reads your reposts out loud, while he finally starts grinding into you, but it's slow, painfully slow. "I would let Lohen degrade, breed me, use me, and rearrange my insides until I pass out… You liked that one, reposted it from the same account that has your face on it. How dense can you be?"
You face heats up realizing just how embarrassing that is, only after doing it a while ago, "That's… that was just a joke-"
"Let's go to your replies tab and see if you did anything other than mindlessly repost whatever you saw," you watch as his thumb moves across your phone, he shifts his hips forward in a slow grind that makes your breath hitch, "Oh, so you did comment on something… that's it? Three fire emojis and a fucking… crying emoji? That's your contribution to the discourse? Really? Was your brain rotting that badly that you couldn't even type words?"
You don't even try to come up with a coherent response for that, and he doesn't wait for one. He throws your phone somewhere on his bed and leans down, propping himself up on his forearms on either side of your head, and the closeness of him in full cosplay makes your breath catch in your throat.
"You know what's funny to me?" His eyes never leave your face as he rolls his hips, still a slow grind that drags his cock against your walls in such a way that keeps you in between being able to think and not. "You have a cosplayer. An actual, real person who dresses up as your favorite character and fucks you in it. And instead of appreciating that… you're reposting about a character that doesn't even have a release date yet."
A weak protest slips out before you can stop it. "I do appreciate-"
"Do you?" He thrusts hard this time, and it makes your back arch, your hands flying up to grab his shoulders as he continues at the same deep pace, watching your face change with every thrust. "Because I'm literally inside of you in a Scaramouche cosplay right now, and 20 minutes ago you were eye-fucking a burst animation while I was standing 12 feet away."
Your face burns, "That's not…" You swallow, trying to gather a thought that doesn't sound pathetic, "That's not fair, he's just a character, you're-"
"I'm right here." Another deep thrust, his hand slides up to cup the side of your face, tilting it so you're looking directly at him. At the eyeliner you did for him, the contacts, and the hair you even helped style. "And I'm the closest thing to a fictional character you're ever going to get. So maybe," he grinds into your spot, and your eyes roll, "act like it."
Humiliation and want feel like they're tangling so tightly that you can't separate them anymore. You can't even form a proper response for that, only being able to muster out a, "F-fuck… Scara…." as your fingers curl harder into the sheets.
"Mm." He keeps the angle, keeps rolling into that same spot, watching as it makes you go stupider quicker while his thumb traces your cheekbone. "You know what you should repost? A video of this. Me, in cosplay, between your legs. See how many likes that gets compared to a leaked animation."
Your brain decides this is the moment to let something slip. Completely irrational. "A lohen cosplay would probably get more likes because he's… trending." You don't even mean it as a dig; you say it in the normal, supportive tone you always give when he talks about content, while getting dicked down.
And the second those words leave your mouth, everything goes silent. He stops, completely. Cock buried inside you, and his hand on your face tightens. His thumb presses harder into your cheekbone. His expression doesn't change, but his eyes do. It's this flat, cold look you can see even with the contacts, and the silence stretches long enough that you realize what you just did.
You scramble to backtrack, "I didn't mean-"
"No, don't backtrack now," he cuts in, voice eerily calm, tilting his head like he's studying any new reaction you'd make, "You sounded very sure of yourself a second ago. I want the same answer you gave before you realize I didn't like it."
You sink back into the pillows, head shaking, "Scara, you know that's not what I meant…" but you stop at the end when you see the look in his eyes darken.
He lets go of your face and pulls almost all the way out to slam back in, both of his hands gripping on the backs of your thighs, pushing them apart. He's fucking into you at a new pace that's faster and rougher than anything before this, every thrust feeling like a point he's making without words.
"He's an animation," he says between trusts, his voice strained, but he's still in character. "He doesn't feel like this…" A thrust so deep it pushes you closer to the headboard. "He doesn't sound like this." Another one, harder, and the sound that comes out of you is almost unrecognizable.
"And he doesn't know that if he hits this angle," he shifts his hips and nails your spot dead-on, and your vision whites out at the edges completely, "you make that exact face."
Your legs are shaking around his grip, your hands grasping at anything, his shoulders, his arm, the sheets, the only thought in your mind is him, the body between your legs trying to prove a point with his entire being.
Then, your phone lights up next to your head. It's a Twitter notification, something about Lohen, and the timing is so cosmically cruel. He sees it, and before you can even squint to see what it's about, he scoots back, letting your head fall off the pillow. You look at him, confused, completely innocent to the change of position that's about to happen.
His hands leave your thighs to grab at your hips, and in one inhuman motion, he lifts you off the bed almost entirely. Your back leaves the mattress, the entire room feels like it's tilting as he hauls your legs over his shoulders, your full weight being suspended against his body. His hands grip the front of your thighs, your arms scrambling for anything, and they end up gripping at the backs of his thighs. Your head is still on the mattress, and your arms, but everything else is up in the air.
He's about to fuck you upside down.
You yell out of panic, "Wha… SCARA-"
"You were about to check your phone." He says, voice unbothered like he isn't holding you in the air with his dick buried inside of you. "While I'm inside of you… While Scaramouche is inside of you." He adjusts his grip, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs, and slides his hips back before slamming into you hard, forcing himself so deep that you see white. "Do I not have your full attention?"
Even as full, and thought empty as you are, you still try to defend yourself, "You do… hah… You do, I wasn't-"
"You were reaching for it," another hard slam, and you cry out, your nails digging into the backs of his thighs. "Your hand almost moved. Almost. You were going to look at a notification while im fucking you."
He fucks into you, over and over, your legs dangling on his shoulders, the angle hitting something so deep inside of you that your body doesn't know how to process it apart from going completely boneless.
You're limp, even being fucked upside down. Your muscles gave up, and now you're just a body he's holding in the air and fucking into.
Your weight being nothing to him, your pleasure being everything.
"Scara… Scara, oh my god, I can't… f-fuck… I can't-"
"Can't what?" His voice is annoyingly steady, controlled, even though he's holding you up and thrusting into you with a force that should effect both of you, but it seems like you're the only effected one. Moaning sounds that aren't even words anymore, just vowels and air. "Can't think? Good. You shouldn't be thinking. The only thing in your head right now should be my name, and the fact that no pixel on a screen," he thrusts up, sharp, and the sound you make is practically a scream, "has ever made you feel like this."
Even with your mind blank, you can process his words enough to know that he's right. Because he's here, and real, and holding you in the air and fucking the coherence out of your skull. "SCARAMOUCHE- fuck, please… please don't stop-"
His pace only grows faster, his grip on your thighs tightening in such a way that you know it will end in bruises when you wake up tomorrow. You cum with the lower half of your body, suspended in the air. Your body locks up, ankles rolling, feet clenching around his shoulders as the orgasm rips through you in waves so intense that you can't even keep your eyes open, can't even suppress or care for how dumb you sound.
You can do anything except convulse around him while he holds you through it like you weigh nothing.
He cums exactly five seconds after, the way your walls clench around his cock not letting him pull himself back any longer. He buries himself deep with one final thrust up that pins you against his hips. You feel every pulse of it, hot and thick, filling you up as his fingers flex on your thighs.
There's so much that your body can't contain it, even in this position, you can feel some of his cum leak around where he's still inside you, dripping down between your ass cheeks.
He holds you there for a moment, catching his breath and you still catching yours, and then he finally sets you down. He moves back, lowering you, and you bounce back on the sheets, still out of breath, gasping, legs shaking, cum pooling more properly between your thighs now that you aren't in the air.
He's already pulling at the cosplay before his breathing even levels out.
"Finally," he mutters, yanking at the chest piece with the urgency of someone escaping a straitjacket, "I can take this stupid fucking thing off."
The outer layer comes off first, and he gets out of bed to toss it onto his desk chair without looking. Then the arm pieces, what's left of them, since one sleeve is still tied in a crumpled blindfold shape somewhere in the sheets. He pulls the one he's wearing off and throws it on top of the outer layers on the chair.
He's left in the sleeveless undershirt, the tight black one that sits flush against his chest and shows the puppet joints he spent way too long on at his shoulders. The shadow has smudged from the sweat, the edges bleeding where the lines used to be clean.
"I was literally cooking alive in that," he says, working at the fabric that sits on his hips next, "do you know how many layers this cosplay has? About four. Four fucking layers in a room with one fan and a broken AC because Ei cares more about being at work all the time than actually caring about a home she's barely at."
You don't respond because you are, at this moment, a puddle of a human being with no functioning brain cells and shaking legs. You're lying exactly where he put you down, staring up at the ceiling, legs still open because closing them feels like an exercise right now.
He glances at you once the majority of the cosplay is off, just the undershirt and shorts, and he gets quieter. He disappears into the bathroom that's connected to his bedroom and comes back with a warm, damp towel.
He sits on the edge of the bed and pushes your thigh to the side, wiping between your legs without saying anything. His movements are careful, clinical, almost, like the same precision he gives his cosplay goes into this too.
He cleans the cum off your inner thighs, the crease where your thigh meets your hip, folds the towel to the clean side, and gets the rest.
You flinch at the contact, still sensitive, and his other hand presses flat against your lower stomach to keep you still. "Stop squirming."
"But… It's sensitive," you say, finally, voice weak.
"I know it's sensitive. I'm the one who made it sensitive. Stay still."
He tosses the towel onto the bathroom floor when he's done, then goes to his dresser, pulling out a sleep set and underwear that are yours. A cropped top and matching shorts that somehow migrated into his drawer because you're here more than your actual house.
He comes back and slides the underwear up first, lifting your hips with one hand to pull them over your ass. Then, the shorts come next, doing the same motion he did for the underwear. He grabs the top next, and this part requires sitting you up, and you're not cooperative.
You're practically dead weight.
He pulls you up by the arms like a ragdoll, gets the shirt over your head, and guides each of your arms through the sleeves. You keep going limp on purpose, and it's irritating him. "You're not helping," he says, which isn't a helpful remark on his part.
You can't do anything but let out a tired, annoyed sigh, voice moving slowly as you say, "I can't feel my legs, Kuni."
He pauses as he's trying to pull the top down, giving you a sideways look, "That's a you-ca n't-help problem, that's a you-won't-help problem. Your arms should work fine."
You give him a fake, straight smile, shrugging at a languid speed, "They don't, actually. You broke those too when you held me upside down, and I had to hold onto your thighs for dear life."
He scoffs, dropping you back against the pillows, and you sink into them, boneless, dressed, clean, happy that you've trained him well enough to do this much after sex, because it pays off every time.
He pulls the covers out from under you, and this time you actually scoot to give him space to tuck them over your body. He grabs both of your phones and plugs them in, then walks to his closet to take the top off and replace it with a plain black t-shirt, and tugs on a pair of grey sweats. When he's done, he always backs toward the bed to get into the covers beside you, but you stop him.
"Kuni, can you please get me water?" You ask, with a tiny pout.
The exhale he lets out is so deep it could qualify as a controlled breathing exercise. He stands there for a full three seconds, covers still bunched in his hand, staring at you with the expression of a man who wants to only pass out in bed and rot.
"You couldn't have said that before I walked toward the bed?"
You look up, pretending to think, mouth curling up when you glance back at him, "I wasn't thirsty before you walked toward the bed."
He rolls his eyes, his hand coming up to rub his fingers at his temple in annoyance at all of this, "That doesn't even make sense."
You clasp your hands together, pouting, again, putting on a sweet expression just to mess with him further, "Please?"
He drops the covers and leaves the room. You hear his footsteps down the hallway, and they're loud enough that you know he's being loud on purpose.
Because Kuni doesn't make noise when he walks unless he wants you to know he's annoyed.
His house is massive; you spend 99 percent of your time in his room, so you actually get jumpscared every time you leave it. The hallways are long, or probably longer than an apartment floor in general, with marble flooring and clear walls with art on them that his mother picked out and he's never looked at once.
The kitchen is insane. Countertops that stretch for what feels like miles, a center island bigger than your own bed, and appliances that look like they belong in a once luxurious restaurant. Every surface is spotless because the housekeeper comes three times a week, and Kuni is already a clean freak on his own, so the combination creates a kitchen that looks perpetually unlived in.
He opens the cabinet, grabs a glass, fills it from the filtered tap, and when he turns around, his mother is sitting at the island.
She's been there the whole time, apparently.
Ei is on a barstool at the center island, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of red wine in her right hand and her phone in her left. Her hair is long and ink-black, pin-straight, falling over one shoulder, and in the dim kitchen light, she looks less like a person and more like a portrait someone painted and forgot to hang.
She looks up from her phone at the sound of the glass filling.
Her eyes move over him, at the messed-up hair, the contacts he forgot to take out, and the faded puppet joints still visible on his knuckles.
And also the fact that he's getting a glass of water at one in the morning in a post-sex haze that he thinks isn't obvious but is extremely obvious.
"You're still awake," she says, her voice carrying that same low, unbothered tone that makes everything she says sound like an observation.
"You're home," he replies, matching her energy beat for beat, turning off the tap without looking at her. "When did your flight land?"
"Three hours ago." She takes a sip of wine. "I didn't want to interrupt."
The silence that follows is loud. He knows what that means, she knows that he knows, and neither of them will say it directly because everyone in this family treats emotional honesty like it's some disease.
"Right." He grabs the glass and turns to leave as fast as possible.
"Kunikuzushi."
He stops, but he doesn't turn around, his grip on the glass tightening.
"Eat something tomorrow. The fridge is stocked." She pauses to take a sip before continuing, "And take your contacts out before you sleep. They'll irritate your eyes."
He stands there for a second, then another, then another, then walks away without responding. And his footsteps down the hallway are quieter this time. Not on purpose.
He gets back to his room and shuts the door behind him with his foot. He walks up towards the bed and reaches over to hand you the glass. You take it, sitting up slightly, drinking half of it in one go while he stands there watching you like you just made him walk a marathon for a cup of water.
"Happy?" He asks, pulling the covers back.
You roll your eyes and hand him back the glass. He sets it on the nightstand and gets into bed, lying flat on his back. You immediately roll onto his chest like a magnet, your cheek pressing against the cotton of his t-shirt, and you can hear his heartbeat, still a little fast, coming down.
His hand finds your hair, starts that absent, repetitive thing he does, threading his fingers through the strands over and over. You press closer to him, tangling your legs with his under the covers, and his arm tightens around your back.
You close your eyes, and his fingers never stop moving through your hair.
He doesn't tell you he loves you; he never does first. But his thumb traces a slow circle against your scalp, and his breathing evens out underneath you, and he doesn't move even when your weight goes fully dead against his chest.
That's how you know.
You're in your room today, not at your boyfriend's house like you usually are. You do like being in his room and hanging out with him constantly, but it's also constantly exhausting. Some days, you'd just prefer to be… alone.
Your room is the complete opposite of Kunikuzushi's aesthetic. Light beige walls so you can hang up cute pink miscellaneous things on your wall without them clashing. A fluffy, soft, pink bed that used to be a canopy until you woke up to a fat spider next to your face, as if it was their bed too. Plushies… lots of them, on your bed, some kept on a large shelf you bought to store the expensive anime figures Kuni always buys you. Long story short, the general vibe of your room makes you seem like someone whose entire personality is soft and sweet.
You're lying on your stomach on the bed, phone in hand, scrolling through the fallout of the Lohen leak from 3 days ago. The internet has still not calmed down… if anything, it's worse.
@scaranation4LIFE scaranation we STAND. Every character had their tiny moment of fame… our show lasted four years. FOUR. We were even on the news… lohen's gonna last one patch and you're all going to be crawling back
@lohenxscarabeliever i don't want lohen OR scara… i want them BOTH to ruin my life SIMULTANEOUSLY. Why is this so hard to understand
@wanderersfavoritebuttplug scara… I’d never replace you for that sadistic twink (maybe) (we’ll see)
The comments are always talking about the same thing, at least every comment section under a Lohen Twitter post, as the diehard simp, the one who wants Lohen and Scara to fuck each other, the one who wants to cuck Scara in front of Lohen, and the very few actual loyal Scara fans.
… You feel like you're a bit of both.
You're deep in the comments, simultaneously looking at edits of Lohen on TikTok, then taking a Twitter break, then TikTok, when at some strange point, your bedroom door opens.
You don't look up, you assume it's Kuni because your parents aren't home, and you gave him the key ages ago. "Hey, Kuni," you say, still scrolling, legs swinging behind you, "if you're here to yell at me about using your newest Flower Knows palette before you did, it's not that big of a deal-"
You stop because when you look up, what you see is something you'd never, ever expect from a surprise visit from your boyfriend.
Kunikuzushi is standing in your doorway in full-on, perfectly accurate, as always, cosplay. But it's not Scaramouche, or some other male in the game… It's Lohen.
Your phone hits the mattress.
The character you've been losing your mind over for 3 days, the one you've seen on your phone screen a genuinely convincing number of times, is here, in real life, standing in your pink bedroom doorway.
"When did you-" your voice comes out strangled, your mouth feeling dry, and your throat feeling so tight that you cut yourself off. Your eyes scan the cosplay, again and again, confused at why he didn't tell you about this. Especially ordering a unique cosplay of a character that hasn't even fully come out. "When… when did you order this??"
He grins, a toothy, sharp-eyed grin that looks nothing like Scara's smirk. It's so strangely accurate to the expression Lohen would make, and you wonder if he's spent the last 3 days practicing for this.
"I've been tracking you all day," he says, and his voice is different than normal, more confident, louder, less… restrained on what's deemed as good. "You've been hard to pin down."
He crosses the room, and your body does something it doesn't do with Kuni. It tenses out of something close to fear, but closer to not knowing what's coming next. His hand grabs the front of your tank top and yanks you off the bed. You yelp in a way that's higher, more startled, more genuinely caught off guard than anything Scara has gotten out of you in months.
"Nervous?" He questions, his grin widening, and his fists twist in your shirt, pulling you closer, until your chest is against his. He can feel your heartbeat… at least you assume he can, because you can hear it going haywire through your ears to the point that you'd believe it's audible even if he wasn't this close.
You deny because you hate admitting things to him when he's acting smug, even though anything you could say would be utterly pointless, as your face and the way you're barely moving prove his point way too well. "I'm not nervous…" You try a distraction, any, "Are you really wearing a wig, Kun-" but it gets cut off quicker than you can even finish the last word.
"Your heart feels like it's about to explode out of your chest." He leans in, his mouth next to your ear, and his voice drops, but he still keeps the edge of it in character, "What's different? You let Scaramouche do whatever he wants to you. But Lohen shows up and suddenly… You can't even talk?"
You knit your eyebrows, staggering to say anything that sounds like you're not any less dumb, "That's… it's different, you're usually-"
"Usually what? Predictable?" He pulls back to look at you, and you glance up and down at his cosplay once more, and it's even more annoyingly perfect up close. You seriously don't know how he does it; he even looks good in a wig, even though he hates them. "You know every move Scaramouche makes before he makes it. You're comfortable with that, and that's boring." He says it like an insult, and his grin drops suddenly, his eyes not leaving you once as he says, "I'm not comfortable. Are you scared of me?"
You answer a simple, "No." But the way you still haven't moved on your own since he appeared at your door proves without words otherwise.
"Liar." He shoves you, and you fall back before you can catch yourself on the bed, bouncing on the pink sheets, your tank top riding up slightly in the process. "Your voice had the tiniest crack in it."
He's on top of you before you can sit up, his knee between your thighs, his hand going to your jaw… and he does it.
The burst animation.
His fingers close around your jaw as he lifts your face toward his, slow, and the grin is right there, a perfect replica of the video you've watched on your screen more than 100 times.
"There's my favorite prey," he says, holding the pose for three seconds, and instead of reaching his arm back and stabbing you, he leans in to kiss you.
It's violent, that's the only word to describe it. Non ceremonial, just teeth, tongue, and a lot of force by him. His hand is still gripping your jaw, controlling the angle, and also making sure you don't pull away so soon. You make a sound into his mouth that's between a moan and a whimper, that's even more vulnerable than anything you've made during sex when he cosplays as Scaramouche.
He pulls back, unbuckling one of the belts on the cosplay, a strap that's a part of Lohen's design, and he wraps it around your wrists, binding them above your head against the bed.
"Every battle maniac needs a sparring partner," he says, tying the knot with one hand while the other shoves your tank top up above your breasts. "And you looked at me like you volunteered."
He strips your shorts, then your underwear, and he doesn't bother about being sweet with it. He yanks them down your legs and throws them somewhere behind him, and then his hands grip the backs of your thighs, and he pushes them up toward your chest.
Mating press, that's what he's doing.
Your knees are at your shoulders, your hips are tilted up, and he's on the bed, kneeling over you. His weight is driving your thighs down, folding you in half. Your wrists are bound above your head; you're just completely open and trapped.
"L.. Lohen…" You whimper out in the voice of both someone in awe, and in the tiniest fear of what's coming next.
"Hmm." He unzips his pants, frees his hard cock from his underwear, which he slides down just enough, and positions himself at your entrance, and he pushes in.
The first thrust is the full length of him burying himself deep inside you in one stroke; the angel of the mating press makes it feel deeper than it should. His cock presses against your cervix, and the sound that leaks out of you is closer to a sob than a moan.
"AH- oh fuck oh fuck oh-"
"Too much?" He asks, and his grin, that fucking grin, is right there, his face inches from yours because the mating press puts him on top of you… over you, covering you entirely.
"N-no, just- hah-" You get cut off with the way he pulls back and slams back in, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull, before just fully closing.
"Not convincing." He pulls back, again, slamming into you harder than the last one, like he's powering up his thrusts, and your back tries to arch off the bed, but his weight is pressing you flat, and you have nowhere to go. You feel his hands at your face. "Your eyes are watering."
You open your eyes back up to look at him, head shaking, even though you do feel something hot and wet sliding softly down your cheeks. "You're lying, they're n-not-" You're studdering from the way he's repeditely fucking into you, especially hitting your deeper spots on purpose when you try speaking, but he cuts you off anyway.
"They are." He leans down and licks a tear off your cheekbone. The act is so different from the way he's currently fucking into you, brutally, and you're turning incoherent faster than ever, moans spilling out uncontrollably as the sound of his hips plaping against your ass fills the room.
"You cry for Scaramouche because it feels good. You're crying for me because you don't know what I'm going to do next." Both of his hands leave your face; one goes back onto your thigh, the other finds your throat. "And that scares you… Doesn't it?"
His fingers close around your neck, and he doesn't choke you the same way Kuni does during normal sex. This version is different, new, something you've never felt before. Lohen's choke. His fingers press into the sides of your throat, squeezing the muscles, not your windpipe, but the tissue around it. The difference, the way this feels new, is because it feels like it's designed to hurt, not to just cut off air. The pain is sharp, and you can still breathe, technically, but every inhale aches, and the compression makes the blood rush to your head in a way that amplifies every sensation that a blindfold never could.
You can't move your hands, even as they itch to grab or instinctively hold at his wrists, you're reminded that they're bound together by his belt. Your moans just get more amplified thrust after thrust after squeeze, "Nghh- Lohen… hah…"
"You can barely even say my name." He squeezes harder, his thumb pressing into the hollow of your throat, and the pressure pushes you right to the edge of too much. "Scaramouche gets full sentences out of you… Full moans… Full 'please'. But me?" He thrusts deep, grinding, holding himself inside you while his hand tightens on your throat. "I get syllables… Half-words… or just plain denial over anything I say. You're so nervous you can't even beg for anything properly."
He fucks you into the mating press until your thighs are shaking against his hands, and your voice is hoarse from the sounds he's pulling out of you. His hand stays on your throat. The pressure of his squeeze fluctuates a lot, from him tightening when he thrusts hard, loosening when he grinds slowly, a cycle of both pain and relief that keeps you permanently on the edge of too much without ever crossing into too much.
Because Kuni knows your body, he knows how much it can take. He pushes you close enough to passing out that your vision darkens at the edges, your mouth falls open, your eyes lose focus, and then he loosens his grip and lets the blood rush back.
And the gasp you take is almost an orgasm on its own. "Please- hah… please, I can't… too much-"
"You can handle it, you just don't know it yet." He squeezes your throat and fucks into you hard enough that a plushie falls off the bed. The grin on his face is still, still beautifully intact, and it's the most terrifyingly perfect thing you've ever seen from this close.
"You know what's funny? You were scared when I walked in. Nervous. Couldn't even talk to me." He leans down until his lips brush yours, his hand still on your throat. "But you're not trying to stop me, are you? Your hands are tied, your legs are pinned, and we have a safeword you could've used at any point, and you won't, because you and I both know this is exactly the type of 'too much' that you crave."
You cum with his hand on your throat and his cock buried so deep you can feel him in your stomach. The orgasm hits different in a mating press, so much more intense. Your walls clench around him in rhythmic pulses that you feel in your entire pelvic floor, and he fucks you through it, his pace not slowing, his hand not loosening.
And by the time the aftershock fades, you're boneless, twitching, and making sounds that are barely human.
He cums inside you, you feel the heat of it, thick, pulsating, his hips pressing flush against yours and staying there while his cock throbs. His hand finally loosens on your throat, and his forehead drops against yours.
His breathing is ragged, and it's the first time you've ever heard him lose the composure of the character, and for one second, between the last pulse and first exhale, it's just Kuni.
Then the Lohen grin slides back. He stays inside you for a moment more, his cock still twitching with the last of it, before pulling out in one motion that makes your body clench around nothing.
You feel the immediate emptiness, the warmth of his cum already starting to leak, but you don't get to process that because his hands are on your hips and he's flipping you.
Your stomach hits the mattress, your face presses into your pillow, and the shift of his cock inside you during the rotation makes a wet, obscene sound that you both pretend not to hear. Your wrists are still bound with the belt, and they're now pinned beneath you. You feel him reach under you, fingers finding the leather, working the buckle loose with one hand, while the other grips your hip to keep you from sliding forward.
The belt falls away from your wrists, you roll them instinctively, flexing your fingers, and before you can even appreciate the freedom, you feel the belt loop around your neck instead.
He pulls it taut from behind. He doesn't choke you with it just yet; he just lets it sit snug against your throat with his fist gripping the trailing end like it's some sort of handle.
"Ass up," he says, and you barely get your knees under you before he gives up on waiting and pulls your hips back toward him.
He slams in at a rough, fast, punishing pace. The sound of his hips against your ass is echoing off your room in a rhythm that makes your plushies at the edge of the bed vibrate, causing a couple of them to fall.
He uses the belt as a way to anchor his thrusts while he rails into you with a force that has your fingers twisting in your sheets, and your neck being forced to arch back.
"Fu- oh my g-god, Loh-" You can't even finish his name, it just dissolves into a broken moan as he hits your spot from this angle. The deepness of the backshots makes your toes curl against the bedsheets.
He keeps going, his pace not slowing down at all, and you're too far gone that you barely register it when his rhythm stutters for a second, especially when you hear him mutter something under his breath that doesn't sound like Lohen.
"This stupid fucking…"
Your brain is somewhere between your legs; the only sound that's audible and coherent to you is the sound of his hips against your ass, and your endless moans.
He thrusts hard, and you let out a whimper, your fingers flexing on the sheets, and your feet coming up, clenching, then dropping again. But between the next few thrusts, you catch pieces of something that doesn't match the character he's trying to play.
His voice sounds like it's shifting, not into Scara like it's some muscle memory he has, but into Kuni, your boyfriend, sounding genuinely irritated about something that has nothing to do with sex.
"I swear to god, it keeps sliding," he mutters, and his grip on the belt loosens for a second as his other hand does something behind you that you can't see. He does another hard thrust, and your face falls against the pillow now that he isn't yanking on your neck. But he doesn't pull you back, choke you, or do whatever you expect him to do.
He complains.
"This is the last time I'll wear a wig. The last fucking time. I told you I hate these things and you always ignore it and tell me to suck it up when it's a character that isn't him-" a thrust that makes your spine arch, "and now I have gross, synthetic hair scratching at my face, and I'm going to lose my mind."
You're barely processing any of this, still, it all sounds like fragments to you that don't make sense because of the thick haze of being fucked into your mattress.
He grunts, clear frustration, and you hear something that sounds like a clip, or whatever mechanism that's keeping his wig attached to his actual hair, and his pace slows down enough that curiosity overtakes the pleasure for one stupid second.
You turn your head.
And it's Kuni behind you, one hand still on the belt at your neck, and the other holding the Lohen wig that he just pulled off his head. His real hair is back, dark indigo, messy, slightly matted from the wig cap he also tore off. He hasn't noticed you looking yet; he's too busy glaring at the wig with genuine contempt.
He's out of character, fully, completely, for once mid-fuck. He never breaks character, and something comes over you… Maybe it's the absurdity of the visual, maybe it's because you're fucked stupid enough that impulse control is just completely gone.
Maybe it's because the opportunity is just too perfect to pass, and you've seen that TikTok audio one too many times.
You gasp, loud, dramatic, your voice coming out in that exaggerated, scandalized tone that you know he's going to hate, "he's BALD. He's bald, and he's torturing people who have HAIR!"
The silence that follows lasts exactly one and a half seconds.
His eyes snap to you, and you're looking at him over your shoulder, half of your face pressed into the pillow, and you're grinning. That kind of stupid, shit-eating grin that you know is about to have severe consequences.
His expression goes through several stages in rapid succession. Disbelief comes first, processing it comes second, then recognition of the reference, and on the last and final stage, something dark and focused appears that makes your grin falter just slightly.
He throws the wig, and it hits your vanity mirror, sliding off somewhere that you don't care to watch, and his now-free hand shoves your head back down into the pillow. It's not gentle. His palm is flat against the back of your skull, pressing your face into the fabric, and your giggle gets muffled by cotton.
"You think that's funny?" His voice drops back into Lohen's, but it's rougher now, meaner, the edge of genuine irritation soaking through the character because you made a dumb joke while he was inside of you. "You think you're clever?"
You're trying to respond, but your face is pressed into a pillow, and his hand is keeping it there. What comes out next is a muffled, "Mm srrhyy-" that dissolves into a yelp when he slams into you so hard your knees slide forward on the sheets.
"Every prey animal thinks it's funny right before the teeth close." He fucks into you at a pace that's brutal, and way faster than anything before. Each thrust is showing you further into the mattress while his hand keeps your head pinned, and the belt around your neck pulls tight from the motion. "You want to make jokes? I'll give you something to scream about instead."
His other hand leaves the belt to grab at your hip, yanking you back onto his cock with every thrust, and the force of being pushed down and pulled back simultaneously has you making sounds into the pillow that are just broken, raw sounds. Your hands claw at the sheets above your head, your back arching down, while your ass stays up, and you can feel his fingers digging bruises into your hip while the belt drags against your throat.
"Mmph- wait, f-fuck, I'm sorryyy, I was k-kidding-" you manage between thrusts, your words slurring against the pillow, saliva starting to collect at the corner of your mouth because your jaw won't close properly. "Loh-hen, please, 'm sorry, I didn't m-mean-"
"You have a funny way of apologizing," he grinds out, and his hand on the back of your head shifts, his fingers curling into your hair and pulling your face just barely off the pillow, enough that your moans aren't muffled anymore. "Usually, people apologize without laughing. You're still smiling about it, I can hear it in your voice."
He's not wrong. You are still smiling, with tears in your eyes, getting absolutely destroyed because the image of your boyfriend ripping off a wig mid-sex with that look on his face will live in your brain rent-free forever. "Liar… 'M not smiling-"
"You are." A thrust so deep your smile actually drops because your eyes roll back and your mouth falls open around a moan that's more of a wail. "There… fixed it."
His other hand releases your hair and goes to his own head. You can feel the shift in his movements, slightly distracted, one-handed thrusts that are still devastating but less focused as he runs his fingers through his real hair, fixing it through the vanity mirror on the far side of your room.
Because even while he's railing at you, Kunikuzushi will not be caught dead with bad hair.
He's multitasking, fucking you into the mattress with one hand on the belt, and styling his hair with the other… the worst part is, he doesn't even slow down.
He pulls the belt back just enough that you're forced to arch your spine, the pressure on your throat lifting your chest slightly off the mattress, and the angle change makes his cock hit differently, shallower but dragging against your front wall with every stroke, and the sound that comes out of you is embarrassingly close to a squeal.
"Ah ah AH, oh m-my god, oh my god, right there, don't- nghhh don't move from that, please plea-hease..." Your words are tumbling out in a slurred mess, your brain is completely out of your control, and your hips are pushing back against his on their own because the angle is too good.
He cums with a groan, pressing into the back of your shoulder, biting down on your skin through a moan he clearly didn't want to let out. You feel his cock pulse inside you, the heat spreading, and his hips grind forward in small, lazy rolls as he empties everything. His hand goes slack on the belt, and his forehead drops against the space between your shoulder blades.
He stays there for a second, breathing, then he pulls back, letting go completely of the belt, and you fall forward because he was the one pulling your practically limp body against him. Your ass is up in the air, and you feel him slide out, and the gush of cum that follows is immediate. It's thick, warm, spilling out of you and down between your thighs.
He sits back and watches it, you know, because you hear the sheets shift, and you can tell by the way he doesn't move or speak, just watches the mess he made ooze out of you.
His thumb presses against your entrance at the rim, and more cum leaks out around the pressure, sliding down in a slow trail toward your clit. "Look at that," he murmurs, his voice back in character for Lohen, in an amused, fascinated tone. "You can't keep any of it in."
His other hand comes up and spreads you open with his thumb and forefinger, holding your folds apart, and you can feel the cool air hit the mess inside you. You feel more of his cum spill out from being exposed. You bury your face deeper into the pillow because the visual you can't even see is somehow still the most embarrassing part of this entire night.
"Lohen, don't just… stare at it-" You mumble into the pillow, voice a bit pitchy as your thighs try to close, but his knee is in between your legs before you can even try to hide.
"Why not?" His thumb traces through the cum leaking down your folds, collecting it, spreading it in a slow circle around your clit, and your hips jerk at the contact because you're so overstimulated. "It's mine, I put it there, and I'll stare at it for as long as I want."
He leans down, and you feel his breath warm against your swollen, sensitive skin. Then you feel his tongue, a single slow lick from your clit up to your folds that collects everything in its path. You let out a sound that's halfway between a moan and a sob, your fingers crushing at the sheets. His mouth seals around your clit and sucks one, hard, before pulling off with a wet pop that's so loud it echoes.
"Ahh- hhah, that's... you c-can't just do that and stop..." You whine, your hips chasing his mouth, but he's already sitting up, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
"I can do whatever I want." He says, like it's a fact, and his thumb pushes inside you lazily, scooping cum out and watching it drip off his finger before sliding it back in. "And right now I want to watch you try to keep it together while I play with the mess I made."
He does this for longer than is reasonable. Sliding his finger in, pulling it out with cum on it, pressing his thumb against your clit, watching you flinch and twitch and moan into the pillow while your body can't decide if it wants more or if it wants him to stop.
When you finally lift your head enough to look back at him, your vision is blurry, and your cheeks are wet, and your hair… let's not talk about that. But his hair, however…
It's perfect.
His actual hair, styled in Scaramouche's cut, falls over his forehead in a way that makes him look like a character rendered by someone who accidentally released him into the real world. He fixed it while he was fucking you, which means at some point of the most brutal backshots of your life, your boyfriend was simultaneously running his fingers through his hair to make sure it looked good.
And it does, it looks like Scaramouche wearing Lohen's clothes, the dark blue and silver of the cosplay framing his face differently than Scara's outfit does, and the combination of his real hair with Lohen's costume is somehow hotter than either one on its own.
"Your hair…" You start, breathless, head tilting, staring at him.
"I know." He doesn't elaborate, and for a second you did forget just where his fingers still are, but then you get instantly reminded when his thumb circles your clit again. His expression is annoyingly smug for someone who was complaining about a wig 4 minutes ago.
He slides back into you without warning, and you gasp, your head dropping back down, because you're still so unbelievably sensitive. Even though he did slurp some of it out, you still have his cum inside of you, and the re-entry just pushed every bit of the leftovers deeper. He does exactly two, slow thrusts from behind, enough to hear the wet sound of it, and enough to feel you clench around him involuntarily, and then he moves.
His hand wraps the belt tighter around your neck and pulls backward toward him. Your upper body lifts off the mattress as the leather digs into your throat. And at the same time, as if he's some pro multitasker, his other hand hooks under your thigh, and hauls you up.
The room tilts as he rearranges your body like you're a doll getting repositioned on a shelf.
He sits back on his heels, then further, his legs extending toward the foot of the bed, and he pulls you down onto his lap with your back against his chest. His cock is still inside you, and the angle of his cock in your folds shifts as gravity does the work of seating you fully onto him. Your weight pushes him impossibly deep.
"Oh my- f-fuck..." Your head falls back against his shoulder, your mouth open, eyes unfocused on the ceiling. You can feel him everywhere. The depth of this position, your full weight on his lap, is the kind of full that makes your brain actually go blank.
The belt is still around your neck. He grips the loose end in one fist, his other hand settling on your hip, and he snaps his hips up.
It's different from behind, and the mating press, and just any position he's ever tried with you. Every thrust pushes up into you while your own weight pushes down. The collision of both forces means he's hitting your cervix with almost every stroke. The belt pulls at your throat in time with his rhythm, and it's like a constant tug that keeps you slightly alert. He's using it as a leash while he fucks up into you.
"Lohen… Lohen, oh my g-god, that's so… hhh…" Your hands grip his thighs behind you for leverage, your nails pressing crescent moons into his skin through the dark fabric of the cosplay pants. Every thrust forces a sound out of you that you didn't choose. The sound ranges from breathy moans to hiccuped whimpers to full, unfiltered whines that bounce off your bedroom walls.
"Mm, good girl… Keep saying my name just like that." He says against the shell of your ear, his grin pressing into your hair, and his hips don't slow down at all while his free hand leaves your hip to cup your breast, squeezing it through your bunched-up tank top.
Then, suddenly, the pace changes. It slows like someone pressing on the brakes. The frantic upward thrusts melt into something grinding, deliberate, circular. His hips roll instead of slamming. His hand on the belt adjusts, and you can feel the leather pulling higher on your throat, the pressure shifting from the side of your neck to the front, directly on your windpipe, cutting your air down. It makes the room tilt and your head go light.
"Lohen is fun. I'll give him that."
Your walls clench around him so hard that you feel his breath catch, a tiny fracture in his composure that he covers immediately. The shift from Lohen's energy to Scara's is like someone swapped an entire soundtrack mid-song, same instruments but a completely different vibe.
"But fun is temporary." His hips roll in that slow, calculated grind that's purely Scaramouche. The one that doesn't just find your spot but sits on it, presses into it, with the exact amount of pressure needed to make your eyes cross. "Chaos without control is just noise."
He thrusts so deep that your vision goes white at the edges and your mouth opens around a shameless sound you can't hold back. "I'm not noise." He pulls the belt tighter, your air growing thinner as your head feels floaty and warm. "I'm the only voice in your head that stays."
"Scara…" It comes out of your mouth before he can ask for it, before he can demand it, your body just defaulting to the name it knows and has moaned out more times than you can count. Just the same as muscle memory.
"There she is." His voice sounds satisfied in a way that Lohen's never was. It's settled, fully sure, like something just got confirmed that he already knew. His thumb traces the edge of the belt for exactly one second.
Then his pace goes feral, the leash yanks tight, and you can feel the grin return against the curve of your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin. The whiplash of Scara's controlled grind slamming into Lohen's chaos makes your entire body jerk against his chest.
Then he goes back to Scara, slow, precise, the belt adjusting to hit your windpipe just like before, and your vision goes soft and dreamy.
Then Lohen, again, fast and reckless, the belt pulling to the sides, sharp and painful. Your vision snaps back, too clear… too much.
Then Scara.
Then Lohen.
The switches accelerate, and you're caught between two different rhythms that you don't even have time to get used to either one before it switches back and forth, and you're left shaking, trembling, your thighs quivering helplessly on either side of his.
"You feel so fucking good-" you can hear Lohen's signature grin in his tone, his hips snapping up hard enough that you bounce on his lap, "You think you can handle more?"
And then, like a light to a switch, Scara's back, his thrusts slowing into a grind that feels torturous. "Of course you can't… You never could. You just pretend."
"Mm… mmnhh, I c-cant, it's too much," you're babbling, the words coming out in disconnected fragments that don't form a single coherent thought, "both of you at the s-same time… I can't… my brain… can't…"
Your body is trying to process two characters and one cock, and one belt on your throat that keeps changing how tight and how rough it's being pulled, and the gravity pinning you down, and his hands on you everywhere. "Please jus- hha, pick one, p-please, I can't think when you keep switching, I-"
"No." It doesn't sound like either character he's playing as he says that, almost himself. "You don't get to pick, you get both."
You cum on the fault line. On the exact millisecond where Lohen's chaos collides with Scara's control. The two rhythms are crashing together inside your body like a wave hitting a wall. The orgasm rips through you so hard that your vision actually blacks out for a second.
Your walls seize around him in rhythmic, violent clenches, your back arching against his chest, the belt pulling taut as your body contorts, and the sound you make is raw, unformed, the kind of noise a person makes when their brain short-circuits.
He cums with you, his groan is buried in the crook of your neck as his teeth bite down on your shoulder. The belt goes slack in his hand, and his hips stutter up as he fills you again. You feel every pulse of it, hot and thick, and his hands grip your hips hard.
His breathing is ragged against your neck, not in character, just Kuni, just like before, catching a breath he doesn't need to catch because the adrenaline is still making his body do human things.
He lets go of the belt and unloops it from your neck. The leather slides off your skin, leaving a warm, raw line that you'll see in the mirror tomorrow. His hands settle on your hips, gentle, all the urgency gone.
He turns you around, rotating you by your hips without pulling out. Your legs swing around until you're facing him, straddling his hips. When your eyes meet his, it's your boyfriend looking at you, Kuni, with his makeup smudged, his real hair messy and falling into his eyes, wearing another character's clothes with his own face underneath.
He grinds up into you, slow, not thrusting, just rolling his hips with his cock still inside you, his cum still inside, and the wet sound fills the quiet room.
He kisses you, a slow kiss where his hand cups the back of your neck. His tongue slides against yours, and your hands find his face, holding his jaw the same way you hold it when you do his eyeliner. Your fingers on his cheekbones, your thumbs at the corners of his mouth… the grip is so familiar that your chest aches with it.
He pulls out, the gush of everything between you spills onto his thighs, and you whimper at the loss, your hips chasing him involuntarily, still kissing him, before settling.
He leans back, lies flat, and looks up at you. "Sit on my face." He instructs, his hands already going for his bottoms, shoving the waistband down with both hands, lifting his hips, and kicking the pants and underwear off in one motion that sends them somewhere on the bed. He settles back onto the mattress with his cock resting against his stomach and the rest of Lohen's cosplay still on his upper half.
You're still on top of him, and you start to move toward his face, swinging your leg over to straddle his chest, and just as you're about to lower yourself down facing the wall, he stops you.
"Other way." His hands catch your hips, holding you in place before you can settle. "Face my cock, not the headboard."
You turn, shifting on your knees so you're facing his legs instead, and the second your thighs are on either side of his face, his hands pull you down. He doesn't ease you into it, his fingers dig into your hips and yank you flat on him. His mouth meets your cunt like he's been starving for it. His tongue is on you immediately, flat and broad, licking through the mess of his cum and yours that's still leaking, and the groan he lets out against your folds vibrates through your entire lower half.
"Ah- oh my god, Loh-" Your hands brace against his stomach, fingers splaying across his chest, your body jerking at the contact because you're still so overstimulated that even his breath against you would be too much, let alone his entire mouth sealed to your cunt like he's trying to milk you dry.
He doesn't let up; his tongue pushes between your folds, lapping at the cum he left inside you, alternating between long drags up your clit, and pointed flicks that make your thighs clamp around his head. His hands keep your hips pinned to his face, and every time you try to lift yourself even slightly because it's too much, he pulls you back down harder.
You look down past his stomach, past his lips, and his cock is right there. Hard again, flushed at the tip, twitching every time you moan. It looks helpless, which is a stupid word to use for a dick, but that's what it looks like.
Just lying there… hard… neglected, pulsing at nothing while his mouth does all the work on you. The visual of that all, combined with the way his tongue just circles your clit makes your mouth water and your body move on its own.
You lean down, lips pressing against the tip, soft, barely any contact, and you feel his hips twitch upward at even that little touch. You open your mouth wider, about to take him in, settling your weight forward onto your forearms on either side of his hips, and then his hands move.
They leave your hips, and you feel them slide down your back, his arms wrapping around your torso, his palms pressing flat against your shoulder blades from behind, and before you can even register the shift in grip, he lifts you.
Your knees leave the mattress, your thighs slide up his shoulders until they're hooked over them, his arms anchored around your back. You aren't straddling his face anymore; you're suspended above him, upside down, your entire lower body held up by his arms, and your upper body hangs between his legs with his cock directly in front of your face.
"KUNI- what the HELL-" Your hands scramble for something to hold, and the only thing available is his back, his sides, your fingers digging into whatever part of him you can reach. "Stop putting me upside down!! How are you even this strong??"
He ignores you, his mouth is still on your cunt like the position change was nothing, like rearranging your entire body didn't interrupt the rhythm of his tongue.
Your thighs are wrapped around his shoulders, your calves pressed against the sides of his head, and his arms are locked around your lower back and hips, creating a cage of muscle that keeps you from falling. Your stomach is pressed against his chest, your breasts squished between your body and his, and your face is hovering directly over his cock with your hair hanging down.
He doesn't pause to let you adjust; his tongue pushes inside you from below, curling, and the moan that rips out of you vibrates against his inner thigh because your mouth is right there, inches from his cock, and you can't even hold back the sound.
You take him in your mouth because his cock is right there, hard, flushed, leaking from the tip, and this is the only logical response you can think of.
Your lips close around the head, and you can hear, feel, his groan vibrate against your clit from below. The sensation travels through you, making your thighs tighten around his shoulders, and you take him deeper in response, your jaw stretching as you slide down his shaft.
His hips start moving, and he's fucking up into your mouth with thrusts that push his cock past your tongue and into the back of your throat. The angle of being upside down makes your gag reflex hit differently, sharper, your throat constricting around him with every push.
"Mmph-" You gag around him, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth and running up toward your nose because gravity is working against you, and your eyes water as he pushes in deep enough that your lips press flush against his base.
He pulls your hips down against his face at the same time, grinding your cunt onto his mouth, and the dual sensation of his tongue on your clit and his cock in your throat creates a never-ending loop.
Every sound you make around him vibrates through his cock and makes his groan against you, and every groan he makes against you vibrates through your clit and makes you moan louder, and the cycle just keeps building on itself until neither of you is making sounds that qualify as human.
Your hands grip the backs of his thighs, nails biting into his skin, your only anchor while the rest of you is suspended in the air, getting destroyed from both ends. His arms tighten around your back whenever your body jerks too hard, keeping you steady, and the strength required to hold you like this while simultaneously eating you out and thrusting into your mouth is something you'll think about later, when you have brain cells to think with.
His tongue circles your clit and then seals over it, sucking hard, and your entire body arches in his grip. Your moan around his cock is muffled and obscene, a wet, gargled sound that would be embarrassing if you had any shame left, and the vibration of it makes his hips stutter up so hard you choke.
"Mmngh-" Spit drips down your chin, or up your chin technically because you're upside down, and his cock slides out of your mouth for a second while you cough and gasp, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his shaft.
He doesn't give you a break. His mouth doesn't leave your cunt, his tongue pressing harder, faster, relentless, and your mouth finds his cock again through the haze, taking him back in because even choking on him feels better than the alternative of not having him in your mouth.
His hips roll up in longer strokes now, less frantic but deeper, and you can feel the tension building in his thighs, the muscles tightening under your fingers. His arms squeeze around your back, pulling your hips down harder against his mouth, and his tongue works your clit in tight, focused circles that are designed to break you.
Everything builds at the same time. His cock pulsing heavier against your tongue, your walls clenching against his mouth, the pressure in your core climbing toward something massive, and his breathing getting faster against your cunt, his groans getting louder, less controlled, desperate in a way he only gets when he's close.
You cum first, barely, by maybe a second.
Your walls seize, and your thighs clamp around his shoulders, and the orgasm crashes through you in a wave so intense your jaw locks around his cock. The constriction of your throat, squeezing around him, plus the vibration of your moan, plus the way your entire body shakes in his grip, is what sends him over.
He cums in your mouth with a groan so deep you feel it in your spine. His hips push up one final time, his cock pulsing thick against your tongue, and you swallow around him because there's nothing else to do in this position, the cum sliding down your throat (or up, gravity is still confusing) while his tongue works you through the last aftershocks.
His arms loosen, not all at once, because if he did, you'd drop violently onto the bed. He eases the tension gradually, lowering your hips back toward the mattress, and you let his cock slip from your mouth with a wet sound that you're too brain dead to be embarrassed about.
"Put me down," you mumble against his thigh, your voice wrecked, your arms shaking. "Please, Kuni, put me down before I die in this position, and you have to explain it to my parents."
He lowers you down carefully, his hands guiding your hips and legs until your back is flat on the mattress beside him. Your head is at the foot of the bed, and your feet are near the pillows, but you don't really care because you're horizontal and alive, and that's enough.
He sits up, looks at you sideways on the bed, completely destroyed, and he doesn't say anything. He just moves you, his hands sliding under your back and your knees as he repositions you properly to put your head up against the pillows where it belongs.
He's quiet when he cleans you up this time, zero commentary about you squirming, no dry remarks about sensitivity, just the warm cloth from the bathroom, careful movements between your legs while his other hand stays on your hip to keep you still when you flinch.
He brings new clothes from your dresser, a pair of underwear, which goes on you first, slides up your legs, then shorts, then a top he pulls over your head and feeds through your arms without asking for your cooperation because he's already learned you won't give it.
He doesn't talk the whole time, which is unusual, because Kuni always has something to say, always has a complaint or a remark or a correction. But right now he's just doing it quietly, focused, tucking the hem of your top down with his fingers before standing up and walking toward your closet.
He changes into the pajama pants and black shirt he keeps in your drawer, and he pulls the Lohen cosplay off in pieces as he does it, dropping each part onto the chair by your desk.
"I'm never wearing that thing again," he says, pulling the top layer of Lohen's outfit off his shoulders with a grimace, his tone flat and final. "Whoever designed this character hates the human body. It feels like it's over 6 layers, especially with the long-sleeve, the cape thing… everything." He drops the last piece and kicks it under the chair. "Scara's cosplay isn't even that heavy because Scara was designed by someone with common sense."
You watch him from the bed, half-lidded, sinking into the pillows, your body so heavy that you feel like you're melting into your own mattress.
He walks back and pulls the covers up, sliding in beside you without ceremony. The second he's horizontal, you're already moving toward him, pressing your face into his chest, your hand curling into the front of his shirt, and his arm wraps about your back.
He kisses your forehead, soft, and then the bridge of your nose when you lift your face up enough, then the corner of your mouth. It's small, quiet presses of his lips against your skin that feel nothing like Scaramouche or Lohen. These are Kuni kisses, the ones he gives when no character is being performed.
The ones he probably doesn't even realize he's giving because they come out of him the same way breathing does.
He tips your chin up with his finger, and his eyes are just blue. Not indigo contacts, not the ones he wore for the Lohen cosplay, just his natural, stupid, annoyingly pretty blue that you fell for before you even knew that you cosplayed.
"Who do you want?" He asks, his voice low, and it's the softest you've heard it all night.
You look at him, at the messy hair, at the body who dyes his hair for a fictional character and hates wigs and complains about having to style his hair everyday and who buys you an abmormal amount of primogems, and probably would get you c6 r5 Lohen the minute he drops because he does that for every character, even when he gets jealous when you simp for a character that you don't just ask him to cosplay like any other logical person dating a cosplayer.
"Kuni," you say, and your voice is small and sure. "Just Kuni."
His mouth twitches, and you can see the shape of a smile trying to form before he catches it and pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin and pressing his lips to your hair.
"Good answer," he murmurs into your scalp, so quiet that you almost miss it.
You close your eyes, your face against the fabric of his shirt, and you're asleep before you can respond. He stays awake for a minute more, his hand moving through your hair in slow repetitive movements. He stares at the ceiling fan, and he doesn't say anything.
He doesn't need to.
I have a Discord now! 18+, for readers, writers, and anyone who wants early wips and a place to chat!! (link)
you’ve been working as a makeup artist for idols for as long as you can remember. but you recently started finding it a little bothersome when a newly assigned idol started pestering you.
3k wc || fluff to eventual smut, not too many details on the smut part, though. also no smooth transition between the scenes because this is mainly a headcanon with short scenarios after. also kind of rushed to post this, i'll proofread again later. c. renjianshilian0 @ twt || rbs are appreciated<3
idol! satoru who would instantly look for you once their performance is done, to seek validation. he needs your assurance like oxygen.
“did you see me? was it good enough? did you like it?” a series of questions immediately bombards you. he had a lopsided grin, bending his knees slightly so you could wipe the beads of sweat that formed on his face with a tissue paper that was quick to absorb the evidence of his movements, but also bits of the foundation you’ve used on him.
“missyyy,” he calls, almost a pitiful whine when you didn’t answer. “you should answer when someone is asking you a question, you know.” his lips pursed.
“i watched you. it was great. i liked it.” your response was short and precise, in order as well as his questions. satoru doesn’t complain, though. just hearing your voice was enough to relieve his exhaustion from being on stage.
“right? you also saw how i was grinding on the sta—mhmp!” you dab a little too hard on his lips with the tissue paper.
idol! satoru who refused to get his makeup done by other makeup artists because he only wants your hands on him—his face, he means.
“satoru! your performance is barely in two hours, and you still have no makeup on,” his manager scolds him. satoru huffs, crossing his arms over his chest like a kid who refused not to have his way.
“and i’m telling you that i only want y/n to do my makeup.” god, how frustrating it was to have the satoru gojo as the idol a person has to work for.
“fine, i’ll call her right now!” his manager finally relents, begrudgingly fishing out his phone from his pocket. the manager turns his back away from him, and satoru was sure he heard a quiet “spoiled brat” remark, but he doesn’t care—he was already imagining the feel of your hands against his skin.
and when you arrive? he was suddenly the most obedient person in the room. sitting with his back straight, hands resting on his thighs, eyes already closed, without you having to tell him to. and of course, the imperceptible twitch of his lips.
idol! satoru that would whine your ears off. complaining that you shouldn’t be touching other men. or women. for that matter. just him.
“i don’t get it. why do you have to do other people’s makeup, huh? am i not enough? are they not paying you well?” he rambles with his eyes closed, fingers fiddling with the leather pants he was told to wear for today’s performance.
you sigh, taking the puff from the table to gently dab under his eyes, locking in the concealer with a setting powder.
“seriously, though. i’m rich,” he speaks again as if earning more than thrice the minimum wage monthly was the most normal thing. you simply hum, not engaging, but not completely dismissing what he wanted to say either.
“if you promise to only work for me, then i can double the amount of your pay—no, triple!”
“you don’t have to,” you respond flatly, now on the process of building up just the right shade of cool-toned light brown shadow over his lids to give it some depth.
“i want to,” he argues. “c’mon. you won’t lose anything—you technically get more,” he persuades, and you could already feel that this was a topic he wasn’t willing to let go for a few days… or weeks… months?
you use a small angled brush to apply contour where his eyebrows connect to his nose, tapping the brush against your hand to remove excess. “i’ll think about it.”
idol! satoru who comes knocking at your apartment door wearing an outfit that you could only describe as looking like a thief at a local convenience store.
“y/n…” his voice is hoarse, and slightly muffled from the mask he’s wearing. he eventually takes it off, as well as his extremely dark shades that perfectly concealed the heaviness of his eye bags, and the black bucket hat that contrasted his white hair.
“i’m sick,” he says to you like a kicked puppy. you look at him and notice that he does look like he’s been feeling under the weather. his nose was slightly red and puffy, his eyes sunken, and the usual vibrant aura he carries around seemed to be dimmed.
you didn’t question how he even got sick in the first place. after all, their schedule has been packed lately. it must’ve taken a toll on him already; you almost feel bad. almost.
“come in,” you eventually decide (against your own will, you think). you open the door to welcome him in, eyes darting in all directions outside to check for any possible stalker that could’ve followed him on his way here.
as soon as you close the door, you feel his strong arms wrap around your waist, his head resting heavily on top of yours. you contemplate pushing him away, knowing he won’t take it well. and it’s not a reaction you want to elicit out of a sick person. or maybe you were just making excuses.
“take care of me,” he purrs. “please?”
you could only sigh in resignation, having accepted your fate.
idol! satoru who cooks you meals that might as well belong in a three-star michelin restaurant— all the while he sticks to his bland foods due to his strict diet.
“what’s the occasion? you guys won an award?” you ask, watching him go back and forth from cooking and plating your meal. you wanted to help, yes, but he was insistent on you remaining put, sitting still, and looking pretty.
“nothing special. i just noticed the staff having barely enough time to eat proper meals recently,” he points out, which was technically true. with the new comeback of his group, everyone remains on alert and on standby for anything they need.
“then you should’ve cooked for the entire team.” it wasn’t a jab nor an actual suggestion—perhaps you were just wondering why. why you.
satoru pauses from stirring the pot, letting out a hum that was too short to be considered thoughtful. “true,” he admits. “but i don’t care for them as much as i do with you.”
you could feel your heart hammer against your chest, then your stomach, which was definitely doing flips. you put up a front, however, not showing him the satisfaction of getting a reaction from his words.
“you’re making too much. you aren’t even going to eat any of these,” you point out. diverting, avoiding, and ignoring.
“these will last you for a few days,” he argues. good point. “and it’s not about being able to share the same meal with you—i just wanted to eat together with you. even if my own meals are tasteless,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
and this time? you had to avert your gaze somewhere else. damn it.
idol! satoru who pulls you inside one of the backstage rooms, not forgetting to lock the door before ushering you hurriedly against a desk.
“satoru, you’re going to ruin your makeup—my work,” you protest as he buries his face against your neck, his hum vibrates through your skin.
“you’ll fix it for me anyway.” his tongue darted out to wet the slope of your neck before biting his teeth into it.
he pulls away slightly. “you always make me so pretty. you deserve a reward for that, don’t you agree?” he leans in again to press a gentle kiss against the bitemark he left on your skin as if to soothe it, but nothing he was doing was soothing your nerves, let alone the warmth you were feeling in your core.
“satoru, not here.”
“mhm, yes here,” he mumbles against your skin. his hot breath fanned across your skin, sending a shiver up your spine.
his lips began to trail kisses up your neck and to your jawline. you could feel the sticky residue of lip tint and lip gloss you had intricately applied on his lips to have the colors complement his skin undertone.
and when he pulls away to look at you? you couldn’t help but feel yourself grow wetter at the sight of pink tint smudged on the corner of his mouth. you knew it was going to be painful fixing it for him later, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care at the moment. he was hot. and he knows it.
idol! satoru who would smear makeup over your body where it wasn’t supposed to be, just to watch your reaction.
satoru swipes his finger over an eyeshadow palette that was discarded openly on the desk you were pinned against. he was thankful you couldn’t see how deep the dent was on the glitter palette, knowing it was a painful sight for someone like you.
your button-up shirt has long been ripped open by him; you were sure you lost a few buttons on it with how eager he was when he tugged it so carelessly.
satoru brings his finger that sparkled with glitter, circling it over the skin around the supple skin of your tits. his action made your breath hitch, hand instinctively coming to his wrist to grip it loosely as if warning him.
but he persists. that was the only logical thing to do in his mind right now. after all, you deserve to be just as pretty as him—if not more. he does the same thing on your other breast. now both the swell of your chest shimmered with glitter. you would’ve never imagined in your life that this was a thing.
his eyes were hazy, dazed, and brimming with lust as he drank in the sight of your breasts out of your bra that he pushed up right after ruining your shirt. his thumbs run over your perky nipples, making you grip the edge of the table.
with the remaining glitter on his finger, he glides it from the valley of your chest down to your navel before his finger hooks the garter of your slacks.
he pulls it down just down to your thighs before doing the same thing with his own pants. his cock springs free from the confinement of his boxers, the tip already leaking with precum, and you could only gulp at the sheer size of it. he nudges it against your pussy, letting the length of his cock glide across your soaked slit, teasing. and also preparing.
idol! satoru who has his cock buried deep inside you as you try your best to fix up his base.
“y/n! satoru! get the makeup done quickly! it’s almost time,” one of the staff shouted from the other side of the door. before you could respond—say that you were almost finished (in both ways, probably), satoru beats you to it, “just five more minutes!”
it was probably better that he was the one to speak because god, you didn’t know what sound could possibly come out of you if you dared open your mouth. all you heard from the staff was an “okay!” before you felt him thrust deeper, knocking the air out of your lungs.
“m-make it quick,” you demand, your nails digging into his arm, forming crescent-shaped marks on his skin. while your other hand continued to stipple the brush over some of his blemishes to conceal it, shakily at that, too.
“oh, you want it faster? naughty, very naughty, miss y/n.” you want to shut him up with your lips. maybe bite into his for payback for getting into your nerves—but you didn’t want to ruin the lip combo you had just finished fixing after he relentlessly showered your skin with kisses a while ago.
so instead, you pick up the gloss again, reapplying it on his lips for the second, no, third time... you lost count. satoru couldn't help it; he feels as though his mouth has gone dry, and so he'll lick it. only to remove the lip product you've just put on.
you let out an exhale of discomfort, there was barely anything supporting your back, and you were starting to get sore from it. satoru notices this and hooks his hands on the underside of your thighs, urging you to wrap your legs around his hips.
with this profound position, he was able to thrust and make you bounce on his cock even better. eliciting broken and quiet moans from both of you.
“f-five minutes,” you remind him breathlessly, as if those two simple words had cost you too much oxygen just to say.
he doesn’t respond. no. instead, he brings one of his hands to your pussy, rubbing the bundle of nerves between your legs, making your thighs clench involuntarily.
“‘m sorry, angel. didn’t want to rush you like he this,” he murmurs, and you feel his thrusts grow sloppier the harder he pistons his cock into you. you throw your head back, arms finding support by encircling his neck.
your chest heaves, the knot in your stomach going tight. you tilt your head down to look at him, noticing the slight streak of white mascara in the corner of his eye. with trembling hands, you wipe it off tenderly with your thumb. and you swear at that moment that you just saw satoru’s eyes have hearts in them from your gesture.
when satoru sees your body convulsing, breath stuttering, and your head falling to his shoulder, he grinds his cock into you a few more times to ride out your orgasm before pulling out abruptly when he cums. ropes of his thick cum spilling against your stomach. he barely has any time to catch his breath when a series of loud knocks startles both of you for the second time.
satoru throws you a guilty look before gently placing you down against the desk, quickly pulling his pants up. he scrambles around the room to find a tissue to wipe your skin with his cum on it. he won’t deny that the sight of it made him want to take you again, but time was his absolute enemy.
he then pulls down your bra to its original state—he should be worrying about himself, but here he was fretting over you instead.
another knock and he groans. “alright, alright!” he presses a very light kiss on your cheek before leaving you alone, not forgetting to lock the door in case anyone tries to come in while you try to clean up.
idol! satoru that, once again, comes knocking at your door. not because he was sick again. no. he wanted to take care of you.
you open the door after peeking through the peephole to see who it is. honestly speaking, you contemplated opening the door for him—after all, this man, an IDOL, was quite literally pounding your pussy a few hours ago. and you weren’t sure if you were ready for a confrontation of some sort.
“hey,” he greets. it wasn’t awkward, per se. but it lacked the usual confidence. like he was just as affected, and maybe overthinking, just like you.
“can i come—uh, go in?” you almost snort at how he catches himself with a word that seemed to trigger his memories. you open the door wider, sidestepping to allow him in.
when he hears the door click, he immediately walks over to you, still at a respectful distance, like he wasn’t pressed up against your bare front this afternoon.
“are you okay? does it hurt anywhere? i’m sorry i left you after that.” his eyes were filled with worry, darting over your entire body as if he could physically see through you just to tell if you were hurting anywhere.
you eventually chuckle. “calm down, i’m okay,” you reassure him, shoulders relaxing from released tension.
you were nervous, unknowing of his intentions for coming here. but seeing how he doesn’t seem to be in a better place, your worries were momentarily forgotten.
“right. good. that’s good,” he says the words as if on autopilot. there was so much to say, but also nothing at all.
“still, you must be sore, somehow,” he says. you feel warmth in your chest with his concern. gone was the satoru that seemed to be hungry for you. because now he's fussing over you like a mother hen.
your eyes seem to light up when you remember something that you hoped would at least lighten up the atmosphere. “hey, you ruined my shirt.”
satoru blinks once. twice. thrice. before you see his cheeks going slightly red when his brain caught on to what you were referring to.
“sorry,” he mumbles quietly, but it doesn’t sound as guilty as he wanted it to be.
he lifts his head to look at you, a small smile now on his face. “i’ll get you a new one.”
“i’ll even have a walk-in closet built for you—for as long as you allow me to ruin more of your shirts in the future.” his usual bravado made its comeback, but you didn’t miss the genuine affection lingering in his eyes, and perhaps a little bit of fear of your rejection.
“i’ll think about it.” it was all you said, but he broke into an immediate stupid big grin like he’s just won the lottery with your unclear answer.
he takes a step closer, hand tentatively reaching out before locking his fingers loosely around your wrist.
“i think a cuddle session is due,” he says coyly as he tugs you over to your couch. he pulls you down with him, plopping onto the soft cushions—except, you land directly on top of him. even if you wanted to move, his strong arms snaked around your waist, his face nuzzling into your nape with a contented sigh.
“you have really nice boobs, by the way.”
a/n a little reference i took from star wars and the recent lads banner hehe. i did this instead of reviewing for midterms. woopsies!
how does natsume sakasaki speak? a helpful-ish tip:
disclaimer that this is only from my own observation
HOW TO TELL WHICH LETTERS TO CAPITALIZE ? look at the syllables.
for words with ONE syllable, only the last letter is capitalized.
for example: triP, catcH, heaT.
then words with MORE than one syllable, the last syllable is always capitalized.
for example: maGIC, magiCIAN, stuPID.
HOW TO TELL WHICH WORDS TO CAPITALIZE ? observe the punctuation marks you add as the words before them are the ones that have capitalized letters.
again, there’s no need to tire out your pretty fingers as only the LAST words have uppercase letters. see examples below and observe:
“Sora is a good kiD, he is always cheerFUL.”
“You are stuPID, Tsumugi.”
“Us magicians are always willing to helP, I can assist you with the help of maGIC.”
so really, if it bothers you, there’s no need to add capital letters in each words per sentence!~
what does he NOT capitalize? usually names, pet names, or words used to address others (like honorifics and stuff). for example: kitten (vomits).
please note that this is just a silly guide and that you still have the right to write his lines however you want!! heck, even i myself write for natsume but i don’t capitalize the words majority of the time. BUT! in case you want to, then may this lil guide help a bit.
why does natsume speak like thaT? he said "By distorting the pronunciation at the end of a sentence, it yields a sense of discomfort.”(wiki) and with that, he ends his sentences with katakana. so in order to give off the same “uncomfortable” feeling in the english server, letters are capitalized.
fun fact: my best friend asked if i major in natsume as one day i just woke up and went “you know what, i wanna observe which words he capitalizes” and rambled about it to them.
and note that this at least how it works majority of the time. i most likely missed a few details but the main point is there already so i won’t bother~
addi: this is still so funny for me to read. imagine writing a post about his speech pattern… can’t be me…
I ACCIDENTALLY PRESSED UNFOLLOW IM SO FUCKING STUPID BYEREHRHAHRHEA i dont want to make it seem like im trying to bump the notification aheurhedaa i knew i should be studying for my midterms
you’ve been working as a makeup artist for idols for as long as you can remember. but you recently started finding it a little bothersome when a newly assigned idol started pestering you.
3k wc || fluff to eventual smut, not too many details on the smut part, though. also no smooth transition between the scenes because this is mainly a headcanon with short scenarios after. also kind of rushed to post this, i'll proofread again later. c. renjianshilian0 @ twt || rbs are appreciated<3
idol! satoru who would instantly look for you once their performance is done, to seek validation. he needs your assurance like oxygen.
“did you see me? was it good enough? did you like it?” a series of questions immediately bombards you. he had a lopsided grin, bending his knees slightly so you could wipe the beads of sweat that formed on his face with a tissue paper that was quick to absorb the evidence of his movements, but also bits of the foundation you’ve used on him.
“missyyy,” he calls, almost a pitiful whine when you didn’t answer. “you should answer when someone is asking you a question, you know.” his lips pursed.
“i watched you. it was great. i liked it.” your response was short and precise, in order as well as his questions. satoru doesn’t complain, though. just hearing your voice was enough to relieve his exhaustion from being on stage.
“right? you also saw how i was grinding on the sta—mhmp!” you dab a little too hard on his lips with the tissue paper.
idol! satoru who refused to get his makeup done by other makeup artists because he only wants your hands on him—his face, he means.
“satoru! your performance is barely in two hours, and you still have no makeup on,” his manager scolds him. satoru huffs, crossing his arms over his chest like a kid who refused not to have his way.
“and i’m telling you that i only want y/n to do my makeup.” god, how frustrating it was to have the satoru gojo as the idol a person has to work for.
“fine, i’ll call her right now!” his manager finally relents, begrudgingly fishing out his phone from his pocket. the manager turns his back away from him, and satoru was sure he heard a quiet “spoiled brat” remark, but he doesn’t care—he was already imagining the feel of your hands against his skin.
and when you arrive? he was suddenly the most obedient person in the room. sitting with his back straight, hands resting on his thighs, eyes already closed, without you having to tell him to. and of course, the imperceptible twitch of his lips.
idol! satoru that would whine your ears off. complaining that you shouldn’t be touching other men. or women. for that matter. just him.
“i don’t get it. why do you have to do other people’s makeup, huh? am i not enough? are they not paying you well?” he rambles with his eyes closed, fingers fiddling with the leather pants he was told to wear for today’s performance.
you sigh, taking the puff from the table to gently dab under his eyes, locking in the concealer with a setting powder.
“seriously, though. i’m rich,” he speaks again as if earning more than thrice the minimum wage monthly was the most normal thing. you simply hum, not engaging, but not completely dismissing what he wanted to say either.
“if you promise to only work for me, then i can double the amount of your pay—no, triple!”
“you don’t have to,” you respond flatly, now on the process of building up just the right shade of cool-toned light brown shadow over his lids to give it some depth.
“i want to,” he argues. “c’mon. you won’t lose anything—you technically get more,” he persuades, and you could already feel that this was a topic he wasn’t willing to let go for a few days… or weeks… months?
you use a small angled brush to apply contour where his eyebrows connect to his nose, tapping the brush against your hand to remove excess. “i’ll think about it.”
idol! satoru who comes knocking at your apartment door wearing an outfit that you could only describe as looking like a thief at a local convenience store.
“y/n…” his voice is hoarse, and slightly muffled from the mask he’s wearing. he eventually takes it off, as well as his extremely dark shades that perfectly concealed the heaviness of his eye bags, and the black bucket hat that contrasted his white hair.
“i’m sick,” he says to you like a kicked puppy. you look at him and notice that he does look like he’s been feeling under the weather. his nose was slightly red and puffy, his eyes sunken, and the usual vibrant aura he carries around seemed to be dimmed.
you didn’t question how he even got sick in the first place. after all, their schedule has been packed lately. it must’ve taken a toll on him already; you almost feel bad. almost.
“come in,” you eventually decide (against your own will, you think). you open the door to welcome him in, eyes darting in all directions outside to check for any possible stalker that could’ve followed him on his way here.
as soon as you close the door, you feel his strong arms wrap around your waist, his head resting heavily on top of yours. you contemplate pushing him away, knowing he won’t take it well. and it’s not a reaction you want to elicit out of a sick person. or maybe you were just making excuses.
“take care of me,” he purrs. “please?”
you could only sigh in resignation, having accepted your fate.
idol! satoru who cooks you meals that might as well belong in a three-star michelin restaurant— all the while he sticks to his bland foods due to his strict diet.
“what’s the occasion? you guys won an award?” you ask, watching him go back and forth from cooking and plating your meal. you wanted to help, yes, but he was insistent on you remaining put, sitting still, and looking pretty.
“nothing special. i just noticed the staff having barely enough time to eat proper meals recently,” he points out, which was technically true. with the new comeback of his group, everyone remains on alert and on standby for anything they need.
“then you should’ve cooked for the entire team.” it wasn’t a jab nor an actual suggestion—perhaps you were just wondering why. why you.
satoru pauses from stirring the pot, letting out a hum that was too short to be considered thoughtful. “true,” he admits. “but i don’t care for them as much as i do with you.”
you could feel your heart hammer against your chest, then your stomach, which was definitely doing flips. you put up a front, however, not showing him the satisfaction of getting a reaction from his words.
“you’re making too much. you aren’t even going to eat any of these,” you point out. diverting, avoiding, and ignoring.
“these will last you for a few days,” he argues. good point. “and it’s not about being able to share the same meal with you—i just wanted to eat together with you. even if my own meals are tasteless,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
and this time? you had to avert your gaze somewhere else. damn it.
idol! satoru who pulls you inside one of the backstage rooms, not forgetting to lock the door before ushering you hurriedly against a desk.
“satoru, you’re going to ruin your makeup—my work,” you protest as he buries his face against your neck, his hum vibrates through your skin.
“you’ll fix it for me anyway.” his tongue darted out to wet the slope of your neck before biting his teeth into it.
he pulls away slightly. “you always make me so pretty. you deserve a reward for that, don’t you agree?” he leans in again to press a gentle kiss against the bitemark he left on your skin as if to soothe it, but nothing he was doing was soothing your nerves, let alone the warmth you were feeling in your core.
“satoru, not here.”
“mhm, yes here,” he mumbles against your skin. his hot breath fanned across your skin, sending a shiver up your spine.
his lips began to trail kisses up your neck and to your jawline. you could feel the sticky residue of lip tint and lip gloss you had intricately applied on his lips to have the colors complement his skin undertone.
and when he pulls away to look at you? you couldn’t help but feel yourself grow wetter at the sight of pink tint smudged on the corner of his mouth. you knew it was going to be painful fixing it for him later, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care at the moment. he was hot. and he knows it.
idol! satoru who would smear makeup over your body where it wasn’t supposed to be, just to watch your reaction.
satoru swipes his finger over an eyeshadow palette that was discarded openly on the desk you were pinned against. he was thankful you couldn’t see how deep the dent was on the glitter palette, knowing it was a painful sight for someone like you.
your button-up shirt has long been ripped open by him; you were sure you lost a few buttons on it with how eager he was when he tugged it so carelessly.
satoru brings his finger that sparkled with glitter, circling it over the skin around the supple skin of your tits. his action made your breath hitch, hand instinctively coming to his wrist to grip it loosely as if warning him.
but he persists. that was the only logical thing to do in his mind right now. after all, you deserve to be just as pretty as him—if not more. he does the same thing on your other breast. now both the swell of your chest shimmered with glitter. you would’ve never imagined in your life that this was a thing.
his eyes were hazy, dazed, and brimming with lust as he drank in the sight of your breasts out of your bra that he pushed up right after ruining your shirt. his thumbs run over your perky nipples, making you grip the edge of the table.
with the remaining glitter on his finger, he glides it from the valley of your chest down to your navel before his finger hooks the garter of your slacks.
he pulls it down just down to your thighs before doing the same thing with his own pants. his cock springs free from the confinement of his boxers, the tip already leaking with precum, and you could only gulp at the sheer size of it. he nudges it against your pussy, letting the length of his cock glide across your soaked slit, teasing. and also preparing.
idol! satoru who has his cock buried deep inside you as you try your best to fix up his base.
“y/n! satoru! get the makeup done quickly! it’s almost time,” one of the staff shouted from the other side of the door. before you could respond—say that you were almost finished (in both ways, probably), satoru beats you to it, “just five more minutes!”
it was probably better that he was the one to speak because god, you didn’t know what sound could possibly come out of you if you dared open your mouth. all you heard from the staff was an “okay!” before you felt him thrust deeper, knocking the air out of your lungs.
“m-make it quick,” you demand, your nails digging into his arm, forming crescent-shaped marks on his skin. while your other hand continued to stipple the brush over some of his blemishes to conceal it, shakily at that, too.
“oh, you want it faster? naughty, very naughty, miss y/n.” you want to shut him up with your lips. maybe bite into his for payback for getting into your nerves—but you didn’t want to ruin the lip combo you had just finished fixing after he relentlessly showered your skin with kisses a while ago.
so instead, you pick up the gloss again, reapplying it on his lips for the second, no, third time... you lost count. satoru couldn't help it; he feels as though his mouth has gone dry, and so he'll lick it. only to remove the lip product you've just put on.
you let out an exhale of discomfort, there was barely anything supporting your back, and you were starting to get sore from it. satoru notices this and hooks his hands on the underside of your thighs, urging you to wrap your legs around his hips.
with this profound position, he was able to thrust and make you bounce on his cock even better. eliciting broken and quiet moans from both of you.
“f-five minutes,” you remind him breathlessly, as if those two simple words had cost you too much oxygen just to say.
he doesn’t respond. no. instead, he brings one of his hands to your pussy, rubbing the bundle of nerves between your legs, making your thighs clench involuntarily.
“‘m sorry, angel. didn’t want to rush you like he this,” he murmurs, and you feel his thrusts grow sloppier the harder he pistons his cock into you. you throw your head back, arms finding support by encircling his neck.
your chest heaves, the knot in your stomach going tight. you tilt your head down to look at him, noticing the slight streak of white mascara in the corner of his eye. with trembling hands, you wipe it off tenderly with your thumb. and you swear at that moment that you just saw satoru’s eyes have hearts in them from your gesture.
when satoru sees your body convulsing, breath stuttering, and your head falling to his shoulder, he grinds his cock into you a few more times to ride out your orgasm before pulling out abruptly when he cums. ropes of his thick cum spilling against your stomach. he barely has any time to catch his breath when a series of loud knocks startles both of you for the second time.
satoru throws you a guilty look before gently placing you down against the desk, quickly pulling his pants up. he scrambles around the room to find a tissue to wipe your skin with his cum on it. he won’t deny that the sight of it made him want to take you again, but time was his absolute enemy.
he then pulls down your bra to its original state—he should be worrying about himself, but here he was fretting over you instead.
another knock and he groans. “alright, alright!” he presses a very light kiss on your cheek before leaving you alone, not forgetting to lock the door in case anyone tries to come in while you try to clean up.
idol! satoru that, once again, comes knocking at your door. not because he was sick again. no. he wanted to take care of you.
you open the door after peeking through the peephole to see who it is. honestly speaking, you contemplated opening the door for him—after all, this man, an IDOL, was quite literally pounding your pussy a few hours ago. and you weren’t sure if you were ready for a confrontation of some sort.
“hey,” he greets. it wasn’t awkward, per se. but it lacked the usual confidence. like he was just as affected, and maybe overthinking, just like you.
“can i come—uh, go in?” you almost snort at how he catches himself with a word that seemed to trigger his memories. you open the door wider, sidestepping to allow him in.
when he hears the door click, he immediately walks over to you, still at a respectful distance, like he wasn’t pressed up against your bare front this afternoon.
“are you okay? does it hurt anywhere? i’m sorry i left you after that.” his eyes were filled with worry, darting over your entire body as if he could physically see through you just to tell if you were hurting anywhere.
you eventually chuckle. “calm down, i’m okay,” you reassure him, shoulders relaxing from released tension.
you were nervous, unknowing of his intentions for coming here. but seeing how he doesn’t seem to be in a better place, your worries were momentarily forgotten.
“right. good. that’s good,” he says the words as if on autopilot. there was so much to say, but also nothing at all.
“still, you must be sore, somehow,” he says. you feel warmth in your chest with his concern. gone was the satoru that seemed to be hungry for you. because now he's fussing over you like a mother hen.
your eyes seem to light up when you remember something that you hoped would at least lighten up the atmosphere. “hey, you ruined my shirt.”
satoru blinks once. twice. thrice. before you see his cheeks going slightly red when his brain caught on to what you were referring to.
“sorry,” he mumbles quietly, but it doesn’t sound as guilty as he wanted it to be.
he lifts his head to look at you, a small smile now on his face. “i’ll get you a new one.”
“i’ll even have a walk-in closet built for you—for as long as you allow me to ruin more of your shirts in the future.” his usual bravado made its comeback, but you didn’t miss the genuine affection lingering in his eyes, and perhaps a little bit of fear of your rejection.
“i’ll think about it.” it was all you said, but he broke into an immediate stupid big grin like he’s just won the lottery with your unclear answer.
he takes a step closer, hand tentatively reaching out before locking his fingers loosely around your wrist.
“i think a cuddle session is due,” he says coyly as he tugs you over to your couch. he pulls you down with him, plopping onto the soft cushions—except, you land directly on top of him. even if you wanted to move, his strong arms snaked around your waist, his face nuzzling into your nape with a contented sigh.
“you have really nice boobs, by the way.”
a/n a little reference i took from star wars and the recent lads banner hehe. i did this instead of reviewing for midterms. woopsies!
feel free to check out my idol!satoru work :> rbs are appreciated !! thank u lovelies<3
“dada carryyyyy.” your little girl stretches her short arms up at her tall father, her little demand making the two of you stop on your tracks. the lilt of her voice brooked no protest. at such a young age, she sure knows how to get what she wants.
“alright, sweetpea. c’mere,” he caves instantly. crouching down to pick up his adorable daughter and cradle her against his chest with only one arm holding up her small body, his other hand occupied with carrying the basket you prepared for your picnic today at the park.
“toru, you’re spoiling her. she’s gonna forget how to walk with how much you give in to her whims,” you chide gently. not that it was going to change anything, given how stubborn satoru is when it comes to his little angel.
“now, now. if the princess wants to be carried, carried she shall be,” he says fondly, his gaze never leaving sayuki's face. he nuzzles his nose against her chubby and rosy cheeks.
you sigh affectionately at the sight of sayuki immediately resting her head on his shoulder, satoru then presses a gentle kiss on her forehead.
a few years passed, and he still hadn’t changed his ways as a father. this exact moment takes you back to when sayuki was just born.
“satoru, i haven’t been able to carry our baby for at least one minute since this morning!” you exasperate. tone clear enough to carry your frustration, while still keeping your voice low so as not to wake the infant.
“it’s okay, sweetheart. just go rest your arms,” he says—under the guise of concern for you, but you know better than that. he was just too entranced with having her in his arms that he didn’t want to let go. not even for a minute.
“that’s not what i mea—toru?!” before you could even argue, satoru sauntered to your shared bedroom with a stupid and dazed smile etched on his features. tired?! how were your arms going to be tired, from carrying air?!
seriously, he might as well start breastfeeding her himself if he had the means too. he was whipped. too whipped. because with you and sayuki beside him, he hardly remembers what it felt like to be lonely.
satoru has always felt like he has so much love to give when he met you—now, he feels as though his heart is going to explode from sheer affection with the new addition to your once two-person team.
you could only shake your head at the flash of memory, choosing not to comment further on the current predicament. it isn’t going to be forever that satoru can carry his little princess. you simply let him have his moment.
gaaahh i really had to write this real quick before i start reviewing for midterms to scratch an itch. ok, i need to study now…SIGH.
you’ve been working as a makeup artist for idols for as long as you can remember. but you recently started finding it a little bothersome when a newly assigned idol started pestering you.
3k wc || fluff to eventual smut, not too many details on the smut part, though. also no smooth transition between the scenes because this is mainly a headcanon with short scenarios after. also kind of rushed to post this, i'll proofread again later. c. renjianshilian0 @ twt || rbs are appreciated<3
idol! satoru who would instantly look for you once their performance is done, to seek validation. he needs your assurance like oxygen.
“did you see me? was it good enough? did you like it?” a series of questions immediately bombards you. he had a lopsided grin, bending his knees slightly so you could wipe the beads of sweat that formed on his face with a tissue paper that was quick to absorb the evidence of his movements, but also bits of the foundation you’ve used on him.
“missyyy,” he calls, almost a pitiful whine when you didn’t answer. “you should answer when someone is asking you a question, you know.” his lips pursed.
“i watched you. it was great. i liked it.” your response was short and precise, in order as well as his questions. satoru doesn’t complain, though. just hearing your voice was enough to relieve his exhaustion from being on stage.
“right? you also saw how i was grinding on the sta—mhmp!” you dab a little too hard on his lips with the tissue paper.
idol! satoru who refused to get his makeup done by other makeup artists because he only wants your hands on him—his face, he means.
“satoru! your performance is barely in two hours, and you still have no makeup on,” his manager scolds him. satoru huffs, crossing his arms over his chest like a kid who refused not to have his way.
“and i’m telling you that i only want y/n to do my makeup.” god, how frustrating it was to have the satoru gojo as the idol a person has to work for.
“fine, i’ll call her right now!” his manager finally relents, begrudgingly fishing out his phone from his pocket. the manager turns his back away from him, and satoru was sure he heard a quiet “spoiled brat” remark, but he doesn’t care—he was already imagining the feel of your hands against his skin.
and when you arrive? he was suddenly the most obedient person in the room. sitting with his back straight, hands resting on his thighs, eyes already closed, without you having to tell him to. and of course, the imperceptible twitch of his lips.
idol! satoru that would whine your ears off. complaining that you shouldn’t be touching other men. or women. for that matter. just him.
“i don’t get it. why do you have to do other people’s makeup, huh? am i not enough? are they not paying you well?” he rambles with his eyes closed, fingers fiddling with the leather pants he was told to wear for today’s performance.
you sigh, taking the puff from the table to gently dab under his eyes, locking in the concealer with a setting powder.
“seriously, though. i’m rich,” he speaks again as if earning more than thrice the minimum wage monthly was the most normal thing. you simply hum, not engaging, but not completely dismissing what he wanted to say either.
“if you promise to only work for me, then i can double the amount of your pay—no, triple!”
“you don’t have to,” you respond flatly, now on the process of building up just the right shade of cool-toned light brown shadow over his lids to give it some depth.
“i want to,” he argues. “c’mon. you won’t lose anything—you technically get more,” he persuades, and you could already feel that this was a topic he wasn’t willing to let go for a few days… or weeks… months?
you use a small angled brush to apply contour where his eyebrows connect to his nose, tapping the brush against your hand to remove excess. “i’ll think about it.”
idol! satoru who comes knocking at your apartment door wearing an outfit that you could only describe as looking like a thief at a local convenience store.
“y/n…” his voice is hoarse, and slightly muffled from the mask he’s wearing. he eventually takes it off, as well as his extremely dark shades that perfectly concealed the heaviness of his eye bags, and the black bucket hat that contrasted his white hair.
“i’m sick,” he says to you like a kicked puppy. you look at him and notice that he does look like he’s been feeling under the weather. his nose was slightly red and puffy, his eyes sunken, and the usual vibrant aura he carries around seemed to be dimmed.
you didn’t question how he even got sick in the first place. after all, their schedule has been packed lately. it must’ve taken a toll on him already; you almost feel bad. almost.
“come in,” you eventually decide (against your own will, you think). you open the door to welcome him in, eyes darting in all directions outside to check for any possible stalker that could’ve followed him on his way here.
as soon as you close the door, you feel his strong arms wrap around your waist, his head resting heavily on top of yours. you contemplate pushing him away, knowing he won’t take it well. and it’s not a reaction you want to elicit out of a sick person. or maybe you were just making excuses.
“take care of me,” he purrs. “please?”
you could only sigh in resignation, having accepted your fate.
idol! satoru who cooks you meals that might as well belong in a three-star michelin restaurant— all the while he sticks to his bland foods due to his strict diet.
“what’s the occasion? you guys won an award?” you ask, watching him go back and forth from cooking and plating your meal. you wanted to help, yes, but he was insistent on you remaining put, sitting still, and looking pretty.
“nothing special. i just noticed the staff having barely enough time to eat proper meals recently,” he points out, which was technically true. with the new comeback of his group, everyone remains on alert and on standby for anything they need.
“then you should’ve cooked for the entire team.” it wasn’t a jab nor an actual suggestion—perhaps you were just wondering why. why you.
satoru pauses from stirring the pot, letting out a hum that was too short to be considered thoughtful. “true,” he admits. “but i don’t care for them as much as i do with you.”
you could feel your heart hammer against your chest, then your stomach, which was definitely doing flips. you put up a front, however, not showing him the satisfaction of getting a reaction from his words.
“you’re making too much. you aren’t even going to eat any of these,” you point out. diverting, avoiding, and ignoring.
“these will last you for a few days,” he argues. good point. “and it’s not about being able to share the same meal with you—i just wanted to eat together with you. even if my own meals are tasteless,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
and this time? you had to avert your gaze somewhere else. damn it.
idol! satoru who pulls you inside one of the backstage rooms, not forgetting to lock the door before ushering you hurriedly against a desk.
“satoru, you’re going to ruin your makeup—my work,” you protest as he buries his face against your neck, his hum vibrates through your skin.
“you’ll fix it for me anyway.” his tongue darted out to wet the slope of your neck before biting his teeth into it.
he pulls away slightly. “you always make me so pretty. you deserve a reward for that, don’t you agree?” he leans in again to press a gentle kiss against the bitemark he left on your skin as if to soothe it, but nothing he was doing was soothing your nerves, let alone the warmth you were feeling in your core.
“satoru, not here.”
“mhm, yes here,” he mumbles against your skin. his hot breath fanned across your skin, sending a shiver up your spine.
his lips began to trail kisses up your neck and to your jawline. you could feel the sticky residue of lip tint and lip gloss you had intricately applied on his lips to have the colors complement his skin undertone.
and when he pulls away to look at you? you couldn’t help but feel yourself grow wetter at the sight of pink tint smudged on the corner of his mouth. you knew it was going to be painful fixing it for him later, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care at the moment. he was hot. and he knows it.
idol! satoru who would smear makeup over your body where it wasn’t supposed to be, just to watch your reaction.
satoru swipes his finger over an eyeshadow palette that was discarded openly on the desk you were pinned against. he was thankful you couldn’t see how deep the dent was on the glitter palette, knowing it was a painful sight for someone like you.
your button-up shirt has long been ripped open by him; you were sure you lost a few buttons on it with how eager he was when he tugged it so carelessly.
satoru brings his finger that sparkled with glitter, circling it over the skin around the supple skin of your tits. his action made your breath hitch, hand instinctively coming to his wrist to grip it loosely as if warning him.
but he persists. that was the only logical thing to do in his mind right now. after all, you deserve to be just as pretty as him—if not more. he does the same thing on your other breast. now both the swell of your chest shimmered with glitter. you would’ve never imagined in your life that this was a thing.
his eyes were hazy, dazed, and brimming with lust as he drank in the sight of your breasts out of your bra that he pushed up right after ruining your shirt. his thumbs run over your perky nipples, making you grip the edge of the table.
with the remaining glitter on his finger, he glides it from the valley of your chest down to your navel before his finger hooks the garter of your slacks.
he pulls it down just down to your thighs before doing the same thing with his own pants. his cock springs free from the confinement of his boxers, the tip already leaking with precum, and you could only gulp at the sheer size of it. he nudges it against your pussy, letting the length of his cock glide across your soaked slit, teasing. and also preparing.
idol! satoru who has his cock buried deep inside you as you try your best to fix up his base.
“y/n! satoru! get the makeup done quickly! it’s almost time,” one of the staff shouted from the other side of the door. before you could respond—say that you were almost finished (in both ways, probably), satoru beats you to it, “just five more minutes!”
it was probably better that he was the one to speak because god, you didn’t know what sound could possibly come out of you if you dared open your mouth. all you heard from the staff was an “okay!” before you felt him thrust deeper, knocking the air out of your lungs.
“m-make it quick,” you demand, your nails digging into his arm, forming crescent-shaped marks on his skin. while your other hand continued to stipple the brush over some of his blemishes to conceal it, shakily at that, too.
“oh, you want it faster? naughty, very naughty, miss y/n.” you want to shut him up with your lips. maybe bite into his for payback for getting into your nerves—but you didn’t want to ruin the lip combo you had just finished fixing after he relentlessly showered your skin with kisses a while ago.
so instead, you pick up the gloss again, reapplying it on his lips for the second, no, third time... you lost count. satoru couldn't help it; he feels as though his mouth has gone dry, and so he'll lick it. only to remove the lip product you've just put on.
you let out an exhale of discomfort, there was barely anything supporting your back, and you were starting to get sore from it. satoru notices this and hooks his hands on the underside of your thighs, urging you to wrap your legs around his hips.
with this profound position, he was able to thrust and make you bounce on his cock even better. eliciting broken and quiet moans from both of you.
“f-five minutes,” you remind him breathlessly, as if those two simple words had cost you too much oxygen just to say.
he doesn’t respond. no. instead, he brings one of his hands to your pussy, rubbing the bundle of nerves between your legs, making your thighs clench involuntarily.
“‘m sorry, angel. didn’t want to rush you like he this,” he murmurs, and you feel his thrusts grow sloppier the harder he pistons his cock into you. you throw your head back, arms finding support by encircling his neck.
your chest heaves, the knot in your stomach going tight. you tilt your head down to look at him, noticing the slight streak of white mascara in the corner of his eye. with trembling hands, you wipe it off tenderly with your thumb. and you swear at that moment that you just saw satoru’s eyes have hearts in them from your gesture.
when satoru sees your body convulsing, breath stuttering, and your head falling to his shoulder, he grinds his cock into you a few more times to ride out your orgasm before pulling out abruptly when he cums. ropes of his thick cum spilling against your stomach. he barely has any time to catch his breath when a series of loud knocks startles both of you for the second time.
satoru throws you a guilty look before gently placing you down against the desk, quickly pulling his pants up. he scrambles around the room to find a tissue to wipe your skin with his cum on it. he won’t deny that the sight of it made him want to take you again, but time was his absolute enemy.
he then pulls down your bra to its original state—he should be worrying about himself, but here he was fretting over you instead.
another knock and he groans. “alright, alright!” he presses a very light kiss on your cheek before leaving you alone, not forgetting to lock the door in case anyone tries to come in while you try to clean up.
idol! satoru that, once again, comes knocking at your door. not because he was sick again. no. he wanted to take care of you.
you open the door after peeking through the peephole to see who it is. honestly speaking, you contemplated opening the door for him—after all, this man, an IDOL, was quite literally pounding your pussy a few hours ago. and you weren’t sure if you were ready for a confrontation of some sort.
“hey,” he greets. it wasn’t awkward, per se. but it lacked the usual confidence. like he was just as affected, and maybe overthinking, just like you.
“can i come—uh, go in?” you almost snort at how he catches himself with a word that seemed to trigger his memories. you open the door wider, sidestepping to allow him in.
when he hears the door click, he immediately walks over to you, still at a respectful distance, like he wasn’t pressed up against your bare front this afternoon.
“are you okay? does it hurt anywhere? i’m sorry i left you after that.” his eyes were filled with worry, darting over your entire body as if he could physically see through you just to tell if you were hurting anywhere.
you eventually chuckle. “calm down, i’m okay,” you reassure him, shoulders relaxing from released tension.
you were nervous, unknowing of his intentions for coming here. but seeing how he doesn’t seem to be in a better place, your worries were momentarily forgotten.
“right. good. that’s good,” he says the words as if on autopilot. there was so much to say, but also nothing at all.
“still, you must be sore, somehow,” he says. you feel warmth in your chest with his concern. gone was the satoru that seemed to be hungry for you. because now he's fussing over you like a mother hen.
your eyes seem to light up when you remember something that you hoped would at least lighten up the atmosphere. “hey, you ruined my shirt.”
satoru blinks once. twice. thrice. before you see his cheeks going slightly red when his brain caught on to what you were referring to.
“sorry,” he mumbles quietly, but it doesn’t sound as guilty as he wanted it to be.
he lifts his head to look at you, a small smile now on his face. “i’ll get you a new one.”
“i’ll even have a walk-in closet built for you—for as long as you allow me to ruin more of your shirts in the future.” his usual bravado made its comeback, but you didn’t miss the genuine affection lingering in his eyes, and perhaps a little bit of fear of your rejection.
“i’ll think about it.” it was all you said, but he broke into an immediate stupid big grin like he’s just won the lottery with your unclear answer.
he takes a step closer, hand tentatively reaching out before locking his fingers loosely around your wrist.
“i think a cuddle session is due,” he says coyly as he tugs you over to your couch. he pulls you down with him, plopping onto the soft cushions—except, you land directly on top of him. even if you wanted to move, his strong arms snaked around your waist, his face nuzzling into your nape with a contented sigh.
“you have really nice boobs, by the way.”
a/n a little reference i took from star wars and the recent lads banner hehe. i did this instead of reviewing for midterms. woopsies!
you’ve been working as a makeup artist for idols for as long as you can remember. but you recently started finding it a little bothersome when a newly assigned idol started pestering you.
3k wc || fluff to eventual smut, not too many details on the smut part, though. also no smooth transition between the scenes because this is mainly a headcanon with short scenarios after. also kind of rushed to post this, i'll proofread again later. c. renjianshilian0 @ twt || rbs are appreciated<3
idol! satoru who would instantly look for you once their performance is done, to seek validation. he needs your assurance like oxygen.
“did you see me? was it good enough? did you like it?” a series of questions immediately bombards you. he had a lopsided grin, bending his knees slightly so you could wipe the beads of sweat that formed on his face with a tissue paper that was quick to absorb the evidence of his movements, but also bits of the foundation you’ve used on him.
“missyyy,” he calls, almost a pitiful whine when you didn’t answer. “you should answer when someone is asking you a question, you know.” his lips pursed.
“i watched you. it was great. i liked it.” your response was short and precise, in order as well as his questions. satoru doesn’t complain, though. just hearing your voice was enough to relieve his exhaustion from being on stage.
“right? you also saw how i was grinding on the sta—mhmp!” you dab a little too hard on his lips with the tissue paper.
idol! satoru who refused to get his makeup done by other makeup artists because he only wants your hands on him—his face, he means.
“satoru! your performance is barely in two hours, and you still have no makeup on,” his manager scolds him. satoru huffs, crossing his arms over his chest like a kid who refused not to have his way.
“and i’m telling you that i only want y/n to do my makeup.” god, how frustrating it was to have the satoru gojo as the idol a person has to work for.
“fine, i’ll call her right now!” his manager finally relents, begrudgingly fishing out his phone from his pocket. the manager turns his back away from him, and satoru was sure he heard a quiet “spoiled brat” remark, but he doesn’t care—he was already imagining the feel of your hands against his skin.
and when you arrive? he was suddenly the most obedient person in the room. sitting with his back straight, hands resting on his thighs, eyes already closed, without you having to tell him to. and of course, the imperceptible twitch of his lips.
idol! satoru that would whine your ears off. complaining that you shouldn’t be touching other men. or women. for that matter. just him.
“i don’t get it. why do you have to do other people’s makeup, huh? am i not enough? are they not paying you well?” he rambles with his eyes closed, fingers fiddling with the leather pants he was told to wear for today’s performance.
you sigh, taking the puff from the table to gently dab under his eyes, locking in the concealer with a setting powder.
“seriously, though. i’m rich,” he speaks again as if earning more than thrice the minimum wage monthly was the most normal thing. you simply hum, not engaging, but not completely dismissing what he wanted to say either.
“if you promise to only work for me, then i can double the amount of your pay—no, triple!”
“you don’t have to,” you respond flatly, now on the process of building up just the right shade of cool-toned light brown shadow over his lids to give it some depth.
“i want to,” he argues. “c’mon. you won’t lose anything—you technically get more,” he persuades, and you could already feel that this was a topic he wasn’t willing to let go for a few days… or weeks… months?
you use a small angled brush to apply contour where his eyebrows connect to his nose, tapping the brush against your hand to remove excess. “i’ll think about it.”
idol! satoru who comes knocking at your apartment door wearing an outfit that you could only describe as looking like a thief at a local convenience store.
“y/n…” his voice is hoarse, and slightly muffled from the mask he’s wearing. he eventually takes it off, as well as his extremely dark shades that perfectly concealed the heaviness of his eye bags, and the black bucket hat that contrasted his white hair.
“i’m sick,” he says to you like a kicked puppy. you look at him and notice that he does look like he’s been feeling under the weather. his nose was slightly red and puffy, his eyes sunken, and the usual vibrant aura he carries around seemed to be dimmed.
you didn’t question how he even got sick in the first place. after all, their schedule has been packed lately. it must’ve taken a toll on him already; you almost feel bad. almost.
“come in,” you eventually decide (against your own will, you think). you open the door to welcome him in, eyes darting in all directions outside to check for any possible stalker that could’ve followed him on his way here.
as soon as you close the door, you feel his strong arms wrap around your waist, his head resting heavily on top of yours. you contemplate pushing him away, knowing he won’t take it well. and it’s not a reaction you want to elicit out of a sick person. or maybe you were just making excuses.
“take care of me,” he purrs. “please?”
you could only sigh in resignation, having accepted your fate.
idol! satoru who cooks you meals that might as well belong in a three-star michelin restaurant— all the while he sticks to his bland foods due to his strict diet.
“what’s the occasion? you guys won an award?” you ask, watching him go back and forth from cooking and plating your meal. you wanted to help, yes, but he was insistent on you remaining put, sitting still, and looking pretty.
“nothing special. i just noticed the staff having barely enough time to eat proper meals recently,” he points out, which was technically true. with the new comeback of his group, everyone remains on alert and on standby for anything they need.
“then you should’ve cooked for the entire team.” it wasn’t a jab nor an actual suggestion—perhaps you were just wondering why. why you.
satoru pauses from stirring the pot, letting out a hum that was too short to be considered thoughtful. “true,” he admits. “but i don’t care for them as much as i do with you.”
you could feel your heart hammer against your chest, then your stomach, which was definitely doing flips. you put up a front, however, not showing him the satisfaction of getting a reaction from his words.
“you’re making too much. you aren’t even going to eat any of these,” you point out. diverting, avoiding, and ignoring.
“these will last you for a few days,” he argues. good point. “and it’s not about being able to share the same meal with you—i just wanted to eat together with you. even if my own meals are tasteless,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
and this time? you had to avert your gaze somewhere else. damn it.
idol! satoru who pulls you inside one of the backstage rooms, not forgetting to lock the door before ushering you hurriedly against a desk.
“satoru, you’re going to ruin your makeup—my work,” you protest as he buries his face against your neck, his hum vibrates through your skin.
“you’ll fix it for me anyway.” his tongue darted out to wet the slope of your neck before biting his teeth into it.
he pulls away slightly. “you always make me so pretty. you deserve a reward for that, don’t you agree?” he leans in again to press a gentle kiss against the bitemark he left on your skin as if to soothe it, but nothing he was doing was soothing your nerves, let alone the warmth you were feeling in your core.
“satoru, not here.”
“mhm, yes here,” he mumbles against your skin. his hot breath fanned across your skin, sending a shiver up your spine.
his lips began to trail kisses up your neck and to your jawline. you could feel the sticky residue of lip tint and lip gloss you had intricately applied on his lips to have the colors complement his skin undertone.
and when he pulls away to look at you? you couldn’t help but feel yourself grow wetter at the sight of pink tint smudged on the corner of his mouth. you knew it was going to be painful fixing it for him later, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care at the moment. he was hot. and he knows it.
idol! satoru who would smear makeup over your body where it wasn’t supposed to be, just to watch your reaction.
satoru swipes his finger over an eyeshadow palette that was discarded openly on the desk you were pinned against. he was thankful you couldn’t see how deep the dent was on the glitter palette, knowing it was a painful sight for someone like you.
your button-up shirt has long been ripped open by him; you were sure you lost a few buttons on it with how eager he was when he tugged it so carelessly.
satoru brings his finger that sparkled with glitter, circling it over the skin around the supple skin of your tits. his action made your breath hitch, hand instinctively coming to his wrist to grip it loosely as if warning him.
but he persists. that was the only logical thing to do in his mind right now. after all, you deserve to be just as pretty as him—if not more. he does the same thing on your other breast. now both the swell of your chest shimmered with glitter. you would’ve never imagined in your life that this was a thing.
his eyes were hazy, dazed, and brimming with lust as he drank in the sight of your breasts out of your bra that he pushed up right after ruining your shirt. his thumbs run over your perky nipples, making you grip the edge of the table.
with the remaining glitter on his finger, he glides it from the valley of your chest down to your navel before his finger hooks the garter of your slacks.
he pulls it down just down to your thighs before doing the same thing with his own pants. his cock springs free from the confinement of his boxers, the tip already leaking with precum, and you could only gulp at the sheer size of it. he nudges it against your pussy, letting the length of his cock glide across your soaked slit, teasing. and also preparing.
idol! satoru who has his cock buried deep inside you as you try your best to fix up his base.
“y/n! satoru! get the makeup done quickly! it’s almost time,” one of the staff shouted from the other side of the door. before you could respond—say that you were almost finished (in both ways, probably), satoru beats you to it, “just five more minutes!”
it was probably better that he was the one to speak because god, you didn’t know what sound could possibly come out of you if you dared open your mouth. all you heard from the staff was an “okay!” before you felt him thrust deeper, knocking the air out of your lungs.
“m-make it quick,” you demand, your nails digging into his arm, forming crescent-shaped marks on his skin. while your other hand continued to stipple the brush over some of his blemishes to conceal it, shakily at that, too.
“oh, you want it faster? naughty, very naughty, miss y/n.” you want to shut him up with your lips. maybe bite into his for payback for getting into your nerves—but you didn’t want to ruin the lip combo you had just finished fixing after he relentlessly showered your skin with kisses a while ago.
so instead, you pick up the gloss again, reapplying it on his lips for the second, no, third time... you lost count. satoru couldn't help it; he feels as though his mouth has gone dry, and so he'll lick it. only to remove the lip product you've just put on.
you let out an exhale of discomfort, there was barely anything supporting your back, and you were starting to get sore from it. satoru notices this and hooks his hands on the underside of your thighs, urging you to wrap your legs around his hips.
with this profound position, he was able to thrust and make you bounce on his cock even better. eliciting broken and quiet moans from both of you.
“f-five minutes,” you remind him breathlessly, as if those two simple words had cost you too much oxygen just to say.
he doesn’t respond. no. instead, he brings one of his hands to your pussy, rubbing the bundle of nerves between your legs, making your thighs clench involuntarily.
“‘m sorry, angel. didn’t want to rush you like he this,” he murmurs, and you feel his thrusts grow sloppier the harder he pistons his cock into you. you throw your head back, arms finding support by encircling his neck.
your chest heaves, the knot in your stomach going tight. you tilt your head down to look at him, noticing the slight streak of white mascara in the corner of his eye. with trembling hands, you wipe it off tenderly with your thumb. and you swear at that moment that you just saw satoru’s eyes have hearts in them from your gesture.
when satoru sees your body convulsing, breath stuttering, and your head falling to his shoulder, he grinds his cock into you a few more times to ride out your orgasm before pulling out abruptly when he cums. ropes of his thick cum spilling against your stomach. he barely has any time to catch his breath when a series of loud knocks startles both of you for the second time.
satoru throws you a guilty look before gently placing you down against the desk, quickly pulling his pants up. he scrambles around the room to find a tissue to wipe your skin with his cum on it. he won’t deny that the sight of it made him want to take you again, but time was his absolute enemy.
he then pulls down your bra to its original state—he should be worrying about himself, but here he was fretting over you instead.
another knock and he groans. “alright, alright!” he presses a very light kiss on your cheek before leaving you alone, not forgetting to lock the door in case anyone tries to come in while you try to clean up.
idol! satoru that, once again, comes knocking at your door. not because he was sick again. no. he wanted to take care of you.
you open the door after peeking through the peephole to see who it is. honestly speaking, you contemplated opening the door for him—after all, this man, an IDOL, was quite literally pounding your pussy a few hours ago. and you weren’t sure if you were ready for a confrontation of some sort.
“hey,” he greets. it wasn’t awkward, per se. but it lacked the usual confidence. like he was just as affected, and maybe overthinking, just like you.
“can i come—uh, go in?” you almost snort at how he catches himself with a word that seemed to trigger his memories. you open the door wider, sidestepping to allow him in.
when he hears the door click, he immediately walks over to you, still at a respectful distance, like he wasn’t pressed up against your bare front this afternoon.
“are you okay? does it hurt anywhere? i’m sorry i left you after that.” his eyes were filled with worry, darting over your entire body as if he could physically see through you just to tell if you were hurting anywhere.
you eventually chuckle. “calm down, i’m okay,” you reassure him, shoulders relaxing from released tension.
you were nervous, unknowing of his intentions for coming here. but seeing how he doesn’t seem to be in a better place, your worries were momentarily forgotten.
“right. good. that’s good,” he says the words as if on autopilot. there was so much to say, but also nothing at all.
“still, you must be sore, somehow,” he says. you feel warmth in your chest with his concern. gone was the satoru that seemed to be hungry for you. because now he's fussing over you like a mother hen.
your eyes seem to light up when you remember something that you hoped would at least lighten up the atmosphere. “hey, you ruined my shirt.”
satoru blinks once. twice. thrice. before you see his cheeks going slightly red when his brain caught on to what you were referring to.
“sorry,” he mumbles quietly, but it doesn’t sound as guilty as he wanted it to be.
he lifts his head to look at you, a small smile now on his face. “i’ll get you a new one.”
“i’ll even have a walk-in closet built for you—for as long as you allow me to ruin more of your shirts in the future.” his usual bravado made its comeback, but you didn’t miss the genuine affection lingering in his eyes, and perhaps a little bit of fear of your rejection.
“i’ll think about it.” it was all you said, but he broke into an immediate stupid big grin like he’s just won the lottery with your unclear answer.
he takes a step closer, hand tentatively reaching out before locking his fingers loosely around your wrist.
“i think a cuddle session is due,” he says coyly as he tugs you over to your couch. he pulls you down with him, plopping onto the soft cushions—except, you land directly on top of him. even if you wanted to move, his strong arms snaked around your waist, his face nuzzling into your nape with a contented sigh.
“you have really nice boobs, by the way.”
a/n a little reference i took from star wars and the recent lads banner hehe. i did this instead of reviewing for midterms. woopsies!
you’ve been working as a makeup artist for idols for as long as you can remember. but you recently started finding it a little bothersome when a newly assigned idol started pestering you.
3k wc || fluff to eventual smut, not too many details on the smut part, though. also no smooth transition between the scenes because this is mainly a headcanon with short scenarios after. also kind of rushed to post this, i'll proofread again later. c. renjianshilian0 @ twt || rbs are appreciated<3
idol! satoru who would instantly look for you once their performance is done, to seek validation. he needs your assurance like oxygen.
“did you see me? was it good enough? did you like it?” a series of questions immediately bombards you. he had a lopsided grin, bending his knees slightly so you could wipe the beads of sweat that formed on his face with a tissue paper that was quick to absorb the evidence of his movements, but also bits of the foundation you’ve used on him.
“missyyy,” he calls, almost a pitiful whine when you didn’t answer. “you should answer when someone is asking you a question, you know.” his lips pursed.
“i watched you. it was great. i liked it.” your response was short and precise, in order as well as his questions. satoru doesn’t complain, though. just hearing your voice was enough to relieve his exhaustion from being on stage.
“right? you also saw how i was grinding on the sta—mhmp!” you dab a little too hard on his lips with the tissue paper.
idol! satoru who refused to get his makeup done by other makeup artists because he only wants your hands on him—his face, he means.
“satoru! your performance is barely in two hours, and you still have no makeup on,” his manager scolds him. satoru huffs, crossing his arms over his chest like a kid who refused not to have his way.
“and i’m telling you that i only want y/n to do my makeup.” god, how frustrating it was to have the satoru gojo as the idol a person has to work for.
“fine, i’ll call her right now!” his manager finally relents, begrudgingly fishing out his phone from his pocket. the manager turns his back away from him, and satoru was sure he heard a quiet “spoiled brat” remark, but he doesn’t care—he was already imagining the feel of your hands against his skin.
and when you arrive? he was suddenly the most obedient person in the room. sitting with his back straight, hands resting on his thighs, eyes already closed, without you having to tell him to. and of course, the imperceptible twitch of his lips.
idol! satoru that would whine your ears off. complaining that you shouldn’t be touching other men. or women. for that matter. just him.
“i don’t get it. why do you have to do other people’s makeup, huh? am i not enough? are they not paying you well?” he rambles with his eyes closed, fingers fiddling with the leather pants he was told to wear for today’s performance.
you sigh, taking the puff from the table to gently dab under his eyes, locking in the concealer with a setting powder.
“seriously, though. i’m rich,” he speaks again as if earning more than thrice the minimum wage monthly was the most normal thing. you simply hum, not engaging, but not completely dismissing what he wanted to say either.
“if you promise to only work for me, then i can double the amount of your pay—no, triple!”
“you don’t have to,” you respond flatly, now on the process of building up just the right shade of cool-toned light brown shadow over his lids to give it some depth.
“i want to,” he argues. “c’mon. you won’t lose anything—you technically get more,” he persuades, and you could already feel that this was a topic he wasn’t willing to let go for a few days… or weeks… months?
you use a small angled brush to apply contour where his eyebrows connect to his nose, tapping the brush against your hand to remove excess. “i’ll think about it.”
idol! satoru who comes knocking at your apartment door wearing an outfit that you could only describe as looking like a thief at a local convenience store.
“y/n…” his voice is hoarse, and slightly muffled from the mask he’s wearing. he eventually takes it off, as well as his extremely dark shades that perfectly concealed the heaviness of his eye bags, and the black bucket hat that contrasted his white hair.
“i’m sick,” he says to you like a kicked puppy. you look at him and notice that he does look like he’s been feeling under the weather. his nose was slightly red and puffy, his eyes sunken, and the usual vibrant aura he carries around seemed to be dimmed.
you didn’t question how he even got sick in the first place. after all, their schedule has been packed lately. it must’ve taken a toll on him already; you almost feel bad. almost.
“come in,” you eventually decide (against your own will, you think). you open the door to welcome him in, eyes darting in all directions outside to check for any possible stalker that could’ve followed him on his way here.
as soon as you close the door, you feel his strong arms wrap around your waist, his head resting heavily on top of yours. you contemplate pushing him away, knowing he won’t take it well. and it’s not a reaction you want to elicit out of a sick person. or maybe you were just making excuses.
“take care of me,” he purrs. “please?”
you could only sigh in resignation, having accepted your fate.
idol! satoru who cooks you meals that might as well belong in a three-star michelin restaurant— all the while he sticks to his bland foods due to his strict diet.
“what’s the occasion? you guys won an award?” you ask, watching him go back and forth from cooking and plating your meal. you wanted to help, yes, but he was insistent on you remaining put, sitting still, and looking pretty.
“nothing special. i just noticed the staff having barely enough time to eat proper meals recently,” he points out, which was technically true. with the new comeback of his group, everyone remains on alert and on standby for anything they need.
“then you should’ve cooked for the entire team.” it wasn’t a jab nor an actual suggestion—perhaps you were just wondering why. why you.
satoru pauses from stirring the pot, letting out a hum that was too short to be considered thoughtful. “true,” he admits. “but i don’t care for them as much as i do with you.”
you could feel your heart hammer against your chest, then your stomach, which was definitely doing flips. you put up a front, however, not showing him the satisfaction of getting a reaction from his words.
“you’re making too much. you aren’t even going to eat any of these,” you point out. diverting, avoiding, and ignoring.
“these will last you for a few days,” he argues. good point. “and it’s not about being able to share the same meal with you—i just wanted to eat together with you. even if my own meals are tasteless,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
and this time? you had to avert your gaze somewhere else. damn it.
idol! satoru who pulls you inside one of the backstage rooms, not forgetting to lock the door before ushering you hurriedly against a desk.
“satoru, you’re going to ruin your makeup—my work,” you protest as he buries his face against your neck, his hum vibrates through your skin.
“you’ll fix it for me anyway.” his tongue darted out to wet the slope of your neck before biting his teeth into it.
he pulls away slightly. “you always make me so pretty. you deserve a reward for that, don’t you agree?” he leans in again to press a gentle kiss against the bitemark he left on your skin as if to soothe it, but nothing he was doing was soothing your nerves, let alone the warmth you were feeling in your core.
“satoru, not here.”
“mhm, yes here,” he mumbles against your skin. his hot breath fanned across your skin, sending a shiver up your spine.
his lips began to trail kisses up your neck and to your jawline. you could feel the sticky residue of lip tint and lip gloss you had intricately applied on his lips to have the colors complement his skin undertone.
and when he pulls away to look at you? you couldn’t help but feel yourself grow wetter at the sight of pink tint smudged on the corner of his mouth. you knew it was going to be painful fixing it for him later, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care at the moment. he was hot. and he knows it.
idol! satoru who would smear makeup over your body where it wasn’t supposed to be, just to watch your reaction.
satoru swipes his finger over an eyeshadow palette that was discarded openly on the desk you were pinned against. he was thankful you couldn’t see how deep the dent was on the glitter palette, knowing it was a painful sight for someone like you.
your button-up shirt has long been ripped open by him; you were sure you lost a few buttons on it with how eager he was when he tugged it so carelessly.
satoru brings his finger that sparkled with glitter, circling it over the skin around the supple skin of your tits. his action made your breath hitch, hand instinctively coming to his wrist to grip it loosely as if warning him.
but he persists. that was the only logical thing to do in his mind right now. after all, you deserve to be just as pretty as him—if not more. he does the same thing on your other breast. now both the swell of your chest shimmered with glitter. you would’ve never imagined in your life that this was a thing.
his eyes were hazy, dazed, and brimming with lust as he drank in the sight of your breasts out of your bra that he pushed up right after ruining your shirt. his thumbs run over your perky nipples, making you grip the edge of the table.
with the remaining glitter on his finger, he glides it from the valley of your chest down to your navel before his finger hooks the garter of your slacks.
he pulls it down just down to your thighs before doing the same thing with his own pants. his cock springs free from the confinement of his boxers, the tip already leaking with precum, and you could only gulp at the sheer size of it. he nudges it against your pussy, letting the length of his cock glide across your soaked slit, teasing. and also preparing.
idol! satoru who has his cock buried deep inside you as you try your best to fix up his base.
“y/n! satoru! get the makeup done quickly! it’s almost time,” one of the staff shouted from the other side of the door. before you could respond—say that you were almost finished (in both ways, probably), satoru beats you to it, “just five more minutes!”
it was probably better that he was the one to speak because god, you didn’t know what sound could possibly come out of you if you dared open your mouth. all you heard from the staff was an “okay!” before you felt him thrust deeper, knocking the air out of your lungs.
“m-make it quick,” you demand, your nails digging into his arm, forming crescent-shaped marks on his skin. while your other hand continued to stipple the brush over some of his blemishes to conceal it, shakily at that, too.
“oh, you want it faster? naughty, very naughty, miss y/n.” you want to shut him up with your lips. maybe bite into his for payback for getting into your nerves—but you didn’t want to ruin the lip combo you had just finished fixing after he relentlessly showered your skin with kisses a while ago.
so instead, you pick up the gloss again, reapplying it on his lips for the second, no, third time... you lost count. satoru couldn't help it; he feels as though his mouth has gone dry, and so he'll lick it. only to remove the lip product you've just put on.
you let out an exhale of discomfort, there was barely anything supporting your back, and you were starting to get sore from it. satoru notices this and hooks his hands on the underside of your thighs, urging you to wrap your legs around his hips.
with this profound position, he was able to thrust and make you bounce on his cock even better. eliciting broken and quiet moans from both of you.
“f-five minutes,” you remind him breathlessly, as if those two simple words had cost you too much oxygen just to say.
he doesn’t respond. no. instead, he brings one of his hands to your pussy, rubbing the bundle of nerves between your legs, making your thighs clench involuntarily.
“‘m sorry, angel. didn’t want to rush you like he this,” he murmurs, and you feel his thrusts grow sloppier the harder he pistons his cock into you. you throw your head back, arms finding support by encircling his neck.
your chest heaves, the knot in your stomach going tight. you tilt your head down to look at him, noticing the slight streak of white mascara in the corner of his eye. with trembling hands, you wipe it off tenderly with your thumb. and you swear at that moment that you just saw satoru’s eyes have hearts in them from your gesture.
when satoru sees your body convulsing, breath stuttering, and your head falling to his shoulder, he grinds his cock into you a few more times to ride out your orgasm before pulling out abruptly when he cums. ropes of his thick cum spilling against your stomach. he barely has any time to catch his breath when a series of loud knocks startles both of you for the second time.
satoru throws you a guilty look before gently placing you down against the desk, quickly pulling his pants up. he scrambles around the room to find a tissue to wipe your skin with his cum on it. he won’t deny that the sight of it made him want to take you again, but time was his absolute enemy.
he then pulls down your bra to its original state—he should be worrying about himself, but here he was fretting over you instead.
another knock and he groans. “alright, alright!” he presses a very light kiss on your cheek before leaving you alone, not forgetting to lock the door in case anyone tries to come in while you try to clean up.
idol! satoru that, once again, comes knocking at your door. not because he was sick again. no. he wanted to take care of you.
you open the door after peeking through the peephole to see who it is. honestly speaking, you contemplated opening the door for him—after all, this man, an IDOL, was quite literally pounding your pussy a few hours ago. and you weren’t sure if you were ready for a confrontation of some sort.
“hey,” he greets. it wasn’t awkward, per se. but it lacked the usual confidence. like he was just as affected, and maybe overthinking, just like you.
“can i come—uh, go in?” you almost snort at how he catches himself with a word that seemed to trigger his memories. you open the door wider, sidestepping to allow him in.
when he hears the door click, he immediately walks over to you, still at a respectful distance, like he wasn’t pressed up against your bare front this afternoon.
“are you okay? does it hurt anywhere? i’m sorry i left you after that.” his eyes were filled with worry, darting over your entire body as if he could physically see through you just to tell if you were hurting anywhere.
you eventually chuckle. “calm down, i’m okay,” you reassure him, shoulders relaxing from released tension.
you were nervous, unknowing of his intentions for coming here. but seeing how he doesn’t seem to be in a better place, your worries were momentarily forgotten.
“right. good. that’s good,” he says the words as if on autopilot. there was so much to say, but also nothing at all.
“still, you must be sore, somehow,” he says. you feel warmth in your chest with his concern. gone was the satoru that seemed to be hungry for you. because now he's fussing over you like a mother hen.
your eyes seem to light up when you remember something that you hoped would at least lighten up the atmosphere. “hey, you ruined my shirt.”
satoru blinks once. twice. thrice. before you see his cheeks going slightly red when his brain caught on to what you were referring to.
“sorry,” he mumbles quietly, but it doesn’t sound as guilty as he wanted it to be.
he lifts his head to look at you, a small smile now on his face. “i’ll get you a new one.”
“i’ll even have a walk-in closet built for you—for as long as you allow me to ruin more of your shirts in the future.” his usual bravado made its comeback, but you didn’t miss the genuine affection lingering in his eyes, and perhaps a little bit of fear of your rejection.
“i’ll think about it.” it was all you said, but he broke into an immediate stupid big grin like he’s just won the lottery with your unclear answer.
he takes a step closer, hand tentatively reaching out before locking his fingers loosely around your wrist.
“i think a cuddle session is due,” he says coyly as he tugs you over to your couch. he pulls you down with him, plopping onto the soft cushions—except, you land directly on top of him. even if you wanted to move, his strong arms snaked around your waist, his face nuzzling into your nape with a contented sigh.
“you have really nice boobs, by the way.”
a/n a little reference i took from star wars and the recent lads banner hehe. i did this instead of reviewing for midterms. woopsies!
i've been so used to saying satoru that when i call him gojo, it feels like one of those tropes where they get mad for calling them by their (last) name. LIKE it's so weird who the hell is gojo !!
i dont understand my own blog. how is my entire theme pink but the border i use is... purple?? oh well. i guess ill change that some other time when im finally free from the shackles of academic responsiblity
feel free to check out my idol!satoru work :> rbs are appreciated !! thank u lovelies<3
“dada carryyyyy.” your little girl stretches her short arms up at her tall father, her little demand making the two of you stop on your tracks. the lilt of her voice brooked no protest. at such a young age, she sure knows how to get what she wants.
“alright, sweetpea. c’mere,” he caves instantly. crouching down to pick up his adorable daughter and cradle her against his chest with only one arm holding up her small body, his other hand occupied with carrying the basket you prepared for your picnic today at the park.
“toru, you’re spoiling her. she’s gonna forget how to walk with how much you give in to her whims,” you chide gently. not that it was going to change anything, given how stubborn satoru is when it comes to his little angel.
“now, now. if the princess wants to be carried, carried she shall be,” he says fondly, his gaze never leaving sayuki's face. he nuzzles his nose against her chubby and rosy cheeks.
you sigh affectionately at the sight of sayuki immediately resting her head on his shoulder, satoru then presses a gentle kiss on her forehead.
a few years passed, and he still hadn’t changed his ways as a father. this exact moment takes you back to when sayuki was just born.
“satoru, i haven’t been able to carry our baby for at least one minute since this morning!” you exasperate. tone clear enough to carry your frustration, while still keeping your voice low so as not to wake the infant.
“it’s okay, sweetheart. just go rest your arms,” he says—under the guise of concern for you, but you know better than that. he was just too entranced with having her in his arms that he didn’t want to let go. not even for a minute.
“that’s not what i mea—toru?!” before you could even argue, satoru sauntered to your shared bedroom with a stupid and dazed smile etched on his features. tired?! how were your arms going to be tired, from carrying air?!
seriously, he might as well start breastfeeding her himself if he had the means too. he was whipped. too whipped. because with you and sayuki beside him, he hardly remembers what it felt like to be lonely.
satoru has always felt like he has so much love to give when he met you—now, he feels as though his heart is going to explode from sheer affection with the new addition to your once two-person team.
you could only shake your head at the flash of memory, choosing not to comment further on the current predicament. it isn’t going to be forever that satoru can carry his little princess. you simply let him have his moment.
gaaahh i really had to write this real quick before i start reviewing for midterms to scratch an itch. ok, i need to study now…SIGH.
