#Like he might make a comment or be annoying

[ariestrxsh]

mean!chris x shy!reader

✰ content warning: smut, getting caught, pornography, mutual masturbation, vouyerism/exhibitionism, dirty talk, sneaking around, enemies to lovers

✰ summary: while staying the night with nick and matt, you accidentally stumble upon chris jerking off to porn, and in the heat of the moment, despite the fact that neither of you get along, he invites you to join him

idk who first wrote mean!chris or shy!reader, so I can't give proper credits, but I feel like it's definitely been written before, so credits to everyone who did it before me!

dividers by @/anitalenia

Lights Turned On

chapters: | 1 |

"What the hell do you think you're doing in here?" Chris demanded, silencing his mic as he sat shirtless in front of his laptop, gaming with his friends. He didn't even bother looking up at you, continuing to tap away on his controller. However, he could see your silhouette slip into his room out of the corner of his vision.

His room was dark, the only light coming from the glow of his screen, giving his blue eyes an almost ethereal look. He smelled faintly of aftershave and body wash, and the damp look of his hair indicated to you that he had just taken a shower.

Despite the close bond you'd had with his two brothers, Chris had never warmed up to you in the same way Matt and Nick had. He was always acting cold towards you, making snide comments, and doing just about anything he could to get under your skin.

It might not have bothered you so much if you hadn't been secretly crushing on him since you met him. Despite how painfully obvious it was, it was something that none of the brothers had picked up on, including Chris.

In some ways, you were disgusted with yourself for finding Chris attractive. He was messy, loud, inconsiderate, and rather mean to you most of the time. You just couldn't help but always want to be around him and look at him. You just wanted him to notice you and pay attention to you, even if he was poking fun at you.

"Spit it out. You lost or somethin'?" He asked, slipping a headphone off his ear and peering up at you over his computer with a mixture of annoyance and frustration that you hadn't answered his question. "I'm looking for some extra pillows and blankets. We're having a movie night downstairs. Matt and Nick said you might have some."

Chris rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. "Yeah, check that closet. Should be some in there." You made your way over to his closet door, resting your hand on the cold metal of the knob and tugging it open. Just like Chris had said, he had both extra blankets and pillows neatly placed on the top shelf.

As you stood on your tippy toes, trying to reach them, just barely grazing the wool fabric with the tips of your fingers, you heard a chuckle from behind you. Then Chris said something into his mic about stepping away from the game for a second, and he took off his headphones, placing them on the edge of his desk before he approached you, seeming even more irritated now.

Your heart raced as you felt the warmth of his body as he came up behind you, his chest nearly touching your back as he retrieved the bedding from the top shelf of his closet with ease. You spun around, and Chris was shoving the blankets into your arms with an unamused look on his face that you could barely make out in the dark.

"You're fuckin' helpless, you know that?" He rasped before making his way back over to his gaming chair. You could feel blood rush to your cheeks as you stood in place, your heartbeat hammering away in your chest and your stomach fluttering from how close he had just been to you.

Your gaze danced over his flared nostrils, his pouty lips, and his concentrated expression that were all lit up by the blue light of his computer. You didn't mean to gawk, but God, he looked so pretty when he was annoyed. "You need somethin' else?" He asked, his eyes locked onto you from above the screen of his laptop again.

You dumbly shook your head no, not moving from where you stood, clutching the blankets in your arms. "Then scram. I'm busy," he huffed, his eyes dropping back down to his game. Embarrassed by how flustered he had gotten you and hoping that he hadn't noticed, you fled without saying another word.

Downstairs, you and the other brothers were bundled up under the blankets with a bag of popcorn sitting between the three of you as the movie started. You, Nick, and Matt stayed up late, whispering and laughing amongst yourselves until your voices started to drop off and were replaced by the sounds of rhythmic breathing and quiet snoring.

By the time the movie had ended and the credits were rolling, both Matt and Nick were sound asleep on either side of you, and you were fluttering in and out of consciousness. You contemplated joining them in their slumber, giving yourself over to sleep and cocooning yourself up in the mess of blankets that Chris had given you earlier in the night.

However, the light from the TV made that nearly impossible, and as you reached up to rub your tired eyes, you felt the old, dry mascara that was still caked to your lashes. You let out a sigh, knowing you couldn't sleep like this, at least not comfortably.

You quietly stood to your feet, carefully stepping over one of the boys to go shut off the source of the bright light. It took your eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness, and before nestling back into the bedding strewn across the floor, you decided to head up to Nick's room to grab your toothbrush and facewash.

You tiptoed up the stairs, hoping not to wake anyone as you slowly guided yourself through the darkness with the rail of the banister. You reached the top of the steps, and as you started to head towards Nick's bedroom, you heard a sound that made your stomach flip. It was coming from Chris' room.

You silently approached his cracked door, and the closer you got, the more clearly the lewd noises came through. You heard heavy breathing and soft moaning, whimpering almost. You peered in, taking in the sight of Chris leaning back against his headboard, still shirtless, one hand holding his phone sideways and the other moving rapidly beneath his blanket.

Your breath caught in your throat as it dawned on you what he was doing. The brightness of his phone lit up his face, giving you a view of every detail - his hooded blue eyes, his softened facial features, and his pink lips curling into a blissful smile. He looked more attractive now than ever.

You could hear the sound of him furiously pumping his length and the sound of his moans escaping him complimented by the noises that played from his phone. "Fuck," he whispered, his breath and the stroke of his hand both speeding up rapidly.

You knew it was wrong, but you couldn't take your eyes off of him, and you could tell he was nearing the edge. You lingered in his doorway, biting down on your lip as you felt a familiar warmth spreading in your lower stomach. A wetness pooled between your legs, and you squeezed your thighs together to relieve some of the built-up tension.

You were so enthralled by the scenery, sticking your head so far in through the door that you didn't notice how close you were to touching it until your hand brushing against it made it creak open wider. The sound startled him, snapping him back to reality and pulling him out of his sexual fantasies.

Chris immediately ceased the motion of his hand and shut off his phone screen. You gasped, too stunned to move. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw your silhouette in the doorway. "Jesus! You scared the fuck out of me," Chris chuckled, realizing he'd definitely been caught.

"I-I'm sorry. I was just going to Nick's room," you managed to squeak out, completely embarrassed you'd been caught peeping on him. "You forget which room was his or somethin'?" He teased you, his voice lower and softer this time.

He continued to slowly stroke himself under his blanket, thinking it was too dark for you to see, but you knew what he was doing. "What? You want a private show or somethin'?" Chris snickered, his voice laced with sarcasm, but you didn't pick up on the joke.

You swallowed hard, your words caught in your throat. You bit down on your lip and curled your fingers tightly around the edge of the door as you silently waited in the entry way for what felt like an eternity.

"Jesus, kid. Either come in and close the door or fuck off," he responded in a hushed voice, sounding a bit annoyed that you'd interrupted him, but you figured if he were that annoyed with you, he would've only given you one option - fuck off.

You took a step forward, officially crossing the barrier between the hallway and his bedroom. You pushed the door closed, sounding the faint click of the latch as it locked into place.

His eyebrows flew up in shock, realizing you really did want a private show. He'd given you the first option half-heartedly, certainly not expecting you to take him up on it, but the realization that you wanted to stay made his cock pulse in his grasp.

His breath was soft and quiet, but you could hear it becoming more shallow as he continued to pump his length. "C'mere. I won't bite. Unless you want me to," he hissed, his voice low and full of lust as he patted the bed beside him, inviting you to come closer.

You slowly approached him, half-expecting him to start teasing you for wanting to watch or pull some kind of mean prank on you. "Light on?" He asked, making your stomach flip even more. "Sure," you quietly mumbled. Chris switched on the lamp on his bedside table, the soft yellow glow lighting up the one corner of his room that you two were in.

His eyes met yours before your gaze traveled back down to his hand, moving slowly beneath the blanket. Chris' eyes followed you as you sat down next to him, and the way he looked at you starting to shift.

He always just saw you as his brothers' annoying friend who was around all the time, always needing something. However, he found himself getting excited by the idea of you being interested in what he was doing beneath the covers. He never expected this scenario to play out, especially not with you.

The air between the two of you was thick with tension, and Chris waited in anticipation for you to make the next move. "What were you watchin'?" You asked, curiously glancing at his phone that was resting on his chest facedown.

An expression of both interest and surprise crossed his face at your question. He chuckled, reaching for his phone and picking it up with his free hand. "You mean what was I watchin' before you barged in here and interrupted me?" He laughed. "Porn. Obviously," he sneered, his snarky attitude never faltering.

"No shit. What kind?" You wondered aloud, growing more confident and more curious as Chris responded with vague answers. "I mean, it must have been really hot with the way you were going at it." His lips curled into a smug smile, realizing why you were asking.

"Why? Wanna watch with me?" He wondered, searching your face for a reaction. Your eyes subtly widened, and you slowly nodded. You couldn't believe Chris was going to share with you the kinds of things he liked to get off to. The vulnerability of the moment had you more turned on than you'd ever been in your life.

He unlocked his phone, turning the screen so that both of you could see it. "Just this slutty little redhead taking two cocks at once," Chris lustfully responded, continuing to stroke himself under the blanket.

Of course, even in the way he described the video, he couldn't help but talk about the woman in a degrading manner. Typical.

You hated that you found that kind of hot.

When you felt yourself clenching around nothing at the way he described the scene, you wondered where the hell your self-respect had gone, and then you started to wonder if you'd had any at all to begin with, considering you were getting wet over a jerk like Chris.

Your eyes were immediately drawn to the video that Chris played, picking back up where he had left off. It was a woman on all fours, bent over the arm of a couch while one guy was pounding into her from behind, smacking her ass, and the other guy was fucking her mouth, gently running his fingers through her hair and pushing her head down to take more of him.

The volume was low, but you could hear the sound of skin slapping against skin and the sound of the woman moaning around the second man's cock. She looked like she was really enjoying herself, being the center of their attention.

You found your hand wandering south and slipping into the waistband of your shorts. As if you had no control over it, you began to soothe the aching feeling between your legs, your middle finger gently tracing your folds and teasing your slit, your gaze locked onto the scene that played out in front of you.

"If you're not into this, you don't have to watch it, but I'm not changing it," Chris replied, his voice trailing off at the end as his eyes left the screen for a moment and wandered over towards you. His breath hitched as he noticed the placement of your right hand, telling him all he needed to know about what you thought of the video.

You were gently tracing circles over your clit with your fingertips as you bit down on your lip to keep your moans from escaping. When you became aware that his eyes were on you, you grew self-conscious and brought your movements to an abrupt stop.

"Oh, so you do like this? You wish that were you, huh?" He teased, nudging you in the arm. Your cheeks grew warm at his accusation. "C'mon. Don't be shy. Keep going," he quietly encouraged you. He kept his gaze on you, enthralled by the way you looked while you pleasured yourself.

At first, you were just watching the video, but you couldn't help that your focus started to shift from Chris' phone screen to his hand that was rapidly moving under the blankets. You couldn't keep yourself from picturing what it looked like. A smirk played in the corner of his lip as he realized where your attention was.

"You wanna see it, don't you?" Chris purred, reading the look of desire that was written all over your face and the way your eyes lit up when he offered. You swallowed the lump in your throat and silently nodded. Chris chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. He pulled back the blanket, revealing himself to you.

He let it fall flat against his stomach, gently running his fingertips along the backside as he glanced over at you, searching for your reaction. You were mesmerized. It was a little bigger than average, a few veins decorating his length.

He gripped his shaft and pointed his tip towards the sky, giving you a different perspective. The head was a perfect mushroom shape and bright pink from how swollen it was. A bit of precum glistened, pearling at his slit as he continued manhandling himself.

"I have kind of a strange request," Chris told you, wetting his lips as he stared at your own. "Sure. What is it?" You innocently asked, but your mind was racing with what the next words that were going to leave his mouth would be. He'd been going back and forth for the past several minutes, debating on whether he should ask or not, and he'd finally decided that he couldn't help himself.

"The only downside to just using my hand is, it gets a little dry after a while," he started to say, his voice low and full of lust, hoping you understood where he was going with this. "Do you think you could like.. spit on it?" He nibbled on his lower lip as he waited in anticipation for you to answer. Your eyes widened, his question sparking your interest.

Whether Chris knew it or not, given the circumstances you were in right now, there wasn't a single thing he could ask you for that you wouldn't give to him in this moment. You certainly weren't going to say no to that. "Of course I can," you responded. His facial features softened, surprised by your enthusiasm.

You leaned forward so that you were hovering just a couple of inches above his cock. You gathered some saliva in your mouth, pursed your lips, and let your spit slowly drip out onto his throbbing cock head. He let out a satisfied sigh as your saliva mixed with his clear fluid and slowly spilled down his tip and onto his length.

"Fuck. That's it," he huskily moaned, tossing his head back for a moment, his eyes fluttering closed as he spread it around. You watched the scene before you unfold, Chris massaging the wetness you provided him with into his cockhead.

You slipped your hand back into your waistband, touching yourself alongside him. He wrapped his fingers around his shaft and started gently squeezing it, making a twisting motion with his wrist every time he dragged his hand back up his length.

The video was still playing in the background, and the two of you would periodically glance over at it, enjoying the way it heightened the experience. However, you each found your eyes wandering back over towards the other person.

Chris' gaze flicked back and forth between your hand in your shorts and your face, and you did the same, glancing back and forth between Chris' cock and his pleasured expressions, every once in a while, the two of you meeting each other's stare.

"You wanna know a secret?" Chris asked in between his staggered breaths. "Mhmm," you replied in a soft moan, nodding your head. He leaned in a little closer to you, lowering his voice to a volume just above a whisper.

"I love jerking off with an audience. The way you're looking at my cock right now makes it so much hotter than if I were just doing it alone," he admitted, emphasizing every stroke for your benefit. Your eyes widened at his confession.

"You know what else I love?" He asked, a soft moan unfurling from his lips before he licked them. "What?" You asked, excited to hear what incredibly hot thing he was gonna say next. "I really like talking dirty to someone while I jerk off for them," he disclosed, smirking over at you.

"Let's hear it then," you replied with your eyes locked onto his. Chris was taken aback by your boldness, a stark contrast from the seemingly innocent, shy, and reserved demeanor you approached him with in your everyday life.

"You're a very naughty girl for spying on me, you know that?" Chris purred under his breath. "See how hard I am for you? See how hard I get from you watching me? Fuck, I'm not gonna last much longer if you keep looking at it like that.."

His words sent a pulsing to your clit, and you started to rub it faster. He softly moaned, mirroring you and speeding up his strokes. "You like watching me jerk off for you, don't you?" He taunted you, leaning in a bit closer to you again. "I do," you quietly replied.

"I bet if I hadn't caught you, you would've watched me from my doorway until I busted all over my hand," he accused you. You didn't confirm nor deny his claim, but the look on your face said it all. "You've fantasized about this before, haven't you? Watching me stroke my cock for you.." He cooed, his voice trailing off as his breath quickened.

"How do you know that?" You asked, continuing to rub your clit in small, fast circles while the two of you gazed into each other's eyes. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lip as he bit down on it. "It was just a shot in the dark, but the fact that you just admitted to it.. fuck.. that's so hot," he whispered.

It was getting harder for each of you to hold back. The sound of each of you whimpering filled the room, along with the lewd, wet sounds of each of you pleasuring yourselves. You could feel the knot in your stomach forming and threatening to come undone any moment now.

That's when you heard your name unfurl from Chris' lips, followed by him saying in a gravelly voice, "Fuck. I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna bust all over my hand just for you." His words made your pussy throb, immediately sending you over the edge. Your whole body started to shake, the muscles in your core spasming.

"Chris.." you softly whined, gazing into his eyes as you came all over your fingers and his sheets that you were clutching onto tightly with your free hand. "Fuck," Chris moaned as he reached his own climax beside you. You peered down at his cock just in time to admire the pearly white substance that had shot all over his stomach and his chest.

Your gaze fell to his hand that was still steadily pumping his length, completely coated in a thick layer of his fluid. You watched as a few final ropes of cum ejected from his swollen tip and started to drip down the sides of his cock.

A guttural sound fell from his lips as he slowed down his strokes, draining every last drop. You each stared at each other, breathlessly, both of your chests heaving in unison. A look of bliss and satisfaction crossed both of your faces as you each sat there, processing what had just happened while you each tried to recover from your respective orgasms.

Chris reached for a dirty shirt that was on the floor to clean his mess up with. He glanced back over at you, still calling his breath back to him as he let out a soft chuckle. "This stays between us, okay? All of it. If you ever tell anyone, I'll deny it and tell them it was some weird, sick dream you had."

You nodded in agreement. You didn't want a single soul knowing that you and Chris had watched porn and gotten off together, and you certainly didn't want them knowing it had happened because you were peeping on him.

"Get back downstairs before one of my brothers wakes up," Chris replied, his intense blue eyes lingering on you. You got up and headed for the door, your heart racing when you realized the two of you had moaned each other's names rather loudly as you'd both finished. You prayed that it hadn't woken anybody up as you reached for Chris' door knob.

"You're so fuckin' pretty when you cum by the way," Chris mumbled from behind you. You stopped for a moment and glanced over your shoulder. "So are you," you said in response, watching Chris scroll through his phone, avoiding eye contact with you.

He chuckled, finding it both comical and endearing that 'pretty' was the descriptor you wanted to go with. "Thanks." Chris switched off his lamp, and you left his room, completely forgetting your toothpaste and facewash in Nick's room.

You tiptoed back downstairs, grateful that everyone was still sleeping soundly.

[ghostedgwen]

don't blame me | j.potter [part three]

note : having the worst week of my life but at least I can write ficitonal scenarios about dead gay wizards from the 70s, sigh

warnings :more james potter annoying you, like the usual , holidays with the Potters - yay? , a short moment of angst, jealousy jealousy

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 ��𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖯𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 - 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍. 𝖲𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗒. 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 : 3.6k

Patrols with James Potter had been . . . exhausting.

Weeks of late-night rounds patrolling empty corridors, always with him trailing two steps behind or two inches too close. Always with his voice slinking into the silence like it belonged there, like you were supposed to be comfortable with him. And somehow, he made it his mission to use every moment to chip away at your patience with all the grace of a blunt axe.

Lovely.

He was determined, though. You had to give him that. Determined to get under your skin, to make you smile, to tease you until your eye twitched. His favourite hobby lately was whispering “Wife” every time you reached for your wand. You hadn’t hexed him yet - but not for lack of desire.

Still, despite his relentless antics, there had been moments - rare, fleeting ones - where you forgot to hate him. Where he’d say something unexpectedly kind, or remember something about you he had no business remembering, and it felt like you might be on the edge of. . . something.

You always walked away before you could fall.

And then, mercifully, the holidays arrived. Which meant no more late-night patrols, no more being cornered by James Potter in dimly-lit corridors, and no more having to pretend you weren’t flustered when he said something that made your chest ache.

You’d barely shared any classes with the Gryffindors this term anyway, and now, with the castle slowly emptying for the break, it was easier than ever to avoid him. You packed with care, meticulously folding your robes, grateful for the distance the train ride would provide.

Until, of course, it didn’t.

You’d just spotted your roommates and were about to slip into their compartment when a hand grabbed your wrist.

You barely had time to yelp before James bloody Potter was dragging you away, all boyish charm and zero respect for personal space. Right through the train halls.

“Come along, darling,” he said with a smirk, ignoring how you perked at the designated nickname. “Reserved you a seat in the madhouse.”

“I’m reporting you to the authorities,” you hissed, wriggling uselessly as he tugged you toward the Marauders’ carriage. “Kidnapping is a crime.”

“Betrothed privilege,” he said smugly, as if that were an actual law.

The carriage door slid open, and Sirius Black greeted you with a roguish grin and a dramatic flourish of his hand. “Our lady of misfortune has arrived.”

You gave him a look which he was unfazed by, charming as always. “Get a haircut, Black.”

Remus smiled warmly and offered a casual nod. “Good to see you, ____.”

“Hi, Remus,” you said, already angling toward the empty seat beside him. Safe. Calm. Not James Potter.

If the boys noticed how you called him by first name, they failed to comment.

Peter gave a little wave. “Hey.”

You slid in next to Remus with a grateful sigh, already launching into a discussion about Ancient Runes - anything to keep your thoughts occupied, anything to avoid looking across at James.

Remus was, as ever, a good conversationalist - sharp, observant, gentle. He asked questions about your last essay and even jotted down a mental note when you mentioned a reference book he hadn’t read yet.

And James . . . frowned.

Sirius leaned in close to him, voice low. “You’re glaring, mate.”

“I am not.”

“You are. That’s the face you made when Evans talked to that Ravenclaw bloke - Klove, was it?”

James swatted him. “I’m not jealous.”

“You’re so jealous it’s making me jealous,” Sirius muttered, biting back a laugh as to not let you in on their whispered exchange.

James only responded when you glanced up, mid-sentence with Remus, and he spoke over you without remorse. “So. About the engagement dinner.”

You stiffened at the sudden mention, all words about Ancient Runes falling off your tongue. “What about it?”

“The others’ll be there,” he said casually, gesturing at the boys, Sirius nodding at you. “Whole family’s been invited.”

You groaned, already picturing the social chaos that would ensue and just how you'd be front page on the Daily Prophet.

“My mum doesn’t want to go,” Sirius said cheerfully. “She hates the Potters, obviously. Calls them blood-traitor filth. But it’s two pureblood houses uniting, so she’ll show up to save face. Probably poison the wine, but she’ll be there - the rest of the noble house of Black too.”

You groaned louder, face in your hands. “There really isn’t a way to get out of this?”

Sirius tapped his chin thoughtfully. “You could marry me instead.”

You snorted at his suggestion, like hell you'd marry into his crazy purist family. “If I had to choose between the four of you, I’d pick Remus.”

That earned a low whistle from Sirius and a quiet, pleased hum from Remus. He knew your words held no ground, so he neglected reacting much.

James didn’t say anything. But his jaw clenched, and he looked out the window like it had personally offended him.

The silence lingered until a loud bang shook the carriage.

“Was that . . .?” you asked.

“Dung bombs,” Peter said, grinning - you drank in the boy's mischievous glint that the four of them seemed to have. “Slytherin carriage.”

You stared. “Seriously? You couldn't have let it rest, spirit of Christmas and all that?”

“I told him to set a delay timer,” Remus said with a sigh, there it is. He really isn't the squeaky clean Gryffindor Prefect everyone thought he was, questioning his validity as a Marauder. “Did you?”

“Ten minutes,” Sirius said proudly. “Perfect.”

The door burst open with an angry thunk. Evans.

Her angry green eyes swept the room, nostrils flaring. “Who’s responsible?”

No one spoke. It was a beautifully choreographed silence.

Then her eyes locked on you. He had expected the boys, the moment she caught sight of James through the compartment door - but you were an odd addition.

She briefly remembered the offer James made her over the summer, which she agreed to.

“What’re you doing here?”

You blinked, deciding not to answer that. “We’ve been mostly well-behaved. While I’ve been here.”

You left out the bit where you hadn’t been in the carriage for the first few minutes of the journey, giving them enough window to set up their prank.

Evans narrowed her eyes, but sighed. “I’ll let it slide. Because it’s you. And I don’t think you’d lie to me, ____.”

She turned on her heel and left, hair swinging like a blade behind her. Those gorgeous red locks that one would recognize from a mile away.

Peter leaned in, eyebrows raised. “Think she’s jealous?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Not of me.”

James didn’t laugh. He was staring out the window again, entirely unreadable.

At the station, the boys peeled off one by one.

Sirius gave you a wink and a mock bow before strolling toward his reluctant mother.

Peter mumbled something about his mum hating delays and hurried off. Remus gave you a small, reassuring smile, bidding you a polite goodbye before walking off.

James stayed.

You spotted your parents before they saw you - dressed in their best travel robes, standing beside the Potters as if this were already a done deal. Mrs. Potter was beaming, saying something animated to your mother, who looked politely engaged.

Your father was shaking hands with Mr. Potter like they were discussing ministry business instead of their children’s future.

You gulped.

James came to stand beside you. “Ready?”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for this.”

“Too bad. Train’s already stopped,” he said with a grin.

Then, just loud enough to reach only your ears: “Did I mention we’re staying at my place for the whole break?”

You whipped your head around. “What?”

He beamed. “Didn’t you hear? My mum’s idea. Think she wants us to bond.”

Your expression must have betrayed every drop of horror in your soul, because James just kept smiling. You couldn't muster a reply, not even to retort at the shock.

“I’ll save you the room next to mine.”

You groaned.

He offered his arm with mock chivalry, you knew your parents were watching but decided against playing along. “Shall we?”

You didn’t take it, but you didn’t run either. You were already walking toward the wolves. What was one more step?

Next up: The Potters’ home. Preparations. Chaos. And an engagement party you weren’t sure you’d survive without throttling your fiancé.

But for now, you squared your shoulders and forced a smile.

Let the holiday nightmare begin.

Potter Manor was exactly as you remembered it, nevermind it hasn't been long since your last visit. That was the worst part.

The same winding staircase you used to race James up two steps at a time. The same enchanted portraits that used to cheer you on. The oak banister still bore the scratch marks from when you and James attempted to slide down it on a tea tray - and spectacularly failed. And the smell - cinnamon, broom polish, and whatever potion Euphemia Potter always had brewing - hit you like a ghost to the ribs.

It wasn’t unfamiliar. It was haunting.

Because you used to belong here. Before Hogwarts, before the forgetting, before everything fell apart. You used to run barefoot through these halls, laughing with the boy who now called you wife just to see you flinch.

And now you were back.

Not as a friend. Not even as a guest. But as the future daughter-in-law.

Euphemia Potter regarded you with a warm smile the moment you step through the threshold of Potter Manor, as though it’s been years instead of just four months since the last time you were here.

Her arms wrap around you in a motherly hug, and she smells of ginger tea and old parchment, just like always. She beams at you like nothing has changed, like you’re still ten and sleeping over in James Potter’s room with a blanket fort between the beds so you wouldn’t accidentally kick each other in the night.

But everything has changed. More like, nothing has remained the same - not even you did, you grew out of your dirty robes thanks to playing in the mud with James and he's outgrown the little boy that clung to you.

Because now you’re here not as James’s childhood friend, but as his betrothed, and every memory you once thought was yours alone is being dragged out into the light and repackaged for an entirely different future.

The Manor hasn’t changed much - same grand portraits, same ticking grandfather clock in the hall, same scent of cedar and magic in the air. But it feels like something inside you curdled on the walk up the gravel path. Maybe it’s because only you, and your parents, and the Potters remember what this place meant to you once.

James certainly doesn’t. Not in the way you do. Not in the way that matters.

“James, sweetheart, would you be a dear and show her to her room? It’s the same one from the summer,” Euphemia says with an airy smile as she leads your parents and her husband into the drawing room, already slipping into talk of tea and travel and wedding colors.

“Gladly,” James says, far too quickly, turning toward you with that irritating sparkle in his eye. You curse your rotten luck.

You groan under your breath as he falls into step beside you. “Don’t start.”

“What? I haven’t said anything yet,” he replies innocently. “But since you’re clearly in such a cheery mood, I’ll just skip straight to the part where I invite you to sneak into my room later if you get too lonely.”

You don’t even flinch as you mutter, “Try it and I’ll kick you so hard your grandkids will feel it.”

James clutches his heart in mock pain. “Merlin, and here I thought you would be caring to our grandkids!”

You roll your eyes as he pushes open the door to your room - same as last time, same rich emerald curtains and vintage vanity, same bed that used to feel like a dream when you were younger, when this place was magic instead of a distant memory.

“Feel at home, darling,” James sing-songs as he retreats, and you don’t bother with a retort. You’re already shutting the door on him, not minding if it slammed right on his face.

Dinner is practically déjà vu.

The Potters and your family sit at the long mahogany table, wine glasses glinting in the candlelight, laughter echoing too easily around you. Euphemia compliments your dress. Your mother beams with pride every time James says something even mildly charming.

Fleamont asks your father about business, and all of it feels like a play you’re being forced to star in, only you didn't rehearse your lines just yet.

What makes it worse is James, who can’t seem to sit still. Halfway through dinner, you feel it - the subtle nudge of his foot under the table. You glare at him. He grins and taps your ankle again, continuing to dine like he wasn't bothering you through mouthfuls of steak.

You dig your heel into the top of his shoe, he stiffled the groan that threatened to escape him.

“Darling,” your mother says suddenly, drawing your attention -Merlin, that nickname is ruined for you thanks to James. “We were thinking, maybe as part of the engagement party, the two of you could do a little performance. A dance!”

You nearly choke on your pumpkin soup, a fucking dance with James Potter? you'd rather not, he'll surely pull some shit to make you trip.

“It’s not a coming-of-age ceremony,” you blurt, denying the suggestion before it could blossom.

They laugh it off, but James’s brow furrows. “Wait a second - when is your birthday?”

“In two weeks,” you mutter pretending how it didn't sting that he doesn't remember.

Back when you were kids, he'd owl you non-stop the full week leading up to it as he also begged your parents to let you celebrate at the manor.

Euphemia claps her hands, your Mother already caught the idea and was nodding enthusiastically. “Perfect timing, then! The engagement party will be both a celebration of your union and your birthday.”

You smile tightly, your thoughts bitter. Great. Now no one will actually celebrate your birthday. They’ll be too busy celebrating the inevitable.

James goes oddly quiet after that. Which should have been a relief. But instead, it unsettles you. Because if James Potter wasn’t talking, then he was definitely thinking.

And James Potter thinking is a very dangerous thing.

Sleep is an elusive thing that night. You toss and turn, too warm under the thick blankets, your mind racing with everything unsaid. You finally shove off the covers and open your door, planning to sneak into the library or just pace the halls until your thoughts tire out.

Except as soon as you step out, you nearly crash into someone in the dark halls of the Potter Manor.

James.

He blinks at you, hair even messier than usual, shirt wrinkled and collar loose. “You too?”

You consider turning around and shutting yourself back in your room, as if seeing the gears turn in your head - he grabbed your arm.

“Nope. You’re coming with me,” he says before you can escape, already tugging your arm with a firm, familiar grip - man, those Quidditch practices really sculpted him well.

“I was planning to walk alone, thanks,” you say dryly, pulling your arm from him but to no avail as he wouldn't budge.

“Too bad. I’m feeling generous.”

He drags you down the hall, past darkened paintings and sleeping portraits, all the way to the kitchens, where a single house elf pops in to greet him.

“Young master, James - sir - may I - ”

“It’s alright, Winky, I’ve got this one,” James says, waving her off. “Go on, enjoy your break, it's late.”

The elf vanishes with a pop. You bid the familiar elf goodbye which she smiled at.

“Please tell me you’re not about to burn the Manor down trying to make toast,” you mutter, remembering how he'd almost done just that.

“Have a little faith,” he says, already pulling out ingredients and fiddling with the stove. To your surprise, he’s. . . not terrible. He makes sandwiches. Cuts up fruit. Even remembers you like your tea a little sweet - though you doubt he'd actually remembered, it was probably just muscle memory.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him work.

“We used to do this,” you say quietly, breaking the silence.

He glances at you. “What?”

“Sneak around. Late nights. Kitchens. You always got crumbs in your hair.”

James chuckles, then falters. “Yeah. . . I think I remember that. Vaguely.”

You look away, heart twisting. “Doesn’t matter, it's been years.”

“Hey.”

You don’t answer.

“Hey,” he says again, softer now. “I’m sorry.”

You swallow thickly, still turned toward the wall - scared to show him the expression on your face. You could only guess you looked pathetic.

“It’s not your fault,” you say, despite yourself. You hoped the shake in your resolve did now show in your voice. “We were kids. I guess it just mattered more to me.”

There’s a pause. Then he says, “If we do end up shackled to each other - ”

“Romantic,” you deadpan and he pointedly ignored that.

“ - I’d treat you well,” he finishes. “You’d be the happiest wife in all of Britain. Or at least the most well-fed, I am very rich, you see.”

You turn just in time to see his stupid wink, your tears blinked away and they failed to cascade down much to your delight.

“You’re such an arse.” you tell him but this time, there was no bite to it, a smile even tugging at your lips.

“And yet, here you are, sharing a midnight snack with me. So what does that say about you?”

You snatch a slice of apple from his plate and lob it at his head. He catches it in his mouth with infuriating ease, bloody Quidditch.

You don’t even give him the satisfaction of a goodbye. You slip away before he can see the flush rising up your neck, before he can notice how your heart is pounding in a way it hasn’t since you were ten years old and thought that maybe - just maybe - he’d always remember you.

Maybe not in his head, but his heart.

You were somehow comforted by the talk tonight, he’s starting to try.

Preparations for the engagement party take over the manor in the days that follow. The adults are swept up in an endless flurry of guest lists and menus and floral arrangements, and you and James are pulled apart before you can even properly register it.

You're ushered off to endless dress fittings and hair trials while James is fitted for his formal robes in another wing of the house. It’s necessary, of course. With the wedding scheduled shortly after graduation, this is the only time left to get things sorted.

They were making the best out of your holiday break.

You’re glad for the space. The distance gives your heart time to settle, to remember that this engagement isn’t real - not in the way you once hoped. Meanwhile, James seems disappointed by the lack of time together. He even pouts when he thinks you’re not looking.

You ignore it.

On the day before the engagement party, you spend most of it in rehearsals. A stern but kind dance instructor leads you through the steps again and again, correcting posture, instructing turns.

Your mother watches proudly from the corner, beaming at how lovely you’ll look twirling across the reception floor.

Except you’re not dancing with James. The parents insisted it would be more romantic if you waited until the wedding day to share your first proper dance together.

So instead, you dance with the instructor while your mind drifts to the boy you’ll be expected to smile at all night. The boy whose name you'll take.

Midnight is close by the time you finally collapse into bed, limbs sore and eyelids heavy. You drift off after practise, only to be jolted awake by an abrupt knock on the door.

You stumble up and open it - and there he is.

James stands in the hallway, grinning like a child with a secret. He’s holding a small cake, clumsily decorated but clearly well-meant. The icing is in your favorite colors - ____, and your heart trips at the sloppily-written greeting.

“What - ?”

“I baked it with the elves,” James says proudly. “They were very excited to help, they like you a lot.”

He steps inside without waiting for permission and places the cake on your desk. Then he lights a single candle in the center, making your heart do cartwheels.

Before you can say anything, he begins to sing.

His version of happy birthday is terrible - off-key, full of dramatic vibrato, and entirely too cheeky - but you laugh anyway, despite yourself.

“Happy birthday, ____,” he says softly when he finishes, voice warm and real in a way that makes your chest ache.

You stare at the candle for a moment, you're now of-age. An adult in the eyes of the law.

“Well?” James nudges you. “Make a wish.”

You shake your head but close your eyes anyway, blowing out the flame. When you open them, he’s looking at you in that way again - quiet, unguarded.

“What’d you wish for?” he asks.

“If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

He grins. “It better be something dramatic. Like me getting hexed in the Great Hall.”

You smile, soft and fleeting. For a moment, it feels like you’ve got him back. The boy who used to race you down the hallways of this manor. The one who knew every secret passageway. The one who always remembered your birthday.

And then he leans in.

He’s so close you can see the gold flecks in his eyes. His breath ghosts across your cheek. You almost lean forward -

Almost.

But then you remember. Lily.

You pull away sharply, eyes fixed on the cake.

James blinks, hurt flashing briefly across his face before he masks it with a lopsided grin. “Well. Better try this or the elves might get offended.”

You force a laugh. “The cake better be edible. I’m only trying it because I’m starving.”

“Please. It’s only edible because the elves did ninety percent of the work,” he admits.

You chuckle at that and take a bite. “Sixty percent.”

“Forty,” he argues, taking a bite himself

“Ten.”

You both laugh.

But your heart still aches.

to be continued. . .

part four | masterlist

[rainydayathogwarts]

reasonless hatred - george weasley x snape!reader

summary: severus snape's daughter causes him nothing but chaos, hatred where love should be in their relationship. but she is finally given a real reason to hate her father, and she decides to give him one to hate her too. wc: 2.6k+

Severus Snape’s daughter was nothing like her father.

For one, she was beautiful. For two, she sucked at potions. But the thing that made people at Hogwarts realise she wasn’t like her father from the very start? She fought with him nearly every potions lesson they’d had since first year.

It wasn’t too bad at the beginning, with little snippy comments here and there. But as the years went on, it was clear you tolerated your father invading your personal space less and less, so your attitude only worsened by the day. It wasn’t as though you were just being a rebellious, moody teenager though. No, it was the fact that Severus Snape was a terrible father. He strolled into the Slytherin common room whenever he pleased, making sure you had completed your homework and had studied for tests. He stared at you relentlessly at meal times, watching as you enjoyed your time with your friends. He kept tabs on your friends in other houses, sneering whenever he saw you around a hufflepuff student, or worse, a Weasley. He was observant, and listened for rumours through the grapevine, aware of any romantic encounters you had.

But what annoyed you the most? He picked on you during lessons.

“Who can tell me the use of a valerian root in the draught of living death?” Snape inhaled deeply, scanning the room. He frowned. You weren’t raising your hand. In fact, you seemed to busy scribbling down notes he had read out five minutes ago. “Ms. Snape.”

Your head shot up from your paper, and some students smiled at the irritated look on your face. They already knew what this would mean; they were about to have front row seats to a Snape v. Snape brawl.

“You couldn’t pick on anyone else!?”

Your father raises his eyebrows, stating monotonously “You didn’t raise your hand.”

“Exactly! Did you not see how many people did!?”

“I want to know if you know the answer.”

You dropped your quill on your desk, sending ink splatters across the page of your notebook. Slowly, you reached over to close the bottle of ink. Taking a deep breath in, you glanced back up at your vexing father. “I don’t.”

“You should. I taught you.”

“Well sorry I fucking forgot!” Laughter rippled across the room, and people looked eagerly to see what Professor Snape would do next, particularly at the sight of you packing your things up. A call of your name caused you to stiffen, eyes widening as you glared at your father. Your desk mate spluttered next to you, surprised that he had dared to use your first name in front of your peers.

“Sit down and make sure to meet me in detention at 4.”

You laughed whole-heartedly, mockingly, your hands folded over your stomach as you doubled over momentarily. “What, to spend more time with you? No thank you.” And with that you strutted out of class, ignoring the near desperate calls of your name. Snape wasn’t able to wrap up the chaos in his classroom after that, so he let his students go, sighing deeply as he wondered how his relationship with you had gone so wrong.

You didn’t speak to your father one on one until the summer holidays rolled around. You met him at the entrance hall of hogwarts, speaking with the weasley twins when he entered the room, summoning you with a single call of your name. You had rolled your eyes and hugged the twins goodbye, making them promise to keep in touch with you over the holidays. They did.

But apparently, you shouldn’t have asked them to make that promise, because after a quick drop off home, Snape was telling you to pack anything from home you might need over the summer, because you were going to be staying somewhere else.

Nº12 Grimmauld Place.

Angry with your father’s lack of notice, you entered the grim mansion with low expectations, but you immediately perked up at the sound of your favourite twins, lost deep within the house's endless rooms. Ditching your luggage at the entrance, your feet immediately took you towards the sound of their voices, stopping at the door of the kitchen, when you finally laid your eyes on them.

“Well it’s about time.” “We thought you’d never make it.”

Your eyes lit up at the sight of the tall twins, and you ignored just about everyone else in the kitchen as you squealed, arms wide open, running straight into the closest one’s arms. George laughed joyously, tightly wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you up, just enough to spin you around in a quick circle. You were already dizzy when your feet touched the ground again, but Fred was already slamming into you with a rib-crushing hug.

When you were finally released, you had a stupid grin on your face, and you kindly greeted their mother with that same smile. “Sirius, Tonks, this is y/n, she’s Snape’s daughter. Remus, you’re already familiar.”

“Hiya Professor Lupin.”

Both jaws dropped animatedly as you greeted your old professor. They couldn’t believe it. They had just seen a normal teenage girl run in with the widest of smiles to greet her best friends, only for them to find out her father was the man they had never seen drop the frown from his face?

Snape appeared in the kitchen’s doorway with your luggage by his side, and his usual frown. “Leaving your things lying around is disrespectful.”

“Bloody hell, a girl can’t say hello to someone without being scolded.”

He sighed, turning his attention to Sirius, whose scowl had returned to his face. “Where is she staying?” But before Sirius could speak, you were talking again. “She? Like me alone? Without you?” Though you tried to maintain neutral, there was hope in your tone that couldn’t be denied.

“Alone. I’m going to be working for majority of the time, into the nights as well. Dumbledore insisted it’s not safe for you to be alone.” There was a pang in your chest at his words. Dumbledore cared more about your safety than he did. You nodded. Sirius stood up, having seen the sudden change of look on your face. “I’ll show her up.”

Your father nodded, spinning on his heels and disappearing down the hallway. The front door opened then slammed shut, without so much as a goodbye. Clearing your throat uncomfortably, you looked back at the twins, a smile tugging at your lips again.

It was going to be a good summer.

“We’ll come up with you.” They said in sync, following you and Sirius down the hallway. As you reached the bottom of the staircase, George snatched your luggage from you, instantly lifting it and beginning his trek up the stairs. You hummed, failing to notice the smile on Sirius’s face. “You’ll be in here.” Sirius mumbled, knocking on the door twice. You furrowed your eyebrows, but a familiar voice called out “Come in!” and you weren’t so worried anymore.

Hermione was sat on a large queen bed, her back leaning on the headboard. Ron was sat at the foot of the bed, his head rolled back on the wall. They seemed to be having a hushed conversation. Hermione smiled widely at the sight of you, jumping up from her place on the bed.

“You’re here!”

“I’m sorry, am I the only one who wasn’t aware I was going to be coming?” You asked as you pulled the younger girl into a hug. “It seems that way. Mrs. Weasley told us when we got here.” You hummed, making space for George to roll your luggage into the room. When he did, he swung a lazy arm over your shoulder, tugging you closer to him. “You two can have your privacy, this one’s going to be in our room until the late night hours.” You crinkled your nose at the suggestive but joking way he said it, letting him dragging you out of the room and down the hall.

“Thank you Mr. Sirius!” You called out. Sirius was flabbergasted, and he looked back into the room to the two teenagers he trusted the most in this house. “Do we like her?” Sirius asked in a stage whisper, and both Hermione and Ron nodded in sync.

“We love her. We hate her father. She does too.”

Sirius trusted the words that had come out of Hermione’s mouth, yet he couldn’t bring himself to believe you truly hated your father until he saw it for himself. Luckily for him, it was only the next night when signs of your torn relationship began showing.

You were sat in the kitchen with Fred, George and Sirius, giggling at one of their silly stories whilst you sipped at a cup of tea before bed. You really enjoyed spending time in the kitchen. It seemed to be the most lived in, and Mrs. Weasley had clearly made an impression on it, bringing her homeyness into the otherwise cold mansion. You didn’t mind it though. It had people, which was more than you could say about your own house.

Busy admiring George as he recalled bits of the story, you barely caught the pointed look Fred shot your look of appreciation. You glared at him quickly and Sirius laughed — not because of George’s story. The doorway to the kitchen was suddenly occupied, and you barely caught sight of your father brooding. You stiffened up, looking at him with a blank stare.

“Have you eaten?” You nodded wordlessly to answer his question, noticing how all chatter in the kitchen came to a pause. “Have you started your homework?”

“Homework?” You scoffed in amusement, furrowing your eyebrows at him to say ‘you can’t be serious’.

“You have N.E.W.Ts this year.”

“It’s the first day of summer holiday.”

“Don’t waste your time doing nothing.”

“I’m not planning on it. We’ve decided to go swimming tomorrow.” Sirius nearly chuckled at your sassy tone.

“That’s not what I meant. Focus on your studies.”

“None of my bloody teachers have set me any homework!”

“I have.” You rolled your eyes, mumbling a response under your breath as you turned your gaze to the wooden table. “What was that?” Snape snapped, and your head shot back in his direction.

“I said of course you did! That’s why none of your students like you!”

“Excuse me for wanting my students to pass.”

“Then how come so many of them are failing?” Snape huffed in the doorway, and Sirius saw the way his fingers twitched in annoyance.

“You won’t see me for a couple of days.” It was only when he apparated away that you mumbled “Good”, shoving your chin to rest on your closed fist.

“Is everything okay in here? I heard arguing?” Mrs. Weasley suddenly appeared in the exact spot your father had just disappeared from, a concerned look on your face. “Snape.” You replied in unison with the twins, and Molly wiped her hands down on the skirt of her dress, walking into the kitchen to place her caring hands on your shoulders. “Are you alright, sweetheart?” You nodded, busying yourself by tracing shapes on the dark wood.

Molly hesitated, glancing at her two sons who just shook their heads. She sighed, leaving the room. George swayed to the side, gently pushing you with the force of his body. “Oh, lighten up. Two days without him is great!”

“We will go swimming though, right?” George grinned, hand gripping the bottom of your chair to drag it closer to his. You squealed, throwing your arms up in surprise, but relaxed as his arm settled around your shoulders.

“This behaviour keeps up with his track record.” Sirius muttered, mostly to himself. “What, you mean, just the fact that he’s been a grump all his life?” Sirius shrugged at your question, adding “Well yeah, and there’s the fact that… You know.”

You exchanged looks with the twins, shaking your head. “Nope.” “The war…” Sirius hinted, squinted his eyes. At the blank stares he received, his eyes widened. You didn’t know. About your father being a death-eater. “Never mind.”

“Well, now you’ve got to tell us.”

“I shouldn’t”

“Well you brought it up, so you should.”

Sirius chuckled, your teenage girl stubbornness and logic reminding him of his old school friends. But his amusement didn’t last long. How was he supposed to tell a girl her father worked for Voldemort once upon a time?

“It’s not my place to say.”

“If it’s about my father, I deserve to know.”

He didn’t want to risk Mrs. Weasley being disappointed in him. Oh well. “He used to work for He Who Must Not Be Named. He has the mark.” The sharp intake of breath that came from you was loud, and your eyes widened in shock. “You promise?”

“I prom- I, yeah, I’ve seen it.” You pushed your chair back with a loud scrape, and looked at the ground to avoid having them see the tears gradually filling in your eyes as you put your mug in the sink. Silently, you fled the room, holding in the tears until you slammed the door to your room shut. Sitting on your bed, you sniffled loudly, only accepting the fact that tears were falling down your cheeks when you realised that Hermione wasn’t in the room.

You jumped when the door creaked open, wiping at your eyes frantically, but you softened up when you saw it was only George, an apologetic look on his face. “I’m coming in, you know.” You managed to laugh between sobs, patting the empty space next to you on the bed. George climbed up, opening his arms so you could fall into his chest, trying to ease your breathing. “I can’t believe it.” You admitted to him, not daring to look him in the eyes.

“I know. I’m sorry. Sirius is too. He didn’t mean to upset you.” “I’m glad he told me.” You hiccuped, pulling away to look at George. He was so sweet to you, and he looked so worried about you, concerned for your wellbeing. “I’ll get over it in like five minutes, don’t worry.” George chuckled, watching as you reached for your bed side table to grab a couple of tissues, blowing your nose wetly.

“At least I really have a reason to hate him now.”

“Should probably give him a real reason for him to hate you too.” You giggled at George’s words and moved to sit facing him, criss crossing your legs. “You know,” You started, an idea suddenly forming in your head. “There’s not a single student in our year group he hates to teach more than you and your brother.” “Apart from you.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t exactly kiss myself to spite him.” George straightened up at your words, his face falling into a serious expression. “Just to spite him?”

“Well, there’s other reasons I’d like to kiss you, but I’m using this one as an excuse.” You gasped as George lunged towards you to slam his lips onto yours, but the sound quickly turned into a moan of satisfaction as you gripped the soft cotton of his jumper. George’s lips moulded against yours, moving in a perfect rhythm before they were suddenly pulling away from you to take a panting breath of air.

You swallowed thickly, suddenly standing up. “Give me two minutes, I need to go thank Sirius.” And George sat in amazement as you skipped down the stairs and trudged into the kitchen. Sirius spun around from where he was washing the dishes, going completely still as you threw your arms around him and mumbled a grateful “Thank you.” Before you retraced your steps out of the kitchen and back up to stairs to take as many kisses from George as he would let you.

“What?” Sirius asked, mostly to himself, eyes glued to the doorway you had just walked out from. “Oh, I bet they kissed.”

And kissed you did. At least, until Hermione returned to the room and you had to push the boy off you.

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @juliet-017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝑜𝓎𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝜗𝜚 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

We’re back again with the “type of boyfriend” headcanons—this time for the best baby boy in TKATB. That’s right, it’s finally Hyugo’s turn. People have been asking for him (loudly), and since there’s barely any content on this chaotic rooftop menace, I figured... fine. It’s time.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃��: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

Also, I was only gone for like two weeks and suddenly y’all hit me with 1K followers—??? Why?? T-T

I’m not even a consistent writer, I just be vanishing like a ghost with commitment issues. But seriously, thank you. I’ll try to get to your requests after finals, once my brain cells recover from the academic warfare.

Anyway, writing him? Pain. He’s sweet, playful, has beef with the college, possibly a knife in his back pocket 24/7, and still manages to be boyfriend-coded. Balancing all that? Not easy—especially studying for finals kicking me in the face. But even while dying academically, I think I’ve got a solid grasp on him now.

Honestly? I might just become the main Hyugo writer. 

Someone has to. Let’s get into it.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

Let’s be clear—Hyugo was the one catching feelings first.

The boy was already gone for you long before you realized what was happening. In the game, it’s mentioned he has a “certain crush,” and the way he stares a little too long or makes offhand comments about how you “remind him of someone”?

Yeah. That someone is you.

He doesn’t confess right away, though. That’s not his style. Instead, he lingers around you more often, steals your pen to “borrow it” even though he never returns it, pulls you into weird places like the rooftop “just because,” and randomly brings up your name in conversations with Sol—pretending it’s no big deal. (Spoiler: it is.)

✑ Unpredictable Lover (But With Bite)

Hyugo doesn’t ease into love. He trips, stumbles, and full-body slams into it like a cartoon character hitting a wall—and then laughs about it while nursing emotional whiplash. One minute you’re just the guy who shares notes or laughs at his dumb trivia. 

The next? He’s looking at you like you invented gravity.

When the MC reminded him of his old crush? That was it. Game over. His brain short-circuited and fully convinced itself you were his soulmate. Not in a clingy way (okay, maybe a little clingy), but in that wide-eyed, heart-hammering, "Oh, you're real? You're mine?" kind of way.

It’s not even subtle. If Sol’s the type to bottle everything up until it explodes, Hyugo’s just… holding the bottle upside down, watching it pour, and asking if you want a sip. He’ll tell you he likes you in the most offhand, dramatic, heart-melting ways—laughing as if it’s no big deal while simultaneously dying inside.

“I like you too much. It’s annoying.” cue deflection into food talk like he didn’t just ruin your emotional stability for the week

He’s drawn to people who get him—the weird parts, the unpredictable schedule, the random ass facts at 3 a.m., the way he vanishes and reappears with rare cassettes or bags of stolen berries like a chaotic little cryptid boyfriend. People who don’t try to "fix" him, but instead hand him a spoon and ask to share dessert.

He doesn’t do patterns. Doesn’t do expectations. What he does do is follow his gut, sprint into romantic territory like it’s a speedrun, and somehow still make you feel like the center of the universe—his odd little galaxy.

One day he’s got your favorite fruity snack in hand, saying, “Skip class with me. I found a crime documentary we can heckle together.” The next? He’s ghosted for two days. No texts. No calls. Reappears like nothing happened, dumps a bag of cassette tapes in your lap, and mutters, “They sounded like you. Messy but good.”

His version of sweet nothings?

“If I threatened the dean, do you think I’d get expelled or promoted?”

What.

Anyway, Hyugo’s idea of a confession is the kind of thing that makes you pause for a full ten seconds wondering if he just insulted you or proposed.

Like the time he sauntered over to you with a slice of cake in a paper napkin, tossed it on your desk, and casually said:

“I got this cake the other day and it reminded me of you. It was horrible—like, truly disgusting—but really pretty to look at.”

And then he smiled.

Not even sheepishly. Just smug. Like he thought he was being romantic.

And somehow? It kind of was.

Because beneath the trolling and chaotic delivery, there’s a genuine, rare honesty. That cake? It was real. He hated it—but he thought about you. He bought it thinking about you. He shared it, thinking that even if it sucked, he wanted you to be part of the joke, part of the moment. And that’s what Hyugo does. He doesn’t wrap his feelings in a bow—he throws them at you like a dodgeball and laughs when you flinch.

But that’s the thing: Hyugo’s love isn’t elegant. It’s not scheduled. It’s messy, spontaneous, way-too-loud, and utterly sincere. One day he’s skipping class to show you a crime documentary he downloaded illegally off a sketchy website, and the next, he’s vanished for 48 hours without a word. Then he returns like nothing happened, hands you a crumpled bag of sweets and pretty flowers and mutters:

“I don’t know. These felt like you.”

He doesn’t believe in doing things the “right” way. He believes in feeling. And if being with you makes his heart do that hiccup thing in his chest? He’s going to chase that.

His affection isn’t routine—it’s a riot. He’ll flirt by arguing with you about fictional crimes. He’ll compliment you by comparing you to garbage-eating birds. He’ll confess his feelings mid-snack, while chewing.

“I like you too much, it’s annoying. Can you pass the chips?”

And honestly? It’s kind of perfect.

Because Hyugo doesn’t do romance the normal way—he does it his way. Unhinged. Blunt. Endearing in the most unpredictable fashion.

If you can survive the whiplash of dating someone who gifts you detective movie posters, late-night existential rants, and a stolen plush frog from the student store—He’s already yours.

Sidenote, now thinking about—Let’s just say… if Sol finds out Hyugo has feelings for the MC too?

Sol is the type to internalize every emotion until it calcifies. He doesn’t say he’s upset—he just stiffens around you, goes quiet, disappears from hangouts, and starts writing darker poetry. But make no mistake: he sees everything. And Hyugo? He’s not subtle. Not even a little.

Hyugo would catch on instantly. He’d tease Sol. Not maliciously—more like poking a sleeping wolf with a stick to see if it barks.

“You’re awfully quiet, Sol. Something bothering you?”

leans a little too close to MC

“Or someone?”

And maybe he laughs. Maybe he makes a show of being the light-hearted one. But behind all that noise is a sharp, protective loyalty—Hyugo’s jokes are weapons, and he’ll use them to keep the people he cares about close.

He might pretend to flirt just to mess with Sol.

But when it comes to you? He’s serious. Hyugo doesn’t play around with the things that make his heartbeat go crooked.

If you’re the one who makes him feel free—if you accept all his chaos without trying to change him—he’ll give you everything. The good, the bad, the oddly sweet bird-themed analogies. The ugly truths he doesn’t tell anyone else.

Because once Hyugo falls?

He falls all the way. No brakes. No caution tape. No escape plan.

Just you, and a heart too loud to ignore.

✑ Smart but Soft (and a lil scary)

Hyugo’s the type who confuses people on purpose. He’s top of the class one day, doesn’t show up the next. Cracks the most complicated equation in five minutes, then sticks googly eyes on the school vending machine and blames it on aliens.

Some say he’s a delinquent. Some say he’s a genius. All anyone really knows is that Hyugo always gets things done. He’s reliable.

Strangely so. You call him at 3AM with a crisis? He shows up.

You’re in tears over nothing? He distracts you with candy and half a conspiracy theory. He’s not ashamed of affection either—not even a little. 

Hyugo doesn’t care who’s watching when he grabs your hand in the hallway, when he hugs you from behind, or when he loudly calls you embarrassing pet names in front of Sol, or pretty much anyone.

Yeah. He's that guy.

But there’s something… off about him too.

Not in a bad way. Just—off. Like, he’s always smiling. Always laughing. But sometimes you catch that flicker in his eyes that’s just a bit too sharp. Sometimes his grin feels like it’s hiding something sharp behind it. Something practiced. Like he's worn that mask for years and just got good at making it look natural.

And the truth is? You’ve seen things.

Once, after class, you were heading toward the train station shortcut—an alleyway behind the older school buildings. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the voice that echoed off the brick stopped you cold. It was rough. Deep. Too serious. Too cold. Not Hyugo’s voice.

“If I catch you touching her again, I’ll carve out your throat and make you apologize with your last breath. Say ‘thank you’ for the warning.”

And then you saw him.

Hyugo. Your Hyugo.

Back pressed to some guy’s chest, hand gripping his jaw like he’d snap it clean. Not smiling. Not even blinking. Calm in a way that felt unnatural. There was a flick-knife in his hand. The same one he later used to peel an apple while lying on your floor like it never happened.

And what did you do? Nothing. You minded your business.

Like, what were you supposed to say? “Hey, babe, nice threats today! Who was the guy? Should I be worried?” Because how do you ask someone if they’re dangerous when they’re laying in your lap, pressing absentminded kisses to the inside of your wrist? When he’s curled up beside you with all his warmth and nicknames and that childish excitement in his voice whenever he finds a weird bug or sees a raccoon?

How do you bring it up when he's sweet?

When he traces your knuckles with the same fingers that curled around a knife so naturally. When he leans into your neck and mumbles, “You smell like strawberries,” like it’s a confession.

When he tells you, “Don’t ever leave me, okay?” in a tone too soft to be anything but sincere. That duality is what makes Hyugo dangerous. And irresistible.

He’s smart. Very smart. Too smart, maybe.

But beneath that chaotic, happiness-bomb energy, there’s a darkness he doesn't talk about. A history he won’t explain. All you get are glimmers—warnings painted in pretty smiles and sugar-sweet kisses. And maybe he isn’t an assassin. Maybe he just knows how to handle himself. Maybe he is too cute for that sort of thing. ...Right? Or maybe the same hands that cup your cheeks gently could, without hesitation, end someone who hurt you.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s why you feel safest right next to him.

✑ Certified Cling Wrap™

Hyugo’s a walking paradox.

He’s an extrovert, yeah. The guy who can light up a room just by showing up, who always has something weirdly fascinating to say ("Did you know slugs have four noses?"). The type who remembers everyone’s birthday, even if he doesn’t show up to class half the time. He’s fun. Loud. Chaotic.

But when it comes down to it?

There’s nowhere he’d rather be than with you.

He’d trade a party for your couch in a heartbeat. Scratch that—he wouldn’t even consider the party if you were available. You could literally say, “I’m thinking of watching a movie tonight,” and he’d be like:

“Say less. I’m bringing snacks.”

He just wants to exist in your space. Quiet or loud, chaotic or cozy, rainy or sunlit—if you’re in it, that’s where Hyugo wants to be. And when he’s there? Prepare to lose all personal space rights.

Hyugo is Certified Cling Wrap™

Affectionate in the most relentless, devoted way. He’s the kind of guy who:

Will sit on the floor beside you just so he can lean his head against your thigh while you're working.

Wraps his arms around your waist from behind while you’re cooking, swaying with you and humming some dumb made-up song about your hair smelling good.

Steals your hoodies even though he already has a closet full of his own (“Yours smell like comfort and bad decisions.”).

Sleeps like a cat in a sunbeam—curled up on you, gripping your shirt with a soft little snore in your ear.

He doesn’t care if your hair’s a mess, or if you’ve said three words all day. To him, that’s the dream. A quiet afternoon, curled up together under a blanket, him reading some wild conspiracy thread aloud like it’s bedtime poetry, your legs tangled under the coffee table—that’s his definition of paradise.

And it’s not just physical closeness.

It’s emotional, too. Hyugo pays attention.

He notices when your laugh doesn’t sound real. When your “I’m fine” isn’t. When you’re holding back tears or trying to carry more than you should. And in his own strange, lovable way, he makes it better. Sometimes it’s through chaos—dragging you out of bed at 2AM for gas station candy and an illegal rooftop view of the cityline. Maybeee say for a bit to sun rise.

Sometimes it’s through comfort—sneaking in your favorite drink with a dumb note taped to it (“Drink this or perish.”).

And sometimes, it’s just… silence.

Him resting beside you, letting his fingers run lazy circles on your arm while you process whatever’s weighing you down. Not asking for anything. Just being there.

Hyugo’s the guy who’ll whisper “I love you” into your hair when he thinks you’re asleep, just to be safe. Who calls you nicknames like he’s been doing it his whole life—“bug,” “babyface,” “sweet disaster,” depending on the mood.

Who holds your hand like it grounds him.

And maybe he’s a little too clingy. Maybe he gets pouty when you’re not around. Maybe he whines into your voicemail if you ignore his texts for too long (“I’ve withered like an unloved plant. You better come water me or I’m dying dramatically.”).

But that clinginess? It’s love. Undeniable. Raw. Real. Because Hyugo doesn’t just want to be with you. He wants to build with you. A life. A routine. A weird little bubble of shared chaos and safety and inside jokes that no one else understands.

You’re his home. Not the apartment, not the school rooftop, not the alleyways where he sometimes does questionable things.

You.

And he’ll remind you in a hundred little ways, every single day.

✑ The Ass Silly Flirt

Hyugo flirts like it’s a full-time job and he's trying to get promoted.

He’s not smooth about it either—he’s annoying. Like, he’ll text you “thinking of you 😘” and then immediately follow it up with a picture of a traffic cone wearing a wig with the caption: “This u?”

And the worst part? You laugh or offended. Every time.

He texts you non-stop, like you're both in some private group chat that never shuts up. No context. No warning. Just raw, unfiltered Hyugo brain static 24/7:

“Do you think ghosts get boners?”

“Be honest would I survive if I just ate bubblegum and vibes for a week.”

“I saw a pigeon with a limp today and now I’m emotionally compromised.”

Mid-class, 3AM, during a fire drill—he does not care. You’re getting these texts whether you're ready or not.

And the memes? OH, THE MEMES.

Hyugo’s meme game is so strong it’s criminal. He’s got folders. Archives. A whole reaction gif arsenal like he’s been preparing for emotional warfare. He sends one for every situation, no matter how inappropriate.

You text him “I’m sad.”

He sends a gif of SpongeBob playing the world’s smallest violin and follows it up with “come cuddle or perish, dramatic ass.”

It’s his love language.

He doesn’t know how to say “I care about you deeply” like a normal person—he just sends you 38 TikToks in a row and expects you to watch them all immediately and react to each one like you’re being graded.

Now. Let’s talk about The Streak™.

Y’all have had a TikTok streak going for months. At this point, it’s longer than some people’s relationships. It is sacred. And if you break it? Hyugo will take it personally. You think he’s kidding? No. This man will hit you with voice notes that sound like break-up letters. 

“Hey. So. I noticed we haven’t exchanged any TikToks in the last… 14 hours. Are you okay? Are we okay? Just let me know if you hate me now. It’s fine. I’ll just go stare out a rainy window like a Victorian widow.” You better send something—anything—before he starts live-posting his descent into madness.

Speaking of voice notes?

He loves those. You open your phone and there’s just a five-minute recording of him rambling while pacing his room like a raccoon hopped up on sugar.

“Okay so listen—I saw this guy trip on the sidewalk and somehow launch his phone into a trash can, and I SWEAR it was cinematic. Like, Academy Award level physics. Anyway I thought of you. Wanna get dinner?”

Or sometimes it’s just him humming some random song he heard in the background of a YouTube ad and begging:

“Can you find this song? Please. I’m in shambles. I don’t have Shazam and my dignity won’t survive me asking a stranger.” And you do find it. Because you love him. And because you’ve accepted that being in love with Hyugo means acting as his personal Google assistant and meme judge.

Hyugo doesn’t flirt to impress. He flirts to torment. To tease.

To infect your brain like a catchy song and live there rent-free until you’re giggling like an idiot alone in your room just because he sent you a picture of a cat with bad bangs and said, “our child if we never discipline them.”

He’s a menace. A menace with heart eyes and a clingy streak. 

He’s the kind of guy who’d write “I love you” on a bathroom mirror with lip balm and then blame it on ghosts. The type who’d kiss you mid-sentence just to watch you stutter. Who’d steal your charger but bring you snacks to “make up for it” and then never give the charger back.

In short: He’s loud. Annoying. Borderline illegal levels of clingy.

But he’s yours. And that’s kinda the best part.

✑ Tailored to You

— Words of Affirmation?

Hyugo speaks your praises like he’s reciting scripture from a holy book only he knows how to read. 

It’s constant. Casual. Deadpan-delivered and terrifyingly sincere.

You’ll be mid-rant about your day and he’ll just go:

“You're the smartest person I know, and I hang out with Sol. That man knows Latin and still doesn’t know how to say sorry. Meanwhile, you? You breathe and my brain goes ‘yeah, this is the one.’”

Sometimes he insults you, sure, but in that “I’m obsessed with you but emotionally stunted” way.

“You make me want to be a better man. Unfortunately, I’m lazy and emotionally unhinged, so you’re stuck with this version of me. Congrats.”

And don’t even think about crying in front of him. He’ll switch from “hey sexy” to “you are the most brilliant, beautiful, badass person I’ve ever met” so fast it’ll give you emotional whiplash.

— Acts of Service?

Hyugo would absolutely walk into a war zone with nothing but your to-do list and a Monster energy drink and say, “Don't worry babe, I got it.”

He’ll do your homework shockingly he’s smart asf while you nap, call customer service on your behalf (“Hi yes, my partner’s about to commit murder over a billing error, please help”), and will not let you carry your own bag if he’s around.

Did your phone die? Suddenly, his is at 92% and in your hands.

Craving something? It’s on your bed before you even finish the sentence.

Exhausted? He’s already drawing you a bath and setting a snack tray like he’s your overworked but loyal butler who’s also in love with you.

He doesn’t even act like it’s a big deal. He just shrugs and says:

“If you’re good to me, I gotta be good back. That’s the rule.”

— Receiving Gifts?

He gives gifts like he’s on a scavenger hunt where the prize is your smile. They’re not always expensive—but they are weirdly specific.

A ring from a claw machine he swears “vibes with your aura.”

A charm bracelet/ring/necklace with tiny objects representing inside jokes only the two of you understand.

An old book with your favorite quote already highlighted, because he “happened to see it and thought of you.”

A dumb little vending machine toy he’s convinced is your new emotional support trinket. And the wrapping? Forget it. He’ll give it to you in a paper towel and say,

“Presentation is for cowards. Love is raw and weird. Take it.”

— Quality Time?

This man thrives on being around you.

Not even doing anything, just existing in your orbit. He’ll lay sideways across your bed like a lizard sunbathing while you read. He’ll follow you from room to room like a haunted but affectionate cat. You’re watching a movie? He's not even watching—he’s watching you watch it. “You scrunch your nose when you get invested. It’s cute. I like it. Shut up and let me admire you.”

Wanna nap together? He’s already curled up next to you.

Want to work in silence? He’ll bring snacks and just vibe, occasionally sending you memes while sitting 3 feet away.

Your time? His favorite gift of all time. 

— Physical Touch?

Oh you want space? Too bad, babe.

Hyugo is basically a heated blanket with limbs. 

He’s all over you—shoulder leans, back hugs, thigh squeezes, lap pillows, forehead touches, neck nuzzles. He’s like Velcro with feelings. He has zero shame. “You’re soft and warm and smell like my favorite person, why wouldn’t I be on top of you right now?” And yes, those hands? Again, the same ones that once threatened someone in an alleyway after class?

Those are the ones that cup your face so gently it makes your stomach flip.

That brush your hair behind your ear. That hold your hand even in public, especially in public, with a smug little grin like he’s bragging silently: “Yeah. This is mine.”

In conclusion, Hyugo doesn’t just love you in five languages.

He’s practically multilingual in affection—loud, devoted, and unfiltered. Tailored to you. Perfectly chaotic. Inescapably real.

Want to cry a little about it later? Yeah. Me too.

✑ Tailored to Him

— Words of Affirmation?

Hyugo thrives on your praise like it’s oxygen laced with espresso.

Tell him he’s smart? He’ll preen. Tell him he’s handsome? He’ll smirk and pull you into a kiss so sweet it tastes like a dare. But whisper to him, all soft and serious, “I’m proud of you” or “You make me feel safe” and he short circuits. Full-body blush. Ears red. Eyes everywhere but on you.

He might laugh it off, say something dumb like,

“Babe, stop it, I’ll fall harder and it’s already embarrassing out here…”

But he replays your words over and over in his head. He craves your approval like it’s sacred. He doesn’t want empty compliments—he wants real ones, the ones you mean. The ones that come out when you think he’s not listening, but he always is. He remembers your voice in detail. 

If you say something sweet in the morning, expect him to bring it up casually three days later like it didn’t melt his heart into syrup.

— Physical Touch? 

Let’s not play.

He’s got the soft hands, the smug smirk, the “come here and sit in my lap while I tell you about this video game I saw played last night” voice. But under that cuddly, somewhat short golden retriever exterior is a problem in the best way.

He’ll touch you constantly—absently tugging your fingers, nosing at your neck, kissing your knuckles like some old-timey heartthrob who listens to rap music and fights demons on weekends. Bro what?

But when he wants you? Oh, he wants you.

He leans in close when he talks, voice dropping an octave, and his fingers splay against your hip like he knows what he’s doing. 

When it’s just the two of you, he goes quiet. Focused. His usual chaotic flirty energy simmers down into this heated, steady burn. And God help you if you wear something that shows your skin—because suddenly he’s behind you, dragging his fingertips along your arms, whispering in your ear with that teasing-laced purr like:

“You really gonna look like that around me and act innocent? That’s wild.”

He’s cute. But he’s also lowkey hot in that "I’d ruin you with love and cheek kisses and then also maybe leave scratch marks you didn’t know you liked" kind of way.

— Quality Time?

Hyugo’s a social creature, yeah—but you? You’re home.

He could be surrounded by people, laughing at memes, bouncing from conversation to conversation—but the moment you walk in, he shifts. Eyes locked. Energy redirected. Like you’re his true north in a galaxy of distractions.

He doesn't need an occasion. Doesn’t need a plan.

He’s the kind of guy who shows up at your door with snacks, a blanket, and zero expectations other than being near you.

Spending time with you recharges him. Whether it's lying in bed watching weird documentaries, going on midnight walks, or sitting on rooftops eating vending machine junk food—if it’s with you? 

It’s worth it.

He memorizes your routines, your reactions, your sleepy habits. He makes mental notes like:

“They like their tea a little sweeter at night.”

“They squint when reading—they need a lamp, I’ll buy one.”

“They hum that one song while brushing their teeth—learn that on guitar maybe?”

Time isn’t just time with Hyugo. It’s devotion made casual. It’s “I choose you” in every second. It’s you matter most, no matter what else I could be doing.

So yeah. Hyugo’s a mess. But he’s your mess.

He’s a walking contradiction of softness and chaos, affection and absurdity. He loves in ways that feel like warm thunderstorms—loud, unexpected, but still soothing if you know how to listen. And when he loves you, he tailors it perfectly.

Words that lift you up. Touches that say "stay." Time that says “you’re all I need.”

He’s all in. And he’ll make damn sure you feel it.

✑ Joystick Jerk 

Oh, Hyugo’s a gamer gamer.

Not some flashy streamer, not a try-hard clout chaser—no face cam, no Twitch, no mic unless it’s Discord with you or the inner circle. He doesn’t stream, and when you asked why, he just shrugged and said something cryptic like:

“Gotta keep some parts of me hidden, y’know? Too many eyes makes the game less fun.”

Which like… okay. Cool. Normal people say that.

Totally not suspicious. Definitely not assassin-coded behavior. Definitely didn’t say that while sharpening a pocketknife and humming anime opening themes under his breath.

But listen, the man’s cracked at every game you throw at him. FPS? Headshots for days. Fighting games? You blink, you lose. Racing? Don’t even try it. Even rhythm games? He gets full combos and doesn’t even break a sweat. He’s got the focus of someone who’s either a pro… or someone who’s trained their hand-eye coordination to kill a man in silence.

And worst of all? He always wants to play with you. 

And when I say always, I mean always.

“Babe, let’s do co-op, I’ll carry you.”

“Play a round with me? C’mon, I’ll give you a kiss every time you die.”

“If I win, you have to say I’m hot. If you win… okay that’s never gonna happen, but I’ll still say you’re hot.” It’s cute at first. Until you realize he never loses. Not unless he lets you win.

And yes—you noticed.

He tries to act slick about it. Pretends he “accidentally” missed that final hit or “slipped” during the last lap. But the smug look on his face gives it away every damn time.

You: “You let me win, didn’t you.”

Hyugo, grinning: “What? No way. You’re just getting better. Natural talent. Gamer instincts. Maybe I’m rubbing off on you—”

You: “I’m going to delete your save file.”

Hyugo: “Wait—WAIT I’M SORRY—”

There was a time you swore off gaming with him completely. “Sore loser? Absolutely. Certified D1 crash-out? No shame.” But lately, he’s been playing way too much.

Like… you come over and he barely looks up from his screen. Just tosses a lazy “hey babe” and keeps mashing buttons like his life depends on it. Sometimes he forgets to eat. Sometimes he forgets you’re in the room.

So what do you do? Be normal? Communicate?

Nah. You’re evil.

Beautifully, diabolically evil.

Let’s say one day, Hyugo’s deep into a match. He’s playing some online team shooter with Sol, both of them barking callouts like seasoned war generals. His voice smooth and laser-focused as he barks commands into his mic. The screen flashes with rapid gunfire, his fingers a blur over the keyboard. He’s locked in, absolutely locked in—with that deadly kind of concentration that makes you want to ruin it.

So naturally, you do.

You drop to your knees without a word and slip under his desk, the soft whir of his PC fans the only warning he gets.

At first, he doesn’t notice. At first.

Your fingers trail up his calf, slow and innocent.

Then not so innocent. You press your palms to his thighs, feel the twitch under your hands. And when you start fiddling with the buttons of his pants, he pauses—just for a second.

His voice stutters.

“Y—yeah, flank left—mnn—flank, I meant flank! Just—move, damn it!”

Sol’s voice crackles through the headset, confused: “Yo, you good?”

Hyugo clears his throat with the subtlety of a panicked cat. “Yup. Peachy. Total—nghh—focus.”

You don’t stop. If anything, you get bolder—running your nails along the seam, watching him shift in his seat, those long fingers faltering for just a beat. You don’t even need to look up to know his jaw is clenched, teeth gritted in pure restraint. You can hear it in his breath. Shaky. A little desperate.

Then, finally, a low, bitten-off sound escapes him—a moan. Not loud. But real. Raw. The kind of sound you feel low in your stomach.

“Fuck—” And still? Still he wins the match. Freak of nature. You almost applaud. “GGs, I’m out,” Hyugo mutters into the mic, voice hoarse. “Emergency. Real life critical hit.”

Click. Call ends. Silence.

Before you can even shift, he’s got one arm under your shoulders, dragging you out and straight into his lap. The headset’s tossed somewhere across the desk. The game’s forgotten. All his focus now? On you.

Those baby blue eyes? Sharp. Wicked. Burning.

“You wanna play dirty now?” he breathes, voice low, chest heaving. “You think you can tease me while I play the game with Sol and just walk away?” His hand slides up your thigh, firm and slow.

“Nah, sweetheart. You started this.”

And Hyugo?

Oh, he never leaves a game unfinished.

✑ Sugar, Spice, and Chaos

For someone who lives on the edge of unhinged and adorable, it’s no surprise Hyugo is a menace in the kitchen—but only if it involves sugar. Actual meals? Nah. He either burns them, forgets them on the stove, or looks at savory ingredients like they personally offended him. 

But sweets? Baking? That’s his love language.

He’ll never say it, but there’s something almost calming about it—the measuring, the mixing, the slow transformation of flour and butter into something warm and golden. He’s got a soft spot for berry shortcake, especially ones layered with cream and strawberries. It’s nostalgic, he once said. You don’t press further, but the way he lights up when he tastes it? 

Tells you all you need to know.

So one weekend, he drags you into the kitchen with that signature grin, sleeves rolled up, apron tied (yes, it says “kiss the baker,” yes he wore it on purpose) and says: “Today, we conquer the cake.”

You start with the cake base—he insists on doing the measuring himself, swearing he has “baker’s intuition.” You don’t argue, even when you notice him eyeballing the flour instead of using the cup.

The moment the batter’s mixed, he tastes it with a spoon like it’s a gourmet meal. Then gives you a spoonful too. 

“Here. For quality control.” It’s… actually amazing.

While it bakes, he turns the kitchen into a war zone of whipped cream, sugar, and cut strawberries. He tries to pipe roses onto parchment and ends up with something that looks suspiciously like a slug.

“Abstract art,” he claims. “Put it in a museum.”

You laugh. He grins wider.

Then comes the fun part—assembling. You’re trying to do it neatly, but Hyugo? He starts feeding you strawberries like some dramatic prince and smearing whipped cream on your nose when you’re not looking.

“Look at you,” he smirks, “cuter than the cake.”

You chase him around the kitchen with a spatula in revenge. It ends in a tie. And a kiss. (With a side of whipped cream.)

Finally, the shortcake’s done—messy, chaotic, but somehow still perfect. Just like him.

The kitchen’s a battlefield of bowls, whipped cream smears, and flour footprints. You’re both a little sticky, a little out of breath from laughing too hard, and the oven’s still faintly warm behind you. Hyugo licks a smudge of berry syrup off his thumb with the same lazy grin that always gets him his way.

You’re sitting on the counter, legs swinging, and he’s nestled between them, sharing forkfuls of cake straight from the dish. His eyes flicker up every time you chew, like he’s not watching the dessert but you enjoying it.

He hums low after a bite, leaning against your shoulder. “I’d burn water for dinner, but damn if I won’t make you the best dessert of your life.”

You snort, licking cream from the side of your lip.

“Cocky much?”

“Confident,” he says, swiping a bit of whipped cream with his finger and tapping it onto the tip of your nose. “But also a little hungry still…”

You tilted your head, lost. “For the cake?”

“Sure,” he smirks, “let’s go with that.”

He kisses it off your nose—soft and teasing. Then off your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth. Each one slower than the last. Until it’s not about the cake anymore.

You reach for the bowl of whipped cream—because why not?—and dip your fingers in it. His eyes track you like prey, curious and wide as you smear a little on the side of your neck. “Oops,” you whisper, “missed a spot.”

Hyugo freezes. Then laughs, soft and dangerous. “Oh, you really wanna start something, huh?”

The next moment is a blur—his hands are on your thighs, spreading them wider around him as he presses closer. His lips find the cream on your neck and he bites—playful at first, then deeper. Your breath catches. That baby blue gaze turns sharp, electric with mischief.

He kisses down your throat, slow and purposeful, tongue chasing the sugar and teeth chasing your pulse. You’re not even sure how the bowl got knocked over, but it doesn’t matter. The spoon clatters to the floor. Your back arches into him.

“Tastes good,” he mutters against your skin, “but you’re sweeter.”

His hands slide up under your shirt, warm and insistent. The cake is long forgotten now, half-eaten and melting beside you. His mouth is busy elsewhere—your collarbone, your shoulder, the curve where your neck meets your jaw. He’s painting you with sugar and heat, and licking every trace away.

You’re not sure who pulls who in first for the kiss, but it’s messy and desperate and just the right amount of wrong. And when he pulls back, panting, pupils blown wide?

“Kitchen’s already trashed,” he grins, voice rough, “might as well finish the job.”

Let’s just say the next round doesn’t involve frosting—but it’s still very much dessert.

✑ Partners in Cosplay (and Crime)

You knew Hyugo liked crime flicks and video games—but this? This was a full-blown obsession.

He’s not just a fan. He’s a geek. Deep in the lore, the trivia, the obscure theories that only like four people on the internet care about—and he’s friends with all four. He’s the kind of guy who can quote entire movie scenes, word for word, with the dramatic voice shifts and everything. One time he paused a shootout scene just to explain the gun model they used and how it’s “totally unrealistic, but looks so fucking cool.” His eyes literally sparkled.

So when convention weekend rolls around? Oh, he’s already packed.

Costume? Secured. Prop weapon? Custom-made.

And when he asks you to go with him? He doesn’t even care who you dress up as—just that you’re there. His partner in crime. Literally.

You pick a character that kinda matches his—maybe one from his favorite show, or the one you think would annoy his the most. Either way, when you step out in your outfit, Hyugo malfunctions. Full on, mouth open, hand to chest, “I think I just fell in love again” levels of dramatic.

You walk the con floor hand-in-hand, him constantly pulling you over to booths like a kid with too much sugar and no parental supervision. 

He buys crime-themed keychains, limited edition figures, posters with ridiculous quotes, and sketches from artist alley like his life depends on it. He compliments cosplayers like a pro—“Damn, that’s clean! Bro, how’d you make the holster?”—and flirts with you every chance he gets. “You look way too good in that outfit. You trying to kill me or get me arrested?”

By the time you get to the hotel, his and yours arms are full of merch bags, his wallet’s empty, and his energy is still sky high.

You barely make it through the door before he’s tossing his stuff onto the couch and pulling you onto the bed with him. 

Still in cosplay, the both of you. 

“Okay but like… what if our characters actually hooked up? For research purposes.”

You raise a brow. “Research?”

He just smirks and leans in closer, fingers already unbuckling whatever fake tactical vest he’s wearing.

“I’m just saying… we could be committing crimes of passion right now. Or passionately committing crimes. Whichever hits harder.”

Before you can reply, his lips are on yours, hands warm and eager as they slide beneath your costume, tugging fabric aside and leaving goosebumps in his wake. He kisses like he’s still acting in character—cocky, sharp, teasing—but with that unmistakable Hyugo sweetness that always slips through.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he whispers between kisses, “real talk.” And when you end up tangled in a mess of half-off cosplay and breathless laughter, his voice is low and rough in your ear:

“Next year? We’re going all out. Couple cosplay. New characters. New roles. New positions—wait, did I say that last one out loud?”

You’re pretty sure he’s still joking… mostly.

✑ He’s Pansexual (lil angst)

Hyugo is pansexual—genuinely and unapologetically so.

He doesn’t care if someone’s masculine, feminine, both, neither, fluid, strange, loud, quiet, or something the world hasn’t learned how to label yet. If he’s drawn to you, it’s because you’re you—your voice, your presence, the way you move through a room, the look in your eyes when you’re focused, angry, glowing, grieving. He falls in love with essence, not gender.

“I don’t give a damn what you are on paper,” he once told you, head resting on your stomach, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. “I like what you are to me. And that? That’s something nobody else gets to have.”

He says it so confidently, like it’s not even up for debate. 

Because it isn’t. But love—real love—terrifies him.

Hyugo plays it cool, because he’s always been good at pretending. But when he lets himself really care for someone? It unlocks this whole hidden, trembling part of him that he usually buries beneath bad jokes and gaming trash talk. That part of him that lies awake sometimes, staring at the ceiling, scared out of his goddamn mind that one day the world might take you away from him.

“I don’t… live a quiet life,” he admitted once, when things between you were still new, still fragile. “I got people who know my name and don’t say it fondly. I got enemies. I got… unfinished things. If I ever pull back, disappear for a while… it’s not ‘cause I’m tired of you. It’s ‘cause I’m trying to protect you.”

You hadn’t said anything right away.

Just looked at him—really looked—while he sat still, shoulders tight, like every second of silence chipped away at his confidence. Like he was bracing himself for you to sigh, to shake your head, to say you didn’t sign up for this.

Like he’d seen it happen before.

Because he had.

People have left Hyugo before. Screaming matches or messy, dramatic exits or Just… quietly. Gradually. Like a candle flickering out in a room he hadn’t realized had gone cold.

Some said he was “too much”—too chaotic, too unreachable, too unpredictable. Others didn’t say anything at all. They just disappeared. Let go without warning. Walked out while he was still holding on.

So when he opened up to you, even a little—when he admitted how messy his life was, how much danger it might bring, how scared he was of dragging someone good into his world—it wasn’t just a warning.

It was a test. And he hated that it had to be.

But you didn’t walk away.

And something in him cracked open for you after that. Slowly, cautiously—but it opened. Still, there are moments… quiet, stupid moments where the fear creeps back in. When someone else’s eyes linger on you a little too long. When your attention slips away for just a beat too long. When you laugh with someone else in a way that used to be his alone.

And then? Hyugo gets quietly possessive.

Not cruel. Not jealous in the way that burns everything down. But in the way that digs in—firm, unyielding, scared in the places he refuses to show.

He’ll pout first, like it’s all fun and games. Arms crossed, an exaggerated sigh, brows cocked high with all the drama of a man auditioning for a bad soap opera.

“You ignoring me now? Damn, babe. Who’s this new cast member and what do they have that I don’t? ‘Cause I will up my stats. I’m not above DLC bribes.”

But if the other person gets too bold?

That’s when the shift comes. Subtle, but sharp.

His fingers slide to your waist, grounding himself in your warmth like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His voice softens, drops an octave—but there’s steel under the silk now. His whole energy changes, like a storm smiling through the sunlight.

“That guy’s not gonna steal you away, right?”

The words brush your skin just before his lips do, heat trailing over your neck, a kiss so casual it feels like a claim.

“I mean… you are mine, yeah?”

It’s not a threat. Not a demand. 

It’s a plea he doesn’t know how to voice.

Because he doesn’t want to trap you—he wants to be chosen. Every day. Every hour. Loudly. With intention. Just like he chooses you.

Even when the world’s unfair. Even when he’s neck-deep in shady jobs, fractured loyalties, or the weight of who he used to be. Even when he’s afraid. He’ll still love you like it’s the only thing keeping him real. Because Hyugo doesn’t care what you are. Only that you’re his. And yeah… sometimes he still wonders if he’s too much to stay with. 

But damn if he won’t spend the rest of his life giving you every reason to stay anyway.

✑ Flaws? Suprisingly there’s only Two…

Again—no one is perfect.

Hyugo’s learned, consciously or not, that being the comic relief, the sunshine, the dependable one earns love and keeps people around. So that’s the role he plays. Laughing through pain. Masking exhaustion with trivia. Brushing off his own needs with a practiced smile.

Which is a classic avoidant coping style, often stemming from early experiences where expressing pain or emotional needs either resulted in abandonment, punishment, or dismissal. He’s not unaware of his hurt—he just doesn’t believe there’s space for it. Or that anyone will stay if they see it. So he internalizes the belief:

“If I keep everyone happy, if I’m useful and entertaining, they won’t leave.” But emotional suppression is a time bomb. Eventually, the mask cracks.

It started small. Missed texts. Delayed replies. A few vague excuses about errands or errands or “sorry, I fell asleep.” But the dark circles under his eyes weren’t from sleep.

And you knew it.

So when you drop by his place unannounced and find him sitting on the edge of his bed, shirt halfway off, eyes glazed over in thought—You don’t say anything. You just step in quietly and sit next to him.

“Didn’t expect you,” he says, voice soft. He smiles—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I look like a mess, huh?”

You don’t reply to the joke. You just ask, “Are you okay?”

That’s when it happens.

A twitch in his jaw. A flicker of discomfort. A sharp inhale. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just thinking. Long week, y’know?” Then a quick subject change: “Hey, did you know in some countries, strawberries used to symbolize perfection? Which is kinda dumb, 'cause they bruise so easily—”

You cut him off gently. “No trivia tonight, Hyugo.”

He goes quiet. The tension in his shoulders rises like a tide. He won’t look at you. Just stares at the floor like it might rescue him from the weight settling in his chest. “I’m good,” he says again. But softer this time. “I have to be. I don’t really get to fall apart. People expect me to… I dunno. Handle things. Be cool. Be funny. Be the guy who keeps the mood light.”

You put your hand on his knee. Anchor him. Pull him back from wherever he’s floating off to. “You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. It cracks midway through. His head drops, and for the first time in a long while—he doesn’t hide the exhaustion. “But if I do… what if you leave too?”

And that’s the real fear. Not pain. Not stress. Abandonment.

You pull him in. Let him lean on you. His arms wind around your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. And for a while, neither of you speak.

Eventually, he murmurs, “You’re the only one I want to be weak with. That’s… scary. More than anything else I’ve done.” And he means it.

He’s not fixed. Not magically “healed.” 

But tonight, he let himself be seen. And that’s the start of something more powerful than any armor he’s ever worn.

Next is that, Hyugo doesn’t just love.

He attaches—deeply, instinctively, and without conditions. The people he chooses are more than friends, more than lovers—they’re extensions of his purpose. And if protecting them means lying, fighting, getting hurt, or burning bridges?

He’ll do it. No regrets. No hesitation.

This stems from survivor’s guilt and a deep-rooted sense of self-worth that’s tied to usefulness. In his head, if he isn’t saving someone, then what is he even for? There’s a quiet belief that he’s more tool than treasure—someone meant to hold the line so others don’t have to.

But in doing so, he forgets:

You love him for who he is. Not what he can suffer through for you.

You’d told him not to come. 

You made it clear: “I’ll handle this. Don’t get involved.”

But that was like telling a storm not to rain. The moment he caught wind of someone cornering you—someone threatening, someone bigger—Hyugo was already halfway to the alley behind the gym building, jaw tight, mind made up.

By the time you arrived, breath ragged and furious, the guy was on the ground. Groaning. Bloody lip. Hyugo stood over him, fists clenched and knuckles torn open.

He didn’t even look at you at first. He just said,

“Don’t worry. I handled it. He won’t bother you again.”

But you didn’t feel safe. You felt sick.

Not because he lost control—but because this wasn’t his burden to bear, and he didn’t even stop to think about the cost. “Hyugo,” you said, your voice shaking, “what if he presses charges? What if someone saw?”

He finally looked at you. Eyes wild. Heart still in war mode. But his expression softened when he saw the pain in your face—not from fear of him. From fear for him. “I didn’t care,” he said honestly. “I still don’t. No one’s hurting you. Not while I’m breathing.”

That should’ve made you feel safe.

But instead, it made your chest ache.

You stepped closer, grabbing his bloodied hands. They trembled slightly against yours. “You don’t get to set yourself on fire every time someone throws a spark near me.”

He blinked. Confused. Quiet. And that silence? That was the part that stung most—Because it told you he genuinely didn’t see the problem.

You reached up, cupping his face. “You think I want to watch you destroy yourself in my name? You think that’s love?”

His throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing guilt. But he didn’t pull away.

You added, softer: “You’re not a weapon. You’re my heart. And I want all of it. Whole. Safe. With me.” That was the moment he broke—just a little.

He leaned forward, forehead resting against yours. “...I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just… I didn’t know how else to protect you.”

You held him tighter. “By letting me protect you, too.”

This flaw will never fully go away. It’s wired into how he loves. But now? He’s learning there’s strength in restraint. That protecting someone doesn’t always mean throwing himself into every fire. Sometimes, it means staying close.

And staying whole—so he can keep loving you tomorrow, too.

✑ Thoughts + Ranting

Okay. So I said Hyugo only had two major flaws.

...I lied. It’s three. Sue me.

There’s one I didn’t name before. One that’s not easy to admit, even if it’s written all over him like an unspoken scar. Here it is: Hyugo is a perfect example of someone who’s been sexualized—and who learned to play into it, because it was the only way he ever felt seen.

But let’s set the record straight, because the internet loves to twist things: I’m not saying he’s a pervert. Absolutely not. Don’t even try it. This isn’t a man hiding in your closet or panting in your bushes. He’s not creeping in the dark. (Save that energy for Sol and his dramatic, stalker-coded tendencies—respectfully.) 

Hyugo isn’t that type of man.

What he is, is someone who developed hypersexual behavior—something that’s often misunderstood. Hypersexuality isn’t about being horny all the time for fun. It’s an intense, sometimes compulsive fixation on sex or sexual behavior, often as a way to cope. It’s not inherently predatory, and it’s not inherently wrong. But it is a reaction. 

A symptom. And in Hyugo’s case, it’s a wound.

See, I was sitting in class when the thought hit me like a truck: What if people really do treat Hyugo like a walking fantasy? A quick fix? A body to burn through and discard before sunrise? What if that’s how he’s always been viewed—never as a person, just a fleeting high, a secret, a sin?

Because that kind of dehumanization sticks. 

It doesn’t fade. It etches itself into the softest parts of you until you believe it too. And maybe, just maybe, Hyugo learned somewhere along the line that his worth lies in how easily he can be desired—not in who he is, but what he can do for others. What he can give.

He doesn’t feel loved. He feels used. And to protect himself, he leans into it. Becomes somewhat flirt, the temptation, the chaotic late-night call you regret in the morning. Not because it’s what he wants—but because at least this way, he’s not being rejected. He’s being chosen, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons.

And that’s why he can’t let you go.

Because you didn’t treat him like a performance. 

You didn’t treat him like a transaction. You saw through the chaos and the charm and found the person. The equal. The soul. The boy who still believes in love, even if he’s too scared to admit it out loud.

You made him feel real.

Sidenote—completely unrelated to everything I just said—but I can’t stop thinking about the fact that Hyugo lost his virginity to a man.

Fantasia said it. I’m not taking it back. It wasn’t for shock value. It’s canon. It means something. It says something about him—and the more I sit with it, the more it adds layers to his character that I can’t ignore.

First of all, it confirms what we already sensed: Hyugo’s pansexual. He doesn’t box his heart or desires into categories. He loves people, not parts. He's comfortable in his skin, open with his identity, and doesn’t shrink himself to make others comfortable. He owns who he is with that same bold, cheeky confidence he brings to everything else. And that kind of honesty? It’s rare. He doesn’t make a show of it. He just is. Unapologetically.

But here’s where it gets tangled in my head—I keep wondering about the context.

Was it a casual hookup? Something spontaneous, wild, and curious, sparked by the need to feel alive or wanted in a moment of vulnerability? Or was it more than that? Did he love this person? Did they matter to him in a way that left a mark? Could this have been the crush he mentioned once, the one he speaks about with that strange softness, like he’s remembering something half-sweet, half-sore?

Did it end suddenly? Did it end at all?

There’s something quietly haunting about the idea that Hyugo’s first time wasn’t just a physical milestone, but an emotional one too. Maybe it was one of the only times he gave himself to someone not as a game, not as a performance—but as a person. Whole. Nervous. Real.

And maybe it didn’t last. Maybe it broke him a little. Maybe that’s where the cracks started—where he learned that intimacy and pain can exist in the same breath. That being vulnerable doesn’t always lead to safety. That being wanted doesn’t always mean being kept.

That’s why it sticks with me. Not because it’s scandalous.

But because it’s human.

And in Hyugo’s story, humanity is the one thing he keeps offering—despite how often the world tries to strip it from him.

Let’s take it deeper—Hyugo and… Geo.

I know I never shut up about Geo (he’s my husband, deal with it), but this isn't just about gushing over him. There’s something worth unraveling here. Something that speaks to how trauma doesn’t create a blueprint—it creates a battlefield. Two people can grow up in the same wreckage, and walk away with completely different scars.

See, Hyugo and Geo? They’re two halves of a shared history. 

Geo likes to say they’re stepbrothers—like that somehow distances them, makes the connection less binding. But let’s be honest: blood means nothing when you’ve been raised under the same roof, weathered the same storms, and built your sense of self from the same broken foundation.

That’s your brother.

That’s family. Whether you want to admit it or not.

And that’s the thing with Geo—he doesn’t want to admit it. Cold, closed-off, “don’t touch me unless it’s about business” 

Geo would rather die than openly acknowledge Hyugo as his older brother. But that truth lives in his bones. It’s there in the way he bristles when Hyugo’s hurt, in the way he silently watches over him from across a room, like a knight who doesn’t want to be caught caring. And Hyugo? He knows. He never says it outright, never demands affection or acknowledgment. But he knows. Geo is his little brother. End of story.

What’s fascinating—and heartbreaking—is how differently they responded to the same trauma.

Geo shut down. Became all logic and sharp edges. He put walls up so high no one could climb over, and he keeps his emotions buried so deep even he forgets where he left them. He’s aromantic/asexual, what if he’s emotionally scarred to the point of numbness, one thing’s certain: Geo is the embodiment of survival through detachment. He chose silence over softness. 

Distance over danger.

Meanwhile, Hyugo? Did the opposite. If Geo’s pain froze him solid, Hyugo’s set him on fire. He threw glitter over his wounds. Covered the screaming with laughter, with noise, with affection that sometimes feels like too much—until you realize it’s the only way he knows how to ask, “Will you stay? Will you care?”

That’s why people call him two-faced. 

Why they mistake his flirtation for manipulation, his touch for control. But it’s not conquest. It’s not about power. It’s about connection. About feeling real in a world that kept trying to erase him. Hyugo wants to be loved, and not just in passing. He wants to be seen—fully, achingly, intimately.

So yeah. In my eyes, Hyugo’s hypersexual.

But not in the shallow, performative way people think. It’s not about predation. It’s not about conquest or control. It’s about feeling. About proving to himself that he’s real, that he matters, that someone sees him and still stays.

Every touch is deliberate.

Every kiss is a question: Do I still exist to you?

When Hyugo reaches for someone, it’s like he’s trying to anchor himself to this world before it slips away again. 

Because to him? Intimacy is safety. Desire is reassurance.

And love—true love—is survival.

When he touches you, he’s not just touching skin—he’s tracing the shape of a future where he doesn’t have to be afraid. When he looks at you, it’s not lust—it’s hunger for warmth, for stability, for someone who doesn’t leave.

You don’t become his partner. You become his reason. His rescue.

And once you have Hyugo’s heart?

There’s no in-between. No lukewarm affection. He’s all in. No backup plan. No armor. Just him—raw and real and terrified that you’ll disappear too. Loving Hyugo means being chosen. Means being seen in a way that strips you down to the bone, and yet somehow, makes you feel more whole than ever before.

It’s intense. It’s overwhelming. But it’s never fake.

Now pair that with his two-faced nature—the side of him people whisper about. The switch that flips from sunshine to shadow in a blink. Because yeah, Hyugo can be the kindest soul you’ve ever met.  Soft, attentive, radiant. But cross a line? Or worse—betray him?

He’ll smile while slicing you in half with words sharp enough to scar your soul. That duality isn’t an act. It’s survival.

One face to charm the world. The other to protect what little of himself he hasn’t already given away. 

And the reason that duality even exists? Because Hyugo grew up in the same haunted house as Geo. Same broken floorboards. Same locked doors. Same silence. But while Geo turned cold, Hyugo became heat.

One froze to survive. The other burned.

And they’re still bleeding from it. Two brothers.

Two different coping mechanisms. Same pain—processed on opposite ends of the spectrum. So call Hyugo hypersexual. Call him two-faced. But don’t you dare call him fake. He’s just trying to feel something real. And in this world? 

That makes him one of the bravest souls I’ve ever known.

[lewismcqueen]

could've been. 1/2

lh44 x black!reader

summary: you and Lewis meet again for the first time since 2008, and his presence leaves you reminiscing on what could have been. cw: this will be smutty all the way through. story involves infidelity, so feel free to pass on this one if that distresses you. a/n: this was gonna be a one-shot but I could feel deep in my spirit that it was gonna be longgg asf so...two parter! (not a series lol). I know folks don't love Lewis' pre-braids era but just go with it this one time for the plot 😁 I tried to cosplay as a British writer for a second it might be inaccurate pls don't jump me 🙏🏾

“Don’t look so down, honey. Walk around, grab a couple drinks!” 

Your husband, Joshua Lee, flashed you that ‘party host’ smile that was more for everyone else than for you. He raised his flute of champagne in the air jovially before turning away. He had an audience to entertain.

He thinks he’s in the fucking Great Gatsby, you thought to yourself with a sigh. 

You touched a manicured hand to the white cashmere sweater tied around your shoulders overtop a navy blue blouse. It was starting to create unnecessary bulk, and you considered removing it and just tying it around your waist the way you used to. Too hot out to just put it on. 

Freshly-cut grass occasionally brushed the sides of your feet as you wandered around what was the third garden party that your husband had decided to throw on a whim within the past couple of months. It’s considerably more crowded today, which meant that he’d likely invited a few of his buddies from Formula One, and you now had twice as many folks to smile and wave at if you couldn’t weave around them. Some had even begun to recognize you; he liked to take you to races and paddock walks to ‘show you off’. Brag about how he’d married you before any of the actual racers could as soon as you graduated.

You were just ending a conversation with one of the drivers’ wives about where you got your sandals from when a man’s voice that was not your husband’s called out your name. It took a second to place it, but the pang of familiarity was unmistakable. Eyes widening, you turned around. 

“Lewis?”

-

“What?” Lewis’ brows furrowed. 

Now, this Lewis hasn’t grown his hair out yet, keeping it closely cropped so that none of the other racers or the media had anything to comment on. He hasn’t pierced his ears just yet either. He’s wearing a black polo shirt—you swear he has a million of those—over loose blue jeans on which he wipes sweaty palms. Lewis is trying to look irritated and pragmatic, but it doesn’t quite reach his dark brown eyes. They always gave him away, revealing that he cared more than he would like to admit. 

This is the Lewis you knew.

“What do you mean ‘what’?” you snapped. You began counting off on your fingers, “You walk right past me after races, you miss my birthday, you’ve not returned any of my calls, or my mum’s calls! Do you know how crazy it is to let my mum go to voicemail?”

Lewis’ expression softened, and he suddenly looked very tired. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? I’ve got back-to-back training sessions with my dad, then it’s straight back home for me. I’m hanging out with you now, though, right?”

“Sure, I guess.” 

“You don’t accept my apology?”

You pretended to check your nails. The glittery blue polish had finally begun to chip. 

“I don’t know.”

Soft, quiet laughter came from the other side of your bed. “What the hell is your problem?”

He called your name one, two, then three times, but you continued sulking with your head turned in the other direction. Finally, you felt his finger beneath your chin, turning your face towards his. You stuck out your bottom lip with a pout.

Lewis tilted his head with a grin. He liked to do that whenever he was trying to make you forget whatever he’d just done to annoy you at that moment, sometimes batting his long lashes and narrowing his eyes for full effect. It was almost coquettish. And it always worked. 

“Are you mad at me?”

“Maybe.”

“Well don’t be, ‘cuz I got you something. That's the main reason I came here.”

Lewis bent down and reached into his backpack, which he had laid beside your bed when he came in. From it he produced a small white satin pouch with drawstrings. Gently, he placed it into your palm and closed your hand.

“Open it.”

You pried open the soft material and gasped softly as you pulled out a gold necklace. The warm light of your bedside lamp reflected off of a nameplate hanging from the chain. Your name, in stylish, curling letters. It was going to be extra hard to stay mad now.

You held the nameplate between your fingers. “How…how did you know?”

He snorted. “Overheard you begging your poor mum to buy you one. Put it on, then.”

You undid the clasp and wrapped the chain delicately around your neck, finding the hole it was supposed to go through with your fingers with practiced ease. Letting it fall at your collarbone, you brushed back iron-pressed hair and turned to Lewis. “How do I look?”

“Beautiful,” he answered with an earnestness that caught you off-guard. “I’m really gonna miss you.”

You were half-expecting him to be a smart Alec and say something like, “The same, but with a necklace” or something. But he was staring at you the way he stared at the sunset when you two would watch it together while sitting on the hood of his dad’s car. 

Staring, and getting much, much closer. 

His lips pressed against yours before you could even react. When he pulled away, he suddenly looked mortified. Heart drumming in your ears, you noticed the residue of some of your lip gloss creating a sheen on his lips. It was a lucky thing you were wearing your favorite tank top today, because the heat simmering beneath your skin would’ve made you break into sweats.

Lewis held his hands out defensively like you were going to hit him.  “I’m so sorry—”

“Shut up.”

Impulsively, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him into another kiss. You had watched him make out with other girls enough times in sixth form to get the general idea of how it ought to be done. Now, fresh out of your first year of university, you were basically an expert. Sort of.

“Wow,” Lewis exhaled with his lips still nearly brushing yours. He smirked. “You’re a terrible kisser.”

You rolled your eyes. “Then show me how, idiot. Since you’re apparently so good at snogging.”

“Let go of my shirt, and I will.”

Despite your casual remarks, you were very sure that your steadily rising heart rate and heavy breathing was the loudest thing in the room. Lewis gently held your chin again.

“Alright, so you’ve gotta tilt your head.”

“Like this?”

“No,” he laughed. “Other way.”

You followed his lead before leaning in with your lips slightly parted this time. He guided your hand up to his face, where you rested it on his cheek as you went in for a much surer kiss. 

Save for the occasional awkward clicking of teeth, you eventually fell into a rhythm. Lewis’ hand came to rest on your waist. He seemed to approach making out like he did racing; the moment he felt you relax, he pushed further, deepening the kiss with more hunger than before. Your breathing had just begun to even out again when he made the bold move of planting a soft, experimental kiss on your neck, making you tense up. He pulled away, looking hesitant.

“Do you want me to stop? I’ll stop if you ask me to.”

You bit your lip, considering. A week from now, he’d be back to racing, unlikely to ever bring this up again, knowing him. You’d be going back to school to study engineering in a couple of months. The bedroom door was locked. Might as well make the most of it.

“No,” you finally answered, voice so low you were nearly whispering. “Keep going.”

Slowly, Lewis lowered his head to where it was before. You placed a hand on the back of his neck as he made contact with hot skin, more sucking now than kissing. As your mouth fell open with the added pressure, you thought about how this felt way better than how it looked in those R-rated movies you sometimes snuck off to watch together. 

Just as the tender spot above your necklace began to feel sore, he broke contact. His eyelids were low as he looked at you, lips just slightly pinker than they were before. He was staring downwards, where the nameplate rested just above the swell of your breasts. Lewis looked up.

“It’s, uh, better lying down. Can you…?”

He didn’t have to finish the question for you to get the message. Lewis got up as you swung your legs and scooted forward so that you were lying flat on your back. He climbed onto the cramped twin-sized bed with you, carefully settling right between your legs. Suddenly, you were very aware of how high up your thighs your shorts cut off, how your hair was going to be a flattened mess after you got up, and how you might look from above while gazing up at him through thick red prescription glasses. This rapid line of thought was soon cut off when his lips crashed into yours again.

You pointed at your spectacles as he hovered over you. “Should I take these off?”

He shook his head, “I like when you keep them on.”

Huh, you think. Must have a thing for glasses.

“You know, if they get crooked, it’s not gonna look very—”

“I like when they’re crooked.”

A mischievous smile spread across his face; The statement seemed to shut you up.

Lewis had been right. It was easier lying down. Your hands roamed up and down his back as you gave him full access to your neck. You felt him tug at the hem of your shirt.

“Can I?” he asks against your skin.

“M-hm.”

You actually weren’t sure what you expected him to do until you felt his hand slide underneath your tank top and begin kneading your breast through your sports bra. This was now completely uncharted territory, but heat was building between your thighs and you wanted him to explore all of you until he knew it like the back of his hand. 

An unexpected, quiet moan escaped you when his thumb swiped over your nipple. You’d never moaned before, not even by yourself when your dorm was empty.

This seemed to signal something to Lewis, who momentarily sat up on his knees to bring his shirt up over his head, revealing an expanse of bronze skin with lean muscle that wasn’t there before. He discarded it onto the fluffy pink rug you had on the floor.

You lie there gaping for a moment, before realizing that you were supposed to do the same or it would be weird. You were about to wriggle out of your top when he stopped you.

“I can do it, it’s fine.”

Raising your arms, you let him briefly remove your glasses and hoist the turquoise fabric over your head. He looked so focused as he carefully placed the glasses back on your face that he could’ve been doing surgery. Lewis had never looked this methodical in your presence before. 

Now that you were more or less topless, there was no bit of skin that went untouched by his lips or tongue. He was kissing your navel when you finally stated the obvious.

“I didn’t realize you were into me like that.”

Lewis stopped and looked up at you quizzically. Then he smiled. “Me neither.”

-

This new, less familiar Lewis wore a white tank top that showed off extensively-tattooed arms, earrings that glittered in the sunlight, and hair that was braided into neat square sections with faded edges because he had won too many championships to be worried about what the media would say about it. He had a hand shoved into the pocket of some fashionably-baggy cargo pants while the other hand carefully held a champagne glass.

That sharp, gap-toothed smile was the same, though. And the way he said your name again, softer this time.

“Hey,” he regarded you warmly. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Still reeling from his sudden appearance, you stuttered. 

“Y-yes, it…certainly has been. A while, I mean.”

“I know what you mean. How have you been?”

You thought you’d gotten used to seeing him, given his face was everywhere now. But the intensity of those eyes couldn’t be captured on camera. Suddenly you were back in first year again, moaning beneath him in your old bedroom. 

“I’ve been…good,” you nodded.

“Oh, don’t give me that. It’s been so long that you’ve gone and got married!” His hand left his pocket to gesture animatedly. “Tell me something. I mean, how’s married life? What do you do these days?” 

You had forgotten that Lewis could chat up a tree if he wanted to. “It’s been alright,” you say unconvincingly with a practiced smile. “Joshua’s been great, he takes me to races once in a while. I even get to tour the garage sometimes, though I’m not as involved as I’d planned to be. It’s like I never left.”

“You were studying engineering, right? I’d love to see you working around the paddock, if you’re ever interested. I’ll vouch for you.”

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you’d given that up—all of it—because you thought you were in love. Now your degree was nothing more than a notch in your belt. A mere decoration collecting dust on your nightstand. 

“I’ll be sure to call you if I ever think of joining the team. We’re always rooting for Mercedes,” Gesturing towards Joshua’s figure in the distance, you started to move past Lewis. “I will see you—”

“Wait,” 

You felt Lewis’ hand lightly touch your elbow. You stopped, only turning halfway.

He looked like he was still figuring out what to say afterwards, as if he had stopped you on impulse. His free hand awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “I, um, don’t have your number.”

You nodded slowly. 

“Right, um,” you reached into the back pocket of your white capris and pulled out your phone. 

Once you added a new contact labeled with his name, he typed in his number.

“Well, there you go.” You gave him a strained, polite smile. 

Lewis looked like he wanted to say something, but you turned to leave before he could. You told yourself it was better this way. I’m married, you repeated like a mantra in your head.

I’m married, I’m married, I’m married.

[kiana12113]

Hi! I'm not often requesting something but I just spent the last few hours reading your hcs and I must tell you that there are the best ones I've read so far!! I just wanted to ask if there is a possibility of making more Micah Bell, I can't hide that I love his character and I would gladly read more about him. Wish you a good day! <33

꒰ঌ MICAH BELL HEADCANONS ໒꒱

Aaa, i’m honoredd! Thank you so much ⸝⸝ʚ̴̶̷̆_ʚ̴̶̷̆⸝⸝ i’ll try my bestt. hope i got this right. XD

ps. sorry this took so long, i had to go to the hospital and rest awhile. (´ε｀；)

WC: 1.6k

Micah Bell who rides alone.

Micah Bell who, from birth, up until now — was taught to be stone-hearted, cold, and to live as an outlaw amongst people who he should not care about. He lives merely for himself, for the thrill, to kill, and to survive — within any means. He does so ‘without care’, proudly announcing the fact.

Micah Bell who says things more as a statement to convince himself, rather than those who happen to hear. He’ll always hide in that mask of his, though. Acting like he doesn’t need anyone, or anybody, despite chasing expectations since childhood.

Micah Bell who doesn’t care — and helps people expecting something in return. So, at first, when he sees you, shivering around in Colter, the man shrugs and goes on with his day. He should be doing something better — he thinks. But he keeps seeing you around, like an idiot, and it irks him. He decides before it irritates him too much, that he might as well get you out of the way.

“Hey, woman. You look stupid.” He says, giving you his coat. He looks annoyed, like he’s doing it against his will. And then he leaves, immediately after, not wanting to hear a comment about what he just did.

Micah Bell who raises a brow when he sees you around the camp, mumbling and commenting, just loud enough so you can hear it. “So, when ya gonna—” But you don’t even spare him a glance. “Huh.” And he stands there, lips slightly agape as his eyes follow you around. “Hey, wait.”

Micah Bell who is nosy and impatient. He has his leg moving up and down, pretending to look busy. He can’t help but often steals glances at your way, oddly curious about what you’ve got going on. He’ll curate little plans in his head on how he’ll be able to throw you off from your focus, and get a reaction out of you.

Micah Bell who won’t say it out loud, but the only reason he’s been pissing people off on purpose was to have even some form of communication. No one talks to him willingly, that much is given.

But you did, once — on purpose. You asked him about something, and it turned into a little conversation. Maybe talking properly with you was enjoyable, maybe. He still had to sort that out.

Micah Bell who doesn’t sleep, ever. It’s vulnerability, to some extent — he’s too untrusting for that, the average person would assume. And the man’s an insomniac. He couldn’t sleep, even if he tried. Too haunted by his own thoughts to close his eyes without them running around and making a mess of his mind. He’s always by some trees, alone. He likes to think the loss of sleep couldn’t possibly affect him.

Micah Bell who eyes you around like a hawk. He has his body slumped, cheek rested on his first as his eyes continue to follow wherever you go. At first, he doesn’t even try to hide it — but after that time you looked straight back at him, he learns to be subtle; and he doesn’t even know why. He doesn’t want to admit the fact that it made him feel caught.

Micah Bell who loves the idea of pissing you off, of making you mad — but he can’t. He’s always frozen in place, grumbling insults that don’t reach your ears. Every time the man approaches you, he has to think about what to insult you with first. He wasn’t really trying to pick up a real conversation, was he? But he was, unfortunately for him.

Micah Bell who’s become accustomed to the scene of you, wherever, whenever. The smell of you, the voice of yours.

Micah Bell who is an insufferable, nasty man — but sometimes he chooses to be confusing. One time he’ll be running that loud mouth of his, about some nonsense, and the next thing you know, he’s giving you some kind of revolver he’s found. Talked big about ‘high quality’ and how hard it was to get. When you asked why was he giving it to you, he chuckled. “Ya wound me — you ain’t even grateful?” He doesn’t answer the question, because truthfully, he doesn’t know either.

Micah Bell who isn’t concerned, nor worried about anyone else’s wellbeing except for him. Except you, too, apparently — because he’s been leaning against that tree for the past few minutes, keeping an eye on you. He figures, he might as well stay there, since he doesn’t sleep anyway. You and that fever of yours.

Micah Bell who isn’t some kind of lovestruck fool. Hell, he didn’t even know love. For as much as he knew, it was just some word that made everyone crazy. And he knew very well in his heart (if he had one) that he wasn’t supposed to be a victim of it.

Micah Bell who pushes down that feeling bubbling inside him. He knows exactly what it is, but is convincing himself that he doesn’t — and that it isn’t there in the first place.

Micah Bell who does realize, one night — that he’s a nasty, lonely man. One that didn’t deserve to be saved from that feeling, the feeling that has been gnawing and clawing him from inside making its way out. How his heart would throb, and mind would hurt, like several daggers were simultaneously inserting themselves in between the flesh. His skin is tough, thick — not to be penetrated so easily, and yet, there you were; making him an utter fool and highlighting the pinnacle of his stupidity like it was nothing to you at all.

He’s sat alone, like always, and thinking. With a cigarette pursed between his chapped lips, the smoke exits his lungs as quickly as it entered. Micah Bell, ‘lone wolf’, is searching for something, someone. You, who takes away that feeling of loneliness.

Micah Bell who spews insults at your direction like breathing air. Mindless, without thought, quickly — only for one purpose — so that he won’t be obvious. Acting like your mere presence irritates him, and yet, he can’t get enough of it either.

Micah Bell who doesn’t know romance. One would say he’s akin to a blind man trying to get through a maze. But when your fingers graze over his face, all over the stubbles in his beard, he’d like to try, a little— to understand. He hates the way you’re treating him, the way you’re making him hesitate, making him think so much, making him soft — but he sure as hell won’t be telling you stop soon.

Micah Bell who has kissed many, unfortunate women before. Just for the sake of it, for the kick — for the yells and cries of complaint he’d get after. But not like this, no. Your lips were soft, sweet, unlike others. Your hands were fragile to him, dainty, like porcelain. You allowed him that, and he couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. This sickening feeling in his stomach, it hurt his ego — though it also stopped the bleeding from within, soothing the need he’s been hiding deep and away for so long.

He’d scoff, tease you for a bit. Talk high of himself for a bit after, masking the surprise he felt.

Micah Bell who felt wanted, for once. Sick man turned tentative; gunner turned thinker. Maybe now he could understand his brother a little more. Though deep down, he’ll forever hear the voice of his father telling him how he’s failed, and how he’s fallen to the hands of some woman.

Micah Bell who finds himself solace in your hands. And his thoughts drift away, like a boat in the ocean of his mind. His words are quiet, almost like a whisper. It’s breathy, like usual, but with thought. He’ll ask you, almost like a joke — if you’d run away with him if he asked. He hopes you would, but maybe he’s pushing his luck.

Micah Bell who is asleep. Dozing off, next to you. He makes almost no noise, chest heaving softly and gently — a complete opposite to when he’s awake. He’s peaceful in this state, and most of all, comfortable enough to lower his guard.

No, you don’t tolerate his actions, what he’s done. What vile things those calloused hands had done and that mouth has said. And yet you stay, ever the more patient and endearing. To die alone, a silent death — was what he had imagined for himself. Now, he’ll have to postpone it a little later.

Micah Bell who feels like a teenager, clueless, learning, again. He had thought he was too old for all of this already, and someone from his past ought to drag his body back to hell. But then again, he’d crawl out, just for a little moment to ask you again. “Darlin’,” “I don’t take ya for an unintelligent woman. But ya really… chose me?”

Micah Bell who lets himself relax, unwind, like he’s been tense his whole life.

Micah Bell who’s got his hands covered in blood, and now he’ll have to pay the price. And maybe, just this time, he’s actually valued life more than simple-minded selfishness. Maybe, in another life, though this one was good enough — he’ll be a greater man than he was.

Micah Bell who rides alone, with the thought of you in the back of his mind.

[merrybloomwrites]

When the Wolves Come Out (Chapter 1)

Story Summary: When Y/N gets hired to play drums for One Direction, the last thing she expects is to find herself as part of their pack. Especially since it seems that they don’t want her there. Only time will tell if they’ll accept her, or if the omega will have to deal with rejection from the others.

Chapter Summary: The boys find out about their new band member.

Word Count: 1.8K

Tags/CW: omega verse, omega reader, alpha Harry, alpha Zayn, alpha Louis, beta Niall, beta Liam, poly

AN: So excited to finally start sharing this! I’ve had this planned for easily a year now, and it’s taking me some time to write because I really want to get it right. Since I don’t have a schedule for this I’m going to do a tag list so that people will be notified when a new chapter goes up. If you’d like to be on that please comment or send me a message.

I hope you enjoy!

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“So, what do we think this meeting is about?” Niall asks anxiously.

He, Harry, Louis, Zayn, and Liam are together at their home in London eating breakfast and discussing the day ahead. A last minute meeting had been put on the schedule for later that morning. It has them all a bit on edge, since technically they’re on break for another week before tour rehearsal starts.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Zayn reassures. As the alphas of the band, Zayn, Louis, and Harry are always making sure to look after the betas, Niall and Liam. It’s in their nature to protect others, especially omegas, but with no omegas around, those feelings are transferred to the betas.

“They might just be going over the schedule for the upcoming weeks,” Louis says.

“I know they’ve hired a few new people for the team,” Harry adds. “This could be to introduce everyone so we’re all comfortable before we really get into planning for the tour.”

“Makes sense,” Liam replies, seemingly unworried, but Zayn places a gentle hand on his shoulder anyway. Liam is used to this, the casual affection from the others, as he understands their need to care for those around them. It did feel a little overbearing to him and Niall at first, but now over three years in, they’ve grown to love the attention.

“Everyone be ready by ten,” Louis says as he gets up to bring his plate to the sink. They all finish breakfast and go their separate ways to get dressed. The alphas take an extra minute to properly put on their scent blockers, knowing that they’re not supposed to broadcast their scents whenever they have meetings.

It’s one of those things they didn’t question at first, but now find a bit annoying, and honestly somewhat of a hypocritical rule. Simon, and the other alphas on their team don’t have to hide their scents, but the band members do. Louis tries not to think so cynically, but he can’t help but feel like this rule is there to keep them in place, ensuring that he, Zayn, and Harry can’t be seen on the same level as the other alphas.

Pushing these thoughts aside, Louis heads down to the entrance, putting on his shoes as he waits for the others. He receives a text that their car will be arriving soon, and shouts a five minute warning through the house.

As the eldest in the group, Louis had become the official leader. It hadn’t started that way, though. Liam had the most leadership qualities and naturally filled the role. But due to his status, others outside the band wouldn’t listen to him. He always says it doesn’t bother him, and that he was relieved to not be in charge, but his friends were still a bit angry on his behalf.

“That’s just how society is,” Liam had said.

“It shouldn’t be that way,” Harry had replied.

“But it is. Maybe it will change someday, but for now, I’m okay with it,” Liam had stated, ending the conversation.

From then, Louis had been the point person. If they were an official pack, he’d be their pack alpha. But they weren’t one. They weren’t allowed to be one. They couldn’t be a true pack, not without a female, and especially, not without an omega. They would always be seen as incomplete.

And therefore, management had forbidden them from bonding. It had been a huge debate the previous year, when the five boys had realized that they were already bonded for life, and wanted to make it official. It was then that they were told if they tried, they would be dropped from their management team and from their label. They would never be able to make music again.

So they’ve put off the topic of becoming an official pack. For now.

The five of them pile into the van when it arrives, and it’s a short trip.

“Head up to Simon’s office,” the receptionist says. “He’s waiting for you.”

And that’s a surprise to all of them. Rarely do they actually meet with Simon. The few meetings they do have with him often end in lectures or new rules. It’s not normally good news.

The five of them get in the elevator, and Harry can feel the anxiety radiating off of Niall. He places a calming hand to the back of his neck, a gesture of protection, and Zayn does the same for Liam.

Arriving at the office door, Louis knocks, standing tall and doing his best to channel his authority as pack alpha.

“Come in,” they hear Simon call out, and they do as they’re told.

“Have a seat,” Simon directs without so much as a hello.

Simon is behind his desk, five chairs set up facing him, as though they’re a group of students in the principal's office. Still, they listen, Harry and Zayn taking the outside seats, Louis in the middle, and the betas sandwiched between the alphas.

“Thank you for coming this morning,” Simon says, as though the boys had any choice. “I know you’re still on break, but I have some news to share with you.”

All five of them are on edge waiting to hear what this could be, their minds making up dozens of scenarios in an instant.

“As you know, Danny will no longer be touring with us. So we’ve found a new drummer.”

And that’s, well, anticlimactic. For a Simon meeting that’s barely news. They knew they were getting a couple new band members, at least one person changes every time they tour, but it’s never been taken so seriously.

Louis senses the others relax around him but he stays on alert, figuring there has to be a catch.

“Who is he?” Louis asks.

“She,” Simon states. “Thought you had an open mind,” he adds.

“I do,” Louis retorts. “You’re the one who has always insisted the band is all boys.”

“Well maybe I’ve decided it’s time to branch out. Her name is Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Wait, isn’t she the drummer for the Jonas Brothers?” Harry asks.

“She was. But they broke up, or are on a break, I don’t really know. All I know is we needed a drummer and she needed a job. Apparently she grew up with them and has been playing drums since she was a child. She’s skilled, talented. Plus she’s toured with a major boy band before so she knows what she’s getting into.”

“And she’s an omega.” Harry states.

This really catches the attention of the other four. The fact that this new hire is a girl was shocking enough, but also an omega? There has never been an omega in the band, not even part of the touring crew. Management had never allowed it, said that it was no lifestyle for them, that the constant stress of traveling would be too draining. Plus, omegas can’t be away from their mate or their pack for long, or it would lead to touch deprivation, causing them to be physically sick.

“She’s used to this lifestyle, I have no worries that she won’t be able to handle it,” Simon replies.

“Will her alpha be traveling with her then?” Louis asks.

“She doesn’t have one. She was a part of the Jonas pack but that’s, well, saying it’s in shambles seems a bit mean. Doesn’t mean it isn’t true though. So she’s very much a free agent at this time.”

“I know you said she’s used to touring,” Niall says, “but she’s used to touring with her pack. Pretty sure both Kevin and Joe are alphas, and if she grew up with them then they could provide her the touch and comfort she needs. She won’t have that here.”

“Why won’t she?” Simon asks.

Silence falls in the room as they all try to figure out what he means.

“Wait. Us?” Zayn finally asks, causing the rest to look at him in confusion.

It clicks for Louis and he says, “No way! This is our pack. The five of us. We’re not adding some random omega girl to our pack just because you want us to.”

“She’s a good fit for the band, and she’ll need you boys-”

“Don’t pretend you’re doing this for her,” Zayn says.

“This is just a convenient way for you to sneak her into our pack and get the public image you’ve always wanted for us,” Harry adds.

“You are not a pack!” Simon shouts. “The five of you will never be a pack.”

“Because you won’t allow it,” Louis says.

“Because society won’t allow it! This isn’t my rule and you know it. This is the way it is. No pack is considered complete in the eyes of the law without at least one omega.”

The boys are silent once again, knowing it’s true but not wanting to admit it.

“She will be here next week. You will be welcoming. Kind. We’re done here. Louis, please keep an eye on your email for your rehearsal schedule.”

Knowing they’ve clearly been dismissed, the five of them head back to the car. They’re tense on the drive home, no one sure what to say, each processing the news.

They spend the afternoon separately, everyone off doing their own thing. It isn’t until they sit down together for dinner that they bring up the meeting.

“How is everyone feeling?” Louis asks.

“Annoyed,” Zayn states.

“Elaborate?”

“I’m annoyed that he’s trying to make this decision for us. I don’t mind her being in the band but he can’t make changes to our pack.”

“I agree with Z,” Liam says. “It’s our pack, not his. He has no right telling us what to do.”

“And who is this chick anyway?” Niall asks.

“An incredibly talented drummer,” Harry replies.

“Doesn’t mean she can just come and force her way into our pack,” Niall says.

“We don't know that that's her intention,” Louis says.

“We don’t know that it isn’t,” Zayn argues.

“Nothings going to change, right?” Niall asks meekly.

The alphas look between Niall and Liam, and notice that both of them seem nervous. They understand their worries, that if an omega joins their pack then the alphas attention will turn to her.

“Nothing will change,” Harry says.

“No matter what, you will always have us,” Louis confirms.

Seeming reassured, Niall and Liam relax, though that doesn’t stop the alphas from releasing calming pheromones.

“We’ve still got another week before she gets here. Let’s just enjoy that and then we’ll take it from there,” Zayn says.

Everyone agrees, and they finish the rest of dinner in peace.

That night they all end up in Louis bed together, cuddling and basking in each other's presence. And if they do that everyday for the rest of the week, well, no one has to know.

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AN: Thank you for reading! Please comment or message me if you want to be on the tag list! I’m looking forward to sharing this story with you all!

[krennicswife]

some krennic headcanons during andor ❤︎

i am perfectly aware he has like 2 minutes of screentime during the 1st act but this man has me on a chokehold ever since i was 12 & the lack of his on-screen presence can’t stop me from forming lots & lots of headcanons in my head (also: reader is female and there’s like a huuuge age gap & power imbalance so if u don’t like it, don’t read it !)

you’re an admiral’s daughter; you’re young, spoiled, bratty, quite intelligent too but you prefer to rely on your looks and privilege to get what you want because: that’s just the easy way. from the day you got promoted from the position as an intern to a proper worker in the ISB, you began to have your head poking into things that are none of your business. whether it’s you sneaking into high-level briefings, leaning over the shoulder of officers way above your pay grade, or constantly pestering people for information you absolutely don’t need, you’re always there. this would be the first aspect a certain cape-wearing director would notice about you.

the first time krennic sees you lingering outside a briefing room, pretending to read your datapad but actually listening to classified conversations? he’s fuming; it’s like you’re trying to be part of the grown-up conversation, and it pisses him off. you're unprofessional and immature, trying to maintain your relevance with desperation while he had to work for years trying to get into the position you're in now.

his first instinct is to remove you (how romantic ikr). you’re a distraction, an intrusion, and frankly, the sheer audacity of your presence makes him bristle. he steps into the room, locks eyes with you, and with a sharp tone that matches the icy glint in his eyes, he says, “move, child.”

krennic genuinely considers you a pest at first. like, he uses that word in his head; “she’s like a fly in the mess hall. no purpose, just noise and irritancy.”

at first, he’s convinced you’re just some naive intern trying to climb the ranks by riding on your father’s coattails. but then there’s something about you. you never ask directly; it’s more like a casual, persistent probing. you drop little comments here and there that make him realize you’re not as stupid as you seem. you might be spoiled, bratty, and a bit too eager to impress, but there’s an intelligence there. something sharp, underneath all that arrogance. that’s what gets him in the end, as he doesn’t seem to be like that type that would fall for bimbos.

you catch him staring once. he looks away instantly - you grin for the next three days straight.

he starts seeing you in a different light when you actually speak up. not in a bratty way, but in a sharp, calculated way that surprises him. your questions aren’t just curious; they’re insightful. you start pulling pieces of information together, drawing conclusions from small details that most people in the room completely miss. he takes his initial impression of you as a miscalculation in his brain and wants to be more annoyed of you, but surprise surprise, the absolute opposite occurs.

at the ISB, you’re nothing special, but you’re ambitious and persistent, and that truly sticks with him. of course, you’re also gorgeous as hell, always wearing those polished uniforms and, at special occasions, the most expensive luxury gowns gifted by your father. but that is secondary (at least that’s what he tells himself).

at some point, whenever you're missing, krennic finds himself wondering where you are. he shouldn’t care, but after seeing you around a few too many times, he starts feeling the need to know where you are at all times. he’s not watching you. he’s just keeping track of your whereabouts.

one time, during a tense ISB debrief, you dare to casually ask a question that no one else even thought to raise. it’s phrased innocently - but it exposes a flaw in the current operation, something small but critical. there’s a long pause in the room. krennic hates how impressed he is. he hates that it turns him on a little.

from that moment on, he actually starts using a slightly softer tone with you, but only when you're alone. in public, he’s still giving “disdainful professional disappointment” energy.

after that, a shift happens, and the more serious it gets, the more you start to change. you’re no longer the confident, teasing intern who used to saunter around with a grin on her face, throwing questions and remarks at anyone who crossed your path. you’ve become quieter, more calculated. your peers are even starting to tease you; “you’ve spent too much time with the director. you’re practically turning into him!” “now i’m just waiting for you to grow a white cape on your own”

to him, the change in you isn’t just external. it’s subtle, but noticeable: your posture is straighter. you speak less, but when you do, your words are measured, chosen with purpose. you seem sharper in a way that makes krennic realize just how much you’ve grown since the first time he met you.

as your supervisors and parents got more strict with you, you’ve learned when to speak and when to stay silent. you’ve also learned to anticipate krennic’s expectations. you’ve become more attuned to his preferences, responding with quiet obedience and even anticipating what he wants before he says it. your submission is subtle, but it’s noticeable, and it makes him feel a strange sense of satisfaction. we all know how much the director likes to be the one in control, don’t we?

and from that moment on, you’re bound to stay by his side.

-end of part 1-

[deathfavor]

so I was approved to Friday off, and so i figured I'd use my floating holiday since it doesn't roll over like PTO and idk when else I'll use it this year. But Friday is also Hanma's birthday so he's sitting here all smug like a holiday huh

[moeblob]

Because his inner monologues really are just. So long. And I think it's important to show how much this guy thinks in order to say "not quite".

[universalthaumaturge]

so. chapter 5 huh.

[tiktaaliker]

ok actually it kinda sucks that veilguard only lets you input veryyyy basic shit about events of dragon age inquisition (ie you can edit the inquisitor, choose who you romanced, and choose what happened to the inquisition itself at the end of the dlc). fucking EXTREME downgrade. like are we just going to pretend that the first and second games dont exist. just like. mannnn in inquisition i thought it was SO cool that you could ask varric about hawke and he would talk about My Hawke and My Choices. and then theres just random moments in both 2 and inquisition where something happens and you realize OH SHIT THATS BECAUSE OF A CHOICE I MADE IN THE PREVIOUS GAME!!!! like werewolves showing up in a quest in 2 because i helped the werewolves in origins! AND WHAT ABOUT KIERAN!!!!!!! i was wondering how veilguard was going to handle kieran and so far it looks like the answer is not at all

[thedevotionaltour]

i havent even read enough gl to justify the feelings and emotions i have about kyle i just have the lovers heart and also something wrong with me. and my projection. in my mind he's just like me. and he would have loved college vending machine frozen cheeseburger and heating it up in the microwave at 1 in the morning because he was bored and didn't want to work on a drawing assignment on 20" x 30" paper that was due tomorrow in his freshman year. he would have loved going to the club to push off finals work that's creating the worst stress known to man in his brain. and he would love to annoy the fuck out of his roommate when high and avoiding homework on a saturday.

[aflawedfashion]

I hope Doug gets a win in the finale because this season really decided to destroy everything he loves and he needs a come back

[darabeatha]

ㅤㅤㅤOh he's going to kill you one of these days Ozymandias....

[ryoflix]

sukuna doing your grwm voiceover | f. reader, s/h prns., crack 'n fluff, estb. rl ؛ ଓ

the mic is a cheap little thing—one of those clip-ons with a long cord and a half-broken clip that you swore was “totally fine for tiktok.” it’s taped to the desk lamp now, swaying slightly as sukuna leans back in your pink gaming chair, arms crossed over his chest like it might keep the cringe away. the video is on mute.

thank god. he would’ve walked out if he had to listen to your chipper little intro and do this dumbass voice-over. but he stays—grumbling, snarling under his breath, but he stays.

“ugh. fine,” he mutters as he hits record, voice low and already irritated. “hi. ’m narratin' her dumbass makeup thing. let’s get this over with.”

the video starts with you holding up your moisturizer to the camera like it’s a sacred relic. sukuna squints at the label.

“this one’s got... snail slime or some shit. don’t ask me. she swears by it. uses exactly three pumps, like a goddamn ritual. see? one, two... three. mmhmm. told you.”

he clicks his tongue when the next product flashes onscreen. your sunscreen.

“this one’s white as hell when it goes on. looks like a clown for a sec. she always pats it in too fast—like she’s in a race. it dries down okay, i guess. not that i notice. or care.”

he very much notices. always does. he sits on the bed pretending to scroll while you do this routine every morning. he's watched it with the intensity of a warrior memorizing enemy patterns.

now comes the concealer. the applicator dabs under your eyes with practiced precision.

“yeah. this part. five dots under each eye. exactly five. you miss one, she wipes the whole thing off like the world’s ending. don’t know why she bothers—looks good without all this crap anyway.”

he pauses.

“…not that i say that out loud.”

the beauty blender makes its entrance and sukuna actually groans.

“this sponge. she squeezes it before every use like it’s stress relief. and then she taps. forever. for e-ver. just... tap tap tap like an annoying little woodpecker.”

he mimics the sound with his fingers on the desk—tap, tap, tap—lazily, almost fondly.

your bronzer palette appears, slightly cracked in the corner. he narrows his eyes.

“this thing’s been through hell. she won’t throw it away. i offered to buy her a new one and she called me ‘sweet’ like i wasn’t trying to end this makeup horror show. anyway, she goes light-handed here. no muddy cheeks. she’s precise. annoying, but precise.”

his gaze flicks to the lipstick you picked—a soft, bitten pink.

“her favorite,” he says a little too quickly, a little too softly. then he clears his throat like the sentiment offended him. “whatever. next.”

the video ends with you posing for the camera, smiling. sukuna stares for a second too long. you’d edited a heart transition, too—sparkly pink.

“gross,” he mutters.

he clicks the mic off and pushes back from the desk like it burned him. “we done? finally?”

you post it anyway. mostly because the internet doesn’t deserve to be spared this kind of comedy gold. and overnight, the comments blow up. thirsting. begging. 

"i'd pay to listen to him read an audiobook."  "who is he and where can i sign up for the cult??"  "he sounds like he could ruin my life and i'd say thanks afterwards."

sukuna glares at the screen the next morning, cracking his knuckles like he’s ready to teleport into the comments section and throw hands.

“who the hell is sexyslut69 and why do they want me to whisper them affirmations?” he growls. “block ‘em. block all of ‘em.”

you laugh. he doesn’t. but when you offer to film another one, he grumbles a “tch” and sits back down in your chair.

“fine. but next time, you're using the expensive mic. and none of that heart bullshit at the end. i'm not doing that sparkly shit again.”

pause.

“…and do not let them think i’m for sale, you hear me? i’m yours. yours.”