#because he had INVISIBLE control. not physical control

[littlejoyss]

destiny part 2

“All along, there was some invisible string tying you to me.”

Stray Kids - Chan x Reader

Red (golden) string of fate trope

Word count (so far): 4k

previous part <- current part -> next part (coming soon!)

The announcement dropped that Thursday morning. A simple post, just your stage name, his, and the phrase "Coming Soon”. Two company logos, one sleek teaser photo of you and Chan, edited together. No dramatic tagline. No date. No explanation. Just enough to send the internet into a spiral.

Within minutes, your name was trending again, but this time, not with accusations. This time, with excitement.

@k-entupdates: 🚨Breaking: (Y/N) x Bang Chan collaboration CONFIRMED. Joint music project + more behind-the-scenes content coming soon. The first photo was released by both agencies. Fans: ready yourselves. This is not a drill.

💬 @seoulsweetheart: I don’t care what anyone says, she’s still insanely talented and her voice with Chan’s production? We’re winning.

💬 @chanluvbot: Let’s be real, if Chan’s involved, it’s going to be gold. Literally. I’m crying already.

💬 @notyouflinching:

She flinched ONE TIME and y’all forgot she literally wrote the bridge that carried an entire generation of ballads. Sit down.

💬 @softsoulmates: The way their teaser photo looks like a wedding invitation... 👀

You scrolled through the reactions from your desk in your apartment, phone in hand, heart caught somewhere between dread and disbelief. The public hadn’t forgiven you entirely, but the tone had shifted. People wanted to believe in you again. They wanted this to work.

You were halfway through refreshing the trending tag when your laptop screen brightened. You were waiting for a meeting between Chan and you to start. You were supposed to discuss the contract together for the first time.

The Zoom chime rang out softly, followed by the flicker of your own camera tile. And then, Bang Chan logged in.

He was in a studio, of course. Wires, stacked speakers, and a massive mixing desk behind him. He looked like he belonged there. Black hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair slightly mussed like he’d run a hand through it one too many times.

You’ve seen Chan before, through a screen in interviews. But you’ve never actually talked to him before. You should’ve said something first. Instead, you just watched him.

Bang Chan didn’t speak immediately either. He gave the screen a single nod, then reached off-camera and came back with a copy of the contract in hand. His fingers tapped against the edge of the folder, controlled, rhythmic. Not anxious, exactly, but focused. Like someone preparing for a test he didn’t study for but expected to pass anyway.

You cleared your throat. “Should we go through the contract together?”

He looked up. “Might as well. Better to get the awkward parts out of the way before the cameras start rolling.”

There was no need for introductions. You two knew who you were well enough. You nodded and flipped open your own copy. A silence stretched between you as paper rustled.

Chan broke it first. “Section Two, Paragraph Three. Public Behavior Guidelines.”

You skimmed quickly, then read aloud: “The parties agree to maintain the appearance of familiarity and developing intimacy in public and online spaces. This includes, but is not limited to, soft eye contact, subtle physical proximity, and verbal cues suggestive of mutual fondness.” You looked up. “Subtle?”

He raised a brow. “Subtle in K-pop media terms or real-life terms? Because those are not the same.”

You tried not to smile. “Guess we’ll find out.”

He tilted his head toward the screen. “Just… don’t stand behind me in line if we’re at a convenience store or something. Netizens will do a ten-slide PowerPoint about how your elbows are aligned and what it means.”

You laughed. “Noted.”

He grinned, then flipped a page. “Alright. Section Three: Content Production. There’s a line here that says we’re expected to do at least one joint livestream biweekly.”

Your stomach dipped. “Live?”

“Yeah.” He exhaled. “I don’t love it either, but… I guess that’s the point. We’re supposed to look like we’re warming up to each other in real time.”

Your gaze dropped to the sentence underneath it: Mutual participation in social content is required. Hesitation, awkwardness, or refusal to engage will be flagged as non-compliance.

Chan must’ve seen your eyes linger. “No pressure or anything.”

You gave him a look. “We’re literally being paid to flirt in public.”

He shrugged, half amused. “You ever done that before?”

“Flirted or faked it?”

He didn’t answer. 

You turned the page. “Here,” you said. “Section Four.”

“Section 4: Relationship Boundaries,” you read aloud, voice flattening with each word. “The undersigned parties agree not to engage in a personal or romantic relationship beyond the scope of public performance. Any emotional or physical entanglement beyond agreed promotional conduct will be considered a breach of contract and grounds for termination of the contract, financial penalty, and reputational liability.”

Chan looked down at his own and nodded.

You finally looked up at the screen. “I feel like that should be easy. Given we’ve never met before this.”

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low, thoughtful. “Easy.”

You tapped the bottom of the page. “This part here…” You read: All communication outside of scheduled work must remain professional. Casual or personal interactions not approved by management may be considered misconduct under clause 4B.

Chan sighed. “Translation: no texting unless it’s about a tracklist.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “There’s a subsection at the back. Check Appendix C. It has a list of ‘pre-approved messaging topics.’”

You flipped to it. Your jaw dropped slightly. “This is ridiculous.”

“’Please confirm arrival time for photoshoot’... ‘Did you see the updated mix?’... ‘Your hoodie’s inside out, ’ okay, I added that one. But still.” He gave a small shake of his head. “Nothing like telling two adults how to behave like coworkers and strangers at the same time.”

You frowned down at the text. “We’re being micromanaged like toddlers on a playdate.”

Chan’s eyes were on you again. “That’s because the companies know what’s at stake. One of us slips, and the other gets dragged down with them.”

“Right…speaking of that. Section Five: Backstory and Important Stories.”

Chan groaned softly, already flipping ahead in his copy. “The fake history.”

You scanned the section, eyes narrowing at the bullet points. “We’re supposed to memorize how we ‘met,’ what we ‘admire’ about each other, and what song ‘brought us closer.’ This sounds like an idol variety show bingo card.”

He gave a dry laugh. “It gets better. There’s a section about shared memories we’re supposed to reference casually in interviews. Look,” He held his contract up to the camera. “It literally says, ‘preferred shared memory: ordering the same side dish during a late-night recording session and laughing about it for ten minutes.’”

You stared at him. “We’re being paid to pretend we bonded over kimchi fries?”

He smirked. “Iconic origin story.”

You dropped your forehead to your palm. “Okay,” you said, flipping to the final page. “Section Six: Crisis Protocol.”

Chan groaned again. “The part where they tell us what to do if this all explodes.”

You read it aloud. “In the event of scandal, leaked footage, or unforeseen complications, both parties agree to adhere strictly to the provided narrative. Any deviation without approval from company management may result in public correction or contract dissolution.”

“Translation,” he muttered, “lie better.”

Your eyes widened. “This all ends in one month?”

Chan gave a small nod, his fingers drumming a quiet rhythm on the edge of his desk. “That’s what the timeline says. One months of planned content, soft press cycles, and… whatever this is supposed to be.” He gestured vaguely between your two screens.

You exhaled, more from exhaustion than relief. “It feels longer. I mean…we haven’t even started and it already feels like I’ve signed away something.”

Chan didn’t argue. He just tilted his head a little and said, “They’re betting two months is enough time to rehab a reputation.”

“And yours is what they’re using to do it.” Your words came out more blunt than you meant them to.

He didn’t flinch. “Yeah, well. My label probably thinks it’s a good trade. Get my name attached to a high-profile soloist. Increase visibility for the next comeback. Make me look a little more…” He searched for the word. “Romantic.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think you already are?”

Chan laughed softly, caught off guard. “Not when I spend more time with compressors than with people.”

You couldn’t help it, your lips twitched.

He leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Let’s be honest. Neither of us would’ve said yes to this if we had a real choice.”

“No,” you admitted. “We’re both here because someone else thought it was good PR.”

He nodded. “Exactly. So maybe it’s better if we don’t fake being close too fast. If it’s supposed to be a slow burn, let’s make it slow. Clean. Predictable.”

“Like a ballad,” you said quietly.

Chan blinked. “What?”

You looked down at your hands. “They always build slowly. Verse. Chorus.”

He watched you for a second longer than felt comfortable, something unreadable in his expression. “Okay,” he said finally. “Slow burn it is.”

You nodded and closed your folder. “I guess we’re partners now.”

Chan smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess we are.”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

It was raining the morning you arrived at the studio, just enough to blur the windows and give the world that washed-out tint. Iseul sat beside you in the backseat, scrolling through her phone like it owed her money, already wearing the kind of structured blazer and polished expression that meant she was in boss mode.

“Don’t forget to keep it light today,” she reminded, not looking up. “Smile when you walk in. Let the cameras catch the natural chemistry.”

“I’ve met him once,” you said.

She finally glanced at you. “Exactly. First impressions are expensive. Make this one count.”

The car rolled to a slow stop outside the company’s private entrance. You could already hear the faint hum of photographers down the street, like flies outside a sealed window. You pushed your hoodie up, adjusted your cuffs, and followed Iseul out.

The building inside smelled like clean speakers and fresh coffee, studio air. Familiar. Comforting.

A staff member guided you down the hall, Iseul trailing a half-step behind, until they paused outside one of the larger mixing rooms. The door cracked open just as you reached for it.

Chan stood inside, glancing over his shoulder like he’d heard your presence before seeing it. His hoodie was a different one, navy today, slightly wrinkled, sleeves pushed up the same way they had been on Zoom. He gave you a nod and stepped aside.

The moment your shoes crossed the threshold, it happened.

The thread burned.

A gold spark shimmered into existence on your pinky. You felt it in your pulse before you saw it, like the air had thickened, like something inside you clicked.

Your eyes flicked to Chan instinctively, and his were already locked on you.

His hand twitched slightly, just enough for you to see the same glow threading from his finger, taut and radiant. The same one you'd ignored for years. 

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t react.

Because beside you, Iseul was smiling with professional pride, and just inside the room stood a man with a clipboard, Chan’s PR manager, probably, ready to coach you both. “Welcome,” he said brightly. “Glad we could finally get you two in the same room.”

You didn’t remove your eyesight from the string, which was revealed to have been connected to Chan this whole time.

“-We’ve got about an hour slotted today,” the manager continued, oblivious. “You can record some verses of your new song, and maybe a short Q&A clip if you’re comfortable. We’ll go over tone and narrative after.”

You barely heard him. Because the thread didn’t just glow, it pulled. A soft but magnetic tug at your pinky, as if your body had already made its decision before your brain caught up. You didn’t need to look at Chan to know he felt it too. The way his eyes didn’t leave yours? It was all the confirmation you needed.

Right there, in a room full of people you weren’t allowed to tell.

Iseul stepped forward first, offering a tight nod to the manager and a polite wave to Chan. “Good to see you again, Chan. (Y/N)’s been looking forward to working together.”

“I have,” you echoed, though your voice was quieter than intended. You finally dropped your gaze, balling your hand into a loose fist until the thread dimmed enough to hide. Your chest still hummed with its echo.

Chan’s PR manager handed you a clipboard with the shoot outline and motioned toward the padded chairs in the corner. “We’ll run the camera for some candid-style B-roll while you go through the melody together. No pressure, just smile, nod, maybe steal a glance or two. You know the drill.”

“Casual chemistry,” Chan said dryly, flipping a switch on the console.

“Exactly,” the manager said without a trace of irony.

Iseul gave your arm a gentle nudge as you moved toward the mic setup. “Just be natural,” she said. “Natural sells.”

Right. Natural. Even though nothing about this was natural anymore.

You passed him on your way to the mic, and for a terrifying second, your arms brushed. A zap of warmth licked up your side. You didn’t flinch, but you felt it. So did he. His jaw flexed, like he was biting the inside of his cheek.

You both took your places, you at the vocal mic, Chan at the desk. The room suddenly felt ten degrees too warm.

“Let’s run the first verse?” he offered, gaze flickering briefly to your hand. “Keep it simple.”

You nodded.

He played the chord progression through the monitors, soft and slow. You closed your eyes, breathing in, letting the track guide you.

But the warmth stayed. And with each note, it pulled tighter.

Behind you, you could hear the soft click of Iseul’s phone, capturing snippets of footage for social media. Carefully curated. Perfectly staged. Not a soul in the room knew the performance wasn’t the only thing being orchestrated.

“Great start!” the PR manager said. “Let’s do a take with a little more eye contact this time, maybe a smile, just toward the end?”

You turned away just in time to catch Iseul giving you a thumbs up. You couldn’t smile back. Not right now.

Permanent tag list: @moonlitcelestial @akindaflora @beppybeesnuggets @rylea08 @yxna-bliss @felixsonlyrealwife @wolfs-howling @velvetmoonlght

Soulmate Series tag list: @eridanuswave @dlizzzy @allenajade-ite

[luxlightly]

I could write an essay on Warframe's use of forcing the player to walk slowly or limp as a way of creating a feeling of powerlessness and how masterfully it's used. And I could write an essay just on the segment where Stalker limps to his landing craft.

Stalker is extremely, almost comically powerful when he's in his element. The spy mission is laughably easy. He auto hacks every terminal. He can insta-kill every enemy. He can stay invisible basically the entire level and when he's invisible he doesn't trigger any alarms or tripwires. There's no challenge whatsoever. He's been doing this for centuries, to the point its become effortless.

This is juxtaposed with his complete and total powerlessness to help Jade. He doesn't know what to do or how to do it. He doesn't have any abilities or tools that help him with this. He can only watch her waste away.

Or, he can ask for help.

He can break the endless repetition and make a change. He can go to those he hates more than anything for help.

And, despite a thousand years of rage and pain, he does. Because, somewhere, deep down, in a part of himself he's long forgotten, the desire to protect is still what defines him, moreso than even the hate.

The second mission is slightly harder, as AOE damage circumvents his invisibility to a small extent, but is still pretty effortless. It's a change in why he's doing it, but not much change in what he's doing. He's still in his element and extremely powerful.

Then Sirius(or Orion) is born and Stalker's role, his goals, his whole existence, changes instantly. He's no longer the hunter, but rather the hunted. No longer a just a killer, but rather a Protector.

All of his abilities are disabled. All of his weapons besides the scythe are disabled.

The scythe that, in a written prelude, Hunhow praises for, unlike his other weapons, being a tool meant both for destroying and for growing. For creation and destruction.

A tool he uses as a shield. But, crucially, one that FAILS.

He CAN'T protect Sirius. He's defeated. He has to be spared. Someone else also has to choose to protect. To choose to go against the trait that has defined their life (greed/ambition in the case of Xeto) in order to protect something precious.

And they do.

Xeto gives up her chance to impress the Sisterhood and likely paints a huge target on her back, in order to help someone she doesn't know. She lets Stalker get to his feet and she and her men stand aside for him to escape.

And, in that moment, bloodied and beaten and dragging his broken form to his landing craft, we are given back control as the player over Stalker only to sell the effect of the powerlessness, physically, he has been reduced to.

And how, in that moment, as a person, he has more power than he has in a thousand years. Because he has chosen to break the endless spiral of grief he's been trapped in for a millennium and go against what he was crafted into to, once again, choose to love and protect instead.

Ballas tried to shape him into a tool of nothing but bloodshed because he hated how Sorren had defined himself with love in a way Ballas never could and, in that way, attained the love Ballas always saw himself as unfairly denied. He tried to destroy every bit of that love and every scrap of that man. But he couldn't. He could not destroy the child that Jade and Sorren created and he couldn't ever fully stamp out the love between them. And, even in the deepest depths of hatred and despair that Stalker fell into, the caring and loving man he was remained, never able to be destroyed.

Slowing those steps down and forcing the player to hold the command to keep going forward the entire time gets that feeling across in a way that is so poignant and part of what makes interactive media like video games such a powerful and unique medium.

He is reclaiming both his past and his future. Reclaiming the parts of himself defined by love. He is rejecting that easy path of wallowing in misery that he's chosen for so long and instead dragging himself forward, one limping, painful step at a time, towards something that actually matters to him.

And trusting the universe to stand aside to let him.

[nataliaphantomhivesblog]

It means so much when you realize that Soma is o!Ciel’s first real friend.

When our earl was a little kid, he was sheltered due to his asthma, which prevented him to make genuine social connections beyond his familial ones.

Even with his brother by his side, there was still a sense of isolation, like the world around him, intentionally or not, kept pushing him to the side. He was present, but never quite part of things.

And then, after the tragedy, when he returns under his brother’s name, things become even more complicated. Elizabeth still loves him deeply and tends to him with all the care in the world, but she doesn’t realize he isn’t truly Ciel. That unspoken truth becomes an invisible barrier between them.

Even in her affection, he’s alone, carrying a secret that keeps him at a distance from the only people left who still care for him.

Then there are the servants, utterly loyal, unwavering in their devotion. Their respect for our earl goes above and beyond, but it isn’t friendship. Their bond is bound by the roles they play. They serve him not out of companionship, but because they feel indebted to him—because they owe him their lives. That sense of duty creates another kind of distance.

But Prince Soma is a different case, he was a wildcard in o!Ciel's life. He didn’t tiptoe around the earl’s walls; he barged right through them. Uninvited and unstoppable, Soma didn’t just enter o!Ciel’s home, he settled in, pulling him into a rhythm that felt disarmingly normal.

He annoyed his way into o!Ciel's life, treating him like the kid he was, falling into playfull rythms and a routine that contrasted o!Ciel's usual darkness.

In a life shaped by shadows, Soma became a burst of color the earl never saw coming.

Soma doesn't owe o!Ciel his life, he didn't stick by because of his title or name either. He simply befriended the earl because o!Ciel challenged him, inspired him, gave him a different lens through which to see the world.

Through their clashes and contrasts, Soma grew, not because he was forced to, but because their dynamic naturally pushed him to mature.

The prince is probably the first person in o!Ciel's entire life that considered him a friend, a best friend. Our earl, once a quiet, sheltered boy, so unsure of his own worth that he felt the need to live behind someone else’s name, somehow gained a friend simply by being himself.

No masks, no manipulation, just the reluctant honesty that came from being seen and chosen anyway.

o!Ciel could be harsh, distant, even cruel: pushing people away again and again. But Soma didn’t give up. He kept showing up, kept breaking through the walls, because he saw who o!Ciel truly was beneath it all, and he genuinely cared.

And what makes this so soft is how the earl grew so accustomed to the prince's antics.

He got used to playing games with him the way friends do: competitive, yet always teasing and playful.

He got used to getting embraced (even though he despises physical touch, he slowly accepted and allowed this affection from the prince.)

It's so important to highlight the safety he feels around Soma, even when he's all over his personal space. The prince isn't just anybody anymore, he became someone the earl grew familiar and comfortable around.

That kind of vulnerability isn’t in his nature. But beneath the pride and distance, there’s a quiet care that runs deep. It’s subtle and unspoken, born from a platonic bond that means more than words can express.

Before Soma, o!Ciel had never truly known what it meant to have a friend of his own.

And that’s why the fact that r!Ciel deliberately jeopardized that friendship, by killing Agni and making Soma believe it was our earl’s doing, showing us how this act was made to knock o!Ciel off his feet and shake the fragile bonds he’d built.

r!Ciel’s possessiveness over our earl runs deeper than mere jealousy, it’s rooted in an intense, almost pathological need for control. It’s as if he can’t tolerate the idea of o!Ciel forming bonds outside of himself, because those connections threaten his fragile sense of identity and power.

But I’m sure that if Soma could weather o!Ciel’s calculated, harsh, and sometimes manipulative moments, he’ll still find a way to come around, and stand by his best friend.

For true friendship is not the absence of flaws, but the quiet courage to remain, even when shadows fall.

[cameronsbabydoll]

SCC reader and Rafe at one of his fancy business dinners. For additional context, this is probably also probably when readers on her 2nd pregnancy, so she’s just irritable and uncomfortable but still showed up with Rafe to keep up appearances.

Rafe and his buddies are drunk chatting somewhere, talking about work and normal guy stuff. Then the conversation shifts to their home/personal lives ie marriages. One man is talking about his wife’s new promotion, the other one she’s started a book club, etc…they’re all drunk talking abt how they love their headstrong and independent wives. Rafe is just sitting there, nursing his drink, listening to how they talk about them, like they’re people.

He never talks about reader like that, not about her really, just what she does for him “she’s a great mom, an amazing wife, or she’s beautiful”

Then he glances his eyes over to the wives talking by the bar, except you. you’re just sitting at the table, by yourself, hand rested on your belly, checking your phone (probably texting the nanny), trying to look occupied while you’re just waiting for the dinner to be over.

He makes eye contact with her and she sends him a small, tired smile that doesn’t meet her eyes and promptly decides to take her home. (she’s been faking a lot of smiles recently, he’s noticed.)

On the way home it’s quiet. She’s always quiet now. He brings up the new book club that one of his buddies mentioned, suggesting that reader likes a lot of those types of “girly books” and could join and have some sort of friends (ones that he could monitor and approve of).

The mention of it immediately makes Reader just breaks down sobbing about how she doesn’t fit in with any of the wives, how they’re older and college educated “established ladies with actual lives”. How they think she’s just a “dumb kid who got knocked up by the first rich guy to throw her a smile.” and maybe she agrees with them, reflecting on how she didn’t get to go to college or develop as a person before she had kids. She’s just in this cycle of isolation and self loathing that got worst after she got pregnant.

Rafe tries in his own weird way to comfort her(he’s not very good at it) claiming that she doesn’t need those “old broads poisoning your mind anyways”

She just sighs into her seat looking at the window and tearfully just says “I just miss her. I don’t have anyone… not anymore”(referencing her old best friend)

The rest of the ride is silent. When they get home, maybe Rafe tries to be extra sweet to reader during bed time(giving her a bit more physical affection bc god knows that girl needs a hug) maybe he tries to reassure her that shes not just some girl who got knocked up, she’s his wife. Like it’s some badge of honor or something. She just responds with “because you wouldn’t let me be anything else”

nothing else but yours

warnings: emotional neglect, isolation, emotional/verbal manipulation, references to pregnancy, identity loss, subtle controlling behavior, depressive themes, disillusionment with marriage, hinted age gap, power imbalance, soft angst

a/n: part of my sugar-coated chains series

the dinner is loud. fake laughter and expensive wine. your feet hurt in the heels he picked out, your belly’s heavy with the second baby, and your smile is wearing thinner by the hour.

you sit alone at the table, trying not to look like you're just waiting. hand resting on your stomach, phone in your lap. you scroll through texts from the nanny. check the time. sip water. anything to stay invisible.

rafe’s across the room with his partners, scotch in hand, tie loose around his neck. they’re all red-faced and slurring, bragging about their wives.

“she just got promoted to senior partner.”

“mine’s running a book club now, gets the whole neighborhood involved.”

“god, i love how bossy she is—she tells me what to do and i listen.”

and rafe just laughs, tight-lipped, swirls the ice in his glass. doesn’t say anything about you. not really.

when they ask, he just says,

“she’s a great mom. gorgeous. keeps the house in order.”

like you’re a job well done. a good return on investment.

he glances toward the bar where the wives are, gold and glitter and loud perfume. but you’re not there. you’re still at the table, slumped in your chair, eyes on your phone, trying not to cry from how swollen your ankles feel.

you catch his stare.

you give him a tired smile.

it doesn’t reach your eyes.

he’s taking you home ten minutes later.

the car is quiet. it always is now.

you look out the window, arms wrapped around your belly like you’re holding yourself together.

he tries. in his own weird, rough-edged way.

“that book club thing john’s wife started—you like those girly books, right? maybe you could join. make some friends.”

you laugh once. bitter. sharp.

“i don’t fit in with them.”

rafe blinks.

you never say things like this.

“they’re older. they went to college. they did something with their lives,” you mutter. “they look at me like i’m just some dumb kid who got knocked up by the first rich guy who paid attention.”

you wipe a tear away before it falls.

“and maybe they’re right.”

rafe shifts in his seat, jaw clenched.

“don’t say that.”

“i didn’t even get the chance to figure out who i am,” you whisper. “i just became yours. that’s all i ever got to be.”

he doesn’t know what to say to that.

because it’s true.

you stare out the window and say, quieter,

“i just miss her. i don’t have anyone… not anymore.”

and he knows you mean your old best friend. the girl you used to laugh with. sneak wine coolers with. dream with.

the rest of the drive is silent.

when you get home, he helps you out of the car without being asked. brushes your hair back. undresses you slowly. kisses your shoulder when he pulls the nightgown over your head.

he holds you longer than usual.

hand on your belly. lips against your spine.

“you’re not just some girl i knocked up,” he murmurs. “you’re my wife.”

you close your eyes.

“because you wouldn’t let me be anything else.”

[cloudyluun]

No Cameras Allowed | famous!harry

Summary: You and Harry have been secretly hooking up for months, but at a high-profile event—surrounded by cameras, fans, and industry people—you have to pretend like nothing is going on. The tension builds to an unbearable level, leading you to sneak away for a risky, reckless rendezvous.

A/N: Listen, I started writing this thinking, “Let’s make this classy and controlled,” and then Harry had a meltdown over a missing condom and suddenly we were all in too deep. 🤡 This fic is 90% tension, 5% absolute recklessness, and 5% me screaming into my pillow because these two cannot behave. Hydrate, take deep breaths, and maybe say a prayer, because I swear, I’m just the stressed-out typist here. If you need me, I’ll be in horny jail. 🚔🔒🔥

Word Count: 2,7k

Warnings: 

Explicit sexual content (Smut, NSFW, 18+)!!!

Jealousy & tension-filled interactions - Both are very jealous. I probably would be too. 

Mentions of alcohol consumption

Strong language & dirty talk

Mentions of an implied lack of protection (brief but relevant to the plot)

Secret relationship shenanigans – They’re sneaking around, and they’re GOOD at it… except for when they’re not.

Unholy levels of sexual tension – You will feel the need to take a deep breath and maybe fan yourself.

Public sex – Yes, they did it where they absolutely should not have. No regrets.

Desperation – The kind where you physically feel the ache in your soul (and elsewhere).

No condom moment – Highly irresponsible. Highly hot. They make choices, not necessarily good ones.

Hand over mouth trope – He’s gotta keep her quiet. You already know.

Neck-grabbing, wrist-holding, wall-pressing – He’s got control issues, and you like it.

Mutual corruption – Neither of them is innocent, and that’s exactly why this is happening.

Proceed at your own risk. But let’s be real—you’re already in too deep.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The hotel room is bathed in the warm glow of the bedside lamp, casting soft shadows across the sheets that are barely covering your tangled bodies. The air is thick with the remnants of earlier touches, the room still carrying the heat of whispered confessions and the slow, lingering movements that had left both of you breathless.

Harry’s fingers trace lazy circles on your bare back, his touch featherlight, almost absentminded. It’s a stark contrast to the way his hands had gripped you just an hour ago—possessive, desperate, leaving invisible marks on your skin. Now, he’s all slow affection, the pads of his fingertips skimming your shoulder blades as if he’s memorizing every inch of you.

Your head rests against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling the way it slows now that you’re here, settled, unrushed. His other hand is tucked behind his head, his bicep flexed just enough to make you roll your eyes at how effortlessly attractive he is, even in this sleepy, post-bliss state.

“I love how you think we’re subtle,” you murmur, a smirk pulling at your lips as you press a kiss to his warm skin.

Harry huffs out a laugh, shifting slightly so he can look down at you, his dimple peeking through as he grins. “No one suspects a thing.”

You tilt your head up, raising a brow. “Mitch literally asked me why I disappear at 2 a.m. all the time.”

Harry groans dramatically, rolling his eyes as he pulls you closer. “Mitch needs to mind his own business.”

You giggle against his chest, your fingers idly tracing over the swallows inked onto his skin. “I think he’s just concerned that I might be in some kind of secret underground fight club or something.”

Harry laughs, a full-bodied sound that shakes both of you. “Right. Because that’s the more likely scenario.”

“Exactly,” you tease, biting back a grin.

His laugh fades into something softer, more intimate, as his fingers slide down your back. Then, without warning, he shifts, rolling you onto your back so he’s hovering above you. His curls fall slightly into his face, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of you beneath him.

His voice is lower now, edged with something deeper. “Maybe I like knowing that no one else gets to see you like this.”

Your breath catches. It’s moments like this—when the teasing fades, when the weight of what’s between you presses against your ribs—that make your pulse stutter.

You reach up, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him hum in satisfaction. “You’re ridiculously possessive, you know that?”

He smirks, dipping his head so his lips hover just above yours. “And you love it.”

You don’t argue.

Instead, you let your lips brush against his in a slow, drawn-out kiss, savoring the way he melts into you. His body presses flush against yours, heat radiating between you, but it’s not rushed this time. It’s lazy and indulgent, like you have all the time in the world.

Which, of course, you don’t.

You sigh against his lips, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “So, the gala.”

Harry groans, dropping his head against your shoulder. “Way to ruin the mood.”

You laugh, running your fingers down his back. “I’m just saying—we’re really going to pretend we don’t even know each other all night?”

He exhales heavily, propping himself up on his elbows. “No flirting, no sneaky touches, no slipping away together,” he confirms, voice laced with mock seriousness.

You let out an exaggerated groan, throwing an arm over your face. “How am I supposed to act like I don’t want to drag you into a closet all night?”

Harry chuckles, but there’s something else in his expression now—something taut, restrained. “You don’t,” he says simply, leaning in so his lips brush the shell of your ear. “You pretend you don’t want me.” His breath is warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

You shift beneath him, already feeling the weight of what tomorrow will bring—the distance, the careful avoidance, the act you’ll have to put on for the world.

Harry pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his green eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Think you can handle that?”

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.

No, you think. Probably not.

But you don’t say that.

Instead, you force a smirk, pressing your palm against his chest. “Oh, absolutely,” you lie.

And Harry, the smug bastard, grins like he knows exactly how much of a lie that is.

Now you curse yourself for ever agreeing to this.

The flashing lights are blinding, the chaotic energy of the gala buzzing through the air as celebrities step out of sleek black cars, each one greeted by a wave of deafening screams. The photographers shout names, demanding poses, each snap of their cameras preserving fleeting moments for the world to analyze later. It’s all so polished, so orchestrated, yet it feels suffocating.

And Harry?

He’s already here.

You watch from the backseat of your car as he steps onto the carpet, buttoning his perfectly tailored suit jacket with the kind of effortless charm that makes the world swoon. His presence commands attention—broad shoulders, sharp jawline, a smirk so devastating it could be classified as a lethal weapon. His dimple makes an appearance as he waves to the screaming fans, his rings glinting under the camera flashes as he adjusts his cuffs.

He looks like he was born for this.

And the worst part? He looks completely unaffected.

Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your dress as you watch him. He’s talking to an interviewer now, flashing that coy, knowing grin that makes people hang onto his every word. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you don’t need to. It’s the same carefully controlled persona he always wears in public—charming, composed, a little bit playful.

The side of your lip twitches. Bastard.

You’re still sitting in the car, waiting for your cue to step out, when you see it.

The shift.

One second, Harry’s engaged in conversation, his body relaxed. The next, his entire demeanor changes—his grip tightening around the glass in his hand, his jaw locking ever so slightly.

It takes you half a second to realize why.

You’ve been spotted.

Even from across the carpet, you feel the weight of his stare the moment you step out of the car. The cool night air barely registers against your skin as you straighten your posture, your carefully curated expression slipping into place. You’re aware of the way the crowd reacts—how the screams spike in volume, how the cameras angle toward you, how the buzz of murmured conversations follows in your wake.

You can feel Harry’s eyes on you.

But you don’t look at him.

You won’t.

Instead, you let your lips curve into a soft, controlled smile, pretending not to notice the ripple of attention your arrival has caused. You let the cameras take their fill, pausing just long enough for the photographers to capture the moment. Your outfit—a masterpiece of elegance and barely-contained sensuality—hugs your body in all the right ways, a choice you made with full awareness of the effect it would have.

And judging by the way Harry is gripping his glass like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground, you were absolutely right.

The red carpet is a practiced dance, one you know how to navigate flawlessly. You answer questions with ease, your responses light but distant enough to keep them guessing. You pose for the cameras, move toward the fan section, offering them your full attention.

That’s when it happens.

“Are you and Harry friends?”

The question is innocent enough, asked by a girl barely containing her excitement as she clutches her phone, ready to record your reaction.

You keep your smile intact. You don’t falter. “Yeah, of course! He’s lovely.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you hear it.

A barely contained giggle. A whispered assumption.

“She totally blushed. They’re hiding something.”

You force yourself not to react, but the air shifts just slightly, your composure settling a little tighter around your frame. You laugh lightly, as if the idea is ridiculous, before moving along with the conversation.

But Harry?

Harry hears it.

From across the room, his fingers flex, resisting the urge to drain the rest of his drink. He watches the exchange with careful disinterest, his expression unreadable to the untrained eye. But you know him. You recognize the way his jaw tenses just slightly, the way his gaze darkens the moment your name is paired with his in that context.

Then, as if the universe is determined to push him closer to the edge, someone steps into your space.

It’s a man—some actor, charming and self-assured, the kind of person who knows exactly what effect he has. He leans in just slightly as he compliments your dress, his tone playful, his body language open. It’s harmless. Flirtatious, but harmless.

But from across the room?

Harry doesn’t look at it that way.

Your awareness of him sharpens. Even without turning your head, you know he’s watching. You can feel it in your bones, the heat of his stare like a brand against your skin.

You tilt your head, letting yourself laugh at something the actor says, just for good measure. Just to push back at the invisible tether Harry has wrapped around you.

Then you make the mistake of looking.

It’s quick. A glance. Barely a second.

But it’s enough.

Harry’s gaze locks onto yours, the weight of it nearly stealing the breath from your lungs. His fingers tap against the side of his glass, his lips pressing together in a way that tells you exactly what he’s thinking.

A silent challenge.

You swallow, looking away first.

Then, just when you think the tension has reached its peak, the night conspires against you once again.

The little moments start stacking up.

In passing, your hands brush—just a second too long. A lingering whisper of contact that shouldn’t mean anything. But it does.

Harry leans in to whisper something to a friend, but his lips nearly graze the edge of your ear as he passes. The warmth of his breath ghosts against your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

And then—because the universe has a twisted sense of humor—you witness the moment that nearly breaks your resolve.

She’s stunning, the actress who leans in too close to him, her laugh like honey as she touches his arm in a way that feels practiced. You don’t know what she’s saying, but it’s enough to make Harry smirk, enough to make his fingers flex slightly where they rest on his knee.

You grip your glass tighter.

“I swear to god…” you mutter under your breath, not even realizing you’d spoken aloud.

Then, without warning—without a sound—Harry is behind you.

His voice is a low, taunting whisper, barely audible over the noise of the party.

“If you keep looking at me like that, we’re not making it through the night.”

A shiver rolls down your spine.

Your pulse jumps.

But you don’t turn around.

Because you know exactly what will happen if you do.

You can feel him watching you, his presence a weight against your skin, a force pulling you in even when you’re trying to resist. It’s unbearable—the tension, the push and pull of this secret that has stretched between you for months. You grip your drink tighter, the condensation damp against your fingers, and force yourself to stay rooted in place.

You exhale slowly. Then, in a move that is as reckless as it is calculated, you turn on your heel and walk away.

You don’t look back.

Instead, you slip into the nearest group of people, throwing yourself into conversation like it’s effortless, like your pulse isn’t hammering against your ribs. You laugh—too loudly, too carelessly—letting the sound carry just far enough. Your fingers graze someone’s arm, your smile lingers for a second too long. You don’t even register what’s being said; the words mean nothing. The only thing that matters is what’s happening behind you.

What Harry is doing.

Or rather—what he’s about to do.

You feel it before you see it. The energy shifts. The air crackles with a new kind of charge.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch him.

Harry is watching.

His jaw is tight, his fingers flexing around the glass in his hand. He looks calm to the untrained eye, but you know better. You know that slight clench in his jaw, the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the restless way his thumb drags along the rim of his glass.

You keep talking. You keep laughing.

And then Harry downs his drink in one swift motion, his throat moving as he swallows the last drop of whiskey. He sets the glass down with just a little too much force, and without a single word, he turns and walks away.

Your breath catches.

You don’t move. Not immediately.

You wait.

One second.

Two.

A full minute passes before you finally allow yourself to move.

You slip away, just as quietly as he did, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. The further you get from the main event, the quieter it becomes. The music fades into the background, the distant murmur of conversation growing softer. Your heels click against the polished marble floor as you move down an empty hallway, your heart pounding harder with every step.

You don’t have to look for him.

You already know where he is.

The moment you turn the corner into the restricted hallway near the VIP lounges, you barely have time to register anything before—

Strong hands grab your waist.

You gasp as you’re yanked back against the wall, the cool surface biting through the heat radiating off your skin. The shock of it barely registers before Harry is there, his body flush against yours, his scent wrapping around you—something deep and warm, laced with the remnants of whiskey and frustration.

His voice is low, rough, each word vibrating against your skin.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night?”

Your breath is uneven, your pulse a wild drumbeat beneath your skin.

You tilt your head up to meet his gaze, biting back a smirk. His eyes are dark, burning with barely contained hunger.

“I think I have a pretty good idea,” you murmur, resting your hands against his chest.

The muscle beneath his suit jacket is tense, coiled tight like he’s barely holding himself together.

And then—

He kisses you.

Hard.

The second your back hits the wall, Harry’s on you. There’s no hesitation, no space, no air left between you. His body presses into yours, solid and warm, and his grip on your waist is possessive, like he’s making sure you don’t slip away.

He kisses you like he’s starving, like he’s been thinking about this all night—which, knowing him, he has. His mouth moves over yours, hot, open-mouthed, desperate, his tongue sweeping against yours in slow, deep strokes that make your knees go weak.

You fist your hands in his shirt, yanking him closer, feeling the crisp fabric tighten under your grip. It’s unfair, really—how he gets to look so put-together while you’re already falling apart for him. His suit, all sharp lines and tailored edges, contrasts with the way your body melts against his, your dress already slipping up your thighs.

His hands wander, explore, claim—roaming down your sides, gripping your hips, guiding your body against his. He tugs at your dress, fingertips skimming beneath the hem, teasing the fabric higher—so high that his knuckles graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

You shudder. He notices immediately.

A slow, knowing smirk curls his lips against yours, but he doesn’t say anything—just drags his hand higher, his fingertips just barely brushing the damp heat between your legs.

You gasp into his mouth, your fingers tightening in his shirt, and he chuckles—a low, dark sound that makes your stomach tighten.

“You’re already shaking for me, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, his breath warm and teasing.

You bite back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction just yet. Instead, you tilt your chin up slightly, meeting his eyes, and shift your hips forward—just the tiniest roll of your body against his.

The reaction is instant.

Harry groans—deep, rough, almost guttural—and his head drops to your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. His fingers dig into your waist, tight, desperate, like he’s barely holding himself back.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he pants, his voice rough, vibrating against your skin.

You smirk, breathless but smug. “That’s dramatic.”

Harry lifts his head slowly, green eyes blazing with something dark and dangerous, and then—before you can blink—he rolls his hips into you, pressing his body flush against yours.

You feel everything—the solid heat of him, the hardness pressing against your core, the undeniable proof of just how much he wants you.

A gasp catches in your throat.

His lips brush against your jaw, and his voice drops lower, rougher, more strained.

“Am I?”

The hallway is too quiet, the distant sounds of the gala making this moment feel even riskier. Muted laughter, clinking glasses, the murmur of conversations—all of it feels like it’s happening in another world, one you’ve completely abandoned the second Harry pressed you against this wall.

It should be a warning. It should be a reason to stop.

But all you can focus on is him.

The way he’s crowding you, caging you in, body heat rolling off him in waves. The way his eyes stay locked on yours, pupils blown wide, like he’s daring you to tell him to stop. The way he’s breathing heavy, shoulders rising and falling, like he’s barely holding himself together.

Then his hands are moving.

Sliding up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, higher, bunching the fabric at your hips. His fingertips graze the damp heat between your legs, teasing, barely there, but enough.

You whimper.

A quiet, desperate little sound that you try to swallow down.

But he hears it. Of course, he hears it.

And it makes him lose his patience.

His palm presses against you through the lace of your underwear, applying just the barest amount of pressure—but it’s enough to make your stomach tighten, enough to send a bolt of pleasure straight through you.

His lips aren’t on your mouth anymore. They’re moving—hot and insistent—trailing along your jaw, then down to your throat, biting, sucking, his teeth scraping sensitive skin. He’s not careful, not like he normally is. He doesn’t care if he leaves a mark. Maybe he wants to.

Maybe he wants you to feel him long after this is over.

Your breath catches when his other hand finds your wrist and pins it to the wall beside your head. It’s not rough, but it’s firm. Controlling. Like he needs to keep you exactly where he wants you.

His voice is a murmur against your ear, low and wrecked.

"You’re already soaked."

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you squirm against his hand, hips pushing toward his touch despite yourself.

"Wonder why," you breathe.

Harry chuckles darkly, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. Then, without warning, his fingers slip under the lace, dragging through your slick folds. He groans—low, deep, almost pained—his forehead pressing against yours like he’s trying to hold himself together.

"Fuck."

His fingers find your clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles that make your stomach tighten, your thighs clenching around his hand. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and your breath stutters, your fingers twisting in his shirt.

You bite your lip so hard it nearly hurts, trying to suppress the moan that’s threatening to spill out.

Harry watches you, studying every tiny reaction, his jaw clenched, his brows furrowed like he’s mesmerized by the way you come apart for him.

Then he slides one finger inside you—slow but deliberate—pushing in deep, stretching you open just enough to make you gasp.

And then he adds a second.

Your back arches off the wall, nails digging into his shoulders, your body desperate for more.

"Feel so good," Harry grits out, his voice thick with lust. His fingers work you open, slow and steady, curling just right, dragging against your walls until your thighs are shaking. His restraint is slipping—you can feel it.

"Always so fucking tight for me."

His words make your breath hitch, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You try to hold on, try to keep some kind of control, but his fingers are relentless, moving in and out of you, stroking your clit in slow, precise circles.

"Harry—" Your voice is barely a whisper, your eyes fluttering shut. "Someone’s gonna hear us—"

His free hand leaves your wrist, and before you can react, he covers your mouth, his palm warm against your lips, muffling the tiny sounds spilling out of you.

A smirk tugs at his lips, his breath ghosting over your cheek.

"Then you better be quiet, baby."

Harry’s fingers leave you, leaving behind nothing but an unbearable ache, an emptiness that makes your body tense with need. He doesn’t waste a second—his hands move fast, frantic, reaching for his belt, undoing the buckle with sharp, impatient movements.

You’re gasping, panting, your nails digging into his shoulders, hips rolling up to meet his, desperate for more. For him.

But then—he stops.

You barely notice at first, too caught up in the heat, too lost in the way his body presses into yours, how close you are to getting what you need. But then you feel it—the hesitation. The stiffness in his muscles. The way his forehead suddenly drops to your shoulder, his chest rising and falling with deep, frustrated breaths.

And then he curses.

"Shit. Fuck."

His voice is low, rough, like he’s physically forcing himself to stop. Like he’s just had the wind knocked out of him.

Your body stills, your mind foggy and desperate, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

"What?" you whisper, blinking up at him, confused, needing answers, needing him to keep going, needing him to fix whatever’s wrong.

Harry pulls back just enough to look at you, his jaw tight, his fingers threading through his curls in frustration. His pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen from kissing you, his whole body wrecked with restraint.

"I don’t have a condom."

The words hit like a slap of cold air against overheated skin.

Your stomach flips, pulse pounding in your ears. You should stop. You both should.

This is the moment.

The moment to take a breath, to come to your senses, to remember that this is a mistake. That it’s reckless, that it’s too risky, that there are a million reasons why you shouldn’t do this.

But none of them matter.

Because the heat between you is unbearable. Because your body is screaming for him, because the throbbing ache inside you is too strong to ignore, because stopping now would feel more painful than giving in.

Because you don’t care.

Your throat feels tight, your breath shaky as the words slip out before you can even think about them.

"I don’t care."

Harry’s head snaps up, his gaze locking onto yours so fast it makes you shiver.

His eyes—dark, intense, searching—burn into you, like he’s trying to see if you really mean it. Trying to find a reason to stop, a reason to be the responsible one.

But all he finds is desperation.

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his breath uneven.

"Are you sure?" His voice is rough, raw, almost pained—like he wants this so fucking bad but needs to hear you say it again.

Your legs tighten around his waist, your arms looping around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

"Please," you whisper, the word barely audible, but it’s all it takes.

His control snaps.

Harry’s mouth crashes against yours—hot, messy, consuming—all teeth and tongue and raw need. His kiss is desperate, like he’s trying to devour you, trying to silence every thought, every doubt that should be pulling you both apart.

But there’s nothing else in this moment. Nothing but him.

His hands are greedy, impatient, everywhere all at once—roaming over your thighs, gripping your waist, tangling in your hair—taking, taking, taking, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you against him.

He drags your underwear to the side, not bothering to remove them, just getting them out of his way. The fabric is soaked, ruined, and he groans when he feels just how wet you are, just how ready.

There’s a shaky, fumbling urgency to the way he shoves his trousers down, just enough, just far enough to free himself, because there’s no time for anything else.

No time to think.

No time to stop.

His cock presses against you, hot and aching, the tip slick with need.

You tense in anticipation, body going rigid, your fingers digging into his back as you feel him right there—so close, too close, not close enough.

Then—he pushes in.

A sharp, deep stretch, the overwhelming burn of being filled so fast, so suddenly, so completely.

You can feel every inch of him—thick, hard, hot, pressing deep, stretching you open until it’s almost too much.

Your lips part on a gasp, a sharp, startled moan spilling from your throat before you can stop it—

But Harry is faster.

His hand clamps over your mouth, muffling your cry, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath shaky and uneven as he tries to hold himself together.

"Shhh," he rasps, his voice wrecked, strained, like he’s just barely keeping control.

His jaw is clenched so tight, his arms shaking from the effort of not losing himself completely. His fingers dig into the plush of your thigh, his other hand flexing against your mouth, making sure you stay quiet.

"Fuck," he groans, voice low and guttural, his breath hot against your lips.

"Fuck, you feel so good."

You clench around him, the pressure making your whole body arch, making your legs tighten around his waist, your nails biting into his biceps.

"So deep," you whisper against his palm, already breathless, already drowning in him.

Harry lets out a choked, strangled sound, his head dropping to your shoulder, his teeth scraping against the delicate skin of your neck.

He grips your hip tighter, yanks your thigh up higher, angling you just right—

Then he moves.

His first thrust is slow, deep, pulling out just enough before sinking back in, like he’s savoring it, like he’s relishing the way you stretch around him, the way your body grips him so perfectly.

Then—he snaps.

His hips slam into you, his movements turning frantic, punishing, wild, as if he’s been holding back for too long and can’t anymore.

It’s rough, raw, overwhelming, his cock dragging against every sensitive nerve, making you feel every inch, every inch, every inch.

The wall is solid behind you, but it does nothing to ground you, nothing to brace you against the way he’s pounding into you, forcing the breath from your lungs with every sharp, perfect thrust.

Your hands scramble for purchase, fingers clutching his shoulders, his hair, his back, anything to hold on to.

The contrast is unbearable—the cold marble against your back, the scorching heat of his body against yours, the wetness pooling between you, the rough press of his fingertips against your thigh, your hip, your waist.

"I can feel you squeezing me," he pants, voice deep, wrecked, laced with pure lust.

His teeth graze your jaw, his breath hot, heavy, uneven as he presses deeper, harder, better.

"You close, baby?"

You can’t even think.

All you can do is nod frantically, your nails scratching down his back, your voice breaking, muffled against his shoulder.

"So close—please don’t stop."

He lets out a low, throaty growl, his hands tightening, his hips slamming into you even harder, rougher, faster.

"I got you," he grits out, his voice tight, desperate.

"Let go for me."

And you do.

It hits you all at once—a blinding, earth-shattering pleasure that crashes through you so violently it nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

Your walls clench, pulse, flutter around him, drawing him in deeper, tighter, squeezing him so hard he lets out a wrecked, strangled moan.

Your whole body locks up, then shakes, trembles, collapses as your orgasm tears through you, leaving nothing behind but a pounding heartbeat and the echo of his name on your lips.

Harry doesn’t last long after that.

His rhythm stutters, his grip on your body tightens, his breath turning ragged, uneven, choked.

Then—he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep, so deep, as deep as he can go—and he lets go.

A deep, shaky groan rumbles from his chest as he spills into you, his fingers digging into your hips so tight it’s almost painful.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but harsh breaths, trembling limbs, the sound of racing hearts.

Your bodies are still pressed together, still locked in place, neither of you willing to move, to let go, to face what you’ve just done.

No space between you.

No words.

Just the wreckage of this moment, of the heat, of the mess you’ve made together.

The world around you is silent.

Or maybe your ears are still ringing from the intensity of it all—the overwhelming pleasure, the crash of your heartbeat in your skull, the way your body is still trembling from the aftershocks.

You’re breathless, boneless, your limbs heavy and warm, still wrapped around him, still feeling the echo of where he’s been, of where he still is.

Neither of you move.

Not yet.

Harry’s forehead presses against yours, his breath hot and unsteady, his chest rising and falling against yours in the same frantic, uneven rhythm.

His hands haven’t left your body—fingertips tracing over the dips of your waist, the curve of your thigh, like he can’t stop touching you, even now.

He should feel guilty.

He should regret this.

This was reckless, stupid, dangerous.

Someone could’ve caught you.

Someone still might.

But instead of guilt, instead of remorse, instead of the sinking weight of what the fuck have we done—

All he feels is satisfaction.

His lips twitch. The corner of his mouth quirks up, amusement flickering in his dark, lazy eyes, like he already knows what you’re about to say.

And sure enough—

"We’re so gonna get caught one day," you breathe, still a little dazed, still not sure you can feel your legs yet.

A smirk spreads across his face, slow and wicked, as his fingers brush damp hair from your forehead, his other hand still gripping your thigh, holding you in place, keeping you where he wants you.

He shifts slightly—just enough to remind you that he’s still inside you, still buried so deep it makes your breath hitch.

Then he whispers, low and deliberate, his lips brushing against yours—

"Worth it."

You leave first.

Your legs are still shaky, your breath uneven as you move quickly down the hallway, trying to compose yourself before stepping back into the crowd. The moment you’re back under the bright lights of the gala, surrounded by elegant chatter and the clinking of champagne glasses, it’s like stepping into a completely different reality.

You fight the urge to touch your lips, knowing they’re still kiss-bruised and swollen from Harry’s mouth on yours. Instead, you fish through your clutch with trembling fingers, pulling out your compact mirror and flipping it open, only to let out a quiet curse under your breath.

Your lipstick is completely ruined.

Smudged at the edges, faint traces of it smeared beyond the natural curve of your lips, a dead giveaway to what you’ve been doing.

And that’s not even the worst of it.

You tilt your chin slightly, angling the mirror lower—your neck burns with the ghost of his teeth, the imprint of his mouth. You squint at your reflection, but you don’t have to look closely to see the faint red bloom of a mark beginning to form just under your jaw.

Jesus. You need to fix this.

Your heart pounds as you swipe a fingertip over your lips, smoothing away the damage as best you can, trying to make yourself look normal, untouched, innocent. You pat at your flushed cheeks, inhale a steadying breath, and pull your dress back into place before making your way deeper into the room.

No one is paying attention to you.

Or at least—that’s what you tell yourself.

Because the truth is…some people are.

The ones who notice everything.

The ones who have been watching you both all night.

It’s only five minutes later when Harry returns.

And that’s when the whispers really start.

📱 Twitter Explodes:

@YNUpdates: "Harry and Y/N disappeared at the SAME TIME and now her lipstick is smudged??? Someone explain." 👀

@Hstylesfan88: "Tell me why Harry looks wrecked after being ‘away’ for 20 minutes???"

@Directioner_for_life: "LOOK AT THIS. WHY DOES HE LOOK LIKE HE JUST GOT LAID." [Attached: a blurry photo of Harry stepping back into the gala, tie loose, hair messy, jaw tight as he adjusts his suit.]

@StylinsonLover: "I swear to god if they’re secretly fucking and we don’t know I will RIOT."

It’s all so fast.

You don’t even realize how much people have picked up on until your phone vibrates in your clutch, a message from a friend—

"You might wanna check Twitter."

Your stomach flips as you glance around the room, trying not to be obvious as you spot him across the crowd.

And holy fuck, yeah—they’re right.

Harry looks wrecked.

His tie is loosened, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, the strands of his hair slightly tousled, like someone’s fingers had just been gripping at it.

You swallow hard.

You shouldn’t be staring at him, shouldn’t be biting your lip at the sight of him still looking a little ruined from fucking you against the wall.

And yet—

The way he carries himself so effortlessly, the way his expression is calm, unaffected—like he hasn’t just been inside you, like he hasn’t just come undone in the deepest parts of you—it’s infuriating.

Because you feel so obvious.

Like everyone in this goddamn room knows.

And the worst part?

Maybe they do.

--

The night is winding down, the music softens, the lights dim just slightly, and the energy in the room shifts from excitement to exhaustion.

People start to leave in waves—celebrities slipping out with their teams, photographers packing up their equipment, security guiding fans toward the exits.

You keep your distance.

You have to.

For months now, you and Harry have been careful—so careful.

Because if anyone found out, the questions wouldn’t stop.

Who made the first move? Who was the one who set the rules? Who got attached first? Who’s more obsessed? Is it real? Is it fake? When did it start? How will it end?

You already know what the media would say.

That you are just another girl Harry’s using.

That he is just another celebrity falling into a meaningless fling.

That this is just another story waiting to be ripped apart, twisted into something ugly, overanalyzed until there’s nothing left.

They wouldn’t understand that it’s not like that. That it’s never been like that.

So, you play your part.

You pretend.

You act like you’re just another guest in the room, sipping champagne and offering polite smiles and nods.

And you ignore the way your skin still burns where he touched you.

But every few minutes—you feel him.

A glance across the room.

A flick of his eyes down to your lips.

A tiny smirk when you press them together, nervous, flustered, still feeling him everywhere.

Your cheeks heat up, and you force yourself to look away, heart hammering.

You have to be careful.

But then—just as you think you’ve made it out without another close call—

A hand on your wrist.

Warm. Quick. Certain.

Your breath catches as you turn, only to find him there, impossibly close, standing just slightly behind you, tucked into the shadows where no one else can see.

Your stomach tightens.

You don’t even have time to react before his fingers slide down, trailing over your palm, catching your hand in his.

His grip is gentle but sure, fingers threading through yours like this isn’t just another secret touch. Like he’s holding on.

Your pulse jumps, and his thumb brushes over it, tracing the rapid rhythm.

When you meet his gaze, his eyes are dark, still hooded from everything you’ve done tonight, but there’s something else there now, too. Something deeper.

"See you later?" he murmurs, voice low, teasing, soft in a way that makes your chest ache.

You should let go.

You should be careful.

But instead, you lace your fingers through his.

Tighter. Certain.

You tilt your head, let a slow smile curve at your lips, and whisper back—

"Yeah."

A pause.

A flicker of something dangerous. Something real.

Then, his hand squeezes yours—a silent promise—before he finally lets go, slipping away into the crowd.

But this time, you don’t just feel his touch lingering on your skin.

You feel him everywhere.

And you already know—

This isn’t just some secret anymore.

It’s too much. Too intense, too deep, too important to be treated like something you can just hide forever.

You take a steadying breath, smoothing a hand over your dress, mentally preparing yourself to leave.

And that’s when you hear it.

A sharp click.

A hushed gasp.

A flicker of movement in your peripheral vision.

You turn your head—just in time to see a fan clutching their phone, eyes wide, staring straight at you.

The screen still glowing.

Still open to the camera app.

Your stomach drops.

The fan’s mouth parts like they might say something—might call out your name, might ask if what they just saw was real.

Your breath catches, a cold chill racing up your spine.

And then—

They take off.

Vanishing into the crowd.

With their phone.

With the photo.

With the secret you and Harry just lost.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

[part 2]

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

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[goldenlikedayl1ght]

...ready for it? - j.l. howlett

a/n: hi! here's a full version of a blurb i wrote a few days ago that got so much love so quick that i wanted to give yall a full version! the beginning is literally just the blurb but after that it's all new! like many of you wolverine brainrot has hit me hard, so here's graphic smut about him. leave a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed :) warnings: SMUT!!!!! some dumbification, use of pet names, reader is fem, reader is a mutant and able to control plants, lots of cursing, lots of grotesque fliritng/fantasies, some soft moments, some sort of primal sex, oral (fem receiving), some of the setting is probs inaccurate but whatever. let me know if i missed any big ones!! word count: 4.9 k summary: well, you had to find some way of entertaining yourself at charles xavier's school for gifted youngsters. and you have always liked an emotionally unavailable, absolutely hung, challenge. pairing: logan howlett x mutant!reader now playing: ...ready for it? - taylor swift "in the middle of the night, in my dreams/you should see the things we do, baby/in the middle of the night in my dreams/i know i'm gonna be with you, so i take my time"

You are absolutely enthralled with him. It’s actually sort of pathetic how your fingers twitch at the sight of him, at how the mention of his name or god forbid the sound of his voice makes your head snap up, attention deficit disorders be damned!

Funnily enough, you had no damn interest in Xavier’s stupid mutant school, because to you, you’re not an outsider because of your mutant abilities (that don’t have much of a physical apparition, at least one that you can’t hide) but because there’s never been much of a place for you to fit in.

But, you were behind on rent and of course, you fucking hate your job, so why not? You’d be able to be slightly less of a freak, and you’d get free room and board in the process! (Where Charles gets all of his money, you do not know.)

And because you’re a little older, Charles doesn’t force you to sit in a class room to learn about basic arithmetic and grammar lessons, so you really only do some training around three times a day, you have your own room (with a dusty box under the other bed, you also suspect your room used to be the ‘sex’ room) and you have the weekends off.

So for a twenty something year old with few ambitions, the social skills of a Martian with autism, and a huge crush on every older emotionally unavailable man you meet, it’s a pretty good set-up.

You’re waiting for time to pass in the garden, just reading a rather interesting book that Charles had recommended after he noticed you needed something to pass time before you started making bad decisions.

You hear his heavy footsteps on the gravel before you see him. Your heart beats faster, but you will yourself, do everything in your power not to glance up at him. And you let out a breath as you succeed, keeping your head down.

“In your natural habitat, are you, spitfire?” Your head darts up to him—There’s no way he isn’t talking to you, you know you’re the only one in this garden. And you can see his lips twitch up and you want to crawl out of your skin!

“My-My natural habitat?” You laugh, closing the book you’re reading because your attention is locked to him now.

“Yeah, seems like it.” He saunters on up to you and sits on the bench next to you.

And let’s make something very clear—

Logan Howlett does not sit.

This man poses, as if there’s always some invisible camera capturing every frame of movement, from the way his legs spread out, to the way his chest lifts when he inhales.

Fuck, you think you might die if you can’t suck him off right now.

“And what exactly is my uh.. habitat?” You question.

He takes out his lighter and a cigar, placing the cigar in his mouth as he gestures to the space around the two of you, lighter in hand.

“A garden.” He says, matter of facility, as his voice is muffled only the slightest bit by the cigar.

And you just sort of look at him before asking,

“Oh, you enjoy being boiled down to your mutations, Claws?” You question, and as he goes to light the cigar, he smirks.

“Alright, you gotta admit though, it is cliché!”

You are absolutely in agreement, there is zero doubt you are as much of a walking, breathing, real life living, stereotype.

“It is not!” And the pair of you give each other this look, like you’re both shocked at how whiney that statement is!

“Uh-huh, sure, Spitfire.” It sounds almost like he’s purring at you.

When he lights his cigar, he’s sort of eying you for your reaction, whatever you might say.

“You know, smoking is not only bad for you, it’s awful for the environment.”

“You’re probably the most cliché little freak around here.” Which.. honestly..? Shouldn’t possibly turn you on as much as it does.

You just stare at him for a minute, and he smirks.

“Cat got your tongue?’

And maybe it’s stupid and maybe it’s immature but your hand just comes over to fiddle with the pointed part of his hair.

“We’ll you certainly look the part.” He just looks at you, and honestly? The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s proud of you for teasing him.

“Aw, there’s my little spitfire,” He teases, just to see how red you get. And red you are— it’s embarrassing. And here’s the kicker—You are young. Exceptionally young, and what’s insane about that? How horny it makes both you and Logan.

The idea of fucking your innocent cunt, tight and all his, drives him genuinely mad. And you are, quite literally, a whore for the idea of riding this older man’s dick. You know he’s big—sometimes you see the outerline of it when he walks away from you all huffy and puffy.

“You’re a tease, Claws.” You respond, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Says you,” he raises and eyebrow, leaning closer to you now, “You’re the one laying around in the sun, looking like that.”

“Looking like this?” You scoff. You’re wearing a muscle tee and a pair of ripped jeans, but the gaps are huge and he can see your thighs. He wants to devour you, and you would let him if he only asked.

And let’s be clear—he is fucking you with his eyes. There’s no way to go around it.

“I think you’re just.. horny.” You tease, and he just growls. Seriously, this man who is undressing you with his eyes, growls, because he does want you and he is horny!

“I think you’re onto something.” He purrs, and you want to just.. god. You don’t know how to express the pit of desire that grows in you. “I would fuck you until you couldn’t think, right here among your pretty flowers. Would you like that, baby?” he asks, his hand finding your thigh.

But you just cough on the smoke from his cigar, before frowning.

“You really shouldn’t smoke.”

“Aw, I’ll make it up to you.” He smirked. “Promise, spitfire.”

He’s very close to you now, so you take a second to just breath and you know that he knows that he’s got you—hook, line, and sweet, sweet sinker.

And then you realize what exactly it is that you’ve gotten yourself into. And what a nightmare it is—Or maybe a dream if you listen to the pathetic part of your brain, but you are into this an in a way that is concerning for your own mental wellbeing and desperately want to avoid him having all the power in this situation.

“Oh, I am sure you will.” You assure. You lean forward, plucking the cigar from his lips, and placing it on the ground, squashing it beneath your heel. With a flick of your wrist, vines and grass grow over the cigar, composting it. And from the vines, grows a small little buttercup flower.

You lean down and pluck the flower from the grass, before tucking it behind Logan’s ear.

“You should take care of that hard-on you have, Claws.” You hum, before standing up, and walking away. And for a minute, he just watches you go—partly to because you have an amazing ass, but partly because you have absolutely flabbergasted him.

And have made him want you even more.

• • •

The next time you see him is the next night, in the woods near the mansion. Because the literal sixteen year olds you go to ‘school’ with do not know how to do anything on the weekend except drink, fuck, and smoke.

Honestly, you kind of fit in great.

So here you are, nursing a mason jar of.. some fucked up concoction, and you’re not too sure what’s in it, but you have drunk two of them and are on your third. You think you might live forever, until you glance up and see Logan, in these fuck me jeans and this burnt orange flannel and a wife beater.

Instantly, you know that you’ll die tonight if you don’t have him.

He approaches you with this cocky smirk as if he hasn’t realized your intoxicated state yet.

“Now what’s a little spitfire like you doing all alone on a Friday night?” he questions, tilting his head. His smirk is deadly. And you roll your eyes.

“Here comes the big bad Wolverine, all bark and no bite.” You scoff, and his eyes flash with surprise. Only for a second, but even drunk, you notice the way his eyes shoot up in surprise.

“All bark and no bite? That’s quite the accusation.” He hums.

“Well, we’ve been.. eye fucking each other for a few weeks now, and you haven’t even kissed me yet. I get being into foreplay and edging, but holy shit, Claws, throw a girl a bone once in a while.” You scoff, and for a moment, he just looks at you.

“Are you.. drunk?”

“Do you think I’m drunk?”

“Yeah, you’re drunk.” He sighs. You respond by taking another sip of your drink, but before the bitter liquor hits your tongue, he snatches the bottle from you.

“Let me take you home.” You’re sure your eyes look like hearts, so, dreamily and a little love struck, you respond,

“’Kay.”

And he chuckles a little bit at that.

“We’re not gonna do anything, I’m just gonna walk you home, spitfire.” He starts, and your face falls a little bit, but in an effort to hide it, you respond,

“..’kay.” And he sees right through you. You’re pretty much an open book. And the alcohol doesn’t help. His pointer finger and thumb comes to your chin, and he gently rubs his thumb against your lip.

“Don’t be like that, pup. It’ll happen soon. Just not tonight, okay?” He assures.

“’Kay.” You answer softly, and you think he smiles at you but your vision is sort of blurry. Then, you blink, as a gust of wind moves through the trees, sending a shiver down your spine. He sighs, and wordlessly takes off his flannel, before wrapping it around you. Your arms slip into the sleeves, and you almost cry because it’s like, the best hug in the entire world. “Won’t.. you be cold, then?” you question, and he just shakes his head.

“Let’s get you home, spitfire.” He holds a handout to you, and without a second thought, you take his hand. He wraps his arm around you, and you lean against him like it’s something the two of you do often. If you were sober, you might short circuit. But, you’re not, so it feels right.

The walk home is quiet, but Logan’s thumb gently rubs against your shoulder. He wants to do more, but he knows he shouldn’t, since you are in fact plastered.

You ignore the giggles and whispers from teenagers making their way past you to the party or to their rooms, and you even ignore the way their giggles stop when they meet Logan’s gaze.

When you get back to your room, you take a second to lean against the door, and he takes a second to admire the way you look in his clothes.

“Ready for bed?” he asks gently, and you just smile at him.

“You’re really pretty.” He just does the half scoff-half chuckle that you’re obsessed with. Then, he wraps his arm around you again, opening the door to your room, and guiding you inside. He gets you to your bed and sits you down, before kneeling in front of you to untie your boots. “Has anyone ever told you how good you look on your knees?” you ask.

He just gives you this smirk.

“One or two pretty girls back in the day.” He says, “None as pretty as you though, spitfire.” He says, and you groan, leaning back and laying on the bed, as he pulls off your boots.

“You’re awful.” And you need him.

“Yes, I know, baby.” His voice is almost condescending, and it turns you on. But then he stands up, grabbing the folded blanket from the edge of your bed, and laying it over you. He finds his place kneeling next to you again as you stare at him, cozy in bed. His hands gently brush hair from your face. “Do you need anything else?”

“You.”

“Soon. But not yet, pup. You’re too drunk.” He says softly.

“Thanks for walking me home, Claws.”

“You’re very welcome, Spitfire.” He purrs, leaning forward and kissing your forehead gently. “I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Logan.” You mumble as you drift off to sleep. He sits there for a few minutes, just looking at you for a long time before he gets up and creeps out of your room.

• • •

The next morning, you sit in the cafeteria, drinking a large coffee, and nursing the worst hangover, possibly of your life. Made even worse by the fractions of memories about what happened last night.

You rub your eyes, flinching when you hear the clatter of a plate on the table, and someone sitting across from you. You peek through the gaps of your fingers to see Logan sitting across from you, a smirk on his face.

He opens his mouth to say something but you beat him to it.

“I hate you. Shut up.”

“I didn’t even say anything!” he laughs. But he sees how much pain you’re in, and slides two pieces of sourdough toast to you. “Truce?”

“Truce.” You agree, taking a slice and biting into it. You feel better.

And after a moment of silence, he asks,

“I’m never getting my flannel back, am I?”

Truthfully, the flannel has been folded neatly and tucked into your drawer, for the next time you need some comfort.

You tilt your head, looking right into his eyes.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

• • •

Weeks go by like this.

You spend your days either going to class or hanging out—okay, it’s more like flirting with a side of hanging out, with Logan. The pair of you become quite close, and maybe that’s why you haven’t fucked yet.

Oh, the two of you want to, and it’s obvious to everyone (Charles has called you out for being distracted more times than you can count, and you remind him not to probe your mind, and he tells you he does not need his mutant abilities to see that your thoughts linger elsewhere.) but you’re.. afraid, at this point.

Which is odd, because you’re no virgin, you know he wants you, but.. what if everything changes after that? Maybe he’ll start to avoid you. Maybe you’ll start to avoid him. And you’ve really become good friends, and don’t want to lose it.

And then, there’s the fact that half the time, he’s away on dangerous missions, and even if he can regenerate, you worry about him. But he hasn’t been on any lately, so it’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You’re sitting in the garden when it happens.

He finds you, and this time, you do not even try to hide the way your head picks up and gazes at him.

“Hi, Spitfire.” He grins, and you smile a bit at him.

“Claws, what can I do for you?” And he sits next to you, and for some reason, maybe because he doesn’t say anything at first, you know that there is something wrong. And you know what it is.

After a few minutes, you glance to him.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Your voice is quiet, as if you’re scared that if it gets any louder, everything will fall apart.

“Yeah. Charles has me going on another mission.” He doesn’t say it, but you both know this isn’t an involuntary thing.

“Cool.” You cringe at your reaction.

“I guess.” He laughs weakly, as if he knows he’s twisting a knife buried within you.

Silence fills the air. It’s not necessarily uncomfortable, but it isn’t the relaxed silence you’re used to with him. Confessions dance on the tips of your tongues, and you’re so close to saying it, that when you turn to each other suddenly, you just need to look at each other for a second.

“Be safe.” You say quietly. “And hurry back.” You request, and you try not to sound like you’re begging.

“Of course.” He says, like it perplexes him that you even have to request. “I can’t leave you here yearning for me forever, can I?” He teases, and for a moment, you have this flash of an alternate universe where he does die on this mission and you are trapped in this garden forever, waiting for him. Like a lost puppy, or worse, a lost lover. The mere thought of it fucks with your head.

“No. You can’t. I won’t allow it.” You explain, “If anything, I’m the one that should be haunting you.” He just smiles. A real, not at all awkward smile.

“I’m sure you will, spitfire.” He says, and his head comes forward so that his forehead is resting against yours.

“When do you leave?” You ask gently, and he sighs. His breath smells of mint and cigar smoke, maybe even a hint of lemon.

“An hour. I have to pack quick and then debrief.” He answers you.

And just as love struck as you were the night of the party, you answer,

“’Kay.” You smile weakly at him. And he just.. looks at you for a few minutes before sighing again. He pulls away and leans up to kiss your forehead again, before standing up. He turns a few steps away from you just to tease you.

“Don’t miss me too much, okay?” he requests softly. Before you can stop yourself, you stand up, and wrap your arms around him. He only pauses for a half a second before he returns your embrace, and it becomes apparent that you both needed this moment. You stay like this for a few minutes before you pull away.

“Bring me back a souvenir.” You try, a soft smile on your face.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll bring you something great from the great city of Tulsa, Ohklahoma.” He grins.

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

• • •

For the next week, you feel like this must be what it was like for housewives when their husbands went to war. You knew all too well that that statement was extremely dramatic, but you simply cannot help yourself.

You think you might die by day three.

It’s like you’re going through withdrawals and it’s making you go genuinely insane.

You have worn this man’s flannel for almost the entire week, because at first you’re a little self-conscious of other people noticing your repeating outfits, but only at first. By day four, you have decided you don’t give a single fuck.

Day eight you’re just laying in bed, quietly making a list of all the positions you want him to take you in. It’s a long list. You’re brought back to reality by a knock on your door. You’re about to snap, knowing that you’ll tell whatever child has been sent to bother you to scram, but when you open the door, you grin widely.

Logan stands there, looking tired, but he’s smiling and holding up a shot glass that reads ‘Tusla’, and has skyline on it.

“Didn’t I tell you I’d get you a souvenir?” He asks, and you can’t help but wrap your arms around him, pulling him in. He hugs you back, making sure to squeeze you just a bit—your feet barely come off the ground.

He pulls away, and you grin up to him.

“You came back.” You say it as if you can barely believe it, and just for a moment, he feels an emotion he can’t quite place, but he ignores it.

“Of course I came back, spitfire. All in one piece too, as requested.” He grins, and you’re just.. amazed at the look of him. “What’s that look for?” He asks gently, tilting his head.

“I just..” you start.

And then you break.

You lean up and kiss him gently, those stupidly delicious sideburns making your stomach flip. He doesn’t waste time, kissing you back, his arms around your waist. After a minute, you pull away.

“Sorry. I’m kind of done playing that game of waiting for you to kiss me. I just got the first hit of you I’ve had all week, and I feel fucking amazing.” You confess, and sure, it’s not a big grand love confession with tears and poetry, but your words make him kiss you so intensely that you start backing into your room, his hands exploring your body as you tug off his leather jacket, a new flannel for you to steal coming off soon after.

He keeps kissing you as his hands come down to your jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them, before gently pushing you to sit on the bed. He kneels in front of you, and begins to tug off your boots again, then, on your jeans.

You grin.

“You know, I’m getting the oddest sense of déjà vu. Something about you looking great on your knees.” You tease, and he just tugs off your jeans in one strong swoop, before leaning in to bite your thigh. You gasp, your hands coming up to tug his hair.

Then, he begins to tug at your panties, and you tilt his head up, glancing at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, before I was interrupted, I was about to eat you out.”

“Wait, really?”

He blinks, confused.

“Yeah. Is that a, uh.. problem..?” He hasn’t gotten any complaints yet.

“I just.. I didn’t think guys actually did that, I thought it was just.. a porno thing.” And at this, the man who is about to burry his face between your thighs, laughs. And not just a chuckle, this man hollars. “What’s so funny, claws?” You ask, a little suspicious.

“Nothing,” he promises, “I am just going to take such good care of you, pup.”

“I’m holding you to that, claws.” And then, he leans in and begins to kiss your thighs, gently biting down here and there. Then, he licks a stripe along your cunt, and you let out this loud moan, and your hand comes up to clamp over your mouth, but he reaches up to grab your hand, lacing his fingers with yours.

He pulls away to lecture you. Lecture you. On his knees. Head between your thighs.

“Nuh-uh, I wanna hear all the pretty noises you can make for me.” Then, softer, he adds, “Never been eaten out before, fuckin’ travesty.” He mumbles, before leaning in to lick your cunt again, beginning to lap his tongue over your throbbing heat.

His nose rubs against your clit, and it’s enough to drive you genuinely crazy. You’re unsure how you’ve gotten to this point in your life without having your pussy worshipped like this, but with him around, you’re pretty sure you’ll never go another day without it.

His tongue continues to work magic on your cunt, as his nose presses against your clit, stimulating you to the point of making you see stars.

Your hands tug at his hair, and the moan that it elicits from him is enough to send vibrations through your cunt through your stomach. Your head leans back as you moan, and for a moment, you hope there is no mutant in this mansion with super hearing.

His free hand grips your thigh as he bends your leg back to get better access, as he continues to eat you out. The mere taste of you is enough to drive him crazy—He almost wants to start thrusting into the side of your bed, he’s so hard, but he ignores that urge to continue to eat you out.

“Mm—Lo, I—I’m gonna—”

He just hums into your cunt, giving your thigh a gentle squeeze of approval, before his tongue moves even faster (if that’s even possible, though, he is an amazingly surprising man), and suddenly—

You feel a release you have been waiting for weeks, and it is fucking phenomenal. And the Wolverine just licks up all your cum, even if it makes your thighs shake, but honestly, he doesn’t care and neither do you. For a moment, you just listen to the sound of your own pants.

After a minute, you are able to look at him, and he just looks up to you with the same smirk that has been torturing you for all of those weeks. And you just have to pull him up to kiss you, like it’s the only way you’ll be able to live.

As you kiss him, you pull off his wifebeater and then your hands rest on the sides of his face as he pulls off your shirt as well, before his hands begin to make quick work of his belt, wanting to skip all of the pleasantries and just fuck you.

But when he finally gets his jeans off, you pull away, and he stares at you like you’re crazy.

“What the fuck could possibly be more important than me fucking you stupid?”

“Will you just.. let me look at you?” You scoff, your eyes flickering over him to just memorize every square inch of his body. He humors you for a few minutes, standing there with his hands on hips before he leans in and cages you in with his arms.

“Show’s over, spitfire.” He purrs, leaning in to kiss you, slowly making his way closer to you so that you’re laying back on your bed. At some point during the kiss, his boxers come off, and when you feel his cock against your cunt, you moan into the kiss, and you can feel his smirk against your lips.

Oh, you could kill him. But, you suspect maybe he’ll get to you first.

After he kisses you for a few minutes, he pulls away to tell—not ask, tell you, “I’m going to fuck you now.” And you know your line.

“’Kay.” He grins at this and kisses you again, before lining himself up and starting slowly. He just has the tip inside of you, and you begin to moan, your grip on his shoulders tightening. You already feel entirely too full, and he slowly agonizingly slowly pushes into you, and he sees how his size makes your face twitch,

“Shh, shh, I know, pup. Deep breathes for me, bub,” he says softly, such a stark contract to his rough movements, as he bottoms out and has his entire cock inside of you. And he gives you a second, watching as your face relaces, adjusting to the size of him. “Okay?” He asks, and you nod.

“’Kay,” You assure, and he kisses your forehead.

“’Kay.” He responds, and before you can tease him for it, he begins to thrust into you, slowly as first, but he continues to quicken his pace. Your nails begin to scratch on his back, and he lets out this angelic moan—You must’ve died and went to heaven.

As his thrusts quicken, the lines quickly blur between quick ruts and an animalistic need, manifesting itself in the way he fucks you. You know you won’t last long, especially when his fingers find your clit and begin to rub it again.

“Fuck! Oh my god—”

“I know, baby, I know,” he coos, his free hand coming to your thigh to lift your leg up, only for better access to your throbbing cunt, “God, I love the feeling of you around me.. Worth the wait, I promise.” He grumbles, as he thrusts into you, his only goal to make you cum.

You want to respond to that—To tease him, to make him feel as shy as you do, but he has completed his goal of fucking you stupid.

All you can do is respond, “Fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby, go ahead, cum for me,” he requests softly, leaning in to press a rather jarringly sweet kiss to your lips.

As you cum around his cock, he shudders, the look of you, laying there fucked dumb, is almost too much for him to bear.

“I’m gonna fill you up, pup,” he tells you, and all you can do is moan in response, which makes him come that much closer to the edge. After a few more thrusts, with a euphoric moan that will haunt you forever, his hot cum fills you up, leaving the pair of you clawing at each other, wanting more.

When you’re both finally finished riding out your high, Logan lays next to you, keeping you close. His grip on you is tight—possessive. When you finally find your voice, you ask,

“You’re not gonna turn me into a booty call, are you, claws?”

And he laughs.

“No,” he says, pressing a kiss to your head. “You’re gonna be my best girl, Spitfire.”

“Does this mean I get to steal another of your flannels?”

“I’ll give you my whole fucking wardrobe to see how many times I can make you cum.”

[fixated-cookies]

im kinda thinkin about.... hypnosis and smilk.... smth abt the process specifically of taking over and invading your mind.. slowly giving into it even if youre resisting the effects its having on your mind, its inevitable that he'll win and you'll succumb to his control and influence over you... your mind may be foggy, but it's so perfectly empty and moldable now... what were you doing again? do you even care?

smth about being unable to look away from his eyes once he starts it; even if you look away, something will draw you back, and it gets stronger as it goes on... at first, you can physically turn away (though you'll get dragged back by some invisible force), but eventually you cant even rip your heard away from his gaze. smth about it being unable to be stopped by anyone other than himself once he starts it... no matter how far from you he is (as long as he's well... in sightline)

honestly you can like. think abt this in any context you want . i just.... really like the concept of hypnosis with him..... its captivating to me (hah) .... sorry for the essay in your inbox damn

Anon the reason why this was rotting in my askbox for so long was because I needed to give it justice hahaha, hypnosis is totally in character for someone like shadow milk cookie, and I love it.

WARNING- slight yandere, hypnosis

Hmm, I'm wondering how it would start, he would obviously make it a game, maybe a game of truth or dare, hm? Just a little bit of lollygagging to get rid of his boredom.

So, when he asked— “Truth or Dare?”—

You made the horrible mistake of choosing dare.

His grin widened, all teeth.“Ohhh, you’re feeling bold tonight! How delightful! Now, let’s see…” He tapped a finger against his chin, pretending to think. You should have been nervous. You should have backed out. But you didn’t.

I dare you… to look into my eyes and not look away.”

Simple, right?

You almost laughed. Thats its? Thats all?

"Ah-ah, don’t look so relieved~! There’s a catch, of course. You must hold my gaze until I say you can look away. Break eye contact, and you lose."

You scoffed. What was he playing at? You weren’t afraid of a staring contest. Getting into position you held yourself steady as he looked overly excited.

For a while, it felt like a normal challenge. You stared, he stared, and time stretched between you both. But then… something changed. The air felt thicker. Your body heavier. You blinked once. It felt like it took longer than it should have to open your eyes again. You swallowed. Something felt off.

Your limbs felt distant like you weren’t quite inside your body anymore. You tried to look away—But your head wouldn’t move. "I...I-" "Tsk, tsk… You’re not trying to look away, are you? Ohh, but I can see that dazed look in your eyes already… how precious!" He started to scoot closer. Not fast. Not abrupt. No, he took his time, savoring the way your body twitched ever so slightly. How your breath caught, your fingers tightening into trembling fists against the floor. Your head refused to move. Your body felt so distant, like a marionette with cut strings, a doll that could only watch as its puppeteer inched nearer.

Your vision wavered, the edges blurring as if reality itself was losing focus. His eyes were all you could see. How could this happen? you were so sure he didn't have...any malicious...intent—huh...? What was going on...?—No, you hadn’t! You had to resist, you had to—"Mmm, that’s a good look on you… so unfocused, so lost…" He suddenly interrupted your thoughts.

You blinked, but the action felt slow, heavy, like your body was moving through water. You knew—somewhere, deep down—that this was wrong. That you should snap out of it. But… that was so difficult. Thinking was… so hard. Your lips parted, but no words came out. Only a quiet, dazed sigh.

Shadow Milk Cookie smiled, only for it to falter as your eyesight ripped away from him violently, a frustrated groan escaping you as you squeezed your eyes shut out of defiance. "Oh? You still have some fight left in you?" His voice slithered through the air, a mocking lilt woven into his amusement. How predictable. How pathetic. Impossibly close now, his presence, looming, suffocating—but when his hands cupped your cheeks, you knew there was no escape. His palms were cool, but his grip was unyielding.

"Really now, I thought you were smarter than this." His thumbs trailed lower, brushing over your lips with featherlight strokes. "Oh, my dear, sweet fool…" His voice dipped into a breathy murmur, mismatched eyes drinking in every flicker of your resolve. "...I wonder... how long will that last?"

His grip on your cheeks tightened—just enough for his thumbs to press against your skin, coaxing you, urging you—until your lashes fluttered. A sliver of light slipped through.

And the moment your gaze met his—

The air in your lungs vanished. And oh, how he grinned.

"Mmm… there it is."

His voice was nothing but a purr, smooth and saccharine as he drank in your struggle. His grip softened, shifting to cradle your face so delicately—as if he hadn’t just crushed your resistance in the palm of his hand.

"Much easier when you don’t fight, isn’t it?"

His thumbs stroked your cheeks, his tone mocking, indulgent—but there was something darker beneath it. "Go on, little puppet…" His breath ghosted over your lips as his mismatched eyes pulled you deeper, deeper, deeper. "Be good for me, yeah?" He murmurs lowly Before you could even process it, his lips were on yours—slow, deliberate, consuming. A kiss meant to unravel, to claim. His fingers pressed gently into your skin, holding you there, grounding you— or perhaps, chaining you.

And when he finally pulled away, he didn’t need to command you to look at him this time.

Because you already were.

A single finger tapped lightly against your forehead as if to mock the emptiness settling in. His victory.

"See? Much better when you don’t think."

--

you guys, rate my hypnosis writing I need it!! These ideas are just sooo juicy.

[undreaming-fanfiction]

The Corroded Coffin used to think they'd be the new Metallica or Judas Priest. But where their passion and hard work never lacked, their big break just never came.

What did come, however, was an unexpected change of their career path.

It started innocently enough - they went through yet another failed meeting with recording studios, they'd travelled pretty far and it was for nothing. Instead of going back to Hawkins and risking another one of Eddie's road rages, they decided to break into an abandoned house and drink their sorrows away.

That is, until their empty bottles started collecting themselves, something invisible touched Gareth's shoulder and the dusty floor started showing written messages.

Jeff wanted to flee. Gareth to faint. But Eddie and Freak just shrugged. Eddie gestured towards the approximate ghost location and said "by the power of I don't give a shit anymore, I compel you to sit down and stop it, we'll clean the bottles when we leave tomorrow."

The rattling stopped. There was a moment of silence when the Corroded Coffin actually thought it had worked, but then the ghost overcame its shock and physically threw Eddie, his bandmates and their things out.

They sat on the wet grass for a while and contemplated their whole exitence. Eddie was pretty shaken about the whole thing because he'd just managed to royally piss off a ghost and lived to tell the tale. But apart from absolutely terrifying...it was also fun?

And his friends seemed to think the same. Jeff patted his shoulder and said: "not bad for a first touch with the unknown, huh?"

They stayed in the area and tried again. They decided to tape over their promotional video - not so great, they had to admit after rewatching it - and started documenting their ghostly encounters. And maybe it was just the timing, maybe it was their interactions and personalities, but it worked. They showed some of their tapes to a local TV station and they got a cautious yes, more than they ever had with their music.

They got assigned a small crew, Fred with a camera and Chrissy for sound, wrote their own episodes and did plenty of research. And they got to try quite a lot of different approaches with their ghostly friends. Eddie was amazing at taunting the ghosts, making them appear if there were any present. Gareth had a wonderfully calming presence, managing to save the CC's ass several times. Jeff was the brains, he made sure they'd always know the history of the house and the probable identity of the ghost. And Freak decided to dabble in the occult sciences with a terrifying precision. There could never be enough salt in Eddie's van for all the circles he made.

It all went well until they learned of the Creel House in Hawkins. They went there, did their research and before entering the house, they ordered some pizza for dinner. They assumed it would be over by midnight, thinking it was just another sad story of an unresolved murder, but the ghost of Henry Creel was out for blood.

Oh, and he also controlled the spiders of the house. That was new.

To set the scene: The crew had fled the house about an hour ago. Eddie was crouching behind an old table, blocking Henry's barrage of kitchen knives, shouting "IS THIS THE BEST YOU'VE GOT?!". Gareth was behind the table with Eddie, but he went more into the wailing territory with "I DON'T THINK THIS WILL HELP YOU MOVE ON, HENRY!". Jeff had blocked himself in the pantry and kept trying to identify the triggering moment - "I think he's re-enacting the murder of his mother, guys! Does that help?!" (it doesn't). And Freak gave up on salt circles and was now tossing handfuls of salt around the house with a questionable technique but unwavering determination.

Suddenly, a car horn.

Then, a bitchy male voice: "Are you coming to get your pizza or what? I have other customers to get to!"

Eddie gritted his teeth as Henry added heavy pans to the mix and hit his shoulder. "We're a little busy surviving here! Ask Chrissy to pay you!"

There was a muffled and annoyed "ugh" from behind the door and then: "Is it Henry again?"

Eddie just blinked. Gareth was more ready to answer: "Sure is! He's not a fan of our exorcism!"

And the pizza guy didn't leave. He just huffed and said something that sounded suspiciously like "amateurs".

Eddie wanted to punch him.

But before he could do that, the front door opened. Gareth held his breath, half expecting a sound of knives hitting their target.

Instead, they heard a few more steps and then: "What the fuck, Henry?!"

A faint whispering reached their ears, but they couldn't decipher it. But the pizza guy could.

"I don't care they didn't get your permission, Henry. Yeah, it's annoying, but what are you going to do? If more people die in this house, it's going to get demolished. You know that. Yeah, I know the house is old, but it's great for your spiders, right? They'd be homeless. Do you want to make your spiders homeless, Henry?"

They dared to peek from behind the table, and Eddie had to pinch himself. Because in the middle of the dusty dining room stood one of the prettiest young men Eddie had ever seen, hands on hips and arguing with something invisible.

The man completely ignored them.

"That's what I thought. Now, apologize. No, they can't hear you, so get creative."

All four CC members stared as words formed in the spilled salt: "SORRY".

The pizza guy seemed to be pleased. "Good job, Henry. Now, let me get them out of here and I promise I'll get the Party to bring you some new spiders when they capture them outside, yeah? Three knocks, slide them in a glass behind the door. Got it. Take care, Henry."

Only then did he look at Eddie and the others and frowned. "That's your cue to leave. Get your stuff and go, now." And as they were quickly collecting their scattered notes and recording equipment, he added: "and say goodbye when leaving. Don't be rude."

Four rushed "Bye, Henry!" and "Sorry, Henry"s later, the Corroded Coffin was standing on the grass outside, feeling the setting sun on their skin and smelling fresh pizza. Gareth promptly paid for the delivery, and everyone proceeded to thank their mysterious savior.

"I'm Steve," he said after they'd all expressed their thanks, "and you're stupid. Do you really do this without anyone who sees and hears them? Do you just stumble blindly into haunted houses for a fun and stabby time?"

Eddie had to swallow down a very bitchy response of his own. "Sorry to stroke your ego even more, pretty boy, but a man of your talents is hard to come by."

And Steve, to Eddie's massive shock, just cocked his head and fluffed his hair, probably out of habit, but damn. "Well, consider yourself lucky because I'm open to job offers," he said with a wink that brought Eddie back into his teenage fantasies. "You need someone like me, and I assume you pay better than pizza delivery. Do you?"

Turns out, their producer was willing to get one more person on board, especially when they finished processing the leftover footage from the Creel house.

Steve was an amazing addition. He was snarky, self-confident, easy to look at and most of all, he was fun and compassionate. Watching him communicate with ghosts of kids and help them move on made Eddie's icy heart melt.

But one day they were on a site of an unfortunate teenage death, Steve was chatting with the ghost of a 17 year old girl like they'd known each other for ages, he was laughing, cracking jokes, and then:

"No, he hasn't kissed me yet."

Eddie turned around on his heel and stared at Steve, snickering to himself and talking to a misty figure next to him. And worst of all, they were both staring right at Eddie.

"Hasn't even asked me out, no. You'd think he'd be interested, but I guess I'm doing something wrong."

And Eddie's head short-circuited, and all the repressed fantasies from nights next to Steve in their trailer came back with vengeance. He howled and threw himself at Steve, kissing him right on that bitchy mouth. "Doing something wrong?! Steven Harrington, those shorts of yours are doing everything right, but how about you say something, huh?!"

Steve returned the kiss to the cheering of the CC guys, Chrissy's clapping and Fred's disgusted noise, and shrugged when they broke apart. "I knew you'd get it, eventually. Oh, and Heather?" he turned to the ghost. "You're the best wingwoman ever, in this life and after."

Four good things came from this ghostly encounter:

After the kiss, Gareth finally gathered enough courage to ask Chrissy out. She said yes.

The episode with Heather became the most watched episode of the CC's show.

Steve and Eddie remained in an equally blissful and teasing relationship for the rest of their lives.

And finally...

The TV station decided to design official merch for the CC's show: incredibly short shorts that said on the backside: "DOING EVERYTHING RIGHT".

[darlingsblackbook]

That time when you betray him

"Y/n?"

I froze at the sound of his voice. A chill ran through me whole body at the realization that I had screwed up. Completely and utterly screwed up.

My body felt as if concrete had been poured all over it, I could not bring myself to physically move-as if I could make myself invisible by staying still.

"What are you doing?" He asked, but I had a feeling he already knew. He knew. I screwed up and now he knew. I could feel it in his voice, the slight- barely noticable- tremble, the tone that held the tiniest bit of hope- hope that it might not be what it looks like-

The hope that I had not just betrayed him.

Betrayed us.

"You're killing me with this silence, sweetheart." He joked even though his voice held no humour, it was just the way he dealt with things. He had told me that himself one night. "Come on, we have to go back."

Still, I stayed silent. There had never been a moment in my life where I just wanted to disappear- so badly. The silence that enveloped us was so painfully loud.

"I can't go with you." I spoke up for the first time.

He chuckled humourlessly, "Come on, don't be silly."

I gulped, took a deep breath and forced myself to move. I forced myself to turn around and see the devastation that I knew I had caused. I knew this day would come, of course, I did. From the moment I accepted this mission- I knew. What I had not anticipated was that I would end up falling for him myself. I am so stupid.

Our eyes met.

He did not say it out loud. But his eyes were begging me. Please, tell me I am wrong, tell me this is all a misunderstanding. Tell me how much you love me and want to be by my side. Tell me it is not what it looks like!

It was never supposed to go this far. I was never supposed to get this close. I told myself it was fine, that I am a grown woman and can control my emotions. If only I could go back in time and warn my past self to not get attached. Then maybe I would not feel the resentfulness for myself and my deeds that I did now- not because I regret the mission but the regret of the pain that I caused him.

"This is were we part ways." I told him softly, holding his gaze. His eyes dropped to the object in my hands, and I could feel his heart drop- he knew just how important- dangerous - it could be if it fell into the wrong hands but he trusted me, so told me the location.

He knew-thought he could trust me, I slept beside him at night and ate at the same dinner table as him. He trusted me even though he never trust easily, even though he had blocked off the entry to his heart because of past betrayals- he had let me in.

Because I was his y/n.

His y/n would never betray him.

"All this time...?" He trailed off, pursing his lips, eyes still locked onto the object in my hand. "Wow, you actually had me fooled, you know? This is really embarassing."

I steeled myself, knowing that no matter how much I wanted to, I could not change what has been done. I have already lost him, I could only complete my mission now. Do what I had been sent here for.

"Don't be." I said. "You did not know any better."

Reblog and pick up where I left off with a character of your own choice!

[mrs-delaney]

After the Storm

GIF by hootball

🔥 Request: Need Joe and reader getting in an argument maybe he's being an asshole after a bad game and they are in their kitchen and they absolutely wreck each other on the counter. Bonus if someone cries!!!

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 2.3k words

⚠️ Contains post-loss tension, explosive kitchen sex, hurt feelings, real tears, and two people who love each other too much to walk away. Angsty, explicit, but it ends in softness. 💔🔥

😭 ...and another one 🫣 this one had me in a chokehold all day. hope you like it 💌

📚 read my masterlist

🎤 read Hide — two people, two careers, and one very complicated kind of love

📬 join my taglist for updates, love stories, and late-night feelings

You heard Joe’s keys hit the console table, then his footsteps in the hallway.

Twenty-four to seven. At home. In front of eighty thousand people and a national television audience.

You'd watched every painful minute of it from the living room, watching the way his jaw set tighter with each interception, each overthrown pass. The camera lingered on his face during timeouts - he looked angry, frustrated, clearly pissed off.

When Joe appeared in the doorway, he was still in his game day clothes, his hair still styled but slightly mussed from pulling his helmet on and off. He looked composed, controlled. But you could see it in the set of his shoulders, the careful way he moved—he was wound tight.

“Hey,” you said softly, setting your mug down on the island.

Joe ignored you, moving to the fridge and grabbing a water bottle.

You watched him for a moment, recognizing the signs. The way he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes. The deliberate space he kept between you. The invisible wall going up brick by brick.

“How are you feeling?” you asked gently, taking one careful step toward him.

Joe’s hand stilled on the water bottle. When he finally looked at you, his expression was perfectly neutral. “I’m fine.”

His tone was perfectly neutral, which somehow made it worse.

“You don’t have to say that,” you said, taking another step closer. “It’s just me.”

“I said I’m fine, Y/N.” Joe took a drink of water, his eyes already moving away from yours.

You reached out carefully, gently touching his arm. “Joe—”

“Don’t.” The word was quiet but sharp enough to cut. Joe stepped away from your touch, not dramatically, just enough to break the contact.

The rejection hit like a physical blow, but you tried again, your voice softer now. “You don’t have to talk about the game. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Joe set his water down and looked at you. “I told you I’m fine. Why isn’t that enough?”

“Because I know you,” you said, frustration starting to creep into your voice despite your efforts to stay calm. “And I know when you’re hurting.”

“Right.” Joe’s tone was flat. “So you know me better than I know myself.”

The sarcasm was subtle but cutting. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Do I?” Joe leaned back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. “Because I said I don’t want to talk, and here we are. Still talking.”

“I’m worried about you,” you said, your voice smaller now. 

“I don’t need you to worry about me. I need you to listen when I tell you something.”

You felt your face flush with a mixture of hurt and growing anger. “So caring about you is the problem now?”

“Caring would be respecting what I asked for.” Joe’s voice stayed level, which somehow made it worse. “This isn’t caring. This is you needing to fix something.”

"You literally do this every time!” The words burst out of you before you could stop them. “Every single time something goes wrong, you just shut down and push me away.”

"Maybe because you always make it worse," he said quietly. "You can't just let me deal with things. Always have to make it about you."

The accusation hung in the air between you, so unfair and cutting that for a moment, you couldn’t find your breath.

“How is caring about you making it about me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"You tell me."

“You know what, Joe, you are the problem!” The words came out louder than you intended, months of frustration finally boiling over. “You only want me around when everything’s perfect. When you’re winning, when you’re happy, when it’s easy. But the second you actually need someone, you turn into whatever this is…"

Joe’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Maybe I don’t need someone.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Is it? Because I told you to leave it alone, and yet here we are.”

“Because I give a damn about you!” You took a step toward him, anger now overriding caution. “Because I want to support you!”

“I didn’t ask for support.” 

“So what am I supposed to do? Just pretend everything’s fine?”

“Yeah.” Joe’s eyes met yours, unflinching. “That would be nice.”

“You know what fuck you dude,” you said quietly.

Joe raised an eyebrow, looking at you, unsurprised.

“No, really I mean it, fuck you, Joe.” Your voice was stronger now, anger burning through the hurt. “I rearrange my entire life around your schedule. I watch every game, I celebrate every win, and I bite my tongue when you come home in a mood. I should pretend everything’s fine from now on?”

“Yes.” The word was matter-of-fact, as if it were obvious.

“So just act like nothing’s wrong? Ever?” You stepped closer, frustration radiating off you in waves.

"Yeah," Joe said. "That would work."

"You push everyone away the second things get hard. You'd rather be miserable alone than let someone in."

Joe’s mask slipped for just a moment, something raw flashing across his features before he could control it. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me! Help me understand!” The words came out desperate, pleading. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you only want a girlfriend when it’s convenient.”

Joe was quiet for a long moment, his eyes studying your face. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but devastating. “Maybe you need me to need you. And when I don’t, it pisses you off.”

The words hit like a physical blow, so precisely aimed that you actually took a step back. “Are you fucking kidding right now?”

Joe groaned. "Why can't you just let me handle a bad game without making it into a thing?"

Tears pricked at your eyes—not from sadness but from pure, overwhelming anger. How dare he take your love, your genuine concern, and twist it into something selfish?

"I can't believe you just said that."

Joe didn't respond.

"You know what? Fuck this."

You shoved his chest hard, not to hurt him, but because you needed him to react, to show some emotion. Your palms connected with solid muscle, pushing him back a step.

Joe’s hands shot up instinctively, catching your wrists before you could push him again. His fingers wrapped around them, firm but not painful, pinning them against his chest.

Suddenly, you were closer than you'd been all evening. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, and you could see the way his pupils dilated slightly as he looked down at you. All that anger and frustration hung heavy between you.

For a second, neither of you moved. You could feel his heart hammering against your palms, could see the careful control in his face starting to fracture around the edges.

Then Joe kissed you.

It wasn't gentle or apologetic. It was hard, urgent, like he was trying to channel everything he couldn't say into the press of his mouth against yours. You kissed him back desperately, pouring all your anger and hurt and need into it.

His hands released your wrists only to grab your hips, lifting you onto the kitchen counter. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“I hate you right now,” you breathed against his mouth, even as your body arched into his touch.

“I know,” he said back, but his hands were already working at the hem of your shirt.

Your breathing was ragged as fabric got pushed out of the way. When Joe's mouth found that spot on your neck, the anger turned into something else entirely.

Fabric got shoved out of the way. The marble counter was cold beneath you as he pushed you back, but his mouth was warm as it moved across your skin.

But then, just as you were losing yourself in the sensation, Joe slowed down.

His movements became more deliberate, more controlled. Instead of the desperate rush you expected, he pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours.

“What?” you asked breathlessly.

"Nothing," Joe said, but you could see something different in his face.

His hands slowed down and became more deliberate, as if he were making a point.

His mouth moved to your breast, staying there until you were squirming. When his hand moved between your legs, he took his time.

“Joe,” you gasped, trying to pull him closer.

“Please,” you whispered.

Joe’s eyes met yours, and there was something dark there. “Please, what?”

You tried to rock against his hand, seeking more pressure, but he pulled back slightly. “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not teasing.” His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. “I’m taking my time.”

He built you up slowly, methodically, until you were panting and desperate. Just when you thought you couldn’t take anymore, when that familiar tension was about to snap, he stopped.

You made a sound of frustration that was almost a sob. “Joe, come on.”

“What?” He asked it so casually, like he hadn’t just left you hanging on the edge.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” But there was the hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth now.

You stared at him, breathing hard, recognizing this for what it was. After a day of losing control on the field and in the argument, this was where Joe could be in command again, where he could make the rules.

“You’re being mean,” you said, but your voice came out breathy and desperate rather than accusatory.

"Am I?" Joe's fingers started moving again, building that pressure back up with devastating precision. "I thought you wanted my attention. So here it is."

The reminder of the fight should have made you angry, but you were too far gone to care about anything except the way he was touching you. He brought you to the edge again, and again he stopped.

This time, you actually whimpered.

“That’s better,” Joe said quietly, and there was satisfaction in his voice.

By the fourth time, you were shaking. Tears of pure frustration and overwhelming sensation gathered in your eyes. “Joe, please. I can’t—I need—”

“What do you need?” His voice was soft but implacable.

“You know what I need.”

“Tell me.”

“Please just—” Your voice broke. “Please let me come.”

Joe studied your face for a long moment, taking in the tears, the desperation, the complete surrender. Something shifted in his expression then; the control was still there, but tempered with something softer.

"Need you," you gasped, pulling at his clothes.

Joe didn't argue. His hands were rough now, urgent, pushing fabric out of the way. When he freed himself and pushed into you, you both groaned at the sensation.

There was nothing controlled about it anymore. He fucked you hard against the marble counter, his grip tight on your hips, pulling you into each thrust. The cool stone pressed against your back while his body covered you, hot and desperate.

"Shit," he breathed, his control slipping entirely.

You wrapped your legs tighter around him, meeting each thrust. After all that teasing, all that careful precision, this was what you both needed - raw, unfiltered, desperate.

Joe's control was completely gone now. His breathing was ragged, his movements becoming more erratic as he chased his own release. One hand gripped the edge of the counter for leverage while the other held you steady.

"Joe," you choked out, tears still on your cheeks as you got close.

"I know you can come now," he said roughly. 

That broke you completely. You came sobbing, your body clenching around him as tears streamed down your face.

Joe followed immediately after, his hips jerking as he buried himself deep and came inside you with a low groan. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, both of you breathing hard, completely spent.

For a moment, neither of you moved, just held each other as you came down from the intensity.

When you finally came back to yourself, you found him watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read. The anger from the fight was gone now, replaced by something that looked almost like regret.

His thumb brushed away your tears. "Hey, you're okay."

You nodded, not trusting your voice yet.

Joe helped you sit up, his hands surprisingly gentle as he smoothed your hair back from your face. For a moment, the kitchen was quiet except for your ragged breathing and the soft hum of appliances.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "About what I said, how I treated you. And thank you - for letting me... for trusting me with this, even after I was such an ass."

"I know," you whispered, still catching your breath. "Just... next time maybe skip the part where you're a complete ass first and get straight to whatever this was."

Joe actually laughed at that, leaning down to kiss you softly. "Deal," he said against your lips.

He helped you down from the counter, steadying you when your legs wobbled slightly. "Come on," he said, wrapping an arm around your waist. "Let's go upstairs and let me take care of you properly."

As you made your way to the bedroom together, Joe stopped halfway up the stairs, turning to look at you with an expression that was completely different from the cold mask he'd worn earlier.

"I love you," he said quietly. "Even when I'm being an ass. Especially then, actually."

You smiled, reaching up to touch his face. "I love you, too. Even when you make me want to murder you."

[gilbertscurls]

enough — matt sturniolo

Matt never really believed in the idea that words could physically affect a person. Sure, he understood the concept—words could hurt, could linger in the back of your mind, could shape the way you saw yourself. But he never thought they could make him feel something.

At least, not like this.

The way you said those words—so sincerely, so honestly—sent an electric shiver through his entire body.

“You’re wonderful, Matt.”

And the worst part? You meant it.

You actually, truly meant it.

Matt swallowed hard, his hands gripping the fabric of his hoodie so tightly his knuckles turned white. His heart was hammering in his chest, loud and frantic, like it was trying to escape.

He didn’t know what to say.

Because wonderful? Him?

No one had ever called him that before.

People called him funny, sure. Nice. Even smart when they needed help with something. But wonderful?

That was the kind of word you used for someone who deserved it.

Not for him.

Not for the guy who spent most of his life feeling like a background character in his own story.

Not for the awkward, anxious, introverted one.

Not for the invisible Sturniolo, the one people never thought twice about.

And he sure as hell wasn’t the guy anyone ever considered attractive.

But you did.

You looked at him like he was something worth seeing.

Like he wasn’t just Nick and Chris’s brother, wasn’t just part of a trio. Like he was Matt.

Just Matt.

And that terrified him.

He felt his throat tighten, that familiar weight pressing against his chest. He’d spent years trying to convince himself he was okay, that his anxiety and self-doubt didn’t actually control him. But the truth was, it did. It always had.

And it was exhausting.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his hands over his face. “You don’t have to say that.” His voice was quiet, barely audible. “I know—I know you’re just trying to make me feel better, but you don’t have to.”

Your brows furrowed, your expression softening. “I’m not saying it to make you feel better. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

His stomach twisted.

He wanted to believe you.

God, he wanted to.

But how could he, when he spent every single day battling the thoughts in his head that told him otherwise?

When every mirror, every comment, every little voice in his mind whispered that he wasn’t enough?

You sighed, moving closer, your hand reaching out hesitantly before resting on his. Your fingers were warm, steady, grounding him in a way he didn’t even realize he needed.

“Matt,” you murmured, your voice softer this time. “I know you don’t believe me. But I wish you did.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “I just—I don’t get it,” he admitted. “Why me? Out of everyone, why would you—” His voice broke, and he let out a shaky breath, forcing himself to look at you. “Why would you pick me?”

You frowned, like you genuinely couldn’t understand why he’d even ask that.

“Because you’re you,” you said simply. “And that’s enough.”

His breath caught in his throat.

Enough.

That word felt foreign to him.

He wasn’t enough. He’d never been enough.

Not for his parents, who always seemed to worry about him more than his brothers. Not for strangers, who only ever recognized him as part of a set instead of an individual.

Not for himself.

But for you?

You thought he was.

Matt let out a shaky laugh, but it wasn’t happy. It was bitter, disbelieving. “I don’t know how to be enough,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to—” He gestured vaguely, his hands trembling. “To be what you see in me.”

Your grip on his hand tightened.

“You don’t have to be anything, Matt,” you said firmly. “You already are.”

Tears burned the back of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.

Because if he cried, it meant this was real.

That you actually believed everything you were saying.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

For so long, he’d lived inside his own head, drowning in his own self-doubt. He’d learned to exist in the shadows, to be the quiet, anxious, “just Matt” that no one paid much attention to.

But you saw him.

And that scared him more than anything.

Because if you saw him, it meant you could also see the parts of him he hated.

The parts that kept him up at night.

The parts that made him feel like he was always two steps away from falling apart.

But when he finally met your gaze, he didn’t see pity.

He didn’t see disappointment.

He saw love.

Raw, unwavering, real love.

And maybe, just maybe—

That was enough.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @straw8berry, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming

[juliettejwnewinesa]

do you have any headcanons about weak hero character’s family? about their parents siblings etc for example i saw headcanon that seongje have younger sister and he is protective of her

💢 Weak Hero Family Headcanons 💢

(canon-inspired + emotional damage edition)

🥊 Ahn Suho

Suho's mom works long hours—maybe a nurse or a convenience store manager—so he grew up kind of fending for himself.

His dad left when he was young or passed away—Suho never talks about it, but there's a picture frame on a shelf that never moves.

He has a strained relationship with extended family—he doesn’t visit relatives much, even during holidays.

He’s incredibly respectful and protective of his mom. He keeps his grades decent and tries not to let her see his injuries from fights.

The way he treats his friends? That's learned from watching his mom never give up despite exhaustion. Loyalty is his love language.

Headcanon: When Suho gets home from a bad fight, he lies to his mom about being tired from studying. Then he stays up doing real homework so she won’t worry.

🧼 Yeon Si-eun

Only child. Cold, emotionally distant parents who prioritize achievement and image over affection.

His father is extremely controlling—he expects perfect grades and no distractions. Probably the type to say “emotions are weakness.”

sieun’s mother might be present physically, but she doesn't interfere. She’s passive, maybe scared of the father too.

Sieun didn’t grow up with affection. That’s why he doesn’t understand his own feelings at first—why he's drawn to Suho, to having people in his corner.

Headcanon: siuen once had a goldfish as a kid. It died while he was at school and no one told him. When he asked about it, his dad said, “It was just a fish. Don’t get attached to unimportant things.”

😎 BeomSeok

Textbook pressure-cooker household. His dad is probably in a powerful position—politics, corporate, or law.

He’s been compared to others his whole life, especially older siblings or cousins. He’s always trying to prove he’s not weak or worthless.

Physical/emotional abuse is heavily implied. His dad believes fear = discipline.

No siblings mentioned, but if he has one, it’s probably a “golden child” older brother who excels and makes him feel invisible.

Headcanon: BeomSeok’s room is spotless. Not because he likes it, but because his dad used to punish him for small messes. Even now, he checks twice before leaving.

🔪 Park Humin

Lower-middle class family. His parents are good people, but probably struggling with finances.

He might have a younger sibling—a baby sister or brother he absolutely adores. He’ll work part-time jobs just to buy them snacks.

His mom is a sweetheart. His dad might be quiet but present.

He acts like a goofball, but he carries the weight of wanting to protect both his family and his friends.

Headcanon: Humin has drawings his little sibling made taped to his wall. He acts like it's no big deal but would absolutely throw hands if someone laughed at them.

🥋 Seongje

YES. Seongje absolutely has a younger sister.

He’s overprotective to the point of being annoying. Walks her to school. Grills her male classmates. Once threatened a kid for copying her homework.

Their mom is a single parent or works a lot, so he grew up filling in as the “man of the house” early.

His sister teases him like crazy—calls him “drama queen” or “wannabe gangster.” But she loves him deeply.

Headcanon: When she was sick as a kid, Seongje skipped school to make her porridge. She still brings it up to embarrass him.

[housemdork]

so. i know that fighting on the wilson defense squad is a little taboo around here...but i still want to share the germ of a thought that i've had, which i'll definitely expand on in the future.

does anyone hear me when i say that so much of wilson's work is silent and unseen?

i mean this, first, quite literally regarding his practice. it's a rarity, seeing wilson interact directly with his cancer patients without being called in for a consult. we hear about his patients all the time, just not often by name. but whether because we're in house's POV, or because the show aligns with house's belief that "cancer is boring," we don't see wilson practicing oncology that much in the grand scheme of things, even compared to the snippets of ER and surgery life that cameron and chase move on to, respectively.

house pokes fun at wilson's oncology all the time, and pretty definitively in 2x04 when he makes fun of medical specialists. to house, things are simpler for them; house views them as existing in a box, much smaller than his grand purview over things. wilson's work is relegated away from the main text of the show; he operates in isolation, which hurts in the long run.

wilson's own cancer experience is profoundly impacted by the pain of loss he's endured over the years, watching his patients die. he rattles off their names, their cancers, their ages, and the dates they died to house from memory. we never saw these patients. house probably never did, either, so we can only learn of this pain afterwards. we re-contextualize wilson's emotions and behavior after the fact.

finally, the work wilson puts into his friendship with house is often invisible. i won't ever paint wilson as the ideal friend - that would completely ruin any interpretation of his character - but i find it disingenuous to ignore the strain house puts on him, however self-inflicted. what starts out as trickles of jokes and subtle hints (the loans), evolves into the season 3 medical license debacle, which evolves into wilson's repeated responsibility for house's mental health (which isn't even mandated by house, but by those around wilson and house), which finally evolves into house attempting to control wilson's last wishes. repeatedly, wilson is nominated, especially by dr. nolan in season 6 and foreman in season 8, to be house's steward, and who else would do it, but him?

big example: we never see the decision for house to move into wilson's place, but all the energy in the world is put into wilson asking house to leave. it's first presented as a natural assumption, then a mortal sin.

unlike the other characters surrounding house, the origins of wilson and house are usually only hinted at. their history unfolds across the entire show, and that includes the good and the bad parts that are only heard about in passing and in retrospect. at the start of season 5, wilson, at his most honest, breaks the hardest news to house yet - that he's leaving PPTH because of him.

"i've enabled it for years. the games, the binges, the middle-of-the-night phone calls...if i've learned anything from amber, it's that i need to take care of myself."

again, we learn of this long-term pain afterwards, once house takes a beat to digest it. we re-contextualize wilson's emotions and behavior after the fact.

say what you like about what wilson asked house to do in 4x16 (it kills me, personally). i cannot completely fault wilson for telling house this ^. as much as house needs to change, wilson does, too. amber was right about that. we can gauge the strain that house has in his relationships based on how many work out long-term: one.

and later, funny as it is in the moment, wilson is the one to go to physically check in on house in 7x01 when it was VERY apparent that he should not have gone home alone (not to dismiss foreman's attempt in 6x22 to be there for him, though). house's fake voicemail message attests to this: "if this is wilson, i'm fine, not suicidal, not on drugs, coping very well with the loss of my last patient, so feel free to go about your day without worry."

i understand why he crawled through that window! after six seasons of this, i would have done the same!

i argue the same about house that i do about wilson - these 2, despite how messed up they are when it comes to human goodness and love - could not do what they do if they did not have the capacity to love. they're both rewarded in their own, twisted ways; house is gratified that, if nothing else, his brain sets him apart and preserves his sense of self, while wilson gets to feel loved in the way he can never quite fulfill elsewhere. does that cancel out the lives they save and soothe along the way?

all of this is to say that it's easy to brand wilson with a red "morally corrupt guy who pretends otherwise" stamp across his forehead because i think that's what house md tempts us to do by mandating how, when, and what we see of wilson's life. trust me - i'm trudging through season 2 right now and fast approaching his rendezvous with grace. but over time, i think the show invites us to treat him with sympathy and nuance in the same way it does house. if we penalize wilson too much for returning to house, and for needing his neediness, that may just imply that house doesn't deserve that sort of love. and we know that isn't the case.

isn't there more poetic irony than the oncologist getting cancer at hand? what about cancer as the silent-killer? what about cancer eating at every part of the body, slowly, over time? unseen and unheard?

[theonlyonesora]

The Man Who Married Me

PAIRING: Lewis Hamilton x Reader x Max Verstappen

CH – 03

Monday morning hit you like cold water.

Your phone buzzed violently on the nightstand just after 6 a.m., dragging you out of shallow, restless sleep. You blinked at the screen, squinting against the low light. Toto Wolff – Incoming Video Call.

You answered on instinct, still wrapped in sheets, voice hoarse. “Toto?”

His face filled the screen—sharp, serious, and very much not in the mood. “Kimi’s connecting. So is Dieter. We need to talk. Now.”

That was all the warning you got.

A few moments later, your team’s top executives began to appear one by one in the call—Kimi from her apartment in Monaco, Dieter already in the office, and several others scattered across Europe. You pulled on a hoodie and tied your hair up as fast as you could, dragging yourself out of bed and into the kitchen for coffee, still emotionally hungover from your weekend with Lewis.

And then Toto dropped the bomb.

“Max fucking Verstappen has signed with us.”

The room went silent.

You froze mid-step, blinking as if your screen had glitched.

Kimi’s mouth fell open. “What?”

Toto’s expression was unreadable. Controlled fury. “Red Bull lost him over internal politics and Helmut’s refusal to approve some demands. We didn’t even pursue him. His management came to us. And it’s done. Paper signed. Effective immediately. This season.”

You stared at your laptop, heart suddenly beating faster. Max Verstappen. Four-time World Champion. Red Bull’s prodigy. Mercedes’ future.

It was unbelievable. Historic. Chaotic. And absolutely brilliant.

You felt… something. For the first time in days, you actually felt something other than despair or numbness. You stood straighter. You reached for your notebook. You were awake.

“Toto,” you said carefully, finally unmuting yourself, “are we announcing this today?”

He gave you a look. “Do we have a choice?”

You nodded. Already shifting gears in your mind—PR strategies, team restructure meetings, integration timelines, preparing George’s farewell statement. George would be leaving—sad, yes. But Max Verstappen? A generational talent. And now your driver.

And that was the moment it hit you.

You loved your job. You loved the team. The sport. The chaos. The adrenaline. It had been your sanctuary before Lewis, and somewhere along the way, you’d forgotten that.

But now? Now, the fog inside you cleared, just a little.

You weren't just his wife.

You were Head Executive of Mercedes F1. And Max Verstappen was coming to drive your car.

For the first time in over a week, you didn’t feel like crying. You felt like working.

.

The entire day pulsed with adrenaline, the kind only Formula 1 could conjure.

Calls from media outlets, sponsors, FIA representatives, journalists digging for details—they all came flooding in like a tsunami. WhatsApp pinged non-stop. Your inbox was a battlefield. There were statements to revise, press timelines to coordinate, and internal memos to update. Everyone wanted a piece of the story: Max Verstappen signs with Mercedes.

You barely left your desk.

Your fingers moved quickly, eyes scanning contracts, your voice brisk in back-to-back Zoom calls. The house around you faded—walls, silence, time. Even hunger. It all blurred as you threw yourself into the work, the strategy, the escape.

Because that’s what it was. An escape.

You couldn’t bear to sit in your living room and wonder where Lewis was emotionally—or worse, who he might end up with now that your marriage came with an invisible asterisk.

You couldn’t keep checking your phone to see if he texted some vague “Thinking of you” while possibly planning something physical with someone else in the near future.

So you threw yourself into your old religion: work.

.

By mid-afternoon, you were on your third coffee and fifth call of the hour when you felt him watching you.

Lewis stood by the doorway to your home office, a glass of water in hand, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants. His hair was pulled back, a slight crease in his brow. He wasn’t angry. Not exactly. But there was a question in his eyes.

You placed a hand over the mic, muting yourself. “Give me ten minutes,” you whispered.

He nodded once, quietly turning to leave.

And for a second—just a second—you hated that he looked hurt.

Because hadn’t you been hurting all weekend? Hadn’t he started this?

You didn’t owe him your stillness.

.

When the last call ended an hour later, you stepped into the kitchen and found him there, scrolling on his phone, long legs folded beneath him at the counter. He looked up when you walked in.

“You’ve been at it all day,” he said casually.

You shrugged. “It’s a big day.”

“Still… season hasn’t even started. You usually try to slow down a bit when I’m home.”

You paused, then leaned against the counter across from him. “Yeah, well. I needed the distraction.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then set his phone down.

“Is this about us?”

You let out a soft laugh—bitter, tired. “What part isn’t?”

Lewis stood, walking toward you. “I’m not doing anything yet. You know that, right? I haven’t even looked at anyone.”

You stared up at him. “But you will.”

He didn’t deny it. Just studied you with that frustrating calm of his, the kind that made you want to scream and collapse into his arms all at once.

“This thing—this arrangement—we agreed it wouldn’t change us.”

But it had. You both knew it.

You gave him a faint, polite smile and turned away.

“I’ve got another call in ten minutes,” you said softly.

And you left him standing there. In your kitchen. In your home. Feeling like a stranger again.

[writeriguess]

Do you write for Shoto? Because I got the best idea for him after seeing you want more Dabi fics and this relates to Dabi too!

Soooo can you write a fic where Shoto takes it really hard when Dabi reveals his identity (even when he doesn't show it) and reader, who's his girlfriend, comforts him. Shoto asks her if she thinks Touya is still in there and it's just major angst. Thank you!

Ashes Between Us

The name hit him like a physical blow—Touya Todoroki. A ghost from a forgotten past, a brother he barely remembered, a shadow he never truly faced. Shoto stood motionless, the world dissolving into static and silence around him as the broadcast cut through the chaos of battle. Dabi’s cold voice echoed in every corner of Japan, and in that voice was the unbearable truth: Touya was alive. Not the sweet, quiet boy from his fractured memories, but a broken man consumed by fire and pain.

Shoto’s chest tightened painfully. It wasn’t just shock or fear. It was something heavier—grief, guilt, confusion, and a deep, gnawing ache that had nothing to do with the flames burning his brother’s skin. He had been so young when Touya was declared dead, so distant from his family in those early years, locked away in endless training under Endeavor’s demanding gaze. Memories of Touya were faint, like a half-remembered dream—an image of a pale boy with dark eyes, the rare moments they crossed paths swallowed quickly by the pressures and silences between them.

And now, that boy was gone.

He was Dabi.

Later, when the noise of the world faded and the sterile quiet of the medical wing surrounded them, Shoto sat by the window, staring at the rain blurring the city lights. You found him there, pale and rigid, a storm barely held at bay behind his eyes.

“Shoto,” you said softly, settling beside him without a word.

He didn’t answer at first, just kept watching the rain slide down the glass, tracing invisible paths like the broken fragments of his own memories. Finally, his voice cracked the silence.

“Do you think Touya is still inside Dabi?” he whispered, barely audible, but filled with desperate need. “Or… is he gone? Buried beneath all that hatred and fire?”

You took his hand gently, squeezing it. “I think there’s still a part of him in there. Some part worth saving.”

He looked at you then, eyes shimmering with the weight of years no one else saw. “I barely remember him. I was too young when he died—or so I thought. Father locked me away in training. We never saw each other, not really. Sometimes I wonder if I ever knew him at all.”

The ache in his voice was raw. “And now… knowing that he’s become this… this monster… it’s like losing him all over again.”

You swallowed hard, wanting to reach across that distance inside him. “It’s okay to be scared. To be angry or sad. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Shoto’s jaw tightened. “I’m scared. Scared that if I hadn’t learned to control my emotions, if I’d been left to rot the way Touya was, I’d be him. That I’d be nothing more than a broken tool for Father’s ambition.”

His gaze fell to his hands, clenched tightly in his lap. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m already lost. If this darkness inside me is just waiting to burn through.”

You shook your head gently, your voice firm and steady. “You’re not Touya. You’re not defined by what Father did to you, or by what your brother became. You’re Shoto. You’re stronger than this pain.”

His lips quivered, the walls crumbling for the first time. “I wanted to hate him, you know? To hate what he’s done… but I can’t. Part of me… just wants to find the boy he was. The boy I barely knew. I want to believe he’s still in there, somewhere beneath all the anger and scars.”

You moved closer, your fingers tracing a comforting line along his arm. “Then hold onto that hope. I’m here. And I won’t let you fall into the darkness alone.”

Shoto’s breath hitched, a tear slipping free despite his best effort. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “For holding me when I don’t know how to stand.”

You pulled him into your arms, feeling the tremors of his broken heart against your chest. “We’ll face this together. Every fire can be fought, and every scar can be healed. Not because it’s easy, but because you don’t have to do it alone.”

He rested his forehead against yours, the storm inside slowly yielding to the quiet strength between you.

“I’m afraid,” he confessed, voice raw and honest. “Afraid of what he’s become. Afraid of what I might be if I’m not careful.”

“Then let that fear remind you to hold on tighter,” you whispered. “To fight harder. Because you’re not Touya, and you’re not Dabi. You’re Shoto Todoroki. And I love you.”

For the first time since the world fell apart, Shoto let himself believe in a future where pain could be shared, where hope could live even after the darkest fire.

[matts-girlfriend]

It’s You I Welcome Death With- Chris Sturniolo

TattooArtist!Chris and MakeupArtist!Reader

chapter 10

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

warning this series will contain, substance abuse, angst, arguing,tension,swearing, mentions of absent family, blood, abuse (not from chris). smut, oral, this is a warning for all chapters

The night air was thick with tension when she stepped into the party, that Justin the oldest brother invited the four too. the dull hum of the music vibrating in her chest. It had been hours since the kiss, that goddamn kiss that had haunted her thoughts ever since. She didn’t know why she had let him pull away so abruptly, why she didn’t stop him. Maybe because a part of her, some stupid part, thought he’d come back. But he hadn’t. Not even a text. Not a goddamn word.

She dressed in the clothes she thought would numb the ache, something tight, something that might make her feel in control. But the moment she walked into the room, she didn’t feel anything close to that. Not when Nick and Matt greeted her, giving her that small, awkward smile like they knew something she didn’t.

“He already left,” Nick said casually, glancing over at Matt.

“Yeah, he had to go,” Matt added, his tone flat, no emotion attached.

She didn’t ask why, and they didn’t explain. Instead, they all piled into the car, the drive was a blur of noise and unspoken words. She wasn’t sure why she even came, if she was being honest with herself. Was she looking for something? A distraction? An answer?

She didn’t get one. Not when she stepped into the party and saw Chris.

He was sitting on a couch with a girl perched on his lap, his hands tangled in her hair as she kissed his neck, her lips moving against his skin in a way that made her stomach churn. He didn’t even look up when she walked in. Not once.

He fucking ignored her.

Her chest tightened, her heartbeat faster now, like the bass of the music inside her ribs. She didn’t care. She couldn’t care.

She spun on her heel and walked straight into the backyard, needing air, needing space to breathe, to calm down before she did something stupid. Her hand gripped the fence as she leaned against it, staring into the darkness.

“Breathe.” she whispered to herself, feeling dumb. She felt weak. Pathetic. It wasn’t like they were anything. It wasn’t like they’d made promises. But still, watching him with her, like she was nothing—no, like she was invisible—that hurt.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself before pushing back inside. If he wasn’t going to acknowledge her, fine. She’d act like she didn’t notice him either.

But the second she grabbed a drink, she felt the heat of his stare. She didn’t even have to look to know he was watching. It was almost like a physical pressure, like his eyes were pulling at her skin. Her body tensed, but she kept her head high. Let him see her. Let him see her move on. Let him see her get fucking over it.

She didn’t know how it happened. Maybe the alcohol made it easier. Maybe it was the sting of that kiss, the burn of rejection. Whatever it was, she found herself next to some random guy, laughing too loudly, her fingers grazing his arm as she flirted like it was nothing. Like the jealousy eating at her insides wasn’t enough to ruin the moment.

“You wanna make out?” she asked, voice a little too sweet, a little too desperate.

The guy didn’t even hesitate. His lips crashed against hers, and for a split second, it felt like she was drowning in something else. His hands roamed, his kiss sloppy and uninspired, but it didn’t matter. Not when she could feel Chris’s eyes on her, burning into her, making her feel like she was doing something wrong, like she was the one who’d betrayed them.

She pulled back, breath shallow, eyes flicking to the corner of the room where Chris stood. He still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t made a move.

Good. She wanted him to see this. Wanted him to hurt like he’d hurt her.

The guy’s hands were on her hips, pushing her toward the stairs when she felt the unmistakable tug of her arm being yanked—no, dragged—away. She didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was. She could smell him. The familiar, overpowering mix of his cologne and the faint, sweet smell of weed clinging to his shirt.

“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice unsteady as he dragged her up the stairs. And into an empty room.

“Just let me—”

“No,” Chris’s voice was low, rough, his grip tight on her wrist. “What the fuck was that downstairs?”

She stumbled, her heart hammering in her chest. She wanted to fight, but her head spun too fast, her vision blurring with anger and alcohol.

“How could you?” She shoved him, her body seething with fury, the anger she couldn’t contain anymore, the anger she had stored up for days, weeks, and months. “How the hell could you just… sit there with her?”

Chris’s eyes flared, his jaw clenched. “What do you want me to say? Huh? What the fuck do you want from me, huh?”

Her hands were shaking now, every inch of her feeling like it was on fire. She was barely holding herself together. She needed him to feel it. To feel everything she felt.

“How could you just—” She broke off, her voice thick with frustration. “How could you just… let me think we were something?”

She raised her hand, pushing him away, but he grabbed her wrist before she could pull it back, his grip bruising.

“Don’t,” Chris snapped, and then he did the one thing she wasn’t expecting.

His lips crashed against hers.

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she forgot everything—everything but the heat of his mouth, the desperate pull of his hands. Her body responded before her brain could. She kissed him back, fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer.

He pressed her up against the wall, his hands slipping down to her waist, pulling her closer, grinding against her. The heat between them was unbearable now, palpable, like the tension in the air had thickened to the point of suffocating them.

Chris’s lips moved down her neck, biting softly, leaving marks that made her gasp. “Is this what you wanted?” he growled between kisses, his hands slipping under her shirt, pulling it off over her head in one swift motion. “Tell me you wanted this.”

“I—” she could barely breathe, barely think as his hands moved lower, making her skin burn with anticipation. “I… don’t—”

His lips were back on hers, silencing her words. He stripped off his shirt quickly, his eyes locking with hers as his chest pressed against hers. “Is this okay?” he asked, voice rough, like he was holding himself back from something darker.

“I've never—this is my first time,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

His eyes softened, just for a moment. “I’ll make it good. I promise.”

He slid down her panties, slowly lining him self up. He moved gently at first, slow, like he was giving her time to adjust, his hands running along her body in reverent touch. She clung to him, her hands desperate on his skin as he shifted, and her body responded.

As he moved faster, deeper, the world outside the room blurred. All that mattered was the ache between them, the growing pull of something more than just lust. His whispers mixed with her gasps, his smirk never fading as he whispered things into her ear, things she didn’t even have the strength to respond to.

“takin’ me so well," "yeah…y’like that” he said, his voice taunting but not cruel, more like he was relishing in the way she moaned beneath him, how he had her shaking.

She couldn’t answer, couldn’t form words. All she could do was feel—feel the way he moved inside her, how he took her to places she never thought she’d go.

It was too much. It was too fast. But somehow, it was also exactly what she needed.

He waited for her to finish first, watching her as she fell apart beneath him, her body responding to his every movement. When he pulled out, it was with a quiet exhale, his breath ragged.

He collapsed next to her, his body heavy with exhaustion, and for a moment, they both just lay there, silent.

She closed her eyes, but before she could let herself feel anything more, Chris stood. He left the room, and she almost lost it.

Almost cried.

But then, just as she was about to break, he came back.

A wet cloth in his hands, he cleaned her up in silence, his eyes never meeting hers. He dressed her in her clothes, helped her stand, and took her out of the room, the weight of what just happened heavy between them.

In the car, he didn’t say much. When they got back to the hotel, he told her to pee. “Mandatory after sex,” he said. She laughed, but it was hollow. She did as he said.

When she returned, he was waiting for her, his arms open, pulling her close. They got into bed, his arm around her, his body warm and comforting, but the silence was deafening.

This wasn’t what she expected. But somehow, it felt like this was all she was ever going to get from him.

And that realization? Fucking scared her.

a/n: awww….aw.

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